Stop This Man!

by Peter Rabe

  The sheriff got up slowly and walked to a desk near the door beyond. He came back with a pencil and pad. After sitting down again he said, “What’s your name, stranger?”

  “Jesse Weiss.”

  “Age?”

  “Forty-eight.”

  “Where from?”

  “New Orleans.”

  The questions went on and Catell gave answers. He kept his voice even and his eyes down. There were going to be no more mistakes. In the time of a minute he had made all the bad ones: attracting attention, resisting arrest, assaulting an officer of the law, landing in jail. No more mistakes now. Don’t offend the man; do what he says; act small and a little scared. And wait for the breaks. This wasn’t the end. This was bad, but not the end. For God’s sake, this was not the end!

  “Now listen close, city feller, because I want you to know what I got in mind. Like I tried to tell you once before, I’m the law around here, and you went ahead and broke that law more’n a couple of times. Now we can’t have that around here, city feller. You gotta learn how to stay on the right side of the law.”

  Catell had his hands around the bars, listening with eyes down, when the sheriff stopped talking. Catell looked up and caught the blurred movement too late. The sap smacked down sharply, cracking across the back of his right hand.

  “You listening to me, New Orleans? You paying attention to what I say?”

  Catell didn’t hear him. He had jerked back, gasping with the pain that exploded in his hand. His knees buckled and he groaned hoarsely, his good hand tightening around the wrist of the other arm. The sheriff had got off his chair, watching. His tongue was working the hole in his gums like a lazy snake.

  “That’s just so you know who to pay attention to around here, New Orleans. Now, like I was saying, you gotta learn to respect the law, and I’m just the man what can teach you how.”

  Catell sat on the floor, his breath making a harsh labored sound. The hand was puffing up fast.

  “So I figure the best way of doing that, city feller, is for you to stay around here a little while. Then, when I see some real improvement, why, then we’ll start figuring on some kind of trial for you. The judge at the county seat is a friend of mine, so we’ll see what can be done in the case of the Law versus City Feller. Any questions? No? I didn’t figure so.”

  The sheriff stood a while looking at Catell on the floor. Then he started to laugh. He laughed with a slow babbling sound that could have meant anything.

  “I’m going to leave you for a spell now, seeing you’d rather be alone with your little aches and pains. And in case you crave company, there’s a deputy right beyond that door, sittin’ on the porch.”

  The sheriff turned away and left, still shaking with his slow gobble of a laugh.

  Catell stayed on the floor for a while, watching his hand. The swelling was dark red now, but the pain wasn’t so unbearable any more. Except when he moved his fingers.

  Alone in the jailhouse, Catell started to look around. Standing at the bars, he could glimpse a cell on either side of him. There was a door to the left, half open, with a toilet visible. Beyond the corridor was the long room that served as an office. Through the two windows Catell could see a porch and a country street.

  The bars of the window in his cell were solid. So were the ones that formed one wall of his cell. But the lock of the cell was nothing. A strong nail, bent, or perhaps a spoon, he thought, any simple thing like that would do it. Tonight? Tomorrow. Sitting down carefully on the cot, Catell thought about it. Why rush? That bastard hick of a sheriff wasn’t in any hurry to move to court. So wait. Wait for the breaks. And the longer the sheriff waited, the more he would get in the wrong. And the more he got in the wrong, the less of a leg he’d have to stand on. Catell felt better.

  Suddenly he jumped up, fright in his eyes. The gold! Where was his car? In panicky confusion he ran to the bars, shaking them, rattling the door. He curled the fingers of his injured hand, not feeling the pain, with only one thought in his mind. The gold! Then he ran to the window, to shake the bars, to reach his arm far out of the yellow hole that faced nothing but hot dust and weeds. Then he saw it. His car was standing in back of the jail. One door was half open and nothing looked any different about the car than when he had bought it. He could see the back seat, undisturbed. Draped over the seat was the lead apron.

  With a deep breath Catell stepped back from the window and sank down on his cot. He was tired. He stretched out carefully, with one arm over his eyes, the injured hand resting on his stomach. The dull heat of the cell lay like lead around him, but Catell hardly noticed it. He slept.

