Support Your Local Deputy: A Cotton Pickens Western

by W. , Johnstone, William

  “Got some pie for Queen,” I said. “Belle, she baked it special.”

  That’s when Queen appeared in the stairwell, and smiled. “That’s very kind of her, Cotton. Give her our regards. You want a piece?”

  “In a little bit, Queen. We got us a couple of wiggling tadpoles here got to get tied down.”

  King, he collected the revolvers, unloaded them, and set them on the kitchen counter.

  We heard shouting out there. They’d heard the shot Big Finn fired. But no one dared rush the Big House. Not yet.

  Queen found a couple of lariats, and we hogtied them two little hooligans so tight they couldn’t even stand up without help.

  I edged to the front door, wary of a wild shot. “Come on in and have some apple pie,” I yelled.

  Ten guys were waving revolvers out there. They stared.

  “Put away the guns, boys,” I said, still sticking to shadows. Those cowboys were a wild crowd, a little loose with the trigger finger.

  “Rusty, you come on ahead,” I said.

  “You got a couple of Ukrainian beauties for me?”

  “Nope, just a pair of dimwits,” I said.

  Sure enough, Rusty edged up the porch steps first, wary of a trap, but in one glance he took in the brats tied tight, King, who was guarding them, and Queen slicing apple pie into thin pieces since it would have to stretch to a dozen men.

  “It was the pie that done it,” I said. “We got to thank Belle for it.”

  Big Finn, he was wrestling with the rope, flopping like a just-hooked bass, but Mickey, he just stared at us, his dream over, and maybe any hope of a good life, too—if he ever dreamed of one. You never know. Sometimes the worst feller around wants nothing but a little cottage with rambling roses and a sweetheart and a job as a janitor somewhere.

  About then, all the Admiral Ranch hands rolled in, including Spitting Sam and Big Nose George. It took them a single glance to see the two waterfront hooligans hogtied, and Queen dishing out skinny slivers of apple pie.

  “Best pie I ever ate,” I said. It was gone in two bites.

  “You tell that Belle, she’s gotta bake one for me,” said Spitting Sam.

  We all had a slice, and a lot of smiling was occurring without permission.

  “What are we gonna do with these little turds?” Spitting Sam asked.

  “Use ’em for bait,” Big Nose said.

  “Like minnow bait?”

  “Yeah, over at Lake Booger, where the alligators live, we could troll these two, with a hook in their mouths, and wait for a bite.”

  “What’s the biggest gator you ever caught that way?” King Glad asked.

  “Well, that’s the ten-footer we skinned out.”

  “And what were you trolling with?”

  “A little pig with a hook in his snout. That gator, he swum up from under, and downed the pig in one gulp, and the hook got set in his jaw and we reeled him in.”

  “I’d rather hang!” yelled Big Finn.

  “I want to go to San Francisco,” Mickey said.

  “That’ll be up to Hanging Judge Earwig,” I said.

  “Hanging judge?”

  “He’s even more famous than Hanging Judge Parker down in the Indian Territory. He packs ’em off to the gallows about as fast as the hangman can wind a new noose.”

  “And we’re going to be taken to him?”

  “That’s what I’m planning on. You any objections?”

  “They can’t hang boys,” Big Finn yelled. “It ain’t allowed.”

  “Well, Judge Earwig prefers to hang girls,” I said. “But he doesn’t exempt boys.”

  “He’d hang a billy goat if he caught the goat stealing,” King Glad said.

  “He favors schoolmarms,” Queen said. “He’s hanged more teachers than anyone I ever heard of.”

  “He hanged a preacher a few times,” Big Nose said.

  “Well, they deserve it,” Rusty said. “We pretty near hanged one a few weeks ago, but he skedaddled just ahead of the noose.”

  The pair of hooligans, they looked a little pale around the gills.

  “All right, Rusty, let’s pack up this pair and lock them up. We’ll fetch Hanging Judge Earwig, list a few dozen charges, and let them plead.”

  “I didn’t do nothing,” Big Finn yelled.

  “That’s what I used to tell my ma when I got caught red-handed,” I said.

