Half Moon Saloon, 3925 N. Lincoln: Pony busted through the door, took one look around the place, and got hopping mad. She glared at her ranch hands, Goldberg and Lippy. They looked scared. “I want to see the proprietors,” Pony told the bartender, setting herself down on a cowhide-cotton bar stool. The bartender put a glass shaped like a boot in front of her and filled it with Sierra Nevada. “I’ll tell ’em you’re here,” he said.
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Pony had heard one of the proprietors used to be a rodeo bronc rider. His number, 37, was pasted on the wall near his hat, which had an arrow stuck in it. There were a lot of arrows stuck in the walls. It looked like there’d been an attack.
Goldberg ordered a burger from the adjoining Planet Cafe and Pony thought about her life–her spread with the 100 Appaloosas, 150 pintos, and 100,000 steers and her wardrobe–a different cowgirl outfit for every night of the year.
“I’ll give you a billion pesos for everything in the place including the stampede sound effects you play when somebody drinks six glasses of beer,” Pony said, reaching inside her personalized cowgirl pouch.
“Shut up Lippy, it’s a little more complicated than that. (Sotto voce) I know, I’ll get my stagecoach company to run their route right through this place.”
“Oh, I hope there’s not a shootout,” Lippy whined.
