Story Excerpts

Philander Hunt, manager of the Good Advice Savings and Loan, sprinted out onto the sidewalk, almost tripping on the tails of his vintage morning coat, which had been tailored for a much larger man. His voice cracked like a clarinet with a split reed.  

“The bank’s been robbed!”

The cry was unnecessary, since the four bandits were already in motion in front of the building, swinging into their saddles, shooting and shouting to clear their retreat; but the bank held the mortgages of half the town council, and it was thought politic to humor his theatrical ambitions. The real curtain-raiser belonged to Birdie Flatt, the switchboard operator, standing in the doorway of the telephone office next door: “Oh, my stars! It’s Blackie Morgan and his gang!”

Her voice, unlike Hunt’s, throbbed with conviction; but then she’d had forty years of practice.

That’s when Jerry Tyndal appeared at the end of the street, a hand on the butt of the revolver in his holster, bellowing: “Reach, Blackie! This here’s Sheriff Dunstan!”

John Dockerty, watching from under the awning of Ma Goody’s Restaurant across the street, set his coffee cup in his saucer and pronounced this a crock.

“You don’t face down four armed men alone with your paws empty; you call for back-up and go in weapon in hand.”

Carl Lathrop, retired storekeeper and former president of the town council, chuckled and signaled for their bill. “That’s the legend, Chief; mess with it at your own peril.”

“All I know is if I was in charge in l880, the whole gang would’ve been behind bars without a drop of blood spilled and the money back in the bank.”

“And Good Advice a ghost town, and you and everyone else in it out of a job. The very thing communities like ours tried to get rid of in order to survive a hundred years ago is the thing that keeps them alive today. Where would our tourist trade be if we didn’t keep replaying old bank robberies and gunfights on Frontier Days?”

Police Chief Dockerty wasn’t listening. “I got to say Dave’s outdone himself this year. I doubt the real Morgan took a more convincing spill with a genuine bullet in his chest.”

Lathrop, too, was impressed. Dave Carson, owner of Carson’s Classic Cars, had executed a spectacular stunt fall from his horse when “Sheriff Dunstan” beat him to the draw. Carson wound up spreadeagled on his back in the street with a red stain on his shirt.

The former merchant was about to comment on the realistic blood squib, a feature new to the historical reconstruction, when Birdie Flatt screamed.