“What’s a piñata?” I reply.

  “You know, those big models made from paper and chicken wire,” says the whiskery old man in long johns. “They’re filled with candy and hung on string from the ceiling.”

  “I had a piñata on my last birthday, but El Bandido, he stole my piñata,” wails Little Joe.

  “I hate him already,” I grunt.

  Little Joe points to a large poster behind the bar.

  “They got a reward out for his capture – twenty-five-thousand dollars! The last sheriff got close, but not close enough!” warns the barber.

  “What happened to him?” I ask, trying not to look nervous.

  “Nothing,” says the blacksmith, “after he stopped being sheriff, he got a job behind the bar here…”

  He turns and points at a skeleton hanging on the wall. “He’s our hatstand!”

  Everyone roars with laughter.

  “Oh dear,” I mutter. “He doesn’t look too happy.”

  “You should see his deputy.” He spits into a skull-shaped spittoon. “You not yella, are you, sheriff?”

  I think “yella” means being a big cowardly custard in cowboy land.

  “No man’s called me yella before and lived to tell the tale,” I reply. This is sort of true. No man has called me yella. Plenty of boys and girls, mind you, and Mrs Bus from the corner shop. “I know how to deal with rough, tough, no-good sorts,” I chuckle. “Many a dirty dog I have brought before the law…”

  “Like who?” says the whiskery old man.

  “Oh, you know…” I try to think of some of the cowboys from the movies. “Billy the Kid, Buffalo Bill … Wild Bill Hickok. Anyone called Bill or Billy, really.”

  Everyone round the room starts nodding. I think they’re impressed with my answer.

  “I like your style, sheriff,” says the old man. “You can call me Old Jake, by the way.”

  “A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Old Jake,” I reply.

  “Speaking plainly, we’re in dire need of your services, sheriff,” he continues. “El Bandido and his gang are gonna come and steal our cattle. And if we lose our cattle, what else can we sell at market? We’d be ruined. If we can’t trade on our cattle, we’ll starve!”

  “Sounds like you’ve got a whole heap of trouble,” I reply.

  I take a long sip of my lemonade. It’s really yummy.

  “So here’s the thing,” continues Old Jake. “We gotta take our cattle to market over in Cactus City and it’s real important we keep the whole thing secret from El Bandido! Do you think you can help us, sheriff?”

  How can I say no? Saving this little town from El Bandido, that’s what sheriffs are for!

  I finish the last of my fizzy drink and slam the glass on the table.

  “I’m your man!” I announce.

  Everyone throws their hats in the air and shoots holes through them. What a waste of hats!

  “The lemonade is on the house,” says the barman.

  “Much obliged, sir,” I reply, growing into my part. “As long as I’m wearing this badge and the office of sheriff counts for something, I will always, ALWAYS, serve the good people of Dungville!”

  Everyone cheers. My speech has gone down really well.

  “What does this El Bandido look like?” I continue.

  “He’s got a row of gold teeth,” says Old Jake, “and breath like a mule’s butt!”

  “Eurgh…” I wince.

  “Scram, boys,” shouts the barman, “we got company…”

  Chapter Five

  A horse whinnies; a shadow moves across the saloon doors.

  The doors fly open.

  A stranger in a massive Mexican hat stumbles into the saloon. The barman hides behind the bar, the piano player stops playing and everyone looks around nervously. Why is everybody so scared?

  The stranger walks slowly between the tables, chewing a piece of gum.

  He leans over the bar and pulls out a jug of liquor.

  “Did you see what he just did?” I mumble. “Somebody should call the sheriff.”

  “You are the sheriff!” whispers Little Joe.

  “Oh yes, I forgot,” I giggle. “Sorry about that.”

  The stranger looks at me for a really long time and he chews and he chews and he chews. Then he turns and spits into the spittoon.

  “So, you’re the new sheriff, yeah…” he says.

  “Oh yes,” I reply, confidently. “Sheriff by name, sheriff by nature.”

  I have absolutely no idea what I’m talking about.

  “That so, huh?” he replies. “And what is your name, sheriff?”

  OK, here we go, I’m going to let him have it – both barrels.

