The Sheriff

          He slid down from his horse and watched a small cloud of dust swirl around the toe of his worn-out boot. Wiping his face with a grimy neckerchief, he wearily lifted his head to survey the scene from under the brim of his dirty hat. There was no one in sight. He knew they were there, watching.

         The southlands from where he had come were hot and deserted. He hadn’t seen a soul for over a month. The small outpost he was sizing up now was an oasis of willow trees and water. The place was seductive. Cold water and hot whiskey. A place to heal sores. A paradise in an ocean of hell. The thought crossed his mind that the problem with an oasis is that snakes like them too.

          He looped the reins over the saddle horn and slowly walked towards the line of trees. The memory of the trip to Good Water was hard to push down. He needed his wits about him, but the images were bearing down on him.

          He had been stung by a scorpion three weeks ago. His leg was still swollen. Riding made it hurt like hell. The desert isn’t the kind of place you want to rest in, so he pushed on. A band of Mescalero Apache had nearly killed him. He had the sense to surrender before he killed any of them and they had let him go. It had cost him his rifle and tobacco, but he hade been damn lucky they had settled for that.

         He reached into his pocket and pulled out the star. He pinned on his shirt being careful to get it on straight. He rubbed it with his shirtsleeve, but it didn’t get any shinier. The dirt of a thousand miles had been ground into it making lettering stand out in relief. “US Marshall” was all it said, and all it had to say.

         Without it, he could ride into any town in the territory and strike up a conversation. Once he pinned that star on, it was a different story. He ate by himself, drank by himself. People gave him a wide berth. People were usually friendlier with whatever outlaw he was after than they were to him. It was a life of solitude. He found himself wishing he were that boy that chased down strays again.


          “Spencer! Dang it, Spencer!” His father was galloping his direction a hundred miles an hour.

          The calf he had roped had pulled him clean off his horse and landed him face down in the Kansas grass.

         “I’m OK, Pa,” he shouted as he stood, even though he wasn’t sure just then. The world was a little cock-eyed and his head hurt.

         His Pa pulled the horse up and skidded to a stop. The man was beet red. “You little fool, loop the rope over the horn next time! You’re lucky you didn’t get killed.”

         He knew his Pa wasn’t mad, he was just shook up. His Pa had been skittish ever since the accident that had taken his mother and sister. It was just the two of them now.

          “Get yourself back and tend those scratches,” the man said.

          He cursed his bad luck at falling in plain sight of his Pa. He had taken a dozen worse falls than that. He had always been able to hide the scrapes and bruises. If his Pa knew about them he would have taken his horse away.

         He would be ten in two months. He was sure he would be grown up enough then to have a gun. He wasn’t sure why he needed one, but he wanted one none the less.


          He had taken the liberty of escorting Mary Beth home after church. It was a bit forward, but she didn’t protest. He needed a soft shoulder to cry on what with his Pa dying eight months ago. He knew a lot about ranching, but he was only eighteen and not up to running a spread like theirs. He had the place up for sale. It was bound to sell; they owned some prime ground with two good watering holes.

         “If you don’t mind my asking,” Mary Beth said, “what are you going to do after the ranch sells?”

          He knew there was more to the question than simple curiosity. He and Mary Beth had been having discreet conversation for some time.

         “I guess I’ll go cowboyin’. It’s the only thing I know how to do,” he said. There wasn’t much chance he would be asking for her hand anytime soon. No one would let their daughter marry a cow poke.

         He escorted Mary to her door and made his farewell. The walk back along the main street was slow and thoughtful. He had to improve his prospects somehow. He reached his horse that was tied outside the general store. He pulled his 44 out of the saddle bag and strapped it on.

         The heaviness of it was reassuring, familiar. He had begun to feel naked without it. His long days were spent practicing with the big pistol. It was too big to be practical for a cowboy, a smaller and lighter gun was handier. The biggest thing a cowboy ever shot was a coyote. The gun he wore was for more dangerous game. He had absolutely no expectation he would ever draw it on a person, but he practiced as though he might.

         Just then shouting broke out behind him. He spun around to see two masked gunmen backing out of the store, their guns drawn and cocked. The shock of the moment froze him in place. One of the men turned and saw him. He could see a moment of indecision in the man’s eyes, and then resolve. The man turned the gun towards him.

