Big John

In a saloon in the old West, a large crowd of cowboys was drinking and carousing with the dance hall girls. In walked a greenhorn Easterner, a dry goods supplier from New York. He sat down at the bar and ordered a beer. Just then a boy ran in from outside through the swinging doors, completely out of breath. The crowd stopped what they were doing and stared at him. “Big John’s in town,” the boy said, gasping. In less than a minute, the entire crowd, except for the greenhorn, tumbling over one another, rushed out, including the bartender and everyone else who worked at the saloon, leaving the place completely empty and in disarray. The greenhorn realized that he should probably go, too. So he quickly downed the remainder of his beer, grabbed ahold of his sample case and started for the door. Unfortunately, before he could reach it, another cowboy walked in, blocking his way. The man was huge, almost seven feet tall and muscular, with a face that was menacing, rugged and scarred. Hanging from his belt were two large six-shooters that had obviously seen plenty of action. The Easterner, frozen in fear, stood glued to the spot, unable to speak. The huge man, towering over him, then glared at the greenhorn and said in a, deep, gravelly voice, “You drink with me.” The greenhorn saw this as an order, not an invitation. So he walked over with the man, his heart pounding, fearing for his life, then sat down at the bar next to the cowboy, who then proceeded to pour each of them a whiskey. The massive cowpoke quickly downed his drink, wiped his face with his sleeve then stood up and started walking towards the door. “Can’t stay,” he said, “ Big John’s in town.”