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Spade

By Josef Pellegrini

It was a warm night. The stars were brighter than usual. The moon was full, its pale face lighting up the dusty streets of the town called El Rancho, which was a rough town, a breeding ground for murderers, robbers, rapists, racists, and merchants who dealt in gold as much as they did in blood. That being said, not everyone who lived in El Rancho lacked goodness of heart. Honest, moral men, women, and children filled in the gaps, and the town had been moving in the right direction in the past decade or so. Many years of good rainfall meant good crop yield and a new copper mine brought foreigners into town in search of fortune and the American Dream.

Sheriff Randolph wasn’t the sole reason for the town’s rebirth, but he was a master of putting plans to action, and charisma could have been his middle name. In all but the title, he was mayor of the town. If not for his crippling dependency on alcohol, El Rancho might have been deemed a safe town eventually.

Main street was deserted. The only sound came from The Frothing Bat, a saloon where criminals, drunks, those seeking a woman that they could take to bed– for only a few dollars– and anyone else wishing to have a good time, would convene on any given night.

On this particular evening, The Frothing Bat’s front steps housed three drunk men. Two of them, balding, were conversing with a third, significantly younger and more sober man, about the strange things they may or may not have seen wandering around in the desert during their many years of walking the Earth. As the younger man of the trio finally had enough of the other men’s frankly ridiculous and slurred tellings of their encounters with the strange and unexplainable, a shadow approached out of the darkness.

“This where a woman can find herself a drink and a warm meal?” she asked. Each man looked up at her and the man in the middle, who was laughing at his own story, quickly grew an expression of hatred and intolerance across his face.

“What makes you think anyone in here would serve you,” he said. “Don’t you know your kind is unwelcome in these parts? You must not. But I can’t blame you. I’ve heard niggers have the mental capacity of pigs rollin’ around in their own shit,” the man said, turning to the other men to see if they thought the last comment was as funny as he did. Their smiles and nods confirmed they did.

“Excuse me, but my kind would prefer you don’t call us that. Is that alright with you, darlin’?” the woman said. It was at this moment that the man in the middle noticed she was equipped with iron on her right side. Her hand had unstrapped the holster and was holding the walnut grip of a revolver. The man in the middle looked like he was trying to decide whether or not he wanted to test if the woman meant business, but in the end, he simply stood up, spat at her boots, and walked off. The other fossil of a man followed. The younger of the trio stood up, dusted off his sun-damaged jeans, and allowed the woman to walk past him, through the batwing doors, and into the saloon.

Inside, Sheb, the piano man, was working his magic in the far right corner of the saloon on a piano that produced a beautiful sound despite its many years of use. His fingers seemed to effortlessly flow across those yellowing, chipped keys. His tip jar remained empty aside from the guck of a man who had mistaken it for a spittoon earlier in the night. A bottle of gin sat on top of the piano; it was two-thirds empty. In the back, a bar of dark wood stood, and a bulging man tended to the seats that were taken. Each glass he produced and filled with liquid courage was freckled with fingerprints and dust. None of the men and women who were there to drink seemed to mind.

It was common knowledge that there were some rules as to where different types of folk sat. On the right side of the saloon, near Sheb, sat an amalgamation of men and women, most engaged in conversation. Those closest to Sheb were laughing or singing along to his jovial performance. On the left side of the saloon sat many rough-looking men, almost all bearing itchy beards and frowns. A game of poker was being played on the far left side. All four seats were taken.

As the batwing doors opened and the woman entered the bar, all conversation ceased. Even Sheb stopped playing to see what the silence was about. The woman was used to eyes lingering on her, feasting on her ebony skin and dark eyes; she looked straight forward to the bar, her footsteps loud against the now silent saloon.

As the woman sat in a vacant seat at the bar, the tender looked around at the crowd once and then approached. His apprehension to tend the woman seemed rooted in what the others would think of him serving her, rather than what he thought of her.

“Wander in from out of town?” the tender asked her.

“Yes sir. And I am starving, I could eat for three. Do you make beef sandwiches?” the woman asked.

