Chapter Text
The next day at the bar was like any other. They opened at six, and the usual customers came pouring in. There was a lot of talk about the duel today, as there usually is after such an event. The gravestone had started preparations before they even knew the kid was dead. Every odd was up against him, so one could guess what the aftermath would be. Mr. Taylor began work on the coffin, and if Chester were to believe the rumors, they were going to plan a funeral for September 12th.
Surprisingly, Emmett hadn't returned to the bar. After such a loss, people were prone to drinking away their sorrows. Although, knowing Emmett, he was glad he didn't come. Chester knew losing a loved one in such an unfair duel was one of the hardest things a person could go through. Knowing from personal experience, he thought drinking was how any man deals with such a scenario. Last night must have been enough for the blacksmith, alcohol-wise. Just thinking about the duel seemed to mix up emotions. He tried to resist the urge to pour himself a glass. Instead, he poured a shot for one of the usuals.
“So, Chester, are you going to that Eastwood character’s funeral?" The current patron at the counter asked.
"I don't know... I've been thinking about it. Emmett must be having a hard time dealing with it.” The bartender replied, walking back to put away an abandoned bottle.
"Why's that?” The patron set his glass down.
"They were close, I suppose,” Chester said, refilling the glass.
"That's too bad."
After that, the patron was absorbed into another conversation.
The saloon is usually never quiet, but there are times when the talking slows down. The day was getting late; some people left and some people came. Piano music floated around the bar, this time the local pianist at the keys. The red sun filled the sky with brilliant colors. The piano player walked up to the bar.
“Gooday, Warren. What can I do for you?” Chester grinned.
“Not much, I'm afraid.” The man sighed.
“What's that matter? Nothing an old drink can fix.” The bartender chuckled, leaning on the counter.
“Chester, I'm leaving town. My ma’s gotten sick.”
“Oh, well. I wish you the best of luck.” Chester frowned and wished Warren off. The pianist left to collect his luggage.
Ping, ping, ping.
The sound of conversation overshadowed the noise at first. A poorly copied version of a tune radiated from the old wooden piano. One of the few conversations seemed to cease. Some ears perked up, including that of the bartender. He brushed it off quickly, much like the others in the saloon. Then, they heard it repeat.
He glanced at the townspeople closest to him at the bar.
"Did you folks hear that?"
They didn't look up from their conversations or even their drinks.
Just the wind, Chester. He told himself.
But there was no reason to deny what he heard.
The clunky rendition of “Grandfather’s Clock," which Warren was playing earlier, continued to play quietly in the corner. Patrons turned their heads, wondering if they had drunk too much. The music slowly faded away. The conversations continued, and everyone went about their drinks as if nothing had happened.
Surely someone else had to have heard it, right?
**
The day had fully winded down by now.
"Last call for drinks!” Joey hollered. People flocked to the counter to place their final orders.
“Hey, Chester? Did you hear that strange piano?” A man called from the small crowd of patrons.
“Yessir, I did. I believe something strange is messing with that piano. Haunting, if you will.”
The patron leaned in and said, “You didn't hear it from me, but I do believe it's that Eastwood fella doing the haunting.”
Chester laughed. “Maybe so, maybe not.”
But he knew what the answer was.
As always, the bar started to close up. Joey was here to help clean this time, but not much else was different.
Ping, ping, ping.
Joey jumped up.
“What the hell was that?” He shouted.
“I'm not entirely sure myself," Chester walked over to the piano and sat on the seat.
“ There's one thing I've been meaning to try.” Chester placed his hands on the keyboard.
He played a couple of keys on the piano. The same notes were repeated, but this time without his hands on the piano.
“Well, I'll be darned.” Joey started to smile. “Can I have a go?”
Joey proceeded with similar results.
The bartender shooed his assistant off the bench. For some reason, he felt the need to appear formal, so he dusted himself off.
Chester announced this:
“Mr. Eastwood, or any other spirit that might inhabit this piano, I want to ask a question.”
“Don’t you reckon speaking to the dead is a sin?” Joey whispered.
“Playing piano ain't a sin, Joey, and it isn't now.” Chester resumed his announcement.
“If your answer to my question is yes, do this,” he said, playing two notes after each other. "If not,” he said, playing the note once.
Joey had to hold back laughter; it was a little funny after all. Chester glared at him.
“Is this Clint Eastwood playing the saloon piano?”
Ping, ping.
The bartender's grin widened. “See, I told you I was onto something.”
Joey had no response, only a slight smile. They both finished arranging the saloon for tomorrow.
“Night, Joey. Goodnight, Mr. Eastwood,” Chester nodded his head toward the piano.
“You are so full of it, Chester," Joey laughed.
They went their separate ways.
Joey thought to himself, Talk about whiskey and spirits.