Author's Note: To read the Lancer brother's complete dime store novel, click the link below.
Easy money. Hear me out.
Five words ushered in Johnny’s pitch for the brothers to author their own dime store tale after he’d insisted Scott read Beadle Publications’ advertisement in the Green River Gazette that suggested submitted stories should possess intrigue, mystery and high adventure.
Showdown at Apple Pie Gulch
by J. S. Lance
However, Johnny’s yarn involving Val Crawford’s shootout with Sam Jenkins over Widow Patterson’s apple pie had leaned more toward bullets, jealousy and hunger pains, leading Scott to think their literary tree would never bear fruit.
“Sonavabitch.” A younger brother’s low whistle accompanied his thoughts on the Lancers’ written masterpiece displayed in the emporium’s storefront window. “Ol’ Beadle printed it.”
Publisher Erastus Flavel Beadle. The gent’s name alone spoke of gunslingers and pirates.
“It appears that’s exactly what Ol’ Beadle did.” Scott tossed aside the cigar which no longer boasted glowing embers and placed his hands on hips.
It had been one of those rare times when ranch demands were few and resolved by late afternoon. With an hour or two of idle existence on the agenda, Johnny’s enthusiastic proposition to pen the next great 10-cent novel not only stirred Scott’s memories of penny dreadfuls, but had hooked a bit of his boyhood mischievousness. As the story blossomed, humorous lampoonery took hold and, with healthy doses of Jelly’s home-brewed apple brandy for inspiration, an overbaked pistolero-pie finale brought forth what every author ultimately strived for.
The End.
Scott squinted at their dime novel for more than just visual clarity. Jelly’s inspiring brandy had also blurred recollection of exactly what they’d written. “We changed the names.”
Silence.
A side eye to the J in J. S. Lance demanded commitment. “Right?”
“Yeaaaah.” Licking his lips, Johnny’s cocked head searched for fleeting confidence. “I mean… ” Shrugged shoulders bounced out a drawled reply. “We made Val, Vernon Crawfish and Sam - Doc Jarkins. And the Widow Patterson… didn’t we have her as …”
Brief silence returned.
“Widow Patterson.” Scott’s heavily sighed exhale dissipated the fog cloaking his brain itch of realization. “Little brother, I do believe we forgot to give Green River’s sweet baker-of-passion an alias.” Not that it really mattered. Crawford-Crawfish? Jenkins-Jarkins? One needn’t be a well-read hometown scholar to make the connections.
“Well, big brother, I’d like t’know where the hell are Beadle’s promised coins in our pockets?”
“Evading Murdoch’s feasible foot up our asses.” Scott’s index finger jabbed at their forbidden fruit-themed saga taunting its authors’ frustrated faces reflected in a glass barrier. “The only two people who should be reading that badly scribed stick of dynamite are currently standing on the outside looking in. This situation requires a strategy.”
Reaching down, Johnny snagged a rock at his feet.
Eyeroll. “A strategy not solely based on blatant vandalism.”
“Gettin’ a little picky about a solution here, Scott.”
“What I’m gettin’ a little picky about here is spending a night in jail.” The vetoed problem-solving projectile joined a discarded cigar.
According to the slightly skewed sign hung in a door window, the emporium’s proprietor would be starting a new day with the sun at seven. Scott planned on greeting the gentleman as he turned his key in the lock. “Tomorrow morning, I’ll intercept our authoring debut of outstanding lettered talent.” Consumed vino facilitating Johnny’s blank stare requested an interpretation of his brother’s current sarcasm. “Tomorrow, I’ll buy that copy of Showdown at Apple Pie Gulch.”
“Right.”
“I’m guessing Hargis’ store also received a new shipment from Beadle. You best pack up and head out. Leave now and you should reach Green River by daybreak.”
“Head out?” Sobering up commenced as Johnny's forced laugh echoed down the empty street. “Sweet Jesus, Scott. It’s the middle a the night.”
A brow arched. “You want Val to be the first to give J. S. Lance a personal review?”
“I’ll go wake the kid at the livery stable.”
********
Scott discovered only two men remained at the evening’s previously boisterous party. Murdoch and Seth’s low murmurs of conversation ceased upon the third gent entering the room.
“Ha! My best man returns to the scene of the crime.”
“If you’re referring to my father’s singing, then yes, I have.”
Westcott’s empty wine goblet took on the role of a pointer. “Why, this gentleman has a fine voice.”
“And this groom requires another drink.” Murdoch smiled. “So he’ll continue to believe I can carry a tune.”
“Consider it done.” Gleaming an uncorked bottle still able to comply, Scott poured to fill Seth’s glass before offering his father the same. “Sir? Another round?”
The patriarch rose and surrendered seating to his oldest. “Thank you, but no. A round of sleep is what’s required.”
“Then, may it be a restful one.”
“Have you seen Johnny?”
“Yes.” Accurate words were gathered. “He’s getting some fresh air.” And hopefully saddling a horse - not breaking a window.
An exchange of good nights between the men ushered in a moment of quiet reflection as Scott sat down and served himself a drink.
“This was a damn fine party you hosted.”
Scott grinned at his friend’s happily intoxicated state of mind. “My pleasure.”
“And that was a damn fine toast you gave.”
“I meant every word.”
“I’m going to take good care of that little lady.”
“We wouldn't be sitting here drinking to your marriage if I thought otherwise.”
Seth’s slow nod agreed Scott’s statement was indeed an unarguable fact.
********
“My first customer awaits. Well, you know what they say, young man. The early bird gets the worm.”
Watching the owner open his shop for the day, Scott mustered a smile through a dull headache firmly planted at his temples. “I guess that’s why the chicken crossed the road.”
“Pardon? Oh, wait. Ha! Yes! To get the worm!” The shopkeeper’s finger wagged at his witty patron. “Clever. I must remember that one. Please, come in! What can I assist you with?”
Let’s start with sharing your light-hearted enthusiasm unaffected by the overindulgence of fermented grapes. “Your dime novels –”
“A new shipment just came in. Are you a fan of the genre?”
“There was a time, but now my nephew enjoys them.”
And the title you’re interested in?”
“Showdown at Apple Pie Gulch.”
“Ah. Very good.” The shopkeeper reached in a drawer behind the counter and produced the requested reading. “Will there be anything else?”
Scott’s eyes drifted to the brothers’ sticky tale of their dessert disaster still mocking him from the storefront window. “Tell me, how many copies of Showdown at Apple Pie Gulch do you have?”
“Ten. Beadle Publications sends ten copies of their monthly dime novels to all the businesses who wish to have them in their inventory.”
Coins in the Lancer brothers’ pockets just got substantially lighter.
While his temple-thumping headache increased its tempo, Scott’s finger tapped the cover of the pie potboiler in front of him. “Then I’ll take all ten.”
“All ten copies? For your nephew?”
“Right. I misspoke. It’s nephews. I have several older sisters who are very… ” The word fertile came to mind but was quickly rejected. “Pleased with their husbands.” Without a doubt, this current bullshit matched the excellence of a Beadle publication.
“Oh. Well, now. Aren’t your family reunions lively!”
An eyebrow cocked at the proprietor’s wink, confirming Scott’s tall tale bunk not only matched Beadle’s standards of quality storytelling… it surpassed it.
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