Out of My Head
Peter Gallay





Joe Mahoney, Lawman
    There was a new Sheriff in town. Seven pounds, four ounces of healthy pink babyhood. Ben and Martha Sheriff gazed lovingly at their newborn. Of course, as seen on Call The Midwife, babies enter the world slimy and slippery, and Doc Foster wasn’t getting any younger. When the doc picked the baby up by his ankles to give him the traditional welcoming slap, the infant slipped through his fingers and went head-first toward the floor. Luckily, the baby hit the tightly sprung mattress and rebounded straight back into Doc’s hands. Yes, it was another bouncing baby boy, a proud addition to the Sheriffs’ four other sons. Their ages were 25, 24, 23, and 22. The newborn was so out of sequence that it made Ben wonder if he was really the baby’s father. And by the same token, Martha wondered if she was really its mother. Martha was a couple of pecks short of a bushel.
     This wasn’t good news to Marshal Dylan. The Sheriff family was a notorious gang of outlaws. They were suspected of everything from cattle rustling to bank robbery to selling whiskey to Indians without checking their ID. (There was also an unconfirmed rumor that Ben engaged in an ugly perversion involving capturing a bronco, taming it and then having sex with it — a local crime known as breaking and entering.)
     So Marshal Dylan was alarmed, as well he should be. The Dylans were the Sheriffs’ rival outlaw gang and this new addition put them one man up on the Dylans. One baby up, actually, but Marshal liked to plan ahead. In addition to Marshal, the Dylan gang included his brothers Wyatt, Morgan, Virgil and Bob (although Bob Dylan wasn’t much of a fighter; I mean, how many times must a man run away before you call him a coward? ). To even up the odds, Marshal’s first thought was to immediately make his wife pregnant, but she hadn’t aged well and he quickly dismissed the idea. He’d have to add to his crew in some other way.
    

    I was sitting in my office polishing my badge and trying to figure out what to call myself, since sheriff and marshal were already taken by the bad guys. I was the territory’s only lawman for a hundred miles (and even then, the next guy over was just a security guard).
     My work was interrupted by the arrival of my faithful Canadian-Indian companion, Toronto.
     "Sheriff gang have new baby," he announced.
     I leaned back in my chair and cracked my knuckles, then asked the obvious question. "Why are you talking like that?"
     "I’m not talking, I’m reading. It’s a telegram." He read it again. "‘Sheriff gang have new baby.’ Stop."
     "Sounds like bad news."
     "I said stop!" Toronto insisted, as I cracked another knuckle. "God, that’s annoying."
     I put my knuckles aside and reached for the telegram.
     "Who’s it from?" I asked.
     "Western Union."
     "I suspected as much. Did you tip the kid who delivered it?"
     "I’m the kid who delivered it. I just gave it to you. Actually, you should tip me."
     "Right." I made an elaborate gesture of patting my pockets. "No change. I’ll catch you later."
     "Talk about a forked tongue."
     "You know what this means, don’t you?" I asked.
     "Yeah. I can kiss my tip goodbye."
     "The Dylans are one man short."
     "Well," said Toronto, "none of them are very tall."
     Faithful, yes. Brilliant, no.
     "They’re going to want to even up the score. I’m thinking hired killer. Professional gunslinger. Ruthless. Vicious. Lightning draw. Dead aim. Never misses."
     "I guess the Sheriff gang is in for trouble."
     "No, we’re the law here. Whoever this killer turns out to be, we’re going to have to face him."
     "Ugh. Sound like heap big danger."
     "Now why are you talking like that?"
     "Just shifting gears before I head back to the reservation."
     "You can’t leave now. We have a job to do. We’re sworn to uphold the peace, no matter the risk."
     "What you mean ‘we,’ lawman?"
     "Where’s your sense of honor? Where is the spirit of raw courage in the face of danger? Where’s that Indian nobility we’re always hearing about?"
     "I left them in the wigwam. I’ll go get them and catch you later. I’ll call you. We’ll have lunch."
     And with that Toronto got into his Pinto — make that, he mounted his pinto and took off for the hills.
     Canadians! You can’t trust ‘em.

