Wednesday, March 01, 2006

Western Fiction

As Hank Larson pushed aside the swing doors of the saloon the noise of conversation stopped and hostile eyes followed him as he walked to the bar his boot heels kicking up little clouds of sawdust dust with every step and at the far end of the bar next to a tarnished brass spittoon (or maybe it was copper.) a cat stopped cleaning itself for a moment and held up a bandaged foot as if to say, “You shot my paw.”

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