The sheriff looked up as he entered the dirty office. “Hello, Padre. Have a swig.” He offered the bottle.
“Good morning, Sheriff. I don’t believe right now, thank you.” This man was going to be difficult for him, yet he knew he needed the lawman’s acceptance since he was the titular leader of his new parish.
“Suit yourself,” the old man said.
“I hear a man has been killed?”
“You hear right.”
“Is there anything I can do?”
The sheriff looked up at him again. Christ, he’s an oddball, he thought, but what can you expect from someone in long skirts? “We’ll bury him when the sun goes down. You can bring your little book with you if you like.” It would save him the trouble of saying meaningless words, so perhaps there was consolation after all.
“Of course,” the priest said with a note of scholarly reverence in his voice. He let a moment pass, then launched into the real reason for his visit. “Sheriff, I wonder if I could get some benches built. For Sunday. I realize it’s relatively short notice, but I thought it’d be nice if folks could sit down.”
“What folks?”
“I’m having church services Sunday morning.”
“So the sign said.”
“I expect a few of your citizens will attend. At least some of the ladies have indicated they would.” He was being baited and he knew it. Perhaps now was the time to get their differences out in the open. He certainly couldn’t operate efficiently under the conditions this man would set up if he allowed him to. “You don’t like me very much, do you?” he said, bracing himself for what might come.
“I ain’t thought about that one way or the other.” The old man grinned showing his half-gone set of teeth. “Would you like a definite answer right now or can you wait a spell?”
“Sheriff, I was sent here. I was sent to do a job.” It was a schoolboy rebuttal, but debate had never been one of his strong points. “What your views may be on religion are your own,” he concluded.
“Thank you.”
“But I had hoped for some cooperation.”
“Look, Padre,” he snapped, as his feet found the floor and he sat up in his chair, “I ain’t got nothing against you personally, but things are running pretty smooth hereabouts. We settle our troubles the easiest way we can and folks take to it that way. Now I ain’t doubting your methods, but I’d just like to get one thing straight. I won’t bother you none, and you can return the favor. Do I make myself clear?”
The priest made no outward sign, but tolerance was coming hard for him.
“What I’m trying to say is, I run this town my way. Folks believe in me. I wouldn’t want that sort of thing changed. I’m too old for change.”
“Changes come along sometimes whether we like them or not.”
“Maybe in Boston, Padre, but not here. They like things the way they are. They lie still. You leave ’em that way, we won’t have no troubles.”
“I have no plans for making any sweeping changes, Sheriff, at the moment”
“Now that’s mighty reassurin’.” The sheriff sighed. He looked about him, letting his unhappy guest hang for a moment. Finally, he continued. “This is my territory,” he said, indicating the dilapidated room with the two cells in the rear. “Josh Reynolds might make you some benches for your church. That’s your territory. Now you stay in yours and I’ll stay in mine. You sing them songs on Sunday and you hold them ladies’ hands. You bring your little book to the open graves and you forget everything else.” He paused to allow the words time to sink in. “Good-by, Padre,” he said, and the dismissal fell like spit at the feet of the young man.
There is no recourse with men like this, he thought. Their souls had obviously closed off the real world and were living in an abyss of self-indulgence. He spun on his heels, fought back a “thank you” that formed in his parched throat and walked out into the street to find Josh Reynolds, the casket-maker, handy man of Dobart.
He hardly noticed the boy, Jerry, casually leaning on an old broom as he came out of the jail. Jerry had heard all and he wanted to run in and shake the old lawman’s hand for the way he’d handled the critter. But, the sheriff didn’t take kindly to intrusions when he was aiming to rest, so the boy settled for a laugh. It was not loud enough for the ears of the retreating priest, but it gave the boy that indefinable feeling of belonging. His muddled thoughts groped back to that word, Hero, and be cussed to himself because it wasn’t easy to be a hero and it was so important. He figured the only way he’d ever be one was with some sort of miracle.
Ten minutes later his miracle arrived.
The half-breed reined his pinto up beside the dozing boy. “Hey, kid?” be called. “What’s the name of this dumb town?” His voice was high-pitched and be spoke with a thick accent.
“Dobart,” Jerry answered numbly, pulling himself awake.
“Look like not much of a town,” the man sneered.
“You think so?” Jerry replied haughtily, for insults such as these demanded proper attention.
The man laughed. “Dumb kid,” he said and tugged at the rein and headed across the street to the saloon.
Jerry lay the broom carelessly against the post. He stepped into the road and as though hypnotically drawn, he followed the stranger. The word was pounding harder in his mind now. Hero! Hero! Hero! Its staccato beat punished him and drove him forward. He watched the ugly creature tie off his horse. He watched him swagger into the bar and listened to him demand a bottle like no man should demand — least of all a man like him. Then he knew. The way two cowhands looked at the new arrival and the way the bartender gave his customer the cheapest rotgut and walked away without a word. He knew — his miracle was ready-made.
He didn’t tell his story very well, but he didn’t have to. “Why didn’t you say something earlier?” The sheriff asked, regretting even then he found it necessary to question at all
“I didn’t know where it had happened,” Jerry went on, fighting to control the twitching sensations that throbbed through his sweating body. “I was too far away to see what the guy was doing, but when he rode by me I got a good look at him. That guy in the bar is the man who killed Frank Craven. I swear it, Sheriff.”
In his story he had claimed to be out for an early-morning walk and since Jerry’s behavior pattern had long since defied definition it did not seem surprising.
For a moment the sheriff showed no sign. He thought of asking why Jerry didn’t check to see if it had been Craven, but he discarded the idea, at least for the moment.
The old man’s silence tore at Jerry because he was sure he was close and...
“Let’s have a look,” the lawman said.
A look was all he needed. The fact that the drifter could neither prove his whereabouts at dawn nor account for the sixteen dollars in his tattered pants only added fuel.
“Who tell you this?” the man screamed, as the sheriff threw him into the cell and slammed the rusty old door shut. “He lie! He lie!” the frightened man cried as he shook his cage violently.
As the unremitting sun gathered its strength for another day of punishment, the word spread. Some of the more curious peered through the jail windows for a look, but most just accepted, because accepting was less demanding.
“Some greaser!”
“Might’a know.”
“Jerry saw him.”
“Jerry?” incredulously.