by Pete Prown
* * *
Sheriff Forgo awoke on a cot and didn’t know where he was. Where is everyone? And why is it dark out?
He felt a dull pain in his head as he tried to sit up and slumped back down.
“Ah … sorry about that, Sheriff, sir. Perhaps my cousins were a little hasty,” said a disembodied voice in the darkness.
“Who said that?” Forgo was confused, but again tried to sit up. This time he was successful and tried to get a bearing on his surroundings. Slowly things came into focus and he knew he was in his own gaol, resting on a bunk back in one of the cells. “Is that you, Pinchbottle?”
“Aye, ‘tis me,” said the doleful prisoner, who sat in the adjacent cell. “You have my total, heartfelt apologies, thought I figure it won’t count for much. Poor Amos is bound for the dock and there’s nothing I can do about it now.”
“The last thing I remember is bringing you and Winderiver down the trail on our way back here. What mischief did you perpetuate this time?” Forgo rubbed his sore head and knew something bad had happened.
“You’ll find out sooner or later, so I might as well tell ye,” continued Amos. “Me cousins came to spring me from yer lawful clutches and may have banged you on the bean. A mite harder than I would have suggested, if that counts for anything.”
“It doesn’t, you piece of sod.”
“I figger you’d say that. In any case, me cousins Woodsy and Barker engineered a fine rescue and also immobilized yer deputy Pinkle. Happy as larks, we made a good run for it, down the Nob Road to the south. Darned if we didn’t run smack into Constable McGinty and a few of his deputies, who were out lookin’ for a gang of highwaymen. It was a critical mistake and we were taken into custody yet again.”
“And what, pray tell, was your error?” Forgo started to feel better knowing that McGinty caught the rotter and brought him back to Thimble Down. He’d buy the constable an ale or two next time he came into the Hanging Stoat.
“I forgot to gag my cellmate here and well, he spilled the beans, as it were. Can’t say as I blame ‘im; I’d-a done the same.”
“And that would be …?”
“Hello Forgo.” The Sheriff knew the bookmaster’s voice anywhere.
“Dorro!” The lawman sprang from his bunk and crossed to the other cell, lighting a candle to see through the blackness better. “Come closer; I can’t see you in the dark.”
From the depths of the cell came a figure that shuffled slowly; it was Dorro Fox Winderiver, but Forgo was still horrified.
“Dorro, what happened?”
Pinchbottle took up the narrative: “I’m afraid, Sheriff, that my mistake was not to gag Winderiver; thus, when we came upon Constable McGinty and his deputies, one helluva brawl broke out. Your boy Dorro shouted out that he was a prisoner, cluing in McGinty that we wuz on the run; in fact, he’d already heard you had me in the clink. He knows Woodsy and Barker all too well and put it together in a heartbeat.”
“Once the big copper alerted his men, they clambered onto our wagon faster than you can say, “Handcuffs ‘n’ shackles!” and the fighting began. A great many punches were thrown and, regrettably, your venerable bookmaster was in the thick of it, more as a punching bag than anything else. The Nob coppers thought he was an escapee, so they gave him a good beating. I apologize to you, Mr. Winderiver, for the pummeling ye received. T’was not my intent.”
“Hrmmmph,” was all Dorro could manage to say through his bruised lips and swollen jaw.
“So how did you two get back here, Amos?” Forgo was now enrapt in the story, despite the beating his friend had received.
“Ah, well, good Constable McGinty and his deputies gave us a good thrashing and brought us back to his gaol, which is a tad nicer than yours Forgo, if truth be told. If you ask me, you might spend a little silver on redecorating and getting some lively drapes and throw pillows—but I digress.”
“In short order, we were accused of mutiny and escape, including your friend Winderiver here, much to his misfortune. The lad was bleeding and largely unconscious, and so couldn’t defend himself as they levied charges on him. Eventually, a gang from Thimble Down, including Deputy Pinkle—who wasn’t injured as bad as you—Mr. Mungo, Bog, and Dowdy were alerted to the situation and came to Nob as if black wolves were on their trail.”
“After much discussion, McGinty decided to remand me’self and Winderiver back to the jurisdiction of Thimble Down to face existing and new charges, while he kept ol’ Woodsy and Barker Pinchbottle to face their due down there. That seemed to make everyone happy and, thus, here we are back safe and sound in yer crummy, dilapidated gaolhouse. End of story.”
“Thank you, Amos, that was well told. As for your poor, shameless treatment of Mr. Winderiver, however, all I say is ….”
At that, Forgo reached through the bars and grabbed Pinchbottle by the shirt, pulling him forward with tremendous speed.
Clang!
