Tin Star: A Cayuse Comedy
by Nene "Quick Draw" Adams ©2001

A parody of the Old West with a little violence, a little cussin', and a little lovin' betwixt two fine-lookin' wimmen. Iffen ya ain't got the nerve, pardner, skeddle on outta these here parts.

Meanwhile, back at Hangman's Gulch - a Small Town in the Old West...
(don't panic, this is the beginning of the story!)

"Yeee-haw!"

Six shooters blazing in each hand, Tex Maverick, Scourge of the Sagebrush, rode into the small town of Hangman's Gulch.

"Yeee-haw!"

Accompanied by his band of dirty desperadoes, Tex rode hell for leather, reins clenched between his teeth, spending bullets like buffalo nickels in a one-armed bandit, shooting at anything that moved and many things that didn't. Coat tails of his duster floating out behind him, clouds of smoke and yellow dust billowing about his sun-scarred face, the Scourge of the Sagebrush was a terrifying figure that seemed to be galloping straight out of Hell with the Devil perched on his shoulder.

"Yeee-haw!"

The citizens of Hangman's Gulch fled in panic, diving behind horse troughs and water barrels, hurling themselves through windows and swinging doors, and leaping into nearby outhouses. With a hoarse cry, the town drunk fell from the roof of the saloon and landed face down in a cart full of fresh manure. He hadn't been shot - this was his usual response to emergency situations.

There would be more than a few insurance claims and laundry bills before this day was done.

"Yeee...oof!"

Tex's horse, a piebald stallion with a tendency to make sudden stops, did so. Tex was catapulted over the stallion's head, landing in the middle of the street with a bone-rattling thump. His false teeth dangled from the reins.

"Yoo shnuck-muckin' shunk o' worshless dogsh-meet," mumbled the now toothless Tex, getting to his feet. The desperado band came to a halt beside him, taking occasional potshots at store signs and weather vanes, just to show that they were manly enough to waste ammunition with a sneer.

Snatching up his custom-made ivory choppers and thrusting them back into his mouth, the Scourge of the Sagebrush hitched up his gunbelt, retrieved his six shooters from the dirt, and spat noisily. The piebald horse, quite unrepentant, sniffed and raised his tail, adding his own comment in the form of a steaming pile.

Glancing about with a squint-eyed, thoroughly evil gaze (the result of many night's practice around the campfire with a mirror and a lemon), Tex said loudly, "Where's the sheriff? C'mon out, lawman. You and me got some talkin' to do."

The town drunk, Bulldog Ponderosa, raised his face. Two bleary eyes stared out from a mask of manure. "Ain't *hic* got no sheriff," he called.

"No sheriff?" Tex laughed cruelly. He practiced that, too, with the help of a mail order pamphlet, Mustache Twirling, Smirking and Evil Chuckling for Dummies. "Run off with a yeller streak down his back, did he?"

"Well, that there yeller streak be the fault of Banana Smith. *hic* Feller never could aim worth a damn, what with his personal bidness bein' all twisted-like, on accounta that corkscrew accident a few years back, and that dagnabbed sheriff would insist on standin' next to Banana when they was drainin' the lizard down by the horse trough," Bulldog replied, blinking. "Anyhow, Sheriff Goodlynch got kilt last Sunday by Rowdy Roscoe Ringo and his Hole-in-the-Outhouse gang."

Tex opened his mouth, then closed it with a click. Summoning his desperadoes into a huddle, they quickly consulted a worn, stained notebook. "Is this the nineteenth?" the Scourge of the Sagebrush finally asked.

"Naw. *hic* S'twelfth."

"Oh." Frowning, Tex ran a finger down a page of the notebook. "And is this Saltlick Scrubbs?"

"Naw. Hangman's Gulch. *hic*"

The Scourge and his desperadoes formed an even tighter huddle, whispering fiercely. At last, Tex broke away, hitched up his gunbelt, spat, and squinted with single-minded determination, screwing up his face into such a hideous grimace that it appeared he was trying to swallow his own nose. "Sorry, folks," he said loudly. "Boy, do we feel silly! Right, boys?"

The desperadoes muttered, a chorus of "Yarm," "Yep," and "Reckon so."

"Got my schedule kinda mixed up."

"Yep." "Yarm." "Reckon so."

"Ya see, we oughta be in Saltlick Scrubbs this mornin'. The hellacious whompin' of Hangman's Gulch ain't until next week."

"Reckon so." "Yarm." "Yep."

"Will you stop that!" Tex yelled in irritation, pointing a finger at his desperadoes. They subsided, and the Scourge of the Sagebrush continued, "So, mighty sorry for the inconvenience and we'll see ya'll next week."

Tex glared around and swaggered back to his horse. "Wagons, ho!" he cried in his best macho baritone, swinging into the saddle.

The desperadoes milled about in confusion. One of them said hesitantly, "We ain't got no wagons, boss."

"Well, shee-yit." Tex scratched his head. "Round 'em up?" he tried tentatively.

More milling. More confusion.

"Git along little dogie?"

The milling was becoming frantic. The confusion was an avalanche of pursed lips, puzzled expressions and raised brows.

"Hi, ho, Silver, away?"

The desperadoes shook their heads.

Tex whipped out the notebook and flipped through the pages, absently pushing his false teeth out of his mouth and sucking them back in with a loud slurp.

The citizens of Hangman's Gulch shivered, each suddenly reliving flashbacks of Thanksgiving dinners and dentally impaired grandparents with a sadistic streak. Compared to the hideous, nerve-racking torture of denture sucking, getting shot was a blessing they would have cheerfully lined up to receive.

After a long pause and too many dental slurps, Tex said, "Ah, here it is, dagnabbit." He cleared his throat and pull back his ivory choppers with a slurp so loud, he might have been trying to suck a full-grown buffalo through a straw. "Saddle up, men!" he cried confidentally. "We got us a can of whup-ass to open! Yeee-haw!"

In a matter of moments, Tex Maverick, Scourge of the Sagebrush, and his band of desperadoes rode out of town, leaving behind a cloud of yellow dust, a lot of bullet holes, and some hefty laundry bills.

As soon as they had gone, Salmonella "Slim" Fandango, owner of the saloon, Stiletto Slim's, came out onto the porch of her establishment. A tall, elegant redhead dressed in what appeared to be two spangles, a feather and a pair of spurred leather boots, she put a hand on her hip and puffed a vile little cigar.

"I reckon we're gonna need a new sheriff," she drawled, sending blue smoke into the atmosphere.

Mayor Hugh Janus, naked save for socks, garters and a bowler hat strategically clutched, joined Slim on the verandah. "I reckon you're right," he replied. "Between Tex Maverick the Scourge of the Sagebrush, Rowdy Roscoe Ringo and his Hole-in-the-Outhouse gang, plus the near open warfare between the sheep farmers and cattle ranchers, and let's not forget that hostile Indian tribe nearby... who can we find to save us from the dastardly forces trying to destroy our little town?"

Slowly and cautiously, the citizens of Hangman's Gulch came out of hiding. They did not look optimistic. Lawmen tended to get shot in a hurry in these wild and woolly parts. Sheriff Goodlynch - a notoriously corrupt individual who had actually foreclosed on widows and stolen candy from babies with a horrible smirking kind of glee - had been the last applicant. Having already scraped the bottom of the barrel, where was there left to go?

Bulldog Ponderosa hiccuped gravely. "We're screwed," he pronounced ponderously before passing out in the poo.

That seemed to sum up matters nicely.

"The name's Bonanza. Belinda Bonanza."

Mayor Janus sucked in an awed breath. The stranger was tall and dark haired, glaringly female but dressed entirely in fringed white leather - pants, vest, shirt and jacket. There was a silver concho belt cinched tightly around her slender waist, and silver tips on her wickedly spurred boots. Riding low on her hips, a gunbelt held a pair of ebony handled pistols, each inlaid with an ivory skull.

Belinda Bonanza was beautiful, deadly, graceful and incredibly sexy. Mayor Janus looked into her cool blue eyes and fantasized about what it might be like be ridden hard and put away wet by a woman like her.

"I hear you need a new sheriff," Belinda purred, tapping one of her guns with a fingernail.

The Mayor nodded, swallowing hard. "Yep," was all he could manage. Ride 'em, cowgirl! he thought in a daze.

Belinda pushed her ten-gallon hat to the back of her head with a casual thumb, and shifted a smoldering panatela from one corner of her mouth to the other. "I seen your ad in Necktie Party Weekly."

At that moment, the only periodical publication on the Mayor's fevered mind was the Sears & Roebuck catalog, women's lingerie and undergarments section, surgical trusses optional. "Yep," he said, manfully attempting to swallow another mouthful of drool. It's only a cigar... he told himself. It's only a cigar. *gulp*

"I wanna apply for the position, if it's still open."

"Yep." Drool was beginning to collect in a little puddle around the Mayor's feet. Any moment, a jet of steam was bound to violently exit his ears. A wolf whistle, accompanied by shouts of "Hubba, hubba!" and "Whoo-hoo!" was hovering in the wings, not to mention tongue dropping to the ankles, eyes popping out of sockets, and pinstriped pants catching on fire.

Raising a sardonic brow - for this heroic gun-slinging Amazon was well aware of the effect that her worldly ways had on weaker mortals - Belinda turned to Slim Fandango. The proprietress of the saloon was dressed - in the barest sense of the word - in a black and cerise corset-and-ruffled skirt combination that was illegal in fourteen states. The hemline was so high, the décolleté so low, that if she'd have sneezed, the world would have been her gynocologist, and pubescent boys would have gotten an education in female anatomy never to be forgotten.

"That mayor feller's sweatin' worse'n a gringo in an enchilada eatin' contest," Belinda remarked, flicking ash from her panatella.

Slim patted the towering, ostrich feather-bedecked construction that was her hair, and smirked knowingly. "I reckon he's a mite peturbed over all that heat your packin'."

Belinda cranked her eyebrow a notch higher and inhaled deeply. Whatever mysterious undergarments buttressed her voluptuous frame creaked under the strain. Everyone in the saloon, including the piano player, leaned forward with bated breath. "You're darn tootin', Slim. I got some mighty fine hardware, if I do say so myself."