“We do. Are ya good for it? I don’t need another freeloader takin’ advantage of my kindness,” the tender said. The woman reached into her pocket and pulled out a coin purse. She produced several copper and silver coins and held them in her open hand, showing them to the tender like a child showing a frog she caught to her parents.

“I’d also like a glass of whisky, on the rocks. None of that cheap stuff either,” she said. At the sight of those coins, the tender walked quickly to what must’ve been the kitchen doors and shouted inside for one beef sandwich, rápido!

“It shouldn’t be more’n five minutes. The name’s Franco by the way. Might I ask what yours is?” he said as he walked back to the woman, extending his sweaty hand.

“Spade.”

“Well spade, it is certainly nice to make your acquaintance,” Franco said as he lifted a full bottle of whiskey, opened it, and poured it into a glass with ice. “Let me know if you need anything else to make yourself comfortable,” Franco said, putting the glass in front of Spade. Spade smiled and nodded. As she sipped from the half-clean glass, she instantly felt the warm embrace of the liquor as it coated her mouth and throat.

Not long after, a sandwich of extraordinary width was placed front of her. She wolfed it down, taking a break every few bites for a sip of whiskey. When she had finished, she sat back and listened to Sheb work his magic on the piano which suddenly sounded better on a full stomach.

“You know, I never trusted a negro man nor a negro woman in my life, I can tell you that much,” a man of about 80 years, sitting to the left of her, said. He had that distinct look of racial intolerance in his eyes; the one indoctrinated from youth, one Spade had seen in many white folk in her time. Spade put the cold glass to her forehead to steady her temper. “Hey woman, do ya hear me talking to ya? Do ya? I don’t like you and I don’t appreciate you putting your negro germs on that there glass,” he finished. At that moment, another man came and scooped the old man off the stool next to her and out of the bar. As they left, Spade heard them yelling about how the folks playing poker never play fair.

Spade turned around and saw a few eyes still glued to her. However, she only had eyes for the poker table. And by the looks of it, one seat was now open.

“Franco,” Spade said, waving him to her side of the bar. “Do me a favor and pour me another glass please, mine seems to have gone dry,” she finished, holding her glass and a few silver coins out to the tender.

“Sure thing,” he said, filling her glass to the proper level once again. Spade took it and stood up on the sawdust-covered floor. A few more eyes looked at her and a few looked away. She walked over to the table with the cards and chips on it.

“Y’all mind if I join your game? It seems that a seat has just opened up and as it happens, I’m in the mood to gamble,” Spade said to the three men in front of her.

“And what if we don’t want to play with no dark skin?” the man on the left said. It didn’t seem to be a question. He wore a green cowboy hat and had an unlit cigar hanging from his mouth. His facial hair was unkempt and long and his shirt, which was probably white at one point, was a patchwork of yellow and gray stains.

“Is that how all you gentlemen feel?” Spade asked, looking from the man in the middle to the man on the right. The man in the middle, Mexican by the looks of it, simply shrugged. Spade couldn't even tell if he was looking at her because he was wearing particularly dark glasses. Then the man on the right spoke up, but not to Spade.

“Come on Jack, let her play,” he said to the man on the left. He had long brown hair, washed and neatly combed. He was wearing a brown leather vest and a black shirt underneath. His outfit was as clean as his demeanor. Not to mention he had a smile that could make any woman fall in love. “Don’t you love takin’ candy from children?” he finished. Jack looked from Spade to the man on the right for a few moments and then took his cigar from his mouth and placed it on the table.

“Well I guess it couldn’t hurt” Jack said without looking at Spade. He pulled out a pouch of tobacco and paper and began rolling a cigarette. “Mark, borrow some matches?” Jack asked. Mark pulled a pack of matches from his shirt pocket and tossed them to Jack who caught them in his hand effortlessly. “The buy-in is twenty five big ones. Do ya think ya can afford to lose that much…” Jack trailed off for a second, and then finished “what was your name?”

“Spade. And I can assure you I got the cash. What I’m wondering is if you can afford to lose that amount of money, Jack,” Spade finished. Jack looked at the man in the middle and the man on the right and then simply gestured to the open seat. Spade sat down.

4: Round One

The man in the middle dealt out two cards to each of the four sitting at the table.

“You don’t say much, do ya?” Spade asked the man in the middle.

