The knife, the ear, and the bar

The barman’s finger traced invisible circles around Thursday’s date printed on the front of today’s paper. He stared at the back of the tourist studying the notice board. A man of average height, in his mid to late sixties, he walked with limp and a ragged scar ran down his cheek. Sam had seen many tourists in his bar, but this one had an air of mystery about him and it gave Sam the shivers.

‘What’s with the ear?’ the drawl sounded American but Sam couldn’t be sure.

‘It’s from one of Joe Gillespie’s heifers, somebody shot and clay-panned it out near Pauper’s Corner about six months ago.’

‘Where?’ the stranger asked, tapping the section map.

Sam left the bar and stood in front of the yellowing chart, he swept his hand along the Hammond road. ‘This is all Joe’s country here.’ He studied the roads for a while and jabbed his finger at the intersection of two tracks. ‘And this is Pauper’s Corner.’

‘Clay-panned eh?’ The tourist said taking a long look at the map. He drained his glass, and paid Sam for cigarettes. He turned on his heel, led his shadow into the street, and disappeared into the early afternoon.

Sam, on his own again leaned on his elbow and flipped the paper over to the sports pages, but his mind was elsewhere. He gazed at the pocketknife pinning the cow’s ear to the frame of the notice board and his mind drifted to the night months ago when Joe stabbed it there.

It was about six o’clock on a Friday, he remembered because it was happy hour and all of the regulars had made it in for their free drinks. The place was full, old Wally’s shearing team had been in since three and were becoming rowdy.

He’d just put a schooner in front of Spider when he heard a bull bar crash into the high kerb in front of the Hotel. Through the open door, he saw the driver’s door flick open. Joe Gillespie he was out of his seat before the Toyota stopped shuddering. His face glowed red with anger, the eyes wide and piercing. It only took Joe two steps to lunge from the four-wheel drive and breast the bar.

Holding the heifer’s lifeless head by the ear, he slapped it onto the bar in front of Sam. Gunk splattered those closest and the bar hushed with amazement, Joe had their attention.

‘This is the third cow I’ve lost in twelve months and someone in here probably knows the thieving pricks who’ve been taking them. Well get the message out people, I have had a gut full and if anybody takes another one it will be their head I put on the bar.’

He drew a pocketknife from the pouch on his belt and sliced off the ear. The identity tag stayed with it. Showing the room, he said. ‘This is a reminder to your mates to leave my stock alone.’

He held the ear against the white frame and slammed the blade through the ear splitting soft timber. Joe studied the crowd, holding eye contact with everyone in the room when a lone voice broke the silence.

‘Ease up Grandad. It’s just a bloody cow for Christ sakes.’ The ginger headed young roustabout giggled. A gutful booze to fuelled his courage.

Joe’s grabbed him by the throat, his right hand lifting the smartarse from his stool. Joe dropped him backside first on top of the wet bar. The crowd had stepped further away when Joe pressed his nose on that of the offender and whispered. ‘But you see fella, this was no ordinary cow...It was my cow.’

Sam smiled at the theatre of his memory and returned to the paper.