page 20

Six Gun in the Saddle

Twer a sultry day in Rimrock the day the stranger rode into town. "I'm looking for Ace Bannerman," he said to Jimmy Shiver, the paraplegic, hebefrenic, catatonic, schizophrenic, cyclothymic, manic-depressive, obsessive compulsive, paranoic-retentive telegraph dispatcher. "Where is he?"

"Who?" said Jimmy.

"Ace, you dunderhead!"

"Oh," said Jimmy, "ah plum forgot after all them that poly-syllabic sesquipedalions. Why he's over at the Silver Quarter Saloon cheatin' at poker with his hired guns."

"Hired guns, eh?" mused the stranger, loosening his Colt in its holster.

"Yep," said Jimmy, "he get them from Rentall. Got some fellas what can shoot 'em, too."

"Hmmmm," said the stranger, placing the toe of his boot in Jimmy's ear to dismount. "Reckon I'll just mosey over thar."

"Why don'cha walk?" said Jimmy. "It's just across the street."

The Silver Quarter Saloon was a wild and woolly place that night. And why not? Four hundred sheep were milling around the customers at the bar.

"Say bartender," called a voice unctious and yet menacing, "bring me another bottle of whiskey and some aftershave for these jaspers I'm skinning. And shoo some of these dad-blasted sheep outta here."

"Right away, Mr Bannerman," said the barkeep. "Anything you say since you own this town and everybody in it and rule the range with a cynical authoritarianism unparalleled since Periander of Corinth."

"That's pretty dicky talk for a barkeep," said Ace.

Just then the swinging doors banged open. The entire saloon became silent. All eyes were on the figure that stood in the doorway.

It was a large Barbary ape wearing swim fins and a colourful kimono.

Meanwhile, out on the prairie, the lonesome wind howled through the sagebrush and deep in his burrow a prairie dog choked to death on a collar button.

By Daniel. Reprinted from the Martlet.