I tip my hat back and take a gander at the clock on the far wall.
Time for me to make my rounds; make sure folks ain’t disturbed during the night.
I spit out some chewed-up nail, take my boots off my desk and pin my five-pointed star back on to my shirt.
Silver. Some kinda joke, I guess. From way back when the mayor appointed the first Sheriff.
I yank my holstered guns off the peg by the Wanted posters and tie the cowhide belt up in a solid knot.
Belt buckle’s been broken for a while now. Same engraved belt’s been worn for fifty years by this town’s lawmen.
I mosey on over to the safe, crank out the combination, pull out and load up the silver bullets.
No sense in waitin’. Don’t want to be caught fidgetin’ if I get spotted.
I take a swig from my hip flask, a special mix that Betsy at the Saloon brews up for us, and push myself out onto the streets.
Quiet. Like most nights.
Real bright, though. Full moon. Makes everybody act the fool.
My teeth start to itch as I reach the end of Main Street. I start to smell things a little stronger than afore. Someone’s just around the corner.
So I take another swig of the brew and draw my six-shooters.
I see the door of the Undertakers open, creaking some in the wind.
Dammit, Bill, I told you to fix that lock.
I round the corner and there he is, all hair and teeth and hunger.
I raise up my guns and do what I gotta do.