“He don’t talk no mo. The Goddamn spiders cut out his tongue some twenty years back,” Jack said in response. When Spade gave a look of confusion to Jack he elaborated. “Spiders control the Purple Dust trade ‘round here. Their territory reaches all of El Rancho and anywhere south to the border. Once ‘pon a time, Ricardo here got himself into a little trouble, financially speaking. Thought he could sell some homemade Dust on Spider grounds. Even more, he thought he could lie about it and get away with it. Well, I think they made damn sure he can never lie again. Ain’t that right, Rico?” Jack finished with a smile, revealing several moldy teeth and a few spaces where there were no teeth at all. Ricardo acted as though he simply didn’t hear what Jack had to say. It was probably in his best interest; once Jack gets rowdy, the night is usually spent for everyone around him.

Spade looked at Ricardo for a few seconds and then down at her cards: the Two of Spades and the Ten of Diamonds. After the first round of betting, the flop rolled out, displaying the Six of Clubs, the Jack of Diamonds, and the Nine of Hearts. Mark and Spade both checked. Jack immediately bet two dollars to which Ricardo and Mark responded by folding. Spade called his bet; one pair wasn’t much to ride on but she was thinking of another hand, if God was willing to pull some strings tonight.

Out came the turn which was the Seven of Hearts. Spade checked again. Jack looked intently at Spade and then bet another dollar without taking his eyes off her. Spade– without looking away from Jack– called the bet.

“Well goddamn, the nigger has balls. Never woulda thought it by the looks of ya,” Jack said with not an ounce of playfulness in his tone. Spade felt her heart beat faster, but not because of the way Jack was insulting her; she simply needed one specific card to come out to wipe the smile off Jack’s crooked face. When Ricardo turned over the river, Spade’s heart rate doubled, but looking at her face, you never would’ve known it.

“This must be my lucky fuckin’ day,” Jack said. “You better fold those cards, sweetheart, I don’t want you getting’ all pissy the way women like to get these days,” he finished, betting another two dollars.

“I’ll let my cards do the talking,” Spade said, calling his bet and slapping her cards on the table. Seven, Eight, Nine, Ten, Jack; they made a Straight. To that, Jack cackled for a few moments which quickly turned into a phlegmy, coughing fit.

“You surely are dumber than you look, little girl,” he said, regaining his composure and flipping his cards. Five Hearts; they made a Flush, beating Spade’s Straight. “Oh don’t be so shocked, you ain’t hardly the first black I ever took money from,” he finished. Spade was flustered but kept her emotions in check. When her father taught her to play poker as a child, he always said to make sure you leave your emotions behind before you take a seat. She still had seventeen dollars but she knew she would have to keep Jack out of her head if she wanted to make any money this evening.

“Ricardo, shuffle the damn cards!” Mark said, slamming his fist on the table, making the chips and glasses bounce. Jack stood up and danced his way to the bar. He bought two shots of gin for himself and walked over to Sheb, who was playing the piano with drunken vigor. He must’ve made a request because Sheb replaced his current song with a more frantic one. By the time he got back to his seat, each player had the next pair of cards in front of them.

By this time of night, the sawdust-covered floors were typically doing their job of soaking up drunkenly knocked-over drinks as well as blood from knuckle-fighting men. Tonight, however, the sawdust remained relatively dry.

The Frothing Bat was alive thanks to alcohol and music (and for some, Purple Dust). People seemed to be in good spirits. Some might attribute this to the full moon. And while the right side of the bar became noisier by the minute, the left side seemed to become quieter. Men on the left consisted of those grown coarse over many years of living as criminals and who had seen the uglier parts of life’s cold face. They saw all the bad in the world and none of the good in the world and they couldn’t see any reason to join in on the joyous banter with the folks on the right side of the Frothing Bat. Perhaps that was why they all congregated on the left; to drink their alcohol in silence and plot who they would next rob, murder, humiliate, or otherwise terrorize in the town of El Rancho.

6: Round Two

Jack slid his cards off the table and peeked at them with grace.

