Written for The Plight of the Little-Known Fandom's Song Challenge for the month of August, based on the song "Piano Man" by Billy Joel.
Disclaimer: I do not own The Rifleman. No copyright infringement is intended.
It ain't often Sweeney hires me on at the Last Chance for a night. The saloons up in Silver City can afford to hire a piano man fulltime, but then, they're full up most nights. A little upstart town like North Fork can't fill the saloon up proper five nights out of thirty. Leastways, not when the crop's good and the cattle's thrivin'.
Drought's another story. When the ground's parched and the cattle're dyin' of hunger and thirst, then the menfolk all come draggin' their weary selves to town to the one place a man can still wet his lips. Next year's money's witherin' or keelin' over in the fields, but somehow there's always cash for whisky. A drought don't hurt a barkeep none.
This one's been goin' on 'most two months, and there's so much dust in the air you'd think the wind was tryin' to pick up the very land and blow it off to Californy. There's sumthin' else in the air, too—gloom mebbe, or despair. Some fellers don't leave the bar anymore till Sweeney tosses 'em out at night, and they're back the next morning. Others are still tryin' to save sumthin' of their crops and herds. Whenever they do come in, they look even worse off than the rest.
So here comes Jace Powell, piano man, the last-ditch effort to bring a little hope back into these fellers' lives. Truth be told, I ain't got much to work with as far as hope goes. At least Sweeney's payin' me.
"Sing us a song, piano man!" Sam Barrows roars as I sit down at the bench. Barrows is one of the dawn-to-dusk ones, but then, his face ain't a rare one to see even in good times. It's a rough thing for a town when the barber's a drunk. Sad to say, ours is.
I glance 'round the room, rackin' my brain for a cheerful tune. The air's thick with dust and cigar smoke, and any inspiration seems hidden in the murk.
"There used to be a song they played back East," says a voice behind me. I turn my head. With so much more sickness and death lately, it ain't no surprise to see Doc Burrage here. He don't look at me, just stares into his beer glass, and his lips barely move as he mumbles, "I used to know it, a long time ago. It was so sad, and yet so sweet…" He trails off.
Sad and sweet… Almost without me knowin' it, my fingers find a place on the keys, and a melody starts pourin' out of the old, badly tuned piano. It ain't quite what Sweeney had in mind, but I reckon it's the right kind of song after all. I can feel a change come over the saloon; the tension settles down a bit, and the air, still heavy with dust and smoke, somehow ain't quite so hard to breathe.
"That's good, Jace," Toomey slurs from a table close by. The cabinet maker's usually a pretty solid feller, and I ain't never seen him so wasted. "'S it got any words to it?" He tries to get up, but his feet don't pay no heed to his fuzzy head, and he ends up sprawled on the floor. I join in the raucous laughter as he makes a half-hearted attempt to get up, but I feel sorter sorry for him. He'll get an earful from his missus when he gets home tonight, that's sure and certain, and likely the rest of the town'll hear it, too.
As for his question, I don't answer. I ain't much inclined to sing just now; sometimes it's best to let the twangy old piano sing for itself.
Lookin' away from Toomey, I pick out another figure I ain't used to seein' here. Fact is, I'd've pegged John Hamilton for a teetotaler. I guess when a whole town falls on hard times, it hits the bank same as everyone else. I'm sure plenty of folks has missed their payments this month, and John ain't likely to foreclose on anyone if he can help it. I reckon money's tight for him, too.
I notice he ain't actually drinkin', though. He ain't even starin' into it like most men do, as if the whisky's got all the answers they been lookin' for; his eyes are fixed on a point somewhere in the gloom. His shoulders're slumped and his black bowtie's hangin' loose and limp around his neck. This must be what it looks like when a refined man gets to the end of his tether. It ain't as dramatic as poor Toomey, but somehow it's just as pathetic.
Dimly, I see the saloon doors swing open, and Miss Julia Andueza steps in. My fingers stumble on the keys for a second. Everybody knows the boardinghouse owner is a reformed card shark, but knowin' her difficult history, and with some help from her good cookin', they've all managed to forgive her for it. Her comin' into the saloon, even during a drought, is sure to dredge up some old doubts. I see Sweeney leave the bar and head toward her to escort her out, and I shoot up a prayer that none of the North Fork ladies saw her come in.
Sweeney ain't reached her yet, though, when she seems to light on sumthin' she was lookin' for and moves deeper into the room. She stops by John Hamilton's table, and all of a sudden my fears ease. Women ain't allowed in the Last Chance, but folks look a lot more kindly on a woman goin' in to fetch her man than a lady card shark stoppin' in for a drink.
With a face like some stone-cold statue, Miss Julia swipes her hand across the table and sends John's whisky crashin' to the floor. He looks up at her with a kinda helpless expression on his face, and just like that she goes from statue to mama hen. She leans down and lays a little kiss on his forehead. "Vámonos, Juan," I hear her say. "I will take you home." She wraps his arm across her strong shoulders and helps him out the door.
You gotta admire a woman like that. It'll take a lot more'n a drought to defeat Miss Julia.
The door catches before it swings shut behind them, and Lucas McCain walks in. The rifle that made him famous is hangin' limp in his hand like it's almost too heavy for him to carry anymore. If Sam Barrows is the man who's given up and set up camp in the saloon, then Lucas is the man still fightin' to save dead crops and feed starvin' livestock on pure stubborn hope. He believes in the land, that's what he tells them fellers bein' courted by the railroad into leavin' their spreads. I don't know what's left to believe in. Even Jacob in the Bible hightailed it for Egypt when he heard there was food there. Jeff Borden and the others've been holdin' out hope that mebbe Lucas knows sumthin' the patriarch didn't, but I don't reckon they'll hold out much longer. 'Specially not if they see him today.
Sweeney hands Lucas his beer, and the Rifleman takes a seat at the corner table on my side of the room. As he passes, I see that face and clothes are caked with dirt and sweat, and he looks thinner and more angular about the face. I wonder when's the last time he's slept and whether he's been givin' most of his food to his boy. I wouldn't be surprised to hear it.
The door opens again, and this time you could've knocked me over with a feather. There was a time when seein' Micah Torrance in a saloon was as natural as seein' Sam Barrows, but that was months ago, before he got dried out, largely thanks to Lucas, and went back to sheriffin'. Since then, the marshal's been as dry as a bone as far as I know. I can tell by the look on Sweeney's face that he's thinkin' the same thing.
The marshal gives Sweeney a wave, with an amused half-smile on his face, and then he heads for Lucas's corner without a drink of his own. Feelin' relieved, I start my sad, sweet little tune over again.
I wish't I could've told you what they were sayin'. I wish't I could know and write it into a song so I could tell everybody whatever it is that made Lucas McCain perk up and head out of that saloon less'n fifteen minutes later more determined than ever to keep fightin' to hold onto his ranch and his dream. I wish't I knew what a rundown old marshal could say that'd raise a man's spirit when it's on the point of collapse. But like I say, I couldn't hear 'em. I reckon it's just one of those things, that there's just sumthin' about friendship that can give a man hope for no reason. I wish't I knew what it was.