"I'd polish your shootin' iron anytime," Slim replied, running her wet tongue across her lips.

"Think I can get a drink?" Belinda gave the red-head a slow, lazy smile. "That ride in from Kansas City left me dry as the dust in a mummy's pecker, and I could sure use some lubrication."

"Oh, I don't a think good-lookin' woman like yourself has any trouble gettin' her hands on whatever she wants."

"Are you offerin'?"

"Are you askin'?"

They stared at one another, little eddies of raw lust passing back and forth. The sexual tension between the two women was so strong, the double entrendres so swollen with bedroom promise, that some overly sensitive patrons had already fled or passed out. Mayor Janus, his brain on fire, finally snapped.

"Will you two for God's sake either get a room or quit that flirtin'!" He grabbed a cowboy hat from the head of a nearby honcho, and placed it nonchalantly over the crotch of his trousers. A wisp of steam boiled out of his left ear.

"Now, Miss Bonanza," Hugh Janus ground out, "do you want the job of sheriff or not?" He was frantic to get to his house for some much needed privacy and a prolonged session with Mssrs. Sears & Roebuck. Frankly, he didn't care who was hired to maintain law and order in Hangman's Gulch, just as long as they didn't impede his progress towards knowing himself - in the Biblical sense, and as often as possible without certain delicate parts blazing up as a result of friction.

Belinda rolled her eyes, took a long drag on the panatella, contemplated the smoke and said, "Yep."

"Fine." Janus slapped a tin star in her hand and fled. He seemed to be having trouble walking, and his retreat was done at a dignified but hasty waddle, accompanied by some strangled noises that might have been a muffled "Hubba hubba!"

Slim plucked the panatela out of Belinda's hand and stuck it in her own mouth. "Welcome to our little town, Sheriff."

Belinda grinned, polished the star, and pinned it to the front of her jacket with a flourish. "So, why don't you buy me a drink, Miz Fandango, and tell me all about Hangman's Gulch and your recent troubles."

The redhead heaved a mighty sigh, nearly unseating the twin emblems of her abundant womanhood. This time, the piano player fell unconscious, hitting his head against the keys with a crashing discord.

"Miz Bonanza, here in Hangman's Gulch, we ain't got nothin' but troubles."

Meanwhile, back at the ranch...

The Hoof-Hearted Ranch (say that three times quick, partner) owned by wealthy cattle baron, Major Fuller Bull.

Unbeknownest to the citizens of Hangman's Gulch, Major Bull was behind Tex Maverick's attempts to decimate the little township. Having recently learned that the Federal Government was planning to run a railroad straight through the middle of Main Street, the Major was determined to buy up land cheap and sell it dear, thereby making even more millions to satisfy his money lust.

Fuller Bull was a big man with a little problem. Towering greed, selfishness and a complete disregard for others were his compensation for Mom Nature being ridiculously less than generous in a certain area.

Having his virginal bride exclaim on their honeymoon, "Are you in yet?" probably just added to the problem.

At the very moment when Slim Fandango was explaining to Belinda Bonanza how the fertilizer had really hit the wagonwheel in Hangman's Gulch, Major Bull was in a meeting with Rowdy Roscoe Ringo.

"Mister Ringo," Fuller said expansively, sitting back and nearly blinding his guest with the amount of diamonds in his buttons, cufflinks, tie bar, pinkie rings and watch chain. Fuller did nothing by halves. "As you know, I have recently hired Tex Maverick to do a little job for me down in Hangman's Gulch. His performance has proved... hmm... somewhat less than satisfactory. With so many government railroad contracts proliferating throughout the west, and so many cattle barons taking advantage of the common people's ignorance, it seems my old comrade Tex is being stretched a mite thin. Why, just the other day in Saltlick Scrubbs, I hear he only whomped half the town, and didn't even bother to stampede the women or rape the cattle."

"Uh-huh." Rowdy Roscoe Ringo was lean, mean and scruffy. The five o'clock shadow on his cheeks had crept up until it threatened to engulf his eyebrows. As he sat in a chair, his spurred boots propped up on a nearby table, he casually sat up a bit and passed gas in a brassy trumpet blow. When he was a child, his mother had often told Roscoe that he was full of beans, and as an adult, the outlaw was determined to prove his momma right.

"So, what'jew want from me'n the Hole-in-the-Outhouse boys?" Roscoe continued laconically, ignoring his breach of manners.

Fuller firmly squelched the urge to pick up a ten gallon hat and wave it around. It wouldn't really have helped to dispel the invisible cloud that was threatening to peel off the wallpaper. A few bluebottle flies, who hitherto had been making lazy circles near the ceiling, fell to the floor and twitched feebly.

"I want you to ride in to Hangman's Gulch, a-whompin' and a-whompin', everything and everyone to within an inch of its life," Fuller explained. "I heard tell you shot Sheriff Goodlynch already, and that's a good start. I want you to make life so bodaciously miserable for those poor, dumb morons in town that they pack up their belongings and leave in terror. I want you to especially send some of your gang over to pester my neighbor, that consarned sheep rancher, Ben Dover. Burn him out if you hafta, but I want him and his sheep gone, too."

"Uh-huh." Roscoe dug a dirty fingernail around in his mouth, extracted a shred of unidentifiable meat, attempted to analyze it, and finally popped it back into his mouth, consuming it thoughtfully. Then he let fly with another good trumpeting before replying, "All right, Major Bull. I reckon you gotta deal... iffin you kin meet my price."

Fuller sighed and immediately regretted inhaling. "I can go as high as a thousand dollars in gold, Mister Ringo," he replied, eyes beginning to water.

Roscoe nodded and, for the third time, coaxed from his rumbling bowels a high note that would have made Dizzy Gillespie proud. He reached behind his ear for a crumpled cigarette and a match, then thought the better of it. "Uh-huh. I reckon we gotta deal."

"Wonderful. Great doing business with you, Mister Ringo." Fuller rose, his head spinning. Grasping Roscoe's hand, he shook it effusively while steering the man towards the door. The flickering flames in the fireplace were beginning to turn an alarming shade of blue. So was the cattle baron's face.

The moment that Roscoe was safely out of Fuller's study, the big man opened all the windows and drew in several shuddering breaths.

A trio of pigs, who had been resting in the shade of the building beneath this window, shook their heads in disgust and slowly walked away.

"The things I go through to get ahead," Fuller muttered.

In the distance, Roscoe's progress on horseback across the dusty flatlands could be monitored by the number of vultures fainting from the sky.

Meanwhile, back at the ranch...

The Lazy Good-Fer-Nothin' Ranch, owned by wealthy sheep baron and entrepreneur, Mister Ben Dover.

Unbeknownst to the citizens of Hangman's Gultch, Ben Dover planned to do nothing except raise his prize sheep, sell the wool, and buy more sheep.

He was a boring man with a boring sub-plot.

He will not be seen again.

Meanwhile, back at the saloon...

Belinda Bonanza tossed back a shotglass of lukewarm tequila and licked her lips. "Not bad, but after a story of woe like that, Miz Fandango, I need me a real drink. Somethin' that'll put hair on my chest. I know! Gimme one of them fruity, tropical-soundin' drinks," she commanded the bartender, who drew back in respectful awe. "One of them sweet but deadly fourteen-layer combinations that are covered in salad and little curly straws. And serve it to me in... a coconut."

The bartender gasped, his eyes wide, and looked at Slim Fandango. "But that's practically suicide," he whispered fearfully.

"I reckon the gal knows what she's doin'," Slim answered, although her carefully painted brows drew together in a worried frown.

The bartender put on a pair of safety glasses and thick leather gloves. From an overhead shelf, he drew down dust-covered bottles whose contents shimmered with poisonous promise. Holding his breath, he began to pour, bottles held away from his body with a pair of tongs. Brilliant lights flashed, there were tendrils of fog crawling around his wrists, and the air began to take on a honey-soaked but one hundred and forty proof aroma. Slim, a hardened drinker, felt her liver contract painfully when she sniffed the fumes.

Bulldog Ponderosa, who was propping up one end of the bar in the hopes of caging a whiskey from some philanthropic person, shuddered. He had once been a girlie-drink drunk, and the sound of whizzing blenders and cracking ice still filled his alcohol sodden soul with horror. He produced a jar of homemade moonshine from beneath his tattered coat and proceeded to murder what few brain cells he had left, hoping to dispell the demons of Irish Cream, creme de menthe, and peach schnapps.

At last, the bartender was finished. Scarcely daring to breathe, he sat a coconut shell down on the bar in front of Belinda. It positively bristled with orange and pineapple slices, cherries, curly straws, paper umbrellas, and a clever plastic monkey on a stick. Belinda regarded the deadly concoction with satisfaction.

Before her hand was halfway to the coconut shell, the sound of screams, galloping horses and utter confusion from the street outside came filtering through the swinging saloon doors. The town's official mountain man, Dusty Hole, a scruffy and ill-favored gentleman dressed in badly tanned furs, came flying into Stiletto Slim's. His mouth was open and his lips were moving, but what came out was a tangle of words that made no sense.

"C'mon out this consarned benzinery, all hands and the biscuit roller, and bring yore blue whistlers! Dagnabbit, there's a catawhompous curly wolf fixin' to crawl his hump all over town! Where's that great seizer what took over when Goodlynch gone up the flue? Tell'm to jump dust and quick!" he said in a breathless rush.

Belinda turned to Slim for a translation. The redhead shrugged. "Dusty says everybody in the bar should come out armed. Apparently, some cowboy with a bad reputation has ridden into town looking for trouble, and he want the sheriff to attend to the situation in a hurry. I reckon," she added hastily, as per the conventions of the Wild West.

"Ah. I never was any good at frontier gibberish." Belinda walked away from the bar in a slow swagger, her spurs jingling. Dusty Hole jumped up and down in excitement and impatience.

Outside, chaos prevailed. Windows were smashed by hurtling bodies. The customers at the Hung Lo Chinese Laundry and Public Bath ran out helter skelter, their faded longjohns covered in soap suds. Women snatched children to their skirts. A driverless carriage with foaming horses pelted down the center of Main Street, narrowly avoiding hitting a man on a ladder who was painting a sign, and crashed through a large mirror carried by two gentleman in overalls - naturally.

