Showdown at Laramie Outpost

“I can’t let you go out dressed like that,” Marshall Hawks shook his head.

“What’s wrong with how I’m dressed?” I asked, holding up my arms and looking down at my black shirt and pants.

“You wanna be a cowboy, you need a hat, rawhide,” Hawks replied. “That sun’s really bright out there and they’re gonna use that to their advantage.”

“OK,” I answered. “I need a hat. How’s this?”








“A baseball cap? I admire you rootin’ fer your favorite team, but that just don’t fit around here.”

“What about this?”


“I’m not even sure what that’s fer either, son,” he answered. “You stormin’ the breeches or something?”

“What about this?”


“Yer gonna be too hot in that thing,” he chuckled.

“OK, what about this?”


“That thing is ridiculous! Why would you even want to wear something like that? I told you, you need a cowboy hat.”

“All right then, how about this?”



“What thar heck is that? That thing is even worse! Don’t ever let me see you wear that again!”

“That’s all I got,” I shrugged. “I don’t have anything else.”

“All right, all right, ya dang greenhorn.” Hawks pulled off his hat and placed it on my head. “Just take mine.”



I pulled the hat off and looked at the sweatband. It was stained brown with sweat and dirt.

“That’s from ridin’ hard and livin’ hard, pard,” he laughed. “No matter how hard you try, they don’t come clean.”

I shrugged and unbolted the door.

“One more thing, Johnny,” the Marshall called from his desk. “That sun’s comin’ through the clock tower right about now. Perfect place to put a gun.”

I nodded solemnly and stepped out the door.