It's Not What You Think

Really, it's not what you think.

Somehow I couldn’t imagine Sheriff Tom lying handcuffed to an iron bed frame, naked. The Sheriff Tom I know is a real life version of a Hollywood straight arrow. The elderly clerk at the Lazy Bones Motel slyly hinted that there was more to the story but he clammed up when he remembered I was an outsider even though I’ve been his customer for years. 

 

I got my room key and headed to Jackie's Cold Day Inn, a throwback bar that lives in 1955; a place for people who like dim, quiet places to meet their friends; no TV tuned to loud sports channels. No jukebox to make you yell across the table at your drinking buddies. There are seven beer clocks on the wall above the whiskey shelf, each with a different hour and minute.

Jackie's is my favorite hangout in Panhandle. My friends there don't mind sharing the town's gossip with me. As I crossed the street to the bar I thought that if I lived to be a hundred I'd never hear the words "Sheriff Tom" and "kinky" in the same sentence.

Panhandle's a lot like other small Texas towns on my farm machinery sales route. It's too small for a full fledged police department but big enough to need a Sheriff and a deputy or two to keep the peace.

It's situated inside a triangle within 75 miles of three medium sized towns that have modern medical facilities, airports, national chain stores, and a tax base large enough to buy good roads and bridges. Big news rarely comes out of places like Panhandle. But once in a while tales of gallant heroism or salacious hedonism become headlines. 

The news about a grass fire in Rosewood Canyon was reported in the newspapers and television all over Texas. Dry lightning ignited the parched brush near the mouth of the box canyon trapping a rancher, his wife, and 10 year old son inside. They'd gone to there to check on their small herd of Herefords.

According to the Lubbock Avalanche, the Amarillo Globe-News, and the Midland Daily Excuse, Panhandle's Sheriff Tom Stafford and his Mexican sidekick, Jorge Washington, heroically saved a family that was trapped between stampeding cattle and a raging prairie fire. Both men refused to give interviews. Others who'd helped with the rescue reluctantly gave one word answers to reporter's questions. 

When I read the sentence about Tom's Mexican sidekick I decided not to bring that up to Jorge next time I saw him. Slights like that burn long and deep in proud men like him. I'm pretty sure he'd like a word or two with the reporter who wrote that, tap him on the shoulder, "Amigo, let's talk." 

I saw Tom's empty chair as soon as I walked in. That was unusual. Tom was always there in the late afternoons when his shift was over. My other friends, Les and Doc Harris, arrived later to have a drink or two before going home. 

I told them what the motel clerk insinuated about Tom. They glanced at each other and I sensed they weren't so sure I could be trusted so I changed the subject.

"How's Tom doing?"

Les slumped in his chair, stretched his legs out. "He's on medical leave for another coupla weeks. Smoke inhalation, some burns on his face, arms, busted ribs."

Doc Harris said, "Saw him Wednesday before they let him out of the hospital. The docs at the Lubbock medical center say his chances are pretty good that his brain's ok. I said, I'm a doctor so don't tell me maybe this or maybe that. They fessed up they're worried about the two knocks on his head, one in back, the other on his right side. Some swellin's still there but it's goin' down steady but if it don't go down they're gonna crack his skull open and have a looksee." 

Jackie slapped the bar rag on the table. "He coulda died in that fire. Damn fool thing to do, you ask me."

Les sat up, elbows on the table. "Wait a minute, Jackie. He saved the Winslows. Wasn't for Tom they'd be dead. He got Dan and Margret out then went back in for the boy. Jorge said the fire was burnin' so hot it was a miracle they the made it out." 

"Well," Jackie fussed, "he could died in that fire, too. I ain't done with Tom yet. Next time I see 'im he's gonna know it."

I was confused. Since Tom and Jorge had refused to answer reporters' questions there were a lot of gaps in the newspaper stories. I looked at my friends one at a time for some details. Wendy was the first to catch on and said, “Doc, you better tell it from the beginning. Anybody need another drink?”

Doc cocked his head and nodded at his empty tumbler and waited for Wendy to return with a fresh round for all of us. He took a sip, leaned back, crossed his hands over his belly and looked directly at me.

As free as the West Texas wind

"I don't have to tell you Dan Winslow's ranch is eight, nine miles outa town past Newman's spread. You already know that. What happened, Tom and Jorge were ridin' and trackin' some wild horses Winslow said were tearin' up his wife's vegetable garden. They weren't havin' much luck. Those mustangs can range for miles without stoppin' for anything 'cept water. There's enough grass they can feed anywhere they go. Anyhow, Tom and Jorge go back to the Winslow place but there's nobody home. Where'd they go? Tom says, we're trackers right? They decided to track the Winslows, keep their skills up. How hard is it to track a pickup truck when there's no other wheeled vehicles for miles around?

"The dry lightning started up about then. Most times nothing happens when it hits but this time it set some cottonwoods on fire right at the entrance to Rosewood Canyon. Dry grass, bushes, went up fast. Pretty soon more trees were lit up and the fire was creeping into the box canyon where Tom and Jorge'd tracked the Winslows. Right away they knew the Winslows were inside in worlda trouble 'less they get out fast. Now, if you ever been there you know there's only one skinny way in or outa that box canyon. Sides go straight up three, four hundred feet. It's a perfect oven.

"So Tom tells Jorge to ride back to the Winslow place, call the dispatcher, Mona, and tell her to send help and bring lotsa medical stuff, pronto. Jorge points to the fire and says, 'Tom, there's no way outa there.' Tom says, 'Go. Now.'

"Well, even with four wheel drive it took an hour for help to arrive. By then there was nothin' to do but let the fire burn itself out and hope the Winslows were ok. They found Dan and Margret lyin' on the ground 50 yards from the fire. Margret was barely breathin'. Dan was on all fours, coughin' something fierce, hair burned off, points to the fire. He says, "Tom and my boy, still in there."

"Jorge whips around and runs to the canyon. Tom staggers out carryin' the boy. His clothes are smokin', hair burned off. Can't stay on his feet and barely manages to put the boy down before collapsing.

