Itchy Mitch and the Taming of Broken Jaw Junction

by Duane L. Ostler

  Chapter 2 - How Mitch Faced Down ‘Bad Bart’ and Got the Name ‘Itchy’

 

  Mitch and Elias were sitting in the sheriff’s office talking with Mayor Slickswindle and Bert Fuddletheef. In the two hours since they had arrived in Broken Jaw Junction, it had turned hotter than a potato baking in an oven. (That’s the way it always was in the dry Nevada desert where Broken Jaw Junction was located) Mitch fanned himself with his stage ticket while listening to the mayor describe his new duties as sheriff.

  “There’s nothing to the job, really,” the mayor was saying. “Every once in a while ya gotta round up some troublemakers and put ‘em in one of the cells back yonder to spend the night. But that’s not something you’ll have to worry much about.”

  ‘That’s because you’ll be in boot hill soon,’ thought Bert to himself. Then he said out loud, “Yep, this is such a peaceful little town, most of the time you’ll just be sitting here wishing something would happen!”

  Just then they heard a round of gunfire from down the street. Before Mitch could say anything, the mayor smiled and said “just a little target practice down yonder. People practice with guns so they can protect themselves from rattlesnakes.”

  Suddenly Elias spoke up. “Them jail cells back there look brand new, like they’ve never been used.”

  “See how peaceful it is here?” said Bert. “There hasn’t been much cause to use ‘em so far. Why our last two sheriffs used to sleep in there themselves, to save the cost of staying at the hotel.” He didn’t mention that the last two sheriffs used the cells as a hiding place to try to stay alive.

  “The last two sheriffs?” asked Elias nervously. “How many have you had?”

  The mayor spoke up quickly. “Just two, recently. The last one had to leave sudden like, because he heard his ma wasn’t well. And the one before that left because he got a sudden inheritance down under.”

  “In Australia?” asked Mitch.

  “Uh, yeah, that’s right,” said Bert. He gave the mayor a furtive glance. They both knew he was really six feet down under in boot hill!

  Suddenly there was a knock at the door, after which a man stepped into the room. He was tall and thin, and wore a dark suit. At the sight of him, the mayor and Bert jumped up nervously and headed for the door.

  “Well, gotta go,” said Mayor Slickswindle hurriedly. “Got a busy day down at the office.”

  ‘You mean the saloon,’ thought Bert to himself.

  “If you have any questions about how to be sheriff,” the mayor continued, “just look in the instruction book on the shelf there.” He pointed to a black book standing by itself on a shelf above the sheriff’s desk called, “How to be a Small Town Sheriff.” Then the mayor and Bert were gone.

  “I wonder what made them run off so quick?” said Elias curiously.

  The tall man who had come into the office took out a measuring tape. “Stand up, please,” he said to Mitch, who was still lounging in the chair behind the desk. Mitch stood up. The tall man strung out the measuring tape from Mitch’s head to his toes.

  “Whatcha doing?” asked Elias curiously.

  “Taking measurements for yer coffins,” said the man dryly. “I’ve got to have them ready by tomorrow.”

  Mitch didn’t even move a muscle, but Elias turned white. “Our coffins?!” he croaked. “You’re not serious?!”

  “Of course I am,” said the tall man with a yawn. “Bad Bart found out you two are the new sheriff and deputy, and says he wants to have a showdown tomorrow at high noon on Main Street.” He turned to Elias and began to measure him.

  “A showdown!” gasped Elias. “On Main Street?”

  “Yep,” replied the tall man. “That’s where he gunned down four of our last five sheriffs. He’s mighty fast with a gun. Mighty fast.” And then, having gotten his measurements, the man walked out.

  There was dead silence in the office for a moment. Then Elias faced his cousin and exclaimed, “we’ve been hoodwinked and hogswindled! That mayor and councilman are probably up the street right now, laughing at how they tricked us into being killed!”

  Mitch’s brow furrowed, but other than that he gave no sign that he was concerned at all. He reached up and pulled the sheriff’s instruction book off the shelf.

