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Showdown at High Noon: A Parable April 23, 2007 By Josh Lewis
The small, one-horse town was silent under the glare of the midday sun. No movement could be seen on the streets, although occasionally a curtain stirred in a window. The hitching rail in front of the general store was empty. Even the saloon was strangely quiet. Only the screech of a red-tailed hawk could be heard as he circled overhead hoping for an imprudent field mouse in the field behind the store.
A dust devil whirled some sand in front of the livery barn as the church clock began the 12 bells that signified the arrival of noon. The air in the town seemed to chill even in the desert heat as footsteps were heard along the boardwalk to the south. As the bells tolled, the steady thud of boots and jingle of spurs grew nearer. Then, into view came a big, bearded man with his face shadowed by a black, flat-brimmed hat as he stepped into the street. His dress was typical of cow country—blue flannel shirt and homespun pants tucked into high-heeled boots. The only items that commanded attention were the pearl-handled grips of twin Colt Peacemakers that protruded from holsters tied down low on each hip.
When he stopped, he was positioned in the middle of the street in front of the general store facing north toward the blacksmith shop at the edge of town. Big Bill Dalton stood there, in a slight crouch, his face set in an icy, determined scowl. The town waited with baited breath behind drawn curtains for the imminent confrontation.
Word had traveled fast in the small town. Marshal Tom Cavanaugh has a strict policy in this town: no guns were to be worn in the city limits. Big Bill Dalton had let it be known in no uncertain terms that he intended to wear his six-gun to the grave—and dared anyone to tell him otherwise. He had a long history of violence and was generally given a wide berth. No one was sure how he and his brother, Bob, came by their money, and nobody was brave enough to ask. Bill’s arrival in town was expected, and the caretaker had readied a plot on Boot Hill in preparation for the conflict. He figured someone would need it no matter how things ended.
A door opened with a slight squeak. From his office next to the blacksmith’s shop, Marshall Cavanaugh stepped onto the boardwalk, closed the door, and then moved quickly into the street. The marshal was a short, barrel-chested man who wore his badge with a quiet air of authority and always went about his business confidently with little ado. At this moment, he was moving purposefully down the street toward the waiting figure, his face showing no hint of emotion.
In the office a few moments earlier, his deputy, Tex Ritter, had urged the marshal to let him come with him. “It never hurts to have a second man with you. Someone needs to cover your back,” Tex said.
“We shoot our own coyotes around here,” Marshal Cavanaugh replied. “Depending on someone else just makes you weak.”
The lawman stood in the middle of street now, only about 30 feet separating him from Big Bill Dalton.
“You know the law, Bill. No guns in town. Now unbuckle your gun belt and give it to me.”
The bearded man scowled. “You’re wasting your time, marshal. I don’t take off my guns for no man.”
Then, with surprising speed for his bulk, his hands dropped to his hips, grasped the twin gun butts, started to come up, and then froze as he found himself staring at the six-gun that had appeared in the marshal’s right hand.
Marshal Tom Cavanaugh relaxed his muscles and allowed himself a faint smile. He still had the touch, he thought.
He never saw the shadowy figure in the alley behind him. The last thing he heard was a distinct click as Bob Dalton cocked the hammer of his Winchester carbine, and then everything went black.
Solomon wrote, “Two people are better off than one, for they can help each other succeed. If one person falls, the other can reach out and help. But someone who falls alone is in real trouble…A person standing alone can be attacked and defeated, but two can stand back-to-back and conquer. Three are even better, for a triple-braided cord is not easily broken” (Ecclesiastes 4:9-10, 12, NLT).
Who’s watching your back?
ninetyandnine.com
© 2007, Josh Lewis ---------
Josh Lewis lives in Texas and has read too many Westerns in his lifetime. He definitely needs someone to watch his back. |
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