The Sheriff of Western Gulch
by Arnold Hollander
“Some people will just never learn,” thought Sheriff Talbot, as he turned, hurling spittle into a nearby spittoon. He was in Gerty’s Saloon, where people took cover the moment shots rang out. Lydia, the singer, had summoned him from the jail; trouble was brewing in the saloon, and he was needed.
Sean Clancy was the town bully, when he was drunk. He’d break things while in that state, and he’d always been cajoled to accompany the sheriff to the jail, to sleep it off in a cell. Ben Talbot was the only one who could calm this three hundred-pound wrecking ball. While only two-thirds the weight, the sheriff had managed to end Clancy’s rages peacefully, until tonight.
Clancy had a gun and was using it. Talbot could hear the shots as he raced to the saloon, dragging his “peacemaker,” an over/under shotgun, with him. He yelled, “Sean, this is Sheriff Talbot. I want you to put the gun down, ’cuz I’m coming in.” With that, he entered the saloon with his shotgun off safety.
The usually crowded saloon was empty save for Ray, the barkeep, and a wounded Nick Sorbo, the piano player, who were huddled behind the bar. Two of the ten tables were overturned, glass from the destroyed mirror above the bar littered the floor, and Sean Clancy stood in the middle of the mess.
“Sean, drop the gun, put it down, don’t hurt anybody else,” exhorted the sheriff. Sean ignored him and raised his handgun. He fired, hitting Talbot’s ear. Talbot’s gun had gone off simultaneously, and both barrels ripped Sean’s chest. It was a very bloody scene.
Talbot called to the bartender, “Ray, go fetch Doc Milne, but get me two rags, a bottle and a glass first.” Talbot checked Nick’s wound first. It looked superficial, a forearm graze. He dressed it with one of the rags, then went to check his own grazed ear.
* * *
Talbot was sipping a whiskey when a thin, bespectacled man pushed at the swinging doors and strode inside. The weapon he carried was a notebook and a pencil. “Hi,” he said, walking up to Sheriff Talbot, his right arm extended. “I’m Clyde, a reporter for the Western Gulch Gazette. Can you tell me what happened here?”
Ignoring the outstretched hand, Talbot took another sip from the glass before placing it on the bar. Turning to the reporter, he said, “Have yourself a seat at that table over there,” pointing to one of the remaining upright ones, “and I’ll give it to you short and to the point, what your readers expect.”
“The feller on the floor is Sean Clancy. He was drunk and had a gun. He shot up this place and wounded the piano player, Nick Sorbo, and shot me, too. I shot him dead.
“Now you can write your story. Get the spelling right: that’s “BEN TALBOT, the sheriff of Western Gulch.”
Copyright © 2025 by Arnold Hollander
