The Barista by John Coultas

Billy balanced his Sharps .50 across the tongue of the wagon, the wind whipped and swirled the buffalo grass all the way to the horizon. His eyes blurred, he looked away, and then refocused on the sight and further out to the hillock, about a mile distant. Bat slipped in next to him, placing a handful of cartridges at his side. "Quanah still there?" He asked. Billy nodded in the affirmative, not moving his eyes off the hill.

"I heard gunfire in the store." Billy glanced to Bat and then back to the hill.

Bat snorted out a cynical laugh. "Olds had an accident, wife handed him a reloaded riffle, went off, his head is all over the place, take my chances out here, safer."

Billy gave a slight grunt, not moving his eyes...


"Sorry to intrude Mr. Wilson, will you want a refill." Frank looked up to Nancy, tall, thin, dark brown hair pulled back, large brown eyes and a small, neat smiling mouth, with deft hands she swooped up the empty cup.

Frank stretched, covered his yawn with his hand, he looked to his watch and Nancy, he enjoyed every chance. "You'll be open another hour? I get so lost in this. Yeah, another cappuccino would be great" He began typing as she walked away, he grabbed a furtive glance at her swaying hips as she receded across the room.

Nancy was cleaning up. "Almost done here." Frank was completing a few last lines.

Outside Nancy turned the key in the lock, Frank was to her side. "Mr. Wilson, I would be interested in reading some of your work, maybe what you were doing today."

"I'll bring in a copy tomorrow, that be okay?" He offered.

"I was thinking I could go by your place, I could read, we could discuss your work. It is just too noisy, too much activity here."

"Well, sure we could do that." Frank was surprised by her assertive ways.

Frank was sorting through a stack of manuscripts; an open beer was to the side on the coffee table. Nancy was next to him on the couch, sipping on her beer, legs curled under her. Frank pulled out the story he was in search of. "Here's the one, you can start with this one while I'm printing out my latest."

She took the work, flipping through it. "You have a lot of words in you, this and that stack there." She settled back to begin reading. Frank pulled out several other pieces.

"My latest chapter." Frank re-entered the room, dropping the chapter on the table. "Let me know when you are done there."

She turned the last page. "Done." She traded for the new chapter, and began anew.

"Another beer?" Frank asked.

"Sure, almost finished." She didn't take her eyes from the manuscript. "This is fun, got questions when I'm done."

Frank set the beer in front of her, then sat down next to her.

"This is great to see the creative process, you coming in the shop, working there, see the results, kinda special, different, seeing it before it is a book." Words were bubbling out of her.

"What did you think of the story?" He asked.

"Yeah, well, that was the big question." She leaned back, facing Frank. "Why do you do a story that takes place over a hundred years ago, and Texas, Have you ever been to Texas.

"No, I have never been in Texas, and the time period, I find it interesting, as my readers do." Frank rubbed his stubbled chin.

"Shouldn't writers use personal experiences for their stories?"

"Jules Verne, Anne Rice and J.R.R. Tolkien created worlds and creatures that didn't exist. They couldn't experience those creatures, those worlds, they were a creation of their imaginations."

"That's true."

Nancy read through more pages, turned to Frank again. "It's not very P.C., killing Indians and all."

"Stories of war, life and death conflicts allow the writer to show man at his most basic, what triggers action, what brings out the best and worst in human beings. I try to be even handed in the presentation of my characters and events."

"How did you come up with this story?"

"Research, the history of that particular rifle, the Sharps .50 mentioned the Second Battle of Adobe Walls, I found it interesting."

"And this is exactly as it happened." She held up the chapter.

"No that is where literary license comes in. I'm not a photographer or journalist, its not a true picture or news report that we create, I will take facts and characters and embellish them, make the story more dramatic."

Frank leaned forward, straightened the stack of manuscripts. "The artist, the writer are destroyers, one reason they have difficulty blending into society, we observe and put those observation on a canvas or a piece of paper, we use creative license, distort what we have seen, rendering a painting or a piece of fiction with dramatic impact. Pablo Picasso's Guernica derives it's power, it's punch from the distortions of reality. A photograph of the city would have captured but a sliver of what happened there, Picasso shows the horrors of many days and many places in that one work."

"Wow, I never thought of art in that way before."

"The artist, not all, but many are solitary souls; they work alone to be productive as well as from an inability to find those that share their values, their outlook on life."

Frank was on the couch, Nicky curled in a chair, a manuscript on the floor; he stretched, yawned and shuffled to the kitchen. Grabbing a carton of eggs, coffee beans, plates and silver, he set up shop at the kitchen table. Pulling a hand mill from a cupboard, he poured in beans and began turning the handle. Nicky appeared in the doorway, combing her bed hair with her fingers, with little success. She cleared her throat; Frank jumped and gave her a quick appraisal.

"I know, not a pretty sight." She rubbed at her nose with the back of her hand.

"I didn't say that, it is Einsteinian, everything is relative. I'm glad you are awake, now I can make noise." He poured the half ground beans into an electric grinder. "That would have taken all day." Frank was looking at the hand crank.

She cleared her throat again, looking around the kitchen. "Not what I would have expected, so very neat, organized."

"Let me get you a clean bath towel, wash cloth, sure I have an extra toothbrush."

"Mr. Wilson, Frank..."

"Nancy, you need it."

"Frank, you don't have to be so blunt."


Frank was scooping eggs onto plates when Nancy returned. "Smells good, I'm hungry."

"Sit over there Nancy." Frank pointed with the egg coated spoon. "You look nice, not that you looked all that bad ruffled."

"You needn't remind me." She smiled.

Sitting across from her he poured coffee. "That's a funny little pot; I've never seen one quite like it."

It's a Bialetti, Italian pot; it was supposed to be a gag gift from a friend, bought in a second hand store, turns out it makes a great espresso.

Nancy spooned scrambled eggs onto half a bagel, examined the table and counter. "Tabasco, Frank? She asked.

"That's what I like a woman with spunk." He turned to get the sauce from the cabinet.

She sipped at the coffee. "That does make a good cup, maybe not as good as mine, but good and strong.

"I know better than to argue with a pro." He said with resignation.


Billy Dixon stood, sighted and pulled the trigger, the riffle butt kicked into his shoulder; he knelt down, slipped another cartridge into the breach. Masterson, eyes shielded with his hand, scanned the hill. "Big commotion in Quanah's camp, did you hit someone?"

"If I did it was only luck." Billy stood, rubbing his shoulder, squinting as he sighted on the encampment. "They might be moving back, I don't know, maybe I did."


Frank leaned into his chair, grinning with satisfaction. "Will you have another refill Mr. Wilson?" Frank looked up at Nancy, then his watch. “Sure, an hour to closing?"

He stared, as he had stared so many times before, and then went back to the keyboard.


Billy and Bat stood before the post store, surrounded by ecstatic, shouting buffalo hunters.

"Boy you done it."

"Old Quanah is leaving for sure."

"Let's hear it for Billy."


"Nah, doesn't sound right, sophomoric." Frank commented to himself. Nancy placed the refilled cappuccino next to the computer

"Maybe I could read some more, we could talk again tonight." She suggested.

Frank lifted the cup, steam rising up before him. "I think you are just trying to keep me as a customer."

She smiled down at him.


John Coultas 2010