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A Close Shave

Sheriff Brown heard the rumour that the gunslinger Silver was in town, getting a trim at the local barber, so he decided to mosey on down there for a look see.

He entered the barber shop carefully, cautiously, casually, like he was just dropping by for an overdue hair cut. Sure enough, Silver was sitting in the lone barber's chair, watching the passers by on the street while the barber, a weasel named Bill Hicks, hovered around, snipping here, cutting there.

The gunslinger known as Silver was a fox, with a black face and silver ears and ruff. It was hard to tell much more because most of him was covered by the barber's black silk sheet, except for his left paw, which stuck out, resting on his left knee, holding the tinted glasses he wore when the sun was bright. The paw was covered by a black glove of the kind gun fighters wore to improve their grip. It was made of the finest kid with holes stitched in the ends for his neatly trimmed claws. Only an inch of dark fur showed between the glove and the cuff of his fine linen shirt with its silver fox-head cuff link. The paw was perfectly still.

Brown let his eyes roam around the room. The first thing he noticed was the black leather double gun belt, hung on a peg far out of reach from the barber chair. It was a beautiful piece of gear, with the thick leather tooled into a floral pattern and a big silver buckle and several silver rosettes riveted on every few inches. Both off the famous silver-handled single-action Colt Army .44s were in their holsters.

The barber, who had some experience in these matters, wisely moved into the far corner of the shop, out of the line of fire, and pretended to be rearranging the lotions and colognes.

Sheriff Brown smiled and turned back to face Silver as his paw dropped to the butt of his own heavier double-action Colt Frontier model.

"Well, howdy, Mister Silver. Didn't expect to see you back in these parts what with the warrant out for your arrest and all."

Silver regarded the overweight Golden Labrador with unblinking steel-grey eyes. "Oh, come on Sheriff. You know old man Kennedy had the judge draw that up just so he could send his pet Deputy Marshalls after me."

"Can you blame him; after what you did to his only son?"

"He drew first, and I just winged him."

"You shot his cock off! Now there's no one left to carry on the family name. Old man Kennedy has posted a very generous reward for bringing you in ... dead or alive."

"I'm guessing he would prefer dead."

"That he would." Brown said, as he twisted his gun in its holster, to make sure it would not stick at a crucial moment. "No hard feelings."

"Me neither."

There was a loud 'boom' and a cloud of smoke appeared between the two. The silk sheet jumped like someone was trying to pluck it off the customer and a little hole lined with smouldering fire appeared in it where Silver's groin would be.

A similar hole appeared in the inside corner of the Sheriff's right eye. The bullet that had made it exited out the top of his head, along with a goodly amount of the Sheriff's brains.

Silver cast off the smouldering sheet, keeping the short-barrelled bone-handled .45 he had been holding under the sheet in his right paw pointed at the Sheriff until the big dog slid to the floor, leaving a smear of blood on the door post from head-height all the way down.

Silver glanced out the window to see if the Sheriff had posted any deputies outside, but the greedy bastard had come alone. Then he looked at his face in the mirror, turning it to-and-fro to admire the cut of his ruff and the way the bar barber had slicked back the tuft between his ears with some sweet-smelling pomade.

"We done here Bill?" He asked the cowering barber.

"Ye- ... yes sir, mi- ... mister Silver. All done. This one is ... uh ... on the house."

"Nonsense." Silver replied, flipping a silver dollar across the room, which, to his credit, the barber snatched in mid-air with one paw. "Keep the change."

* * * * * * * *

It was almost a year to the day later when Silver found himself in the same barber chair, facing the new Sheriff, a Collie by the name of Jones.

In the intervening twelve months old man Kennedy had tried to turn Brown's killing into a foxhunt but the State Magistrate intervened and quashed the charges. After hearing the barber's testimony the judge ruled that Brown had died trying to enforce an illegal warrant and that the fox known as Silver was merely defending himself.

Old man Kennedy had been so mad he suffered an aneurism and died right there in the courthouse. His emasculated son sold the ranch and moved to Paris, where he was rumoured to have taken up with a rough crowd of criminal homosexuals, where his lack of a penis was no hinderance to his sexual fulfillment.

Silver himself had not appeared at the proceedings, preferring to let a high-priced lawyer from Saint Louis represent him. With the Kennedy's gone and his name cleared it seemed safe enough to stop by his favourite barber again, but unfortunately Jones had been a deputy Sheriff under Brown. He had admired the old Lab, and he was not above an extra-judicial killing to avenge his old boss.

Silver was in the same position the barber had described at the hearing into Brown's death, with his left paw exposed and holding his tinted glasses while his right was hidden under the barber's sheet.

Jones already had his gun out as he entered and pointed it at Silver's chest. "Let's see both those paws." He said.

Silver slowly pulled his empty right paw out from under the sheet and placed it on his right knee.

Jones nodded, extended his arm and took aim between those cold grey eyes. "Any last words?"

"Yes." The Silver fox tilted his head, throwing Jones' aim off. "No hard feelings."

Jones squinted in confusion as he tried to tilt his wrist to line the barrel of his gun up with the black patch of fur between those ghostly eyes.

"Wha- ..."

There was a loud 'boom' and a cloud of smoke appeared between the two. The silk sheet jumped like someone was trying to pluck it off the customer and a little hole lined with smouldering fire appeared in it where Silver's groin would be.

A similar hole appeared in the inside corner of the Sheriff Jones' left eye. The bullet that had made it exited out the top of his head, along with a goodly amount of the Sheriff's brains.

Silver cast off the smouldering sheet, along with the fake left paw and the duplicate glasses, keeping the short-barrelled bone-handled .45 he had been holding under the sheet in his real left paw pointed at the Sheriff until the slim dog slid to the floor, leaving a smear of blood on the door post from head-height all the way down.

Silver glanced out the window to see if the Sheriff had posted any deputies outside, but the smug bastard had come alone. Then he looked at his face in the mirror, turning it to-and-fro to admire the cut of his ruff and the way the bar barber had slicked back the tuft between his ears with some sweet-smelling pomade.

"We done here Bill?" He asked the cowering barber.

"Ye- ... yes sir, mi- ... mister Silver. All done, bu- ... but there is one thing.

The deadly grey eyes swivelled to nail the barber against the back wall.

"And what would that be ... Bill?"

"I'm going to have to charge extra for cleanup with you leaving Sheriffs laying around bleeding like this."

Silver chuckled in a rare show of genuine amusement. He flipped two silver dollars across the room, which the barber deftly caught in one paw.

"Keep the change." Silver said as he strapped his gun belt around his hips.

"Change?" The barber asked with raised brows. "What change?"