This is My Town

CHAPTER ONE

THE DOORS SWUNG OPEN. A man strolled in, and in quick strides headed for the bar. Got any cold beer?

The bartender nodded and bent under the counter to produce the bottle. The man reached for it, at the same time flipping a coin on the bar.

His unexpected entrance had produced silence from all the customers and hangers-on. Three men, in particular, had been in a heated argument at the bar when they had been interrupted by the newcomer. One of the men, middle-aged, well dressed, turned an irritated stare on the stranger.

Who are you? What are you doing here?

The man turned to look at him. He took a sip of his beer, then glanced at the bartender.

Is the man blind he can't see me drinking a beer?

The bartender, his eyes flicking from one man to the other, didn't reply.

The questioner, now angry, persisted. I ain't blind. I just have a right to ask. I'm Abel Anson and this is my town. You must be the blind one if'n you didn't see the sign on the road with my name.

The man nodded. I do recollect seeing the name of the town. What I don't recollect seeing is a fence around it and a 'no trespassing' sign.

The young man, a two-day growth of beard on his face, had a half smile, but his eyes didn't match the smile. He was about six feet, slim-waisted, broad shoulders, sandy hair showing under his hat. His dusty attire was undistinguishable from that of any cowpuncher. What was different, and apparently overlooked by the others, was the low-slung, tied-downed six-shooter on the stranger's thigh.

Anson was fuming, but before he could answer, the second man intervened. He was huge, about six four, brawny and bearded. A formidable looking man until one's gaze fell to his waistline, bulging and about as broad as his shoulders.

He also had a star on his vest.

I also got a right to know. I'm the sheriff here. You answer Mr. Anson with respect.

Well now, Marshal, the stranger gave him a hard look and the lawman scowled at being caught in a lie. My pappy always told me to respect others until they proved me wrong. Your Mr. Anson didn't give me a chance to hand out respect but went straight to the proving.

You’re making it easy for me to put you away, stranger, the marshal grinned in apparent anticipation. We don't need any hardcases in this town.

Ain't no wanted poster with my likeness, the man smiled in return. Howsoever, you can mosey over to your office and look. I'll wait for you.

No need for that, interjected Anson. I just decided we don't need your kind around here. You can head out that door and out of town. Else the law will take care of you.

The man shrugged. That's a right nice attitude to hold against criminals. But seeing as how I ain't one, I got a right to enjoy my beer.

Anson nodded to the marshal.

All right, if that's the way you want it, he grinned, reaching for his gun.

The next thing he knew, he was looking at the wrong end of a Colt .45 pointed at his belly.

The marshal froze. Where had that come from? There was a murmur from the onlookers as they too had missed the stranger's draw, so quick had it been.

I don't reckon I'm going nowhere since I ain't committed no crime, the man declared. And, now look what you made me do, he continued. My pappy told me never to draw my gun unless I was to use it.

How do you reckon I should fix that so's I don't make my pappy turn in his grave?

He looked at the two men in front of him, the third man had faded back into the background.

He pointed his gun at Anson then back to the marshal, then back again, as if undecided.

I just can't disobey my pappy's advice, he declared, raising the gun and pointing it to the marshal's head. He cocked it. The click seemed magnified a hundred-fold in the quiet of the saloon.

Aw, don't. You can't shoot down a man like that! Anson cried.

The man fired.

The marshal staggered back against the bar, his face ashen, his hand clutching his chest. His breath was coming in short gasps. But there was no blood, no wound, and no pain.

The stranger took a few steps and bent over to pick up a hat, the marshal's hat, from the floor. He handed it to its owner.

Took the liberty of re-decorating yore Stetson, as he stuck a finger through a hole in the crown.

I guess that satisfies my pappy's wishes. He sheathed his gun and picked up his beer. I shore hope it's still cold. I hate warm beer.

After taking a long swig, he turned to his two antagonists, the marshal still trying to regain his breath and composure.

"Goes to show you. Leave a fellow alone and there's respect all around. On the other hand, you push a fellow, then the only way for him to get respect has to come out of a barrel of a .45.

That hole in your hat, Marshal, that's a lesson on respect. You got to earn it. Every time you look at your hat, you'll remember me.

He finished his drink. Then he tipped his hat and strolled out as he had come in.

There was only silence after he left.

Then: That, that man is crazy, from the marshal.

The third man came back. Shall I round up some of the men and take off after him? addressing Anson.

He shook his head. No, maybe we were a mite too fast to take him on. Come down to it, all he did was scare the hell out of Carlin, looking at the marshal.