  “My name is John Smith,” I announce.

  There is a bit of a pause before the stranger cracks up laughing.

  “Seriously, sheriff,” he grunts, “what is your name?”

  Oh dear, I just gave it my best shot and he fell about in hysterical hoots. I fix him with my meanest stare as I try to think up a new name for myself. I’d better make this good. After all, they’ve all got exciting names in the Wild West – Butch this and Sundance that.

  “What’s the matter, sheriff, can’t you speak?” he grins.

  “I’m thinking!” I reply.

  I carry on thinking for a little bit longer. Everyone leans in, waiting for me to answer. Suddenly, my new name hits me in a blinding moment of genius.

  “They call me the Sheriff with No Name!” I growl.

  Everyone nods. I think they like the sound of this. It is a very mysterious name.

  “That’s a very mysterious name,” says the stranger. “What’s your business here, sheriff?”

  “I’m here to protect our cattle from El Bandido,” I reply.

  “Oooh,” says the stranger, “El Bandido! I hear many bad things about this El Bandido – that he is a monster, a villain, an outlaw. I heard he even stole the piñata from a children’s birthday party and ate all the candy! And I ask myself: can all this be true?”

  The stranger looks round the saloon, drumming his fingers on the bar. “Tell me, where are you taking your cattle? Are you taking them to Cactus City?”

  “Yes,” I reply. “It’s my job to make sure the cattle don’t fall into the hands of El Bandido.”

  “You don’t say,” laughs the stranger. “What does he look like, this El Bandido?”

  “They say he’s got pure gold teeth and his breath smells like a rotten, pongy bottom!”

  The stranger suddenly flashes a golden grin.

  “You mean it smells like this!” he snarls.

  He blows a jet of air in my face. Satan’s bum-hole, that stinks!

  I stare at the stranger, my eyes popping. “You’re El Bandido!”

  “Of course,” he roars. The stranger throws back his hat. “My horse was bitten in the rear by a rattlesnake,” he grunts. “So I sucked out the poison! That is why I have, as you say, breath like a rotten, pongy bottom!”

  Wow, he must be one tough cookie, this El Bandido. A whole packet of tough cookies!

  “Do you know what my name means in your language?” he growls.

  “Uh, the bandit?” I reply.

  “OK, so you guessed,” he sighs. “But I am still as dangerous as a scorpion in a slipper!”

  “We’re not scared of you, El Bandido, are we, good people of Dungville?” I cry.

  The good people of Dungville have their heads under the tables and their bottoms in the air.

  “Dungville,” sneers El Bandido. “The only thing this stinky little town is good for is poop, cowpats, jobbies. Do you know the sound the church bell makes? Dung! Dung! Dung!”

  El Bandido cackles for a really long time. When he sees no one else is joining in with his silly joke, he shakes his head. “El Bandido is wasted on you lot!” he shrugs.

  Suddenly El Bandido rolls a long leather whip out from under his coat and sends it flicking and cracking across the room. “If you were in my gang, I would soon whip you into shape!” he guffaws.

  He slams his glass on the table and does a loud burp. “I would like to thank you for the useful tip about the cattle, Sheriff No-Name,” he grins. “My compadres will be waiting for you at our secret hideaway up in the hills.”

  El Bandido cackles to himself, then dashes out of the saloon with great gusto.

  “Are you crazy, sheriff?” says Little Joe. “You just told El Bandido our whole plan. Now he’ll be waiting for us. He’ll steal our cattle and sell them in the market. And we’ll be ruined! RUINED!”

  Oh no, I’ve really goofed this time. Everyone in the saloon stares at me, eyes bulging, mouths wide open.

  “Tell us you can protect our cattle, sheriff,” says Old Jake.

  “Don’t worry,” I reply. “I’ll make sure we get the cattle safely to market. After all, I’m the sheriff and what I say goes!”

  Chapter Six

  Everyone has gathered in the main street outside the saloon.

  “Here you go, sheriff,” says Old Jake, leading the herd round the corner, “just make sure you get our cattle safely to Cactus City.”

  “Don’t worry,” I smile. “I know what I’m doing!”

