They walked into pandemonium. It sort of looked like an old West version of the Visigoths had come to town for a bit of a rampage. "Okay," said Scribe. "Be careful, have fun, and keep 'em out of the office. Oh, and don't hold back. As far as I can remember, no one actually died in this movie. Well, unless you count the people and horses they're hanging at the state capital, and the final triumph of Good over Evil, but..." Blair, Jock, and Grizzle were staring at her. "Never mind. Heads up, Blair!"

Blair had excellent reflexes. He whirled around, and swung the bat at the same time. The Renegade Indian who had been sneaking up on him (well, as much as anyone could sneak in a riot) was caught square in the breadbasket. He oofed, and dropped his weapon of choice--a tomahawk. Scribe gave him a quick squirt of pepper spray. "A hatchet? What do you think this is--Friday the 13th?"

A Filthy Lecher had zeroed in on Jock, who was just behind Scribe. "Outta mah way, Mama. Yore too old, but that lil darlin' behind you is just my kind."

"One, I am not your mother--thank God. And two," she stepped aside. "Do try. I could use a good laugh."

Leering, the man reached for Jock.

*Bonkbonkbonkbonkbonkbonk* Jocasta hit him so rapidly with the numchuks that there wasn't time for the *whish* between each blow. *thud* He hit the ground face first, though that might have been in an attempt to protect his crotch, which had been the main target.

"That'll learn ya, durn ya," said Scribe with satisfaction.

"This is fun!" said Jock enthusiastically.

"You're going to be one of the founding sisters of the women's movement--radical fringe," said Scribe. Grizzle was leaning up against the building, watching the action. "Well? Do something." He shrugged, and scratched his ass. "I had something a little more constructive in mind." *Let's see, what might get him motivated?* "Grizzle, you know that bottle you keep hidden in the horse trough?"

"Yuh?"

Scribe had pulled a notebook and a pencil out of her pocket. "Watch." She scribbled quickly.

A Bandito was riding down the street with Owen Johnson thrown over his saddle. As he passed the horse trough, he tossed the man off, scoring a wet, but accurate, bull's eye. On cue, the trough broke apart, leaving Owen sitting in a jumble of planks, and a rapidly expanding mud puddle. Dazed, he reached under himself and came up with the bottle. Looking relieved, he uncorked it, and started to take a swig.

"Yeeeeee-ah!" Grizzle charged, swinging his bat madly. There happened to be three or four desperados between him and Owen--and the bottle. All of them were knocked flying. Just before Owen could take a drink, his wife ran up, popped him on the head with a rolled up umbrella, and dragged him away, leaving the bottle, while lecturing him on temperance. That saved Owen from getting his head bashed, by one of his fellow citizens, anyway. Grizzle scooped up the bottle, cradling it to his chest with all the tenderness that a mother might show a newborn, and proceeded to defend it against anyone who came within arm's length.

The next fifteen or twenty minutes were very active. Horses were ridden through buildings, windows were smashed, stores were looted, bad checks were written... The newly created mud puddle got a brisk workout. Scribe figured that if she and Jocasta were to wrestle in it, they'd be able to pretty much bring the entire riot to a standstill, but that wasn't about to happen.

There was an outside pay shower that got pulled down, leaving a tall, very skinny bather, slathered in foam from neck to toes. He eeped, quickly covering the essential bits. Scribe was running past, attempting to get her prod onto the butt of a marauder who'd been stupid enough to say something about her mother. She paused, saying, "Why is it that these sort of things always happen to guys who aren't meaty enough to be interesting?" The man humphed, putting his hands on his hips indignantly. Scribe's eyes got wide. "I stand corrected. My apologies, and--wow." She resumed her pursuit. The bather didn't get much time to smirk. He was grabbed and thrown into the midst of a huddled group of the Ladies' Missionary Society. It was later remarked that he took some time to struggle free--uh... emerge.

Several of the townsfolk took refuge in the town bank, reasoning that it was the safest place, since the thugs had robbed it first thing. They crouched, peering through the broken windows at the chaos in the street.

"I've never seen anything like this," said Howard Johnson.

"I have," said his wife.

"Eunice! When?"

"That's right, you didn't go with me to the half price bargain sale that time we visited New York."

"It's a shame," said the Preacher, "that we're so overwhelmed. None of us are making any sort of a stand."

"The newspaper staff is," said Eunice.

"It's scandalous the way those two young women are behaving," said the Preacher. "Why don't they scream and faint, like decent women?"

"Speaking of the Schoolmarm," said Howard, "where is she?"

"Probably still in the schoolroom," said Eunice. "I don't think she's regained consciousness from this morning. One of the girls asked her if what she'd read in the Rockridge Rogue was true, and she wouldn't have to wear corsets when she developed *ahem* 'upstairs'. I'm not sure if it was the word 'corsets' or the allusion to breasts that did it."

"Look, there goes the editor," said Howard.

