| |
––––––––
So, after all the gun smoke and dust cleared away, the two strangers who'd ridden into the fray miraculously unscathed found themselves surrounded by townsfolk numbering somewhere in the vicinity of two hundred. They parted like the Red Sea at the time of Moses—but not for the strangers. No, they parted for an obese old fellow in a bright green top hat and a shabby suit close to the same color. He had impressive jowls, droopy bags of flesh that sagged down past his collar. Other than that, there wasn't really anything special about him. He approached the strangers like a man on a mission, grinning wide, jowls flopping with a life all their own.
Coming to the first of the two mounted men—a heroic-looking gent with sharp blue eyes, a rugged, clean-shaven face, and cowboy attire that could have been just about any color underneath all the dust—the obese old fellow said,
"W-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-l-l-l now!" His jowls flapped this way and that, and his wide grin revealed a few dozen false teeth. "I'd be the mayor of this here town, so welcome to Drought City! Who might you two hombres be, anyhow?"
"I'm—" started the heroic-looking gent.
"Aw shucks," grumbled the mayor, glancing down at his script. "I wasn't supposed to say that at all. First, I was supposed to say, 'Thank you for saving us from them three outlaws. They are dead, and we owe you a debt of gratitude.' Then I was supposed to say, 'Who might you hombres be, anyhow?'" He shook his head sadly. "The author will probably kill me off now. Shucks."
"What's this all about?" whispered the second mounted stranger to the heroic-looking gent. This second fellow was quite a bit older than his traveling companion. He had grizzled stubble growing out from his hollow cheeks and a long white mustache that curled outward at its ends. He kept his bald head covered by a floppy Stetson that had seen much better days.
Eyeing the mayor cautiously, the heroic gent reached into his dusty vest pocket and withdrew a calling card.
"Here," he said as he handed over the card. "This might help matters."
"Hmmm," said the mayor, glancing from the card to the gent and then back again. The card read:
COYOTE CAL AND BIG YAP – HEROES FOR HIRE – PEST REMOVAL SERVICES ALSO
The mayor raised an eyebrow to appraise these two strangers.
"You hombres are heroes, huh?"
"Yes," said Cal (AKA the heroic-looking gent). "Actually, I'm the hero. He's my sidekick."
"Yep," piped up Big Yap (the older gent with the mustache). "That would be me."
"W-e-e-e-e-e-e-l-l-l," replied the mayor with jowls dancing and false teeth flashing. "What are you hombres doing here in these here parts, anyhow? What brought you to Drought City?"
"Well," said Cal, pushing his palm against the pommel of his saddle and lifting his tired behind for a moment's respite. "The author told us to come this way and look for a fellow by the name of Jack Jones to—"
"Jack Jones!" the mayor exclaimed, waiting for the townsfolk around him to gasp. When they didn't, he glared at them, his jowls tucked in hideously like some kind of inverted blow fish. That got the desired response: they gasped as if their lives depended on it. "Not the despicable Jack Jones of the Double J ranch!"
The faces of the townsfolk started to grow pale, and many of them toppled over. (It's not easy to keep gasping and gasping and gasping with no end in sight, and they hadn't been told by the mayor to quit it.)
The mayor backed away and pointed, his mouth hanging open.
"It can't be us," said Cal. "Big Yap, did you remember to brush your teeth?"
"Yep," said Yap.
"And put on your deodorant?"
"Most definitely."
Coyote Cal frowned, a bit befuddled. But then he noticed the true source of the townsfolk's terror. (No, Billy the Kid, Cisco the Kid, and Jesse the James were not coming back to life as zombie outlaws—although that would have made a fascinating plot twist.) Up the street, at the end town, there stood a lone figure with the sun at his back. He was about three feet tall, wore a white forty-gallon hat tipped low over his eyes, and had two gleaming six-shooters strapped around his flabby, wrinkled belly. And he carried a shotgun, too.
"It's Jack!" the mayor screamed, obviously horrified. "Jack Jones's despicable dog, JACK! The fastest-drawing gunslinger north of Antarctica!"
––––––––
TO BE CONTINUED...
––––––––
Holy cow! What a plot twist! (Not as good as zombie outlaws, I know, but work with me here. I'm on a limited budget.)
What will happen next? Will our heroes be gunned down by the droopy hound dog?
Will the mayor be smothered by his own jowls?
––––––––
To find out, stay close to your eReader for the next installment of
––––––––
TROUBLE ON THE RANGE!
