Trouble in Dodge




 Business in Dodge had slowed.
The gun toting outlaws disappeared from town.
Killing stopped.
Drunken brawls no longer caused damage to person, or property.
The doctor sat on an old rocking chair on his front veranda his booted feet propped on the railing. Beside him on the floor he'd placed his black doctor's bag.
Everywhere was quiet.
No horses hitched outside the booze houses.
Dogs hid beneath the verandas in the shade.
Edgy.
Sheriff Coleman walked along the street his spurs jiggled with every step.
His gun hand rested on his hip above his holster ready to fire in the event of trouble.
“Who are you...” Bomber Claymore spoke, from where he stood in the shadow of his funeral business.
Sheriff Coleman grabbed his gun from his holster with the speed of light his finger on the trigger ready to fire.
He spun on his heels.
The gun pointed at the chest of Bomber Claymore before he quickly stepped to the side out of range of the barrel.
“What the hell's wrong with you Sheriff.”
“Sorry, Bomber.” He replaced the revolver in the holster. “All this silence is stressing me. Action I can handle. Where have all the troublemakers gone?”
“You haven't heard.”
“Heard what.”
“Trouble is brewing.”
“Where. From which direction.”
“Old man Johnstone's family are having a barbecue for his eightieth birthday. The party is being held out near Tin Pan Creek.”
“What has...” The roar of motor bikes cut off his question.
“Sounds like the family are arriving.” Claymore stood from his leaning position on the door jam. “Think I might mosey on down to the creek.”
“Were you invited?”
“No. Going on down to check I have the right size stock on hand. I don't want to have a rush job to make a coffin if trouble breaks out.”
Sheriff Coleman spluttered in disbelief.
“Things must be bad if you're going chasing business.”
“I used to be a boys scout,”
“Since when. I didn't know they existed.”
“I'll leave you to hold down the fort, Sheriff. I'm going to scout for future trouble.” Claymore closed the door to his business to set off toward the creek.
Claymore kept a short distance away from the barbecue site. He leaned against a tree measuring the bodies with his sight. By his estimation he'd have to prepare a few larger coffins.
“Who is the penguin,” asked a cousin, talking to another cousin who cooked meat at the barbecue fire.
Jasper looked away from the meat to look in the direction his cousin faced. “Bomber Claymore. Always dressed ready to service his next customer. Business must be slow.”
“No weddings.”
“No funerals.”
“Gramps Johnstone isn't sick, is he.”
He'll see all of us out,” said Jasper, before returning his attention to the steaks.
Dark Cloud with his band of followers stationed on the ridge over looking the barbecue area were sculling fire-water.
None of them were in a sociable mood.
Each had his reason for causing trouble.
The fire-water built their anger to fury.
Downing the last of their courage in a bottle, the braves staggered to their horses. After a couple of attempts to stay seated on the bare back the group charged down the ridge headed for the river.
The pounding of the hooves alerted the family to impending doom.
War cries reached their ears.
People scattered not wanting to be trampled by horses.
Braves grabbed bottles of wine from the tables on their pass through.
Furious bike riders raced for their machines.
Engines roared.
Bedlam reigned.
People dived not wanting to be run down by the gunned bikes racing in pursuit of the disappearing Indians.
The chase headed toward Dodge City.
Residents peeped from behind curtained windows.
The dogs cringed moving further beneath the veranda.
The horses raced through the main street.
Motor bikes roared past moments later.
The Indians headed from the road to travel through the bush.
Some bike riders tried to follow to their own peril.
Wheels crashed into unseen socks, logs, and holes, to send the riders flying off the bike to land on the ground.
Other bikers turned to charge back through town.
The Indians swayed on the back of the horse on their second rampage through the barbecue area.
Steaks forgotten became cremated.
Indians passed the bikers headed to the creek.
Arms swung through the air to knock the bikers off covering them with broken glass, and wine.
The ones who survived the barrage skidded their bikes around the go back toward town.
The sheriff, with help, placed a barricade of wagons, and barrels, across the street to stop the chase.
The Indian charged at the barrier.
Horses rose in the air to leap over where there was space.
The bikers didn't have a chance.
Tyres skidded in the gravel.
Bike and rider crashed into the wagons.
The doctor put his boots to the floor.
Picked up his doctor's bag to stroll to where the victims lay.
Sheriff Coleman cuffed those who weren't injured, bad, to have someone take them to the jail.
The Indian scooted up the ridge to escape from the law.
Once the clean up was finished Sheriff Coleman went down to the river to talk to the families.
The family were laughing.
Partying.
Telling their version of the action.
“Sorry, your party went haywire, Grandpa Johnstone,” said Sheriff Coleman.

“No worries. This is the most exciting birthday I've ever had. The entertainment was great.”

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