  I haven’t a clue what I’m doing! I wouldn’t know Cactus City if it stuck a needle in my bottom. What I need right now is the satnav in Dad’s car (even if it was bought on the internet and only speaks Japanese!).

  I turn to Little Joe and whisper, “Which way is Cactus City, Little Joe?”

  “Oh, it’s easy to find Cactus City,” says Little Joe. “You see that boulder on the horizon sticking up like a finger?”

  Little Joe points to a stone finger sticking high up in the mountains.

  “Just aim for that. When you pass the finger, follow the shadow on the ground – it points all the way to Cactus City. Stay on the shadow, you can’t go wrong.”

  “Thanks, Little Joe,” I smile, “you’re even better than Dad’s satnav.”

  Little Joe looks at me and scratches his head. “I ain’t got a clue what you’re saying, sheriff,” he chortles, “but I like the way you’re saying it!”

  “You sure you’re OK with this?” says the blacksmith.

  “Trust me,” I grunt in my best cowboy voice, “I’m an old hand at this.”

  I jump on to my horse and pat her on the neck.

  “If you’re an old hand at this,” says Old Jake, “why are you sitting on a cow?”

  I look down and see that my horse has grown a massive pair of udders.

  “I was just testing you,” I fib.

  “Is this your horse, sheriff?” says Little Joe, untying Daisy.

  Daisy snorts two blasts of warm air and then does a massive dump on the ground.

  “That’s my Daisy, all right,” I sigh.

  “Daisy,” cackles Old Jake, “what kind of a name is that?”

  Daisy flicks her tail in Old Jake’s eye.

  “Ouch,” hollers Old Jake.

  “Don’t fail us now, sheriff,” says the blacksmith.

  “Do I look like I’m about to fail you?”

  Everyone stares back at me.

  I need to prove what an excellent all-round cowboy I am. So I grab some rope and spin it round my head like cowboys are supposed to do. I think they call it lassoing.

  The rope slips out of my hand and accidentally lands over an angry bull at the front of the herd. The bull rears up, then charges down the street. Everyone starts clapping and cheering. I lean back in the saddle with my hat held high and shout, “Yeehaw!” That’s when I see the rope quickly uncoiling, and just as I work out what is going to happen next, I’m whipped off my feet and dragged along the ground, screaming and hollering, clutching the other end of the rope.

  The townsfolk part as the bull pulls me, face down, through the grit and dirt. He thunders round a corner and sends me – still clutching the rope – swinging out wide and on to the back of an old cart. The cart rolls after the charging bull.

  I get to my feet and ride the runaway cart like a chariot.

  The bull comes round in a big circle and rages back towards the townsfolk. The excited cheers turn to panic and the townsfolk start to scatter before us, piling into the saloon, diving into the barbershop, shinning up telegraph poles.

  Eventually, I yank the rope really hard. The bull digs his heels into the soil, kicking out a gigantic cloud of dust and coming to a sudden stop. The cart slams into the bull’s butt and I go flying clean over the top.

  The townsfolk look at me, gobsmacked.

  “That – was – INCREDIBLE!” gasps Old Jake.

  “You sure are a natural,” says Little Joe.

  “You’re going to kick El Bandido’s butt,” chuckles the blacksmith.

  “Good people of Dungville,” I declare, “I will deliver your cattle to Cactus City safe and sound.”

  I jump on to Daisy and cry, “Let’s roll ’em out!”

  Daisy looks at me, then dawdles along at her own pace. I look back and give the townsfolk of Dungville a great big John Smith thumbs up. This is going to be SO easy.

  Wow, it takes a really long time to get the cattle moving. The going is what they call slooooow! I suppose that’s fair enough – cattle are a bit big and bulky and when they’re not swishing away the flies with their tails, or chewing the grass, they’re standing round, barging into each other and, uh … well, going to the toilet!