  Chapter Seventeen

  We started for Doubtful along about sunset, with the two hooligans on Admiral Ranch nags. A posse of cowboys, led by Spitting Sam, came along, to make sure that the sheriff, a man of dubious competence as far as they were concerned, delivered the goods to the county jail. I didn’t mind. I always enjoy good company. Rusty, he’d been sort of sour ever since he lost his Ukrainian bride and her Siamese twin. I’d be sour, too, losing two brides for the price of one.

  So we headed along the lonesome road as twilight gained on us, but we didn’t get far before the hooligans started bickering.

  Big Finn started it. “I told ya not to go for that apple pie,” he snapped at Mickey. “Look what it got us.”

  “Aw, shut up,” Mickey replied. “It was your idea. You pushed me into it.”

  “It woulda worked if you knew what you’re doing. I just got stuck with an idiot.”

  “As if you knew what you were doing,” Mickey replied. “You can’t plan your way out of a flour sack.”

  “I’ll kill you, soon as we get out of this. You and your apple pie. If you hadn’t took that pie, and let him come after me, we’d be on our way to Frisco, with ten grand.”

  “Go ahead and try it,” Mickey said. “You can’t even button your fly.”

  “Just you wait,” Big Finn growled. “Man, you’re already six feet under.”

  “You fellers sound real friendly,” I said. “How long you known each other?”

  “We met in the orphan wagon. Now look at us.”

  “Yep, you’re up to your buns in trouble, boy.”

  Big Finn stared. “There ain’t no jail holds me, sheriff.”

  “We’ll see what Hanging Judge Earwig says about that,” I said.

  “Shut your traps,” Rusty said.

  “Let ’em talk,” I said. “It’s all sort of a confession, I figure. These here poor little orphan boys got snookered by an apple pie. It’s pretty entertaining.”

  Spitting Sam added his two bits. “I’ll pay my respects to Miss Belle. Her pies are better than a load of buckshot.”

  “She’ll appreciate it, Sam,” I said.

  We made town about at full dark. Word had gotten ahead of us, and a lot of citizens were lining Wyoming Avenue to see the little criminals we were dragging in. I saw Belle standing there with Riley in tow, and lifted my sweaty Stetson as we passed.

  Burtell, who was manning my office, spotted us. “Hanging Judge Earwig’s in court and waiting for you,” he yelled.

  “You mean we don’t have to lock up these suckers?”

  “He’s already got the lamps lit and his gavel in hand.”

  That gavel was a menace. He sits above the witness stand, and if he doesn’t like the witness, he knocks him on the head with the gavel. It sure gets their attention.

  “Guess we go to the courthouse for the trial,” I said. “We’re going to need a few charges.”

  “He’ll supply them,” Rusty said. “He’s real good with charges. And besides, we heard them confess as we rode into town.”

  That sounded about right. We were collecting a crowd, following along as we steered our tired nags to the courthouse. Critter, he laid his ears back and threatened to kill anyone who got within six feet, but the whole town knew about Critter; he’d injured half of them, so they got real respectful around my horse. I’d gotten offers for him from dog food makers, but I turned them all down. This was my second Critter. Critter, he was a part of me, and reflected my true self. If anyone wanted to know who I was, I always said I’m the human version of Critter. That little observation, it always did wonder
s, and maybe that’s why I’m still sheriff, even if half the town doesn’t like it.

  We got to the courthouse. A light was burning upstairs in the courtroom. I nodded to Rusty. We both knew what was about to happen. Those two hooligans were going to dismount and run for it. Spitting Sam eyed me, and nodded slightly. He knew. The rest of them cowboys knew.

  Sure enough, the hooligans dropped like rocks off their nags, but I caught Big Finn by his shirt, and Spitting Sam clobbered Mickey and then picked him up out of a manure pile, and everything went fine.

  “Just you wait, sheriff,” Big Finn growled. “It ain’t over. We’re orphans.”

  He was expecting special treatment, orphans being deprived and oppressed, but he wasn’t familiar with Hanging Judge Earwig, who specialized in oppressing the helpless and hopeless. He was a man after my own heart. I always said it was Earwig: He was the secret of law and order in Puma County. The only people he didn’t jail or hang were the rich and privileged, the ones he played cutthroat poker with on Wednesday nights. My ma, she always said Earwig was worth two or three sheriffs and a dozen deputies when it came to making the county peaceful and safe.

