Support Your Local Deputy: A Cotton Pickens Western (13 page)

Hanging Judge Earwig stood in the dark doorway, wearing a white nightshirt and a tasseled cap. A big Colt Dragoon revolver poked menacingly at us. We stood on his porch, a bull’s-eye lantern lighting us as Earwig studied his visitors.

“Court’s in session,” he said.

“Not in the courtroom?” Pike asked.

“Right now. And whoever got me out of bed is going to lose.”

“Your lordship, we both did,” I said.

Earwig studied me, and studied Pike, a large smile building. “I like that,” he said. “All right, you there, with the carnival, you start this circus.”

“Heliotrope Pike at your service, sir.”

“Where did you get a name like that?”

“My mother was a florist.”

“You look purple enough to qualify. All right, what’s the complaint?”

“The sheriff here has stolen our harness. He has the breast collars locked in his cell room and won’t release them. We are done here and wish to leave.”

“Is that true, sheriff?”

“You bet your ass, your majesty.”

“You are holding this company of law-abiding and honorable carny folk hostage? May I inquire why?”

“They have stolen goods, sir. They abducted two Ukrainian women, Siamese twins, off a stagecoach in Puma County, and put them in the carnival as a freak show. I am detaining the show until they tell me who in their company stole the women, so I may bring them before your court on charges of abduction and involuntary servitude.”

“That sure is a mouthful, Pickens. You just want to bust a few carny people, right?”

“Justice, sir. They have stolen people and put them in bondage.”

“That sounds a lot like my wife, sheriff. She’s got me hogtied and stuck. Do these Siamese twins object to being in the show?”

“One does and one doesn’t.”

Earwig’s eyes lit up. I could see he was getting entertained, and rousting him out of his slumbers was proving to be a delight to him.

“So one wants to be in the show? And one objects? Then my solution is to slice them in two and let them go their separate ways.”

Earwig, he was suddenly shifting around on his bare feet, enjoying this more than any decent man should. He turned to Pike:

“Where’d you get the women?”

“We bought the act in Laramie, handshake deal, don’t remember who owned it.”

“Bought the act, did you?”

Earwig’s big dragoon revolver drifted around until it was pointed at Pike’s heaving bosom.

“Well, sir, that’s how it is in my business. Acts are bought and sold. I wanted the Siamese twins; a sensation in any freak show. So I didn’t mind shelling out.”

“Horse pucky, Pike. Pure baloney. You are incapable of telling the truth to save your life.”

He waved the dragoon around, until it ended up pointing at Pike’s moustache.

“We paid too much for the act; a hundred dollars, and haven’t gotten it back,” Pike said, wheezing slightly.

Earwig turned to me. “So you stole his harness. Does the office of sheriff give you the right to steal citizens’ property?”

“Well, my ma used to say that people love property more than life.”

Earwig looked pained. He lifted his tasseled cap and set it back down, frowning. “All right,” he said, “I will render a verdict.”

He eyed us, looking for signs of rebellion, but me and Pike, we smiled sweetly at His Honor.

Earwig turned suddenly on me, and stabbed a finger my way: “You, sheriff, have stolen this man’s property and denied him his liberty. Upon conclusion of this session of court, you will promptly return the harness and will not impede his departure. And I am fining you ten dollars for theft, and five dollars for court costs.”

Youch. That was a large piece of my monthly pay. But then Earwig turned to Pike, and stabbed a finger at him. “I’m fining you ten dollars for lying to the court. And you will leave the women here. You will not take them, not even if they wish to go with you. If they were abducted, whether by you or the fantasy abductors you claim to have paid, they will no longer be part of your show.”

“But Your Honor, our profit depends on the freak show.”

“Ten dollars fine for protesting my verdict. That’s cheaper than hanging you. And five in court costs. Now bring the women here, and when I have them in my parlor, the sheriff will be instructed to release your harness.”

Pike clapped a hand to his forehead, stricken by ill fortune. Even so, he instructed his two roustabouts to fetch the Ukrainian twins.

