Stories of Tie Up Games

Chapter One: Quiet Before the Storm

The faint hiss of clippers and the crisp snap of shears filled the small barbershop, a sound that had become as much a part of Wellington as the clang of the blacksmith’s hammer or the distant whistle of the noon train. Sunlight cut through the windows in sharp beams, laying golden bars across the scuffed wooden floor. The air carried the scent of bay rum tonic, leather, and the faint char of dust blowing in off the prairie.

Sheriff Rhett sat in the wide-backed chair, posture relaxed but presence unmistakable. His shoulders filled the cape Sam had snugged around his neck, the crisp paper strip tucked beneath it, and his boots—scuffed brown leather with silver spurs that chimed when he moved—rested on the iron footrest. His hat lay brim-down on the shelf beside the basin, shadowing a revolver that never left his hip even in the barbershop. Rhett’s beard framed a weathered face, the kind lined by years of sun and the kind of work that turned a man from drifter to lawman.

Sam, the barber, was steady with his hands. His scissors clicked as he trimmed along Rhett’s temples. “You know,” he said with a half-grin, “I still don’t rightly know if you’re keepin’ this beard for fashion or intimidation.” Rhett smirked at his reflection in the long mirror, voice low and gravel-edged. “I call it efficiency. Keeps the trail dust off my face and makes folk wonder if I’m the type to sit quiet or bite back. Usually, they guess wrong.” Sam chuckled, combing through a thick lock of hair. “Reckon it’s worked out well enough for you. Course, folks been talkin’ lately, and it ain’t just about your beard. Seems the sheriff’s been spotted walkin’ after hours with a certain lady friend. Brown hair, fine dress, works down at the telegraph office. That right?” Rhett’s eyes narrowed a touch, but not unkindly. “I don’t pay much mind to talk, Sam.” “That so? Funny, ‘cause half the town swears they seen you two strollin’ by the livery near midnight, laughin’ like a couple of kids.” Sam grinned as he snipped. “Can’t blame ‘em for talkin’. Town hasn’t seen you smile that wide since Colt pinned that badge on you.” Rhett shifted in the chair, boots jingling against the footrest. “She’s a friend. Been through her share of hardships, and she don’t deserve to face ‘em alone. Nothin’ more to it than that.” Sam raised his brows. “You tell yourself that if you like, Sheriff. But a woman who looks at a man the way she looks at you… well, that ain’t just friendly. Far as I can tell, she’s the only soul who makes you forget you’re carryin’ the weight of this whole town.” Rhett gave a low chuckle, shaking his head. “Careful, Sam. You keep on like this and I’ll think you’ve been moonlightin’ as a matchmaker.” Sam laughed, brushing loose hair from Rhett’s shoulder. “Nothin’ wrong with hopin’ you find a little happiness in between keepin’ us all safe. Town’s steadier when its sheriff’s got reason to smile.” Rhett didn’t reply right away, though a faint glimmer of warmth flickered in his eyes before it was gone again.

The scissors snapped one final time, and Sam whisked the cape free with a practiced flick. “There you go, Sheriff. Hair tidy, beard mean. Should keep the wolves from the door another week or two.” Rhett stood, tall and broad under his long brown duster. He slid his revolver belt back into place, dropped a coin on Sam’s counter, and reached for his hat. “Appreciate it, Sam. World may turn mean, but a clean trim helps a man face it head-on.” Sam gave a nod. “Stay sharp, Rhett. And don’t keep that gal waitin’ too long, y’hear?”

The sheriff stepped out into the bright morning, the door’s bell jangling softly behind him. Heat pressed down already, the kind that promised a scorcher by noon. Rhett tipped his hat against the glare and set off along the boardwalk, spurs jingling faintly with each stride. Folks greeted him as they always did—Mrs. Hargrove from the bakery lifting a flour-dusted hand, young Pete Jenkins tipping his cap as he hurried with a bundle under his arm. Rhett nodded to each, steady and polite, never rushing, his eyes taking in more than he let on. The town breathed with life: the clatter of horseshoes, the call of a rancher haggling over feed, the bark of a dog chasing a wagon. To most it was background noise. To Rhett it was the measure of peace—the rhythm that told him Wellington was still safe, still steady.

