Ten Drinks Saloon.
The desert sun hung high, casting long shadows across the dusty town of Ten Drinks. Weathered wooden buildings lined Main Street, the only street. Paint peeled from the sign above the saloon under the relentless heat so that what had once said ‘Ten Drinks Saloon’ now said ‘Ten inks loon’. Dust devils danced on the edge of town at the end of Main Street, while tumble weed provided the main action, bowling through town on the hot Arizona wind.
A solitary rider kicked up the dust as he rode into town, the creaking of his saddle the only sound, apart from the buzz of flies, in the silent town. The locals eyed him warily as he dismounted, the brim of his hat casting a dark shadow over his craggy, sunburnt face.
The rider, known as Colt, sauntered into the saloon, his spurs jingling with each step as the spike wheels rolled across the board floor. The piano player halted his tune, and the patrons eyed Colt carefully. Ignoring everyone, he tipped his hat to the bartender, ordered a shot of whisky, and leaned against the bar.
“Howdy Sheriff, did you git yer man?” the bartender asked, plonking a bottle and a glass on the bar.
“Surely did,” Colt replied, his eyes scanning the room as everyone returned to their cards and drinks and the single loose woman, Mollie, went back to work polishing her nails.
As Colt nursed his drink, a commotion erupted outside. The townsfolk rushed to the windows, peering at a strange phenomenon in the sky. The sky seemed to split apart, like a pair of saloon doors hanging down. A shimmering portal opened, and through it a silver and black spacecraft emerged, hovering above Ten Drinks. The air crackled with energy, lightning fizzing, as the vessel descended to the ground, displacing the desert dust.
The spaceship's hatch opened, revealing beings, encased from head to foot in metallic suits. They glided down a ramp to the street. The townsfolk stared, mouths agape, as the extraterrestrial visitors stood at the foot of the ramp and surveyed the surroundings.
“Dang me,” said one, spitting chewing tobacco on to his neighbours boot “that’s some stage coach.”
“Ain’t no stage,” said another, “there ain’t no horses. Must be one of them new fangled steam lo - co - mo - tives.”
“Nope, ain’t no goddam steam train, neither, there ain’t no steam!”
The preacher, who had been dead drunk unconscious in a puddle of piss on the boardwalk outside the saloon woke up, wiping dribble from his chin. “Lord, God Almighty!” he cried, clambering onto his knees.
Colt, unfazed, loosened the revolver in his holster and approached the alien leader. The be-suited being regarded him with curiosity.
"We come in peace," the leader spoke, its voice resonating with a fluting but not unpleasant overtone.
Colt nodded, sizing up the visitors. "Well, you've certainly stirred up a hornet's nest in Ten Drinks, that’s for sure. I guess you ain’t from around these parts.”
The alien leader explained their mission - to observe and understand the primitive cultures of Earth.
“Not too sure I like the whole ‘primitive cultures’ idea, friend. But hey, let’s you and I come to an arrangement,” said Colt, ever the pragmatic cowboy, “we don’t have a problem with you tying up here in town for a week or two, but I could sure use some help protecting folks against the danged bandits and outlaws here abouts. What do you say we help you if you’ll help us?”
An agreement was made.
In the days that followed, Ten Drinks was transformed. Alien tech coexisted with wooden structures, and the town went about its business under the watchful eye of Colt and his extraterrestrial allies. The occasional cowhand rode into town, drank, visited Mollie and then left again for their lonely existence on the range. Energy weapons replaced six-shooters, and hoverbikes zipped through the streets.
The preacher took to the hills in a covered wagon full of snake oil, whisky, three incomplete bibles, and a goat.
But the peace was short-lived. Before too long the notorious outlaw, Blackhawk Billy, blew into Ten Drinks with his gang of cut throats, gun-slingers, itinerant cow pokes and rapists. Blackhawk and his gang had terrorised the town for years and his periodic sprees of drunken robbery and violence was more than the town on its own could deal with. Colt, called on the help of his alien allies.
“This is the moment to pay your rent, fellas,” he said, “let’s get these son’s a’ bitches done once and for good.”
Blackhawk started the trouble, as usual, drawing pistols on a poker player. There was gun smoke. But then things quickly changed. Lasers cut through the air taking down a couple of gun-slingers who were intent on robbing the hardware store. Colt faced off against Blackhawk in a duel that transcended time and technology. The alien leader, witnessing the moment when a bullet from Blackhawk’s pistol was on its inexorable way to Colt’s heart, activated a device that created a temporal distortion, freezing the combatants in a suspended moment.
With a wave of its hand, the leader rewound time, to the moment before Blackhawk pulled the trigger and then zapped Blackhawk and his entire gang with energy weapon blasts. Blackhawk's reign of terror ended. For good.
The alien leader, satisfied with the outcome, thanked Colt for the town’s hospitality and bid farewell. The spacecraft ascended through the portal, leaving Ten Drinks to its dusty solitude once more.
Colt, now a legend in Ten Drinks and a very short entry in the alien ship’s database, tipped his hat one last time to the disappearing ship.
The sun dipped below the horizon, casting long shadows once again. The town settled back into its quiet existence. Tumbleweed returned to bowling down Main Street after a brief sojourn in the desert. Dust Devils danced, flies buzzed. Mollie polished her fingernails.
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