Holding Their Own: The Toymaker (14 page)

A slight commotion at the end of the bar distracted Bishop from his admiration.

There was a large man raising his voice, often not a good mix with whiskey and a crowded bar. But Butter was there, already talking calmly to the big fellow, the two even exchanging a smile.

And then suddenly, everyone was gathering around the pair. “What’s going on?” Terri asked, straining her neck to see over the throng of onlookers. Bishop pined for his rifle.

“No idea, but it must be pretty interesting. It’s the first time since you came in that every male eye is looking someplace else.”

Terri swatted her husband playfully on the arm. “Let’s go see,” she said, hopping down from her stool without waiting for a response.

“Come on, man, Pete doesn’t mind. From Abilene to Marfa, I keep hearing about this unbelievably stout cowpoke who goes by the handle of ‘Butter.’ I drove down off of I-10 special just to meet ya.”

“But I’m working,” Butter replied innocently. “I’d be glad to give you a shot after my shift’s done.”

The crowd got into it then, a bolt of energy surging through the onlookers as they started voicing their support. “C’mon Butter, whoop his ass!”

Pete, evidently drawn by the commotion, appeared from the back room. “What’s up?”

“This man wants to arm wrestle me, sir. I told him I was on the clock.”

Rolling his eyes, Pete gave his employee permission. “Make it quick, Butter. It’s a full house tonight, and I’m still trying to finish the books from yesterday.”

It seemed like the entire bar was eager for the contest, a table in the middle of the room cleared so the two titans could do battle. Bishop nudged Terri, indicating Pete at the end of the bar taking bets, stuffing money into a cigar box that had magically appeared from under the counter.

The stranger had his supporters, several folks making wagers against the hometown favorite.

“I’m going to bet on Butter,” Terri announced. “Give me some money.”

“I’m not so sure that’s a good idea,” Bishop frowned. “That’s a hefty sized gent he’s facing, and I can tell he’s no softy.”

“He doesn’t stand a chance against Butter,” Terri beamed with confidence. “Give me five bucks, please.”

Noting he’d been reaching for his wallet more tonight than in the last two years, Bishop humored his wife, producing the bill. Terri was almost giddy as they waited in line to make the wager.

And then it was time for the match, the two contestants removing their shirts and taking a seat.

Pete, after stashing the overflowing cigar box, was evidently the starter and referee. “Join hands in the middle of the table. Your ass must remain in the seat, or you’re disqualified. Both feet must remain on the floor, or it’s over. Understand?”

Terri clasped her hands together and yelled encouragement to her former bodyguard, “Go Butter! Take him down!”

Once the two large hams were joined, Pete cupped his palms around the gladiators’ clasped hands and announced, “On the count of three.”

As promised, Pete did the countdown and then withdrew his hold and stood back.

Bishop knew enough to understand that the secret to arm wrestling was in the wrist and that getting the initial jump on your opponent was key. Evidently, both contestants understood this as well as the two men immediately tried to surprise the other with a burst of tremendous power.

Within a few seconds, veins were protruding from both men’s foreheads. The bar room was filled with shouts of support.

Bishop had to hand it to the stranger; the man had strength, technique, and grit. Butter, somewhat surprised that his foe had withstood his initial onslaught, was starting to look a little worried.

And then, with a growl and grunt from the straining newcomer, Butter’s arm started losing ground. “Come on, Butter, quit playing with him,” Terri shouted, going up on her tiptoes with excitement.

Sensing weakness, the stranger again let out a roar and moved Butter another inch toward defeat.

But the local favorite wasn’t about to give up.

Sucking in a huge breath, Butter turned beet red as his face wrinkled with the strain. Slowly, his arm moved back to the starting position, and then bit by bit, he started taking the stranger down.

With what sounded like a howl of pure pain, the stranger fought off the assault, fighting his way back upright. The crowd noise doubled with both support and disappointment.

Back and forth the ball of trembling fist-flesh moved, neither man seeming to be able to finish off the other. “Come on, Butter! Hunter needs a new pair of shoes!” Terri yelled.

Again the big, blonde Texan made a go at his foe, Butter’s eyes squinting shut as he groaned from deep within.

A loud crash sounded as the stranger’s arm finally gave out, slamming into the table with enough force that Bishop thought the heavy wooden surface might actually split.

The crowd erupted in cheering, several people approaching both men to issue their congratulations and offer drinks.

“We won!” Terri shouted over the din, turning to hug Bishop and celebrate the triumph. He had to smile at his wife’s reaction, so caught up in the victory that she almost forgot to collect her winnings.

The Texan watched as Butter and his opponent exchanged handshakes, both of them going on about how challenging the match had been, each man bragging about the other’s strength.

At least he’s a good loser
, Bishop thought, watching the stranger congratulate the winner with a sincere smile and pat on the back.
I wonder if I would show as much sportsmanship.

While he waited for Pete to pay out the winners, Bishop experienced a bout of introspection.
I’ve been getting my ass kicked out at the ranch, just like that guy,
he realized.
And I’m definitely a sore loser. But is it the same?

Terri bounced over, flashing her winnings and then making a show of securing the money in her bra.

“Can I at least have my original five back?” Bishop asked, almost knowing what the response would be.

“Maybe,” she grinned. “I might let you go hunting for it later.”

A short time passed before Bishop leaned close and said, “I’m ready to go anytime you are.”

A pained expression crossed Terri’s face, “Why? The babysitter is just fine until midnight. Hunter was out. He’s had a busy day.”

“I don’t know. I’m just not in the partying mood. So much has changed around here. I just can’t seem to get comfortable.”

Terri’s brow indicated she was thinking hard, and then her frown disappeared with an idea. “It is a little smoky in here, but I don’t want to go back to the room just yet. How about we take a walk?”