Bulldog Ponderosa ran from the bar, up three flights of stairs on the outside of the building, and hurled himself into the convenient cart of manure parked nearby. Naturally.

Thus far, not a shot had been fired. Belinda surveyed the situation with her customary coolness, and soon discovered the cause of all the panic.

At the far end of the street, a menacing figure stood silhouetted against the sun, his weapon at the ready.

Calmly, Belinda arranged her hat and gunbelt. Then she called, "I reckon you'd better skedaddle outta here, mister, or else you're gonna be wearin' a marble hat. I'm the new sheriff 'round these here parts, and you ain't welcome to stay."

The man's eyes narrowed. Rhinestones on his costume glittered with quiet defiance. He raised his weapon, resolution apparent in every line of his body...

And Belinda drew her guns so fast, her hands were a blur. Twelve shots rang out in stupefying succession, and when it was over, Belinda blew a wisp of gunsmoke away from the hot barrels with satisfaction.

Her opponent lay unmoving, quiet and still.

The official undertaker of Hangman's Gultch, Smilin' Joe, said in a disbelieving tone, "She done it! She done went and shot..."

The remaining citizens came out of hiding. As one, they pronounced in relief, "Rex Rawhide, the Singing Cowboy!"

There was much jubilation.

Rex sat up, his face screwed into a pout. He gathered the shattered remains of his precious guitar to his bosom. "You shot my guitar!" he said peevishly.

Belinda nodded. "Yep. I reckon you'd best go and terrorize some other town, Rawhide. Otherwise, I'm gonna fill you fulla lead."

"I can't believe you shot my guitar!" Rex repeated, looking as if he might burst into tears. "And I'm a good guy, too!"

"We don't want your kind around here!" shouted a very respectfully dressed matron. "Always orderin' milk in the saloon, raisin' your hat to ladies, treatin' your horse like your best friend and writin' your momma letters every week! What kind of example is that? And those songs! Those corny songs about the prarie you sing all the time! I just can't stand anymore!"

Rex gave her a hateful glare. He stood up, brushing the dust away from his gorgeously tailored trousers. "O give me land, lots of land, underneath a starry sky..." he began, a capalla.

Belinda, who by now had reloaded, fired a warning shot at his feet. "If I hear one word about tumblin' tumbleweeds, campfires, painted ponies, cayuses, little dogies or the lone pra-ree," she said darkly, "I'm gonna have no choice but to bitch slap you bloody and kick your pretentious behind so hard, you're gonna land smack dab in the middle of next Tuesday."

"Yeah! Get lost!" the citizens cried.

Thoroughly miffed, Rex turned on his heel and whistled. A palomino horse came up at a trot. Belinda glared.

"If I see any clever tricks outta that nag of yours, Rawhide, it's headed for the glue factory," she warned.

The horse was also miffed.

Instead of his usual showy leap and complicated mounting gynmastics, Rex simply swung up into the saddle like a normal person. Wheeling the palomino about, he doffed his hat as was his custom, ready for his signature farewell cry, but caught the sour expression on Belinda's face and decided discretion was the better part of showmanship.

In moments, Rex Rawhide, the Singing Cowboy, was just a fading memory.

Belinda was swamped by grateful citizens, each one eager to express their thanks for chasing away the singing cowboy who had plagued Hangman's Gultch ever since their troubles began.

"Aw, shucks," Belinda said. "T'weren't nothin', folks."

But to the people who made Hangman's Gultch their home, this mysterious woman from the West had become a true hero.

Unbeknownst to them, however, the testing and trials of Belinda Bonanza had only just begun.

While the citizens carried on with their impromptu celebration of thanksgiving, a stagecoach - thankfully with the driver in the seat this time - pulled up Main Street, stopping with a rattle of wheels and hoofbeats just outside the door of the Wayward Weary Wandering Wayfarer's Boarding House and Beanery, owned by Widow Hay.

A young woman exited the stagecoach, carrying a heavy carpetbag in a gloved hand. This newcomer was dressed from head to toe in gray -  ash-colored skirts that brushed the ground, charcoal jacket buttoned stranglingly tight to the neck, simple dove felt hat perched on her immaculately coiffed red-gold curls. She wore a pair of round spectacles clipped to the bridge of her nose, which could not conceal the emerald sparkle in her eyes. Her appearance was so prim and proper, so full of intestinal fortitude and a sort of grim perkiness, that she might have been the perfect candidate for either a prison wardress or the sort of nanny who dispenses cod liver oil with a firm but loving hand.

As she walked up the steps of the boarding house, Rolanda Hay came out to greet her. As usual, Rolanda wore a black dress whose billowing contours barely sufficed to cover her expansive bosom, and an enormous bustle that waggled from side to side in the most alarming fashion. The whole effect from behind was like watching twin zeppelins engaged in either an acrobatic dogfight or a mating dance.

"Welcome to Hangman's Gultch," Widow Hay cried in her fluting baritone voice. "I 'spect you'd be the new schoolmarm we all've been hearin' about."

"Why, yes." The young woman put her carpetbag down on the steps and shook the widow's hand, wincing at the firm grip. "I'm Miss Connie Lingus from Philadelphia."

"Mrs. Rolanda Hay," replied the widow, shaking vigorously. Connie's teeth rattled together like castanets. "C'mon inside and make yourself to home, Miz Lingus. I reckon you had a mighty rough ride all these miles. You weren't attacked by no Injuns, was you?"

"Er, no," Connie chattered, finally releasing herself from the beartrap of the Widow Hay's handshake by main force. The effort left her feeling shaken, not stirred. "No, I was not attacked by any Native Americans," she automatically corrected, wondering both the woman's lack of grammar and distinct disregard for political correctness.

"Good!" Rolanda exclaimed. Her faded blue eyes protruded even further from their sockets. "Ain't nothin' worse'n gettin' kidnapped by Injuns. 'Cept maybe not gettin' kidnapped by Injuns," she added wistfully, then grabbed her mighty bustle in both hands and made some adjustments. "Oh, well. I reckon I'm a mite too long in the tooth for such doin's, but in my younger days..."

Connie had a horrible feeling that an indelicate confession was about to be aired. She interrupted, "I beg your pardon, Mrs. Hay, but might I have a drink? Tea, perhaps?"

"Lord, yes! Where's my manners?" Rolanda cried. "I swan, when you gets me to talkin', I can't be stopped with a forty foot rope and a snubbin' post! C'mon inside and set a spell, Miz Lingus. I reckon you sure could use a cuppa cowjuice, iffen it ain't gone off yet. Iffen it has, I reckon we'll call it clabbered and drink it anyhow!"

Beginning to wonder if accepting the post of school mistress in Hangman's Gultch was a major mistake - contemplating years of correcting hideous grammatical errors in colloquial speech, not to mention being subjected to sterotypical attitudes held by the lesser educated, left her a bit dizzy - Connie reluctantly allowed the voluble Mrs. Hay to escort her into the boarding house.

Surrounded by a silent crowd, Belinda Bonanza stood with her back to the target, aiming a six-shooter over her shoulder.

No one dared to breathe.

Tension was so thick it could have been cut with a dull whittlin' knife.

Someone whimpered and was immediately gagged, hog-tied and thrown out of the building.

Belinda's strong index finger squeezed the trigger...

*BANG!*

The bullet zinged off the headdress of a cigar store wooden indian, clattered against a brass spittoon, zipped away at an acute trajectory, spanged off a cowboy's oversized belt buckle, and flew across the saloon to splatter through an apple being held up by the piano player.

The piano player fainted.

The crowd roared in approval.

As soon as the patrons finished congratulating Belinda on her deadly accuracy and called upon the bartender to provide another round, the buzz of conversation turned to more important matters - namely, the resurrection of an age-old argument that had not been resolved since Hangman's Gultch was founded. Inevitably, at any social gathering, some liquored-up citizen just had to raise the topic for further, and often violent, debate.

No deadlier subject existed in the Old West.

It was... the weather.

"I tell you," cried Harry Cox, "it's always been hotter'n the hinges of Hell in these here parts."

"Naw," interjected Old Pete, the retired gold miner, "t'ain't so. Been hotter'n a stolen tamale, I'd say."

"Well, I say you're both wrong!" shouted a third individual. "It's as hot as a two dollar pistol, and no mistake!"

The argument grew more heated by the moment. More voices joined in the fray. Consensus was not to be found. It looked as if the discussion was going to come to blows. Certainly, matters had reached the point where chairs were about to be hurled, bottles smashed over bystanders' heads, and punches thrown. Trigger fingers were getting itchy. Tempers were running high. Any minute, someone was going to be tossed through the window and brotherly love be hanged.

The situation looked bleak.

"Hotter'n a honeymoon hotel!"

"You're just a plum-danged idjit, Roy! It's hotter'n a lightning struck hog!"

Belinda listened. Her blue eyes were hooded. She cocked a hip against the bar and drank half a bottle of beer at one gulp.

People were waving fists. Hats had been removed. Sleeves were rolled above the elbows.

The girls who worked at Stiletto Slim's - who were known as 'entertainment hostesses' - took prudent refuge behind the bar.

The deadly, homicidally-inclined atmosphere of a family reunion was definitely in the air. Before blood could be spilled, Belinda drew her gun and fired it once into the ceiling.

When the echoing reverberation of the shot had finally died, and those closest to her had regained their hearing, she cleared her throat.

"I reckon it's hotter'n a goat's ass in a pepper patch," she drawled, giving each and every one of the now gaping citizens her most challenging glare.

Slowly, they began to nod. "Yep, I reckon she's right," said one man.

"Uh-huh," said another. "I've been to Mexico. Them peppers are mighty damned hot."

"Mighty damned hot," a third man agreed. "Comin' and goin'."

Reason prevailed, and Belinda was satisfied. In later years, the argument would continue, of course. What kind of goat, with what kind of dietary habits and restrictions, and how many bowel movements per day. The exact type of chili pepper, and the precise definition of a 'patch.' Scientific experimentation would become the watchword. Goverment grants would be sought. Senators would base their campaigns on the goat question.

Many a quadrapedal ruminant would come to rue the day he wandered into Hangman's Gultch.

Having done her duty and averted bloodshed for a second time that day, Belinda took her leave of Stiletto Slim's, needing a breath of fresh air.

