Mr. Shorty

It had been a long day at the ranch. Ever since Charlie left, we've been shorthanded. The rest of us took turns covering the extra work, but we still barely finish. We really need to hire someone else.

I walked into the saloon. A good, hard drink would be perfect right now. I had just gotten my drink when the doors opened and a guy came in.
He wasn't very tall, probably a little over five foot, maybe about 5' 3", blue eyes, light brown hair and some stubble on his chin. When he ordered his drink, a slug of gin, I could hear a slight drawl and guessed he was probably Texan.

He looked over at me and said he needed some money to head out west, and that he could do any job and could ride with the best.

As I looked at him, I noticed a sadness and loneliness about him.

He said he'd work through the winter, for $30 a month and board.

I grinned and was about to tell him that he could come down and work on my uncle's ranch, when the doors opened again.

The guy who came in this time was big, and he looked mean. He stomped in and saw me talking with the Texan. He told me to leave him there and called him Shorty.

I noticed his eyes narrow at being called Shorty. His smile had gone, and the friendliness in his eyes left. A look of pure hate took their place.

But the big guy continued mocking him. He told me to go find him some milk; that might help him grow a little. A few of the other guys in the bar laughed uneasily.

"Alright, that's enough," the little guy said, and then the whole place went quiet. He slowly stood up, and stepped away from the bar to face the big guy. "Oh it's plain that you're lookin' for trouble. Trouble's what I try to shun. If that's what you want, then that's what you'll get, 'cause, cowboy, we're both packin' guns." His hand was already at his hip, and his feet were wide apart on the floor.

It was just now that I noticed that he had a gun. A short-barreled Bass Forty-Four.

He was ready and waiting for the big guy's answer. He leaned a bit forward and said, "When you call me 'Shorty' say 'Mister', my friend. Maybe you'd rather be dead."

Then the big guy stepped out and everyone stopped drinking. Even time seemed to stop. He cussed under his breath then snarled at the little guy, "Nobody's 'Mister' to me, little man!" Then he reached for his own gun.

But the little guy's hand was like lightning, the Bass Forty-Four was the same. The Forty-Four spoke and it said lead and smoke, seventeen inches of flame.

The big guy never even got his gun out of its holster. A little round hole appeared on his shirt and he fell, deader than a doornail.

The little guy stood there awhile before holstering his gun. "It's always this way, so I never stay," he said softly, before turning to leave.

Nobody knew where he came from, but they won't forget him or how he and his gun proved that size really doesn't matter. As for me, I'll remember the sadness and loneliness I saw in his eyes, like he needed a friend. If we meet again someday, you can bet I would say, "It's me, Mr. Shorty, your friend."