"Oh, one of you men go save the poor woman from whoever is after her!"

"What do you mean 'whoever is after her'? She's the one doing the chasing. And I think she's singing. Here she comes again."

They listened to the noise from outside.

"It's a beautiful day in the neighborhood..." *Brrzapt* *yip!* "A beautiful day for a neighbor..." *Brrzapt* *yelp!* "Would yooou be my..." *Brrzapt* *whimper* "Could yooou be my..." *Brrzapt* *yarble!* "Won't you please, won't you pleeeease..." "Pleasepleasepleaseplease..." *Brrrrrrrrzapt* "Please won't you be my neighbor?"

"That's absolutely chilling," said Eunice.

"You're right," said Howard. "And why do I keep thinking she should be wearing a sweater, and canvas shoes?"

The Preacher was peeking out the window. "Oh, my! You know the young man who recently went to work for the newspaper? One of the hooligans just pulled his hair, and now all the women in town are beating the miscreant, and..."

"Blair?"

"Eunice!" Howard yelled, "You come back here!"

The raid wound down. Thanks to the unexpected spunkiness of the newspaper staff, the Number Seven Dance didn't come off, like Taggert had planned, but things were still pretty morose.

A meeting was called at the church. In the office of the Rockridge Rogue, Scribe was attempting to delegate. "I'm pooped, but someone needs to cover the meeting for the paper. Blair, you go."

"Are you kidding?" said Blair. "Me--go in there alone, with the Ladies' Missionary Society? No thank you."

"I guess you're right. Jim would never forgive me for sending you into such peril."

"Who?"

She smiled. "Yooou'll find out."

"I'll go, I'll go!" Jocasta bounced up and down with enthusiasm.

"Thanks, kiddo, but I don't think you have the mature, adult viewpoint this needs. I guess I'd better go."

Inga, sitting by her feet, went, *snerk*

Scribe sat up straighter, hands on hip. "You have something to say about that?"

"ooo?"

"Yes, me!"

*snerk*

"Oh, that's it. When we get home, I'm telling the tomcat that you've been cheating on him. He'll give you a whole new definition of the term 'pussy whipped'."

*thud*

Owen Johnson came in, gazing back out at the street. "The schoolmarm just fainted again, but it's all right. The gambler caught her. Miss Scribe, you are attending the town meeting, aren't you?"

"I wasn't planning on it."

"But you represent the paper! You have to get the word of this outrage out to the people."

Scribe got up, and slung an arm companionably over Owen's shoulders. "Owen, tell me--do you have any idea how big our circulation is outside Rockridge?"

"Um... None?"

"Correct! Almost in the negative numbers. Now then, do you think there's a remote chance that any of Rockridge's citizens are not aware of what happened today?"

"Well... no."

"So, in effect, I'd be telling people something that they already knew, and charging them for it."

"Uh... yes."

"It's the American way." She grabbed a notebook and pencil. "Come on, troops."

The meeting came to order, and there was a brief choral opening, to bring the people together. In best solemn, doleful style, accompanied by the wheezing organ, they sang, "Now is our time of great decision. Should be fight or up and quit. There's no avoiding this conclusion--our town is turning into shit."

As they sat down, Scribe wiped a tear from her eye, and Blair put his arm around her shoulders (immediately causing most of the females in the congregation to commit the sin of Envy). "What's wrong?"

"Nothing." *sniff* "It's just that the classics always get to me."

The Preacher stood up at the podium. "Friends," he declaimed, "I don't need to tell you what happened today. Theft. Mayhem. Destruction of property." The citizens were nodding. "Horses stolen, cattle stampeded, men assaulted, women insulted, and not one..." he pounded on the podium, "not one of those villains cleaned up after their horses pooped on the street!" Murmurs of outrage. "Something must be done." He took a deep breath. "Well, I don't know about the rest of you, but as for me... I'm outta here."

He bent down to grab up a suitcase, but Howard Johnson put a hand on his shoulder and pushed him back into his seat. Then Howard took the podium. "The Reverend is right about one thing--something must be done. The question is--what?"

Scribe covered her eyes, sighing. "They're going to be difficult."

Eunice stood up. "I say that we write them a really, really stern letter." Everyone was nodding.

Scribe jumped up. "No! Not... not the stern letter! Please, can't we all just get along?"

"They started it," said Howard stoutly.

She sighed again. "I keep forgetting that anachronistic sarcasm is wasted here. I think you need a stronger response, people."

"She's right," said Owen Johnson. "I think we're going to have to go to petitions."

"Oh, God, the violence. Try again."

The Preacher pounded his fist on his Bible. "We've got to have them send in the Cavalry."

"Whoa! Back up--too far." There was muttering among the townspeople. "Who usually keeps law and order in a small town like this?" More muttering. "You give 'em books, and you give 'em books, and they keep trying to eat the pages." She scribbled quickly on her notebook, ripped the page out, and held it up against her chest. She'd drawn a six pointed star on the paper. "What am I?"