As she exited the saloon, however, she ran smack dab into a soft, rustling form that went "Oof!" and fell sprawling onto the wooden walkway, then fell off. Two lean, attractive legs, clad in garters and stockings, pointed straight up from a tangled mess of long skirts and petticoats and ruffled drawers. Little else could be seen, and the legs waved wildly in a silent semaphore of distress.

Belinda stepped down and extended a hand. "Beg your pardon, ma'am," she said politely.

The fallen female squirmed around in the mud, attempting without much success to pull her dress down. Instead, she revealed an inordinate amount of succulent flesh as the thoroughly soaked cloth ripped and tore from her efforts. Belinda leaned down and addressed the furiously thrashing woman.

"Are you in need of assistance, ma'am?"

The woman spat out a mouthful of dirt. "Help me up!" she commanded. "You dexterity challenged oaf!"

With a grin, Belinda grabbed her hand and hauled the woman upright. "Belinda Bonanza, town sheriff, at your service, ma'am."

"Miz Connie Lingus from Philadelphia!" she replied, plucking her glasses off her nose and trying to scrub off as much mud as possible. Her eyes were sparkling pools of green fire, and Belinda found herself bemused.

"Well, Miz Lingus from Philadelphia," Belinda said, "looks like you done went and got yourself in a perishin' great mess."

"Yes," Connie said acidly, "it does appear that I have come a-cropper, no thanks to you." She tried to shake out her skirts but they were so sodden with filth that she only flapped like a wet hen. "You really should take care of where you're going. I wanted to take a constitutional and get to know the town's residents better, but this is ridiculous!"

"Yep. I flat-out agree. Can I escort you to the hotel? I reckon you could use a bath." Belinda extended a finger and scraped some ooze away from Connie's cheek.

"I'm staying at Widow Hay's establishment, thank you." The proper young lady ducked away from Belinda, slipped in the mud, and her feet flew out from under her. She made a desperate grab for Belinda's arm.

The result was inevitable.

Belinda found herself on top of Connie, hands cupping a pair of firm, ripe breasts. The other woman's legs were wrapped around her waist.

Belinda grinned like a jackass eating briars. "Well, I reckon we're gettin' to know each other real well, Miz Lingus. I just hope you ain't gonna try and get to make friends with everybody in Hangman's Gultch this way, 'cause that'll frighten the horses for sure!"

Connie spluttered in indignation, wiggling and bucking her hips. "Oh! I never!"

Belinda's grin widened until it threatened to take off the top of her head. "You sure 'bout that, Miz Lingus? I ain't rode many broncos livelier than you."

"Oh! Do get off me this instant!"

"Yes, ma'am." Her body still tingling from contact with the young lady, Belinda levered herself off and heaved Connie to her feet in one effortless tug.

As Connie stood there, gasping and bristling, Belinda doffed her hat. Miraculously, her white fringed suit was still pristine. Then again, she was the good guy.

"I do apologize for the inconvenience, Miz Lingus. Be seein' a bit less of you around... I hope." She made a pointed gesture to the rents in Connie's skirts and swaggered away. That there filly's cuter'n a sackful of puppies, even if she's dirtier'n a pig in a shit storm, Belinda thought. I wonder how come a high-falutin' lady from back East is a-wallowin' in the mud of Hangman's Gultch? I reckon I'd better nose around and see what's what.

Connie did not know what to think. She had been pushed into the mud, insulted, manhandled and subjected to the worst sort of barbaric behavior. Obviously, the Wild West was even more civilization challenged than she'd ever dreamed.

Nevertheless, she found she could not forget that devil-may-care smile. Or the weight of that electric, muscular yet curvacious female body snuggled so close to her own.

In a kind of daze, Connie Lingus drifted back to Widow Hay's boarding house, a tiny tendril of wickedness threading through her formerly prim and proper thoughts.

Meanwhile, back at Widow Hay's boarding house...
 
Connie Lingus was in quite a state. She had never experienced the uncivilized ways that were part and parcel of the untamed American west. She had never been subjected to such intimate contact with another human being. She had never given real consideration to the forbidden delights of another woman's body.

She had also never been cornered in her bath by a rattlesnake.

"Help!" she whispered, terrified of making a sound. "Help!" Connie shrank back into the bubbles, eyeing a pile of muddy petticoats near the tub. The heap was vibrating, and a buzzing, clattering but oddly melodious noise issued from beneath the garments. All potential naughtiness in Connie's mind was quickly discarded because of this herpitological threat.

Belinda Bonanza was moseying past the Widow Hay's boarding house when her trained ear caught the faint but distinct evidence of a Philadelphia-raised lady in distress. She had heard about Miz Lingus from the Mayor, whom she had visited briefly. In an oddly strained voice that issued from the mailbox slot in his front door, Hugh Janus had whispered the known particulars about Hangman Gultch's new schoolmarm. He had refused to let the sheriff indoors. There had been the sound of catalog pages frantically rustling. Belinda did not care to inquire further.

She made her way to a window on the south side of the building. Propping her elbows on the sill, she pushed her head past the lace net curtains and beheld Connie Lingus. The shapely woman was in a wooden tub that billowed with bubbles. Certain prominent bits of her anatomy were barely concealed by a skim of foam. These soft-yet-lusciously firm plumpies bobbed up and down in time with her breath, and the display made Belinda's internal temperature rise, until she felt as hot as a cathouse on nickel night (which had nothing to do with the weather - that question having been settled temporarily).

When she spotted Belinda, Connie shrieked delicately in surprise and attempted to scoop more bubbles towards her upper regions, but this left a southerly gap. The sheriff was afforded an excellent view through the now cleared water, which confirmed her suspicion that Miz Lingus was a natural redhead.

Oooh-whee! Belinda thought. That gal's as fine as cream gravy when she's unshucked! Too bad she's a bluestocking. I'd pay a month's salary to clamber into that filly's saddle and ride her hard all night. Then again, maybe she ain't all that opposed. I reckon I could sweet-talk her a bit and suss out the lay of the land.

"Well, don't that beat all!" Belinda said aloud in her friendliest manner. She was determined to try and repair that unfortunate first impression. She knew that open lust or a shiny new silver dollar just wasn't going to work - if she wanted a shot at winning the fair maiden, more subtle means would have to be employed. "If it ain't Miz Lingus! I heard ya callin' for help, ma'am. What seems to be the trouble?"

Connie did not know whether to be outraged or grateful. She decided that her modesty had not been entirely violated, and besides, she found the tall, dark and gorgeous sheriff very intriguing. Perhaps the woman is not as politeness challenged as I first thought. "There's a rattlesnake in my clothes," she murmured, pointing a finger at the petticoats.

Belinda cocked her head, listening. After a moment, she smiled. "That ain't no rattler, ma'am." The sheriff boosted herself into the room, while Connie looked on in horror.

"Oh, do be careful!" the schoolmarm cried, standing up. Concern for Belinda's safety momentarily overwhelmed her culturally ingrained imperative to avoid nudity. Soapsuds cascaded over curves. Water droplets shimmered in private places. A clutched sponge proved to be a poor shield against Belinda's suddenly engaged attention.

With her eyes locked on the Venus-like vision of Connie Lingus breaching the bathtub, Sheriff Bonanza leaned down and whisked away the petticoats...

Revealing a very limber, nearly double-jointed member of the local mariachi band, who had bent himself into a pretzel. He clutched his maracas and stared up at Belinda with a glazed look.

"Jorge, I thought you-all was s'posed to be practicing at Stiletto Slim's for the big dance tonight," Belinda said, loathe to peel her gaze away from Connie's exposed pultritude. "Ya ain't gonna earn no merit patches from the Boy Scout bandmaster iffen you don't quit yer peepin' ways."

Connie shrieked again and splashed back down into the bathtub, but not before hurling her sponge at the bug-eyed Jorge. The man swallowed hard and said, "Patches? Patches? We don't need no stinkin' patches!"

Belinda hauled him up by the scruff of his neck, and shook his limbs back into order before tossing him out of the window. "Skedaddle, you varmint! And quit that bad punnin', too, otherwise I'm a-gonna pepper yer sorry hide with a good dose of buckshot!"

Jorge fled, maracas rattling spastically.

"I reckon that solves the mystery," Belinda said as she turned back to the tub. Connie has slipped so far down into the water that only her gleaming green eyes could be seen above the foam line. "Can you breathe, ma'am? You're turnin' awful blue."

Connie surfaced and whooped in a breath of air. "That... that... ooh! I can hardly express my indignation!"

"In most of the west, ya gotta watch out for rattlers in yer blankets and scorpions in yer boots," Belinda commented calmly. "But 'round these here parts, ya gotta keep a weather eye out fer maraca players and revenooers."

"I shall take your advice under consideration," Connie replied with a shudder. "In the meantime, thank you for your intervention. I am most grateful. Now I should like to finish my bath, if you don't mind." It was a pointed invitation to leave which Belinda chose to ignore.

She hooked her thumbs into her gunbelt. "Would you care to come along to the dance tonight, Miz Lingus?" Belinda had heard about the monthly shindig from Slim Fandango. It seemed as good a chance as any to impress the schoolmarm with her manners and do a little wooing.

Connie's toes were turning into prunes, and she felt wrinkles in places that she didn't know existed. The water was also very cold and scummy. To get Sheriff Bonanza out of the room so that she could exit the tub in privacy, she would have agreed to almost anything. "All right. I accept. Now please...?"

"Yes, ma'am. I'll be here at eight o'clock sharp." Belinda tipped her hat politely and vanished through the window. Connie could hear her whistling as she strode away.

Oh dear, Connie thought as she reached for a towel. I have unwittingly put myself into a rather dangerous position. She had read novels. She had read penny thrillers. She knew the score.

The good guy's girlfriend nearly always gets into serious trouble before the end.

Meanwhile, back at the Monthly Hootenanny, Jamboree and Bingo Calvacade...

The mariachi band was playing up a storm. Dancers crowded the floor. Slim Fandango was holding court at the bar, where cocktails flowed in a steady stream. Hell-for-leather cowboys in leather chaps and dusty hats slurped up fruity concoctions, and fiercely debated the merits of Sex on the Beach, Slippery Nipples, Alien Secretions, Blow Jobs and Orgasm Martinis.

