Seven rustlers; six bullets, send help.
"Crap. That's a lot of Indians."
High noon; busy saloon; trouble soon!
His boots carried his weary soul.
Look, coyotes! Hon, count the babies!
Honor, pride, trust; trail of tears.
"Dead wrong -- that was five shots...."
Tumbleweeds rolling. Churchbell tolling. Shots fired.
Sheriff required: exceptionally good luck essential.
Wanted: quiet hero, nameless if possible.