"I check Tom up and down. I see the burns are gonna hurt but they're not too bad considerin'. He's wheezing from the smoke and fire he's been eatin'.  At least two broken ribs, two knots on his head, bleedin'. I tell Jorge to put 'im in Winslow's truck and run 'im up to Wendy's place about half way between the canyon and my office. No time to waste. Lubbock's two hours away, too far if Tom's head injury is worse than it looks. He's delirious, babbling about savin' Santa Claus, reindeer, and god knows what else, kept tryin' to stand up. Had to shoot 'im up with Ketamine, quiet 'im down. 

"The Winslows were in better shape than Tom so I sent them to Lubbock. We put Tom up in Wendy's house. Kept him there after I patched him up and I had to knock him out again. He kept tryin' to escape the fire in his head, I guess, so I handcuffed him to the bed. Two days later I sent him to the medical center in Lubbock. They took good care of him and sent him home in my care. He'll be ok. I told Sarah to call me on the regular every few hours.

"Tom's the only one who knows how the hell he made it out alive and he's not in any shape to talk about it yet. He gave me his mean cop look when I asked. Right now, all's I know is the bumps on his head coulda been lots worse."

I wanted to hear about Santa Claus, the reindeer, but especially about Tom shackled to Wendy's bed but Doc waved me off and asked me about my sales trip. The kinky story the motel clerk hinted at would have to wait for another day.

At that moment Tom was at home looking at himself in a full length mirror. His torso was wrapped in Ace bandages from his armpits to his bellybutton. It still hurt to take deep breaths and he heard a low train whistle when he exhaled. It's getting better. A few days ago he sounded like he had a chainsaw in his chest and felt like it, too. The hair on his arms was growing back. His hands were ok thanks to the leather gloves he'd worn the day of the fire.

Ok, now. Look at your face, Tom. The hair's growing back in patches, stubble on his chin, no eyebrows yet. When this is over, he thought, I'm gonna grow a beard even if Jackie laughs at me like she did last time. The lump on his temple was down but still purple green. The one on the back of his skull was gone but still tender when he pushed on it. The docs said his MRI was clean and the dizzy spells were gone.

He unwound the Ace bandages, turned the shower on and let the water wash over him. He closed his eyes and thought about the crazy dreams he had in Wendy's bedroom. Whatever drug Doc Harris injected him with did a helluva job. 

It was no use trying to remember how he'd managed to save the Winslows but he did remember floating above the bed where he lay sound asleep dreaming about wild horses, stampeding cattle, a raging prairie fire, men on horseback, a child screaming.

He came around slowly and there he was in bed in a room he'd never seen before. The room had lavender walls, frilly lace curtains on the windows, a white carpet that seemed to glow. There was a vanity table laden with tiny lotion bottles, a plush bunny embracing a stuffed bear; some pictures he couldn't see too well stuck on the mirror frame. Two white easy chairs, side by side, a small table and a dim lamp between them.

Through the open closet door he saw a row of women's shoes and boots lined up neatly; a few silky dresses, blouses, several pair of jeans on hangers. Two Stetsons with rhinestones stitched along the brims hung on hooks.

He blinked twice and opened his eyelids slightly when he heard voices. A wild stallion wearing Tony Lama boots and two mares in bunny slippers stood next to the bed. The stallion said, "He'll be out for a few more hours." One of the mares whispered something he couldn't hear and the other mare said, "Ok". The stallion said, "Shhhhhhh" and they tiptoed out of the room. Tom dreamt on.

He only wears his boots for house calls

The grass fire dream returned but now Tom was alone, surrounded by flames and thick, choking smoke. A herd of antelope leapt over the flames, skipped across the unburnt grass, thumping Tom's head and back with their hooves, over the flames on the other side. What was Santa Claus doing here? It's July, by god! Gotta save him! One of Santa's elves lay on the ground a few feet away. Tom scooped him up and ran through the fire, and ran, and ran until his legs gave out.

He lay there listening to cattle mooing and moving around him. A steer and cow helped him sit up. "Don't worry", said the steer, "help's on the way. Drink this," and gave him a cup of water.

Relax, cowboy. Help is on the way.

He lay down and watched Robin Hood and Little John put the elf on a stretcher and hustle him away in a red and white chuck wagon pulled by a team of howling wolves. 

He fell asleep again but woke briefly when a pretty woman he didn't know put a cold towel on his forehead and wordlessly left the room. Tom's dream continued.

This time the fire, the men on horseback, and the rest of that dream was gone. Tom had something in his hands but he didn't know what it was. But whatever it was, it was against the law. A serious law. Well, now. He's the Sheriff. It's his duty to arrest himself, escort himself to the jail and lock himself in the holding cell. Handcuffs? Yes. Front or back? How will he get to the jailhouse. And that thing in his hands. Somebody has to carry it but he's the suspect and shouldn't be handling evidence. Where the hell was he anyway?

Sunlight through the window hurt his eyes so he turned his head away and it hurt. His scalp was on fire and the pounding behind his eyes wouldn't stop. His whole body ached. He opened his eyes and he was still in the room with the lavender walls and lace curtains.

He tried to raise his hand to touch his face but it wouldn't come up. He was handcuffed to the bed frame. He thought if he was real quiet he could reach into his jeans pocket, get the handcuff key, open the window and escape before the talking horses returned. That's when he discovered that he was naked under the lavender sheet covering his body.

His clothes were folded on a chair near the bed. Okay. Just kick the sheet off, reach over, grab his pants and the key. Except the clothes were too far away. His ribs hurt real bad but he had to get away. Just a few inches. If I can pull the bed without making a racket I'll have a chance. Two inches, three, four -- success. He grabbed his shirt.

The bedroom door opened. Wendy's wife, Mara, yelped and called out for Wendy. Tom lay on his side buck naked except for his bandaged ribs and covering as much of his body as he could with his shirt.

Tom turned the shower off and sighed. He knew that risking his life to save the Winslows would be in the town lore for a while before fading away. But being found naked and handcuffed in Wendy's perfumed lavender boudoir --- a hundred versions of that story would live on for years.

Tom boldly went where no man has gone before

Guns, Bars, Women, and Wolves

Texas Tornado Jr.

 

Sheriff Tom put on his new Stetson and checked himself out in the hallway mirror. He tipped the brim, winked at his image and murmured softly ‘You still got it.’  His wife stood in the kitchen wiping down the Formica countertop. She said the new hat made him look more professional. Truth was, he missed his old hat. Wearing it for the last 10 years, it fit his head just right. A dust devil whipped it off his head while he was out hunting with Jorge. The wind carried it up so high Tom couldn’t see it anymore. At least his jeans and uniform shirt were still the same. He looked at his boots and decided he’d have Rollo clean and polish them  this afternoon after he finished his rounds.