In a test of ultimate bravado, several of these tough, hell-raising men were engaged in an espresso drinking contest. Already, an area behind the bar was littered with convulsing, half-conscious bodies. Those who could not hold their caffeine were scorned. As strong coffee and lemon twists continued to be consumed at a hair-raising pace, members of the clergy were standing by to administer comfort and aid to the fallen.

The town's undertaker, Smilin' Joe, hovered discreetly in the background. There would probably be a need for his services before the night was over.

Bulldog Ponderosa had been dragooned into serving as the evening's bingo master. He nervously twirled the little cage, then extracted a ball. "B-10!" he shouted, and ducked as a bullet whizzed past, narrowly missing his left ear.

"I reckon you meant to say O-73!" shouted a rough range rider, blowing smoke from the barrel of his gun. A flourescent pen in his free hand was poised over the bingo card at his elbow.

"Yep!" Bulldog yelped with a shit-eating grin. "How silly of me... I sure did mean O-73!" He drew another ball, his hands shaking uncontrollably. "N-38!"

Another shot whistled past the town drunk. He squinted at the white ball. "Um... I-25?"

"Bingo!" the range rider called. He was immediately shot in the ass by an infuriated bandito.

As a no-holds-barred fight broke out, Bulldog took the opportunity to gulp down a hefty shot of his favorite alcoholic poison. "I purely hates competitive sports," he muttered sourly.

Belinda Bonanza moseyed into the saloon, accompanied by Connie Lingus. The sheriff was dressed in her usual immaculate white leathers, with the addition of a rhinestone gunbelt. Connie wore gray, but had conceded to the festivities by attaching her pince-nez to her bodice with a red ribbon.

"Oh, my... everyone seems very enthusiastic," Connie said, peering all around. Belinda took her arm and drew her gently out of the way of a flying chair.

"Yes, ma'am. I reckon it's rowdy enough to wake the dead up on Boot Hill." The sheriff eyed the whoopin', hollerin', felony-assult commitin' crowd, then kicked a drunk off his seat and offered it to Connie with a tip of her hat.

Connie's green eyes widened. "Surely not! Zombies, or I should more properly say, the respiratory challenged, are not a phenomenon to be greatly desired."

"Miz Lingus," Belinda said in genuine admiration, "I ain't never heard such high-falutin' stuff in my whole life. By gum, you use your tongue prettier'n a ten-dollar whore!"

Connie's eyebrows rose so abruptly, her bonnet was in danger of falling off. Before she could reply, however, Belinda sauntered away in search of sasparilla.

The schoolmarm removed her gloves and settled herself into the chair as primly as possible. Although cool and collected on the outside, internally she seethed with feelings and desires that she had never known before. Exposure to the Wild West (and a certain blue-eyed buckaroo in particular) was rapidly making Connie realize that there was more to life than the three R's.

I cannot comprehend why I should feel such affection towards a woman I hardly know, Connie thought. Nevertheless, Sheriff Bonanza is a handsome devil, isn't she? But brutish, unmannerly, and almost certainly a dangerous beast who has no regard for a lady's delicate sensibilities.

Before she could stop herself, the fantasy continued. Connie was not addicted to western romance thrillers for nothing. Why, she might at any moment just snatch me across her saddle, ride to a secret desert oasis where my cries for help would be unheard, and ravish me unmercifully. She would be cruel, and yet amazingly tender. She would kiss every inch of my body, touch me in my most secret places, transport me to the heights of ecstasy, and then whisper in my ear that most heart-binding phrase of all...

"Bottoms up!" Belinda cried cheerfully, slapping a mug of sasparilla on the table in front of Connie.

The flustered schoolmarm was startled. She hid it by smiling her thanks, and fanning her blazing face with her gloves.

"You're lookin' a mite peaked, ma'am," Belinda said, sliding into a chair next to Connie's. "Want to come out for a little ride with me in the moonlight? It's cooler outside of town."

"No!" Connie shouted in a strangled voice. Immediately, all noise in the saloon ceased, and every eye turned to regard the schoolmarm. She modulated her tone. "I mean, no, thank you, Sheriff Bonanza. I am fine."

The fighting, drinking, dancing and debating continued.

Belinda took Connie's hand in a surprisingly gentle grip. "Ya know, Miz Lingus, I'm a-gettin' mighty sweet on you."

Visions of drizzling honey, lashings of melted chocolate, and maraschino cherries made Connie dizzy.

"I... I... er, well, Sheriff..." Connie began.

Belinda leaned closer. "I'd sure like to get to know you better."

"Oh, dear..." Connie fanned herself faster. "I... I..."

Belinda's momentous underpinnings creaked as she drew a deep breath. It was time to try the Holy Grail of pick-up lines. "So, Miz Lingus... what's your sign?"

Connie blushed, turned pale, and her bosoms heaved alarmingly. Should I say Stop or Yield? her mind jibbered in indecision. Her lips glistened. Her mouth opened...

But her reply was drowned out by a fusillade of shots coming from outside the saloon.

Belinda scowled and fingered the butt of her gun.

Someone was going to pay for this interruption very dearly, indeed.

Meanwhile, back at the town square...

Belinda burst out of the saloon with vengeance burning in her heart. Moonbeams and torchlight made her a spectral figure, except for the deadly promise that sparkled in her eyes. "There'd better be a damned good reason for all that shootin', whoever you are," she yelled, "or else I'm gonna send you straight to the boneyard! Yer cuttin' in on my action, and I can't hold with that!"

Slim Fandango sashayed out into the street. The tall red-head was wearing approximately one inch of dental floss, thigh-high boots and a smear of glitter. "Are you figurin' on hookin' up with the schoolmarm?" she asked, lighting a cigar. "I'd have figured you more to be the knock-boots-thank-you-toots kinda gal."

"Yeah, well..." Belinda rubbed the side of her nose. "What can I say? This ain't no spaghetti western, and since we're bein' traditional and all, I just can't get into a serious relationship with the hooker-with-the-heart-of-gold stereotype."

"I understand, honey. Indeed I do. Probably work out for the best. It usually does in these cases."

"You'll be better off, too. Everybody knows that the bad woman has to redeem herself by sacrificing her life to save the hero during the climax."

"Mmm-hmmm. But not until she has a little fun, anyhow. Still, I reckon I'd rather be a harlot than one of them silly temperance battleaxes who has to run around breaking likker bottles and singin' Bringing in the Sheaves."

"Or the rancher's spoiled daughter who has a deep and abiding horse fetish."

"Well, bein' the proprietess of a saloon is a damned sight better than bein' a Calamity Jane pastiche!"

"It ain't exactly a picnic bein' the white-hatted, gunslinging, just enough of a bad boy to turn on the ladies hero, ya know!"

The two women studied the stars for a moment. The perfidy of writers was well known in the Old West.

Behind them, Connie cleared her throat. "Excuse me, but what about the shooting that happened a moment ago?"

"Sorry!" Belinda exclaimed. The discussion of hackneyed plot devices had distracted her momentarily. "Now where was I? Oh, yeah... hey, you out there! C'mon out into the light right now!"

Two men came forward. One of them was Chinese. He carried no weapon, and wore western-style clothing although his feet were bare. Curiously, he did not look so much Asian as he did sullen. "I am Sum Yung Gai," he said slowly. The effect was supposed to enhance his dignity, but instead made him seem a pretentious prat. "I have come to fight injustice and free this land from its oppressors."

"And I am Shame," said the other fellow. He was handsome and squeaky clean, but the butt of his pistol was well-worn. "I, too, have come to Hangman's Gultch to destroy evil doers, and take righteous vengeance upon those who would harm the innocent."

Belinda rolled her eyes. The townspeople let out a collective sigh. Slim smirked. Connie was puzzled.

"Why is it that you can't even go to the outhouse anymore without squattin' over some *hic* wayward do-gooder lookin' for a job?" Bulldog Ponderosa asked sarcastically. "We don't want yer kind around here! *hic*"

"Yeah!" cried Rolanda Hay, adjusting her mighty bustle with a jerk and knocking down three bystanders. "If it ain't them pestilential singin' cowboys, it's them Chinese kung-fu priests, or gunslingers with a mysterious past! By gum, I'd druther be ravished by wild red Injuns than put up with this faradoodle anymore!"

A sea of outraged faces appeared over the saloon doors. Mayor Hugh Janus pushed his way to the front. He appeared to be bone tired, and in serious need of Vitamin E, but when there was a crisis, this political animal rose courageously to the fray. "Get the lynch mob together! We'll teach these high principled bastards a lesson in hemp that they ain't gonna soon forget!"

"Yeah! A mob!" came the howled chorus.

"But... but... we're the good guys!" Shame protested.

"But you're also a dad-blamed annoyance!" the mob shouted back.

Sum Yung Gai and Shame stood frozen in horror. Belinda gave them a friendly smile. "You boys wanna light on outta here right quick, afore somebody fetches s rope."

Both men fled into the night, but not before the Shaolin priest turned around briefly to give the crowd an esoteric one-fingered salute.

A little boy, who had perhaps a touch more hero-worship than common sense, whined after them, "Shame! Shame! Come back, Shame!"

His mother gave him a right good thrashing and sent him to bed without any blueberry pie.

Belinda looked up at the sky. "What next?" she inquired wryly.

A tumbleweed tumbled past her toes. From a nearby hill, a masked stranger on a white horse contemplated the town of Hangman's Gultch. Silver bullets glinted in the moonlight. He shrugged.

"Screw it."

And rode away.

Meanwhile, back at Rowdy Roscoe Ringo's Desert Hide-Out...

Out in the high chaparrel, where coyotes and cacti are the only things to be found in the sandy wastes, Rowdy Roscoe Ringo and his Hole-in-the-Outhouse gang sat around a campfire.

More properly speaking, the gang sat around the blazing campfire having supper, while Roscoe, due to his uncontrollable buttock blasts, was consigned to a safe distance. No one, including the leader of this outlaw outfit, wanted a repeat of what had become known as "The Blue Flamer Incident."