  It takes a whole hour to move them about fifty yards. At this rate I’ll be in Cactus City next Christmas! I give a few shouts of “yah” and “ha” to get the herd moving a bit faster but it’s no good, this lot were born to dawdle. So I sing a song to pass the time. It isn’t a very good song, but I’ve heard Dad sing it round the house when Mum isn’t listening. “Oh take me back home, where the buffalo roam, and you get a house full of poo…”

  Eventually we pick up a little pace and leave the desert behind. I drive the cattle over snow-capped peaks, through raging rivers and down craggy slopes. At last I’m starting to get the feel of this cowboy thing. I lean forward and pat Daisy on the neck. “I think we make a pretty good team, Daisy.”

  Then, suddenly, everything changes. Something goes whizzing past my ear. I look back and see El Bandido and his gang of bandits riding after me with their guns raised and at the ready. Oh dear, oh no, this isn’t one of those westerns on the telly where the hero rides off into the sunset, this is real life and – cripes, yikes – those bullets flying round my head are real bullets. To say I’m scared is putting it mildly – I’m pooping baked potatoes!

  Another bullet goes whizzing past. This time the cattle get spooked and start to break into a mild jog, which then becomes a firm trot and finally an all-out “look, we’re being chased, run for your life” crazy sprint! Who’d have thought these big beasts had it in them, but when they want to run – THEY CAN RUN!

  “Come on, Daisy!”

  We set off after the cattle, riding up the side of the mountain. I must get to Cactus City before El Bandido! As long as I aim for the big stone finger, I’ll be all right.

  Hold on, where is the big stone finger? Was it to the left of me? Was it to the right of me? I DON’T KNOW. I can see some other stones but I’m not sure from this angle if any of them are the stone finger Little Joe pointed out to me. One of them looks like a toe, the other one looks like a thumb and the third stone looks more like a massive cucumber.

  The big stone finger has COMPLETELY DISAPPEARED. Which way is Cactus City? I’m totally lost. There are no roads and definitely no signposts. In front of me looks just like behind me; left looks like right. The only thing I do know is El Bandido is still chasing me. My heart is thumping, my mouth is dry. My knees would be knocking if they didn’t have about half a ton of horse between them. It’s time I gave myself a firm talking to.

  Steady yourself, you’re the sheriff, you’ve got a big shiny badge and crazy Daisy the mad mare and you’ve got a job to do. So come on, let’s get these cattle to Cactus City!

  If I keep riding in a straight line, I’m sure to hit Cactus City sooner or later.

  “Come on, Daisy…”

  I drive the cattle on, riding Daisy faster and faster until we’re at full gallop, riding flat out across the massive desert. But I can’t outrun El Bandido. If horses had rear-view mirrors I’d catch him in my sights, tearing across the plain with his band of bandits.

  It’s time for what they call some hard riding. I ride like the wind, like MORE than the wind, like the wind the night after a really spicy curry! I ride like there’s no tomorrow! Even though tomorrow is Saturday and there’s no school, so it would be nice if there was a tomorrow. We gallop through scrub and tumbleweed, cactus plants and bone-dry desert, past bison skulls and circling vultures. And suddenly, out of nowhere, I see…

  The big stone finger! I must have accidentally galloped in a really big circle but at least I’m back on track! All I have to do now is follow the shadow all the way to Cactus City.

  I gather the reins and drive the cattle even harder. This is what being a real cowboy is all about. Beating off the bad guys, galloping flat out with the wind in your hair. I drive my cattle up craggy slopes, across raging rivers and along snow-capped peaks until I see, shimmering in the distance, the town I’ve been trying to find all along.

  “Cactus City! That’s Cactus City, Daisy! We made it!” I turn back to the tiny dot in the distance that is El Bandido, put my thumb to my nose and blow a huge raspberry.

  “Come on, Daisy, let’s get these cattle to market!”

  Am I the best sheriff ever? I think we all know the answer to that!

  Chapter Seven

  Cactus City looks just like Dungville.

  The barbershop, the blacksmith and the saloon are all identical to Dungville. Then again, you’ve seen one western you’ve seen them all, as Dad always says. Even the people look the same. The blacksmith looks just like the blacksmith, the barber looks just like the barber and Little Joe and Old Jake look just like the other Little Joe and Old Jake. And the massive smell of poo is just like Dungville too. Still, I followed the shadow on the ground so this has to be Cactus City and I must be the greatest sheriff in the land.

 

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