COMMENTARY--The wind had lately been whistling mournfully through the sparsely-populated streets of Redmond Gulch as tumbleweeds bounced heedlessly to destinations unknown.
The saloon and general store, where residents once headed to toast their triumphs, drown their sorrows or pick up their day-to-day needs, were quiet.
Only a couple of friendless out-of-towners sat at the saloon bar. Chroniclers, or 'journalists' as they called themselves, did little but drink cheap bourbon and concoct vile lies about the town and its people.
Some of the more hotheaded residents wanted those chroniclers -- or yellow dogs, as they called them -- hung.
It was only threats from the local sheriff that the hotheads would join the chroniclers in their fate that held the lynch mob back.
For lately the mood in the town -- which had known years of unparalleled prosperity and growth -- had soured.
The backbone of their success -- a leather-bound, lockable writing journal that had found a market throughout the Wild West -- was lately coming in for trouble.
Miscreants were forging keys that could open as many of the journals -- which often contained the private details of folks' businesses -- as they liked. The journal owners often found many of their writings missing or changed, at great cost to their business.
And some -- including the yellow-dog 'journalists' -- were saying that Redmond Gulch manufacturers had not paid enough attention to the security of the locks. That a thief with only a little skill could pick them with a hairpin.
But today, the town had had enough.
The mayor, Big Bill Gates, spurs jangling from the heels of his leather boots, strode purposefully into the town square amid shouts and cheers from the crowd of residents.
"Now, I know y'all have heard the stories," he yelled as the crowd quietened. "We got ourselves some varmints tryin' to kill our legitimate business here.
"Well, it's time we dealt with this.
"I've had a talk to the local law enforcement authorities and they're with us.
"We're offering two bounties of $5 to anyone who delivers to Redmond Gulch -- dead or alive, but preferably dead -- these damn miscreants," he yelled.
"We're getting together a posse right now to scour the land for them".
The crowd burst into cheers, flung their hats and fired shots in the air.
The hunt was on. Before long, the Wanted posters were nailed to every tree, log and beam for miles. Bounty hunters, the posse, hopeful amateurs, all joined the chase. The $10 -- a drop in the bucket to Gates, whose personal fortune was rumoured to be in the thousands of dollars -- led to mutterings amongst the ranks of the miscreants, whose ever-more infrequent gatherings with friends were characterised by sidelong glances, tension and rising suspicion. But would the $5 offers tempt anyone to sell them out?