  “Just look at him sweat,” said the deputy to the three ranchers. They stood outside the cell, watching Catell asleep on his cot.

  “You think he’s sweating now, boys, just wait till I get through with him,” said the sheriff. “Ben, get me a bucket of water.”

  The deputy went outside and came back with the bucket. “Whatcha gonna do, Harry?”

  “Just step back and watch.”

  Heaving the bucket in a wide arc, the sheriff tossed the water at Catell. It caught him full on the neck and face. The sleeping man jerked up with a wild gasp, dumb bewilderment in his face. There was a roar of laughter from the men who were peering through the bars, with stamping of feet and back-slapping.

  “What’s his name?” one of them asked.

  “Call him New Orleans,” said the sheriff. “He likes to be called New Orleans. It makes him think of the big city. Right, New Orleans?”

  Catell stood up slowly but didn’t answer.

  “He don’t answer,” said another rancher, and they all looked at the sheriff. “Harry, he don’t answer.”

  “He will.” The sheriff pushed the men aside and stepped up to the door. He pulled out a large key and swung the door open. In the silence there was only the creak of the old floor and a soft swish as the sheriff unholstered his gun. Leveling the long revolver at Catell, he stood back with feet wide apart.

  “Come out.”

  They all stood still, waiting.

  “Come out, city feller.”

  Catell stepped forward slowly. His head was down and water dripped from his hair.

  “Walk to that door.”

  Catell walked. He walked out of his cell, past the staring men, past the sheriff with his gun. Suddenly the sheriff kicked out his foot and Catell was flung to the floor. Shaking his wet head, he heard the guffaws of the men behind him.

  “It don’t pay being hasty, New Orleans.” The sheriff roared again. “Lemme give you a hand.”

  Catell obeyed.

  “The other hand, city feller.”

  He reached up his swollen hand automatically but jerked it back, afraid of the pain.

  “Your hand, city feller.”

  Catell shrank back when the sheriff’s foot caught him under the chin. His head snapped back and hit the floor with a sharp thump. He lay limp and unconscious.

  The sheriff doubled over with loud, dry laughter, slapping his thigh.

  “Hey, New Orleans!” Then he noticed that he laughed alone. The young deputy stood by, snickering; the ranchers looked embarrassed.

  “We’ll be goin’ now, Harry. We got things to do.”

  “Sure, Harry. We’ll be seeing you. So long, Harry.”

  They looked away and hurried out. They didn’t look at Harry, or at the limp wet man on the floor, and they closed the door softly behind them.

  The sheriff holstered his gun and gave the young deputy a mean look.

  “Throw him in the cell. And mind, you stay around an’ keep an eye on him. He bears watching.” Then he walked out, hitting the floor hard with his heels.

  When it was getting dark outside, Catell woke up. He breathed carefully, feeling the aches in his body. He heard dim voices from the porch. The door opened and the sheriff came in, followed by a few other men. Catell stiffened. This time, he swore, this time he’d kill the bastard, no matter what the consequences. But they didn�
��t come his way. They stood talking in the front room and only the sheriff gave him a glance. He didn’t smile or make a crack, he just gave Catell a cold stare.

  They shuffled around the room, moving chairs and hanging up their hats.

  “One of you gimme a hand,” the sheriff said, and left the room with one of the men. Catell stood in his cell, suspicious, waiting for the next trick. That’s when he heard the noise.

  Outside his window in the deserted space behind the jail there was a rustling and the sound of low voices. Catell moved to the window slowly and leaned his arm on the sill. The darkness outside was almost complete and a cold breeze made him shiver in his moist shirt.

  There they were, beside his car. The rear door was open, one figure had crawled into the back, and the other was leaning in, straining, as if lifting a great weight. When they hauled out the rear seat, Catell grasped the bars of the window. A stiff, sharp fear tensed his body and he trembled violently. The taut skin on his swollen hand cracked, but he didn’t notice. He only saw the two figures carrying the rear seat of his car and then disappearing. In a few moments the door in the front of the jail opened and the two men came in, carrying the seat between them. They had removed the lead apron and presumably left it in the car. They put the seat on the floor. The sheriff said something about the damn weight of the thing and somebody answered with a joke, but Catell hardly heard. He sank down on the cot, feeble and numb with lost hope. How did they know? How had they found the place so fast?