     I figured that sooner or later both gangs would show up at the town saloon. The Silver Spittoon was famous for being the place where Billy the Kid’s older brother, Johnny the Teenager, was gunned down.
     I got into my Mustang — make that, I mounted my mustang and rode from my office to the Spittoon. I pushed through the swinging doors and entered the crowded saloon, and was immediately greeted by shouts of "Get that horse out of here!"
     I had forgotten that the saloon only admitted service horses, so I reined Fluffy back out and tied him up outside, then returned to the saloon on foot. I was immediately greeted with shouts of "Get that horse’s ass out of here!" but I paid no attention. There are haters in every crowd.
     I stepped up to the bar and was greeted by Sam, the bartender.
     "Afternoon, constable," said Sam, who was also searching for ways to address me.
     "No," I said. "Too British."
     "I guess so. What’ll you have?"
     "How about a gin and tonic?"
     "No," said Sam. "Also too British."
     "Okay, make it the usual."
     "You got it, sergeant."
     "No, too military."
     As Sam went to get my drink, I leaned back on the bar and surveyed the room. It was a busy night in the ‘Toon, crowded with cowpokes, sod busters, gamblers, buffalo hunters, scouts, as well as the town drunk and the town cocaine addict. And, of course, the usual assortment of dance hall girls eager to separate all the above from their money. The place was a cacophony of sounds — simultaneous conversations, the clatter of poker chips, an occasional outraged squeak from one of the girls, all with the background music of a rinky-dink cello. (So many piano players had been shot that the management hired a cellist, who at least didn’t have to sit with his back to the room.)
     My drink arrived. "Here you go, gendarme."
     "Pas bon, trop français," j’ai dit. Another suggestion rejected.
     Sam shrugged and went off to consult his thesaurus again.
     I picked up the glass and held it to the light, then swirled it a few times, brought it to my nose to take in its aroma, took a small sip and let it linger in my mouth, rolled it around my tongue then sucked in some air through the liquid. I noted the floral notes and a hint of cardamom and clove and a lovely play between acidity and lactose on the palate.
     I knocked back the rotgut and felt its searing pain scalding my gullet. I ordered another and became aware of the rustle of petticoats approaching. I knew my brother Aubrey was out of town, so it couldn’t be him. I turned just as Miss Sally sidled up to me. Sally had started as a dance hall girl, but she had ambition and saved her money, working seven days a week, sixteen hours a day entertaining all comers (as it were). A bit dissipated and worse for wear, at age 20 she was still attractive and now part-owner of the Silver Spittoon.
     "Buy me a drink?" she said in her coquettish way.
     "You own the place," I said. "Can’t you get one for free?"
     "That's my Mahoney," she said. "Candid, plain-spoken, cheap." She signaled to Sam to bring her a drink. "Word is there’s going to be gunplay in town."
     "Who told you that?"
     "Parson Miller. I was just upstairs with him having...uhm, call it communion…and he mentioned that he heard about it at choir practice."
     The town was famous for its church choir which happened to be composed entirely of settlers from Oklahoma.
     "So you’re telling me the parson heard about the gunfight at the OK Chorale?"
     "That’s what he said."
     Sam brought her her drink and put it on the bar. She suddenly dropped her handkerchief. "Oops."
     "‘S okay, I’ll get it," I said, ever the gentleman. As I bent over to retrieve it, I heard Sally whisper to Sam, "Put it on his tab."
     I straightened up and offered to sell her back her handkerchief for the price of a drink. I was a gentleman, not a sucker.
     Suddenly there was a commotion outside.
     Among the Indian skills I had learned from Toronto was the ability to identify sounds of the environment. Bird calls, wind direction, animal yelps. I put that skill to use now, as Sally asked, "What’s going on out there?"
     I listened carefully, analyzing its resonance, weighing every nuance, and rendered my judgment. "Sounds like a commotion."
     Everyone in earshot marveled at my prowess.
     Suddenly a gunshot rang out.
     "Joe," Sally exclaimed (unasked, I might add), "You better go out there. Someone could get hurt."
     "My thoughts exactly. Soon as I finish my drink."
     I handed my glass back to Sam. "I’ll have another. Make it a magnum." I shrewdly shifted position at the bar, moving a little further away from the door, just in case.
     "Joe, where’s your sense of honor? Where is the spirit of raw courage in the face of danger? Where’s that Indian nobility we’re always hearing about?" (It was well-known that my parents came from Calcutta.)
     "All right, all right. If you’re going to go ethnic on me… I’ll see what I can do."

