The Shamrock Saloon Redemption of Noxious Ned Malloy

Hi again, folks.  Like most of you, I imagine, I like to take a break from the real pressing issues of the day, kick back and have a little fun.  I like to read and I’m a fan of our regional writers like Mark Twain, Bret Harte, Jack London and Robert Service; people who lived in the Pacific Northwest and wrote about their experiences here.  Here’s a story I just wrote which I hope brings you a tenth of the enjoyment their work and the contemporary works of bloggers like Tomato Mike (http://journals.aol.com/tomatomike/TheTomatomanTimes) have brought me.

Thanks for the ear, then, eh?  Take care, stay well and God Bless.

Rusty

 

The Shamrock Saloon Redemption of Noxious Ned Malloy

It was a hot summer afternoon in the remote granite peaks of the deep Cascades of northeastern Washington State and the town's only paved street bubbled and baked.  Inside the Shamrock Saloon, a dozen bikers looked on, handguns drawn, as their leader, Noxious Ned Malloy smiled and waved his big revolvers at the patrons seated at the bar and at tables beyond.

"You probably know this ain't a hold-up.  You fine, upstanding citizens got a reputation.  I'm here to try it out.  I want to find out just how far you folks will go to protect this honest, hard-working, peaceful little community."

Nobody said anything but neither did we drop our eyes.  They watched us watching them for a moment or so, and then from the end of the bar, hidden by two big loggers, our small Catholic priest, Father Michael McGuire, yawned and dismounted his stool.  His pint of Guinness in his right hand and the pool stick he'd been using most of the afternoon in his left, he looked at Noxious Ned with an upraised eyebrow and clicked his teeth.

"Lad, ye ought to be ashamed of yerself, coming in like this on the Sabbath.  And with such preposterous behaviour.  Does your sainted mother know you act like this in public?"

Noxious Ned looked at the diminutive cleric.  "And who the devil might you be, little man?"

"I might be Mary, Queen of Scots, you insufferable blight on the butt of all manhood," Father Michael replied amiably.  "But as it so happens, Ned, I'm here to save you."

Noxious Ned laughed.  "Save your breath, Father.  I'm beyond redemption."

"Well, lad, that's not for me to say," Father Michael shrugged.  "Your soul's not the issue."

"And why's that?" the bearded blond biker sneered.

"Because today is the day you were meant to die, Ned Malloy," our small cleric informed him simply..

Noxious Ned laughed.  "I just knew there was a real special reason I got up this morning."

That seemed to irritate Father Michael but it also could have just been the heat.  His tufted blue eyes simmered and there was the hint of a snarl in his voice when he said to Noxious Ned,

"Put your guns back in your holsters, Ned Malloy."

"Or what, old man?"

The Guinness from Father McGuire's warm pint glass seemed to float in slow motion through the air and as it splashed over the dumbfounded face of Noxious Ned, the pool cue slapped the guns from his hands and then moved in to double him over, straighten him up, double over again and then sort of let him collapse in a black leather and blue bandana heap on the sawdust floor.

By that time, Molly O'Hara, proud owner and proprietor of the Shamrock Saloon, had her "customized" 12-gauge auto on the bar and aimed at the other bikers in general.  One of them spat out,

"You can't get all of us with that."

"Nope," Molly agreed.  "Just the stupid ones.  You stupid?"

Father Murphy chose that moment to retrieve Noxious Ned's big revolvers and dazzled us for a moment or two with his handling of the venerable Colt .45 Peacemakers.

"Ah, Miss O'Hara, with all due respect, Lass, let's not be rude to our guests.  They're all bright lads with marvelous futures before them."  Then he cocked both big revolvers and asked the brave biker, "Lad, how many of you ~ smart and stupid ~ do you suppose the lovely Molly O'Hara and I could together account for?"

By this time, Noxious Ned was coming around and at Father McGuire's request, we helped him to a table and poured him a glass of beer.  Then we sat down with him.   He ran a boxer's hand over his face, rubbed his eyes, yawned and surveyed the scene for a moment.

Then he started to smile.  The smile turned into a grin and the grin, into a chuckle.  The chuckle grew to a laugh that mounted in intensity until it rebounded off the rafters and seemed to shake him to the very core.  Tears streamed down his cheeks and he gasped for breath.  When he finally got control of himself, he told his men,

"Put your guns away, lads, before they kill us all.  They told me what I wanted to know."  Then he looked at our fair Molly O'Hara and added.  "And if these 'peaceful citizens' still want our trade, get thirsty and tip big."

Molly O'Hara stared back at him and touched a raft of her flaming red hair.  The biker blushed and her shotgun disappeared back under the bar.  Ned then shifted his gaze to Father McGuire and the revolvers the little priest still held and with which he was showing off for the crowd.  Our priest looked at Noxious Ned in return and shook his head.

"They'll be waitin’ for you in that church at the other end of town, lad.  Next Sunday and every Sunday after that.  As long as you think you need them to be a man."

Ned lowered his gaze for an instant, then raised it back.  "Aye, Father."

Father Michael's eagle eyes bored quietly into Noxious Ned Malloy and a chill swept through us all, Catholic and Protestant alike.  Even though his voice dropped to almost a whisper, the intense fury of it carried to every ear in the saloon and it felt like he was taking hold of Ned Malloy's eternal soul as he warned him, ever so softly, ever so sweetly and ever so gently,

"And if you ever behave like that again in my parish, you disgrace to all Irish manhood, by your own sainted mother, Ned Malloy, I will use your guns to send you straight to Hell."

After that, things settled down and toward dusk, it got cooler.  Ned Malloy ended up getting out of the renegade biker business and became a mechanic who could fix everything from a McCullough chainsaw to a Chevy big block to an Evinrude 40-horse outboard.  He also courted Molly O'Hara and she let him chase her until she caught him.

Father McGuire apparently never did get ahold of Ned's soul though.  Molly O'Hara's husband has never been to that church at the other end of town.  Every year, though, at our annual town celebration, our little priest does some dazzling stuff with those six-shooters.  Ned watches and smiles and applauds along with the rest of us.

I guess he figured out he didn't need them big Colt .45 Peacemakers to be a man after all. 

until next time

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