Cowboys And Injuns (Part Two)

© 2013 David Jasmin-Green

Doug headed up the market and turned down a little side street that led to a couple of small leather factories, the Age Concern offices and his favourite pub, the Wagon and Horses. Little did he know, but he was being followed by three burly Sikh youths. “Oy, mutta,” one of them said, and Doug quickened his step but didn't turn around. “Oy! Cowboy - is it true that your sort don't like Indians?”

“What?” he said, still looking straight ahead.

“I've seen the plenty of Westerns with wankers dressed like you shootin' Indians,” the ringleader continued, keeping up with Doug but making no attempt to overtake him. “Shootin' 'em and lockin' 'em up in reservations, rapin' the shit outta their women an' killin' their kids. Fuckin' fascism, that's what it is - white supremacy gone mad. You think you're better'n us, mate?”

“I don't know wot you'm on about,” Doug muttered, and he wasn't lying. He walked faster still, but the lads were less than half his age and they had no problem keeping up.

“Where's your 'orse then, cowboy?”

“I ain't got an 'orse.”

“I bet you 'ave. I bet you ride it like the clappers, I bet it sleeps in your bed an' you kiss it goodnight, I bet you tie it to a tree an' stand on a stool to give it one.”

“Fuck off.....”

“See, the truth 'urts, don't it? Fuckin' pervert, fuckin' 'orse shagger. I bet you'd bum the buffalo as well when you're out on the range if you could get the fuckers to keep still long enough. I bet you live in a log cabin with Grizzly Adams and that daft old bloke, and you all shag little critters an' that 'uge Grizzly bear shags you.”

Doug didn't know what to say. He was used to such abuse, especially at work, but he had worked in the factory for many years and work was a safe zone because he knew that his colleagues, as nasty as some of them were on occasion, wouldn't go as far as physically harming him. He had no idea how to handle abuse from strangers, though – strangers were an unknown quantity and they frightened the shit out of him, especially when the safety of numbers lubricated their tongues and fed the flames in the wicked furnaces of their minds.

“Where you goin', cunty?” the ringleader said as Doug turned into the Wagon and Horses, he took them by surprise and they expected him to carry on walking.

“To the pub,” Doug grunted.

“What do you reckon, Poppa?” one of the other lads said to the ringleader. “We gonna get any trouble we can't 'andle in 'ere?”

“Naah, you wimp, it looks like an old codgers' pub to me. Let's go in, I'm enjoyin' mind-fuckin' the nutter.”

*************************

The lads couldn't believe the sight that met them when they entered the Wagon and Horses. The place had been kitted out like a wild west saloon, complete with swinging doors, and the walls were decorated with old timber and steel cartwheels and prints of famous wanted posters. There were Maybe a dozen men in there sitting at tables playing cards and dominoes, and they were all dressed in the same crazy gear that their intended victim wore. “Play it cool, lads, it'll be OK,” the ringleader whispered. “They're all old fogies, the youngest is fifty odd, an' they're no match for us. Let's 'ave a beer at least, if we back off now we're gonna look like a right bunch of pussies.”

“These boys friends of yours, Sheriff Earp?” Bill Gein, the pub's manager said as he appeared from the cellar, eyeing the Indian lads that stood in the middle of the room as if they were unsure about what to do next.

“No, they've been takin' the piss!” Doug snapped as Dora, the manager's wife, poured his usual.

“Have they really?” Bill said. “Ed!” he called to a man sitting behind the door nursing a double whisky, a man that the lads hadn't seen when they followed Doug into the bar. “Looks like we've got some pesky Injun trouble.”

Ed dutifully stood up, deftly sidestepped and blocked the exit. He was huge, easily six foot six and nearly as wide as the door, and he must have weighed a good twenty five stone. His hands were almost as big as footballs and he had swallows tattooed at the base of his meaty thumbs. Under his Stetson, which was pulled down low, his slitted eyes were as black as jet. He wore an immaculately trimmed handlebar moustache and massive sideburns, and a ragged scar ran down one of his cheeks from the base of his eye to the corner of his mouth. It was difficult to believe that Ed had lost the battle when he suffered that injury, and the fate of the man that caused it didn't bear thinking about.

“We have no argument with Injuns,” Ed said in a surprisingly soft voice. “At least not Injuns in general. But the boys that use this watering hole don't take kindly to anyone taking the piss out of one of their own – we won't have it. Do you understand me?”

“We were only playin', mate,” the ringleader said. “We didn't mean any 'arm, 'onestly we didn't.”

“What did they say to you, Sheriff Earp?” Ed said, cracking his monstrous knuckles.

“Nasty stuff,” Doug whispered, cautiously sipping his pint and sitting down in his favourite chair. “Nasty stuff, that's all. Fuckin' Pakis.”

“Less of that, Douggy!” Bill said. “We'll 'ave no racist abuse in 'ere.”

“Sorry,” Doug muttered.

“I'm sorry too,” the ringleader said. “It won't 'appen again, I promise,” and it was the first time that he had apologised for anything in a long, long time.

“Do you accept this man's apology, Sheriff Earp?”

“Yeah,” Doug replied. “I suppose so.”

“That's fine than,” Ed said, stepping away from the door and sitting down.

“Feel free to stop for a drink, lads,” Bill said. “The mess is sorted out, as far as I'm concerned it's well an' truly swept under the carpet, an' we're all even. We're not racist in 'ere, you treat the boys properly an' they'll treat you likewise.”

“We, erm, we have to go,” the ringleader said, backing towards the door, half expecting Ed to leap to his feet and pail the shit out of him. “I'm really sorry,” he said to Doug, and then they fled like frightened sheep.