Red sun goin' down 'hind the purple hills. Scarlet shadows spreadin' over the emerald land. The scent a' sagebrush in the evenin' air.
 
Real pretty. And it made me a little sad to think I wouldn't be seein' it no more, 'cause this time tomorrow my little butt would be shot full a' holes.
 
it was a natural fact, they was comin' a-gunnin' — old Ben Ladden and his boys from the El Kitty Ranch. They was a-comin' on the noon train, and they'd be packin' the big iron — each slug with my name writ prominent on it. I didn't have the chance uvva catfish at a church social.
 
Mebbe less. Ol' Ben didn't have much use for me ever sincet I put 'im up at the hoosegow hotel goin' on ten year now. 'Fore his sudden change a' address, ol' Ben was the biggest cattle and oil man 'round here. When I put 'im in chokey he called me a two-bit tin-star, 'n said I didn't need to bother makin' no elaborate plans for my future. Said when he got outta state prison it'd be my life or his'n. Now, I'm not 'fraid a' death, but — well, actual I am 'fraid a' death.
 
'S funny thing 'bout death. I signed my name on the bottom a' more 'n a few death warrants, and I sent more 'n a few folks into harm's way station, and it ain't bothered me none. But somehow it's different when its your own death.
 
Well, I thought, if I was gonna avoid that dreadful conclusion, my best hope 'd be to find me some staunched townfolk what 'd gimme a hand. And I figured to start askin' at the houses where they had Old Glory on the front lawn; thinkin' they'd be most likely disposed to law and order.
 
But there was a hitch in my thinkin', 'cause I didn't have no luck there. Wouldn't you know that would be the one day they was all prior engaged. What with haircuttin' and shoppin' and one thing or another they just couldn't seem to get clear a' their commitments.
 
And I didn't have no better luck with the people what wasn't showin' the flag.
 
And I didn't even do no better with my own either. I went to my brothers, Jeb and Neil, or as they's better known, "Tallahassee Jack" and "The Silverado Kid." I figured we'd do the usual: I'd make out to throw-down on Ben and his boys, while Jeb and Neil 'd come outta the alley and Bush-whack 'em from behind.
 
That's worked dozens a' times a' fore.
 
But to my stupidification they turned me down flat. Jeb said we'd be crazy to go up agin the El Kitty. Said even if we got ol' Ben, they was more 'n a hunnerd dry-gulcher's out there 'd make it their partic'lar business to get even. Neil said if I had the sense God give the fleas, I'd follow his example and get outta town tonight -- sheriff or not.
 
That sounded like excellent advice to me, and without further undue consideration I went straight home to pack my dainties. While I was bouncin' on the suitcase to squeeze it shut, Laura Lane come a-knockin'. Miss Laura was the prettiest, and the only, lady teacher in the county, and we'd been sweethearts on and off — well, I guess more like "off," 'count a' she was the prim-ish type.
 
Laura told me I couldn't no ways run. Said I hadda stay my ground and do my duty. Said I hadda responsibility to the townfolk. Said if I cut 'n run I'd lie a coward in my grave. Said a man's gotta do what a man's gotta do, and all like that.
 
Just like I figured. No damn help at all.
 
Still, when I thought it through, I hadda admit her point. People's kinda partic'lar 'bout who they let do their sheriffin', and if they was to learn I'd cut and run, it could have a adverse effect on my future employment. No two ways, this was a time for a man who could stand up and be counted on; a hard-tack, reliable sort a' man who seen what had to be did and done it.
 
So I hadda get a wiggle on, 'cause I didn't have more 'n a coupla' hours to find that kinda guy.
 
I shoveled in some mighty unlikely gardens afore I dug up the man I was lookin' for: "Deacon" John Ashcroft, known to his friends, had he had any, as "The Deacon."
 
The Deacon was a man brought low by circumstance and kept there by inclination. They said he'd been a sheriff hisself once, out Missouri way. But it seemed he couldn't set his mind to whether he was a sheriff or a king. Seems a few folks who 'd fallen into liberal ways didn't think he did either one partic'lar well, and they set their minds to a change a' personnel.
 
So a few uvvem went up to Boot Hill, picked a likely-lookin' name, and run it agin the Deacon in the next election. And even though his opponent was not the sprightliest of candidates the Deacon lost by a landslide.
 
All a' this made The Deacon — already a dark sorta man — a whole lot darker; downright peculiar in fact. He'd come to believe it was liberals what done him down. He'd never been too fond a' that kind in the first place, but now he hated 'em worse 'n a churchified lady hates the devil. To hear him tell it, liberals was responsible for ever'thin' that happened bad. This line a' thinkin' continued to work on his mind, and soon he took to keepin' all day in his room over the church, just broodin' how much he hated liberals.
 
After 'while he went from hatin' liberals to hatin' the left — I don't mean just the politics kinda left, I mean anythin' that was to the left a' anythin' else. Got so he couldn't walk on the left side a' the street, or pass the salt no way but to his right.
 
Then he made a mistake.
 
