The barmaid strutted out from behind the bar, a tray balanced on her dainty hand. Four stout glasses of whiskey were strategically placed on it, forming a diamond. Her breasts, pushed up a ridiculous amount by her corset bounced hypnotically in tandem with her footsteps on the hard saloon floor. More than one eye hungrily devoured her shapely frame as she jiggled to a table with four gunslingers sitting at it. The men blatantly stared at the soft curve of her breasts under her dress, and admired the way her dress flowed across her ample hips and well toned thighs. She paid no mind though. She was used to being the object of many a lonely trail-hand's affection. She relished it, making all these men ridiculously hard, knowing they would not see a woman of her caliber again in a very long while, if ever. She agitated their condition further by using her feminine wiles to goad them on, and then drift away, leaving them with a throbbing hard-on, and her with an apron full of bills. She expertly distributed the drinks to the cowboys, smiling curtly as they undressed her with their greedy eyes. She deliberately leaned forward, further than a modest woman should, delivering them more than a fair eyeful of her creamy bosom. Her smile widened further upon appraising their awe-fulled lusty expressions.
"Here's your drinks, boys." She cooed as she clinked the glasses down upon the old worn table. The smoke from their cigars danced about her, heightening her mysticism, her curves, her femininity. The gunslingers threw their bills upon her tray, a fair tip included. One of them, a particularly foul smelling one, grasped her arm. She could smell the syrupy reek of strong whiskey
on his breath.
"How's about you and me go somewhere private to...talk?" The man said, revealing a checkerboard grin. His grip tightened and he waved a modest fistful of bills in front of her nose. She shot him a cynical look, one eyebrow cocked.
"I'm no common whore sir..." The barmaid said haughtily, breaking the cowboy's grip and folding her arms across her chest, accentuating her breasts even more. She pursed her lips and shot him a teasing look. The cowhand leapt from his seat, grabbing her around the waist and drawing her close. He gazed into her emerald green eyes, and attempted to rub a clumsy drunken hand through her curly hair, which was tied up in a no-nonsense manner. It framed her face wonderfully, the cowboy thought, although not as eloquently as it was written here. She slapped his hand away.
"You never had a man like me before!" He drawled, continuing his advances, pawing her breasts. He began to pull up her skirt, in front of all the patrons of the saloon, possibly hoping to rub her sweet thighs, possibly to lay his fumbling hands upon her sweet mound. In a flash, the firey barmaid acted. She slammed her forehead into the cowboy's crooked nose. A sickening crunch sounded above the saloon's white noise. Her curls bobbed crazily as the cowboy's head snapped back, a suprised, pained look in his eyes. Droplets of blood arced through the air, scintillating hypnotically in the dim saloon's light. She drew back and delivered a hook punch that a prize fighter would have been proud of. It connected soundly with his cheek. Her entire dainty arm vibrated from the impact, and the cowboy spiraled to the dusty wooden floor. The cowboy's friends stared, mouths agape, not knowing what to think or how to react. A few nearby patrons began to laugh and clap at her antics. A few regulars smiled, knowing that laying their hands on Mickey the barmaid led to disasterous results. Some even bore scars from her reactions to their advances.
"You...bitch!" He gurgled through the hand covering his face, vainly trying to staunch the flow of blood that oozed through his dirty fingers.
"If two hits sends you to the floor, I'm not even going to show you what I can do with this!"
She said as she flirtly lifted her skirts for a brief moment, revealing her frilly undergarments to whoever may be looking. She turned, her smile reaching towards her ears as she gave a polite curtsy to the hooting and hollering patrons of the Diamondback Saloon. The injured man jerkily rose to his feet, his friends still staring blankly at the scene, their minds just grasping the occurances.
"Damn whore! I'll teach you to mess with Porter!" In the blink of an eye, the gunslinger's trained hand darted towards his gun. She whipped around, too late to react. She closed her eyes, waiting for the red-hot burning lead to enter her deliciously shaped body. The roar of a .45 filled the tavern, lighting the dim atmosphere with it's destructive power. The saloon fell silent. She expected to open her eyes to a vision of the afterlife, but instead, she saw the same dirty cowboy, staring at the corner, his gunbelt on the floor, his hand grasping numbly at where his gun should have been holstered. His mouth opened and closed as a fish pulled out of a lake would have been.
"How the...?" The dirty cowboy whispered as he stared blankly at a man, sitting by himself at a table in the back of the saloon.
All eyes were on the rugged stranger in the corner, being that he was clearly the one that performed the deed. The stranger sat, his pistol held in front of him, plumes of smoke lazily dancing from its barrel to the ceiling of the saloon. The stranger's hat was pulled down across his eyes, looking as if he's shot blind...but that was impossible right? There's no way this man could have shot this cowboy's belt off from 30 paces, even taking great care in aiming! Impossible.
"Oh!" The stranger in the corner spouted in a mockingly condescending tone. "I meant to shoot you in your yellow heart! Pulling leather on a woman, with her back turned. Tsk tsk tsk.." The stranger tipped his hat back with the barrel of his smoking .45, revealing a set of piercing, ice blue eyes. The eyes of a killer. Those eyes were cold, but she could see the sparks mirthfully dancing behind them, the eyes of a man who knows he is a superior specimen. "Must be all the whisky, setting my aim off." He mused as he cocked the hammer of his big pistol back. It clicked loudly as it set, echoing through the silent tavern seemingly as loudly as the gunshots he fired themselves. He smiled wanly.
"I've got 4 shots left." The stranger said, with a keen smile upon his rugged, trail-worn face. "That's one for you, and each of your friends' foreheads." Mickey the barmaid marvelled at how soft this killer's voice was. He said each word with a punctual finality, the phrasing of a man who expected to die at any moment. Outwardly, she attempted to keep her tough-girl facade going, but inside, especially on the parts that counted, she longed for this handsome, honorable stranger. "If you cowards do anything but tuck your tails between your legs and ride out of town, the coffin maker is gonna have some work to do. You hear me?" The stranger asked, his voice still retaining that neutral, 'nice weather we're having!' tone. Worldessly, the dirty cowboy and his posse of three gathered their things and silently plodded out of the tavern. The dirty cowboy attempted to retain some of his manhood by shooting the stranger a dirty look, but the dirty cowboy's eyes unconsciously found the floor very quickly. A moment or two passed, then all that could be heard was the muffled 'clip-clop' sound of the quartet leaving town. Whispered coversation broke out, then rose into the normal rabble. The stranger slowly pulled the empty shell casings out of his pistol, reloaded them with fresh cartridges and dropped his weapon back into it's holster. Mickey the barmaid was none too pleased with this turn of events. She did not like being protected. She was tough, she was rough, she survived this frontier life without relying on some incredibly sexy gunslinger. She stomped up to him, red faced and flustered. The stranger sipped his bourbon, paying her no mind.
"Excuse me!" She hissed, her brow lowered and her tone menacing.
"You're welcome." The handsome stranger said, a smirk creeping up the corners of his mouth.
"Ex-c-cuse me?" She stammered. She was taken aback by his cool gaze, and the confidence with which he composed himself.
"I said that you're welcome. For saving your life." He swirled the whiskey around his rock glass absentmindedly. His smirk threatened to break into a toothy grin. The barmaid composed herself, and shot him daggers.
"I can take care of myself, sir." She almost pouted.
"You can dodge bullets, ma'am?" He asked, his piercing gaze finding hers. The blue of his eyes looked about the same as the feeling of jumping into a lake in late September.
