The New Sheriff in Town

The New Sheriff in Town

Trevor Prescott

Ty Benning took his seat just as the meeting commenced.

“All right everyone, just settle down…” Harold Cunningham, mayor of Bleeding Gulch, stood at the podium, motioning for everyone to simmer down.

Idle chatter subsided to a dull murmur and finally, the town hall went silent. Harold cleared his throat.

“As I’m sure everyone knows, there is something out in the desert; something that makes the sky green at night. We do not yet know what it is.”

Ty knew. He’d worked in mines since he was a teenager. Wilson’s Mine had collapsed a couple of weeks back—one of the lanterns had come loose in the middle of the night and ignited the TNT—and a mine that size went on for miles. The way he figured it, the tremors caused something in that so-called “crater” to become unearthed.

It had happened before. One time he was taking a break when the crew blew some dynamite. He’d almost fallen flat on his face—but the vibration caused some dirt to shift, exposing a shiny silver object. It turned out to be a revolver, one that was in perfectly good working order—once he’d cleaned it up a bit, of course. His wife Cassidy had died of consumption about a week prior, and it only seemed fitting to name the piece Ole’ Cassidy.

“We’re not here to speculate about what’s out there. We’re here to talk about Sheriff Brass. He went out to investigate with the posse last week, and never returned. Nor did his deputy. For this reason, we are looking for someone to step in until Brass returns, or until we have a new official sheriff.”

Ty practically scoffed. They already had a new sheriff, and his name was Benning. Ty had had Harold in his pocket—his ‘gold plated bullet’ so-to-speak—ever since he caught him getting frisky with one of Daniel Whipper’s daughters one night. Ty would keep his silence—but in exchange, he would be a shoe-in if Brass ever stepped down.

“I’ll do it.” Ty turned to the sound of the voice. Jake Gallagher stood up. “I’ll take over.”

Ty didn’t like this one little bit. For starters, people had been acting mighty odd these past few weeks, Jake included. Plus, now they had an open forum, which meant Ty would have to stand up—lest he arouse suspicion.

“I’ll throw my hat in,” he said, rising to his feet. When Harold looked to him, Ty slowly nodded his head.

“I say we have a showdown,” Francis Peterborough announced. “We need a new sheriff as soon’s we can.”

Ty sat once again. Harold would never spring for it. Sure, Francis had a point. There were all kinds of bandits and outlaws out there, making Francis—the local gunsmith—a prime target. And while Ty could beat Jake in a dual any day of the week, it would have to be subtler than that. Harold would retreat to his chambers, ‘think’ it over, and ‘come to the decision’ to nominate Ty.

Bing, bang, boom.

Abigail Gallagher, Jake’s wife, rose. Without a word, she stepped up to the podium, whispered into Harold’s ear, and then returned to her seat. Harold’s face blanched.

“…Then we shall have a showdown.”

Ty’s face crumpled into a furious frown. Harold looked at him for a moment with a sheepish expression, cleared his throat, and announced the meeting adjourned.



A mild breeze whistled across storefronts and kicked at Ty’s jeans as he stood in the center of Main Street. His hand hovered at Ole’ Cassidy’s grip. The sun the eastern sky glowed with an arcing green luminescence.

“This wasn’t our deal, Cunningham,” Ty growled, rubbing his sandpaper-textured chin with his free hand. “I oughta put you down right here.”

Harold threw a furtive glance over his shoulder. “Look, Abigail Gallagher has me between a rock and a hard place.”

“Worse than the one I got you in?”

“Much. Now listen: Gallagher can talk the talk, but he can’t walk the walk. Put him down and all of our problems will be solved.”

“All of ‘em?”

Harold blushed. “The one with Abigail Gallagher, anyway.” He glanced around. Several townsfolk had congregated up and down the street. “Right, let’s get this started.”

Ty drew Ole’ Cassidy and took a deep breath. He’d done this a hundred times. He just had to relax, aim, and get the bullet into the other man before the other man got his into him. Easy. He and Jake approached one another, coming to a stop about a foot apart, and then they turned their backs to each other.

“Ten paces,” Harold announced. “When I say draw, you draw.”

Ty stared up the street. A tumbleweed rolled by, bounced off of Francis Peterborough’s shop, and disappeared.

“One!”

He took a step.

“Two!”

Another.

“Three!”

And another. Four now; five, six, seven.

“Eight! …Nine! …Ten!”

Ty relaxed, willed his hand steady. Ole’ Cassidy was ready to get this over with.

“…Draw!”

Ty spun, planted his foot on the ground. Ole’ Cassidy rose and took her position. Ty stared down the barrel, put Jake in his sights, pulled the trigger.

Ole’ Cassidy clicked, as the bullet became wedged in the barrel.

Jake drew, took aim, pulled the trigger a split second after Ty.

His gun didn’t jam. The bullet hit Ty like a runaway carriage, and he was dead before he hit the ground.







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ID: 1842855   (Rated: 13+) Emerald Desert  There's something wrong in the Old West, and Sheriff Brass is going to find out what. by Trevor Prescott