  The judge was waiting. And so were the privileged, who crammed the seats.

  He was in an affable mood, had his hair slicked back and his beard combed. He always was happiest when he could impose the maximum, and this time the sky was the limit. He watched the two hooligans enter, his bushy brows climbing up his forehead. When everyone was in, he rapped his gavel, which sounded like a shotgun blast.

  “Court’s open for business,” he said. “Are these the little crooks?”

  “These are the pair, Your Honor,” I said.

  “And what are the charges, sheriff?”

  “You name them, Your Honor.”

  He turned to the boys, who were finally looking subdued. “What are your names, eh?”

  The boys mumbled their names.

  “Mickey who?”

  “How the hell should I know?” Mickey replied.

  “Big Finn who?”

  “Big Finn Earwig. You’re my old man.”

  Never had I seen such delight crease the judge’s formidable face.

  “What did you do? Finn, you start.”

  Big Finn, he had some bluster in him. “We got some revolvers, raided the house, stuffed them two owners in the water closet, and told Spitting Sam to bring ten grand and a getaway rig.”

  “Did you threaten the lives of the Glads?”

  “You bet your ass. Money by sundown, or they were dead meat.”

  “You, Mickey, you wave a gun around, did you?”

  Mickey, he looked scared. “Just a little,” he said.

  “Where were you gonna go, boy?”

  “Back to Hoboken.”

  “What would you do there?”

  “Work for someone.”

  “You was gonna kill the Glads, boy?”

  “Not me. I wouldn’t hurt a fly. It was all a mistake. Big Finn, he scared me into it.”

  “He’s chicken,” Big Finn said.

  Judge Earwig eyed me. “How’d you spring the Glads, Pickens?”

  “With Belle’s apple pie, Your Honor.”

  “That would do it, all right. Best apple pie this side of Salt Lake City.”

  “Do we have a confession here?” Earwig asked the boys.

  “I didn’t do nothing,” Big Finn yelled.

  “That’s a double negative, boy. If you didn’t do nothing, that means you did something, which is the same as a guilty plea. Good. That’ll save us having to lasso a jury and go through all the rigmarole. Now, Fatherless Mickey, how do you plead?”

  “I got pushed into it,” he said.

  “Same as guilty. You just confessed. Doesn’t matter whether you got pushed or walked into it. You did it. All right, that will save us a half hour, and the county will get off cheap this time. I was hoping I wouldn’t have to lock up these little farts and bring in the Glads and swear a jury, and summon Lawyer Stokes to bore us for an hour. We’ve got it locked up clear.” He studied the pair. “Step forward for sentencing.”

  The boys stood frozen in place.

  Judge Earwig seemed puzzled a bit. He tugged at his beard, studied the kerosene lamps, peered, annoyed, at the silent spectators. “Trouble is you’re too young to hang. You gotta have some weight on the noose or the neck don’t break. If you had another thirty pounds, your necks would snap just fine, but that would mean jailing you until you got big enough, and that would cost the county a heap of money, and Cotton Pickens would get bored with it all. No, there’s got to be a better way.”

  His brow furrowed until great ridges crossed his forehead. I rarely saw Hanging Judge Earwig at a loss for a sentence, but this time he was.

  “Too bad we’re not on the coast,” he said. “You two should be shanghaied. You need to get stuffed into a good clipper ship and taken to sea. There’s no way out. If you jump ship, you feed the sharks. But this ain’t the coast, so I gotta come up with something that will work around here. Anyone got any suggestions?”

  “Ship ’em out,” yelled Turk.

  Hanging Judge Earwig didn’t like that. “Then these little farts would learn nothing.”

  “Send them to college,” Reggie Thimble said. “What could be worse?”

  “Not a bad idea, Reggie,” Earwig said. “Learn or be guillotined.”

  “What’s that word mean?” Big Finn asked.

  “They stick your neck into a big meat cleaver,” Earwig said. “And after they cut it off, the executioner holds up your head so everyone can see your last blink.”

  Mickey, he was looking pale.

  Earwig leaned over the bench. “You fellers, what do you want for a sentence?”