His routine was to visit the businesses in Panhandle on foot every couple of weeks, pick up latest gossip, what was going on, show his face, make it look like he was earning his pay. He liked being Sheriff. Naturally curious, he was interested in everyone and everything that happened in his town. His mind was an encyclopedia of names, face, places, events from yesterday to 30 years before.

Some days just start out wrong

Mona, the dispatcher, greeted him when he walked into the Sheriff’s Office. He checked his messages and told Mona he’d be touring the town on foot most of the day. She said check in every couple of hours just in case we need you.

‘In case we need you?’ Mona was nobody’s fool. If she’d been born a man she’d be the one strutting around town and Tom would be working for her, fix her coffee in the morning. Mona dragging in the criminals, snarling, “Book ‘em, Danno.”

He stood on the sidewalk outside the office, looked left, right, deciding which way to go. South towards the train station or north to the city limits.

The Touch of Class restaurant bar was open, serving flavored coffee and overpriced croissants to tourists passing through. The locals stop in once in a while but mostly it’s a tourist stop. The prices being on the high side, locals dress up in their good clothes when they go there to celebrate special events like anniversaries, weddings, and the like.

Tony, the lounge musician, was standing on the sidewalk enjoying a smoke before starting his shift waiting tables until evening when he played soft music on a baby grand for the dinner guests. On his off days he goes to Lubbock or Amarillo to play in jazz clubs. Tom asked him once if he liked playing in the restaurant. He said, “It’s a job. All I gotta do is figure out the average age of the customers, play the music from that time, make ‘em feel like it’s prom night again. But I’ll tell you, Tom, if someday you hear I’ve put a gun to my head you’ll know I played ‘Windmills of the Mind’ for the last time.”

No, no. Not "Windmills of the Mind" again.

He skipped Les’ General Store and the bank. He’d catch up with Les at Jackie’s later on. He waved hello to Laurie across the street. She was setting up a table with knick knacks and stuffed toys on the sidewalk in front of her gift shop. It was hard to figure how she made a living selling birthday cards and figurines. Could be she was getting alimony from her ex husband, a lawyer for an oil company in Odessa. She came back to Panhandle three years after they wed. All she said to Tom was, “I’m back. He’s not.” If Jackie or any of the other women knew more, they weren’t saying.

He turned the corner heading east now. Milo’s Craft Shop was still closed but he saw Milo through the window. It looked like he was teaching Wendy and her wife some self-defense moves. Wendy’s pretty fit and can take care of herself but you never know when you need that extra something. He’d seen her jogging around town early mornings; tall, lithe, she had a steady miler’s stride. Tom knocked on the window and waved. They waved back.

Milo’s a strange bird, a transplanted ex college professor from California who relocated  to Panhandle for reasons of his own. To look at him you wouldn’t know he could take down any man in Panhandle one on one. To hear him talk you wouldn’t know he was trained in Martial Arts, not expert, mind you, but plenty good enough. That goofball, Steve, found that out the hard way. Milo put his lights out so fast even people who saw it weren’t sure how he did it.

The smell of eggs, bacon, and curly fries hit his nose. He wasn’t hungry but some of Mamacita’s industrial grade cowboy coffee in a go cup would hit the spot. The diner was near full so he had to wait near the door until mamacita, Chela, saw him. Looking around, nodding good morning to everyone who noticed him, he saw the Blue Star and the Gold Star on the far wall. Tom and a lot of his friends signed up for Vietnam out of a sense of patriotism but were soon disillusioned. Most of them made it back. The Gold Star was for Chela’s nephew.

The coffee might be a little thick this morning

Tom thought about his last two weeks in Vietnam. He was a short timer waiting for an available-space flight home. The CO put him on the MP detail because of his size. It was crappy duty, mostly breaking up bar fights among grunts too drunk to do each other any real harm; making the rounds, uniform stinking of vomit and stale beer, hoping, hoping, hoping for an empty seat in the next C-130 to take him home.


On his last patrol he and his partner, Sgt. Rolfe, were on the strip, looking in on every bar, making eye contact with the grunts. Always, the bar girls jeered at them or made lewd suggestions. They had just come out of the Best California Bar when they saw a grunt leaving a bar across the street. He was pulling a bar girl by her wrist, a beer in the other hand. It was hard to tell if she was resisting or just playing along until they got to the hot sheet hotel next door. Half hearted resistance was part of the game between the grunts and bar girls. It made the grunts feel persuasive like when they were convincing their girlfriends back home to put out.

Tom understood the drunkenness, the powerful drive for sex in a time where survival in the next 24 hours was iffy. Get some joy now because there may not be another time. Or as a grunt once put it, ‘Man, you could wake up dead tomorrow’.  Tom knew that feeling. It was an odd kinship with his fellow grunts even if their behavior anywhere else in the world would embarrass them.

But now the girl was screaming as the grunt pulled her into a narrow space between the bar and the hotel. He slapped her hard and she went down, knocked unconscious. He dragged her further into the alley.

Tom took off his helmet, gun belt, the MP armband, handed them to Rolfe and ran across the street. That’s all he remembered all these years later. Early the next morning Rolfe yelled at him to wake up, grab his duffel bag and get his ass to the tarmac, he was going home right now.

Somehow Sgt. Rolfe pulled some strings, called in a lot of markers and got Tom a seat on the next flight. No time to explain, he said. Just get outa here or you’ll miss the flight. He made it out. Two years later when Tom was still in California, not ready to go home yet, he chanced on Rolfe who told him what he’d done to the grunt that night. He said he wasn’t sure but maybe Tom killed the guy. Rolfe didn’t know one way or the other. Sorry, man.

All those years gone by and Tom still thinking that of all the things you do in life, killing is one of the things you can’t undo. Shake it off, Tom. Keep moving.

Coffee in hand, Tom walked from Mamacita’s towards Gustav’s barber shop. He could see 90 year old Gustav through the window gesturing with his scissors while he talked to the man in the barber chair. There weren’t any customers waiting on the bench outside the shop yet.

There’s no way to be kind about Gustav’s skills. He's always been a terrible barber. Customers sit in his chair, get shorn like sheep in ten or fifteen minutes then go home where their wives do their best to even out the mess.

