Sheriff, You Killed My Brother(Ed DeRousse) Sheriff, You Killed My Brother

“I hear Ned Buntline wants to put you in one of his books, Sheriff. How do you feel about that?”
“I don’t particularly care for it. When he puts you in one of his books, unwanted things happen. And it is what’s in those books, you are judged by.”
“I don’t understand. Don’t you want to be famous, like Wild Bill?”
“Nope.”
“I don’t understand?”
“I am a tough lawman, and do have the real reputation to go with it. It’s what I did to earn that reputation. It’s not a made up reality some writer created in his own mind to help sell his books..”
“Sheriff, you do have a reputation of being a tough but just man. You carry that fancy Colt on your hip, but I’ve never seen you use it. Yet you are well known around here for your gun abilities. How many gunfights have you been in?”
“It’s my reputation that makes not drawing my Colt much easier. I resolve issues without the use of gunplay. Innocent people run the risk of getting hurt whenever a gun is drawn. People believe me to be a superb gun handler. And that’s Ok. It helps me maintain the peace around here.”
“That didn’t answer my question, Sheriff. Have you ever been on the street to meet a man face to face in showdown, like those characters in the Western books?”
“Son, perhaps, because of my reputation, I have never had to meet a man, face to face, on the street, in a showdown.”
“It’s almost Noon. Dirk Jackson’s gonna be out there in the middle of that street in a few minutes. If you’ve not actually done that before, aren’t you worried?”
“I have dealt with bad men before. Jackson read about himself in one of Buntline’s books and is just trying to live up to his expectations. Buntline says he frequently meets the local lawman in the street to duel. Dirk’s just some penny ante outlaw that’s been luckier than most.
The thing is, though, Ned Buntline makes lots of money creating legends. Facts don’t seem to be too important to him. Men met their demise because of Buntline’s money making scheme.
I’ve read some of his novels and met some of his legends. I even incarcerated two or three of them without using my pistol.
Ned Buntline and other dime novel writers are the big problem in the West, not these make believe legends. It’s the “code of the west” thing these writers created that puts me on the street today.”
“Code of the west? What’s that?”
“They’re just a set of unwritten rules of survival all of the West supposedly lives by. The truth is, they don’t exist, except in the minds of these writers from the East.”
“With your reputation, how come you’re not in one of his books?”
“I met Buntline long before I became a sheriff. He was beginning to create his legends back then and I watched his legends struggle to live up to what they were supposed to be. They had no choice. People were believing what was written about them.
Even back then I had a strong sense of right and wrong. My code was and still is the same as the men who wrote the words of the Bible. Those words don’t seem to be what men like Buntline feel are words to sell by.
I felt strongly about using those words to help in the development of this new land. I had no desire to be a romanticized character in a dime novel. That would require me to live up to a different set of standards.
The West, in reality, is a hard and often unforgiving land. Most of us are just trying to survive.
Some of us, like the cowboy getting ready to face me now, find it easier or more thrilling to take. That makes him an abuser of God’s word. There is nothing romantic about that.”
“Sheriff, I’m out here in the street. You killed my brother! It’s time for you to meet your maker!”
"That must be Jackson, Sheriff"
“It’s time, son. It will be over soon.”
----------------------------------------------------
“Dirk, we don’t have to do this.”
“Ya killed my brother!”
“It was him or me, Dirk.”
“Doesn’t matter, you killed my brother. It’s your turn to die!”
“Dirk, we don’t have to do this. There is another way.”
“Yep! There is and you’re still gonna die!”
I wonder, 'Will he actually draw his gun against me?'
Somehow, I know he will.
He has the reputation that tells me he will.
I feel no evil. I am not afraid of evil.
I will not draw first, but I will defend myself and this land I love.
“Sheriff, you killed my brother!”
His eyes tell me his intentions. I see his hand drop toward his gun.
Time slowed down…………
I sense my hand reach for my gun.
His hand is already on the butt of his weapon and his thumb on the hammer.
I feel the handle of my Colt and my finger on the trigger. My hammer is already cocked.
Jackson’s yelling something at me and yanking his gun out of his holster.
I see the barrel of his gun pointed at my chest.
Somehow mine is now pointed at his.
I see him squeeze the trigger, hear the roar of the gun, and see the black powder smoke bellowing from it.
I want to move to the right, but I can’t until I fire. Will it be too late?
I hear my gun respond to my finger.
Time slowed down even more.
I see Jackson’s bullet coming toward my chest.
I see a bullet leave my gun and its path is true.
I feel the sting of his bullet as it enters my chest. The sheer force of its entry into my body has made me lose my footing.
Jackson is falling toward the ground with a hole in his shirt where his heart would be.
I am convinced he breathes no more.
And, like my adversary, here I am, lying on my back.
I see the sun shining bright in the sky above me.
I’m burning up.
People are gathering around me.
I can’t make them out.
I hear a soft feminine voice calling my name.
Could it be an Angel I hear?
“Sheriff, Sheriff,“
That voice sounds familar. Could it be?
“Honey, Honey, wake up! You’re having a bad dream! Wake up Pete.”
And suddenly, that soft voice I hear is that of my sweet wife.
The Clint Eastwood marathon, that old Ned Buntline Dime Novel I found a few days ago, and that late night meal really did a number on me.

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