The Sheriff and the Stranger
The Sheriff was brought to his knees again, falling to the dirt, in the middle of the town, having been shot twice: one bullet entering his chest, just above his heart, and the other ripping into his stomach and exiting through his back. The Sheriff grasped his chest, as if he were hugging himself, displaced dust floating about, while the Stranger, at the other end of the street, still held his pistol steady, his grizzled face gnawed raw by days in the punishing sun, his eyes narrowing on the wretched visage of the Sheriff. He has been brought to his knees, the Stranger thought, the Sheriff has been brought to his knees. Hasn't he been brought to his knees (literally and figuratively) before? Surely he must have. The townspeople gathered on either side of the street, watching in disbelief. But the Sheriff would not fall to the ground completely. He scuttled about on his hands and knees like a dog (what was the phrase the Sheriff was looking for? Crawling like a dog; he shot me in the street, like a dog--yes, that was the one!), coughing and bleeding; his rust-colored blood mixing with the rust color of the hard earth. (The Sheriff had once been the Stranger, blowing into town, facing off against a Sheriff not unlike himself and he had brought that Sheriff to his knees just as he himself was now brought to his.) The haggard tableau of the Sheriff and the Stranger existed as some strange artifice now, their movements somewhat wooden, studied, suggesting theater rather than reality, the townspeople for their part all too eager to adopt the role of the Audience. The Stranger watched the Sheriff closely, who, though not down completely, was, at the very least, brought to his knees, as he would be in prayer. Hadn’t this happened before, many times before, the Sheriff brought to his knees, the town brought to theirs--although, at present, the townspeople still stood--pleading for mercy, for forgiveness (the Stranger imagined himself as a lone priest, the town his mystified congregation kneeling before him, their heads lowered in supplication and arms extended outwards, reaching)? The Sheriff crawled around in a circle, still moving, endlessly. He thinks: I will not fall to the ground, I am crawling like a dog, but I will not die like one. Not like this. In the middle of the street! The Stranger aimed his pistol at the Sheriff once more, his index finger poised on the trigger. The Stranger paused, his mind repeating the phrase brought to his knees over and over, the violence contained within the words eradicated, repetition emptying them of any meaning, until they were merely sounds--blown into oblivion. And so it was, the Sheriff and the Stranger locked together in a primal image--that of an Ouroboros, each snake swallowing the tail of the other. And so it was and always would be! The Sheriff was brought to his knees again, falling to the dirt, in the middle of the town...
Scott Brothers' short stories and humor pieces have been published (or are forthcoming) in Pindeldyboz, Word Riot, The Big Jewel, and the Mississippireview.com.