OPINION:

MONDAY

All of Dodge was quiet except for the whisperings in dark corners of the saloon.

In one corner, the Luxon Gang hunched over their shots of rotgut and whispered that things were gonna change around Dodge now that they had newly elected Sheriff Flighty Luxon in charge.

In the opposite corner, the Ardern Gang hunched over their mugs of chamomile tea and whispered that Flighty Luxon wasn’t gonna make a lick of difference to Dodge or the way Saintly Ardern governed it.

But both corners knew the truth.

Flighty and Saintly were gonna have to meet in the main street of Dodge come high noon for a showdown.

TUESDAY

Flighty and Saintly met on the main street of Dodge at high noon for their showdown.

Afterwards no one could quite say what happened or who came out on top. It all happened too slow.

Some said Flighty Luxon tripped over his own two feet, and that his shots were high, wide, and useless.

Others said they saw the whites of Saintly Ardern’s eyes and watched them turn yellow with fear.

But one thing was certain. Tomorrow, they were fated to meet in the main street of Dodge come high noon for another showdown.

WEDNESDAY

Flighty and Saintly met on the main street of Dodge at high noon for the second of what would likely be a series of vague and interminable showdowns set to continue throughout 2022 and into 2023.

Afterwards no one could say that Flighty had made an egg of himself or distinguished himself, or that Saintly had buckled at the knees or shot him down in the street like a low-down dirty dog.

“If ya ask me,” said Whitey Collins, who had been thrown out as sheriff in favour of Flighty, and who sat in her attic room complaining bitterly about her mistreatment, “Saintly shot him down in the street like a low-down dirty dog.”

But she was no one who anyone took seriously.

The truth was that Flighty and Saintly actually seemed kind of evenly matched.

THURSDAY

Flighty went over to Inky Bridges’ ranch for some shooting practice, and advice.

“Aim low,” said Inky. “The lower the better.”

Flighty aimed low.

“Naw, that’s too high,” said Inky. “Here. Get down on the ground. That’s it. Now slither along a bit. Yeah. You got it. Now go for your gun, and shoot.”

“What are we aimin’ at?”, Flighty asked.

Inky said, “The kneecaps. Always go for the kneecaps.”

FRIDAY

All of Dodge was quiet. Even the saloon was empty.

The Luxon Gang had headed for their haciendas on the coast.

The Ardern Gang were shopping for fine wines and good linen.

There was but one soul left in Dodge. He didn’t care about showdowns or shoot-outs. He had bigger fish to fry. As the clock struck midnight, and then beyond, Doc Bloomfield made notes and drew graphs, set up slides for his microscope, and stuck fast to the job at hand.

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