“I’m real glad I spotted you, Sheriff. We did it.”
“Did what?”
“Funded the town. New source of income. The city fathers, namely me and Hubert Sanders and George Maxwell, enacted the ordinance. No spitting in public. Two-dollar fine, rising to five dollars for repeats. And you’re our salvation, Cotton. You go out now, soon as it’s published, and haul people in for spitting. Two dollars apiece.”
“I hate to pinch people for laying a gob on the street, George. Why don’t you hire a town constable?”
“Because that costs money, and you’re the best man for the job. You could get ten dollars a week out of Turk. He spits like there’s no tomorrow.”
“You sure the city’s so broke?”
“We’re in debt, Sheriff. No fees from the saloons, no table fees from gamblers, no license fees from the parlor houses, no fines from the girls in them. The county supervisors wiped out our city budget.”
“Well, I think I’ll pass. I got county laws to enforce, not city ones.”
“You’re being stubborn, Cotton. We’re not incorporated, and you’re the only law we got.”
“Well, you go print up a card I can give to people when I catch them firing a gob, saying it’s your law, not mine.”
“Oh, no, we want you to be the brave front for our non-spit way of life.”
“You just want to get yourself reelected, that’s all.”
“That too, Cotton.”
“I ain’t gonna do it. But I’ll deputize one of them Temperance ladies and let her do it. She can arrest me if she catches me. Say the word, and I’ll deputize Eve Grosbeak and Manilla Twining as sheriff deputies in charge of spitting.”
“Hell’s bells,” said Mayor Waller. “That would start a revolution. I’ve been hearing rumors. There’s a mess of cowboys planning to vote in the June elections, and they’re talking about throwing everyone out and putting in people who’d repeal all those new laws.”
“It all started when women got the right to vote,” I said. “You can’t get anywhere until you repeal that and get them back into the kitchen.”
“You’re right, Sheriff. The world’s going to hell fast. We’ve got to stop it. It’s like dandelions. Give ’em an inch and they’ll take a yard.”
“If we want change around here, we’ve got to take away the women’s vote,” I said. “I don’t know how to do that. Maybe a poll tax. They ain’t got a dime.”
“You know, all those cowboys are thinking the same thing. I talked to Big Nose George and Spitting Sam the other day, when they was loading up a wagon with flour. They said it’s hopeless. Doubtful’s worse than a funeral parlor. They’ve got to outlaw female voting in Puma County or else ever yone’ll pull out.”
“I sure don’t know how to do it, but the first thing is to toss out them county supervisors who got wives always telling them how to vote. Then, get some fellers to run. I mean, fellers the women wouldn’t think of supporting. And we’ll all get behind them.”
“Sheriff, you’re onto something. We got to get rid of Amos Grosbeak—he’s the worst, and Twining and Thimble, almost as bad. None of ’em can be redeemed because they got mean wives that run ’em. Never underestimate what a wife can do to a man, Sheriff.”
“Well, that’s what it comes to. Elect women and first thing you’ve got is anti-spitting laws.”
Waller went his way. It sure was a satisfying conversation, and I was glad to get a little opinion from people on the street. I hawked up a good gob and spat at a pile of horse apples that were still warm and had a few early flies buzzing around. I’d spit all I wanted until they published the new law, and maybe I’d spit some more after that. I wondered what Doubtful, Wyoming, was coming to. There was more freedom in Rochester, New York, than in all of Wyoming.
The first thing I noticed when I got to Sally Sweet’s boardinghouse was that she was flying some flag or other, a fancy one with a lot of gold thread in it, and some shields on it, and some black letters in Latin or something or other. Who could say? But it sure was a fancy flag, and there was a little crown embroidered on top, making it look real important.
I entered her door, setting off the cowbells, and Sally emerged at once from her suite, wearing a silky kimono. And then right behind was a dapper little fellow with a pencil mustache with daggers of black hair in both directions, all waxed and looking ready to stab. He had a robe on, too, and darned if it wasn’t the same silky design as the flag fluttering out front.
