GUNFIGHT AT THE YO-YO CORRAL

THE LEBANON CITY COUNCIL

By

Jimmy Joe Meeker

"…Return with us now to those golden days of yesteryear…"

First Published in The Wilson County Advocate, Vol. 1, No. 23 ©November 12, 1991 by Donald W. Gillette

It was a slow night at the Lebanon City Council meeting. The air outside was chilled and the howling wind rustled the trees, blowing dying autumn leaves from their branches. Inside the Council Chambers, a hint of doom and madness hung low and heavy like a dark rain cloud ready to explode.

Television lights flickered in an eerie fashion casting gloomy shadows on the faces of the council members and the sound of shuffling papers was driving men to the brink of some bad craziness. In the back of the room, a big Irishman (either a railroad worker or a journalist) was scribbling feverishly in a tattered notebook, pausing now and then to either take a sip out of a huge "Chum's" mug he had managed to slip inside or to curse softly under his breath.

Bobby "The Peacemaker" Jewell was eyeballing each council member in turn, his trigger finger never more than an inch from his trusty, well-worn gavel, "Old Bessy". The Peacemaker cleared his throat and all heads turned. Somewhere off to the right, a pin dropped. It sounded like a Boeing 707 taking off.

The Peacemaker cracked his knuckles. "My backbone announces the buckboard bounce and the cactus hurts my toes," he said.

Festus Keith, the shakiest gun in the South, looked at Miss Jeannie. "What in the hell is he talking about?" he whispered, apparently afraid of being overheard.

Miss Jeannie shrugged and kept her eyes straight ahead. "If only the Marshal were here," she said softly, "he'd take care of this. And stop fidgeting--you're driving me nuts."

The Peacemaker continued. "Y'all will take notice that we have a vacant seat tonight. Bad Bobby won't be here," he said. "There's been some trouble at the Parched Tortoise and he's up there taking care of it."

"Doc" Hunt leaned back in his chair. "Is that Bad Bobby the Albino or the original Bad Bobby?" he asked.

"The original Bad Bobby Wynne," the Peacemaker responded. "Bad Bobby the Albino's been dead nigh on thirteen years now."

Frontier Fred Burton chuckled loudly. "That's right," he said. "I shot him, remember?"

Doc nodded. "Now that you mention it, I reckon I do recollect something along those lines, I reckon."

Festus Keith looked at Miss Jeannie. "What in the hell is he talking about?" he whispered.

Miss Jeannie glared back at him. "If you ask me one more question tonight, I'll crack you over the head with this microphone."

Festus' eyes bulged and he swallowed hard. His fingers fell to the lone bullet the council allowed him to carry but the hate in Miss Jeannie's eyes stayed his hand. "I'm truly sorry, Miss Jeannie," he said, "I only wanted to…"

Her hand snaked out to the microphone stand. "What'd I just tell you, you little weasel?"

Festus made a sound like a whipped pup and then fell silent.

But what brought the "Wild Bunch" together on this dismal night? Why had they ridden into town through the cold night air braving their way past the West Main Night Riders and the dreaded Market Street gang?

They had some things to settle.

Some of the townspeople were upset that city transportation was being taken home by city employees at night. Nobody knew why. And nobody will ever know because nobody would fess up to it.

"Tell me who they are," Frontier Fred shouted, leaping to his feet and slapping leather. "I'll shoot 'em!"

Doc Hunt grinned. "You gonna shoot their horses, too?" he asked.

"Horses, too," Fred replied.

"What about their dogs?"

Frontier Fred's face twitched. "Shoot 'em."

Peacemaker Jewell held up his hands and silence fell across the room. "Sit down, Fred, those fancy Italian shoes are playing hell with the tablecloth."

"These aren't Italian," Fred said, "They're Thom McCann's."

The Peacemaker snickered in disgust. "You ever known an American who spelled Tom with an 'H'?"

Fred hung his head and sat back down. The Peacemaker had called his hand.

Anyway, it seems as if the government back east had some extra money to give the town, but Don "The Silver" Fox wasn't having any. At least not until "Comatose Cal" Turner, the city lawyer and Jerry "Prairie Dog" Partlow could give this free money thing the once over. The Silver Fox wanted to set a city policy. Doc Hunt wanted to enact a city resolution.

Doc and The Fox tried to stare each other down, but no one would blink.

Tension filled the council chambers. The Silver Fox reached into his bag of tricks for something to use against Doc but the only thing he could come up with was talking loud enough to drown the Doc out. He claimed the folks on the hill told him it should be a policy not a resolution. But Doc, never one to back down from a bully, wasn't biting. He waited until Fox paused to take a breath and in a calm, cool voice, said, "They're wrong."

The wind flew out of the Silver Fox's sails like whores running from a ghost town. Bloodshed was avoided for yet another night and the council members let out a sigh of relief.

Festus leaned over to Miss Jeannie. "What happened?" he asked.

"I warned you," she said, and the sound of a microphone banging into hollow flesh filled the chamber.

And as the council members rode off into the night, a solitary voice was heard above the echo of trampling hooves.

"Remember," the voice said, "no one here gets out alive."

XXX