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