“Cotton, I’m so thrilled to see you,” she said. “Meet my husband.”
“Husband?”
“Absolutely, Cotton. I’m a countess. Meet Count Cernix von Stromberger, Count of Upper Silesia and Baron of Lesser Latvia.”
“You got married, Sally?”
“Last night. We consummated it first, and then went to the judge and he tied it up for us. That Axel Nippers, he sure knows how to read a marriage ceremony fast. We were in and out of there faster than Cernix could say I do.” She eyed her man. “Cernix, darling, meet our dear sheriff, Cotton Pickens.”
“Just fine, just fine,” the count said.
“How did this happen? Did you know each other for long?” I asked.
“No, I stopped by, looking for a free room, and she accommodated me. A palace revolution in Upper Silesia put a strain on my finances. We took a liking to each other at once. I had a title and no money, and she had a fancy boardinghouse and a yearning for a title. So Sally Sweet became the Countess von Stromberger.”
“Oh, my, Lawyer Stokes is fit to be tied,” she said. “Do come in and let us brew you some Bulgarian tea.”
“What’s Bulgarian tea?” I asked.
“I don’t know. Cernix brought it, but it puts a person in a very special mood, doesn’t it Cernix?”
“It does. It removes pain and improves the libido.”
“Whoopee,” said Sally. “You have enough libido for a month.”
“What’s libido?” I asked.
“You poor dear. You’ll find out some day,” she said. “I don’t think you have a lick of it.”
“Well, my ma always said I make up for it.”
She started some water heating, and we settled in her kitchen. The count was a restless fellow, itching and bouncing.
“I tell you what, Sheriff,” he said. “It’s a sad world when a man can’t even enjoy a sip of wine. I told my chickadee here, Doubtful needs reform. It needs a parliament. It needs a duke. If Doubtful were to appoint me, I’d be most happy to legislate some new laws, more generous and humane than the ones your wretched hen-pecked supervisors have imposed on the weary world.”
“They go along with their wives, all right,” I said. “But the wives are real nice ladies. They’re trying to get me married off, without any luck. Mrs. Grosbeak’s got a mess of peacocks in her yard, and it’s a trial just to get from the gate to her door without being half bit to death.”
“What you need is a revolution,” the count said. “A little stiletto work. A boot to the skinny behind.”
“Cernix is leading up to something,” Sally said.
“I am. It’s time for reform in Doubtful. It’s time to throw off the yoke. It’s time to send the Women’s Temperance Union packing. It’s time for you, my dear sheriff, to run for high office on a generous platform.”
“Me?”
“You’re exactly the right man for the job.”
“All I want is sheriff.”
“And arrest people for spitting in the street? I heard about that.”
“Well, I’d probably just dodge that a little.”
“No, young man, you can’t dodge it. It’s a slippery slope. First it’s saloons. Then it’s gambling and cathouses. Then it’s spitting. Then it’s smoking. Then it’s enjoying a stroll on Sundays. Then it’s—who knows where it’ll stop, eh? Tyranny in skirts. You’ve got to do something, show some public spirit. You’re the man of the hour, and destiny’s calling you.”
I could hardly imagine running for office. Sally served up
some of that brew, and it tasted a little bitter but put me in a fine mood.
“In Lower Silesia, we elevate women to sainthood, and that takes care of it,” Cernix said. “You’ve got to know how to handle a woman, and that’s something you need to learn, boy.”
It sure was a pleasant visit. I learned that Count von Stromberger had run afoul of an obscure ordinance outlawing carrier pigeons, and before it was settled he had spent a half million kroner defending his right to raise carrier pigeons and also fighting cocks. It so ruined him that he fled to the New World, looking for opportunity, and now he had found it.
“Well, I got to get back on duty, Count, and you can get back to your libidos,” I said.
“That was exactly the right thing to say, boy. You think about it. You’ve got to run for office to spare this county additional grief. You’ll be the salvation of Puma County and its suffering people. You put together a slate, and run together, so you’ll have a majority on the board of supervisors. The countess and I, we’ll help you any way we can.”
