MONDAY
Sheriff Luxon opened the swing doors of the saloon and headed for the bar. He took off his hat, and ordered a shot of rotgut.
It went down real good. He really needed that drink. It was hard work upholding the law in Dodge. There was always somebody somewhere causing trouble and there were times when he felt like walking away. He had been elected after putting in years of service running the stagecoach timetable and he knew a lot of folk didn’t believe that was adequate training for the job. But he wore his sheriff’s badge with pride and saw it reflected in the rotgut. He smiled to himself and took another sip.
The calming silence of the saloon was shattered as Winston the Old Kid kicked open the saloon doors and fired his pistols in the air. “Howdy folks,” he roared. “I’m buyin’!”
Sheriff Luxon watched the old-timers and the card cheats and the village idiots crowd the bar. The Old Kid bought everyone a bottle of his favourite drink: MMP.
“Not you, boy,” he said to a Chinese greengrocer who was sitting in a corner of the saloon. “Go back to your own country!”
The sheriff’s deputies said to him that he oughtn’t allow The Old Kid to talk like that. The sheriff himself knew it, too. He was about to say something when The Old Kid slammed a bottle of MMP down beside him on the bar.
“Drink that,” he leered. “Get it down ya! It’ll put a smile on that damn long face of yours.”
The sheriff drank. It tasted bitter.
TUESDAY
Sheriff Luxon was enjoying a quiet shot of rotgut in the saloon, safe in the knowledge that Winston the Old Kid had business elsewhere. But the peace was shattered as Crazy Seymour and Fathead Henry kicked open the saloon doors and fired their pistols in the air. “Howdy folks,” they roared. “We’s buyin’!”
Sheriff Luxon watched the scribes from the Dodge Gazette crowd the bar. They loved Crazy and Fathead, and hung on their every word. “Damn good fun the both of them, especially Fathead,” they said to each other, and raised a toast as their hosts bought everyone a bottle of MMP.
“Say,” said Fathead. “I was thinkin’. Kids in school, when they misbehave—let’s teach ’em a lesson they’ll never forget. Let’s hang ’em!”
The scribes slapped their thighs, and laughed. Crazy raised his glass. “Boys, let’s put Fathead in charge of education!”
The laughter suddenly stopped as Crazy wandered over to the sheriff and slammed a bottle of MMP down beside him on the bar.
“Drink that,” he leered. “Get it down ya! It’ll put a smile on that damn long face of yours.”
The scribes watched, and waited to see what the sheriff would do.
The sheriff drank. It tasted rank.
WEDNESDAY
Sheriff Luxon put in a hard day’s work but decided against calling in at the saloon when the day was done. He couldn’t be doing with the aggravation. More to the point, he couldn’t bring himself to swallow another drop of MMP. It made him sick. It clouded his brain. He couldn’t think properly.
He sat at home, and looked at stagecoach timetables.
Just as he was going to bed, a sudden thought crossed his mind.
THURSDAY
Sheriff Luxon kicked open the doors of the saloon, and announced, “Boys, I’ve been thinkin’. There’s an evil across the land, a pestilence, and it ain’t good for progress, it ain’t good for keepin’ the streets safe, and it sure ain’t good for Dodge!”
All eyes were on him.
“I’m thinkin’ that I’m gonna outlaw the sale of MMP,” he said. “What you fellows think of that?”
The bar went silent. The sheriff ordered a shot of rotgut, and enjoyed its rich taste.
FRIDAY
Crazy Seymour and Fathead Henry held emergency talks all day in the hacienda of their employers, Rancho Atlas Network, and fretted about the threat to MMP, the drink that kept them happy.
Winston the Old Kid swore he would come for the sheriff and fill that varmint full of hot lead in a dark alleyway before the day was done if there was going to be no more MMP, the drink that kept him young.
And in a corner of the saloon, a Chinese greengrocer worried about his future. His job depended on MMP, the drink that kept him in work.
