The Quick and the Patient

         I’m telling you, I’ve seen it with my own eyes.  Old Marty Red Hand and Lester Nole were lined up in front of the old clock in Timbuck Square, guns loaded, awaiting the strike of noon.  Now Old Marty was still steamed with Lester for sleeping with his sister.  Well, sleeping wouldn’t be the right word to use, per say.  Ravaged.  That’s the word.  Old Marty was steamed with Lester for ravaging his sister.  If it weren’t for all of Lester’s boys standing around, those ‘by the code’ gun slinger folks with hand guns so big its a wonder they could even lift them, Old Marty would have shot Lester dead right then, right there.



         To be fair, to play Devil’s advocate, Lester still wasn’t too keen with Old Marty for what he did with Lester’s ma when Lester’s pa went out of town trading.  He’d shoot Old Marty dead anytime of the day, but the Sheriff was always sitting in a rocking chair right underneath the clock with his rifle, and he could put a bullet through anyone’s right eye before they could even blink.



         “Kill’em by the code or don’t kill’em at all,” the Sheriff would grunt, and when he grunted, that meant he meant business.



         It was two minutes to noon.  Everybody’s shadow was shrinking into little pools of dark beneath their feet.  You know, sometimes I joke when I see those shadows.  I say something like, “Looks like Old Marty just messed himself.  It’s seeping out of his pant legs”, but nobody laughs and I get dirty looks whenever I say it, so I stopped.



         Now there’s one minute to high noon, and wouldn’t you know it, the old clock in Timbuck Square breaks down.  It ain’t ticking no more, but Old Marty and Lester don’t know it because they’re too busy staring at each other’s eyes and hands and guns.  Hell, nobody noticed that the Timbuck Square clock was broken for a good hour.  Then one of Lester’s boys looks up and says, “Say, I reckon this has been one long minute.”



         Everybody agreed with him.  But nobody moved.



         They were standing there all night.  That’s when the rain came.  Got everybody standing out in Timbuck Square nice and soggy.  It was slick out.  You try to draw a gun in this weather, and you’ll have it fumbling in front of your face for a few minutes before you can get a grip on the damn handle.



         Old Marty and Lester knew this, so they kept on drying their palms real fast against their pants.  That’s the only thing they focused on; drying them palms.



         The sun came up.  Nobody moved.  Some strong gusts came along and bombarded the gun fighters.  They stood strong and covered their eyes with their arms.  The sand and dirt was going everywhere.  It still got into their eyes, their nostrils and their mouths.  Hell, that sand even filled up those boys’ guns.  Just keep your focus on your ears, Lester’s boys said.  The moment you hear that clock strike noon, you fire straight ahead.



         Somebody complained about the broken clock at around... well, I don’t know the exact time, but I was hungry for some jerky, so I’d figure it was around four o’clock in the afternoon or so.  They went down to the Mayor and told him what was happening in Timbuck Square.  The Mayor sent out for a repairman to come and fix the clock so Old Marty and Lester could conclude their fight.



         The repairman came two days later.  We had some more gusts blowing during those days and one more night of rain.  You could see the number that rain did on Old Marty and Lester’s guns.  They started to rust and corrode.



         When the repairman finally came, he climbed up a big ladder and opened up the Timbuck Square clock.  He looked down at all of us and said, “Oh, yeah!  Uh-huh!  This clock ain’t gonna move anytime soon!”



         “Do you know what’s wrong with it?” asked the Mayor.



         “Yup,” said the repairman.



         “Well, can you fix it?”



         “Nope,” said the repairman.



         “Why not?”



         “There’s a rat wedged between two gears.  This clock won’t budge until its removed.”



         “Oh,” said the Mayor.  “Well, then remove it.”



         The repairman turned and faced the Mayor then, and his face was as white as a slice of paper.



         “I can’t, sir,” said the repairman.  “I’m deathly afraid of rats.  My ancestors passed after rats gave them the plague.  Filthy things.”



