Western Justice

Western Justice

By D.W. Mailand

Harlem, Montana

Vindictive, that’s what I was; seeking revenge for a wrong. So far nobody, including the principals, has called me to account, but I suppose I need to confess to someone.

It began when this fellow, we’ll call him Don, decided that he needed a “real western pistol” to be comfortable with “the boys.” No, it really began long before that, but never mind. The pistol had to be very inexpensive (Don was a trifle near at times). Finally tiring of all the whining and haggling over the cost, one of “the boys” sold Don a “last legs” .22 caliber pistol. Having lived out its life on the plains, it was brimming with Western Character, but little else. Don was overjoyed; “the boys” were entertained.

Like many endings, that was just the beginning. Now he needed a real western holster to pack his six-shooter. He phoned me. Yes, I could get him a nice holster. Too expensive. I could get him a good holster. Too expensive. I could get him a cheap holster kit for $9.95 plus postage. Was that the cheapest? Would I put it together for him? Did I have a picture of it? Could he bring his wife and daughter to view it? Over they came.

Because it was a warm summer day, my wife served lemonade, which the daughter dumped on the sofa and carpet. Many agonized questions later, Don decided to ask his wife if they could afford the holster. Very conspiratorially, she replied, “Well, Don, you know we need (mumble mumble psst psst). Shamefaced, Don decided he could not swing the deal and took his entourage back home. Our reprieve lasted for only one week.

With déjà vu all over again, Done phoned me once more, apparently remembering the script but entirely forgetting his previous performance. Could I get him a nice holster? No, maybe not that nice? Anything for a little less? A kit for $9.95? Was that assembled? Did I have a picture of it? Could they come over to view it? Over they came. Fearing the old sofa and carpet might not withstand another scrubbing, my wife omitted the lemonade. More agonized questions, more wifely remonstrance, more mumbling and once more, Don couldn’t handle $9.95 plus postage. They went home.

I suppose I snapped at that point. Maybe I feared a third weekly phone call, visitation, family conference and disappointment. I went to the dump and found a genuine western boot that appeared to have been abandoned immediately after a walk through an extra-messy barnyard. Leaving all of the Western Flavor in place, I carved and sewed the floral-decorated top into a true western holster and presented it to Don, absolutely free. He loved it. He proudly displayed it to his wife and friends and neighbors, many of whom were aware of its origin. I was proud of my generosity. I also felt vindicated.

I wonder if he ever saddlesoaped it?