“Hot damn! I must be on fire tonight,” Jack announced to the rest of the table. And with that, he downed both shots of gin, one after the other. Spade didn’t know Jack well but she knew some things about men in general: they get cocky, they lie, steal, manipulate, and otherwise love to be the biggest one in the room (metaphorically and physically). She wasn’t certain, but pretty damn sure that his excitement was a bluff. Plus, she had the King of Spades and the Queen of Spades in her hand.

“You might want to calm your tits a little,” Mark said. “I might have ya beat and I don’t want ya knocking shit over like ya did last night,” he finished. Jack immediately calmed down. His laughter turned into a face of no emotion. It looked as though it had been replaced by a face from a totem pole.

“We will see,” Jack said. “We will see, won’t we Spade?” he added, looking to his right.

“Some cards fall harder than others,” Spade said.

“What kinda poetic bullshit is that,” spat Mark. Spade simply shrugged and paid the blind. Mark shook his head as if trying to figure out if there was even a single ounce of poetic essence in Spade’s cow fart of a statement. His conclusion was that there was none.

“Mark… Mark! The cards,” Jack exclaimed through cigarette smoke.

“Give a fella a Goddamn second!” Mark said, throwing down the flop: the Jack of Spades, the Ace of Spades, and the Five of Spades. Jack coughed on his cigarette smoke and Spade spat out some of her whiskey, her eyes tearing up as some of it dripped from her nostrils. Ricardo looked left and right at the two and then shook his head; to be fair, the cards he held didn’t amount to shit. Spade and Jack looked at each other, both trying to read what was going on behind each other’s foreheads.

“Go ahead, bet on it, I know you want to,” Jack said with a straight face. His lips, however, seemed eager to turn into a grin at any moment. Spade had five Spades off the bat, already a Flush. She was no novice at poker and knew one card could change that completely. She bet one dollar. Nothing too fancy, not yet of course. Jack, no novice at poker either, knew what she might have (or might be trying to bluff), but, whether because of the alcohol splashing around in his veins or his pride, he didn’t think Spade had anything special. He raised the bet to four dollars.

Ricardo put his hand to his forehead and shook his head. He was sweating at this point and folded immediately.

“God damn Jack, you got Aces or something? What's got you creaming your pants this early?” Mark asked, gently folding his cards as well.

“Well as Miss brown skin so eloquently put it, some cards fall harder than others,” Jack said, his voice full of mockery as he quoted Spade. “Don’t they, my ebony compadre?” he added, looking at Spade.

“They certainly do,” Spade said, calling his raise.

“Whooo wheee! Looks like we’re gon have a good time tonight,” Jack said, snuffing out his cigarette prematurely on the table and lighting another. His hands were shaking, Spade noticed. Was it excitement? No, it couldn’t be. It had to be nerves. He was lying, of course he was. Or was he? “Let’s see the next card, shall we?” Jack finished, gesturing to Mark. Mark put down the turn: the Ace of Clubs.

It was at this point that Spade felt chills run down the back of her neck and arms. She looked over at Jack and saw the color go out of his face. She didn’t like that at all. What she liked even less was that she couldn’t read him whatsoever. Not wanting to look like a pussy, Spade bet one dollar. The card didn’t help her at all, and it could have been huge for Jack, but she didn’t want to give him any satisfaction that checking would have. Jack looked over at Spade and smiled his moldy smile. He turned over one of his cards on the table, it was the Ace of Hearts. Didn’t he know she might have a Flush? Why did he look so confident? There was no way he had another Ace under that second card, was there?

“No, no, no, no, sweetheart. You think I’m just gon let that slide? You ain’t got jack shit. I can see it in your face,” Jack said. “I’m all in,” he finished, pushing all his money to the center of the table. Spade looked at her cards one more time. She had a Flush, that was for damn sure. But if the Gods willed it and put the Ten of Spades in the right spot, she would beat anything Jack might have, even if both his cards were Aces.

All in; was she willing to go all in, chasing one specific card? She began to rock in her seat. Her hands and armpits were sweating profusely at this point. Even the sound of the piano seemed to swing in and out of audibility between her heartbeat, which was louder than anything in the bar. She looked down at her money and then, reluctantly, called Jack’s bet. She was locked in. Whatever the next card was, she was past the point of no return. Jack’s smile seemed to widen if that was even possible. He took a rather heavy puff of his cigarette and then showed his second card: the Ace of Diamonds.