Men don’t go there for haircuts. Gustav’s is a place where you can sit with your friends, trade gossip, make deals, or read old Field & Stream magazines while you wait your turn. Gustav hears all the talk and passes information about who’s looking to buy or sell some livestock, crops, or a hay baler. A bad haircut is an acceptable price to pay for a place to do a little business, socialize in the shade, away from daily cares for an hour or two.

Tom sat on Gustav’s outdoor bench, took his hat off and put it by his side, sipped coffee. The Call Grill directly across the street featured their World Famous Pizza. He’d been called there during a blizzard because Harley was tearing the place apart. It was the closest Tom had ever come to drawing his gun on a suspect but he was able to convince Harley to surrender by telling him Bible stories. Tom smiled at the memory of Harley, 6foot5 inches and 240lbs of stupid, working his brain hard to follow the David and Goliath tale, finally realizing that he was David and the chair leg he was holding was no match for Tom’s .45 caliber Goliath.

Further down at the corner, Mike was busy hosing down the driveway at his gas station. Both bay doors were open, somebody’s blue pickup on the lift. Thirty-five years ago it was Nichol’s Conoco. Over time it had been Jerry’s Conoco, then Chuck's Conoco, and now, Mike’s. He was making enough money from leasing land to the Love’s Truck Stop at the crossroads so he could hire people to run the gas station and go fishing if he wanted. But Mike was living the life he’d decided on in high school, to own a gas station with a two bay garage.

Only the name on the deed changes

Tom finished his coffee, tossed the cup in the trash can by the bench and made his way up the street to the Post Office.

There’s no house to house mail delivery in Panhandle. You pick up your letters and packages from Millie at the Post Office across the street from Jackie’s Cold Day Inn. If somebody gets a letter from a relative who never writes, it likely means somebody’s dead or dying. The magazines in plain brown wrappers are for lonesome ranch hands. Letters from out of town lawyers could be a divorce is in the air. Who do you know that ain’t gettin’ along? Final notices from creditors all pass through Millie’s hands and straight to the gossip mill.

Some people think Millie has an uncanny ability to know stuff before it happens but not really. Being Postmistress in the tiny Post Office means Millie has a lot of time to put two and two together even if 2+2 adds up to a peanut butter sandwich from time to time.

She checked Tom’s mail slot but he didn’t have any. Millie said, “If you see Mike let ‘im know that his uncle sent a picture postcard from Arizona where he’s visiting friends. Everything’s fine. He’s coming back in a couple of weeks. And please check his chickens for water and feed.” Tom tipped his hat and left.

On the second floor above the Post Office there’s an empty office where Marcus M. Marcus, Esq. practiced for a few years before moving on to a town where no one knew what a bad lawyer he was. Tom gazed up at the windows, ghost images of Marcus’ name fading in the sun.

He remembered the time Marcus tried to embarrass him during a trial. The case was so trivial Tom couldn’t remember what it was about anymore. He pictured himself on the witness chair, Marcus, strutting like a banty, chest puffed up, hands behind his back. He stops pacing, shoots his chin at Tom.

Marcus M. Marcus, Esq.

“So, Sheriff, you think you’re a pretty good law enforcement officer? Perhaps the best peacekeeper in Texas? Well now, that’s a might conceited, wouldn’t you say?”
“Maybe it is, Marcus, but don't forget, I’m under oath.”

Tom turned away from the Post Office to go to Jackie’s bar across the street. He looked both ways and stopped to let a pickup go by. Jorge was driving, old Newman riding shotgun, his 30-06 cradled in his arms. Instead of driving by, Jorge stopped, asked Tom about going hunting next Sunday. They were hauling a load of cedar fence posts and barbed wire to Newman’s place. Newman jacked his rifle to show Tom it wasn’t loaded. Tom’s rules. Only Newman was allowed to carry a gun in town.

Jorge and Newman together was an odd pairing considering that Newman had once accused Jorge of cattle rustling. The  case went nowhere, of course. Everyone knew Newman was a crank.

Tom didn’t ask about the dozen or so plastic water jugs and the box full of old tennis shoes partially covered with a tarp in the truck bed. He wasn’t supposed to know anything about that.

Not your business, Sheriff

Inside Jackie’s bar Doc Harris, Les, Mike, and Jackie were sitting at the table near the window watching Tom looking up at Marcus’ old office then standing next to Newman’s truck, talking to Jorge.

Doc Harris gestured towards the street with his drink. “I was just thinkin’ about the time we were sitting around a campfire, fishing trip. Tom, Les, Mike, Milo, and me. We were mostly ragging on each other and when we wore that out, Mike says if you could be any animal what would you be? I said I was happy being a human animal.”

Les put his arms out like wings and said, “I remember wanting to be an eagle flying up high riding thermals, go anywhere I want. Just up and go anytime. And Milo said foxes are pretty cool animals, a combination of a cat, stealthy, quick; and a dog, loyal and tough.”

Mike pointed to himself. “Me, I’d be a stud horse.”

Jackie looked at him sideways, “You, Mike? A stud horse? Doc’s buddy, the shrink at Texas Tech, might have a word or two ‘bout that.” Doc Harris stroked his chin, nodding.
Jackie asked, “What did Tom say he’d wanna be?”

Doc: “Tom said wolf, an all-weather beast, survives anywhere he happens to be. We went on like that for a while changing which animal would suit us but Tom always said wolf.”

Les said, “You know, that kinda fits. Tom looks everything over all the time like he’s taking notes. He walks in here, looks to the back, the sides, the bar, counts the customers, who they are, where they’re sittin’. It’s like he’s on guard every second.”

Jackie said, “I think Tom really thinks he’s a wolf and we’re his pack.”

Doc leaned far back in his chair, rested his hands on his belly and said, “You might be right, Jackie, you might be right.”

Jackie sighed. She knew the signs. Here it comes she thought.

“Wolves live in packs. When they migrate from one place to another they travel single file. The old and the weak ones lead. You might think that’s so they’re the first to go if the pack is attacked but that ain’t why. What they do is set the pace so none of ‘em fall behind. After them come the strongest and toughest males to fight in case of an attack by other predators. The females follow them. The alpha wolf is last. He’s the rear guard. He’ll be the first to challenge and fight attackers sneaking up from behind. He’s the leader looking ahead on the trail, watching the rear. In human terms he’s the Sheriff of the Pack.”