“And their baggage,” Earwig added.

It took a while. The night breezes toyed with

Earwig’s nightshirt. Pike stood there, in his bowler, looking solemn and staring at the moon.

The dragoon Colt never wavered. It rested in Earwig’s hand, a handy bailiff, imposing the majesty of the court on the litigants.

A woman’s voice rose out of the dark bowels of the house.

“Judge? Where are you? You come keep me warm.”

“I’m doing justice, Mabel.”

“Well, when you’re done, you come do justice to me, my snookum-diddler.”

“I will rise to the occasion, my little dill pickle,” Earwig said. “Just wait there, and don’t pant like a dog.”

“I’m your tiddlywinks,” she said.

In time, the roustabouts showed up with the women, caterwauling about being deprived of their beauty sleep, the two wrapped in a single white robe. Rusty, he lifted his Stetson in admiration. The roustabouts had two big duffel bags full of the women’s stuff.

“This is an outrage,” Pike said. “You’re stealing my property.”

“That’s another five dollars,” Earwig said. He turned to me. “All right; I have the contraband in hand. You shall go to the jail and release your contraband and return it to Mr. Pike forthwith. And leave the fines in my charity jar in my chamber.”

“I sure hate to let them get away with abduction, Your Honor.”

“Five dollars, Pickens. The court has spoken.” This here was turning into a depression, if not a recession. So I backed off. Me and Rusty and Pike and his roustabouts headed for the jail, and once inside that dark place, I unlocked the jail door by the light of the lamp, and then unlocked the cell with the harness heaped in it.

Pike, he just glowered. “I never forget,” he said. “It’s not over.”

The roustabouts, they collected armfuls of harness and headed out, and when they returned they had half a dozen more carny people with them, and in short order they carted away every bit of harness we had dumped in there. They’d sort it out, harness the outfit, and ride away, probably before dawn. It sure ticked me off, them people not getting tried for abduction. But maybe there was a little good in Earwig’s justice. The Siamese twins, they were still here and free to choose their future if they could ever agree. And Rusty, he was sort of smiling to beat the band.

We finally got them carny people out of the sheriff office, and it wasn’t far from dawn. That’s when the twins showed up, looking a little put out, each of them dragging a duffel bag full of her stuff. They came along on the street, like a wide ghost, looking real forlorn. They sure weren’t welcome at Hanging Judge Earwig’s home, not with his wife demanding immediate snooky-wooky, or whatever. So there they were.

“Well, Rusty, my ma always says when opportunity knocks, you got to open the door,” I said.

“Ladies,” he said, “come into my parlor.”

They weren’t taking it kindly, and dragged their duffel up the stone steps and into the sheriff office. In fact, Anna looked like she was about to collapse, if not cry her heart out. They were homeless.

“Maybe Belle could work out something,” I said.

“Belle, hell,” Rusty said. “They’re mine now.”

He helped them wrestle their duffel bags and got them into the office, where the single lamp still threw buttery light over the gloom.

Anna, she was crying. Natasha, she looked better for the wear, and kept eyeing Rusty as if he’d solve their problems.

“You got any ideas?” I asked Rusty.

“Yeah, you get out of here and let me talk to them,” Rusty said.

“I gotta stay and protect their virtue,” I said.

Rusty, he just rolled his eyes and glared. I’d stopped him in his tracks.

About then the carny show pulled out. We heard the clatter of a lot of hooves, and then a dark parade in the deep of the night, the roustabouts either walking beside the wagons, or driving them from seats up top. The Pike Brothers Carnival was leaving Doubtful, and maybe it was good riddance.

The Siamese twins, they rushed to the door and watched the moonlit parade, and heard the hollow clop of hooves muffled by night breezes. Anna was crying. Great tears slid down her cheeks. Natasha watched silently, and I knew that a terrible gulf now divided the two women locked into one body. I felt real sorry for them. I’d never given any thought to the pain and grief people called freaks endured, every moment of every day. It was not just that people gawked at them; it was that their lives, their hopes, their wills, were twisted and tied down. They lived lives without any hope, or hopes so small that they seemed pathetic compared to the hopes the rest of us have.

