by Pete Prown
* * *
Forgo had already apologized about five times before he showed Dorro back to his cell. “The Mayor really has it in for you, Winderiver. I’m sure ol’ Osgood Thrip is pulling his strings.”
“I know your hands are tied. But I need one favor—please send Gadget over to Shugfoot, Thrashrack & Grumbleoaf and relay my predicament to Darwinna Thrashrack. She might want to appeal directly.”
“Consider it done. Nuncheon will be here shortly; if there’s anything we do well here at the gaol is to serve prisoners a decent meal.”
“I’m not too hungry as you might guess, but I appreciate the sentiment.”
“Your friend in the next cell will be ravenous, no doubt.”
“Friend?”
Suddenly, there was a loud snort in the adjoining cell and the sound of a squeaking bedframe. “Did someone say, ‘Lunch?’ Ooooo, me favorite time o’ day!”
“Don’t tell me ….” groaned Dorro.
“Where did you think we’d put him—at a lovely bed & breakfast?”
“Is that me ol’ chum Windy-river, you stinkin’ rat!” Amos Pinchbottle doubled over coughing in his cell, but then rose to his feet and pressed his stubbly face to the bars. “Oy, it is—me favorite lyin’ fink!”
“For the record, Amos, Dorro had nothing to do with those two younglings sneaking into the library,” said the Sheriff. “I was there and he was as surprised as you were. The entire reason Winderiver went into the building was to prevent you from hurting them, you chowderhead.”
“Oh well, in that case you have me ‘umble apologies, Mr. Dorro, sir,” whined Amos. “And sorry about punching you in the noggin’. I was a little tipsy at the time.”
“Bah! You were drunker than five Halflings, Pinchbottle, and ya know it!” laughed Forgo as he ambled back towards the front of the gaol. “Now, you two play nice or I’ll come back and knock some heads. You know I’ll do it, Amos!”
The ne’er-do-well unconsciously touched his head, remembering the beating Sheriff Forgo had given him the other night. While he was a good-sized Halfling, few in the village would take on the Sheriff in fisticuffs and risk a confrontation with those boulder-sized fists of his.
“So, welcome to me humble little inn, Mr. Dorro,” leered Amos. “It ain’t much, but I call it ‘ome. Staying long?” He laughed, though Dorro was not amused.
“As briefly as possible, thank you, but one never knows.”
“And how’s me chum, Mr. Beddy Shoe?”
“Still in bed with bruises and bumps galore, no thanks to you. You’re lucky you didn’t kill two Halflings, Amos Pinchbottle.” Dorro was still angry at the episode and the way he abused poor Bedminster.
“I do feel bad, at least a little,” whispered Amos. “Honestly, I don’t even remember the whole evening. I went to the Hanging Stoat for a little tipple of honeygrass whiskey, but then it gets kind of blurry. I vaguely remember the obnoxious gent from Nob, but nothing of the knife fight. I swear it was in self-defense, but well—I don’t remember, do I? Nor any of the shenanigans at the library. If I hurt your friend Shoe, I do apologize. I suppose I do have a bit too much to drink sometimes.”
“You think? Seriously, Amos Pinchbottle, you’re a drunkard and a menace to Thimble Down. At least I murdered someone by accident!” Dorro almost choked on his own words—he backtracked immediately. “I mean, because of a tragic accident, not because of my own folly and indulgence.”
“What do you think’s gonna happen to us?” Amos sounded like a child being sent to his room. “I’m scared.”
“You should be, Amos, and so am I. Our cases are different, but murder is murder. If we are convicted, we could both receive stiff penalties—fines, extended gaol time, or exile. Fortunately, I think exile would be extreme. Neither of us committed crimes with intent—mine was an accident and yours drunken foolishness. Yet I’ve heard of scofflaws being pressed into maritime service for twenty years—that’s a fate worse than death or at least, it would be for me. I’m not much of a sailor and after my unfortunate visit to Water-Down last Summer, I never want to see a ship again!”
“As they long as they don’t stretch me neck, I’m good!” laughed Amos, pretending to be hanged on a gibbet.
“I told you before, we don’t hang criminals in Thimble Down. But the way the Mayor and Osgood Thrip despise me, they might make an exception!”
Without thinking, Dorro reached up and touched his own neck. They don’t hang Halflings, do they? He hoped he was right.
Burial
“Sheriff, please! Dalbo and I were friends in our own strange way.” Dorro pressed his face against the bars of his cell and pleaded with the big lawman, who had just brought him breakfast of seeded rolls, butter, cider, and a tin of Old Nob pipe tobacco. “I must go to his funeral. You remember how he helped Grimble find a new home last summer.”
Forgo frowned. “Oh fine,” grumbled the lawman. “But don’t get up to any shenanigans or it’ll be your doom.”
“And what about me, Sheriff? I’m sober as a magistrate and, heck, Dalbo Dall was me pal, too.” This was the gruff voice of Amos Pinchbottle from the adjacent cell. “Me and him spent many an hour laughin’ it up in the Great Wood. He was a great one to share a bottle with and, boy, could Dalbo spin a tale. He told me things I still don’t believe!”
“I’d be a raving lunatic to let you out, Amos. After the other night’s performance—a murder followed by the attempted murder of Mr. Bedminster Shoe, I think you can stay behind bars until your trial and sentencing. And hopefully exile!”
“Nooooo!” Amos sobbed like a toddler. “Sheriff, please! Dalbo ‘n’ me were thick as thieves. Let me go say goodbye to me ol’ mate.”
Sheriff Forgo knitted his brows together and looked like he was going to blow his lid. Instead, he took a different tact.
“I know I will absolutely regret this, but you can go, Amos, you flippin’ idiot. But you will be wearing manacles on yer wrists and ankles. I’ll also bring my cudgel in you try anything; in that case, I’ll simply beat you senseless. Sound okay?”
“Thank you, ol’ Sheriff Forgo, me boy-o. Amos will be a good lad, I promise!”
The Halfling did a merry jig behind his bars as Forgo left to make preparations. Across the way, Dorro looked at Amos and wondered if the Sheriff had made the right decision.
Dorro didn’t know Pinchbottle well, but after the past day, he regarded his cellmate as a lunatic and menace to society.