Everyone stared. Finally the Preacher said, "Jewish?"

"Please don't give my elderly relations heart attacks like that. Who else wears stars on their chests?" Silence. "Oh, please! You people can't possibly miss this one." Blair and Jocasta both started to raise their hands. "No, you don't. Don't help them. They have to do it themselves."

Finally Eunice said timidly, "A sheriff?"

"BING! You get a cookie the next time I bake. Now, does anyone..." She started giggling. "I'm sorry, but this is going to be impossible to say with a straight face. Do any *giggle* any of you *titter* doanyofyouwanttobesheriff?" *Howl!* *sniff* "Sorry. Any takers?"

The entire town went, "Uuuuuh..."

"Thought so. That means we have to get one from outside the town, and since I don't think you want any of the railroad guys..." She waited. *sigh* "Do I have to spell it all out for you? Who appoints sheriffs?"

"Say!" said Owen Johnson. "I have an idea. Let's write to the governor and demand that he send us a new sheriff."

There were cheers. Scribe sat back down, muttering, "Now, why didn't I think of that?"

Jocasta tugged at her sleeve, "But Scribe, you..."

"Sweetie, how much luck do you usually have in convincing the men around here that you're just flat not interested in any of them?" Jocasta wrinkled her nose. "That's approximately how much luck you'd have of convincing these people that this wasn't their idea." Scribe whispered to her, "Speak the party line, then get on with the subversion. Just nod in approval." Jock nodded. Scribe raised her voice. "Somebody needs to write a letter to the governor, telling him to get his butt in gear." *thud* "Normally it would be Priscilla, the Schoolmarm, but since she seems to be incapable of staying conscious long enough, how about Eunice?"

"Oh, really, I couldn't," Eunice twittered, snatching the notebook and pencil from Scribe, and beginning to write.

Scribe patted her on the back. "You work on that, Toots. I'm sure it won't take you long." She headed for the door.

"Wait," said Howard. "You're the newspaper editor, so wouldn't you be the logical one to do any writing?"

"In any other universe, probably--but Eunice will do fine. Anyway, I've got something I need to get taken care of."

"The next edition, detailing our efforts?"

"And letting the bad guys know exactly what we're up to? Doooon't think so. Nope, I have something else to do that's much more important. I've got to stock a drunk tank." She went out.

Blair and Jocasta trotted after her. She headed for the saloon. Blair said, "If you need a drink, I know where Grizzle hides another bottle."

"I do, too, and I'm not drinking out of anything that's been down the outhouse. Anyway, I'm not going in there for a drink."

"Then what are you going in there for?"

"Well, let's see--about so high, blue eyes, wildly curly blonde hair."

"Sounds all right by me," said Blair.

"Male, or female?" said Jock.

"Male," said Scribe.

"I'll go feed Inga." Jock peeled off and headed for the office.

Scribe looked at Blair. "Still sound all right by you?"

"Uh..."

"Right--brunettes are more your type. Don't worry--he's not for you, anyway. Someone special is on his way to Rockridge, and I have to make sure that the drunk tank is stocked when he gets here."

The doors of the saloon had been ripped off, so they walked right in. Blair looked around. "What a mess."

"Makes me nostalgic for the sports bar after a big football game."

"There's no one here."

"Oh, believe me--he's here somewhere."

"How will we ever find him in this mess?"

"Easy."

Scribe walked over to the bar and located the lone intact bottle. She held a finger to her lips, "Be very, very quiet." She gripped the cork in her teeth and carefully pulled it out.

*squeak*

A broken table was shoved aside to reveal a disheveled blonde man propped against the wall "Did somebody call mah name?"

Scribe walked over to him. "That depends. What's your name? Answer correctly, and you get the bottle."

He seemed to think for a moment. "Squeak?"

"No, that's sort of my alias in the Proverbs Series. Try again."

He thought. "The Waco Kid?"

"Bingo." She handed him the bottle.

He accepted it, tilted it to his lips, and proceeded to swallow the contents in one prolonged gulp. When the bottle was empty he sighed, wiped his mouth, and said mildly, "Wonderful game, but a real bitch if you're playing black out."

Blair said, "Should you have given him more alcohol? He seemed a little disoriented to start with."

Scribe smiled. "Just a natural state. Any man who could come up with the idea of Young Frankenstein is a weeny bit bent to start with, and in this case, bent is a good, good thing. Kid, how would you like to go to the drunk tank?"

He pondered. "Is it more comfortable than the floor?"

"Probably."

"Okay."

"Help me shift him, Blair." They got The Kid on his feet, one under each arm, and began to walk him out of the saloon. "Congratulations, Kid, you are officially the most cooperative drunk I've ever run into."

"Always happy to oblige a lady," The Kid murmured.

"Well, if I find one, I'll be sure to send her over."