That was the sound Amos’ head smacking into the iron bars, rendering the villain instantly unconscious. The Sheriff matter of factly grabbed a set of keys off the wall peg and entered the cell, mostly to make sure Pinchbottle was still breathing and that he hadn’t broken his neck. Satisfied that had only knocked him out, Forgo turned his cellmate.
“C’mon Dorro, let’s get you across the way. I’ll call Nurse Pym and she can treat your bruises and bumps. Gosh, you look awful, lad.” In truth, the lawman felt terrible for Dorro’s run of bad luck, which only seemed to be getting worse. His trial was coming up, adding insult to injury. He led his friend into the adjoining cell and got him settled.
“Thank … you ... Forgo ….”
“Don’t talk, Dorro—you’re battered up good. Just rest. You must be in pain because I’ve never been known you to keep you trap shut this long!” Forgo laughed, but knew the bookmaster didn’t share the joke. “I’ll get Pym.”
Walking back to the front of the gaol, the lawmen paused for a moment.
I’ll get you back for this, Amos Pinchbottle. No one messes with a pal of Forgo’s and gets away with it. Smackin’ yer ugly mug into the bars was just the down payment.
For good measure, Forgo spat on the dirty floor.
But y’know, the thug is right about one thing—this place really is a dump.
On the Case
“We can’t not do anything, Wyll! You know that Mr. Dorro wouldn’t leave us in gaol.”
“I know, but we’re just younglings and we don’t know much about the law.” Dorro’s nephew was at his wits end. “I’ve been trying to think of a plan but Cheeryup, but I’m only twelve years old!”
Cheeryup giggled. “That’s never stopped us before. Let’s ask Mr. Shoe, silly goose.”
Along with about ten other children, Wyll and Cheeryup clambered up the snowy, well-worn steps of the library and entered the building, embracing the warmth of the wood-burning furnace in the cellar that kept the place toasty.
Despite Mr. Dorro’s detention, classes went on as usual and Bedminster Shoe was reveling in his role as Thimble Down’s first school teacher in a generation.
“Come now, please—we have to get started on time!” Mr. Shoe called to the youngsters, leading them to a section of the building that had just been fitted out with desks and chalkboards. Needless to say, they had plenty of books to read and learn from.
“Today we’re going work on mathematics first, and then back to reading the adventure stories of your choice. Lastly, we’ll start our oral presentations on your reading, starting with Missy Cornbottom. What will you be sharing with us, Missy?”
A girl with jet-black curly hair and several missing teeth excitedly replied, “It’s The Witches of Water-Down by Esperanza Dewey, a fable about sea-going nymphs and witches who ensnared sailors … and even commanded deep-sea monsters to destroy the port city. It’s a terrifying tale!”
“Wonderful, Missy, but if you’ll all first get out of a sheet of foolscap and pencils, we’ll begin with our ongoing work on addition and subtract
ion, as if you own a shop and need to keep your account ledger up to date.”
Cheeryup and Wyll could both tell how much Mr. Shoe enjoyed teaching, as he was constantly coming up with fresh, entertaining ways to teach them rather boring things.
Two hours later, Shoe adjourned class and the children all sprang from the library, running out side to toss snowballs at make-believe witches and sea monsters, or dash home for nuncheon. Wyll and his constant companion lagged behind.
“Mr. Shoe, can we speak with you?”
“Of course, of course,” he replied as he erased the blackboard. “Worried about Mr. Dorro, are we?”
“Yes sir,” began Cheeryup. “We feel helpless and don’t know how to help him—and we know he’d help us! What should we do?”
“Granted, young lady, you are just young folk and aren’t solicitors—at least not yet.” Bedminster winked at her, knowing that Cheeryup Tunbridge could well become a solicitor someday and probably a damned good one at that. “But there are things you can do to assist your friend and uncle.”
“Please tell us!”
“If I were you,” replied the tall, balding, and rather gangly schoolmaster, “I’d do what Dorro would do—conduct an investigation. Interview the participants and witnesses to the death of Dalbo Dall. Once you conduct them, review all your notes and see if there are any themes or strange errors that pop up. Those will be your important clues and you can bring them to Dorro or his solicitor, Darwinna Thrashrack.”
Even as he said her name, the children could see a moony look in his eyes, as if he were admiring her beauty in person.
The girl said, “An excellent idea, Mr. Shoe. We can talk to Dowdy, Bog, Mr. Timmo, and Sheriff Forgo today.”
“That’s a good list, young lady, but judging by the funeral I think a pivotal player in this saga is Minty Pinter. He seemed especially broken up about Dalbo’s death and, while I know they were friends, it seemed like there was more going on that met the eye. I think he’ll prove a key witness.”
The two thanked Mr. Shoe and bolted from the library with newfound zeal. They headed for the wagon drover’s shop on Moon Lane, just off the High Street.