  “I wonder if there’s anything in here about how to handle ruffians like Bad Bart?” he said to no one in particular.

  Elias tore the book out of Mitch’s hands. “Don’t you understand?!” he bellowed. “We’re gonna get killed by Bad Bart tomorrow if we’re crazy enough to still be here! Now we gotta run out of town—and we haven’t even had time to dig for any gold!”

  “Nonsense,” said Mitch calmly, taking the book back from Elias. “I have accepted the public trust to keep the peace here. I can’t just run off because Bad Bart made a few threats.”

  “A few threats!” wailed Elias. But just then a short man came to the door.

  “Begin’ your pardon, sheriff,” he said, “but I got your horses ready. ‘Course, you’ll have to pay fer ‘em. Only twenty bucks apiece.”

  “Horses?” said both Mitch and Elias together in surprise.

  “For your getaway,” said the man. “So you don’t have to face Bad Bart tomorrow. That’s what the last sheriff did. He’s probably half way to Texas right now.”

  Sudden hope gleamed in Elias’ eyes, but before he could say anything Mitch spoke up.

  “We won’t be needing any horses,” he said blandly. “If Bad Bart insists on causing trouble at noon tomorrow, then I will find it my unfortunate duty to take him into custody.”

  The man’s eyes opened wide in amazement. “You’re gonna face Bad Bart?!” he said in awe. “Golly, I’d better go tell the undertaker.”

  “No need,” said Elias forlornly. “He’s already been here.”

  “So you think you can really kill Bad Bart?” asked the man incredulously.

  “Kill him!” exclaimed Mitch. “Who said anything about killing him?”

  “That’s what you’ve gotta do,” said the man. “He’s mighty fast with a gun, and meaner than a skunk that’s lost his scent. The only way to stop him from killing you is to kill him.”

  “That can’t be right!” said Mitch worriedly. “I was only going to take him into custody.” He turned back to the book on how to be a sheriff. “I hope it doesn’t say anywhere in here that I have to kill ruffians like Bad Bart. I don’t want to kill anyone!”

  The short man laughed out loud. “Oh, you don’t need to worry about that!” he said with a chuckle. “He’ll kill you first!” And then he left.

  Elias was pacing the office, muttering to himself. “We should’ve taken them horses!” he said grumpily. “Now we’ll have to walk out tonight, under cover of darkness—and it’s a ten mile hike to the town of Soda Jerk Springs!”

  Mitch didn’t seem to hear him. He was reading the sheriff’s instruction manual intently. “Ah, hah!” he said suddenly. “It says here that the sheriff has to wear a gun and use it if occasion requires, but it doesn’t say he has to kill anyone!”

  “Huh?” said Elias, turning to stare at his cousin.

  “I don’t have to kill Bad Bart!” said Mitch triumphantly, closing the book with a snap. “I only have to take him into custody if he breaks the law.”

  “You’re crazy!” cried Elias. “There’s no way you can take him into custody! You heard what they said—he’s the fastest gun in these parts!”

  “Maybe,” said Mitch calmly as he put the book back on its shelf. “But that doesn’t change my duty to take him in if he breaks the law.” Then he rubbed his chin. “It says I have to carry and use a gun. Hmmm …”

  Elias shook his head in disbelief. “If you’re going to face Bad Bart tomorrow, you’ll do it alone. I’ll be halfway to Soda Jerk Springs by noon tomorrow.”

  Mitch just smiled, and picked up a six shooter that was lying on the edge of the desk. He
fingered it thoughtfully as a dreamy look came into his eyes.

  The light was on late into the night at the sheriff’s office. Most townspeople said it was because the new sheriff wanted to savor the last few moments he had of life. Meanwhile, Cousin Elias lit out for Soda Jerk Springs just past sundown. He was walking and muttering under his breath about all the gold he had been swindled out of.

  He had gone two whole miles when he suddenly stopped, looked up at the stars as if he had suddenly remembered something, then let out a loud yell. “What in tarnation am I thinking?!” Then a broad smile spread over his face. Quickly he turned around and headed back to town, whistling cheerfully as he went.

