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We were in the Free 'n Easy drinking tongue oil
when the Dude rode in.
People say he wasn't there
in the corner of your eye.
Bright as a polished mirror, some said.
A burning star, said others.
But that was fancy talk to fill the hours when
the most exciting thing in town was a drunk
sodbuster falling off his buggy, or a cat
stranded up the church steeple.
Anyway, the Dude stopped outside our saloon
and hitched his horse to the rail.
"Here's a Mary," someone said at the bar.
"Tenderfoot," another added.
The Dude came in and it was hard to get
an eye on him because of how quick he moved, like greased lightning off his horse and through the swinging door into the saloon.
His body twitched, his face like blurred cotton,
all smokey and grey under the gaslight.
"New York City, or maybe Philly" we
whispered at our end of the bar, but not too certain.
He was from Someplace Else, that's for sure
"Sarsaparilla," the Dude said to the Bar Dog. "And
a steak with smashed potatoes.”
"How ya want that?" asked the Bar Dog.
"Well done," said the Dude.
"Let's see the ballast," said the Bar Dog.
The Dude threw a gold coin on the bar.
The barkeep toothed it and held it to the light.
"Pure as molasses," he said. "Bait comin' right up."
The Dude settled at the bar and paused for reflection,
as we also did, seeing his gold coin and wondering how long it would take to part him of the rest.
Down the bar, Bill Digby moved in and sat by the Dude.
"Howdy, Stranger," he said.
Bill was twice in the hoosegow for bunko, each time dickered his way free...
a sad song about his baby son back East,
sick with the lunger (or maybe it was colic) when there wasn't any son, and never was.
Which makes Bill a blowhard
and a flannel mouth liar.
"Good day," replied the Dude.
"A pretty coin," Bill said. "Where's that from?"
"Nigerian gold," said the Dude. "From Africa."
He took another out of his pocket and showed it to Bill.
"See the fellow stamped on there? That's King Charles Aduchi. He was their king. His palace is on the other side."
Bill squinted at the coin and nodded.
We squinted, too
and closer
"Sure looks fine," Bill said.
"The finest," said the Dude. "Pure as honey."
"Got more of it?" Bill asked.
The Dude slipped the coin in his pocket
"A few." He sipped his Sarsaparilla. "I'd have
more, but my friend the Prince, he's in trouble."
We raised our eyebrows
and thought
trouble in high places can be good fortune
for the common horde down below
"Tell us about it, friend," said Bill.
"Well, he sent this telegram..." the Dude said.
None of us could read, so the Dude read the telegram for us—
"Whew," said Bill. "That's too bad about his pappy."
"Yep," said the Dude. "I'd help him, but I'm all tapped out."
"What'cha need money for?" asked Bill.
"There's taxes and shipping fees," said the Dude. "The
Prince is broke, so I've got to come up with his stake."
"And if you got the money, he'd send you the gold?"
"Every ducat," said the Dude. "By express mail.
He's got to. There's strict banking laws in West Africa. Every coin is certified and tracked by the government."
Which meant free enterprise was a breath away
for those with a frontier spirit
and still breathing
Bill excused himself to jaw with his gang in the corner.
We edged closer and listened in.
"You think he's square?" Connie asked.
At seventeen, he was the youngest of the gang.
He hadn't lived much, and only asked questions when he didn't have any answers...
At least, none smart enough that anyone'd
want to hear.
"He's square, all right," said Jingo.
He was the fast-draw. He let his Colt
do the talking after the arguments were over, and there wasn't no point in talking any more.
Once he shot into an ace of spades at twenty paces
and hit it dead center.
The ace was chest high, and there was a card cheat behind it.
"See how pale he is? He's a city slicker, all right."
"Was that a real telegram?" asked Connie. "Can you fake that?"
Bill closed his eyes, clasped his hands,
and prayed on it. Which is what he did when he was about to reach into someone else's pocket and pick it.
"We'll help him get the gold," he said.
"After we collect our fee, we'll play him poker for the rest."
<
"And if he don't want to play?" Connie asked.
"Then Jingo is his name," said Bill.
And we all knew what that meant.
Which is to say, we didn't approve.
Not in Bumble Bee, where most people
on a Sunday warm their pews in the gospel mill and count their sins.
stuck on the prairie with their wagons collecting dust
their dreams of riches lost someplace
on the broken trail, with a thousand miles between them and paradise.
Nope, there was no pretending to goodness and light
and the triumph of the Great American Spirit.
Not when Jingo stood, a lean swatch of
darkness, an elbow away at the bar.
The Dude was slopping gravy with bits of bread when Bill came back.
"We're going to help you," Bill said patting his shoulder.
"How's that?" the Dude replied. He took a sip of Sarsaparilla.
"Your Prince friend. We'll give you a stake so you can get his ducats."
"I don't recall asking for any help." The Dude pushed his plate away.
Bill blistered at that. "A Prince, a man of royal
blood, is in a fix, and you're asking us to turn a blind eye?"
"Well," the Dude fidgeted in his seat. "I meant no insult.
It's just that this is a big deal."
"We're in," Bill said slapping the bar. "Whether you like it, or not."
