The Last Mutant SFSD 6 Round IV

Hotter than a Whorehouse on Nickel Night

Emmett spat on the bar’s splintered surface and scrubbed at the sticky remnants of spilled liquor with an old rag.  Buying the only saloon in this God forsaken town had been the best thing he’d ever done - Dead Man’s Drift seemed to suck the life out of both its residents and visitors alike so the men came to drink, talk and forget.

Almost every chair was occupied, the murmuring voices of the saloon’s patrons creating a soothing backdrop for Emmett’s thoughts as he idly picked up a glass and began to polish it with his bar-rag.  The train would arrive come the morrow and with it more men wanting drinks.

The sharp jingling of spurs accompanied long, slow strides which became more prominent as they neared the saloon.  The murmurs within the bar grew louder with curiosity, the louvred wooden doors swung inwards sending tiny dust bunnies skittering across the floor.

The ensuing silence was immediate.  

“Howdy stranger.”  She spoke without making eye contact.  In fact, the brim of her well worn-in stetson hung so low over her tanned face that all Emmett could see was the tip of her nose and her full lips which were curving into a half smirk, presumably at the sight of his slack-jawed expression.

He struggled to regain his composure, making the mistake of eyeing her up and down as he did so.  

Dang it, she’s hotter than a whorehouse on nickel night!  

“Whiskey,” she barked, leaning forwards and slamming one leather gloved hand on the bar. Emmett balked, glancing up at her right hand which was indisposed on account of the very shiny double barrell she held casually over her shoulder.

His hands shook as he poured the shot.  “Y’got sand comin’ in here, that’s fer sure,” he croaked.

“Sand?”  She downed her drink in one and nudged the glass back across the bar for another.  “Ain’t nothin’ to do with bein’ sand. All I’m doin’ is passin’ through.” She smirked again before her second whiskey disappeared with a satisfied sigh.

Grabbing his filthy rag once more, Emmett pretended to wipe down the bar, stealing glances at his newest patron’s outfit as he worked.  He still hadn’t seen her face proper, but the rest of her more than made up for it. Her skin was almost the colour of an Amerind’s but she sure as hell wasn’t a native with hair as blonde as that.  Her clothing was like nothing he’d ever seen on a woman - he was used to ruffles and fancy what not’s - clothing that was proper and decent for a lady.  She was clothed in guns and leather, leaving little to the imagination.

He opened his mouth to protest when she helped herself to another whiskey, quickly closing it again when the double barrell thunked down on top of the bar, cocked and pointing in his direction while she made herself comfortable on a stool.

His patrons watched in rapt fascination as she crossed one shapely skin-tight leather clad leg over the other and painted her tonsils with the saloon’s best liquor.

“You’d best be intendin’ to pony up before ya finish passin’ on through,” Emmett grumbled, one hand resting on his own shotgun underneath the counter.  “Ma’am,” he added.  It never hurt to be polite.

“That I surely do,” she drawled and looked around the saloon.  It was far too quiet - people who weren’t distracted by talking had a tendency to start thinking - it never ended well.  Finishing her sweep of the room she scanned the ‘wanted’ billboard scroller behind Emmett’s head, but gave up after counting over two dozen images without finding the one she was looking for.

“Y’all hushed up on my account gentlemen? Surely y’all ain’t in the habit of bein’ so dreadful silent while you’re drinkin’” she challenged. A few mumbles of ‘no Ma’am’ and ‘that we ain’t Ma’am’ floated towards the bar.