  The next day dawned bright and clear in Broken Jaw Junction. The town was buzzing with excitement about the showdown that would happen at noon that day between Bad Bart and the new sheriff. Some people had already set their chairs out on the boardwalk to save themselves a good spot to watch the show, even though they all knew what the outcome would be. No one was worried about the danger of a stray shot coming their way. Bad Bart never missed, and of course, the new sheriff wouldn’t have time to get off a shot.

  The morning passed quietly. Mitch never left his office. Bad Bart was in the saloon swigging down drinks, bragging about how many sheriffs he had done away with, and how quick he would do away with the new one. The excitement in town was so thick you could have cut it with a knife. Most of the miners left off digging for gold so they could be part of the fun.

  Finally, the noon hour came. Bad Bart came out of the saloon into the middle of the street. As soon as he did, people darted out of the way until Main Street was deserted (except at the sides where people were lined up to watch as if they were at a parade).

  Bad Bart walked boldly down the street until he was outside the sheriff’s office. “Hey, there, new sheriff!” he yelled. “It’s time for you to meet your maker!”

  There was dead silence. Some people started to whisper that Mitch must have ducked out the back way, and there wouldn’t be a showdown after all.

  But then the door of the sheriff’s office opened! Out came Mitch, wearing a gun strapped to his hip. His badge shined brightly in the sun. He stepped out into the middle of the street and faced Bad Bart.

  The two stared at each other for a moment. The only sound was of a popcorn salesman going down the side of the street, selling his product to all the spectators. (He was sold out in five minutes).

  Finally Bad Bart spoke. “Any last words before you join the other sheriffs in Boot Hill?”

  Mitch didn’t say a word. He just stared at Bad Bart with a look of determination on his face.

  “Well, say something!” exclaimed Bad Bart. “Ain’t you at least gonna try to arrest me?”

  “For what?” replied Mitch.

  “Well, fer …” Bad Bart scratched his chin. Finally he said, “fer killin’ all them other sheriffs.”

  “”I’m still doing an investigation about that,” replied Mitch. “If the evidence shows you broke the law, then I’ll take you in. I just don’t have the evidence yet.”

  Bad Bart laughed long and loud. “You’re gonna take me in?!” he exclaimed. “Oh, that’s a good one!” He laughed long and loud, and there was also a loud wave of laughter from the spectators all the way down the street.

  Finally Bad Bart wiped the tears of laughter from his eyes, flexed his fingers, and said, “O.K., enough chit chat. Draw!”

  “No,” replied Mitch calmly.

  “What?” said Bad Bart in sincere surprise. “Don’t you understand?” he asked. “I’m letting you draw first. I’m the fastest in the west, you know, so it won’t do you any good—I’ll still beat you. But go ahead anyway. All them other sheriffs drew first when I told ‘em to.”

  “Well, then,” replied Mitch, “perhaps you haven’t broken any laws and there isn’t any evidence to take you in. According to my sheriff’s instruction book, a person who draws first in a duel of this sort is the lawbreaker, since he is commencing an act of violence. The person who draws second does so in self defense.”

  Bad Bart scratched his chin in shock. The thought that he was not a lawbreaker had never entered his head before. Finally he said, “C’mon, sheriff. It’s lunch time, and I’m hungry. Just draw so I can shoot ya and go have lunch.”

  “Sorry,” said Mitch calmly, “but I refuse to draw first. That would be against the law which I am bound to uphold!”

  Bad Bart stared at Mitch in wonder. “Well I’ll be dogged if you aren’t the contrariest sheriff I ever did see!” he said. “Now, stop playing games and draw, blast it all!”

  “Nope,” said Mitch. “I’m not going to. You’ll have to draw first.”

  Bad Bart swore under his breath. “Now you’ve done it!” he said through gritted teeth. “You’ve gone and made me mad. I don’t like to draw first—it’s bad for my image, like I’m slow at drawing or something. How about if I toss a coin in the air, and when it hits the dirt we both draw at the same time?”

  “Nope,” said Mitch stubbornly. “You’ll have to draw first.”

