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[at-l] The Wild West, a thru story

The Wild West (A Thru Story)
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The Hot Springs Diner was full when Barkeater and I arrived, and several
tables over in one corner were occupied by men wearing cowboy hats and
black leather vests. We didn't think much of it at first.

What is this, the Wild West? Barkeater said. Western North Carolina, I
said. Next best thing. They have Nashville cowboys here.

We found a long table near the back with some other thruhikers, and ordered
several large pizzas. Over in the cowboy corner one teenager wore one of
those black knee-length oiled canvas range dusters with broad capelike
shoulders, and periodically he would get up and stride self-consciously
back and forth along the aisle of the diner, duck out the door, then back
in again and over to the corner with the other cowboys. They were getting
rowdy and loud, hooting and flirting with the waitresses. After a while I
started looking more closely at them. Most of them were big men, and one
was huge--well over 300 pounds. Nashville or not, these guys had really
gone all out. Five o'clock shadow, black vests, silver buckles, black hats
with broad, drooping brims, shiny tooled-leather boots, spurs for godsake,
and . . . gunbelts. Studded gunbelts. With guns in them.  It slowly dawned
on us that half of the people in the diner were armed.

They've got guns, I said to Barkeater in a low voice. Not real, he said.
They sure look real, I said. Do you think we should call 'em out? one of
the others said. You know, cowboys and thruhikers on main street, high
noon. Shush! someone else said.

Four of the cowboys got up, spurs and buckles jingling, and stomped out the
door and into the parking lot, where a crowd was gathering. One of the men
went to a pickup truck and took out a rifle.

Excuse me, I said, calling one of the waitresses over. Does everybody here
go around armed?

What? she said, and looked out in the parking lot where I motioned. Oh,
those boys? That's for the gunfight.

The gunfight? I said. Yeah, you know, she said. For Hiker Appreciation Day,
they're having a gunfight. Over at the dance by the depot.

What, I said, are they going to shoot a hiker?

Oh go on! she said. It ain't real. These boys usually get together and do
the OK Corral for the folks over at Tweetsie Railroad. That big one out
there's my husband. She gazed proudly out the window and waved at him.

Our pizzas arrived and we ate, watching as the parking lot filled with cars
and a crowd began drifting over toward the tracks by the old railroad
depot--now home to the rescue squad and a municipal building. It was a
damp, chilly night. Periodically one or two of the gunfighters would come
back in the diner for coffee. After we'd finished off the pizzas, Barkeater
said that we ought to go watch. After all, he said, it's in our honor.

We paid our bills and left, and one by one made our way through the
gathering crowd to where some big amplified speakers were set up, blaring a
mix of country and rock hits. After a few minutes a town official with a
microphone interrupted and greeted everybody, thanking them for coming. He
said a few suitable words, paid tribute to the sponsors, and the hikers,
and invited everyone to come dance.

But first, he said, before we start dancing. I understand we're going to
have us a gunfight.

Out of the way, please! some of the organizers started shouting to the
crowd. Give 'em room. Could you please clear that lane through from the
road? Okay? Thank you.

The crowd obliged, falling back from the center of the road, half of us
crowding near the doors to the station, half falling back to the raised bed
of the railroad tracks. It began to mist rain. Everyone looked around,
murmuring expectantly.

Bam! A gunshot sounded down the street. Four of the cowboys appeared from
the direction of the sound, and swung out into the street, breath steaming,
elaborately drunk, whooping and yelling at each other. They wobbled towards
us, ignoring the crowd. Crack! Bam! A couple more pistol shots into the
air. They were yelling and talking to each other according to some
generally-understood script, but I couldn't hear over the chatting of the
crowd. The kid in the duster coat pretended to try to punch the
300-pounder, who held him at one massive armslength with a hand to the
forehead, the kid's punches windmilling comically. Some more whooping and
hollering, and swigging from a bottle. Then from behind us appeared the
lawmen, or the Earps, or the Clint Eastwoods, or whoever they were supposed
to be (everybody was dressed about the same, so you couldn't really tell).
Grim, menacing, silent, they strode down the street to meet the drunks, who
slowly became aware of them. One of the Clint Eastwoods walked forward to
meet them; the others fanned out. A pantomimed conversation began, quickly
escalating to head-bobbing shouts like a baseball rhubarb, and the
300-pounder went for his gun. Clint beat him to it. Bam! Make My Day
clutched his stomach and collapsed. The drunks looked shocked and started
pulling their guns but the other Clint Eastwoods were ready for them. Bam!
Crack! Pop pop pop! They waded in, firing, and all the drunks went down.
Urg. Yuh got me, pard! One of them tried to crawl across the street but was
shot in the back. The Clint Eastwoods conferred, kicked a few of the
bodies, and the music came up again on the loudspeakers. Time to dance.

About half the crowd began drifting back to where their cars were parked
and the corpses revived and dusted themselves off. Show's over boys! I
brushed away the misting rain beading on my fleece jacket and noticed that
my socks and Tevas were getting wet.

I feel very welcome now, Barkeater said.

(c) 1998 by the Rhymin' Worm




--Rhymin' Worm

(Robert Rubin) GA>ME '97 -- RHYMWORM@MINDSPRING.COM
Newsletter Editor, Piedmont Appalachian Trail Hikers (PATH) 


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