Outhouses & 'Taters

The sporting girls flutter about, charming fellas out of drinks, before convincing them to go upstairs with ‘em for a taste of heaven. The cowboys, buffalo hunters, muleskinners, and teamsters were easy pickings for the ladies, because those boys been out on the range, or bouncing over trails in the company of men. I guess something soft might have seemed like a slice of paradise.

The ladies usually ignored me, which was just the way I liked it. I tended to sit in the corner of the saloons, sipping whiskey, keeping my head down, while not missing anything going on around me. I didn't watch the ladies as much as I did the gamblers. The real gamblers would sit at a table all night, playing poker or faro, their winnings stacking up in front of them. The other men who sat down at the tables to gamble weren't gamblers, just cowboys or greenhorns trying to make the time pass a bit quicker. They usually got up from the tables after an hour or so, pockets much lighter than when they first sat down.

The gamblers though, they're a whole ‘nother breed. They sipped whiskey, gauged the competition, and played until there was no one left, which was rare, because here in Dodge City, there was always someone willing to sit down and play. If no one does, the last remaining gambler gathers his winnings and heads to another saloon. I usually wait a few minutes before slinking out after him. Nobody but the bartender ever notices my absence.

I'm a shadow—a greasy-haired, putrid smelling fellow, dressed in a dirty serape, and a hat with a broken brim. My face is covered with a scraggly beard, and I try not to look anyone in the eye. There's a method to what I do, and so far, it's been working. Beneath my dirty serape I carry a shiny Colt and a sharp Bowie knife. Oh, and a potato. I always carry a potato when I'm on the prowl.

Twice a year I journey from my homestead in Missouri, leaving my wife Elmira in charge of the farm and our three boys. Cash money isn't easy to come by, so I sally forth looking to add to our nest egg. Elmira knew my mission, and supported me in all my endeavors. I got lucky meeting her in a sporting house in St. Louis fifteen years ago. She was looking for a new life, as was I. It's worked out well, and I figured I would be seeing her in the next couple of days.

This fellow I've been shadowing has been winning a lot, the last two nights. He sported a shiny clutch pistol, a watch on a chain, and I knew he wore a money belt. This particular saloon was filled with the usual characters, and my pigeon was raking it in, winning hand after hand. There had to be at least two thousand bucks in front of him, and there was at least twice that in his money belt. I sipped my whiskey, waiting for a sign.

At last, I watched him begin to gather his money. I slid off my barstool, walking out the door with my head down. Once outside, I scurried around the back, sliding my potato onto the Colt as I got myself into position. With my free hand, I eased my knife out of the sheath, reminding myself to be calm, the next few moments would go by fast, and I'd be on my way back to Elmira.

Inhale, exhale, be patient, I cautioned myself, and don't jump too soon.

One indisputable fact was that no one could hold their bladders forever. At some point, relief became mandatory. At the saloons, there were fancy chamber pots, but only in the upstairs rooms where the sporting ladies performed. If a man were in the saloon drinking, carousing, or gambling, his only recourse was to step around back to the outhouse, my current location.

Of course, the smell was terrible, but I'd been in the war, so this was a fleeting smell, something I could wash off. The smells from the war would never disappear. Blood and the smells of death couldn't be rinsed off with soap and water. Young bodies piled on top of each other, rotting beneath an unforgiving sun. I'd seen and done things in the war which would make these next few moments seem like child's play.

I heard my pigeon's footsteps coming towards the outhouse, and I leaned back, willing to let him live, but prepared to kill if necessary. In a world where innocent soldiers gave up their lives for ideals, this gambler's continued existence didn't matter to me. I hoped he wanted to live.

He pulled the door open, and I watched his pudgy hands fumble with the buttons on his breeches. He hurried as if he'd stayed at the table a minute too long and his bladder were about to explode. I wasn't prepared for him to do an about face, and sit himself down, sighing as he did so. The click of the Colt in his face might have made his job flow a bit better.

“Hands up,” I whispered. “Or this could get bloody.”

His arms went up, and I whacked him with the Colt as hard as I could. His body slumped sideways, and my potato was knocked loose with the force of the blow. I put the Colt in my holster, then used my knife to cut the money belt off his waist, and retrieved the cash from the breeches gathered at his ankles. It would have been much easier had he been standing. I took his watch as well, and he groaned, forcing me to whack him again. Time was now my enemy, and I left the outhouse, my pigeon a little bloody, but still alive.

I hurried through the darkness behind the saloons, running towards my escape. I had paid to put my horse at the livery stable, telling them to leave Malaria tied outside. Money in advance quelled any questions, and sure enough, Malaria was right outside of the stable, tied, but rested and ready to ride.

I untied her, mounting up, and letting her walk. I slapped the reins, encouraging her to canter. I stuffed the money belt into my saddlebag, knowing I'd get rid of it whenever I stopped. Hours passed before I stopped. Malaria cantered until we left town under the cover of darkness. Once clear of town, I dug my heels into her flanks, and she began to gallop. I'd let her gallop for awhile, then walk, then canter, then gallop again. I'd repeat the process to give her time to regain her breath, so that I could keep riding, putting distance between myself, Dodge City, and anyone else who might be following.

As Malaria and I made our way home towards Elmira, I pulled a raw potato out of my saddlebag, gnawing it to keep hunger at bay. Back home, I farmed potatoes, and I knew all the uses for them. Potatoes can be baked, fried, eaten raw, used in poultices, made into a soup, mashed, or made into pancakes. I always carried potatoes with me, because they always come in handy. If the barrel of a gun is put through a potato, it muffled the sound of the shot. Instead of a loud bang which draws attention, there is only be a small pop—a sound no one in a bustling town like Dodge City would notice.

Riding Malaria, I thought of how good it would feel to lie in the bathtub, letting Elmira give me a bath, a haircut and shave, and afterwards, a slice of heaven. If the money in my saddlebags were as much as I thought, maybe my nights in outhouses, waiting for gamblers, were over. As much as I scoffed at fools who gamble with their money and lives, I would be no better if I kept showing up in Dodge City looking for pigeons. I thought it best that I stick to ‘taters from now on.

Marlon S. Hayes is a writer, blogger, author, and poet from Chicago, Illinois. He has written six books, been featured in five anthologies, and written for two magazines. His current project is a prequel to his novel, Eleven Fifty Nine, which is to be released by Oghma Creative Media in 2020. He can be followed at Marlon's Writings on Facebook, marlonhayes.wixsite.com/author, and on Amazon. For 2018, his goal was to submit his writings to one hundred publishers. He achieved his goal with seven days to spare.

In addition to his journey and evolution as a writer, Marlon is a grillmaster and chef with daydreams of opening a restaurant. He also has a severe case of ‘Wanderlust' and is at his happiest when he's on a trip to someplace new. He's on a quest to visit all fifty states, and his tally is currently at forty-seven, needing Montana, North Dakota, and Alaska. The allure of foreign climates have been beckoning, causing him to download translation apps to his phone, study currency exchange rates, and plan visits to six foreign countries in the next year. He follows the mantra that ‘Life is a banquet’ and he plans on constantly eating.