Short Stories & Tall Tales
Six Shooter City
Bruce Harris
Pa told me not to worry, that everything was make-believe, pretend, or just for show. He said that everything would be okay in the end. Nothing was real. That’s what he said. I believed him.
It was the middle of August and it was hot and dusty. The heels of my new size four cowboy boots made perfect indentations in the dirt road. I played with the spurs on the backs of my boots, spinning them around as fast as I could. Pa told me to be careful about that. He said those were real. I held Pa’s hand as we watched the stagecoach ride into Six Shooter City. The horses looked big. A lot bigger than I had imagined. Three dirty looking men got off the stagecoach. They were wearing black vests and they were smoking cigars. They dusted themselves off and looked up and down the street. One of them pointed to the bank. “They look kind of mean,” Pa said to me. I agreed. I saw one of them spit and whisper something to the other two. They all laughed. The door to the Sheriff’s office opened, and out walked the Sheriff. I knew it was the Sheriff because of his badge. “You men new in town?” he asked, looking them up and down.
“What’s it to ya, Sheriff?” said the one who had spit.
“This is a law abiding town here, you understand? I don’t want trouble from any of you. Understand? I’ll be watching you three. Understand?”
The three men were silent for nearly a minute. They separated, and in so doing, formed a little circle around the Sheriff. I squeezed Pa’s hand. One of the men wearing a dark blue bandana began. “Look here, Sheriff, we aren’t looking for no trouble, so you and your little town don’t have nothing to worry about. Okay? My friends and I are heading out west. We hear there’s gold out west, and we mean to get our fair share. That’s all. We just stopped here for the night because we like the looks of your little town. Got it?” He raised his voice when he said the last two words.
The Sheriff removed a toothpick he had in the corner of his mouth and studied it. “I get it. Just make sure you get it. Like I said, I’ll be watching you three.” The three men gave way as the Sheriff walked past them and back into his office. I heard the three men laughing.
Pa tapped my shoulder. “What do you think, partner, are you thirsty? Say, look over there.” He pointed toward the Gold Coin Saloon. “Let’s go in there and wet our whistles like a couple of old cowpokes.” The saloon was on the other side of the street, about fifty paces to the right. We weaved our way around a couple of horses and approached. I raced in front of Pa because I wanted to push open the two swinging doors myself. I forced them both, one hand on each, and we entered. The saloon was dark and it took a few seconds for my eyes to adjust. The bartender had a large, curvy moustache and wore an apron with the stitched lettering, SSC. He was drying a glass mug with a white towel and he motioned us to the bar. “Belly up, men. What’ll it be?” Pa and I looked at each other. I let him do the talking. “What do you recommend in these here parts for two very thirsty hombres?” The bartender put down the mug, turned around, and grabbed a bottle. He set two glasses in front of us and pulled out the cork.
“I got just the thing for you two. Finest whiskey this side of Nevada, I guarantee it.” He stood back, admiring his work.
Pa told me to take a drink. He lifted his glass, moved it toward me, saying, “To us. A toast.” The liquid was clear and amber colored. Pa and I picked up our glasses and tapped them gently together. “Down the hatch,” said Pa. I took a drink and it tasted like apple juice. “That’s good stuff,” said Pa. He turned to the bartender. “We’ll each have another. Make it a double this time.”
“Yessir.” The bartender came over and poured again. After finishing our drinks, we wiped our mouths with our sleeves. I was about to ask Pa what we were going to do next, when I heard piano music. A man sat at the piano. He was wearing a funny looking red and white striped shirt. His back was to us, and I could see his shoulders and head swaying back and forth with the music. Then, a really pretty lady came up to us. She had on bright lipstick and was wearing a long and soft looking red dress. I could see she had on pointy black boots that laced all the way up her thin ankles. She was smiling when she asked Pa and me if we wanted to dance. Before either of us could say anything, she grabbed us both by the arms and we were moving around the center of the saloon. She smelled so nice. I liked her. When the music stopped, she took a few steps backward and did a curtsy for us. She told us we were great dancers, and that the next time we come to the Gold Coin Saloon we should ask for Dakota. That was her name.