It come to him to take up the gunslingin' trade. Now, bearin' in mind Deacon John was born left-handed, and given his general prejudice agin that side a' things, you might not conclude he'd gravitate to the shootist industry, but you'd be wrong, 'cause that's what he did.
 
One day, early in his new career, without givin' the matter all the thought it prob'ly deserved, the Deacon engaged in a shoot-out. Where he went wrong was in pullin' his piece right-handed. This immediate threw a clinker in his technique, and the other man plain shot off the Deacon's left leg and left arm (which, he later told me, wasn't no more 'n they deserved). After that his right-hand draw improved considerable.
 
Later he took to wearin' a patch over his left eye, 'cause it made 'im wild to think it could see what the rest a' him was doin.
 
All in all, he cut quite a figure in a show-down.
 
I told him how Ben 'd been goin' 'round terrifyin' ever'one (meanin' me), and told him how concerned I was for the town's welfare (meanin' mine) and asked him if he was as good at handlin' terrifiers as he was liberals.
 
He looked off to the hills for a minute, then spit where his left foot useta be, looked me in the eye and said, "What's the difference?" He sounded easy in his mind, but under his eye-patch I could see that left eye jumpin' like it was tryin' a' catch a grasshopper.
 
It come to me the Deacon might be two shoes shy a' pair.
 
* * * * *
 
Nearin' high noon. Big-hand steady movin' along. Far off down the tracks I heared that noon-time whistle. El Kitties was a-comin'.
 
Me and the Deacon headed for the main street, where we aimed to stop 'em.
 
Show-down time on Boot Hill Road.
 
* * * * *
Now I'm gonna tell ya how it all happened. I could see most a' the action clear as day from where I was lyin' underneath the horses behind the waterin' trough.
 
The sun was direct overhead. The day was hotter 'n a whorehouse at happy-hour.
 
The Deacon stood — kinda — at one end a' the street. Ben and the Kitties was at the other. The clock ticked noon. They started toward each other.
 
Ol' Ben didn't look so good. He was pale 'n sweaty. His hands was shakin,' 'n he was coughin' like a second-hand sump-pump. It 'peared to me as how he'd be lucky if he lived long enough to get killed.
 
Deacon didn't have that much on Ben, neither. Due to a lack a' bi-laterality, he pretty much hadda bounce down the street This took a lotta energy and he was huffin' 'n puffin' 'n gettin' angrier and more red in the face with each bounce.
 
Literal hoppin' mad.
 
They stopped when they was 'bout a wagon-length apart. The men spit 'n cussed each other. A wind stirred up the dust. A tumbleweed blew down the street. On the sidewalk a ol' yeller dog was barkin'. A Gila Monster under a stagecoach quick-turned its head to stare and flicked its tongue at the shooters. A spider crawled up a nearby window-pane. Somewhere a church bell rang out a deep and lonely gong. And up in the hills, for some reason, the Bulgarian State Women's Choir was screech-singin'.
 
The Deacon's trusty old cannon spoke first. Five shots — BLAM! BLAM! BLAM! BLAM! BLAM! and five Kitties chewed the street. Now it was just the Deacon and Ol' Ben. Like lightnin' Deacon threw away his spent gun and drew t' other.
 
By now the wind 'd kicked up a proper dust storm, and I couldn't no ways tell what was happenin'. Shots rang out, and then ever'thin got dead quiet.
 
When the dust cleared, Deacon was the only man on the street, and he was lookin' poorly. Ol' Ben 'peared to 've skedaddled to other parts. The Deacon was lyin' in the street bleedin' like a lawn-sprinkler. He looked up at me and said "Did I get 'im? I got 'im, right?" "Sure," I lied, "You got 'im good."
 
Then he said, "We saved the farm, didn't we, Emmy Lou?" I had no idea what in hell he was talkin' 'bout, but this didn't seem no time to realign his perspective. "We sure did, Deacon, we sure did." He grinned, then he slumped like a flour sack in my arms.
 
* * * * *
 
Well that's pretty much how it happened. Ol' Ben ain't been seen in these parts since then, but there's talk he's raisin' hell in some new places. Me and Laura Lane got hitched. Seems prim goes out the window once the ring goes on the finger, and 'fore you knowed it she'd popped out a string a' young'uns.
 
You'd a thought old Deacon 'd be cold as a wagon wheel by now, but it ain't so. He pulled through and in no time he was almost as good as used. I made 'im my deputy, and him and me cleaned up the town. And I come to see what he said was true: there ain't that much actual difference 'twixt liberals and terrifiers at that.
 
So we don't bother with no distinctions: if they look like they's gonna be trouble, we just lock 'em up and hold 'em 'til whenever the circuit judge rides into town — which he does once ever' year, regular as a calendar.
 
A lot a' the flag-wavin' citizens is sorry now they wasn't able to throw a little more help my way when I needed it. They mention it whenever I come by their cells, bringin' their lunch, dinner or breakfast beans.
 
All in all, there's a lot less trouble in town these days, primarily 'cause they ain't as many people runnin' 'round loose in it.
 
And that's how I brung law and order to the old west.