Spade felt as if she had taken a blow from the butt end of a pistol to the side of her face. She simply could not believe it. That man, that cocky piece of shit man had a Four of a Kind with Aces. Now she was fully relying on the Ten of Spades to save her from this grave she had dug for herself and hopped into. There was no point in trying to hide what her cards were so she flipped them over and showed the other men at the table.

“Holy Hell, Spade, you better hope God has a hard on for you tonight,” Mark said.

“Well it looks like we have ourselves tonight's climax, and early too,” Jack said. “Don’t worry sweetheart, I’ll buy you a drink after this round. Hell, I’ll buy a round for the whole bar. It’ll be your money anyway,” he finished. Spade simply could not look at him. She was looking at the cards on the table. As unreligious as she was, she prayed to anyone above who might be listening.

“Ready, fellas?” Mark asked. Jack nodded and so did Spade. Mark flipped the final card.

The Ten of Spades. Spade had done it; she made a Royal Flush, the best possible hand in poker, beating Jack’s Four of a Kind against all odds. For a moment, it seemed as though the rest of the saloon had ceased to exist. The only thing in the universe was the table the four were sitting at. Spade pinched herself and rubbed her eyes to make sure she had been seeing correctly. She looked over at Mark, who had just dealt the final card. His facial expression mirrored hers. Mark looked at her and then at Jack. Spade looked over to Jack and didn’t like what she saw.

“You bitch,” he whispered. “You cheatin’, fuckin bitch.” a little louder. “You Goddamn fuckin nigger! CHEATIN’, LYIN’ BITCH!” he finished, spit flying from his mouth. His right arm moved in a way that was more than familiar to Spade. He was reaching for his iron. It’s too bad that Spade was trained over many years to draw and fire and she was faster than he was. Black Lightning, they called her where she came from.

She drew before he had even gotten his hand completely around his grip and fired a bullet. A small black hole appeared on his left cheek, under his eye. Jack still seemed to be fumbling for his gun, as if he still had a chance of beating Spade. As a single line of red spilled from the tiny hole in his face, he fell forward, knocking his green cowboy hat onto the floor. On the back of his head, a gaping hole, a mess of hair, bone, and brain, showed the extent of the power that Spade held on her hip at all times. The barrel of her revolver was still smoking, the smoke rising in a calm stream. That was when Spade realized how quiet the saloon had become.

She turned to Mark and Ricardo, both of whom were wearing faces of pure shock. Then, their faces turned to those of fury and disgust. Disgusted by the fact that some brown-skinned bitch had been quicker than Jack. Jack, who had the fastest hands in town, who never lost a standoff, even when he had been six or seven or ten drinks in on any given night.

Ricardo and Mark made the same mistake that Jack did: they went for their guns. Spade put a bullet in each of their heads, this time exploding Ricardo’s nose and shattering Mark’s jaw. The two men reeled over in defeat, spilling blood all over the cards and chips and cash on the table.

Spade’s ears were ringing as she turned around to look at the rest of the bar. Her hands had begun to reload her revolver automatically. As the only black person in the bar, and probably the town, and who had just killed three men, she knew she wasn’t going to get out of this easily.

8: Showdown at The Frothing Bat

After the third crack of Spade’s gun, the entire saloon went silent. By the looks of it, Sheb fell backward off his piano bench. A hundred eyes feasted on Spade. They were alight with hate. A few women (and Sheb) scurried to the door as though they could sense the oncoming storm of bullets. Spade glanced at the bar and saw Franco now holding a shotgun. His friendly demeanor was exchanged for a terrifying smile. Spade didn’t know it, but Franco always loved a good shootout, especially when he had a bar to hide behind.

One man on the opposite side of the saloon stood up and finished his beer in one gulp. He slowly walked to the center of the room and spat into the sawdust-covered floor. “You know, I knew you was gon be trouble when you walked up in here,” he said. “If anything, black folk love to cause a commotion. I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but there are no black folk in sight. Wanna know why, sweetheart?” he finished. After a few moments of silence, the man repeated his question.

