Sherriff Tom Biggby snapped his head away from his news paper. Still holding his paper up, feet still up on his desk, he turned to his deputy.

“Was that a gunshot? I’m pretty sure I heard a gunshot…”

Deputy Murphey turned from the window.

“Yessir, a gunshot. Sounded like it came from Baker’s Livery.”

Sherriff Biggby stood. While a stout man, the sheriff was less than average height. Extending his arm above his head to retrieve his gunbelt, Biggby snapped, “Murphey, I want this got-damned hook lowered this afternoon, do you understand me?”

Both quickly rushed to the street. Listening intently, they heard raised voices in the distance, shouting, from the north.

Sherriff turned to the deputy.

“I’ll take the bike, you go get the wagon!”

Mounting a large, V-Twin Indian, the sheriff shoved the kickstarter down, over and over. Reaching down he fiddled with the choke. Kick, kick, kick. Dismounting he observed the engine. In the distance, shouting. The sheriff inspected spark plug wires, fuel lines. The deputy came clamoring up with horse and wagon.

“You go on, Murphey! I’ll catch up!”

Deputy Murphey whooped and snapped the reins motivating the red mare, Jill, to move on down the street with a clamber of hooves on pavement.

The sheriff inspected the gas tank, once with eyeball, then a sniff. He mounted again. Kick, kick, kick. Choke on, kick, kick, kick, choke off, kick, kick, and with an enormous roar the motorcycle came alive.

With an painfully loud ruckus Sheriff Biggby proceeded to the scene.

Arriving at the scene he found Deputy Murphey tending an older gentleman with what appeared to be a gunshot wound to the hand. On the ground, a young man lay unconscious, parts of a gun strewn about his feet. As he approached, Deputy Murphey directed the injured man, “Hold it above your head, put your arm over your head.”

Blood soaked the kerchief wrapping the wound and had begun rolling down the mans arm, soaking his sleeve.

“I’m Sheriff Tom Biggby, this is my deputy, Murphey. Can I get your name?”

“William Murray.”

“Mr. Murray, what is going here?”

“Sheriff, if you dont mind, I’d like to sit down.”

Murray moved to a shaded spot in front of the livery. The sheriff followed close behind. The deputy lifted the younger mans head and attempted to give him some water.

Murray said, “Deputy, you’re going to want to restrain that boy before he comes to.”

The deputy looked over his shoulder at Murray. The young man groaned.

Suddenly the young man grabbed the deputy by the collar and delivered an amazing right hook to Murphey’s jaw, send him reeling back on his posterior. The young man grabbed the disassembled pistol and its part and with jerky movements attempted to put it back together.

“Theres no leaving this place!!!” he screeched at the deputy.

“Why cant we leave?!!”

The young man dropped a part. The deputy took the instant to tackle the young man. The two struggled in the dirt. The sheriff and Murray looked on.

The sheriff turned to Murray, “I’ll ask again, whats going on here?”

The young man struggled under the weight of the deputy, muffled screams of, “I have to leave! I have to leave!!”

Murray looked at the sheriff, then back at the commotion in front of them.

The young man kicked the deputy off and jumped to his feet.

“You can never leave here!” he screamed at the deputy.

“Why cant we leave??”

The deputy thumbed his nose and set chase to the boy. The boy ran to the wagon and used it as a barricade between them.

The sheriffs attention turned back to Murray.

“Mr. Murray, care to explain whats going on?”

“I’m new to town. I was looking for work. I found this young man in the livery waiving a pistol around, pointing it at the animals, then back at his own head.”

The deputy cussed. The boy kept moving in the opposite direction, keeping the wagon between them.

“Go on.”

“The kid pointed the gun at me. I relieved him of the weapon and laid him out. I was attempting to disassemble the gun so he couldnt use it if he came to. It went off and shot me through the hand.”

Murray checked his hand. The kerchief was almost completely soaked in blood, as was his shirt sleeve.

“We cant leave!! Why cant we leave??” the young man screamed.

The deputy threw himself onto the wagon, the young man stepped toward the mare.

The sheriff took Murray’s hand and slowly unraveled the kerchief. Powder burns surrounded a hole toward the butt and a matching hole on the back side.

“Looks to be a through and through,” said the sheriff. Murray stared at the hand.

“I cant leave!!!” shouted the young man.

The deputy leapt from the wagon toward the young man. Dodging the deputy, the young man startled the mare. With two swift kicks she caught him first in the chest, then the chin. With the second kick the young man appeared to come off the ground by a few inches, then landed flat on his back. The mare continued to kick air, when she put her hoof down she touched the young man’s leg. This again startled her, and she began stomping the mans leg, his thigh, anything she found under hoof she stomped.

The deputy got to his feet and drug the once again unconscious young man to safety, then stood to calm the mare.

The sheriff looked at Murray.

“You’ll need to find someone to tend that hand. I’m going to want to talk to you later. Where are you staying, Mr. Murray?”

“I havent found a place yet, Sheriff.”

“Do so today, else you’ll be a guest of the city, understand?”

The sheriff turned and walked over to Murphey and the still lump of flesh that was the boy.

“Is he breathing?”

The deputy put his ear to the boys bloody face.

“I hear wheezing, so yeah, I suppose so.”

“Lets get him to Doc Pepperson. I’m not sure there much he can do though.”

The sheriff and deputy lifted the boy up by his arms and feet. A smart pop! at his left foot.

“Shit!”

“Well then, grab him by the knees”

They lifted him into the back of the wagon like a bloodied sack of feed.

The deputy brushed dirt from his uniform, then climbed aboard the wagon. With a whoop and crack of the reins, the mare jerked forward at a trot.

The sheriff mounted the motorcycle. Fiddled with the choke. Kick, kick, kick. Again, with the choke, again, kick, kick, kick.

“Push the kickstart slowly until you feel some give. The pistons have to be just right on those things,” Murray directed the sheriff.

The sheriff stared at Murray for a few seconds.

Back on the motorcycle, clutch, choke, kick, kick….. kick… KICK and the bike roared to life. The sheriff gave a light hearted salute to Murray and off he went.

The roar of the motorcycle faded.

Murray sat in the shade for a bit. His hand throbbed. He was thirsty.

A block over, at the Veteran’s Memorial Park, a new mother clutched her bleeding baby to her chest and sobbed.