Mrs. Crawford’s heels clattered against the wooden sidewalk like the hooves of a billy goat scrambling over a shed roof.
The town busy body rattled to a stop in front of the Sheriff’s rocking chair.
He lifted the brim of his hat so they could see each other’s eyes.
“There’s a fight in front of the depot!” she screeched.
“I gathered that from all the boys yelling ‘Fight! Fight!’ and running in that direction.” Horace said.
“Are you just going to sit there?”
“That was my intention,” he said.
“Why don’t you do your job instead?”
“Edith,” he said, “it’s not my job to pick a beau for Sara Willodson. She has two lunkhead chasing after her, neither of which she is interested in. Letting them fight it out, halves her problem. Smart girl.”
“But they’re fighting in front of the depot.”
“She’s got a point,” the man on the chair next to Horace said.
Horace turned to his old partner. “You think we should intervene?”
“Nope,” Tom said, “I don’t think ‘we’ should but I am saying you ought to get your ass down there.”
Horace scowled. He lowered the brim of his hat and tilted his chair further back.
“You’re getting too damned tolerant,” Tom said.
Edith had stepped out into the sun to stare down the street. The men ignored her.
“Hayfield’s changed.” Horace said by way of explanation.
“Maybe,” said Tom, “but you made your reputation by keeping the rowdies out of here and you can’t afford to let people believe you’ve gone soft.”
Horace thought on it for a while. After a moment of internal debate, he sighed and reached for his short barreled shotgun then he tilted forward, stepped out into the sun and walked away from Tom and Edith Crawford.
The crowd had formed a doughnut around the fighters and each time one of the boys landed a blow, a cheer went up. From the end of the block, it sounded like the exhale of a weary beast..
Horace mulled over how to handle the matter as he closed the distance. He didn’t give a damn about the boys. Their fight was a long time coming. He just wished they would settle it out on the prairie. What bothered him most was the men by the depot who had egged them into it. Stopping the fight wasn’t important, making a point with the town was…
A few paces from the edge of the crowd, Horace gripped his shotgun in both hands to hold it horizontally. Wading into the crowd, he felled the first man with the butt and sent a second sprawling by jamming the barrels into his liver. In this manner, he paddled his way through the crowd until the throng realized there was a second nexus of excitement.
They quickly split the doughnut into a horseshoe.
The fighters paid him no mind. They were big, square-headed, slab-muscled boys focused on the frenzy of combat and Horace had no intention of getting pulled into a three-way with them.
He watched for an opportunity to sap one of them but before he could move – the mob split again. Something was burrowing through the crowd like a mole pushing though turf. An instant later, a black-clad, hatched face old woman grabbed both boys by the ears and banged their heads together. She shook them with such ferocity that the crowd scattered for cover.
Horace lowered his shotgun and walked back to the office. A few minutes later, he slumped into his chair.
“Tom,” he said, “you reckon it’s too late in the season to head for Montana?”
“Nope,” Tom said, “I’d say when the schoolmarm does your job better than you, anytime is a good time to head for Montana.”
29 thoughts on “A Good Time to Head for Montana – A Western”
Never, ever mess with a school marm. Or a nun who teaches!
Ah… Boys. Just too much testosterone for one town.
It is fun to switch genres every once in a while.
A camera couldn’t have captured it better than your words!
That is a heck of a compliment. Thanks.
Brilliant, simply brilliant. This story runs much deeper in meaning (in my mind) than simply an entertaining western. To think, the school marm didn’t even need a gun to settle the matter.
Greg, let me remind you that you are one heckuva incredible writer.
[blush] Thanks Audrey.
Westerns work on so many levels. I have often found metaphors in Westerns for technical innovation. Wave after wave of computer and electronic break-throughs have followed the path from pioneers in the wild frontier to the stodgy methology based sod-busters that followed them. This is not to say that pioneers are more desirable than sod-busters – but they are very different types of people and the transition from one to the other is often painful for all parties involved.
Wherever in your psyche this erupted from, keep the lava flowing. Terrific!
And yeah, sometimes being direct, rather than thinking things through, is the best way to teach a lesson. Go Schoolmarms!
That place in my psyche is Len Maxwell. I first published a version of this on Gather.com in answer to Len’s challenge to write a western. Sadly, Len passed away a few years ago. I miss him. He was a friend and mentor.
At the risk of sounding a bit histrionic, those Gather prompts, from Len and Pam and Tracy and you, and so many others, were kinda life-changing, life-saving for me. The time on Gather just keeps on giving…
Great story, Greg. I could picture the whole thing. Those school marms are forces to be reckoned with. 🙂
They were the people who tamed the people who tamed the west.
If you’re going to Montana, be sure to look up Charlie Russell.
Love his work, I’ll give him a ring. 🙂
I enjoyed this very much.
I was once in my daughter’s Catholic elementary school during a fire drill. One of the 3rd-grade boys cracked a joke. A nun who was about 75 years old jacked him up against the lockers with his little feet swaying. Silence…
I could have moved to Montana that day.
We had a nun who liked to pick kids up by the ears. Can’t say it never happened to me…
Both funny and thought provoking! Terrific post. You got my day off to a good start.
Glad you liked it!
hahaha Loved it!
That’s why I write ’em. 🙂
Thank you. 🙂
I always enjoy your writing and humor, but especially the message. Thank you. 🙂
Some of this was inspired by a ride-along with the MPD’s smallest cop. Let’s just say, she did her job.
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