Crazy! Crazy! the marshal exclaimed, his hands still shaking as he used both hands to guide a glass to his lips.

No, not crazy, said Anson. We better hope he's just drifting through.

CHAPTER TWO

THE STRANGER CAME OUT of the saloon and almost bumped into two women as he headed for the hitching post. Both were wearing riding clothes and gun belts. One was young, slim, pretty, with dark hair. The other one was older, probably in her forties, but attractive with handsome features.

The younger one stopped, turned around and came to the edge of the wooden sidewalk. She faced the stranger as he was unhitching his horse.

Who are you? I haven't seen you before.

The man stopped what he was doing, rolled his eyes and looked skyward. Oh Lord, what have I done to deserve this? Is there no respect for privacy in this God forsaken town?

The older woman had an amused smile on her face, but the younger found no amusement in the young man's comment.

Has anyone in this town ever said: 'Good Morning.' the man continued. Does anyone know how to ask: 'Can we help you'? Good manners, my pappy said, is the only way you can tell the difference 'twixt a person and a jackass.

Are you calling me a jackass? the girl retorted. Coming from a run-down looking cowpuncher that probably slops with the hogs, you have some nerve to calling me names.

Thumbs hooked on his gun belt, the man arched an eyebrow. Now I place you. You must be related to that old goat in that saloon. You both have the same set of manners, him and his sheepdog caretaker.

Oh, you, you... her hand went to her gun, but, just as quick, the older woman grasped her wrist and prevented the withdrawal of the weapon.

Thank you, ma'am, the stranger nodded to the older woman. Drawing my gun twice in a few minutes and against a female goes against my religion.

Religion, humph! sneered the girl.

What do you mean by that? the older one asked. Did you shoot someone in there?

Just one, the sheepdog. The star.

You shot Will Carlin? the girl interjected.

I see you recognize the description, he smiled. "But no, not exactly. He just got a lesson in manners. He forced me to draw my gun and as my pappy said, a gun should only be drawn when it is going to be put to use.

I'm glad you didn't finish your draw.

My name is Aurora Anson, said the woman, and this is my niece Charlene Anson. I apologize if some of my kin haven't shown their manners."

The man removed his hat. Pleased to meet you, Miz Anson. he pointedly excluded the girl. I'm leaving this town with one good impression. Up to now, everyone wanted to know who I was and what I was doing. All because it's somebody's town. Crazy people!

He got on his horse.

Where are you heading, stranger? the woman asked.

Well, out of this town for sure. See what's down the road.

Down the road is Brandon. Is that where you were heading?

Not specially. Just another stop on the road of life, like Anson was.

A stop on the road of life, scoffed Charlene. A scruffy poet in Levi’s. Next he'll be telling us his name is Shakespeare.

No, Miss Anson. It's George Washington and I'm running away from Martha.

He tipped his hat and rode off.

Oh, that man! She whirled and stomped away.

Aurora looked after the departing rider. I kind of hate to see you go, she mused.  This territory needs men like you. Charlene needs a man like you. But does Brandon need a man like you?

And he never did tell us his name, she murmured.

CHAPTER THREE

THAT MAN RODE SLOWLY, relaxed, his body swaying in tune with the horse's gait. The road to Brandon stretched ahead, empty and already shimmering from the heat.

Anson's Town! What a bunch of suspicious and hostile people. There couldn't have been more than eight or nine buildings in the entire town. What was so special about that? The answer was obvious: because it was his. People are proud of their possessions. But claimed ownership of an entire town inferred ownership of its people. Did they all march in step with their 'owner'? Probably not, but fear could keep them from speaking up.

Which brought him back to the two women, the Anson daughter and her aunt. The daughter, at first meeting, seemed to be a chip off the old block. The aunt was a different story. She was more restrained. Mature was a better description. The girl was not. As for the old man, it was not uncommon for powerful landowners to be suspicious of intruders coming into their domain.

Which brought to mind his own role. The look of fear on the marshal's face had left a bad taste in his mouth. He disliked humiliating people. That was not his way of doing things. Yet, what choice had been open to him. It was shoot or be shot. He definitely preferred the former, especially in a town where everyone's hand could be turned against him.

He had made a powerful enemy in the marshal if he chose to stay in these parts. Oh well, the marshal was a blowhard, all too ready to run over those he thought too weak to fight him.

His thoughts were interrupted as three horsemen suddenly appeared in his path. One of them had his gun drawn and pointed at the solitary rider.

Hold on there! What are you doing here? Where are you going? the speaker was the man holding the gun.