But as he neared the livery, something caught his attention. Six men stood gathered in the shade of the old water tower. Strangers. Every one of them was dressed in black—coats, hats, boots dulled with travel. Their voices carried low, their bodies close-knit as if their words weren’t meant for town ears. They didn’t lean easy like cowhands fresh off the trail. They stood sharp, guarded, with eyes that cut quick across the street whenever someone passed. Rhett slowed his walk, hand brushing the brim of his hat as if to shade his eyes, though his gaze never left the group. His thumb rested near the edge of his gun belt. Strangers never lingered in Wellington without reason. And men dressed like crows rarely brought good ones. The sheriff kept his pace steady, but a thought nagged at the back of his mind like a burr under a saddle: something had come to disturb the quiet rhythm of Wellington, and whatever it was, it had just stepped into his town.

Giddy up! Great start.

Chapter II: Shadows at the Water Tower

The midday sun baked Wellington until the air shimmered above rooftops and dust clung to boots and coats like a second skin. Sheriff Rhett walked steady down Main Street, his hat tipped low, spurs jingling faintly with each step. To the townsfolk, it looked like nothing more than his usual patrol. He nodded to Mrs. Hargrove leaving the bakery, tipped his brim at young Pete Jenkins running an errand, even paused to check the reins on a wagon horse. But his eyes kept drifting toward the edge of town, where the old water tower stood.

The tower was set just far enough beyond the bustle—away from the saloon doors banging open and shut, away from the shouts of peddlers and children chasing hoops in the dust. There, in the shade it cast, six strangers in black had gathered. Long coats, wide-brimmed hats, boots thick with trail dirt—each man cut a sharp figure, and none of them looked like drifters passing through. They stood in a tight knot, heads bent close, voices pitched low. To the rest of Wellington, they might as well have been invisible. But to Rhett, they stood out like vultures circling the prairie sky.

He circled wide, slipping behind the livery until the hum of the street faded. The back side of the tower butted up against an unfinished shed, and Rhett crouched behind a wall of rough lumber stacked high. The boards smelled of resin and sun-baked sap, their edges coarse against his palms. A few gaps gave him slivers of sight—boots scuffing in dust, the faint curl of smoke as someone struck a match. From here, the voices reached him clear.

“I’m tellin’ you,” one man said, his nasal tone carrying, “this bank’s soft as butter. Two guards—one older than sin, the other green as spring wheat. Might as well leave the vault door wide open.”

Another voice, deeper and gruffer, rumbled back. “That so? You sure about that?”

“Three days I been watchin’,” the nasal one replied. “Old fella coughs more than he breathes. Kid’s hand don’t even twitch toward his holster.”

A third man spat, sharp against the dirt. “Still don’t sit right. Always a sheriff in a place like this.”

Rhett’s jaw tightened, thumb brushing over the grip of his Colt though he stayed quiet in the shadows.

Then another voice spoke—a smooth, commanding drawl that hushed the rest. “The sheriff’s one man. Don’t lose sleep over him. I’ll see he don’t trouble us.”

The others murmured their approval. Even unseen, Rhett felt the weight of that voice. Every gang had a center, and this was theirs. He remembered a folded paper passed around the saloon weeks ago—creased from many hands, the ink smudged but still clear. The Black Hats, it had read, a ruthless band that had torn through towns across Kansas and beyond. Always six of them, always dressed the same. Robberies, shootouts, trails of fire left behind. It had felt distant then. Now, here they stood, plotting in his own town.

“Friday,” the leader continued, deliberate and calm. “High noon. Stage’ll be gone, bank fat with coin. Two men inside, two cover the doors, two keep the horses ready. We’re out before the dust settles.”

“What about the safe?” the gruff man asked.

The nasal one laughed. “Banker keeps the key hangin’ on a string ‘round his neck. I seen it.”

A ripple of laughter followed. One struck another match, tobacco smoke curling and drifting toward Rhett’s hiding place. He held his breath, committing every word to memory. Friday. Noon. Wellington. If he could slip out, warn the teller, warn the guards, he might give the town a fighting chance.