Maybe Anna didn’t mind being stared at, being the center of attention on a tawdry little tent-stage. But Natasha, she had come to a different view of her fate, and was filled with the dream of marriage to Rusty—somehow, some way, some place. The carnival slid out of town, its clopping and clatter gone, and then both the Siamese twins began weeping, there in my office, their shared misery for once overwhelming the pain of having to cope with each other, when they each harbored a different dream.

And I had nothing to offer them but an empty jail cell with a cot so narrow they couldn’t lie on it, joined as they were. It was a pretty sorry mess, I thought. We’d rescued them from a tawdry life in which thousands of strangers would gawk and jeer at them. But what could they do now? At least in the carny, they were fed and clothed and sheltered, and befriended, too.

“You haven’t got much English, but maybe you’ll follow me. I’m putting you in my room at Belle’s Boarding House. The little bed in there, it’s wide enough. Can you walk a couple of blocks?”

Natasha nodded.

“Rusty, you bring their duffel, and I’ll help them. They got some stairs to work up.”

We started slowly up Wyoming Street. I saw false dawn beginning to crack the darkness in the north-east. The gals, they weren’t much for walking, trying to get four legs working together, but they’d had long practice. We got to Belle’s about when there was a thin blue line of light riding the skin of the earth, and got them upstairs, into my little cubicle, a few minutes later. There was a little bed, a dresser, a window showing some light, a washbasin and pitcher, and a few hooks on the walls.

Rusty, he settled the duffel bags on a wooden chair.

There was a thunder mug under the cot, and I showed it to them. They stared away, not wanting to acknowledge it.

“Okay, ladies, this is your home for now. I’ll get my stuff out in the morning.”

Natasha, she was weeping again. I didn’t know what to make of it, but then she explained. “First room since Ukraine,” she said.

It was nothing to me, but a treasure for them. A long time since they’d had a room of their own

We left them there, Rusty and me. I’d spend my nights in the jail.

I thought Doubtful, Wyoming, had finally got free of all those road shows, but I was wrong. In the dog days of August, what should roll in but Billy Bones’ Wild West. I didn’t know what that was all about, but I learned soon enough. It was about half rodeo, and half Buffalo Bill. There was a mess of stuff like trick shooting, and a couple of female sharpshooters, and some scenarios from the old Indian wars, but there was also a mess of rodeo competition. Bull riding, roping, bronc riding, and a final act involving catching a greased pig.

They set up shop over beyond Saloon Row—they sure knew where to get their cowboy audiences. That ground was pretty much trampled down by the previous shows, and the slightest rain turned it into a quagmire. But that didn’t slow them. In fact, I learned that when things were real muddy, they ran a mud wrestling contest with some women, and it was hard to say whether the ladies wore anything at all, beneath all that slippery mud.

I braced for trouble. Rodeo competition was a rough game, and cowboys got into brawls, and I knew my two jail cells were going to be jammed and overflowing real quick. But me and Rusty were up to it. Both of us had done our share of cowboying, and we knew how to deal with all that excess enthusiasm, namely, knock them all senseless.

This outfit soon had big bills plastered on every stray wall around town, and they all were promoting one thing: Miss Quick, trick-shot artist, the surest shot in the female universe. That didn’t seem like good advertising to me. Cowboys don’t want to get shot at by a female. And they don’t want to get beaten in shooting contests by a female. But there she was, in color, wearing fringed leather skirt, boots, a big creamy blouse, and a flat-brimmed hat. And she’s hefting a revolver in one hand, and a rifle in the other, and smiling away, like she knew what everyone was thinking.

“I think we’ve got trouble,” I said to Rusty.

He didn’t reply. He was busy courting the Siamese twins and couldn’t be bothered with law enforcement.

“I might see if I can outshoot her,” I said.

