Western Tale: Chapter 9

I didn’t regret my decision--at least not for a good while.  But, looking back, I am convinced that the combination of whiskey and our intimate relations colored my response.

“Why Sheriff--I mean Paul--we’ve hardly met.  But then we’re hardly mere acquaintances either.  I… I have never received a marriage proposal before.  I… I don’t know what to say!”

“Then say yes, Miss Mary.”

“I… I…”  Life was like a bull ride--or like the stagecoach journey when the bandits were pursuing us.  I hardly had time to think, but was challenged to act.  Something told me that Paul was a good man; the kind of man who I could depend on.  Life was precious and short; those were my lessons from the stagecoach trip.  When decisions are required, like that presented by the sheriff I felt I must not shrink from them, but go with my instinct.  My instinct was, “Yes, I will.”

Paul beamed and hugged me tight.  Then he stood up, grabbed our glasses and returned with the full to overflowing with whiskey.  I sat on the edge of the cot, and pulled up my drawers.  

“Then let’s drink to it.  Let’s drink to us,” he said.

He drank his shot in one swallow and I tried to do likewise, but stopped short; I spluttered to a halt having taken half a glass.

As my coughing abated, I looked out the window and realised that the rain had stopped.  The water still dripped through the roof, but there was blue sky in evidence.  We walked back into the office and out onto the porch.  A wagon or two were already trying to make their way through the mud and about their business.  I stood next to the sheriff, who put his hand around my waist, grinning from ear to ear.

As the sky brightened, more traffic appeared both on the boardwalks and along the street.  Every so often, someone would tip their hat to Paul with a “Mornin’ sheriff,” and a “Mornin’ Miss.”

We returned those greetings as we watched the world go by.

Paul still had his hand at my waist when Joe turned the corner and approached us along the boardwalk.

“Well,” he said, “This is a fine how-do-you-do!”

The sheriff turned to me, “Do you know this man?”

I nodded, blushing furiously.  “He… Joe was on the stagecoach with me.”

As the sheriff turned back to Joe, Joe’s punch hit him square on the jaw, knocked him off his feet and flat on his back on the boardwalk.

Paul shook his head, then stood back up; Joe circling him, ready to throw another punch.

“Joe, don’t!” I cried.  “He’s the sheriff.  You’ll be in terrible trouble.”

“That don’t give him the right to put his hand on your waist,” he replied.

“Nope.  Her response to my marriage proposal gives me that right,” replied the sheriff.

Joe dropped his hands to his sides, his jaw slack. “Her what? She what?”

“Miss Mary and I are to be wed,” explained the sheriff.

“Mary, say it ain’t so,” said Joe.

“I can’t say that, Joe,” I replied.  “I’ll always be grateful for all that you’ve done for me,” I paused, hopeful that Joe would understand the wealth of meaning in that phrase.  “But I have acceded to Paul’s request.  I am going to marry the sheriff.”  I put my hand in Paul’s as if to display my resolve.

“But only last night,” started Joe.

I interrupted him quickly; though I might need to tell Paul about what had happened between Joe and me this was neither the time nor the place.  “Last night I received no proposal from you, Joe.  And gave no response.”

“Sheriff, I think you needs to know something about Miss Mary here,” said Joe.

“Joe!” I replied.

He looked at me, his blue eyes steely.

The sheriff seemed to have a wisdom born out of the experience of his occupation.  “Joe,” he said.  “There ain’t nothing you could tell me about Miss Mary that would alter my desire to be her faithful husband.”

Joe stepped back a few paces, his hands by his sides.  “In that case, Mister, sheriff or no, I’m a callin’ you out.”  Paul pushed me away from him and faced off with Joe.  My hand went to my mouth involuntarily.  What was happening?  Both men stared at the other, unblinkingly.  Both men’s hands hovered above their holsters.  My heart pounded in my chest as if it were trying to escape. I heard a woman's scream only to realise the cry had erupted from my own mouth.  Without warning, Joe reached for his gun.  Before he had even raised the barrel, there was the sound of a gunshot as Paul drew his own weapon in response and shot Joe.  He fell to his knees and then on to his back.  I ran to him, seeing his blood seep out onto his shirt at his shoulder.  

Townsfolk were aroused by the sound of gunfire.  A handful ran up to Joe.  He lay there, stoic but conscious, as a doctor examined him.  “He’ll live,” were the only words I heard before Paul wrapped his arm around me and whisked me away from the scene.