These were rough, tough hombres - rapists, rustlers, robbers and roisterers to a man. They gnawed their vittles like beasts. A brief spat over the caviar nearly ended in a knifing. Blows were exchanged when the chuck wagon ran out of lobster newburg. What would happen when the cook brought forth the beef wellington was anybody's guess.

"Hey, Cookie! Gimme some more of that there consommé!" ordered the outlaw called Sticky Pete.

"Ain't you better save some room for dessert?" asked a compadre named Edgar the Vicious. "Tiramisu with raspberry coulis - yer favorite."

"Dammit, Edgar, you shouldn't outta talk with yer mouth open!" admonished Sticky Pete. "'And put yer napkin in yer lap, fer cryin' out loud!"

"Where's my fingerbowl?" A bearded, one-eyed brute hollered. "And who drunk up all my half-caff mocha latte?"

Roscoe stood up and gained everyone's attention with a loud gut-trumpeting. "Quit yer bitchin'!"

Everyone nervously watched the campfire. When the feared explosion didn't happen, they sighed in relief. The potential for danger was still there, however, and the outlaws remained vigilent.

"Now, then..." Roscoe tipped the remainder of his vanilla-hazelnut blend into the flames. "We're a-gonna ride into Hangman's Gultch and give them idjits a taste of old-fashioned, ass-whuppin' medicine. Major Bull wants 'em gone, and we-all is just the sort to push 'em off clear to Mizzoura!"

Edgar scratched his head. "Where's Mizzoura at, boss?"

"I heard of Colorady, Indiany, Californy and Arkansas," offered Sticky Pete. "But Mizzoura beats me plumb to death."

"I'm gonna beat you plumb half to death iffen ya don't stop bein' so pig ignert!" Roscoe exclaimed.

"But boss, iffen we doesn't know where Mizzoura is, how can we herd them town folk there?" This inquiry came from Dick Dingle, the Deadwood Destroyer.

"Shut up! Shut up! Shut up!" Roscoe glared at the assembled company and broke wind. The cook, who happened to be in range of this deadly fire, promptly collapsed. "Just do as I say, all right? All we gotta do is whomp Hangman's Gultch into itty bitty pieces, so don't make it too complicated."

"Right, boss," the outlaws obediently agreed.

"Right." Roscoe scratched his beard stubble in thought. "We'll split up," he decided. "Deadwood Dick, Sticky Pete, Red Hatchet and Girlie Jim, ya'll take the southside. The rest'll come in from the north. Shoot anythin' that moves, rape anythin' that ain't red hot, and steal anythin' that ain't nailed down. Tomorrow night, we'll burn Ben Dover's sheepranch."

Girlie Jim pouted. "But I just did my nails!"

"You can borrow my gloves," Red Hatchet offered sotto voce.

Girlie Jim fluttered his eyelashes and wished there was time to shave his legs before they rode out.

"I'm s'posed to have a facial tomorrow mornin'," complained Edgar the Vicious.

"Oooh, that reminds me," Ingrown Toenail Jones said. "I got a meetin' with my investment counselor!"

Their half-breed Indian attorney, Dances-with-Litigants, frowned. Of all the gang, he was the most feared next to their leader. Nobody was stupid enough to tangle with a Harvard law graduate.

"Have you all filled out your medical insurance vouchers?" he asked, flicking through an ever-present bundle of paperwork. "What about the release forms in case of on-the-job accident or injury? Oh, and since there is a question of Outlaw Union liability in the case of last week's cattle rustling, I need witness statements from everyone who was there when the alleged event took place."

"We was just havin' some fun," Red Hatchet snorted.

Dances-with-Litigants gave him a stern look. "It's all fun and games until someone loses an eye, and then sues for compensation plus damages."

Everyone scowled at the one-eyed bearded brute, who shrugged. "I got my rights," he said unashamedly, washing his hands in the fingerbowl he had found. "Can I get another latte before we go?"

Roscoe grimaced. "It's so hard finding good henchmen these days," he muttered, and blatted again.

Meanwhile, back at Stiletto Slim's...

The dance was in full swing. Bulldog Ponderosa had returned to bingo-calling duty, this time taking the precaution of wearing an upturned spittoon on his head like a helmet. One of the entertainment hostesses amused herself and a passle of admirers by directing thin streams of tobacco juice at it.

The mariachi band had gone home, replaced by a piano player and banjo strummer. A group of greenhorns had swathed themselves in white sheets and were chanting, "Toga! Toga! Toga!" The bartender had nearly run out of creme de menthe. Some sort of disaster - the kind involving mayhem, bodily harm, and running with scissors - hovered in the wings.

Belinda had Connie cornered in a secluded part of the saloon. The schoolmarm was delighted and terrified, all at the same time.

"Ya know, Miz Lingus, I gotta secret that I ain't never told nobody afore," Sheriff Bonanza said in a half-whisper.

Connie had had a great deal of sasparilla to drink, and was enjoying a fizzy-pop high. "I promise I won't tell anyone."

"Well, a few years ago, I saved this Injun... I mean, this Native American fellow's life. In gratitude, their chief let me shelter with the tribe that winter, and I earned a special name."

Connie giggled. The bubbles were definitely going to her head. "What's that?"

"They call me... Beaver Hunter." Belinda said.

"Oh." This is your brain... this is your brain on carbonation. Any questions? Connie blinked and giggled some more. "So, Beaver Hunter... what's my Indian name?"

Belinda shrugged. "I don't know yet. I gotta study on it some."

Connie blinked again, then suddenly ripped the bonnet off her head. Red-gold curls tumbled to her hips. "How about..." A wicked glitter stole into her eyes. "Tastes-Like-Chicken!"

The sheriff began to choke.

The schoolmarm let out a throaty chuckle and spun away. That sasparilla had definitely lowered her inhibitions. With any luck, it might just lift her skirts, too.

Before this scene could progress to its inevitable conclusion (privacy seeking, etching gazing in the babe lair, sweaty groping, tonsil tasting, tongue probing, slippery flesh nibbling - *baaa!* Shoo! Shoo! Get that sheep outta here! - erhem. You get the idea.), something happened that would change the lives of everyone in Hangman's Gultch forever.

Or at least, bring about the exciting climax to this story.

Meanwhile, back at the Hoof-Hearted Ranch... (just say it really fast! G'wan, you know you want to!)

Major Fuller Bull leered at the dusky Indian princess, who writhed against her bonds in the oh-so-helpless fashion guaranteed to give raging priapism to a skeleton.

"So, my little sweetmeat," the Major said suavely. "I've had you kidnapped and brought here to satisfy my lustful cravings, those sins of the flesh which torment my every waking moment." He paused and considered. "Well, to be truthful, not quite my every waking moment. Mostly, I get off on making money, oppressing the poor and helpless, and kicking men when they're down. In your case, though, I'm making an exception. Prepare to be ravished!"

The maiden gasped. Her fringed buckskin dress was torn apart at the shoulder, revealing twin globes of pert, strawberry-tipped, quivering flesh. Her long, lean legs rubbed together as she twisted against the ropes that were wrapped around her wrists, and held her fastened to a log pole in the center of the room.

"How dare you!" she spat. Her black, almond-shaped eyes were full of fire. "My father will kill you for this!"

"No, he won't." Major Bull advanced upon his victim. "We're all alone, my little hellcat." He grasped the struggling maiden by her arms and thrust himself against her. She turned her face away in disgust. "B'sides, nobody gives a hoot about what happens to redskins. I done stole most of your daddy's land, and now I'm gonna steal his little gal. There ain't nobody who can help you now!"

Suddenly, she stopped moving and began to laugh.

Major Bull pulled away. "What's so funny?" he complained with a pout. "I ain't even took my britches off yet!"

Standing at the door of the Major's rumpus room were a tall Native American man, and a petite Caucasian woman with a face like a hatchet.

"Oh my dear Lord God in Heaven," Major Bull breathed.

"Yes, Fuller, it's me," the woman declared. "Your long-lost wife, Misery!"

The bold lover deflated. His moustache drooped. His shoulders slumped. Major Bull scuffed his toe into the floorboards like a whipped schoolboy. "Yes, dear. Nice to see you again. I thought you'd been eaten by bears."

"Hah!" Misery strode to her husband with grim satisfaction. "It's just like you, isn't it, to abandon me in the wilderness just because some tiny bear started nibbling on the hem of my dress. You're such a coward, Fuller."

"Yes, dear."

The woman's attitude made it perfectly clear who was the boss of this household. She eyed the maiden briskly and said to her Native American companion, "Is this your daughter, Superchief?"

The Chief nodded. "It is. She is called Orange Blossom Special."

"I see you're up to your old tricks again, eh?" Misery turned to address her husband. "Fuller, release Miss Special at once!"

"Yes, dear." The Major did as he was bid. Orange Blossom Special promptly slapped his face and went to her father.

Superchief gave his offspring a hug. "Your brothers - Atcheson, Topeka and Santa Fe - told me that you had been kidnapped. I found Mrs. Bull on the road and guided her here. We had a nice chat. She is a very fierce lady, but also fair minded, so I think our troubles with Major Bull are finished. He will not be allowed to snatch our land anymore."

"Cool!" the dusky maiden said.

"To our tribe, she will be known as Pecking Hen."

Orange Blossom Special nodded happily. "And Fuller Bull will be known as Yellow-Belly-with-Tiny-Pecker!"

Misery prodded her husband with a very sharp elbow. "Thank the Native American gentleman, Fuller!"

"Yes, dear. Thank you, Superchief." Major Bull was completely cowed. Misery had had him under her hectoring thumb since five minutes into their honeymoon. He simply did not have the courage to defy her.

"Are you hatching any more evil schemes, Fuller?" Misery asked. By way of explanation, she said to Superchief, "I know him all too well, you see. He's a dilettante. One week, he's crazy for world domination. The next, it's illegally cornering the pork futures market, or creating overly elaborate death devices for super spies, etc. I never know what's going to strike his fancy next."

With three pairs of implacable eyes glaring at him, Major Bull was compelled to confess all. When he had finished, Superchief shook his head. "I must warn my friend, Beaver Hunter. She is the new sheriff of Hangman's Gulch."

Orange Blossom Special agreed. "You go to Hangman's Gulch, father. I will gather the warriors of the tribe. It is time we joined forces to put down Rowdy Roscoe Ringo for good!"