“Why might that be?” Spade replied.

“Well, you see,” the man said, looking around at those now listening intently to him, “we drove ‘em out of town. Those job-stealing niggers and their kids stood no chance against us. But some of ‘em tried to stay and fight, of course. Out of pride, if nothing else. Those resisters, we shot, stabbed, and burned without mercy,” the man said and then laughed. A few men laughed with him. “Only difference here is we’re not gon give you the opportunity to run from this, sweetheart,” the man finished.

“I guess that makes this part easier for me,” Spade said, “morally speaking that is,” she finished. The two stood, facing each other for a few moments. Spade looked around and counted her targets. There were 38 men and two women in the bar. An even 40.

Spade felt a smirk grow over her mouth. Adrenaline had always turned her on. The man went for his holster but Spade, gun already out, put a bullet hole in his forehead, speckling a few bystanders with the contents of his head. Before anyone else made a single movement, Spade shot four more men, closest to her, and then Franco. She didn’t want to find out what that shotgun was capable of at such a close range. All the men fell to the ground in unison.

34 left.

Spade jumped backward over the table she had been playing poker at and pushed it forward, creating cover to duck behind as she reloaded. She heard many other tables fall over. The men and women in the bar were drunk, but not stupid. Spade also grabbed Ricardo’s gun from his holster and opened the cylinder. It was fully loaded, conveniently with the same caliber she was carrying. She saw an empty beer glass on the ground and tossed it over the table. A few trigger-happy men unloaded into the wall behind her and the table, thinking she was coming out of cover. Spade ran to the bar, putting twelve more bullets into ten men and both of the women left in the saloon.

22 left.

As Spade jumped over the bar and ducked behind it, a shower of glass and liquor rained over her, soaking and cutting her arms which she raised over her face. She reloaded both guns in less than ten seconds, listening as tables were abruptly turned, surely now facing the bar.

Quick footfalls came from one side of the bar, toward her. She closed her eyes to locate exactly where they were. When the footsteps stopped, she aimed her revolver up and to the right and shot at the man who was leaping over the bar, trying to catch her off guard. Next, came a long silence. Nobody moved. The air stunk of gunpowder, liquor, and blood. Spade kissed her revolver on its barrel, which burned her lips a little, and crept to the right side of the bar, opposite from where she leaped over it. She was careful not to make a sound as she shifted across the glass-littered ground. Then she slapped her arms on the bar, exposing her face just enough to see forward, and shot the eight men who were not behind cover. As they fell, she waited for more to expose themselves. It was a guessing game at this point as to which tables covered men.

Two men peeked from tables on opposite sides of the saloon and she shot the one on the left in the center of his forehead. The man on the right took the opportunity and shot twice at Spade. The first bullet nearly ripped her left ear from her head. The second bullet missed. Spade ducked down again, a groan escaping her lips. She felt warm blood gush down her neck and onto her shirt.

No matter, there were now only 12 left.

She took a deep breath and used the pain to her advantage. She felt anger boil in her veins and looked to her left. Franco was lying with a mess of glass and liquor on his dead body. His left hand, tattooed with a purple spider, was still clutching his shotgun. Spade pulled it out of his grip and crept to the left side of the bar. She opened the shotgun and saw two shells in the twin barrels. She took a deep breath and stood up, shooting two tables next to each other. She heard a few screams but no thuds of bodies or guns hitting the wooden floor, so she couldn’t tell if anyone had been killed. Shit! She thought as she knew she could no longer be sure of how many men were left.

Three more men rose from behind a table in the center of the saloon and shot at her thirteen times, putting thirteen holes in the wall behind her, but not before she ducked down. She scrambled in the drawers behind the bar and found a box of shells in one of them. She reloaded the shotgun and put six shells into her breast pocket.

“Hope you like it hot, bitch,” a voice cried from somewhere over the bar. Spade thought for a moment about what the man had said. She looked down and saw that the sawdust-covered floor had soaked up liquor from the many bottles that had shattered a few moments ago. Without a second thought, she ran out from behind the bar. At the same moment, a lighter, open and alight, flew over the bar in a beautifully calculated arc, turning the liquor-soaked floor and Franco into flames. Spade ran toward the closest table, putting both shotgun shells into the table where the three men had just shot at her from. The table exploded and the men were sprayed with pellets. One died instantly. The other two burst into agonizing screams and fell to the floor.