  Head down, hands limp between his knees, he sat not caring, not hearing the voices. Only a while later did he start to wonder what they were waiting for. In the other room the men were sitting around a flat box, talking in low voices, playing cards. Some sat on chairs, others on a bench, and the sheriff on Catell’s car seat.

  “Put up or shut up,” said one of the players.

  The sheriff was chewing on a cigar. He threw his cards down and said, “Damn you, Shivers, I’m out.”

  Catell threw his head back and started to laugh. He laughed loud, hard, and with a shrill fury. When he looked again the sheriff was standing by the iron door, fumbling with the lock.

  “Come out, you bastard.” He flung the door open.

  “Tell ‘im, Harry. Tell ‘im you don’t always lose.” The men laughed. They were looking toward the cell.

  Catell got off his cot and walked to the open door with an arrogant swing, grinning. When the two men were face to face, the sheriff took one step backward. He crouched.

  “All right, city feller, smile good. There won’t be nothin’ to smile at when I get through with you.”

  His voice was low and hoarse, but Catell kept grinning. He stood easily, never taking his eyes off the sheriff’s face. Then he took one step closer to the sheriff. The sheriff hesitated a moment, shot a quick glance at the card players behind him, but he saw they weren’t looking. The sheriff straightened up, his voice loud now.

  “Try something, hog face. Go ahead!”

  Catell just stood still, fixing the raging man with his eyes.

  “Go ahead, you bastard. Hit me!” The sheriff’s voice was cracking. His head was thrust out, the cords of his neck twitching, and slobber came through the hole in his teeth. Catell could feel the man’s breath.

  “Hit me!”

  One of the players turned around.

  “Harry, for chrissakes, pipe down.”

  “Come on, you yellow, no-good sonofabitch, hit me!”

  “Harry, boy, stop that yelling.” They kept on with the cards.

  Catell didn’t move a muscle. He stood still, a slight smile on his face, and his voice was even.

  “Did you want something, Sheriff?”

  “Hit me!” The sheriff’s voice was a screech.

  “Do we deal you in this time, Harry?” One man was shuffling the cards; another was lighting his cigar; some were arguing about the game. Catell stepped back into his cell and pulled the door shut. Then he sat down on his cot and looked at the ceiling.

  “You’re yellow, you bastard. You lousy, stinking sonofabitch of a bastard!” The sheriff was shaking the bars of the cell, his face red, his voice a harsh, rasping scream. “You no-good, chicken-livered bastard, you’re yellow!” he screamed.

  One of the men came up and took the sheriff by the arm. “Stop that yellin’, Harry. We’re trying to get a game started.”

  “Lemme at that bastard! I’ll kill ‘im, I tell ya, I’ll kill ‘im!”

  “Now shut your mouth, damnit. Sit down over here and shut up. Else we take the game to Charlie’s.”

  “Take your lousy game to hell for all I care. Leggo my arm. You’re interfering with the law.”

  “Harry, for chrissakes—”

  The men had stopped their playing and were standing around, undecided.

  “Nobody interferes with the law around here, unnerstand? Nobody! I’m gonna teach that filthy jailbird a lesson he ain’t gonna forget any too soon. And you guys, stick around if you wanna have some fun. Stick around and I’ll show ya how to enforce the law around here.”

  But they weren’t listening to his raving. One by one they took their hats and walked out of the door.

  “We’ll be at Charlie’s if you want in,” said the last one. “See ya, Harry.”

  The sheriff stood in the empty room. Panting, cursing under his breath, he kicked the door shut and walked around the empty chairs and boxes a few times. Then he sat down on the car seat. The sheriff’s hunched figure moved only with his breathing, and there was an expectant glint in Catell’s eyes as he watched him.

  For a while nothing happened. In the silence the thudding of a moth against the bare light bulb made a noise like a wet rag. With an irritated motion the sheriff tore his hat off and flung it at the light. He missed. Catell snickered in his dark cell. The sheriff jumped around as if stung. He got up from the seat slowly and walked to a part of the room that Catell couldn’t see. When he came back, he carried a six-shooter and a long stick.