“That sure sounds real fine,” I said.
But once I got into the fresh air of spring, I knew I’d stick with my job. I liked being sheriff. I didn’t always like the rules I had to enforce, but I sure liked being the law in Puma County. People on the street waved, or tipped their hat, or nodded, and everyone in the whole county knew me. So by the time I got back to my office that spring afternoon, I’d decided not to run, even if it was sort of pleasant to think that someone wanted me on the county board.
“Where you been?” asked Rusty. “It’s sure sleepy around here.”
“I’ve been meeting Sally Sweet’s new husband, Count Cernix von Stromberger.”
“She married that crook?”
“What about it?”
“He’s on half the Wanted dodgers in the West.”
“Well, he’s pretty fine, and he’s rescued Sally from Lawyer Stokes, and maybe I’ll just keep an open mind about him.”
Rusty grinned. “Sure, Cotton. Enforce the law without fear or favor.”
Rusty sure made me mad.
Two or three peaceful days slid by in Doubtful, with grass coming up and tulips getting ready to bloom and daffodils defying the night frosts and shouting that warmth was on its way. And then Supervisor Amos Grosbeak called me in. I hurried up to the man’s spacious office, thinking there would be trouble.
“You planning to go out to the Crossing and shut it down, like you said?” Grosbeak asked.
“Well, I’m fixing on it. I’ll need to recruit a posse. I’ll get you and the other supervisors and the businessmen in town, and Doc Harrison, and we’ll ride over there and put the place out of business.”
“Well, ah, you probably won’t need a posse. Certainly not a large one. I’ve heard a strange thing. Came in by wire. Three scows loaded with criminals got cut loose of the Crossing and floated down the North Platte River, helpless to stop because they hadn’t so much as a pole to steer with. The story has it that they yelled at people along the way, but no one knew how to rope the scows. This went on until they crossed the Nebraska line, and the next anyone knew, the scows had gotten to North Platte, a town pretty much operated by Buffalo Bill Cody, and this time the howls of the criminals were heard on shore, and a bunch of Cody’s troupe lassoed the scows and brought them in. Well, Sheriff, there was immediate celebration. The scows supplied exactly what North Platte was lacking, and North Platte had cash in its pockets, so the debased criminals on the scows were making ten times more each hour than they earned in a day at the Crossing.”
He scowled at me.
“Now how could that be? You know anything about that?”
“Someone cut ’em loose,” I said. “Ain’t that a hurrah?”
“You botched the job. You should have arrested them and brought them in for violating Puma County law,” Grosbeak said. “Now they’re being rewarded for a life of vice. Sometimes, Pickens, I think you were born without brains.”
“It’s not true,” I said. “I got a few.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
The three county supervisors occupied their usual seats in the Puma County courtroom, and Lawyer Stokes was hovering like a tarantula off to one side, dressed this day in funereal black. It sure looked like a hanging party to me, and that was exactly what it was.
Amos Grosbeak did the talking, since he was the top dog among the supervisors. It was he who had summoned me and Deputy Rusty Irons to this meeting.
“I’ll get straight to it, Pickens. We’re discharging you and your deputy. As of today, you are no longer sheriff of Puma County, and your deputy is no longer in your employ or the county employ.”
I wasn’t surprised. “You mind telling me why?”
“Dereliction of duty. Time after time, you have failed to enforce the laws duly enacted by this county and this board of supervisors. Most recently you failed to enforce the law at the Crossing, where vice flourishes unimpeded. You went there and did nothing and let the criminal element escape.”
“Well, they ain’t in Puma County anymore.”
“No thanks to you. You might be a good man with a revolver, but you’ve been entirely ineffectual in law enforcement. It was unanimously decided, by recorded vote, to discharge you and your deputy.” He turned to his fellow supervisors. “Is that not correct, gentlemen?”
Reggie Thimble nodded. So did Lester Twining.