          The next instant passed without a single thought. It was a reflex, an instinct. After the instant passed, the two gunmen lay dying in the street and he was left holding the big 44 in his shaking hand.

          A hush fell over the town. He was still holding his gun pointed towards the gunmen as the sheriff walked up.

          “Son, I think you can put that away now,” the stern man said.

         The horror of the incident played heavily upon him. He spent the next few days trying to convince himself that he had done the right thing. On the seventh day following the shooting, a large man rode up to him.

         “Are you Spencer Travis?” the man asked.
He was suspicious of the stranger. His terrible act had left him shaken and fearful. The man was plain looking, but had a certain air of danger about him and stood so he could draw if he had to.

          “I hear you’re the gunfighter that killed two men in a robbery. They say one of them was pointing a gun at you and you drew and fired before he could pull the trigger.”

         Spencer eyed the man for any sign telling his intentions, but the man’s face was as cold and plain as a grave marker. “I’m no gunfighter. I just did what I had to do.” he said, tensing for a draw.

         “I’m a Deputy Federal Marshal. I’m here to offer you a job.”

          Spencer’s head swam. He didn’t know anything about being a marshal, but he needed a steady job to win Mary’s hand.

         The man pushed his crumpled hat back and leaned forward, “There’s something you should know. Word is spreading fast. By the time the news gets to St. Louis, you will be the fastest gunman in the west. Every outlaw that wants to make a name for himself will come here hunting you. They won’t hesitate to kill you any way they can as long as they get the credit. You are a target, son.”

         The thought sent a chill down his back. “When do I start?” he asked.

         They rode to Wichita. The Deputy talked the whole three days. The things he heard made Spencer wonder if he was cut out for the job, but his resolve held firm. He was deputized upon his arrival and sent west the next day. He was dispatched to Tombstone to find Wyatt Earp. It was a long, hot trip, worse than any cattle drive.

         He didn’t like the looks of Tombstone. It was unlike anything he had seen. Rowdy, loud, fighting in the street. He hoped it wasn’t going to be his job to bring the town to order.

         Wyatt Earp wasn’t the man he expected. Profane, dirty, the man was objectionable in many ways. It was nothing short of terrifying standing in front of a desk with Earp and Holiday eyeing him coldly.

         “So you’re the one that’s supposed to go take Anderson?” Earp chuckled and shook his head. “Well, God speed, son.”

         He was sent south to Yuma. The job wasn’t anything like what he had expected. He envisioned a “showdown” with two men facing each other in the street. What he got was an ambush at night that had nearly killed him. In the end, Anderson and his two cronies were dead, and he had a deep gash along his ribs. Another two inches and the bullet would have killed him. The wound bled for days and hurt like living hell. It was just shortly thereafter that he got a telegraph from Earp telling him to ride to Alverado and bring in Texas Red. He was a lot more cautious that time.

         The telegrams kept coming and he kept riding. Two years later he stood outside of Good Water sizing up the town. He had forgotten Mary Beth. He had made himself forget almost everything. It was too bloody to remember. All he knew was that he was coming into town and arresting James Hamilton for robbery.

          Just word of his arrival would cause an outlaw to surrender these days. He was starting to wish they wouldn’t because then he wouldn’t have to deliver the man to a sheriff that was usually several days away. It was a hell of a lot easier to just shoot the man and ride away.

         He walked into the town slowly surveying the buildings. People in the streets recoiled as he passed. He tied his horse outside the saloon and cracked the door open. The men inside turned to see who had come. He didn’t see anyone that looked like Hamilton, so he walked in. There was an audible gasp. He walked to the bar and men cleared the way for him in a hurry. He ordered whiskey.

         He turned to face the nervous crowd. “Would you gentlemen please relay to James Hamilton that he is to surrender in two days?” He paid for his whiskey and walked across the street to the hotel.

          Two days later, Hamilton walked up with his hands in the air. He wasn’t wearing a gun.

         “Aw, Christ,” he muttered. It was three or four days to Winslow. “OK,” he said. “Let’s go.”