Pa said he needed money, so we walked further down the street and into the bank. The teller was an old man wearing glasses and he looked pale, very pale. He said nothing. “What’s wrong?” Pa began asking. Suddenly, the three men we had seen at the stagecoach earlier appeared from behind the teller. They all had rifles. “This is a stick up! Hands up in the air! Now!” One of the men pointed his rifle at the bank teller, the other at Pa and me, and the third kept lookout at the door. But, before he did, he handed Pa a rifle. “Hold this. And no funny tricks or the kid gets it, see?” I was very confused. Then I heard one of the robbers tell the bank teller, “Fill up this sack old timer. And fast, if you know what’s good for you.” The bank teller was working as quickly as he could. “I’m scared,” I whispered to Pa. “Don’t worry. Everything will be okay. Just wait until the Sheriff gets here.” As if by magic, the Sheriff and a two of his deputies came in from the rear door of the bank. The three robbers froze and dropped their rifles. The Sheriff was all business. “All right you three. I knew you were up to no good when you came into Six Shooter City. I am arresting you in the name of the law. And you, too.” He pointed to Pa. “You and the kid. You are both under arrest. Carrying a rifle at the scene of a bank robbery is serious business. You are all going to jail.”
The Six Shooter City Jail was situated at the end of the narrow street that comprised the entire town. There were three cells. In the middle of the stark room was the Sheriff’s desk and chair. A rifle rack was visible near the front door. Pa and I shared a cell. There was one small window, too high for me to peer through. It had bars. My knees were shaking. Pa kept telling me not to worry. I was hungry. The Sheriff said there would be beans to eat, but that would be for tomorrow’s breakfast. I could have water, but nothing to eat. I felt like crying. I asked Pa how much longer we would be in jail. He looked at his watch and shook his head. “Isn’t this fun?” The old bank teller came into the Sheriff’s office. He pointed to the men who held up the bank, including Pa. “That one,” he said, “he was the one with a rifle. String ‘em up Sheriff. Do your duty.” I ran and tightly hugged Pa’s thighs.
“What’s this about a hanging, Sheriff?”
“’’Fraid so. You and the boy, and the rest of these outlaws are headed for Hangman’s Hill. The gallows. Deputy, unlock the cells and take these convicted felons down to the hill.”
I screamed, “No! Leave us alone!! We aren’t bank robbers.” I looked toward Pa, but he said nothing. The deputy ignored my pleas, unlocking the cell door, leading us out, past the hotel and feed store. Hangman’s Hill was a raised area of land located on the outskirts of town. It consisted of half a dozen large trees, each with ropes wrapped around branches, nooses dangling. Under each noose were wooden platforms. Pa and I watched as the three bank robbers were led onto the wooden platforms. The deputies placed nooses around their necks. “You can’t get away with this,” one of them exclaimed. “We haven’t even had a trial. What kind of town are you running here?” The deputy went about his business, saying nothing.
The Sheriff cleared his throat. “Is that right? Well, just so happens I’m not only the Sheriff of this here Six Shooter City, but I’m also the Judge. And, I sentence each of you to death by hanging for attempted robbery of the Six Shooter City Bank.” He pointed to Pa and me. “You two. Guilty as charged. Step up on one of these blocks and take your poison.”
When the deputy fitted my neck with the itchy rope, I wet my pants. I wondered why Pa said nothing, but I thought I had detected a slight grin and a faint wink. Then, without warning, the Sheriff fired his rifle in the air. I heard a collapsing sound, as the wooden platforms underneath the three robbers’ feet collapsed. Down they went. He fired again. Down I went. As my new boots hit the ground I was aware of the rope’s end streaking across my face. I was fine. I looked around, bewildered. The three robbers were also fine. They were laughing and slapping their jeans, knocking dust off of them. I noticed the ropes were not tied to anything in the trees. It was all one big joke. All, except for one thing, that is. I heard the Sheriff scream, “WAIT!!!” But it was too late. The wooden box under Pa’s feet collapsed, but his feet never hit the floor. I heard a snapping sound and looked up. His head was at a horrible angle to his neck. His eyes bulged out and it looked like he was wearing a Halloween mask. His tongue hung from his mouth, saliva dripping. It smelled like a dirty bathroom. The three robbers, the deputies and the Sheriff rushed to Pa. They lifted him up and loosened the noose. Seems that somehow, the knot at the end of the rope that wasn’t supposed to be tied to anything had become caught on one of the tree’s branches. The Sheriff had spotted it, but it was too late. They placed Pa on the dirt road but he wasn’t moving. One of the robbers was speaking into his cell phone. He was shouting, “Hurry! Hurry!”
I had believed Pa, but he was wrong. Dead wrong. The cell phone used to call 9-1-1 was very real.
***
Six Shooter City closed down after Pa’s death. The old wooden painted sign with the stagecoach and six shooters at the front entrance remained for a while, but the bank, the saloon, the jail and all of the other buildings were immediately boarded up. Weeds and dandelions replaced the tumbleweed. Hangman’s Hill looked the same as always. Fact is fifteen years to the day my Pa died, the Sheriff, who was really a car salesman and whose real name was Jack Goodson, was found hanging from the same tree. Folks said it was suicide. They too were wrong. Dead wrong.
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