But then it happened—the mistake. As Rhett shifted his weight, his boot pressed into gravel, crunching just enough to break the rhythm of the gang’s voices.

The gruff man stopped mid-sentence. “Wait. You hear that?”

Rhett froze, every muscle coiled.

“Wind,” another muttered.

But boots began to scuff closer, deliberate, steady.

“No,” the smooth-voiced leader said, quiet but sharp. “That weren’t the wind.”

Through the crack, Rhett saw a shadow stretch long across the dirt. Black boots, dust-caked, moved toward him. The outlaw rounded the pile of lumber—a tall man with broad shoulders beneath his coat, eyes like a hawk’s. His gaze landed on Rhett crouched in the dust, and a slow, crooked grin spread across his face.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” he drawled. “Thought I heard a rat scratchin’ around back here. Turns out it’s no rat at all…” His eyes dropped to the glint of the star pinned to Rhett’s chest, and the grin stretched wider, crueler.

“A sheriff,” he said, spitting the word like it tasted bitter. “Now ain’t that somethin’? Sheriff of Wellington, hidin’ behind boards like a church mouse.”

He stepped closer, boots grinding the dirt, his hand dropping easy toward the revolver on his hip. “Tell me, lawman—were you listenin’ in ‘cause it’s your job… or were you just lookin’ to die with your ears full of secrets?”

And with that, his calloused hand clamped down hard on Rhett’s shoulder.

Ooooh!!! This is getting good! What’s in store for our sheriff??

Hot Damn!

A hunky lawman -- keeping a sharp eye out for trouble -- walks right into it!

I cannot wait for the next chapter! This story has it all...a lone hero, a gang of robbers, cowboy hats, cowboy boots, and spurs. You start off very nicely with the sheriff getting his weekly buzz and a trim, and the barber shooting the breeze with him. It's a nice way to find out that the sheriff has his heart set on a lovely lass, whose safety may figure in the sheriff's thoughts later on in the story. Next you have him walking around his town greeting the people he's charged with keeping safe. And then a dark cloud arrives on the horizon in the form of black-clad bandits!

Best of all is the part when they get the drop on the sheriff!

I LOVE it when the bad guys get the drop on the hero!

Awesome! Love where this is going.

Chapter III: Fall of the Law

Rhett’s eyes dropped to the hand gripping his shoulder. The outlaw’s palm was rough and heavy, pressing down with such weight that Rhett stayed bent in the crouch where he’d been caught. He could feel every line of that calloused skin grinding into his coat. His jaw tightened, teeth pressing hard together. Fury boiled in his chest. His town—his town—was being spoken of like easy pickings, their bank treated as little more than a prize waiting to be plucked.

Bootsteps sounded in the dust as the others drew closer, forming a half-circle around him. Six figures, black from head to heel, shadows against the sunlight. Just far enough from the bustle of Wellington that no one would notice. The saloon’s piano drifted faintly from Main Street, the clang of the blacksmith’s hammer carried on the air, and children laughed as they ran with hoops—but none of those sounds reached this circle of men with meaning. Here, behind the water tower, Rhett was alone.

The leader stepped forward, his voice smooth and deliberate. “Well now. What have we here? Sheriff Rhett of Wellington, crawlin’ in the dirt and eavesdroppin’ like a street rat.”

Rhett glared, his voice hoarse with anger. “I heard enough to know this—your plans end here.”

One of the gang barked out a harsh laugh. “Hear that? Sheriff thinks he’s standin’ on a stage, givin’ speeches.”

Another shook his head. “No, he’s standin’ in a grave and don’t even know it.”

Rhett’s temper broke. He jerked free of the hand on his shoulder and surged upward, dust swirling around his boots. His hand dropped fast toward the Colt on his hip. But before his thumb brushed the hammer, cold steel jammed hard against his temple.

“Don’t,” the gunman snarled, eyes burning with hatred. “Don’t even breathe wrong, lawman. One twitch, and I’ll blow daylight clean through your skull.”

Rhett’s pulse roared in his ears. His town flashed in his mind—Mrs. Hargrove with her bread, the teller’s timid smile, the boys pretending with wooden guns outside the mercantile. Fury drowned his fear. In one savage move, he drove his elbow backward. Bone crunched as it connected with the gunman’s nose. The man howled, stumbling back with blood spilling down his lip.

