The Good, The Bad and The Leather

It was a quiet evening at Dorothy’s Saloon. A relaxed game of poker was being played at the table in the corner; everyone was breaking even so there were no hard feelings tonight. The player piano filled the smoky room with a happy melody that had even the usual grimacing customers tapping their feet on the dirty wooden floor. Ice cold brew and warm whiskey flowed, keeping Dorothy busy and the atmosphere light. All was well tonight. That is, until Charlie Daniels walked in.

He pushed through the swinging doors with such speed and force, a loud bang made everyone stop in their tracks. Charlie Daniels had on dirty chaps and a dirtier hat. His shirt, once of a fine quality, looked like it had seen him through several rough nights. The whiskers on his cheeks cast a dark shadow on his face, implying several days on the road without stopping to clean up. Charlie was on a mission, and no one in the saloon wanted to find out what it was.

Ladies averted their eyes to the floor as he approached the bar. Cards were quietly laid on the table while hands slyly fingered their revolvers. Everyone tried to act natural in this most unnatural setting. No one dared speak; no one dared move. Nervous patrons quietly slugged back their beverages to make time at the bar disappear.

Charlie Daniels clomped up to the bar. His boots jangled and banged with each step, causing everyone to wince with his rhythm. Doc Holloway was shaking so badly, his eye glasses nearly fell off his face. He knew he should stay to tend to the impending injured, but he was a small man and carried no weapon. He jumped up and flew out the door in one fell swoop, careful not to cross paths with Charlie.

The sudden commotion from Doc caused a ruckus in the saloon. Every man cocked his gun; every woman gasped and shielded her eyes. Dorothy stood bravely behind the bar, like a captain about to go down with her ship. Charlie chuckled at the sudden sight of the room, even though every gun was pointed at him.

Dorothy’s son Jackson peeked out from behind the bar. He was a brave boy; losing your dad at a young age will do that to you. Dorothy whispered his name, but he didn’t listen. Jackson approached Charlie, and with his toughest, meanest voice said “You can sit in this chair, Mr. Daniels,” and pointed to Doc Holloway’s abandoned barstool. Charlie tilted his head to one side. He pulled out the stool and walked a full circle around it, nodding his head. It had a fine leather seat that, despite its age, looked brand new. The wooden legs were sturdy and had a lower foot rest for comfort. “Thanks, boy,” said Charlie as he settled in to his chair. A deep exhale of relaxation blew out of his mouth. He adjusted himself and discovered most happily that this leather barstool also had a swivel. His eyes widened in appreciation and declared, “Miss Dorothy, this is the best dang barstool I’ve ever sat on in my life! Whiskey for everyone, on me!”

A cheer rang out that could be heard for miles. Men who had contemplated shooting him on site gave him an approving pat on the shoulder. Things at Dorothy’s Saloon returned to normal – cards were dealt, music was playing, and every toe was tapping on the peanut shell-filled floor . . . even Charlie Daniels’.