Spade ducked behind the table and reloaded the shotgun and revolvers. By her count, there were seven tables on their sides. She would have to blow them up in order to find the remaining men, and fast. The fire was spreading across the floor, eating up the sawdust and licking at the tables and chairs. The air in the bar was beginning to heat up.

“WHAT IN THE HOLY HELL IS GOIN’ ON HERE?” a voice announced from the front of the saloon.

“Sheriff!” a second voice chimed in. “Goddamn nigger bitch strolled in and thought she could start a revolution,” the voice finished.

“Show yourself, woman!” the Sheriff asked. “Real slow like,” he finished. His voice carried so much authority and reminded Spade of her father. She almost didn’t want to kill him, but raised out of cover and shot the sheriff in his right eye with her revolver, ducking down immediately after.

“Goddamn bitch!” a strained voice called out as the sheriff fell backward, through the batwing doors and down the steps to the dusty road, his bloodied Sheriff's badge reflecting the moonlight.

Spade picked up the shotgun and blew up one of the overturned tables with two shells. She reloaded and repeated this process two more times with the remaining shells. She wasn’t sure but estimated that she hit at least five men. That made the remaining men approximately four; maybe a few more, maybe a few less.

The fire had spread to where Spade was taking cover so, with no other option, she ran to another table, near the exit. She was surprised to find a man behind the table, eyes closed, hair dripping in sweat. The barrel of his pistol was held against his forehead. He might have been praying to God. Spade, caught off guard, blew the man’s head off with three bullets from her revolver. She was so close to the batwing doors now and thought she might have enough luck to run out of the saloon without getting shot. Without a second thought, she jumped up and ran through the batwing doors. A few bullets missed her but one caught her clean on the calf, missing her bone but still doing enough damage to make her fall over. Spade turned and shot her revolver at three men now standing, nearly silhouetted by the flames behind them. She only had two bullets in her revolver at this point and so the man on the right kept standing. He smiled a cruel smile as he emptied his chamber in Spade’s direction, but by some miracle, he missed all his shots. By the looks of it, he was the last remaining man. If anyone else was still in the bar, they either wanted to be cooked alive or were too stupid to take this chance and kill the woman now lying on the ground with an empty clip. The final soldier began to reload his gun and Spade laughed.

“Take a good hard look at my face. When you join your buddies in Hell, I want all y'all crackas to remember how black it is,” Spade said, pulling Ricardo’s gun from her waistband and shooting the man directly between his eyes.

Outside the Frothing Bat, there were twelve horses tied up in a row, waiting for masters who would never come untie them. Each horse had its ears perked, eyes wide, and head pointing toward the burning building in front of it. The sign that said “The Frothing Bat” fell from where it was plastered above the doorway. Then suddenly, a limping figure approached the horses.

Spade, no longer bleeding due to a piece of cloth she ripped from her shirt and tied around her wound, approached the staring horses. The one in the front sniffed her and recoiled after getting a whiff of strong alcohol.

“Now which one of y’all wants to be my friend tonight?” Spade asked aloud. Two horses looked at each other as if they understood her question and thought she was crazy. Spade found a black horse near the middle and was instantly attracted to it. As she approached, the horses on either side of it moved away but the black one stayed still, eyeing Spade. She reached a bloodstained hand out and touched its silky shoulders. The hair was shimmering in the light of the flaming building behind her. The horse simply looked at Spade.

“What do you say we leave this town?” Spade said to the horse. “You look like you could use a vacation as much as I can. I could use a doctor too,” Spade added as she checked the saddle to make sure it was on tight. The horse stood still, left ear twitching once as a fly landed on it. Spade untied the horse and walked back to the right saddle. She hopped up onto its shadow-colored back and grabbed the reins. The horse was obedient to her instruction and stepped back into the dusty road. The air caressing Spade’s back and neck was warm from the fire climaxing behind her. She snapped the reins hard and the horse broke into a gallop, the air quickly turning cold as they rode out of town and onto the next journey.

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