He awakes the next morning to find he is still there.
Sheriff Without a Gun
Harold was an ordinary man living in a small house on the edge of town. He spent most of his evenings quietly—reading, cooking for one, and watching old Western movies before bed. One night, after drifting off in his recliner, Harold dreamed he was a cowboy riding across the dusty plains.
When he awoke the next morning, he nearly fell out of bed. The world outside his window was no longer his quiet backyard—it was a wild west frontier town. And tied right outside his kitchen door stood a horse named Gus, saddled and ready. Harold blinked twice, rubbed his eyes, and muttered,
“Well… this is new.”
Stepping outside, he was greeted by the townsfolk calling him Sheriff. Sheriff Harold, that is. The twist? He wore no gun.
“Best sheriff we ever had,”
they cheered,
“because you don’t bring trouble.”
But soon, trouble found them anyway. A group of gunslingers rolled into town, looking to cause mayhem.
Harold had no firearm to fight back. Thinking fast, he filled the pockets of his vest with smooth river rocks. When the gunslingers strutted down Main Street, Harold let fly. Whack—right in the shin—crack—one to the forehead. Pebbles rained down like hail until the bandits doubled over, tears streaming, too humiliated to continue.
Harold yelled –
“You get the hell out of here and don’t come back!”
They scrambled for their horses, chased out of town by the rock-throwing Sheriff himself.
From that day on, Sheriff Harold became a legend. The townsfolk swore he was the greatest Sheriff they’d ever known. This wasn’t because he outgunned the bad guys. It was because he outsmarted them. Every morning, Harold would pat Gus on the neck and tip his hat. He remembered that sometimes the simplest tools—a rock, a clever mind, and a little courage—are enough to keep the peace.
But somewhere else, in another world, Harold lay still. His daughter sat quietly at his bedside, holding his hand, eyes brimming with worry.
“Do you think he’ll ever regain consciousness?”
She asked the doctor softly.
The doctor shook his head.
“I don’t know. Stroke victims sometimes choose to stay where they are. Maybe Harold is better off living where he is. In that other place, he’s strong and needed. He is riding tall as Sheriff.”
His daughter squeezed his hand, whispering through tears,
“Then I hope he knows we’ll always be proud of him—here, or there.”
And in the world of his dreams, Sheriff Harold tipped his hat, smiled, and rode Gus into the golden horizon.
By Benjamin GroffMedia© | benandsteve.com | ©2025
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