I wrote this while I was under a period of duress in my life. It was quite cathartic, although rather violent!
He was the most feared man in Curtis Wells. Children ran away from him. The toughest of men avoided him. Even Newt Call (bounty hunter) steered clear of him.
His name was Barclay. He was a dentist.
Doc Barclay's social isolation began the minute he stepped into the Ambrosia Club for a drink. Normal men ordered whiskey. Barclay ordered milk. Normal men wore a gun on their hip. Barclay slung a pair of pliers.
Doc Barclay was not afraid to use his pliers, either. One time a drunken cowboy drew his gun on him. Barclay whacked the weapon out of his hand, hit him on the head, and yanked out one of the cowboy's molars. This took place inside the Ambrosia Club, and it happened in less than a minute. After that, most people were too afraid to find out what he did inside the dental office.
Still, he made a decent living. There were plenty of unhealthy teeth in Curtis Wells, especially since the main food consumption in town was whiskey. Whiskey consumption actually made the extraction process less painful. Most people, if they visited Doc Barclay, were slobbering drunk. When they were done, they were slobbering blood.
Since Doc Barclay teamed up with Harry the opium dealer, business was even better. Doc Barclay would send his patients to Harry first, and when they were dazed on the drugs, he would extract the teeth with a minimum of yowling. It was all very pleasant.
Personally, Barclay frowned upon any vice that would hurt the teeth. Many times he fingered his pliers as the children eyed the candy in Creel's general store. When the kids saw the sinewy dentist's gesture, they ran immediately to their mother's skirts. Creel never liked it when Barclay came in the store. Hell, no one liked it when Barclay entered the store. He was too damn scary.
Being one of the most dangerous and aloof men in town, naturally Mattie Shaw was attracted to him. But even the tender-hearted blond woman was disconcerted when she sidled up to Barclay one day and all he could do was stare at her teeth. "Nice gums," he remarked, not even noticing her bodice-forming chemise or her tight-leather pants. Mattie Shaw steered clear of Barclay from that point.
Doc Barclay was so feared that Mosby's men refused to collect taxes from him. This, of course, presented a major dilemma to the strikingly magnificent Southern gentleman called Clay Mosby. It was one thing not to collect taxes from Newt Call (bounty hunter), for it was hardly seemly to tax a bench, but not to tax a known businessman like Barclay, that was another matter entirely.
So Clay Mosby set out to confront the dentist. Mosby put on his tax-collecting outfit, placed on his black hat, and patted his huge gun. Mosby was ready now for just about anything. He could do it. He knew he could.
Just as he was about to step into the dentist's office, UnBob plowed into him on the way out. The lanky man held the side of his jaw in pain, and tears pooled in poor UnBob's eyes.
"Hold on there, UnBob," Mosby said, steadying the good-natured handyman.
"Doan wo in where, Wister Wosby," UnBob sputtered as blood dripped out the side of his mouth. UnBob sobbed in pain.
Both men started as they heard the clang of metal inside the office. UnBob gave one imploring look at Mosby and ran for his life.
The clanging of metal, as if on a tray, was a noise that Mosby had not heard in a long time. It triggered an awful memory for our Southern hero. Anyone that happened to glance at poor Mosby at that moment could not help but feel at stab of pity for man. Mosby's face was a contortion of pain and anguish. For a few agonizing moments, Mosby could do nothing but relive those horrifying moments. He felt the pain. He heard the screams. It seemed to never end.
"Next!" he heard Barclay call from inside the office.
Shaking his head, Mosby finally got a grip on himself. It was all over now, he told himself. No one could hurt him like that again.
Mosby cleared his throat and straightened his jacket. He stepped inside the dental office.
"Mosby?" Barclay asked in wonder. Besides Barclay, everyone in town knew that Clay Mosby had the best set of teeth in town.
"Doctor," Mosby acknowledged, looking about the room. It lacked ornamentation. The chair stood in the center of the room, and the barbaric set of tools of the dentist's trade was on a nearby tray. The pliers, lying in a pool of blood, still gripped a freshly extracted tooth.
Dear God, Mosby thought to himself. The man was a butcher.
"What do you want, Mosby?" Barclay asked, wiping his hands on his stained apron.
Mosby patted his big gun reassuringly. He could do this.
He turned and smiled wickedly at the dentist. "Rumor has it that you refuse to pay your taxes, Doctor. Perhaps you are not aware of the simple understanding we have with all the businessmen here. There has to be a fee, a money to be paid for law and order in this town. You being a law-abiding citizen, Doctor, I am sure you would want to do your duty and pay your taxes. After all, right is right." Mosby's hands squared on his hips confidently.
Doc Barclay did not say anything. He seemed to be staring at Mosby's teeth.
Mosby's grin wavered for a moment. "Do you hear me, Doctor?"
The dentist ignored him, moving in for a closer look.
Mosby stepped back, aiming his gun.
Doc Barclay's hand rested on his pliers. His fingers twitched ever-so-slightly.
A thick silence hovered over the room. Both men's jaws tightened in anticipation.
It was Doc Barclay that gave way first. His hands eased up off the pliers.
In relief, Mosby lowered his big gun. Doc Barclay straightened his dental equipment on the tray.
"Good then," Mosby cleared his throat. "We shall see your taxes paid in full by the end of the month."