“Let it be put on the record that all supervisors agreed. Now then, Pickens, we are disallowing your travel costs to the Crossing, since you failed in your duty, and we are assessing your salary the administrative costs of discharging you, which means we are deducting eleven dollars from your April salary, which means that you and the county of Puma are dead even.”
“No pay for April.”
“Certainly you received pay, but the expenses you have imposed on us because of your derelictions are equal to the pay. Therefore, we are done with you. Please surrender your badge and the jail key to us forthwith, and remove any personal items from the County Office.”
“You got a new man hired?”
“Three new men, solid and true, and devoted to the law and the county. If a celebrated shootist such as yourself is of no worth to us, then maybe a few Paul Bunyons would be an improvement. We’ve hired the woodcutters and sawmill man Lemuel Clegg, who will be our new sheriff, and his boys Barter and Cash, who will be his deputies. We look forward to vigorous law enforcement. They are in complete accord with the law, and they assure us they will enforce any law we enact, without fear or favor. We believe Doubtful and Puma County will benefit from their peaceful, quiet, strong natures.”
“Them Cleggs are good men. I only hope they don’t get shot, since muscle don’t do a lot of good when it comes to guns.”
“That will be enough of your insolence, Pickens.” Grosbeak rapped the gavel and held out his hand. I unpinned my badge, and so did Rusty.
“It’s the usual screw,” I said.
That met with a rap of the gavel.
“We got all three of them for only two dollars more than the pair of you,” Grosbeak said. “The county will save money.”
“They gonna enforce the city’s new spitting law?”
“They will enforce all the law without fear or favor. The Cleggs are manly and oozing with virtue, and I wish we had thought to employ them in this most noble calling long ago. It would have spared us a lot of grief.”
He eyed me with vast distaste.
I walked out of there feeling a little peeved, but also relieved. Now I wouldn’t have to enforce a mess of laws I didn’t much approve of. I’d lasted longer than the other sheriffs the supervisors had appointed.
“How about you?” I asked Rusty.
Rusty worked up a good gob and fired it at the street, but no one caught him en flagrant delicto.
Me and Rusty didn’t have much personal stuff to remove from the office. Just an ancient sweater and a few spare stockings with holes in the toes and worn-out heels.
“Spend my last nickels on some chili at Barney’s Beanery, quit Belle’s Boardinghouse, and then get Critter out of Turk’s barn and go somewhere.”
“Yeah, but where?”
“It’s spring, and the mountains are looking real good to me.”
“I don’t know what to do, either. It’s like we’ve got something hanging over us, and we need to free ourselves from it.”
“The only thing hanging over me is a mess of rules I don’t want. Minute I step out of Puma County I’ll be fine.”
“Me, I’m red-haired and prone to fighting. Cotton, the trouble with you is you ain’t got red hair. If you had red hair, no one would call you thick-skulled.”
“You want a fight, do you, Rusty? I know how to pick one if you’re of a mind.”
“I always like a fight, Cotton.”
“You speaking serious, or just blowing farts?”
“When have I ever backed away from one?”
“I guess I’ll leave Critter in Turk’s Livery Barn. You and me, Rusty, are running for office.”
“We’re what?”
“How are we gonna fix up Puma County if those three peckerheads, Grosbeak, Twining, and Thimble, are in office, causing all the trouble they can? Do you think anyone’s opposed to them? Not as I’ve heard. There’s an election coming right up. Should we just let them go back in and cause worse trouble?”
“There’s three of them and two of us, Cotton.”
“I’ll get Big Nose George Botts to run with us. He’s not got kindly feelings toward the supervisors.”
“You think we can do her?”
“You got any better ideas?”
“You ever run for anything, Cotton? I mean, don’t we have to file forms and do stuff?”
“We’ll get it straightened out. Maybe Sally Sweet, I mean whatever her name is now, she can help us out.”
“Do you really think we should?”
“We’re desperate. Puma County’s on the rocks.”
“Do supervisors get a salary?”
“Aha, now you’re talking,” I said.
“But we’ve got to win, Cotton. How do we win against all those rich men?”
Wyoming Slaughter Page 18