The Dude tried to talk Bill out of it
citing the squiffy gold values
but Bill wouldn't let go.
Finally, Jingo drew his Colt and waved
it at the Dude.
"It's your play," Jingo said. "Who knows--maybe I'll miss..."
Like it was a game of chance, when there
wasn't no chance at all.
"Ok," the Dude folded. "Where's your greenbacks?"
Bill reached deep in his pockets and snared
all the cash he had. So did Connie and Jingo.
When their cash wasn't enough to save the Prince,
the gang cut us into the deal at ten percent.
Which was awfully meager, but only right,
as Bill explained, seeing it was him who heard about the Prince in the first place and was taking all the risks as His Majesty's Local Agent and fronting a new gold standard.
All told, it was two thousand dollars we gave the Dude,
a token of our esteem for Prince Jones Aduchi and his generous offer.
And a sign, too, of us roping in our last hope,
like a stray horse, to carry us into better times.
The Dude tied up the grimy, wrinkled bills with a bullhide string
and tucked the stash in his rucksack.
He smiled and wrung our hands.
"The Prince will rush the gold directly," he said.
"Three days, maybe four."
Then he excused himself to the privvy.
Too much Sarsaparilla, he said.
when those crazy hippies came into town,
we did a bunco, a pile of sawgrass dried and bagged into ounces, which we sold out of the General Store as marijuana.
It would've been fine, too, only the
sawgrass was home to a rattler who laid her eggs, which three days later...
The Dude excused himself to the privvy.
Too much Sarsaparilla, he said.
So we all piled outside and waited for a spell,
until he climbed out the bathroom window
and dropped into the alley.
"Going someplace?" Connie asked.
The Dude froze in his tracks and cocked his head around.
He took a few steps in the other direction
but we had both ends blocked.
"Now that's unseemly," Bill said.
"And you a friend to royalty."
The Dude knew he was caught and no way out.
He plumped up his courage and faced us squarely.
"I'm armed," he warned us. "And a quickdraw."
Maybe it went one way after that,
or maybe another...
"I'm armed, and a quickdraw," the Dude said.
"I'm armed, and a quickdraw," the Dude said.
"I'm armed, and a quickdraw," the Dude said.
Jingo didn't wait, and slapped leather.
That's when the Dude ran off.
You remember how he was greased lightning?
That's how fast he was, back through the privvy window and lickety-split out the front door of the saloon.
"Like a blur," someone said later on.
"A mote out the corner of your eye."
vanished into the ether with
our money in his pocket.
We went after him and harried every
canyon in twenty miles...
but the Dude had faded away
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into nothingness
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back to the wide prairie where he'd come.
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"I'm armed, and a quickdraw," the Dude said.
"I'm armed, and a quickdraw," the Dude said.
"I'm armed, and a quickdraw," the Dude said.
"Bring it," Jingo replied.
The Dude drew first and laid fire, but missed.
Then Jingo fanned his Colt and hit
the Dude square. No question about it. Did him good.
That night, under a full moon, we buried the corpse.
We found the Dude a quiet spot on Boot Hill,
next to Mayor Frank Tillgrain, who promised us a paradise on earth, with ten acres, stock shares and no taxes.
None of which we've seen yet,
or likely to.
The whole town sang a gospel over
the dead man, while the preacher banged a soldier's drum and led the chorus.
On his wooden cross, we wrote "The Dude,"
because he didn't have a name.
![]()
That's what we wrote.
![]()
We figured a hack name
![]()
was better than none at all.
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"I'm armed, and a quickdraw," the Dude said.
"I'm armed, and a quickdraw," the Dude said.
"I'm armed, and a quickdraw," the Dude said.
"Bring it," Jingo replied.
The Dude drew first and squeezed his shots.
They missed, but being first put a crease in Jingo's reputation as a quickdraw, which Jingo didn't appreciate.
He laid fire with his Colt
It was a free-for-all after that
with bullets flying every which way
and us diving into the dirt, covering
our heads, and saying our prayers.
All told, a hundred shots were fired,
maybe more, and not one hit its mark.
<
When the powder ran dry, Bill called a truce.
"Let's figure this out!" he cried.
We all adjourned to the Free 'N Easy
for a drink.
In the end, it was simpler to work
with the Dude than shoot him.
He knew the lingo of international markets
and how to trade gold
and he had the telegram all written up
which was a daisy for us, at the time
being illiterate.
We formed the Nigerian Holding Corp.
and put our show on the road.
We added a return address to the telegram:
P.O. Box 001, Bumble Bee, Arizona...
and sent it to every saloon, gospel mill, and cheap hotel in the U.S.A..
And damned if people didn't wire us their money.
It came by the boat load, $10s, $20s, and $100s, and even $1000s.
So much money, we couldn't count it all.
In their wires, folks asked if the gold trade was going well,
and did we know of any other investments?
Some pretty shakes even sent love letters
to the Prince asking for his hand in marriage.
It was mostly greed that made them fall for it,
and greed that made them send more money when we wired them the Prince had almost got the gold but needed another stake.
There's no explanation for it otherwise.
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If it's not greed, it's plain stupidity.
![]()
People are too simple for anything else.
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