THE SECRET DIARY OF ...
MONDAY
The main street was empty when I rode to the saloon this evening. ‘‘Easy,’’ I said to my horse. The silence made it nervous.
The saloon was empty, too. A player piano in the corner struck up a honky tonk. ‘‘Shot of whiskey,’’ I said to the barman. He brought over the bottle, and poured.
‘‘Not seen you in these parts before,’’ he said.
‘‘I’ve been coming in here every day since 2014,’’ I said.
He studied my face. I took off my hat. He shrugged his shoulders.
I took a gulp. It burned my lungs. I said, ‘‘Why’s it so quiet tonight?’’
He poured himself a shot. His eyes were red. He said, ‘‘Ain’t you heard? Sheriff Bridges is in a bad way. He done himself an injury. And now this whole damned town has gone to hell. Hell, I tell ya.’’
He brought the bottle to his lips. I reached out and grabbed his wrist. ‘‘Mind telling me,’’ I said in a low voice, ‘‘what happened?’’
‘‘He done shot himself in the darned foot,’’ he said.
‘‘Could happen to anyone,’’ I said. ‘‘He done shot himself in both feet,’’ he said.
I took the bottle and pulled on it. It lit a fire in my head.
‘‘Seems to me,’’ I said, ‘‘like this town needs a new sheriff.’’
The music stopped playing.
TUESDAY
I called in on Miss Kaye. She was darning socks with one hand, and fixing a barn door with the other. She's always had ambition.
‘‘I want you to run as my deputy,’’ I said.
She lit a cheroot, and spat on the floor. Her blonde hair shone like gold.
‘‘The townsfolk like you,’’ I said. ‘‘They all remember how you done taught Miss Ardern a lesson.’’
‘‘Not once, but twice,’’ she said. The memory brought a smile to her lips. She sipped her sherry, and powdered her face.
‘‘Deputy,’’ she said. ‘‘Yeah. Okay. But just tell me one thing.’’
‘‘Shoot.’’
‘‘What did you say your name was?’’
WEDNESDAY
I called in on Miss Collins. She was in her attic, wearing a white lace dress and singing to a porcelain doll in her lap.
‘‘Get the hell out of here,’’ she shrieked.
THURSDAY
I saw Sheriff Bridges limping down the main street. The sky was dark and a dog barked. He headed into the saloon. I went in after him. He stood at the bar and ordered a cognac. He always did have class.
‘‘Tomorrow,’’ he said, ‘‘at high noon.’’
The player piano struck up a slow ballad. I wanted to cry. The sheriff was a good man. But he’d had his time. The town needed to be saved.
FRIDAY
High noon.
The air was cool and a donkey brayed. I saw Miss Kaye’s face pressed against the window of the upstairs hotel. Miss Collins was in her attic, shrieking. Miss Bennett sat on the saloon porch in her rocking chair. It creaked.
A bead of sweat rolled into my eye. My hands started shaking.
‘‘Draw,’’ said Sheriff Bridges. There was a flash of silver and a puff of smoke from behind the sheriff’s back. He fell to the ground. I walked over to him.
‘‘Todd,’’ he said.
His voice sounded far away.
I stood up, and walked to the saloon. Miss Bennett was nowhere to be seen. The town was still deadly quiet.
‘‘The usual,’’ I said to the barman. ‘‘Not seen you in these parts before,’’ he said.
A voice came from the shadows of the bar: ‘‘Well, now. Looks like there's a new sheriff. Let me buy you that drink, pardner.’’
I peered into the darkness. It was Miss Ardern. She put her gun on the table.