Steve Braunias: The secret diary of ... the Collins gang

Things are relatively quiet in the National camp right now. Photo / Mark Mitchell

OPINION

MONDAY

Tumbleweeds rolled down the main street of Dodge. Vultures perched on the tin roof of the saloon.

Two riders from the Collins Gang tied their horses to the hitching post. They beat the dust from their hats and looked along the street.

"Sure is quiet," said Brownie Goldsmith.

"Yeah," said Doc Reti. "Too quiet."

From the window of her room in the attic, Sherriff Collins watched the pair walk dejectedly into the saloon.

"Time I made some noise," she said to herself. "Raise a bit of hell! Give the gang some hope!"

TUESDAY

The sheriff burst open the swinging doors of the saloon and strode in.

No one looked up. A honky-tonk player piano continued playing a sad tune. The barkeep wiped down the counter with a filthy rag.

The sheriff climbed on top of the bar, and said, "Now listen here! Sit up straight and pay attention. I'm here to treat y'all to a State of the Nation address."

She talked about proposals and roadblocks and working together, and when she finished, she went outside and climbed back up on her high horse, and rode off.

The barkeeper sighed and wiped down the counter with his filthy rag. The sheriff's boots had made muddy prints all over the bar.

WEDNESDAY

"Shot of whiskey," said Brownie Goldsmith.

"Same," said Doc Reti.

Judith Collins and Shane Reti. Photo / Mark Mitchell

"I hear the sheriff was in yesterday, makin' a State of the Nation address," Brownie said to the barkeep.

"Yeah," said the barkeep, sourly.

"What was it like?", asked the Doc.

"Mighty interestin'," said a voice behind them. "Mighty interestin' indeed."

Brownie turned and said, "How so?"

"Well," said Baldie Luxon, "it was mighty interestin' to sit here and wonder just how much longer the sheriff's gonna be the sheriff."

THURSDAY

The Sherriff sat in her attic room all day long and watched the shadows of the church steeple grow longer.

FRIDAY

"Shot of whiskey," said Doc Reti.

"Same," said Brownie Goldsmith.

They hunched over their drinks. The honky-tonk player piano struck up the saddest tune in the world, and the vultures stepped into the saloon and made themselves comfortable.