  “I want to be a hundred miles from Big Finn,” Mickey yelled.

  “Yeah, and I don’t want this fruitcake near me,” Big Finn yelled. “He cost us ten grand.”

  “Belle’s pies do that,” Earwig agreed.

  He seemed at a loss for a moment, but then he spotted One-Eyed Jack among the spectators. Jack was the town blacksmith. “Ah!” Earwig said. “I think I have it. Hey, One-Eyed, step forward please.”

  Jack stepped forward. He stood six feet tall and about three wide, at least across the shoulders. He’d lost an eye in the Civil War, and wore a black patch over it. His hair was graying now, and he viewed the world through one sulphurous, smoldering eye.

  “You good at leg irons, Jack?” the judge asked.

  “Leg irons? I’ve made a few.”

  “Can you make some no one can wiggle outta?”

  “You bet, Leonard.”

  I was reminded that Jack and Leonard Earwig played poker on Wednesdays.

  “You think you could hammer a little iron for these two?”

  “I can. The secret’s a long cylinder above the ankle, so tight they can’t get the heel through.”

  “Do you think you could make a chain they can’t chisel through?”

  “That’s a little harder, Leonard. But with a little daily checking, it’d hold.”

  Hanging Judge Earwig seems to light up like a burning Christmas tree. “I got just the thing. It’s worse than a hanging. It’s worse than a beheading. You put a leg iron on their legs, and connect these buzzards with a three-foot chain. I’m sentencing them to be paired together with a leg iron for one year. If they kill each other, that’s fine. If they learn to get along for the year, they’ll be reformed. And meanwhile, the Glads can put them back to work.”

  That sure took my breath away. In fact, that was the most beautiful justice ever meted out by Hanging Judge Earwig. People whistled and applauded. It was sublime justice. It was reform. It left the fate of those two hooligans in their own hands. Get along, or kill each other. Learn to live in harmony with others, or quit living entirely.

  “All right, One-Eye, you go fire up the forge, and when you’ve got these two in irons and chained up good, summon me for inspection, and I’ll release them to the Glads,”
Earwig said.

  “Let’s have a party,” Spitting Sam said. “I’m happy. The Glads, they’ll spring for a drink.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Rusty Irons, he sure was sour, moping around my office like the whole world was against him. I knew the feeling. I didn’t have my heart set on any Ukrainian mail-order bride who was a Siamese twin, but I’d eyed a few ladies in my day, like Pepper Baker, only to have her father rush her off to finishing school. That pretty near finished me.

  So Rusty was looking grim. He had a kid to raise and no woman. I deputized Riley, and gave him a badge, and the kid strutted around my office with an empty scattergun. Might as well teach them about weapons at an early age. We had him swab out the two jail cells, and told him he could be a jailer when he grew up, but he needed to know how to do it, and we’d help him practice.

  Well, Puma County Supervisor Reggie Thimble blew his cork. He came roaring in, eyed Riley, and started yelling.

  “What do you think you’re doing, Pickens? Making a little kid a deputy? Trying to screw the county, is that it? Trying to get us into big trouble? He’s too young to be handling weapons. You pull him off the force right now, or you’re fired.”

  Reggie had been working for years to get me fired, but after I rescued the Glads, he clammed up a little, for a few days. But then he found a way to get around it: It wasn’t my ability that nailed the little hooligans, it was Belle’s apple pie, and Cotton Pickens had nothing to do with the rescue. Mickey the hooligan smelled the pie, and that was the end of it. Pickens just happened to be on hand to shut the little swine down. That’s what he spread all over Doubtful, and pretty soon half the town agreed. It was Belle’s pie that nailed the little turds.

  I’ve heard that stuff all my life, and maybe it’s true, at least a little. My ma, she used to say . . . well, I couldn’t remember what she said. She was a fountain of wisdom, and I blotted it all up whenever I could, which wasn’t very often.

  The Glads put the little criminals to work building fence. If they cooperated, they could dig the postholes, set the posts, and string wire. If they fought, then the fence wouldn’t get built and the Glads wouldn’t pay them wages. I heard somewhere that fences make good neighbors, but maybe they make good fence-builders if the two didn’t kill each other with spades or wire cutters.