  Standing by the cell, he peered into the darkness. “City feller, did you say something?”

  Catell snickered again. When the sheriff came toward him, kicking the cell door aside with his foot, Catell knew this was the pay-off. He also knew that the man at the door was a coward, dangerous because he was afraid, but weak because he was unsure.

  “You want something, Sheriff?”

  “Come over here with your hands up!”

  Catell did.

  “Now walk thataway, down the hall. Stop.”

  This suited Catell fine. They were alone and they could not be seen from the outside.

  “And now, jailbird, turn around.”

  Catell turned, watching the sheriff, who stood in a crouch. Catell noticed that the gun hung loosely, but the hand that held the stick was tense, with knuckles white. The sheriff wasn’t thinking of doing any killing; he was going to have some sport. Then later, maybe, if he could make it look like an escape…

  “Just so we understand each other, jailbird, I’m about to make you over.”

  “Don’t call me jailbird.”

  “What!” The sheriff leaned forward, startled by Catell’s matter-of-fact tone. His face reddened and he sucked in his breath. “Are you telling me what to do? You talking back to me, jailbird?”

  Catell didn’t answer. He just watched the man, who was starting to tremble with rage.

  “Say something, jailbird! Open that filthy mouth once more!” The sheriff prodded his stick at Catell.

  At that instant Catell whipped out his hand and yanked at the stick. The sheriff, stiff with hate and fear, stumbled forward and caught Catell’s foot under his jaw. The gun clattered against the wall. Catell reached for the man’s ears and jerked hard, and both men spun to the floor. Before the sheriff could start to struggle, Catell’s weight jammed the wind out of his chest and two thumbs dug painfully into his Adam’s apple.

  “Now I’m going to do the talking, Harry, and listen close. You called me a jailbird. Well, you’re righ
t. I can bust out of better jails than yours, but you aren’t getting a thing on me that you can prove. So I’m sticking around a short while longer, but you better learn how to behave yourself. I want you to lay off, hear? I want you to lay off or else you’re going to be the one that gets hurt. Because one day after I’m out of here, you’re going to get a visit the likes of which you’ve never seen, except maybe in the movies. I got connections, Harry boy. I won’t even come back here myself to make a cripple out of you for life. I know plenty of eager young boys who’d break your legs on my say-so, or dig your eyes out for a sawbuck. So lay off me, Harry boy, or haven’t I made myself clear?”

  Catell gave a sudden sharp squeeze to the sheriff’s neck. Then he jumped up.

  “Did I make myself clear?”

  The sheriff, face blue, gasping for air, got up on one arm.

  “Did I make myself clear?”

  Catell kicked his foot at the man’s arm, digging his toe painfully into a muscle.

  “What’s your answer, Harry?”

  With an effort that made the tears shoot into his eyes, the sheriff gagged out a word: “Yes.”

  “That’s fine, Harry. Now, I’m going back to my cell. I’m expecting a good night’s sleep, so keep your voice down and step lightly. But lightly, Harry boy.”

  Then Catell walked to the toilet. He washed his hands, dried them, and threw the towel on the floor. The nail on which the towel had been hanging was big and loose. Catell pulled it out and stuck it in his pocket. Then he went to his cell, clanked the door shut, and stretched out on his cot.

  After a little while the sheriff came by. There still was a heavy wheezing in his throat and he didn’t look right or left. He sat down heavily on Catell’s car seat, arms folded, looking like a man in deep thought. When the front door opened, he hardly turned his head.

  “Say, Harry, you comin’ over to the game? We’re movin’ to Rodney’s place.”

  “Beat it.”

  The man hesitated, then put his hand on the doorknob.

  “Just thought I’d let you know. Rodney’s place, case you change your mind.” He went out.

  In the middle of the night Catell woke from the throbbing in his hand. Sitting up, he saw that the light in the room up front was still burning. The sheriff, head sunk on his chest, sat asleep on the car seat. Catell saw it and laughed to himself.