  Bad Bart swore again. He looked around at the people watching from the side of the street. Suddenly he yelled, “You all seen it! He provoked me, by insisting that I draw first! I gave him his chance! I told him to draw first, and he refused! He insulted my good name! And so now, I’m a gonna draw!”

  And then Bad Bart drew.

  Now many people had claimed to see Bad Bart draw before, but they were all liars. The truth was, he was so fast it was impossible for anyone to actually see him draw. What people would see was his hand by his holster, and in the very same instant they would see the gun in his hand with smoke coming from it, and hear a gunshot. He drew so fast it was like there was no movement at all. His draw was faster than greased lightning, faster than a ray of sunshine through a cloud, faster even than people could think. And that’s how it was when Bad Bart drew against Mitch that day in Broken Jaw Junction.

  Only this time something strange happened. Bad Bart had his gun halfway out of his holster (even though it was still too fast for anyone to see) when he heard a gunshot and felt a sudden pain in his hand. The pain was so bad he dropped his gun. In complete disbelief, he saw Mitch holding his gun with smoke rising from it. Mitch had actually drawn faster than him! He had outdrawn Bad Bart!!

  There was dead silence in town except for the echo of Mitch’s gun shot. No one could believe what had just happened. (We can’t say that no one could believe what they had just seen because no one had seen Mitch draw either, he was so fast) History was made in that fraction of a second when Mitch outdrew Bad Bart at high noon on Main Street. And a new legend of the west was born.

  But then something even stranger happened. Bad Bart began to scratch. He scratched his hand where Mitch’s bullet had apparently hit him. Only, now that he looked at his hand, there was no blood. There was just a red spot that was starting to swell. Whatever Mitch had shot out of his gun was not a bullet. And it was causing Bad Bart to scratch like crazy.

  “Bad Bart,” said Mitch firmly. “I’m taking you in for drawing first on a sheriff. That’s against the law, you know.” With that, Mitch walked calmly up to Bad Bart—who was still staring at Mitch in disbelief and scratching his hand like crazy—clapped some handcuffs on him, and pulled him off to jail.

  The talk that buzzed through town then was louder than a beehive. “Did you see that?!” everyone was saying to each other. “Sheriff Mitch outdrew Bad Bart! I can’t believe it! How did he do it? And what did he shoot Bad Bart with to make him itch?”

  Just then some town folk caught sight of Cousin Elias, who was standing at the edge of the street. In no time a crowd had gathered around him, peppering him with questions. “You know Mitch—he’s your cousin!” they all said. “How did he do it? How did he outdraw Bad Bart? You’ve got to tell us!”

  Elias grinned, enjoying all of the attention as
if he were the one who had outgunned Bad Bart. “Well,” he drawled dramatically, “it’s like this. Last night I remembered something about Mitch. He had a garden back in West Virginny where we came from. Every morning he’d go out to that garden, and if he saw even so much as a shadow of a lady bug or an aphid or any other kind of bug on one of his tomato plants, he’d whip his little rubber band pistol out of his pocket and shoot that bug so fast it would make your head swim! He carried that pistol everywhere, and used it a lot. Why, I remember one day watching while he shot thirteen of ‘em before I could even blink! So it’s no wonder he was fast enough to outdraw Bad Bart.”

  “But what about the itching?” everyone asked Elias. “What did he shoot Bad Bart with?”

  “I don’t rightly know,” replied Elias, scratching his chin. “But, if I was to guess, knowing Mitch’s love for plants, I’d say last night he probably put together some little pellets of poison ivy that he could load and shoot just like bullets! That’d be just like him. He don’t like killing, you know—except for killing lady bugs.”

  Then Cousin Elias sauntered off to the sheriff’s office to tell Mitch he was back, and to make fun of Bad Bart in his jail cell.

  And that is how Mitch faced down Bad Bart at high noon on Main Street in Broken Jaw Junction, and a great legend of the old west was born. And that is also how Sheriff Mitch gained the nickname “Itchy,” because he was too soft hearted to use real bullets.