Charlie Poor Dog
by Gary Clifton
A brief flash of sunlight outlined the tall, slender rider as he brushed off trail grit in the doorway of the Last Gulp Saloon. The cloud of prairie dust that followed him in from the sweltering heat through the doorway surrendered to the slight movement of air as he strode to the bar. His dark, swarthy features were barely visible in the dim interior light. “Whiskey, Mr. Haskins,” he said softly.
The barkeep slapped both hands on the polished bar surface. “The Last Gulp ain’t serving no damned whiskey to no damned redskins, no matter who the hell they are.”
Cat-quick, the rider grasped the bartender’s left hand and squeezed.
“Ohhh maagaawwd!” Had Haskins not been held upright by the steel grip, he would have collapsed in pain.
“Pour it with the other hand, Mister Haskins,” instructed the tall rider.
With great effort, Haskins filled the shot glass.
“Leave the bottle.” He released Haskins.
Across the smoke-filled room, five unkempt trail hands and a pale man in a black suit sat, playing poker.
“Who does that damned Injun think he is?” one of the wranglers snarled.
Black suit said, “That, gents, is Charlie Poor Dog, the Sheriff of Wilbarger County.”
“Sheriff? Whut brings his redskin ass out to Sundown?”
“Collectin’ taxes. Sheriff’s job in Texas. Haskins don’t like payin’, and the Sheriff has to ride up from Vernon to collect from him and a couple others hereabouts.”
“Man, we jes’ hit town from San Antone on the way to Dodge City with the herd. Never seen no Injun with authority over white folks. How the hell did—?”
“Well, son, the Red River runs just back of town, out yonder.” Black Suit gestured. “A hundred yards or so north, there’s the border of the Comanche-Kiowa Nation in what some call Oklahoma. They say he’s only a quarter Injun, makin’ him eligible to run for office... and drink whiskey, both full legal. It’s 1897, the Injun wars are over. They’s ’nough Comanches ’round these parts that they elected Charlie Poor Dog sheriff.”
“Poor Dog... no foolin’?”
“Yup, but among white folks he calls himself Charles ‘Poor’.”
“Look at that savage bastard in moccasins and buckskin britches, pouring hisself more liquor. I’m of a mind to put a stop to that crap, no mind whut kinda credentials that savage is wearin’.” The young cowboy stood and was followed by his four fellow rowdies. All wore tied-down low Colts and the appearance of men ready to use them.
The morose man in the back suit said quietly, “Now lemme tell y’all somethin’. By and large, he’s been a pretty good sheriff. Last one ended up in Huntsville Prison for stealing the damned tax money. And he warn’t no Injun.”
“And you thinkin’ this one ain’t no thief like all the rest?”
“Well, son, thief or not be damned. I’m saying y’all wasn’t here last year when he rode up to collect from Haskins and a couple others. Them Wilson brothers was settin’ at the table over there. They picked a quarrel with Poor Dog. All three are buried out back. Best finish your drinks and leave him alone. They is still plenty of space out back there for more graves. Ain’t warnin’ y’all again.”
“You thinkin’ five of us can’t take one damned Injun?”
“Yessir, exactly whut I’m sayin’. And with that, I got business.”
“Whut kinda business you in, mister?”
“Sundown Mortuary and Funeralizin’s Parlor, jes’ across there.” He pointed with his clean-shaven chin.
The five cowboys hesitated, looked each other over at length, then continued toward Charlie Poor Dog, who was leaning against the bar, studying himself and the approaching troublemakers in the plate glass mirror on the back wall.
Poor Dog turned to face his tormentors. “Gents, I heard that conversation. Man’s entitled to his opinion, but it might oughta stop right there. It ain’t too late to walk away. Riding trail is hard, honest work, and you boys have worked for your wages. Yer herd you got penned up at Goodall’s livery is gonna belong to a stranger if y’all ain’t there to tend them.”
“You talkin’ ’bout stealin’ our herd, Injun? Or are you dumb enough to pull out that Colt on five Texas men?”
Poor Dog ignored the comment. “Y’all are young men who gotta have mothers or sweethearts who badly want you back at the house.” He nodded toward the door. “Eternity’s waiting for y’all with a fresh coffin. The undertaker is on the way to count his inventory as we talk.”
The undertaker had just cleared the door when one of the cowboys walked over and slapped the whiskey glass out of Poor Dog’s hand, a particularly nasty offense in that time. The sheriff continued to stare stoically into the maw of drunken men. Haskins ducked behind the bar.
A cowboy in the rear of the group spat, “Injun’s yella’, jes’ like we figured.” With murderous intent, he yanked at his Colt. The four others followed the move.
Bystanders gathered outside the door, alerted by the roar of gunfire, the crashing of furniture, and screams.
The undertaker shoved back inside. Poor Dog leaned casually against the bar. Five bloodstained bodies were strewn grotesquely on the floor. A cloud of gunsmoke held the acrid odor of death permeating the room. Poor Dog’s whiskey bottle, shattered by a cowboy bullet, was strewn across the bar.
The mortician said, “Thought so, I ain’t got enough coffins in stock.”
Haskins peeked over from his hiding place behind the bar. Still massaging his freshly squeezed hand, he said, “Thank God, you didn’t kill me, too, Sheriff.”
Poor Dog, shoving fresh cartridges in his still smoking Colt, eyed the barman, “Nope, cain’t be shootin’ a man who still owes taxes; at least not yet. Now kindly open that register and pony up.”
“Yessir, Sheriff Poor Dog, yessir.” Haskins clawed at the register. “Next bottle’s on the house, sir.”
Copyright © 2023 by Gary Clifton