In the street Tom slapped the roof on Newman’s truck, waved goodbye and headed to Jackie’s.

It was Jackie who started it. As Tom stepped into the bar she raised her face to the ceiling and howled, then Les, Mike, and Doc howled, too.

Tom hesitated a bit, hooked his thumbs over his gun belt. “You all know coyotes aren’t a protected species in Texas, right?

HIZZONER DE MARE

  

“Mayor Mike Wilson, 69, died in his sleep last night. His wife, Mary Ann, told our reporter that he had gone to bed around 9:00 PM and when she went to check on him an hour later, she found him sitting up in his bed with an open bible on his lap. The distraught widow refused to answer any questions, begging callers to leave her to her grief.”

So read the top story in the “Rancher’s Weekly” in Shorthorn, TX (population 6000). Only four of those 6,000 knew that the Sheriff, responding to a frantic call from an unknown female, found the Mayor out behind the stockyards next to his car stone cold dead, with his pants down around his ankles. The caller was never found.

The death of a small town mayor is usually not news anywhere except among the locals who then gossip about it for years afterwards. But in the faraway state capital, Austin, the news was a shock to legislators and lobbyists who depended on Mayor Wilson in every statewide election for decades. It seems he had a gift for supplying whatever numbers of votes were needed to swing a victory for his party. How a small city in a small county could routinely provide more votes than there were eligible voters was a mystery no one in Austin could fathom but none of them cared to wonder about for too long.

Mayor Mike Wilson had become very rich during his 30 year tenure as mayor. His second wife, Mary Ann, 28, had once been 2^nd runner up in the Miss Dairy Queen pageant, 2^nd runner up in the Texas Teen contest, and 2^nd runner up in the Miss Texas competition. Now she was the 2^nd richest widow for 500 miles around.

By the time the real truth of the mayor’s death became known six months later, Wilson’s heir apparent had re-established the connections to Austin’s grifters, and the graft resumed as before. But at least the locals had the mayor’s inglorious death to sift through; and small town grist mills grind exceeding fine.

I was a traveling farm equipment salesman ranging from the Panhandle to Brownsville in South Texas. Shorthorn was on my route and I had made a habit of stopping for a short beer at the “Almost OK Corral Bar & Grill”. Jesse the bartender set a mug of beer at my usual place at the bar when he saw me drive up.

“Hey, it’s good to see you again. How ya been?”

“Doing ok. Sales are better than last year. The new Slice n’ Burn nutcutters are a hit with the ranchers all up and down the Panhandle. I think it’s the mother-of-pearl inlays on the handles and the built-in cauterizer that does it; all electric, two lithium batteries; go all day. Bull to steer in under a minute. Probably sell just as good here. Might even sell some to the Mexicans across the border.”

Early prototype of "Slice n' Burn"

The three cowboys sitting at the far corner of the room were guffawing loudly. One of them said something else and the laughter got louder.
 

“What’s that about?”

“Oh, you heard about how Mayor Wilson really died, right? Well, since the truth came out that’s all anybody is talking about. First, they said they were shocked. Then they said, oh yeah, I knew all about it. Then with each telling somebody added a new tidbit, true or not. Then when that game got old they started making jokes. Now they’re making jokes about Wilson’s young widow being the 2^nd easiest lay in the county; the cowhands going back for seconds, that sort of thing. Not saying she’s slow witted or anything but you ask her anything and she says, 'Just a second.' Tending bar I hear all this stuff over and over.”

The front door opened and a man stood there for a moment as though he had forgotten why he’d come.

“That’s Cal”, said Jesse as he set a longneck on the counter. “He must be at least 80 by now, lookin’ better n’ me and I’m only 60.”

He was 170 pounds of old cowboy, sunburned sinew and gristle spread over 6 ft. 2 inches. He took off his greasy hat, gave it a dusty slap against his thigh, grabbed the longneck and sat two stools away from me. He gave me a squinty sideways look that told me he’d decided I was harmless, took a long swallow of beer, and signaled Jesse for another.

The cowboys started laughing again and Cal snorted in disgust. “Sumbitches call themselves cowboys. Just sittin’ there gossiping like a bunch of old hens. Don’t know shit about cattle or horses. What’r they cackling about now, Jesse?”

“Same as yesterday, the Wilsons.”

“Shit.”

He caught me looking at him. Turning to me he said, “You’re not from around here, I can tell. California, I bet.”

Before I could answer he said, “Mister, Mayor Wilson was the slickest Texas politician you never heard of. I didn’t like him much but then there’s damn few people I do like. Wilson had the good ole boys in Austin eating out of his hand for years. Imagine that! A dirt poor cattle rancher become a millionaire from miscounting votes. Paid off for Shorthorn, too -- a rodeo arena and Community Center that holds more people than live in the whole county for god’s sake. You tell me how a pissant town like this gets the State and the Feds to build us brand spankin’ new courthouses. First Class all the way, too. A lot of money got spent out here in the middle of nowhere.”

He didn't say any more, turned back to his beer. I couldn't help myself. I just had to ask. “So how did a dirt poor cattleman become mayor?”

Cal winked at Jesse who shook his head, grinning, and started polishing his beer mugs. Cal turned full on to me and said, “Well, now we’re talking about the mayor’s race in ’81. That’s how he got in the first time. He won again two years later. After that nobody bothered to run against him. But that first race --- that was something to behold. There weren’t no TV commercials and stuff. It was just old fashion rallies with lotsa speechifying. Hell, nobody running had any money; and besides, this county’s so poor there wasn’t any spare money to donate. The campaign signs looked like cheap copies of “Wanted” posters like you see in the movies.

 

“Jesse, do you remember the first time Wilson got elected?”

Jesse put the mug down and leaned against the bar. “Yeah, I thought the town had gone nuts. Five candidates for a job that pays nothing. It was Big Bill, Randy, Cody, the blind Meskin guy Raúl, and Wilson.”

Cal said, “What a hoot! Big Bill ran his campaign from the county jail. Randy was in the psych ward in Amarillo. Everybody knew Cody was nuts. And Raúl was blind and deaf!”

I looked back and forth at Jesse and Cal. The hook was set. I swallowed it and followed with the line and sinker. I put a twenty on the bar and asked for another round of beer.