“If it was a thinking contest, you’d lose,” he replied. I don’t suppose I’ll ever get used to it.

That’s when Billy Bones himself walked in to the sheriff office. He was a skinny fellow, dressed in black. Black boots, black britches, black shirt, with cream embroidery on it. He was black-haired, too, and lantern-jawed, and I could see he would have a black beard if he didn’t shave, because there was a five o’clock shadow at nine in the morning.

“Sheriff? Bones here. That’s my outfit setting up.”

“Looks like you got a mess of cowboys out there.”

“Mostly jailbirds. I hire jailbirds straight out of the pen as roustabouts and livestock handlers. Once in a while, they turn into cowboys. Nobody ever bothers us.”

“That sure gives me peace of mind,” I said.

“Well, I always want to talk to the law when we come into a town. We like to open with a shooting contest.”

“And I’m the bull’s-eye?” I asked.

He smiled. “Sort of. Here’s the cookie. We challenge any sheriff or deputy to a sharpshooting contest with our Miss Quick. She’s quick, all right. She’ll shoot the hair off your balls.”

“I don’t think—”

“That’s what we heard. But you’re fast with a gun. But we’ll have a little sharpshooting contest, you against Miss Quick. Shotguns and clay pigeons, fast draws, trick shots, and action shots from horseback. If you win, you get a twenty-dollar prize. If we win, we get out of jail free.”

“What would put you in jail?”

“Jailbirds always have a yearning to return to their happy lives in the pen. I have an awful time keeping them out and free.”

“That sure is interesting.”

“Good. We open at four, and the sharpshooting contest is at four-thirty, while there’s plenty of light. Bring your own artillery.”

Rusty, he was smart-ass grinning.

“But I ain’t agreed to it.”

“Don’t be a sissy, Pickens. If you don’t show up, after we’ve promoted it, your name’s mud in Puma County. Likely you’ll get fired.”

“Well, I know all about that,” I said. “Once a week.”

Bones was gone as fast as he blew in. And I was in for a shooting contest. Not that Miss Quick had any chance against me. My ma, she always said I was good with my hands, which made up for being slow. I sure wondered what this Miss Quick looked like. I thought she might be a fake; women can’t shoot worth a damn. Put some little guy, a real sharpshooter, in skirts and powder his face, and who’d know the difference? That was it. These here shows, they didn’t mind stretching truth a little.

Well, they were good at publicity. Next I knew, Mayor George Waller dropped by with a word of encouragement.

“Hear you’re up against some female sharpshooter, Cotton. The honor of Puma County’s at stake, but you’ll whip her handily?” Funny how he ended that with a sort of question mark in his voice.

“I’ll whip her,” I said. “No woman shoots as good as me.”

Waller smiled. “Your job depends on it. We can’t have losers in the sheriff office.”

Before the afternoon was half done, Reggie Thimble had seconded that. The supervisors were unanimous: win or walk out of the job.

I wouldn’t let myself get overconfident. Just because she was billed as Miss Quick didn’t mean she was. I was the fastest draw in Wyoming, and a few people planted six feet down could attest to it. And I was real good on horseback. I could hit the ace of spades at a gallop.

I got out my revolver, cleaned it, worked the mechanism, and pulled it smoothly out of its holster a few times. I had the reputation for being fast with it, but in truth, I was careful. I figured one slower good shot was worth a bundle of worthless fast shots. Let people think I was fast: The only thing that mattered was accuracy.

“You’ll win,” Rusty said, as he eyed me putting my artillery into top shape.

“Of course, I’ll win.” I was testy. How could I not win? I didn’t need his encouragement.

I cleaned my rifle, and polished up my shotgun, and made sure I had plenty of shells and cartridges. They might cost a little, but I’d soon have twenty dollars and that would replace them with cash left over.

I don’t wear my holster much. Doubtful didn’t need some fool gunslick of a sheriff, making a public display of his weapons. I usually carried a billy club, and I could poleaxe people with that. But if all them cowboys wanted a show from me, and the city fathers, too, they’d get it.

