Sheriff Bertie faces High Noon with a wobbly Willie the Kid

HIGH Noon. That’s how Sheriff Bertie always thought of it. Others might refer to the occasion as Leaders’ Questions, but for him it was that moment when he stood alone.

It was a tradition that had developed in recent years, when the sheriff had to walk down main street ready to take on all-comers.

A test of manhood, some called it. But Sheriff Bertie knew it was like walking on quicksand, surrounded by rattlesnakes.

He’d have to do it every time armed only with a thick folder, never knowing where the next shot might come from, uneasily aware that the rest of the townsfolk were hiding indoors.

Sure, the townsfolk were all behind him, they said. But Sheriff Bertie only had to look around to know they were more concerned with their own hides than with his.

Twice a week he had to go into the OK Corral, that others called the Dáil chamber, and face that dangerous Opposition gang.

You never knew where they’d be hiding or what weapons they’d be using. They could be on the roofs, or behind the barn, or under the water trough. And they were getting more dangerous each time he had to face them.

Ike Kenny, much more likely than before to shoot straight, and always with a spare weapon loaded and ready to fire. Doc Rabbitte, deadly at winging any of the townsfolk who popped into view, and capable of hitting two or three of them at the same time. Six-gun Joe Higgins, ready to shoot from the hip at any moving target.

Yup, it was dangerous in there, and until now he’d always been on his own.

Sure, the townsfolk would gather round him after the shoot-out was over, clapping him on the back and telling him he was great for avoiding the hail of bullets one more time.

But where were they when they were needed, he wondered. What would they do on the day that the bullets finally connected?

A quick trip to Boot Hill was his guess. They’d say a quick prayer over his dead cold body, and have a new sheriff elected by tea-time. The minute they pinned the gold star on the new guy, he’d be on his own, too.

Now at last though, he had a sidekick. Thank God for Willie the Kid, Sheriff Bertie thought as he once more strapped on the holster that carried his only protection, that folder full of answers to every question that could possibly be predicted.

But where had Willie the Kid suddenly come from, Sheriff Bertie wondered.

To be sure, he’d been in town for a while, that droopy moustache marking him out.

He’d always been one of the noisy ones at town meetings, but he’d been better known for minding his own little patch.

The folks around Willie’s end of town had often spoken about how Willie was to be seen, early morning and late at night, tidying the scrub and the loco weed, making sure the cactus was well-tended. He’d been known too for having a very sharp tongue.

But Willie the gunslinger? That was a new one on Sheriff Bertie. Willie had come to him after one of the town meetings, pleading with him for a bit of promotion. “Make me one of your deputies,” Willie had said, “and I’ll be the busiest member of the posse. I’ll help you run that Opposition gang out of town.”

Now Sheriff Bertie wasn’t over-burdened with allies, so after a bit of persuasion he had allowed Willie to join the posse.

And it was nice to see the look on Willie’s face, the way his moustache seemed to perk up, when Bertie pinned the tin star on his vest. But it hadn’t, until now, seemed to change his outlook. He still kept very much to himself, down at the far corner of town.

The folks down there reported that Deputy Willie, as he liked to call himself now, was busier than ever with the cactus and the loco weed, and that you never went into any of the saloons down there without seeing him.

He’d nurse a sarsaparilla, that sweet and sugary drink that the real cowpokes used to sneer at, as long as there was anyone in the bar to talk to.

And he’d be in the barber shop in the morning, telling everyone that Sheriff Bertie and he were going to keep the town law-abiding as long as they were around.

Now and again he’d write something for the town newspaper, always attacking the Opposition gang in the most ferocious language.

FOLKS used to enjoy reading his attacks on Ike Kenny and Doc Rabbitte, and his frequent offers to take them on, anywhere, anytime.

But they noticed that Deputy Willie would never be anywhere to be seen if any of the gang said they were going to be gunning for him.

So it was a great surprise to Sheriff Bertie, and a welcome one, when the word came through that Willie the Kid had been out practising with some of the other local gunslingers.

Now he’d taken to going around with a Colt 45 on each hip, the moustache positively bristling with menace.

He’d practice his draw constantly, and even though he seemed to drop the 45s a lot, he seemed more than willing to take on all-comers.

Sheriff Bertie was mighty relieved that next time he went into the OK Corral, he wouldn’t have to go alone.

Having Willie the Kid beside him would be sure to make that Opposition gang think twice about opening fire. But he reckoned he’d better take a look-see at just how good Willie was with those Colt 45s of his.

So early one morning the sheriff took his deputy down behind the haybarn and set up a few tin cans about 40 feet away.

He persuaded Willie not to go for a quick draw because the guns kept going off every time he dropped them, and Sheriff Bertie sure didn’t want to be hit by a ricochet from one of Willie’s weapons.

It wasn’t long, though, before Sheriff Bertie realised that Willie still needed a lot of work.

The first time he aimed at one of the tin cans, one of the horses in the livery stable bolted, terrified by the bullet that whizzed by its ear. Next time, Willie hit the barn door, missing the tin can by at least 40 feet. At least he can hit a barn door, Sheriff Bertie thought, a bit like the way we add up the cost of bringing the railroad to town. Still, Sheriff Bertie thought as they made their way into the Dáil chamber, two of us facing that gang at the OK Corral is better than one.

But what was this? He’d never seen Ike Kenny and Doc Rabbitte laughing before. Out in the open, tears of laughter rolling down their faces.

They weren’t scared of Deputy Willie - they must have heard that as a gunslinger, Willie the Kid was better at minding the cactus.

With a deputy like that, Sheriff Bertie realised, he’d be lucky to get out of the OK Corral alive.