We rode up to the front of the Skeptic’s Circle Saloon and dismounted. Where once there were only two hitching posts, seven stood in their place. “Old Doc Orac must be doing something right,” I said with a smile.
I had heard that Doc had taken over running the Saloon from St. Nate a while back. I also heard that he had moved out of his office in town and had put up his surgery right in the Saloon. I adjusted the weight of my pistol, carried on the left, butt first, and made sure the leather thong was between the hammer and the firing pin. I’m a careful man by nature, but it pays to be extra-careful sometimes. Music came spilling out of the bar as the bat-wing doors swung outward. An obviously drunk man stumbled past us and into the street, mumbling something about homeopathic hangover cures.
We entered the dim, smoky interior and I waited a few seconds for my eyes to adjust. The main bar was larger than I recollected, with more tables. Doc Orac’s surgery was indicated with a small sign over the door of the old poker room. We moseyed up to the long, polished bar and leaned on it. Glancing sidelong at my men, with a smile, I cleared my throat loudly and raised my voice to a gravelly roar.
“What’s a cowboy got to do to get a gol-durned drink around here?”
Doc Orac stepped quickly out of the small cold room behind the bar. “Quit shouting at me, for one thing,” he said, walking towards us and wiping his hands on a bar towel tucked into his apron.
We shook hands across the bar, trading grins. “Where’s the mask?” I asked.
Read the rest here. And don’t forget to use the spittoons. I just waxed the floor of the saloon.
Once again, as always, if you want to host a meeting of the Circle yourself on your own blog, just mosey on over to the schedule and guidelines and then take a gander at the suggestions for hosts. Then drop ol’ Orac a line over at the saloon (firstname.lastname@example.org) sayin’ that you want to host. If you ain’t a plant for Mike Adams or Deepak Chopra, I’ll get ya on the schedule for the first opening.