"The hunting just hasn't been the same since Roscoe started camping in the desert," Superchief confided to Misery.

"Why is that, exactly?"

Superchief scratched his head. Finally, he said, "Perhaps if I tell you that we call him Almighty Wind - or sometimes, when he has eaten many beans, Cloud that Poisons Loudly?"

It took a moment, but Misery got the point. Her nose wrinkled. "I see. What Mr. Ringo needs is a good dose of castor oil and an equally good comeuppance. Well, I'll take care of Fuller. You go warn that sheriff!"

The Native Americans left, each intent upon his or her task.

Misery eyed her husband up and down. "Ravishing dusky maidens the minute my back is turned! Oh, Fuller... how could you!"

"I'm sorry, dear."

"No, I really mean it. How could you? We both know your personal equipment can barely be viewed with one of those new fangled microscopes! You've been a naughty, naughty boy."

Fuller blushed, his humiliation complete... or so he thought. "Yes, dear."

Misery's voice took on a sort of horrible purr. "And we know what happens to naughty boys, don't we?"

"Yes, dear." Fuller shuddered.

"Well, what are you waiting for? March upstairs and peel off those longjohns, mister! Momma's home and it's time for Mr. and Mrs. Spank to pay a short, sharp trip to Bottom-Land!"

Fuller sighed. "Yes, dear."

The fun was over... at least until he could arrange another hunting trip.

Meanwhile, back in Hangman's Gulch...

Belinda did not know how to deal with a suddenly aggressive Philadelphia schoolmarm.

"Um, maybe we oughtta slow this here ride down a mite," she said, as Connie hung around her neck and sucked her earlobe with the energy of a calf at the udder.

"Nonsense!" Connie whispered. "But we could take it someplace less privacy challenged."

Belinda was caught beween the bullhorns of a dilemma. One the one hand, she could hardly control her desire to make wild, passionate love to Miz Lingus. She had the feeling that she wanted to spend the rest of her life playing connect-the-freckles all over the schoolmarm's body. But she had too much integrity to take advantage of a sasparilla-drunk woman - although it was still a mystery how an alcohol-free beverage had such an intoxicating effect.

"Maybe we'd better talk on this come morning," Belinda stammered. The wetness of Connie's tongue was making her stomach feel as if she had swallowed a herd of Angus butterflies.

"No time like the present," Connie answered with a giggle. She felt free for the first time in her life, and she damned well didn't intend to waste this new-found independence by talking.

Belinda was saved by the appearance of Dusty Hole, the town's mountain man. He jumped up and down in excitement. "Put down the oh-be-joyful! Ya'll best quit hangin' fire and light a shuck for Ol' Virginny, 'cause Ringo's on the shoot and he ain't playin' to the galley! Shin out right pert quick! I reckon somebody done woke up the wrong passenger, and them outlaws ain't beatin' the devil 'round the stump no more!"

Belinda raised her brows and sought a translation from Slim Fandango.

The proprietess was troubled. "He says that we'd better stop drinking and skedaddle on outta town, because Rowdy Roscoe Ringo is on his way here now, and he's deadly serious about wrecking Hangman's Gulch."

Connie was abruptly sobered. "Oh! I've read about him. He's the baddest outlaw in the West!"

"Naw, that'd be Blackhearted Bob Blackbeard. I heard he kilt his own momma," said a helpful bystander.

"I reckon you're wrong, Deke," said another. "The baddest outlaw in the West is Irritation Smith, on accounta he done went and kilt his own dawg."

"Ya'll are both wrong," opined a third. "Lead Enema Johnson is the baddest outlaw in the West, 'cause he kilt his own hoss."

"Ooooh!" Everyone shivered in horror.

Belinda slapped her holster. "This'll be the doin' of Major Fuller Bull, I 'spect."

"Huh?" The crowd's bewilderment was clear. Slim raised an eyebrow. "How do you know that, Sheriff?"

Belinda smiled. "I read the beta version."

"Ahhhh!"

"All right." Belinda was all business. "We got two choices, here. We can head for the hills and let Major Bull and his boys win, or we can defend our town. What's it gonna be?"

The swinging doors of the saloon were jammed by the patrons' stampede.

Belinda drew her gun and fired a shot into the ceiling. The courageous citizens of Hangman's Gulch turned back with a collective sigh.

"We've defeated a singing cowboy, a Shaolin priest and a do-gooder avenger," the sheriff reminded them. "After all that, why are we afraid of a little outlaw gang?"

"We could form a lynch mob," someone offered tentatively.

"Naw, that only works iffen ya gots the bad guys in the hoosegow already," Deke objected.

"I'm sure we'll figure out something," Belinda said firmly, dragging the topic back on track by the scruff of its neck. "Mayor Janus, you round up all the able-bodied men."

About three-quarters of the male population of the town began to moan and clutch various anatomical parts. A few coughed feebly. A scornful look from Sheriff Bonanza put an end to their shenanagins.

She continued, "Miz Lingus, you take the children to the schoolhouse. The rest of the women can hole up at the Widow Hay's Boarding House and Beanery."

Orders had been given. The citizens obeyed.

Connie gathered the children and took them to the half-completed schoolhouse. Huddled in the dark, trying to calm the snot-nosed, whiny yard apes with a soft lullaby, she could not help the cold clenching of her heart.

What would she do if anything happened to Belinda?

Now that the sasparilla had fizzed out of her system and her mind was clear again, she knew exactly what she was going to do if Belinda survived this dangerous challenge.

Unfortunately, since this is a PG-13 rated parody, she kept those plans to herself.

Meanwhile, back at the town square...

Dusty Hole, the duly elected lookout, called out from his perch, high atop the Methodist Church: "Well, I'll be chawed up! Thar's a passle o' consarned featherheaders a-comin' 'crost the Big Open to see the elephant! I reckon they's in cahoots with the curly wolf himself!"

Belinda raised her brows at Mayor Janus, who shrugged. "I flunked frontier gibberish in school, so don't look at me."

Slim Fandango provided the necessary translation. "Dusty says that he sees a mess of Injuns headed towards town, and he thinks they might have joined forces with Rowdy Roscoe and his boys."

"Naw," Belinda replied, peering out over the territory. Amazingly, although it had been night less than ten minutes ago, it was now very close to high noon. "Looks more like my old friend, Superchief. Yep, he's got Atcheson, Topeka and Santa Fe with him. And it seems he's brung along one of his chums from furrin' parts - tribal fellow by the name of Flying Scotsman."

"I reckon they's on the warpath!" cried Rolanda Hay. "Wimmen and sorta-kinda wimmen first!"

"Injuns on the warpath!" shouted Bulldog Ponderosa. "We'd *hic* better circle the wagons!"

"We ain't got no wagons, you dadgummed lush!" Mayor Janus replied scornfully. "B'sides, whenever them Injuns is on the warpath, all they want is scalps and firewater and white women!"

"Yippee!" cried Rolanda Hay.

"You mean they want to steal our whiskey?" For the first time in his life, Bulldog was shocked almost sober.

"Will you-all cut the cackle?" Belinda said. "I said these here Native Americans is my friends. Ain't nobody gonna get scalped or nothin' else today, 'cept maybe Roscoe Ringo and his gang."

The Widow Hay did not seem happy. "There ain't gonna be no rape and rapine?"

"Nope."

"Well, don't that beat all." Rolanda bustled away, clearly miffed.

"Is there gonna be a shootout?" Despite the sheriff's reassurances, Bulldog clutched his moonshine bottle in a white-knuckled grip.

"Yep, I reckon so," came the steely reply.

"Oh, shit." It was not so much an exclamation as an explanation. Bulldog immediately sought the nearest manure cart and hurled himself inside.

Superchief, riding at the head of his warriors, trotted up to Belinda. "How's it hanging, Beaver Hunter?"

"Not too bad," Belinda replied. "So ya'll come to help us out against Roscoe, huh?"

"You bet." Superchief nodded. "We're aiming to kick paleface his ass... preferably with a ten-foot pole."

"Yeah, you don't wanna get too close to that polecat." Belinda regarded another rider, who wore a colorful kilt, sporran and a tam-o'-shanter with a red bobble on top. "Flying Scotsman, are you fightin' today?"

"Och, aye, lassie," replied Scotsman. "I'm fixin' ta put a wee bit o' mashie inter yon pig-poker's ghoolies!" he exclaimed, waving a golf club over his head.

Slim Fandango edged over to Belinda. "What did he say? I don't understand the dialect."

Belinda whispered a translation into her ear. Slim shuddered. "Ooh!"

The sheriff adjusted her gunbelt. "All right. I reckon Roscoe's gonna split his forces in half, and they'll be comin' from the south and north sides of town. Superchief, you and your men take the south. We'll take the north. Any questions?"

"Yeah," said Deke, who was unexpectedly given more than a brief cameo in this tale. "What does yer brain look like on drugs?"

Belinda drew her gun, cocked it and pointed it at Deke's head. She hated it when comic cameos got role upgrades for mere effect. "You wanna find out, pardner?"

"Nope." Deke sidled away and vanished into the mists of story-telling probability.

Belinda sighed. It could have been worse.

Little did she know.

Meanwhile, back at the train depot...

The 11:50 from Beltnotch, Wyoming pulled up into the Hangman's Gulch depot with a squeal of brakes and a cloud of steam. A single ominous figure stepped down from the passenger car. He was a tall, hard-bitten, raw-boned man with fashionable beard stubble and an all-black ensemble. A long duster swirled around his ankles. He carried no luggage, save for the guns strapped around his waist. There was an onyx skull and crossbones on the front of his hat.

He was the baddest, cruelest, most vicious and heartless gunslinger in the Old West.

His name was Marilyn - which goes a long way towards explaining the bottomless pit of his ice-cold soul - and had once been a pastry chef in the roughest, toughest bakery in legendary Tombstone. Some folks called him Atilla the Bun...

And then they got shot, for Marilyn hated bad puns.

So he was known throughout the West as Indigestion Smith, Bad News Bart, the Deadeye Drifter, or "Hey, don't call that guy Atilla the Bun 'cause he hates that, *bang* argh argh argh."

In Hangman's Gulch, he would be go by the name of Deadeye Drifter, so there would not be any gratituous slo-mo violence with optional squirting blood and funny facial expressions.