Barclay said nothing. He threw the extracted tooth into a pile of pearly whites in the back of the room.
As Mosby was about to step out of the office, Barclay muttered, "Nice teeth, Mosby."
Mosby turned around abruptly. "What the hell is that supposed to mean?"
The dentist smirked, fingering his pliers. "Not a thing. I guess you won't be sitting in my chair, is all."
Mosby scrutinized him closely, and then stepped out of the dental office.
He frowned. That was damned right.
Poor disheveled Mosby woke up in a pool of his own sweat. It had been this way every night since his confrontation with Barclay. The man unnerved him, and Mosby was not a man easily unnerved.
Yet Barclay did not openly make a move towards him. Whenever he saw Doc Barclay on the street, the balding dentist did nothing but stare at him, or rather, his teeth. The man did nothing except stare at his teeth. And smirk.
Mosby swallowed, running his hand absentmindedly through his hair. Did the dentist suspect? Did the dentist know?
Mosby shook his head, swigging some whiskey from a bottle close at hand. The man could not guess. Robert had made sure of that years ago.
Yet that bastard Barclay still showed no signs of paying his taxes. Something had to be done, and quickly. The man was undermining his authority.
He knew his men would not go near Barclay. He would have to confront the dentist himself.
He had done it before. He could do it now. All he had to do was find the right time.
Mosby watched the dentist closely. The balding dentist kept to himself, and people were glad to keep out of his way. The dentist seemed to waste his sentiment on nothing, and he did his job rather too well. He sat at table alone in the Dove.
Mosby sat down with him.
"Mosby."
"Doctor."
"Fine day, isn't it?" the dentist said, addressing Mosby's teeth.
Mosby's mouth tightened into a snarl. "About your taxes--"
"Yes, about my taxes," Barclay agreed, interrupting him. "I guess I won't be paying them, seeing what I know."
"What?" Mosby said, gripping tightly onto a fork.
Barclay smiled an evil smile. His fingers pulled out a necklace hidden underneath his black shirt.
Mosby gasped in horror. It was a string of teeth. Yet they were oddly familiar …
Then Mosby's face contorted in hate. He looked at the man. He had changed from twenty years ago. He could not believe that he had not recognized him. He should have known. He should have known.
Mosby stood up, and in a powerful swipe, knocked Barclay and the table to the ground. Barclay wiped blood from the side of his mouth.
The stares and the gasps of horror from the Lonesome Dove patrons was the only thing that stayed Mosby's hand. He would have killed him then and there, that bastard, if it had not been for them. It was something he would soon rectify. Later, yes, later …
Mosby stalked out of the Dove.
"I remember you," he heard the dentist call out after him. "I won't be paying my taxes, " Barclay added.
Mosby snarled. This was not about taxes anymore. This was personal.
He sat alone in the dark. The striking match momentarily lit the room, and the cigar was soon puffing in his mouth. A whiskey bottle and a shot glass lay nearby on the dentist's tray.
Mosby sat, as he did years ago, in that chair. This time he wore his black hat and suit. This time he would not be strapped down to the chair. This time that bastard would not get the best of him.
He heard the click of the key in the lock, and Mosby turned to face him.
It was him. It was that bastard from twenty years ago. He could not believe that he had not known it earlier.
Barclay shut the door. He heard the click of Mosby's gun. He turned around cautiously. This time he had no pliers on his hip.
"Mosby," Barclay said as his eyes adjusted to the dark. "How did you --"
"Shut up," Mosby ordered, quickly knocking Barclay to the ground.
Barclay coughed, spitting out a tooth.
"How does it feel, you bastard?" Mosby said, this time kicking the man in the jaw.
Barclay spitted out more teeth.
"I was doing my duty," Barclay managed to say.
Mosby ignored him, kicking him savagely again in the jaw. Blood and teeth flew out from the dentist's mouth. Mosby grabbed him by the throat, since the dentist had no hair. Mosby's gun was aimed at the dentist's temple.
"You son of a bitch," Mosby snarled. "You were the one. You were the one I faced every day. I heard the click of the key in the lock, and every day I would face up to you. Every day you'd make me open my mouth. Every day you would put it inside. Every day you'd take another and another. I've waited a long time to kill you, you sadistic bastard. Did you think you'd break me? Did you honestly think you could break me?"
Barclay sputtered out (along with some blood), "Fine teeth, Mosby."
Mosby threw him to the ground and planted his foot on his back. "Yes, they are," he agreed. "It took five long years of waiting in a dark room, but Robert managed to find me the finest set of dentures in New Orleans. Can you imagine? I lost everything. My family, my country, my teeth. Do you know how humiliating it is for a man of twenty three to gum his food? You can live without a lot of things, Barclay, but you cannot live without your teeth. And you won't live, Barclay. I'll see to that."
With another savage kick, Mosby knocked the dentist unconscious this time.
When the townsmen found the dentist, he was strapped to his own chair with bloody spittle coming out of his mouth. The finest set of teeth, next to Mosby's, no longer resided in Barclay's mouth. When the dentist awoke, he bawled like a baby.
Sipping his coffee, Mosby watched him ride out of town. There was a certain amount of pain that no man could survive. He had known it, and now his tormentor knew it, too.
"Now live with that," Mosby muttered.
November 2002