High Noon In The Old West

It was High Noon

She stood there.

I gulped.

I could see she had the mandolin ready. It was loaded too.

I, of course, had the accordion within easy reach in my accordion holster.

Once, before the drink, before Gloria, I was the fastest accordion player in the West, feared from as far away as Bilston. Everyone in the West Midlands had heard of me. Back then I was called Hopalong, because of my��� well, let���s just say I was well-blessed in a way that made the ladies smile���.

Very well-blessed, which is why I had to walk with a limp.

These days, though, since Gloria, and especially since the drink, they know me more as Staggeralong. Staggeralong Then Walk Into Walls.

But my prime accordioning days were behind me. I knew I would be no match for a six-string mandolin, not in the hands of a youngster like her, one with such a keen eye. I could see from the look on her face she���d already seen why they used to call me Hopalong. Except now, I���d have trouble even hopping.

Even in my then well-refreshed state, I could see she was a very attractive woman.

���I reckon, you might be pleased to see me,��� she said as three vultures came down out of a cloudless sky and attempted to perch on it. I waved my hat and shooed them away. I remembered the last time I���d been to the doctor with vulture claw marks in it. The receptionist had not been impressed, especially when I had to stand out in the middle of the waiting room while the doctor applied the ointment in his consulting room.

���I���m too old for this,��� I said, tapping my trusty accordion.

She reached for her mandolin. ���Careful. Old-timer. I do have a rather itchy mandolin finger. But I���m not her for a shootout.���

���You���re not?���

���No,��� she said. ���I���m what you might call the law around here, now.���

I laughed. ���But this is the West Midlands���.��� I spat into the dust. ���We have no call for law and order, not in these parts. I remembered the last time a lawman had ridden into town on his bicycle, looking for a pork scratching rustling ring.��� They���d carried him out feet first only two days later. But that is Midlands beer for you.

���So what brings you, a lawma��� lawwoman to this one-tandem town?���

���You?���

���Me?���

���Yes, you Staggeralong Then Walk Into Walls ��� or should I call you Hopalong Hugewang?���

I shrugged. ���I still don���t see what business it is of a lawwoman���s, even if that was once my name.���

���I���ve come to take you in, Hopalong.���

���Why?��� My hand hovered over my accordion.

���Because of your library book.���

���My library book? But���.���

���Yes, it���s overdue.���

���Overd���.��� My accordion fell into the dust as I raised my hands. I would take my chances with a lawman, even a lawwoman, but a librarian was another matter. ���It���s a fair cop,��� I said. ���I���ll come quietly.���

She looked down at the matter that had arisen between us. ���Oh, no,��� she said. She reached out with her handcuffs in her hand. ���I���m going to make sure you don���t come quietly for a very long time.���