To return to the Home Page or the College Index, click here.

The day's last shadows were slumping across the ground as the gunfighter rode into town. Upon tying his beloved horse Buttons to the rickety hitching post, he strode weightily into the towns only bar. Whiskey, he said, and noted the bartenders answering nod. Feeling the weight of the rooms many eyes, he turned, drink in hand, to survey his audience.

A myriad of miners, cowboys, and locals avoided his piercing gaze. So great was his presence, that only the mirror was courageous enough to return his rapt attention. He felt as if he were king, as only a muted shuffle shattered the silence. Soon however, the click of cards and tumble of dice began to reverberate around the room once more.

Hesitantly, the piano began to play in the corner, and it was on the player that his attention focused. Through the murk, the stranger squinted, trying to distinguish a certain crooked nose and slanted eye, which had been awarded for less than stalwart musical skills. A few ponderous steps closer, and he was rewarded with the vision of the man whom he sought. Silence was instantly restored as he slammed his glass down on the nearest table, and drawing himself up to his full height of four feet and eleven inches, more than ample he thought, thundered, "Remember me?"

Silence blanketed the tavern like a veil, as the mustached frailty in the corner stammered, " No sir, I doe, doe, don't believe I do."

"You're a liar," hissed the courageous figure, as he swept aside his well-traveled duster to reveal a shiny tin star emphasized by the ivory handled Colt adorning his hip. Later while recalling the event in therapy, he would recall the odd plastic like feel of his weapon, and a certain red ribbon hanging out the side of the cylinder. Now however, he could only recollect the theft of his childhood pet, Roosters, who had disappeared some days before. His mother had informed him of the sad occurrence over a savory chicken dinner; how she had heard a ruckus in the yard, but found only feathers. Through his tears, he was always able to recall the description of the culprit, whom she had chanced to see scampering away over the fence.

Now he had him, from the dented bowler hat, to the distinguishing facial features; it was a perfect match. Tim was going to get his man. The piano player rose and began to walk steadily towards him. Such a brave act from a thieving schiester seemed oddly contradictory. No matter, Roosters would be avenged. His hand swept down ward in a blaze of speed, gripped his gun, drew and fired. Slowly the savage pianist began to wilt, as he crumpled to the floor. Smoke curled upwards from his gun, as he scanned the room. In surprise, he noted that for such a bad man he had a large number of friends who glared angrily in his direction. Holstering his weapons, he began to hear undertone, including "Get a rope, he shot John." Tim now decided he should retire to a friendlier environment, and turned quickly towards the door. Thankfully Buttons understood his anxiety, and as he swung into the saddle hurried him away from a quickly forming posse.

Alarmingly however, a number of armed men were soon on his tail. Faster Buttons, he urged as he prayed for an avenue of escape. No matter how fast they flew, and his steed was certainly the fastest horse in the county, the posse gained ground. Soon they were on his flanks, and the leader was readying a lasso. It was as the rope spun out in his direction, pointing like an accusing finger, that Tim awoke. Covered in sweat, he thankfully sat up and looked over to his feathered friends cage. In alarm, he realized that Roosters really was missing. Anger turned to grief as he lay back down to toss and turn for the remainder of the night.