“Get him!” shouted the scarred one.

The leader lunged. Rhett turned into him, fists flying, rage burning brighter than thought. His knuckles split against the outlaw’s jaw, sending a spray of blood across his chin. The leader staggered but only grinned, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He swung back, a heavy blow that cracked into Rhett’s ribs. Pain ripped through his side. Rhett answered with another punch, then a wild grapple, shoving the leader against the stack of lumber.

Around them, the rest of the gang howled and jeered like men at a prizefight.

“Come on, Sheriff!” one cried. “Show us your grit!”

“Break him down!” another shouted, laughing.

Rhett swung again, fist crunching into cheekbone. The leader’s eyes flared cold fire as he struck back—once, twice, again—each blow landing heavier, harder. A hook snapped Rhett’s head sideways, stars bursting white. He staggered, breath short, ribs screaming with pain. Still, he threw another punch, splitting the outlaw’s lip wider.

The leader’s grin vanished. He drove his knee up into Rhett’s gut, forcing the air from him in a ragged gasp. Then his fist hammered down on Rhett’s jaw. Another blow. And another. The world tilted, blurred, the ground lurching beneath him. Rhett’s legs gave way, dropping him to his knees. His head hung, blood dripping from his lip onto the dust. He was still conscious, but dazed, his vision smeared, body refusing to answer his will.

The gang’s laughter rolled over him, cruel and mocking.

“Look at the sheriff now,” one sneered. “Down in the dirt where he belongs.”

The leader stood over him, lip split, cheek swelling, eyes cold. He spat a thread of blood into the dirt and wiped his chin. “Strong,” he said with quiet menace. “But strength don’t matter when the odds are six to one.” He looked at his men. “Tie him up.”

Two outlaws stepped forward, coils of hemp in their hands. They yanked Rhett’s arms behind his back. He tried to resist, but his body was sluggish, his muscles refusing. The rope slid rough and dry over his wrists, the fibers scraping skin. They looped it once, twice, then cinched it down hard between his wrists. Each tug dug the cords deeper, locking his hands as if clamped in wooden cuffs. They tied it again, knotting it cruelly tight.

“Make sure it holds,” the scarred man said, giving the bindings a tug. Rhett grunted softly, his shoulders straining, but the ropes only bit deeper.

“Ankles too,” the leader ordered.

They shoved Rhett sideways into the dirt, a boot pressing against his back to keep him still. A second coil was wound around his boots, looping and cinching until the leather creaked. Spurs jingled faintly before the rope cinched them silent. The cord pressed tight across bone and sinew, biting until his ankles felt fused together.

“Like a hog at slaughter,” one outlaw chuckled. “Ain’t goin’ nowhere.”

Rhett’s head lolled against the dirt, dust stinging his eyes. He was conscious, but his breath came ragged, every attempt to move smothered by rope and exhaustion.

The leader crouched, gripping his chin, forcing Rhett’s blurry eyes to meet his. “You’ll come with us, Sheriff. Maybe your town’ll pay a ransom. Maybe you’ll give us what we need. Or maybe we’ll just keep you for sport. Doesn’t matter. You’re ours now.”

Two men hauled him upright, dragging him toward the waiting horses. His legs bound, he stumbled helplessly, nearly collapsing before they shoved him belly-down across the back of a rangy black gelding. The saddle pressed into his ribs, the ropes digging cruel into wrists and ankles with every shift. He tried to speak, but his mouth was thick with blood and dust; only a rasp escaped.

The rest of the Black Hats mounted, circling him in the heat. Their laughter was low, their grins wide. From here, the faint life of Wellington still carried on the air—children’s voices, the clang of the forge—but it felt miles away, blind and deaf to their sheriff being trussed and carried like spoil.

The leader swung into his saddle, towering over Rhett. He studied the town for a long moment, then turned to his men. “Mount up. Tonight, the law sleeps with the Black Hats.”

Poor Sheriff Rhett! Those bandits got the best of him. I wonder if they'll keep him quiet with a gag or some of the ether the town doctor keeps in his office?