Bishop perked up immediately, “That’s a great idea!”

He retrieved his rifle from behind the bar, noting a few of the patrons glance his way with odd expressions.
Has Meraton gone anti-gun?
he pondered.
Or am I just being overly sensitive?
 

Terri, of course, had to make the rounds and say her goodbyes. Wanting to get away from what suddenly seemed like a room full of disapproving eyes, Bishop whispered, “I’ll wait outside,” in his wife’s ear.

He shook Pete and Butter’s hands, promising to see them both again before leaving town.

Wanting to comply with Meraton’s new-found sensitivity concerning firearms, Bishop slung the carbine upside down across his back, a universal sign of peaceful intent. It seemed silly.

A few deep breaths of the fresh evening air helped Bishop. While he thought of Pete as a brother, the bar had seemed stuffy and close.
You’re becoming an anti-social recluse
, he thought.
You need to get out more. You’ve been in Pete’s a dozen times when it was that crowded, and it never bothered you before.

And then Terri was beside him, reaching for his hand and pointing back toward the Manor. “Let’s tour the gardens first. It’s my favorite place on earth.”

Bishop had to agree.

They strolled slowly, holding hands like high school lovers, Terri resting her head on his shoulder. Despite his best intent to salvage their date, Bishop couldn’t help but tell his wife about the encounter with the deputies.

When he’d finished, Terri stopped and faced her husband. Looking up with an adoring expression, she said, “You’ve had a bad couple of days, young man. Now, what could a girl do to make life better again?”

“Do you really think that’s all there is to it?” he asked. “Do you really think I’m just hitting a low spell?”

“What else could it be? You’re not getting feverish, are you?” she teased, playfully feeling his forehead. “Unless you’re sick, or tired of me, there’s nothing else it could be. Starting a new business like the ranch is an ambitious undertaking, even before humanity hit bottom.”

“Tired of you? Now that’s just silly. Hunter and you are the only things that make me feel better. Now stop being a goose.”

She chuckled and then became serious again. “What do you think it is?”

Bishop wasn’t ready to answer that, not just yet. With an arm around her shoulder, he resumed walking, thinking through his response. After another half block, he said, “When I worked at the gun store, I remember talking to a guy who called himself a prepper. He stored food, ammo, and all kinds of supplies, preparing for the apocalypse. He was convinced there would be an EMP attack, or a super-volcano, or asteroid strike, and then society would come to a screeching halt.”

“Yeah, I remember there were television shows about people who thought that way. What did they call their movement… self-reliance?”

Bishop nodded, “Something like that. I think there were all kinds of names and labels. Anyway, I’ve often thought about that man since his beliefs became reality. I’ve wondered how he fared, and if his preparations had been enough. I don’t even remember his name, but the encounter stuck with me.”

“Go on.”

“Well, one of the things I recall thinking at the time was that he actually seemed to be okay with the thought of society failing. He didn’t come right out and say it, but his choice of words and attitude sure led me to believe he’d actually be just fine if it all went to hell. This guy wasn’t some nut job or radical, as I recall. He came across as an ordinary enough gent… just an average Joe who was comfortable with doomsday being scheduled for next Monday.”

“Really? That’s almost kind of scary. Why would anyone want all of the hunger and violence and uncertainty? How many times did we almost die? How many millions perished? The amount of suffering we’ve witnessed is enough nightmare material to last a lifetime.”

“No. No, it wasn’t that he
wanted
all that. He wasn’t a masochist or sadist. It was more like he looked forward to a simpler lifestyle… like he felt the world had gotten entirely too complex, and that the hassle of not having modern conveniences would be offset by a less complicated existence.”

“Still seems weird to me. Humans are pre-wired to advance, progress, explore, and invent. It’s in our DNA to try and make things better. If everybody thought like your friend, we’d still be living in caves. That was a pretty simple existence… and a shorter lifespan, too.”

Bishop nodded as if he understood his wife’s reply, but then he stopped and faced her. “Those are all fair questions asked from a reasonable perspective. But here’s the real scary part – now, today, I understand his attitude. I get where he was coming from.”

“What? What the hell are you talking about, Bishop? Now
you’re
scaring me.”

Shaking his head, the Texan looked down at the pavement. “I know it sounds bad… completely illogical. But I can’t help it. Before the recovery, when it was every man for himself, I felt like I had more control over our destiny. The only rules I had to follow were based on my own humanity. The only regulations I had to be concerned with came from the barrel of a gun.”

Terri’s face made it clear she wasn’t following, so Bishop continued. “Did you ever think about the lure of the Old West? Why there was such a romantic draw surrounding all of those cowboy books and movies?”

She pondered the questions for a moment and then nodded. “I suppose. Free range, unrestricted travel. No mortgages or taxes or authority looking over your shoulder. Opportunity. Self-reliance. I get it, but it’s a tainted image created by Hollywood producers and authors. They didn’t dwell on the loneliness or lack of purpose. Those old horse opera movies didn’t point out that a small cut becoming infected could kill a man in a matter of days, or that drinking bad water could cause a fate worse than death.”

“Yes, you’re absolutely correct. But the people back in those days knew all about the risks, and they still pushed west. Many of them could have left at any time and gone back east. But few did.”

“That’s all fine and dandy for the strapping young man like you, a guy who’s good with a gun and has the reflexes of a cat. But what about the older folks? What about the widows and young children? Think about Hunter’s future in the world you describe.”

Bishop frowned, “I know. You’re right. My brain keeps telling me I’m being stupid and short-sighted. But my gut doesn’t like being interrogated by policemen in Meraton or being told I have to keep a piece of paper on my person at all times. I’ve gotten accustomed to unrestricted freedom, and going back to the way things were is extremely hard for me to digest.”