Now Playing: One Arm Lightning
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Episode Seven concluded with:
Confident that he had his brother’s trust, Buck
hurried to the seat of the wagon and released the brake. The jittery horses
immediately lurched forward. A horrifying cry of pain cut the air as one of the
back wheels of the wagon ran over Wes Torveen.
Rob Laverty watched all this from his position across
the street on the saloon roof. He stared in wonderment at the crushed figure on
the ground. Wes Torveen’s arm was moving up and down as if signaling for help.
A shrill cry of pain came from his mouth.
Laverty took careful aim and fired twice. Torveen’s
arm dropped to the ground. His cry ceased.
The sheriff smiled as he holstered his gun. He
was the lawman who had brought down One Arm Lightning.
Episode Eight
***
Stanley Wiggins escorted the last of
his customers through the bat wing doors of the Shooting Star Saloon. The two
men were both drunk and feisty. One of them turned back as he stepped onto the
boardwalk outside. “Jus’ maybe I want to sleep inside the saloon, tonight!”
Stanley replied firmly. “And just maybe the
owners of the saloon will decide you can’t come in here again!”
“Come on, Fred, let’s sleep owshide, like aaaways.”
They staggered off as Stanley closed
the door behind the bat wings and locked it. The bartender gave a sigh of
fatigue as he went through the Shooting Star turning off the kerosene lights
that were attached to the walls.
A killing sure does increase a man’s
thirst, Wiggins thought. The previous night, men had gotten drunk to celebrate
the killing of One Arm Lightning. The drinking had picked up again that afternoon
following the burial of Wes Torveen.
Two lights were still burning, both
of them behind the bar. Those lights always stayed on until Stanley took the
cashbox and locked it in the safe. The bartender yawned as he sauntered behind
the bar. He remembered that he had to open up again in only a few hours…
“Evenin’ Stanley.”
The bartender gasped and looked
around. He couldn’t see anyone, but then darkness shrouded most of the saloon.
Wiggins decided that his imagination had become inflamed by recent events. He
began to do a check of the materials under the bar as he did every night before
putting away the cash box. The familiar routine brought him some comfort.
But not for long. “Evenin’
Stanley.” A figure stepped into the
murky puddle of light cast by the lamps behind the bar.
Stanley Wiggins brought his right
hand to his face as if shielding his eyes against what stood in front of them.
“Wes Torveen!” The bartender spoke in a high pitched whisper. “We buried you
hours ago.”
“That’s right, Stanley. I saw you
standin’ near my graveside, you and my other buddies from school days. You
fellas were sharing a chuckle or two. After all these years, I can still
provide my chums with a good laugh.”
“We wasn’t laughin’ at you, Wes--”
“Then who were you laughin’ at? My
sister who was in grief?”
“No, Wes, no, it was that… ah…
preacher--”
“He read from the Good Book. What
was funny about that?”
“Nothin’,” Stanley was confused and
terrified. He moved his hand toward the .44 that was always kept under the bar.
“So, I guess you fellas were havin’
one more laugh on Wes Torveen.”
Desperation prodded Wiggins into a
reckless move. “Let me explain, Wes. All I’m askin’ for is jus’ a minute or two
of your time.”
“Why, sure,” Wes Torveen lifted his
left arm in a “go ahead” gesture.
Stanley grabbed the .44 but, in his
nervousness, slammed his hand against the edge of the bar as he brought the gun
up. He yelled a loud curse. Those were his final words. A bullet from Torveen’s
gun cut into the bartender’s chest. Stanley Wiggins fell to the floor.
Tomorrow: Episode Nine of One Arm
Lightning