Cal paused and waited until Jesse came back with fresh beers, including one for himself, pocketed my twenty and laid a stack of ones next to my mug. Fresh beer in hand, Cal said, “Big Bill had a fine opinion of himself and he liked his guns. He strutted around town campaigning suited up like a TV gunslinger; six shooter strapped low, snug up against his leg. His big idea was to bring law and order to Shorthorn, except the only crimes we had were petty vandalism. Hell, the last big crime was the Calahan boys rustling a half dozen steers back in ’78. Them dumbasses got lost out past Wild Rose Canyon. Me and the boys rescued them a week later nearly dead from thirst. Had to keep their daddy from beatin’ ‘em to death.

“Jesse, you were at Big Bill’s last rally, before he went to jail, right?”

What Big Bill saw in the mirror

“Yeah, I was. Ole Bill was holding a rally at the town square going on and on about how he didn’t want Shorthorn to become like the big cities full of crime and drugs. Some guy standing in the back asked if he knew who was shooting campaign signs full of holes. Big Bill ignored him at first but the guy kept on about it. I was standing next to a guy who was holding up a sign with a picture of Cody’s face on it. Big Bill saw it and pulled out his shooter and put two bullets in it. One in each eye, quick like. Everybody scattered or hit the dirt except for the Sheriff who stood his ground and arrested him. Judge Porter put Bill in the clink for a 30 day stretch at county."

Cal said, “UFO’s, the Marfa Lights. You travel around a lot. Ever see any? Randy did, all the time. Don’t rightly know what UFO’s had to do with being mayor but he ran for it anyways. For years Randy told the folks about triangle shaped aircraft flying over his land but nobody else ever saw ‘em. Everywhere he went, everybody he talked to got an earful about his visions. Nobody believed him, of course. Some of us laughed in his face. About a month before the vote he started hallucinating about being abducted by aliens and being probed like a hamstrung hog. That last thing made the folks at his rallies kinda uncomfortable, but I think it was the tinfoil covering the windows in his house that made his wife commit him to the psych ward in Amarillo for six months.

Got Milk?

“The hell of it is that in 2005, the flyboys at Lackland AFB in San Antone, fessed up about experimental, triangle shape aircraft they had secretly tested about the same time that Randy said he saw them. Now he won’t stop talking about how the Air Force was just covering up the truth about alien visitors.”

“Then there was Cody”, Jessie said. “Lotta folks here and about thought maybe he spent too much time alone in the desert. He had a fossil museum over on Third and Main. Visitors would go in and look at the fossils he’d dug up over the years, which was fine until Cody went into his talks about how the earth was 6,000 years old; how his bone collection proved beyond a doubt that men and dinosaurs walked the earth at the same time. Some tourists stood and listened (he could go on for hours). Most of them backed out as fast as they could.

“But, I gotta tell you. At one of his rallies he did say one thing that almost made sense.”

 Cal’s eyebrows shot up and he glared at Jesse.

Cody's Flintstonemobile

“Now, don’t look at me like that, Cal. It’s crazy, I know, but it made me stop and think for a minute. He was telling the crowd that Shorthorn would do itself real proud if it elected him, a God fearing Christian. There were some ‘Amens’ in the crowd. Then a kid in the front row asked how did Noah get the dinosaurs into the Ark? The crowd got real quiet, like they never thought of that before. Thinking, how did dinosaurs get on the Ark?

“’That’s easy,’” Cody said “Dinosaur eggs”.

Cal said, “Nobody ever thought Big Bill, Randy, or Cody stood a yella dog’s chance of winning but there ain’t much to do on market day after the shopping’s done so going to the voter rallies was a way to pass the time. Make a day of it, you know?”

Jessie added, “Well, with the three of them out of the way, that left Raúl and Wilson as the only candidates with any chance of winning. Which I thought was kinda funny because I didn’t figure Raúl had any chance at all, being a Meskin and all of us being whites but people were talking him up. The tide was moving his way just 10 days to go to Election Day. Didn’t I say things were crazy? Maybe something in the water.

“I couldn’t figure it until he came into the bar one afternoon and started talking to me about my ex-wife. He knew stuff nobody else could know except my divorce lawyer and my ex.

“That’s when I knew that blind and deaf Raúl was blackmailing half the town. He mighta been half blind but his hearing was real good.

“How did he do it? Raúl made his living by being a gopher and courier for a lot of the lawyers working out of the old courthouse. They paid him a buck or two for each delivery. They gave him contracts, settlements, and decrees to deliver from one lawyer to another. He wore bad suits, looked sloppy, didn’t ask any questions, and was always available. Everybody knew him and paid him no mind. He just hung around the offices, listening to lawyers talking among themselves or on the phone. He read the documents they gave him to deliver. So, if the Sheriff got you on a domestic beef, Raúl knew all about it. Divorced --- details. Bad debts – details. Raúl was the fly on the wall in the town’s livin', breathin' soap opera.”

I know everything. Everything

Jesse took the empty bottles off the counter and went to fetch another round.

Cal cleared his throat and said, “Only thing Wilson was good at was lyin’. Smart people thought he was dumb. Yes, sir. He was so dumb he got rich. He didn’t know much about ranching but he knew people. You might say he was coyote smart. No matter what you did to protect your chicken pen or your pocket, he’d find a way in.

“He always had big plans that never worked out, like the idea to make his place into a Dude Ranch. Or the time he thought NASCAR would come to Shorthorn if it was promoted right; always looking for an easy way to make a fast buck. Couldn’t rightly tell why he wanted to be mayor. The job wasn’t much at all.

“Ya know, the Meskin, Raúl, almost won, too. If it wasn’t for the County Clerk giving Wilson the votes we woulda had a blind, deaf, Meskin mayor. If anybody thought there was something fishy they didn’t say nothin’. Wilson wasn’t anybody’s idea of a mayor either, but at least he was white.

Cal saw the look on my face when he said that. He put his hands up to his chest palms up and said, “Things ain’t like that anymore. Town’s changed; people changed.” Glancing over at the laughing cowboys in the corner, he said, “Well, most of us anyway. Maybe you can leave one of your nutcutters with me on account. Might have a need for it after all.”

