Frank Watson

I was 13 years old in 1933 when George Little was one of those old men who sat in front of my dad's general store in that little Ozarks town, telling lies to each other and anybody else who would listen. Little was probably the oldest man in town and smelled of chicken grease, tobacco juice, and sweat. He claimed to be an old-time cowboy and lawman who had hunted Billy the Kid, Jessie James, and Wild Bill Hickok. In those days I thought I was an expert about guns and the old west, so couldn't believe Little could even have handled a gun, much less had the adventures he lied about. His beard was in patches, his teeth yellowed and broken. He always wore a tattered coat and battered felt Stetson even during the hottest days of summer. He was tall, but so frail that he could barely walk from his shack at the edge of town to the bench on Main Street. His skin was like tracing paper and his hands shook. The only reason I ever paid any attention to him was because I had nothing better to do between running errands for my dad.

The cooler than usual weather had driven most of the old-timers inside, but that spring Little's coat served him well. From my perch in front of the store on the old hitching post, which hadn't yet been torn down and replaced with parking meters even though it hadn't been used in years, I watched the old guy shuffle painfully down the street. I was in a surly mood. I would much rather have been fishing with the guys than waiting for my dad to come up with something else stupid to do. I had no desire to listen to Little's tired stories yet again. I turned my head away as, breathing heavily, he dropped onto the bench.

"You don't like me," Little finally said. I shrugged...

[Read the rest of the story in the anthology, Echoes of the Ozarks, Volume VI. Order from the publisher, High Hill Press, or contact the author at franknolenwatson@​sbcglobal.net.]