He had come to kill Sheriff Bonanza.

He had not been hired as an assassin. He had no issues to thrash out. There was no question of revenge, monetary gain or even personal satisfaction. Marilyn, the Deadeye Drifter, had come to Hangman's Gulch for one purpose only.

He was a bad guy. Belinda Bonanza was a hero. You figure it out.

Deadeye took out a pocket watch and glanced at it. It was nearly high noon. According to the Fast Draw Gunslinger's Union rules, he had to call the sheriff out before the clock struck twelve. After that, it was coffee break, pistol polishing and practicing his jaw clenching in a mirror. Since he had such a busy day before him, Deadeye wasted no more time.

After slitting his eyes in the customary manner, and standing silhouetted against boiling clouds of steam for a good foreshadowing effect, the Deadeye Drifter made his slow, spurs-jingling way into the heart of Hangman's Gulch.

Destiny rode perched upon his broad, night-shaded shoulders.

Meanwhile, back at the town square...

The folks were celebrating their victory against Rowdy Roscoe Ringo and his Hole-in-the-Outhouse gang. All of the outlaws were in the hoosegow, awaiting trial and sentencing. It had been a miraculously clean sweep, directed with military precision and tactics worthy of a Napoleon. Unbelievable feats of bravery, and unspeakable acts of courage, had been committed on the battlefield. Excepting only a hangnail, and the sad loss of Widow Hay's bustle to a stray bullet, there were no injuries or loss of life. Roscoe and his band had fought like disgruntled Pony Express riders, and unthinking savagery had availed them not. Hangman's Gulch would never forget this day.

Too bad you missed it.

Connie Lingus was ecstatic on two counts. First, she had finally gotten away from the obnoxious children, some of whom had rather dubious outhouse training. And secondly, her beloved sheriff was unharmed.

"Oh! I must tell you something this moment," she said to Belinda, after prying her away from all the well-wishers, hand shakers and celebrants. There was a soft sparkle in her emerald eyes.

"And what's that, ma'am?" Belinda took off her hat, and ran fingers through the midnight glory of her hair. The mariachi band muted their horn section and began to play a soft, lounge version of Guantanamera.

"Well, you see... I haven't always been a schoolmarm. No, I was born the daughter of a railroad baron. I began my career as a librarian in San Francisco, but found I could make more money as a gold-digging can-can dancer. But my claim got jumped three times, so I became an ace rodeo rider, a newspaper editor who took on corruption single-handed, a cheating riverboat gambler, and an eastern spinster who answered an ad in the newspaper and came out West to be married to a cowboy I'd never met."

Belinda was stunned. This was almost more cliches than she could handle. "What happened?"

Connie looked demure. "It didn't work out. He ran off with a Belle Star-type bandit queen before I got there. So I decided to come to Hangman's Gulch and seek my destiny."

Belinda's eyebrows were cranked so high, they were in danger of sliding off her skull. "I see. And this destiny is...?"

"Why, to be with you, of course!" Connie wound her arm around the sheriff's waist and snuggled close. "Isn't it obvious? The prim and proper schoolmarm tames the heart of the noble white-hatted hero... it's a classic!"

This scenario sounded very familiar to Sheriff Bonanza. Her heart began to beat faster. "Yep, you've tamed me all right, I reckon. And it's the usual thing that, in return, I use my superior knowledge of sexual matters to instruct you into the ways of the flesh, thus transformin' you into a wildly passionate, insatiable woman who just can't get enough of that lovey-dovey stuff."

"Yes. That's the deal."

Belinda's knees were weak. She grasped the back of Connie's head and lowered her mouth upon those sweet, luscious lips that she had been longing to kiss since... since...

The oscular gymnastics were interrupted by someone clearing their throat nearby.

Belinda broke the clinch and turned around, seriously annoyed. There was a black-clad man standing there. "Who the hell are you?" she inquired rudely.

"Some call me the Deadeye Drifter," the stranger said. "Others call me names that don't bear repeatin'. But to you, Sheriff Bonanza, I am Death."

At this moment, Slim Fandango peered around the corner. She had been listening in on the relationship development, and figured she hadn't been getting enough air-time recently. "I thought he rode a pale horse," she said.

"What?" Deadeye was puzzled.

"Oh, you know! Death rides a pale horse, and then there's War, Pestilence, Famine... I heard tell that Hell rides with 'em, too. Iffen you ain't got no pale horse, I reckon you ain't really Death." The saloon proprietess lit an enormous cigar and began to manipulate it suggestively between two fingers.

"Slim, I believe this here gunslingin' fellow is a-wantin' to call me out," Belinda said. "The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse don't figgur into the matter a'tall."

Connie was horrified. "Call you out? But I thought the conflict had been resolved. This is the denoument, not the climax, for cryin' out loud!"

"We ain't had no climaxin' yet," Belinda replied with a wink, "but gimme five minutes, Miz Lingus, and I'm gonna see about that 'terectly."

Deadeye shrugged. "Whatever. It's nearly high noon, sheriff. Are you gonna meet me on the street and slap leather, or are you a-gonna run like a yellow bellied varmint?"

"I got some leather you can slap, cowboy," Slim smirked. She had changed into an outfit that was composed of one piece of tinsel, two itty bitty gold stars, and an extra-long ostrich feather.

"Oh, enough with the double entendres!" Deadeye complained. "I'm here on bidness, not pleasure!"

"Your pleasure is my business," Slim purred. Belinda grabbed her by the arm.

"You ain't gotta redeem yourself by gettin' shot on my behalf," the sheriff ordered. "We done already established that particular plot device ain't necessary. Now scoot on along and tell everybody that there's fixin' to be a shoot-out."

Church bells began to toll.

It was high noon.

Connie bit her lip and moaned. She prayed that this wouldn't turn out to be a tragic spaghetti western where everybody dies.

She also prayed that her past wouldn't catch up with her.

Meanwhile, back on Main Street...

Belinda stood firmly in the dusty road. The fringes of her white leather outfit fluttered in the cactus-scented breeze. She was an avenging angel come to guard her people against infamy and terrorism, or at least against their own stupidity.

Marilyn, the Deadeye Drifter, was facing the sheriff. His garments were blacker than the inside of a cow at midnight, and he looked meaner than a wolverine with hemorrhoids on a ten-penny nail diet. He flexed his fingers and sneered. The church clock continued to chime.

Witnesses were watching from behind the safety of the storefronts that lined Main Street. Connie had elected to stand alone, just in front of the saloon, where she could keep an eye on the sheriff that she loved.

Silence descended. The moment was heavily pregnant with suspense, and seemed about to give birth to something momentous.

In a blur, both combatants drew their guns. The quiet was shattered by the barking of bullets. Smoke whirled to the heavens. Everyone held their breath.

When the smoke cleared, Belinda Bonanza lay prone, arms and legs outflung like those of a broken doll.

Connie screamed. Snatching up a conveniently placed parasol, she rushed out into the street and began to beat Deadeye like a rented mule. "You bastard! You've killed her! You're working for Sam Peckinpah, aren't you? Admit it!"

Belinda slowly rose to her feet. "Quit hittin' that gunslinger, darlin'. I ain't dead yet."

Connie dropped the now dented umbrella and ran to Belinda's side. "I thought he'd done you in!"

"Naw." The sheriff tinked a fingernail off the tin star on her chest - a tin star that had a spent bullet sticking out of the center. "This here badge done saved my life."

Deadeye wasn't through yet. Denied of his victory by the vagaries of fate (or the turgid imagination of a dime novelist), he shot again and again, keening with frustration. Connie threw herself in front of Belinda. Her eyes took on a glazed look. Her mouth opened slightly, and her head fell to one side.

The sheriff supported her would-be lover's slumping body. She fell to her knees, cradling Connie's limp form in her arms. "Noooo!" she cried. "It can't be!"

The Deadeye Drifter let out a cruel laugh. "Ha! Iffen I can't kill you, sheriff, then I done gone and kilt yer girlfriend!"

"Nooooo!"

Suddenly, Connie took a breath, and then another. "Oh, my," she said, "that certainly smarted like the dickens."

Belinda could scarcely believe it. "Are you all right, darlin'?"

"Yes, it seems the bullets are lodged in my corset," Connie answered. "I think that I've escaped the cowboy's girlfriend's curse for now, dearest. If I'm not dead by the last chapter, then we'll live happily ever after."

Belinda helped Connie to her feet, then turned to regard Deadeye with a jaundiced expression. "I ain't got no time to deal with you as you deserve, Marilyn. I'm gonna wrap this thing up in an all-fired hurry, 'cause I got me a date with the missus in the hayloft above Sweetwater Stables. I reckon you'd best beat feet, otherwise I'm likely to shoot you plumb dead where you stand, just so's we can get to The End."

Deadeye fled. He knew the chances of surviving a second attack now were nil. Besides, he had some jaw clenching exercises he had to take care of. As he ran away, someone yelled after him, "Atilla the Bun!" He did not shoot the wise-ass this time. He was too demoralized by how the writer had manipulated him into the most illogical gun battle since the I'm OK, You're OK Corral.

Belinda took Connie into her arms with a loving smile. The sun was setting behind them, silhouetting these two lovers in a warm, crimson glow.

"My heart is yours," Connie said.

"And my horse is yours," Belinda replied, wanting to give her beloved the most valuable possession she owned.

"Shall we ride off into the sunset together, my big stwong hunky-wunky?"

"Of course, my iddle-biddle pootie-lumpkins."

This much baby-talk was too much to take. The citizens of Hangman's Gulch nearly wished the bad guys would return, just so they wouldn't have to endure the saccharine sweetness of two lovebirds about to embark on a honeymoon.

As the schoolmarm and the sheriff rode away together, everyone waved good-bye, including Deke.

Until Deke got shot by an enraged beta reader, who couldn't understand why he kept popping up in the story, anyway.

And everybody lived happily ever after, even Ben Dover and his sheep.

All except the little boy who still pined after Shame. Eventually, he was lynched, much to the satisfaction of all concerned.

No one ever saw a Shaolin priest again.

The Old West settled down at last to a well deserved nap.

And that's the end, pardner.

<~~~~~ Skeedaddle on back to the Library