Jessie cleared the empty the longnecks on the counter, rubbed his chin and said, “Best move Wilson made was to marry Betty Jo, the County Clerk, a few months after the election. Folks scratched their heads over that. Betty Jo was plain as can be; thirty years old, a spinster for sure. But when Wilson looked at her he saw a beautiful thing. He saw POWER and an easy way to get it. With Betty Jo counting votes he could sell Shorthorn County votes to Austin --- as many as they wanted. All he had to do was propose to Betty Jo and win the first time.”

It only matters who counts the votes

                         

Author’s Note:
This story is fiction. However, some of the characters in it are based on an real election that took place in a real town in Texas in my lifetime. For the purposes of this story, the candidates’ attributes were modified to make the story believable. They were more bizarre in real life.

Home Fires

“Dead Man’s Hand, a pair of black Aces and a pair of black Eights,” Doc Harris said as he stared down at his whiskey, stirring it with his finger. “That’s what Wild Bill Hickock’s hand was before he was blown to kingdom come, bullet in the head courtesy of Jim McCall. Ole Jim got the short end of a long rope for it.”

How you win and lose at the same time

Doc Harris sat slumped in his chair looking grumpier than usual. We were sitting at our customary table at Jackie’s Cold Day Inn waiting for Sheriff Tom. He’d taken Judy Butler to the courthouse in Snyder where she faced charges for inciting a riot in Preacher Jason’s church. Tom figured he’d stick around for the hearing expecting Judge Edwards to dismiss the charges being that Jason was his brother-in-law and they hated each other's guts.

Jackie brought a tray of drinks and set it down. She looked out the window. “Hmmph, those two.”

Across the street in front of the Post Office Milo and Laurie, single adults, were acting like teenage kids who'd just discovered the opposite sex.

We could see them through the window but couldn’t hear what they were saying. He hopped on one foot then the other, pulled at his hat or shoved his hands into his pockets then out again, dancing the whole time as though Laurie was shooting the dust at his feet with a six-shooter. Laurie focused on his face, arranging loose strands of hair behind her ear, licking her lips, eyes wide open as though she were looking in a mirror to make sure she looked alright before going out the door. If I didn’t know they were adults I would guess their age at 14, maybe 16, tops.

Jackie pursed her lips and squinted. “It’s hard to tell with those two. I was pretty sure they'd be a couple by now. This takes much longer I know I’m losing my touch. I had me three husbands and can’t remember how many boyfriends so I know a thing or two about courtin’ and romance.

"I can’t read much into Milo, him being from California, but Laurie, I’ve known her and her family for years; never figured her to have so much patience. If it was me, I woulda grabbed him by the ears and planted a big ole kiss on ‘im months ago. Pretty clear she’s interested. See her hands? Keeps brushing her hair back or clenching ‘em together. And she looks ‘im straight on like, ‘Come on, Milo, I want it, too.’ Jackie sighed and went back to wiping down the bar."

Doc Harris grumped, "They'll get around to that soon enough, Jackie. Those two been alone too long. You hear people say love makes the world go round. No, that ain’t it. It’s just a polite way of sayin’ love makes the world go up and down." Jackie gave him a dirty look. Wendy giggled.

Sheriff Tom came in, did his customary look see around the bar and waited while I vacated his chair. He waved his index finger at Wendy who nodded and poured out a tumbler of his favorite whiskey. She fixed another for me and Doc.

Tom said, "Judy Butler's off the hook. The judge dismissed the case and told the preacher to pound sand."

Information Central

I could see Millie in the Post Office busy sorting mail, talking with her customers, glancing at Milo and Laurie through the screen doors every few seconds as though her mind was a time lapse camera snapping stills that she would later condense, summarize, then turn into gossip to share with the town. Millie knew everyone’s secrets. To her, gossip was just another day of news around town. To everyone else, she had better and far more interesting information than any newspaper or radio show.

At 5 o'clock Millie turned the "Open" sign to "Closed" and padlocked the doors but instead of heading south she stepped between Milo and Laurie and crossed the street to Jackie's place. Millie pops in once in a while to socialize with her best friend, Jackie. Poor Milo was so focused on Laurie he jumped back a foot when Millie said hello as she passed.

Wendy made her a bourbon over ice at the bar. Millie saw us sitting at the corner table. Jackie waved her over and we scooted our chairs to make room.

We watched Milo and Laurie stumble through the ritual of saying goodbye.

Millie bummed one of Tom's cigarillos and drained half her drink. She blinked hard and raised her eyes to the ceiling and blinked again. Wendy got busy pouring her another drink. She took a deep breath and said, “Don't need another one, Wendy. Give it to Tom or somebody.”

Vitamin Jack

She looked out the window. Pointing with her tumbler she said, “Those two, Milo, Laurie, are as borin’ as bible study. Not like Jim and Angel. Panhandle's never seen a pair like that before.”

Jackie saw the question on my face and said, “Jim and Angel met on Friday night, woke up together Saturday, got married on Sunday. Fought all day Monday and skipped work for a week."

Tom chuckled and said, “That's the short version. Millie knows the whole story. Mind telling it again?”

Millie is in her 80s but she looks and acts 20 years younger. When her husband died she succeeded him as Post Master though no one remembers when she was appointed.

Sheriff Tom once told me that given the right breaks Millie could've been a first rate detective in some big city police department the way she put bits of information together to solve a mystery. As Post Mistress she saw everybody's mail – bills from creditors, credit card offers, letters from faraway family members. 'Hmmm, Sue Ellen hasn't written to her sister in years. Probly somebody died. Letters from lawyers going back and forth? Maybe Dave and Kimmie are calling it quits.'

And, of course, when people went to pick up their mail they'd talk to Millie and to each other with every conversation recorded, sorted, and filed away in Millie's brain.

Millie took a deep drag on the cigarillo, a sip of her drink and said, “Nobody gave 'em a Chinaman's chance of stayin' married more'n a week but something happened. When they were single it was Angel goin' her own way, not carin' if anybody liked it. Same for Jim. It didn't matter which way everybody else was goin', Jim, Angel, go against the grain if it suited 'em. If they cared what anybody thought, it never showed.

"For days after, nobody talked about anything else 'cept how Jim and Angel got together that night. Some folks weren't even there but they spun out stories anyway. Took me two weeks to figure out which stories matched up and which didn't, what really happened.

"Now Angel’s the kind who’ll say hi or spit in your eye, dependin’, no matter if you’re a banker or cowpoke. At Billy’s she’ll dance with anybody who asks, ‘cept Harley, and you know why. He knows better than to ask anyway. But when it comes to dating she’s picky. Until Jim come along I never knew her to have a steady beau.