     Despite local gossip, slanted news reports and the factual record, I’m no coward. When aroused I fear no man. A dozen gun-toting outlaws, maybe. But no man. Singular. Preferably small. And old. With COPD, if possible.
    I adjusted my gunbelt, retied it just above the knee, cocked my hat back, made sure my lucky rabbit’s foot was in my pocket (sometimes the damn rabbit climbs out and gets away), and strode out onto the street, where the two outlaw families faced each other, guns at the ready, waiting for someone to make the first move.
     I knew what I had to do, but Sally stopped me at the door and pushed me back out into the street. I had to think fast.
     "Listen up," I said. "It’s my job to minimize violence in this town. The way I see it, there’s twelve of you in all. If the shooting starts at least eight or nine of you are going to be killed. And even if you survive, you’ll probably be wounded and maimed and maybe lose an arm or an eye or get a bad infection. So instead of all the bloodshed and death, we’re going to go one-on-one. Each side will choose one man and they’ll be the ones to face each other. Whoever wins, wins for his whole outfit. Losing side will admit defeat. No refusing to concede, no demanding a recount, no claims of fraudulent mail-in ballots… I mean bullets. Those are the rules and any changes are prohibited without the express written permission of Major League Gunfights. Now go ahead and pick your men."
     Both sides huddled together and convened a colloquium on the subject, although if you said that in so many words they wouldn’t know what the hell you were talking about. Finally they were ready to reveal their decisions.
     The Dylans went first. The youngest brother, Bob, whose constant chattering about stupid ideas earned him the nickname "Idiot Wind," stepped forward to make the announcement.
     "We choose Black Jack Rosenblatt!"
     A gasp was heard along the street. Jack Rosenblatt was the most famous Jewish gunfighter in the West. (And no cracks about the number of candidates.) He’d made his reputation by performing a circumcision at fifty paces with one shot of his sixgun.
     I was stunned. "The Mad Mohel of Montana?"
     "The same."
     The outcome was a foregone conclusion. Rosenblatt was not only accurate, he was fast. They say he once allowed his opponent to shoot first, then drew his own gun and hit the incoming bullet in mid-flight. I’m talking fast! Nobody could beat him.
     Apparently the Sheriff gang thought so too, because they called time and rehuddled to think things over. Ben Sheriff finally spoke for the family.
     "We convened a colloquium —" (I guess I was wrong) "— and decided that whoever we choose is a dead duck. So we went with the person who we'd be the least sorry to see go."
     Sensible, I thought.
     "We choose Mahoney."
     In case anybody has lost the thread here, that's me.
     "Wait a minute," I yelped. "You can't pick me. It's got to be someone in your gang."
     "You never said that when you told us the rules," said Ben Sheriff.
     "Yeah," added his oldest son, Omar. "And you can't change anything without the express written consent of Major League Gunfights."
     They had me. Hoist on my own petard, whatever that is.
     I turned to the Dylans. "How long do you figure till Black Jack gets here?"
     "He'll be here tomorrow on the eleven o'clock train," said Marshal.
     I was stunned. "You just chose him! How could he get here so soon?" I demanded.
     "Amazon Prime," he said, rocking up on his toes proudly.
     I considered my next move. I knew that if I ran away from this fight I'd always be looking over my shoulder. Wherever I went, I'd just have to keep on running. With that in mind, I figured I'd better get started.

     I needed another drink before I started packing. As I stepped back into the Silver Spittoon, I noticed something was different. It was strangely quiet. Everyone was staring at me with a somber expression. Hanging on the wall behind the bar was a large funeral wreath embossed with the words "RIP Joe Mahoney." It was a small town; word traveled fast.
     It was a poignant moment for me. All these people considered me a hero, a brave man who gave his life protecting and serving. How could I desert them when they were counting on me. And I realized then I could count on them too. With the whole town behind me, maybe, just maybe, Black Jack would get back on the train and there'd be no bloodshed at all.
     With a lump in my throat, I addressed everyone present. "Folks," I said, "tomorrow a vicious gunfighter will step off the train at high eleven."
     Sally interrupted. "Don't you mean high noon?"
     "Daylight savings time," I explained. "As I was saying, this brutal killer is coming to town and I'm hoping that everyone here will back me up when I face him."
     If you've ever seen a cattle stampede, you'll have some idea of what happened next. A split-second later I was completely alone in the room. All that was left was the swinging saloon doors, a bunch of half-empty whiskey glasses, and a cello lying on the floor.

     We're often told to live every day like it's your last. No problem. I woke up the next day scared to death and shaking like a leaf. Knowing that Black Jack was due on the eleven o'clock train, I tried to get a ticket on the ten fifty-five train. No such luck. No such train.
     As the clock ticked closer to the appointed hour, I visited the church to have a few words with the parson. I wasn't a regular church-goer, but fortunately neither was he. He offered me comfort or solace — told me to take my pick — and assured me that God would be protecting me. We then picked out a plot in the churchyard cemetery and he sent me on my way.
     I proceeded to the railway station to await my fate. Wouldn't you know it? For the first time in fifteen years, the damn train arrived on time. I stood on the platform, gun-hand hanging loose at my side, eyes riveted on the passenger car as each traveler disembarked. A schoolmarm, a traveling salesman, a gunfighter, a doctor, a blacksmith, a— whoa! Talk about your double-takes.
     I drew my Colt faster than I ever thought possible and fired off three quick shots, all bullseyes. I must have caught him unprepared, for when the smoke cleared, the fabled Black Jack Rosenblatt lay dead. Right alongside the schoolmarm and the traveling salesman.
     Suddenly the townspeople came out of nowhere, whooping and hooraying enthusiastically. I didn't realize a schoolmarm could be so roundly hated.

     After that, things returned to normal in town. Once again it was safe for a woman to walk down the street — if she was careful where she stepped. Horses, you know.
     And I was back at the Silver Spittoon, leaning against the bar while Sam kept searching for what to call me.
     "How about officer?"
     "No, too ambiguous."
     "What about patrolman?"
     "Too menial."
     "Lieutenant?"
     "Too Columbo."
     And so it went.

The End

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