Standing tall in cowboy boots scuffed from wear,
and cowboy hat sitting jauntily on his head,
silver star gleaming proudly upon his chest,
and hobby horse standing at attention by his side....
the Sheriff faces his opponent...
hands on hips cocked...
just like he has seen in countless western movies.

Standing proud in feathered crown made in art class
and moccassins found at a garage sale, used for last Halloween
Hand paint adorning his chest, declaring him a War Chief,
He towers over his rival
and glares back beligerantly...
a twinkle of mischeif and laughter dancing in his eyes,
while lip curls in mock contempt.

"Do you surrender?"
"Never."
Indian laughs at this foolishness, "You are outnumbered, seven to one."
He gestures to his invisible legion.
Cowboy shrugs his shoulders, without a care,
forgetting for just a moment that he is a "man"
with a cause,
he answers, "Well let's get on with it then."
The brothers face off,
elder giving his whooping war cry,
tomahawk at the ready.

"Pow!"
A shot is fired,
one down....
Shooter dodges behind the couch
for safety...
he cannot be caught yet.

Peeking his head over the top,
oh no... he has been spotted...
quickly fires off...
"Pow!"
another one gone...
he scampers around the couch
and makes a mad dash for the hallway...
whew...
that was close.

Peering around the corner,
back is turned,
perfect opportunity,
"Pow! Pow! Pow!"
Three more bite the dust...
but now the Indian is wise and in hot pursuit...
last shot is fired from cap gun over shoulder...
"Pow!"
as plastic hammer glances off retreating back.

He falls eliquently to the floor,
making an over parody of death,
with shaking limbs,
contorting upon the floor,
he becomes still...

but wait!

He slowly rolls over, looking sadly up at the victor,
and on his "dying" breath he gasps, almost plaintively,
"Well... at least I got six out."

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