The man reined in his horse, slightly sideways, about eight paces from the menacing gunman. He leaned slightly forward, reins in his left hand, his right resting on his thigh.

Last I heard, this was a free country and as far as I know, this is a public road. And my pappy told me never to ask impolite questions. I might just give you an answer you don't want to hear.

The gunman scowled. Well, I figure when there's three men against one and with a six-shooter pointed at your gut, then it doesn’t matter how free you are or whose land you're on. 'Course, I can arrange to get you a piece of public land for free, six feet under.

He turned to smile at his companions who laughed at his witticism.

A six-shooter exploded!

The gunmen's pistol went spinning to the ground and he screamed, clutching a bloody hand.

Now it was the stranger pointing a gun at the three men. I told you the answer wouldn't be one you wanted to hear. You two fellows shuck your pieces on the side of the road, but slowly.

They complied, still confused about how quickly the situation had been reversed.

Tie up his hand, the man told one of the gunmen. Then we better make for the next town, Brandon, and turn you over to the sheriff.

The sheriff?

Why shore. That's where road agent’s get’s to go when they try to hold up innocent citizens.

Road agents?

I swear, you fellows are not only ignorant, but also deaf. Not good for anyone taking up a life of crime. I can't believe this country, asking impolite questions, holding up folks and ignorant to boot. Tsk, tsk.

I ain't forgetting this, the injured man grimaced. You don't know who you're dealing with.

Yep, I do know. A man somewhat careless with his gun and his mouth. Where I come from, a fellow like that don't get to live long. Even so, you won't thank me for my kindness today.

He shrugged. "There's some folks that are just plain ungrateful when it comes to saving their ornery hide.

Let's ride.

CHAPTER FOUR

THE TOWN OF BRANDON was over twice the size of Anson, and probably older from the looks of the buildings.

The four horsemen pulled up in front of the sheriff's office. The stranger ushered his three captives ahead of him and into the building. A portly, white-haired man sat behind a desk.

What's this? he exclaimed, getting up.

These three road agents tried to hold me up down the road apiece. I figure you're the man to see about it. Maybe they're wanted by your office.

I know who they are and they ain't wanted. But I don't know about you.

He looked at the wounded man. Gus, he addressed one of the other men. Go get the doctor.

The man nodded, looked at the stranger and departed.

Now, let's get this story straight. Three men tried to hold you up. And here you are with all three, one shot up, all of them without their guns.

The stranger explained to the sheriff while the two remaining culprits glowered at him.

That right, George? the sheriff glanced at the injured man.

I ain't saying' nothing!

Jerry, you want to say something'? the sheriff turned to the other man.

At this point two men burst into the office. The smaller one was the doctor, judging by the bag in his hand. He headed straight for George.

The bigger man momentarily stopped to look at the stranger, than he too joined the doctor.

After a few moments of examining George, the doctor turned to the man who had accompanied him. He'll live.  We'll get a cast on that hand, but he won't be pulling a gun for a longtime, maybe never.

The big man turned on the stranger, his face furious. That's my boy you shot. I'm Henry Brandon and this is my town.

Yeah, the stranger replied. I get the connection, Brandon and Brandon. But that's still no call for three gents to hold up a stranger on a lonely road.

The sheriff explained to Brandon what the stranger had told him and how young Brandon had refused to say anything.

You're telling me, Brandon glared at the stranger, that you, what's your name anyways?

Just call me Colby.

All right, Colby. You expect me to believe that three men tried to hold you up, but you shot one and you ain't hurt? It doesn’t make sense. The sheriff just ain't going to believe that.

I didn't say I did and I didn't say I didn't, the sheriff replied. Don't put words in my mouth, Henry.

Your boy had his gun on me, Colby answered Brandon. "But he started mouthing off to his friends and got right careless with his attention. That's all I needed. He still ain't thanked me for saving his life.

I don't reckon you’re going to either. He cast a meaningful gaze on the father.

Save him! You got the gall to say that after bushwhacking him?

"Oh yeah, I did all that, then I brought him in to the sheriff. You got less sense than a fence post.

He was the second man to try me with a gun on the same day. Be glad you got a live boy instead of a dead son.

You shot somebody else? the sheriff asked.

Not really. He reached for his gun and I had time to beat him.

And who was that?

On the way here, I stopped for a beer at Anson. Anson and his sheepdog got kind of ornery wanting to know who I was and what I was doing there.  Anson told the marshal to take care of me, so, he tried.

You beat Will Carlin to the draw?" Brandon was unbelieving.

"Well, you don't see any hole in me, but I left one in his