Rusty, he kept smirking, and I’d show him a thing or two.

Then Miss Quick walked in. I knew who it was before she introduced herself.

“Howdy,” she said, and thrust a tiny white paw into my sun-baked one. “I’m Amanda Quick.”

“Howdy, yourself. You come to look me over, did you?”

“Oh, just to make your acquaintance. You sure are a big galoot.”

“And you’re a little one. Five feet?”

“Add an inch.”

“You’re real purty,” I said. I thought that might disarm her. If I told her she was real purty, out there on the firing line, she’d melt like wax in a candle.

She eyed me. “Big and strong and manly,” she said.

I sort of blushed. “My ma never called me that,” I said.

“You’ll want to prove that males can beat females.”

“Oh, no, I want to prove that sheriffs are better shots than theater people.”

She laughed. She sure was cute. She had little dimples on her cheeks when she smiled, and merry blue eyes, and was sort of strawberry blond, and was built with just the right curves. And she was dressed just like in the posters, with a fringed leather skirt, a loose blouse good for shooting, and a perky little western hat.

“If I win, you got to marry me,” I said.

I don’t know where that came. It just sort of bubbled up and erupted. It was like proposing in front of Old Faithful geyser.

“Well, usually they don’t ask for that,” she said. “They want all the benefits without the ring. And if I win, will you marry me?”

Holy cats, that caught me with my drawers around my ankles. “You bet,” I said, “but the twenty dollars, it sounds more like what I’m after.”

She laughed, a little twinkle in her eyes, and said, “I’ll see you on the field.”

She jounced away, leaving me lovestruck and bumble headed. I didn’t want to marry her, but now I was stuck. I’d win easily, and then what? Hanging Judge Earwig would be reciting the vows, and I’d be a cooked goose. I don’t know how I get into things like that.

Rusty, he was watching all this with a glint in his eye.

“Don’t you say nothing,” I said.

Time sure dragged. I was mad at Rusty, mad at Billy Bones and his show, mad at shooting contests, and mad at that perky little gal I didn’t like one tiny bit. She was so small I didn’t know how she could lift a rifle, or a shotgun. But according to all the publicity on them broadsheets pasted on every wall, she was a true marksman, and not just standing. Put her on a speeding horse and she was all the better.

It finally got late in the afternoon, so I strapped on my holster and revolver, collected my rifle and shotgun and a mess of shells and cartridges, and set out for the east side of Doubtful. People greeted me along the way, and it dawned on me they’d been waiting, lining the sidewalks, planning to cheer me along.

There were a few women, of course, wanted Miss Quick to whip me. I knew the type. They wore Amelia Bloomer’s pantaloons, and devoted themselves to making life difficult for men. But I ignored them. Most of those nice folks were cheering me. Mayor Waller was even waving a Wyoming flag, and Sammy Upward motioned me to stop in for a drink, but I shook my head. I could whip her with six drinks in me, but decided not to take the chance, just in case she got some lucky shots in, when I was not paying attention. Leonard Silver waved from the door of his Emporium, and my landlady, Belle, in a vast pink tent of a dress, twirled her parasol by way of saluting me. Alphonse Smythe, the postmaster, smiled from in front of his log post office, and even Maxwell, from the funeral parlor, gave me a pale wave of his waxen hand.

It sure was a victory parade, right down Wyoming Avenue, me with my two long guns and the short one. Lawyer Stokes sidled up and volunteered to carry my boxes of shells, so I let him, and he considered it a great honor, and carried them as if they were a wedding ring resting on a lavender pillow. Turk, he was watching, but he wasn’t properly worshipful, and was grinning like a hyena. I’d get even with him after I won my twenty dollars.

Well, by the time I got to the show grounds, there was a mess of people there, including most every cowboy that could escape the local ranches. Bones had set up a shooting area, and roped off the crowds, and there was Miss Quick, all dolled up and cute as a bug, waiting to sacrifice herself to me.

She smiled.

I tipped my hat. And then we were on.