5
William Tell
by Karin Rathert
It’s all because of a goddamn car, Wendell thought as he sipped his drink, and so that’s what he said.
“It’s all because of the goddamn car. The goddamn automobile’s going to mean the end of us.”
“Maybe,” Smoke bubbled, not so sure. “I can’t say I mind the car. I wouldn’t mind riding in an automobile.” He floated his head up to the level of Wendell’s.
Both men were spilling over their stools, thinking their dark thoughts, but Smoke had degenerated into something soft and lumpy, a pool of fingers and elbows with a rocky island for a head on the bar.
“This is it,” Clem said, sliding two glasses across the counter. “I’m going to have to cut you off. That’s as far as I can stretch it.”
“Fuck,” Wendell said. The horse avalanched in his mind. Lucky son of a bitch to have it all over, he thought. His own fate was likely to be much more brutal. The best outcome, he imagined, would be if he could get himself hung from a tree. The hangings still happened, and he imagined himself dangling like a sack from a heavy branch—that would be merciful. More likely he would be drawn and quartered. Or Jake would have Stanley beat him to death.
“He was something,” Wendell said, about the horse, and Smoke nodded.
They sat facing the rows of bottles behind the bar, and all the action was behind them, men shouting and laughing and some of them playing cards, all of them having a good time. Wendell turned to Smoke who was staring into his glass as if willing the level of liquid to rise back up to the top.