         Lester’s boys let out a groan and slapped their thighs.  They pulled out their guns and aimed them at the repairman.  “You more scared of that rat or these guns?” they yelled.



         “That rat,” the repairman said.  He climbed down the ladder, still as white as the walls of heaven, and said, “Mr. Mayor, you get yourself an exterminator.  He’ll fix that clock.”



         It took two more days for the exterminator to come.  We had more dust storms pounding away at the gun fighter’s eyes and nose and mouths.  The dust stuck to their sweaty skins.  After awhile, you couldn’t tell which mound of dust was Old Marty and which was Lester.



         The exterminator was a short, wide man who waddled into town.



         “Where’s yer rat?” he said.  Even his voice was husky.



         The Mayor pointed up at the clock.  “Between two gears,” he told the exterminator.



         “That’s a problem,” said the exterminator.



         “What?  Why?” asked the Mayor.



         “I don’t do heights.  They scare me.”



         “For Christ’s sake!” screamed Lester’s boys.  They aimed their guns at the exterminator and asked him, “What’re you more scared of, our guns or heights?”



         The exterminator chuckled and shuffled some of his flubber in his hands.



         “Look at me, fellas.  I’m built for the ground.  Someone like me ain’t got no business being up with the clouds.  And as far as your guns are concerned, your bullets have a longgggg way to travel before they hit any of my vitals, and I don’t think they’ll make the trip.”  He turned then and waddled right out of town.



         There were a few things we could have done about our clock problem.  Hell, any one of us could have ripped the rat out of the clock if we weren’t either afraid of heights or rats or getting our hands smashed in the gears.  We could have used a different clock, like someone’s pocket watch and just have them holler out at noon.  Old Marty and Lester could have walked to the next town over to shoot one another silly under that town's clock.  We were yelling these suggestions out to both of them, but they were too focused on shooting one another to hear us.



         “There’s only one thing to do,” and this was me talking because I’m very clever-like.  I say, “We’re just going to have to wait for that rat to decompose and for the gears to smash its bones into dust.”



         Everyone in town applauded me for my wit.  For several days, actually.  I think.  I’m not sure, I couldn’t tell time.



         My idea went into practice.  Old Marty got older and so did Lester.  They stood out in the heat and the rain and they were pelted with dozens of sand storms.



         One day, I’m not sure which day, or what time it was, the rat had fully decomposed and the gears kicked back to life.  The clock struck noon.



         Old Marty and Lester shook, causing the mats of sand and dirt that encased their bodies to hit the ground.  They drew their weapons out of instinct.  Honestly, they’d both be damned if they knew why they were standing out there.  So much time had passed.  They hardly remembered why they were angry at each other.  Even still, both Old Marty and Lester pulled the triggers as quickly as they could.



         Lester’s gun was so rusted, the barrel fell off as soon as he drew it, and when he pulled the trigger, it broke right off.  Old Marty’s trigger was jammed stiff, but even if it weren’t jammed, there would be no way for the bullet to travel past the dirt compacted barrel.  There was a pretty purple flower growing out of Old Marty’s gun.  After failing to shoot his gun, he took notice of the flower and said, “Say, that’s a purty flower.”



         Lester looked at the flower.  He said, “I reckon that’s the purtiest flower I did ever see.”



         There was a twinkle in Old Marty’s eye.  He remembered something.  He said, “You slept with my sister.”  He said it real calm, as if it didn’t really bother him anymore.



         That same twinkled was in Lester’s eye.  He said, “You slept with my ma.”



         Old Marty blushed.  “Your ma was the most gorgeous woman this side of the Mississippi.”



         “Thank you.  Your sister was quite the looker, too,” Lester said.  “We had fun, me and her.  She’s real rough, though.”



         “Hmph.  She used to wrestle pigs for fun when we were younger,” Old Marty said.  “If she had fun, that’s all I care about.”



         Both men went their separate ways.  And I tell you, they were dead set on murder and now they couldn’t care enough to flick their teeth at one another.



         It’s a wonder what some time could do.



         And that’s the story of how our clock got fixed.