"I heard one time her and Rory were getting' real friendly in a booth at Billy's Last Stand. He's sayin' how bout we go to my place. Angel says no thanks. He keeps up and she pushes him away, gets up and says loud enough for everybody to hear, 'Tonight ain't your night, babe. Many are called but few are chosen.' Rory pulled his hat down, put money on the table and snuck out the back door.

King James didn't like Rory either.

"I don't know that she has any close friends but you ask anybody and they'll say, yeah, Angel she's a friend of mine, ornery, stubborn as a mule, but a friend.

"Then you got Milo and Laurie. Can't figure them out just yet. It's not like they're kids, you know. Both 'em seen enough of the world to be careful and it's not like they just met. Laurie was married once. She had her pick back in the day and picked the wrong one. Lucky she got outa that early, anybody with eyes could see Carter was no good.

"Milo? He's all pluses far as I can tell. Quiet as hell, and he won't say nothin' I can work with. He's been around the world, that boy. You'all know he's walked ground most men will never see. Seems like he come out of it ok. I know there's other women interested besides Laurie. Marie at the library, for one.

"Jim's all muscle and scars from his job on the oil rigs. One look and you know who he is. He mighta lost a fight or two in his time but nobody's ever come back for seconds. Tom's probly told you stories about Jim and Jim and Angel getting into scrapes on the regular. Magnets for trouble those two.

"Jim didn't have a steady girlfriend before Angel. He was playin' the field. Good lookin', single, spent his money without thinking about it much. He knew Angel but didn't make a play for her, too many other women around for him to notice. She never gave him a second look either. When they finally met up close it was like a grizzly meetin' a wildcat. Only one of 'em was gonna come out in one piece.

"It was at Billy's Last Stand on a Friday night, late, people havin' a good time, live music, fancy dancin', boys playin' pool in the back. Angel and Judy Butler were sittin' together eyeballin' the boys in the band. Jim walks up, asks Judy to dance. She says no, that cowboy with the blue hat stepped on my toes last dance. Ask Angel.


"Angel's a real good dancer and Jim’s average but he does ok. They did some line dancin' for a couple of songs before The Lonesome Foursome played a slow song. Jim and her got close but not too close, they just met you know. But right off, there was a problem.

"Jim is left handed. He's used to making right handed women follow his lead. No problem there. He's Jim, he leads.

"Angel is left handed, too. She makes her partners go her way, left right, left right. Most of 'em catch on and go along.

Making it through another night

"The Lonesome Foursome are just startin’ Help Me Make It Through The Night when people are whisperin' and pointin' at Jim and Angel. She's pushin' one way, he's pushin' another way like pro wrestlers tryin' to leverage each other. Jim goes about 190. If Angel's an ounce over 120 it's a lot. So even money says he's gonna win this round. But anybody ever tried to push Angel around knows there’s always a price to pay.

"She lets go of Jim, steps back and says, “Do you wanna dance or do I have to drag you around the floor?”

"Then Jim does the wrong thing. He pushes his hat back on his head, puts his hands out like what'm I gonna do 'bout the little lady? Lookin' around at his friends, smirkin' a little.

"Angel gets red in the face, rears back, kicks him in the shin and when he bends down she knocks his hat off and stomps on it.

"Everybody's starin', wonderin' what's gonna happen next. Jim and Angel standin' legs apart, lookin' each other in the eye like gunslingers waitin' for the other one to blink.

"I don't know what Jim's thinkin' but I know you don't win a fight by walkin' away. Men like him will fight you to the last dead dog a’fore they quit. It’s all in the book, 101 Things Real Men Never Do.

"Maybe Angel's thinkin' the same way but maybe, too, she's thinkin' steppin' on his hat was worse than his crime. She picks up his hat, brushes it off and tosses it to 'im.

"Jim's a roughneck like a hundred others ‘round here but he's got some smarts. He sees she wants a truce. The band starts playin'. Jim puts his hat on, holds his arms out like askin’ do you wanna dance. She does the same thing.

"Well, Lord knows what went on their heads but before long they were holdin' each other like they're hangin' on a life raft."

Tom spoke up. "I didn't have to add up any clues to know what happened next. Saturday morning I got a call from the Easy Days Motel at the edge of town. Ed told me they checked in late Friday night. Had to quiet 'em down after some guests complained. Couldn't tell if they were fightin' or havin' fun. Next morning he finds the bed's broke. He knows Jim's good for it but he's lettin' me know just in case. He says they headed north on the 60.

"Next I get a call from the bartender at Billy's. Tells me Angel's pickup is still on his lot. He's worried about Angel. I tell 'im she’s probly all right, she's with Jim. He says uh oh. I tell 'im leave the truck there unless you hear from me."

Tom stopped to take a sip. "Jim's a rough one but I know he's never laid a hand on a woman. So far's I'm concerned Angel's with him cause she wants to be. If anybody’s in trouble it’s gonna be Jim.

"I call the Borger Sheriff and tell him let me know if he sees Jim's pickup parked in any of the motels. He says ok. I do the same with the Sheriff Don in Pampa.

"Thursday I check in with the Sheriff in Borger. He ain’t seen Jim’s pickup anywhere. But Don over in Pampa says Jim and Angel are holed up at the Cactus Flower Motel on Main street. So happens that’s across the street from Big Daddy’s Diner where Don takes his coffee and doughnut breaks now and then.

"Says Angel’s lookin’ fine but Jim looks like hell, draggin’ his butt across the street to the diner like he’s been sleepin’ on the street for a month. I thank him and call Jim’s boss let ‘im know Jim’s ok but probly won’t be at work too soon. Mr. Davis is used to his men not showin’ up regular like but he’s glad Jim’s ok. Says if I see Jim tell ‘im his pay’s bein’ docked.

"Now this love story happened, oh, ten years ago. Jim and Angel, you can’t say one name without the other -- JimenAngel. They’re still married, still fightin’ over this and that with each other or with somebody else. Them against the world like always. I guess some home fires never go cold."

Wendy was standing behind the bar, elbows down, chin cupped on her hand. “Milo and Laurie are my friends. When they make up their minds I think they'll keep their fire goin'. Maybe not boilin' like Jim and Angel's but it'll always be simmerin'."