Judge Lowry was taken aback by this brazen attempt not to follow the chain of command. He turned without another word, walking the short 3/4 block back to the courthouse.
* * * *
Richards’s resolve was failing as he walked slowly backward, his heavy arm tiring of holding the shaking shield before him.
Looking behind him, he caught the two old-time ranchers on horses, blocking his exit. His gaze moved wildly from right to left.
“Just let me know, deputy, when you’ve had enough of this,” called out one of the ranchers in a casual, conversational tone. He quickly pointed to his lasso before Richard could turn around.
The old-time rancher was known to most for his numerous rodeo trophies, spanning several decades. The deputy nodded, understanding where this was headed.
“Richard,” called out the deputy. “As you may know, I was a sharpshooter in my former military days and while on the force in New York City, before moving out here to God’s country.”
“What’s that got to do with shit?” Richard spat.
“Well, sir, it’s like this. We have orders to bring you in, and the Sheriff will typically specify clearly if a person is only to be taken alive. I received no such clarification with you.”
Slowly walking back to his truck, he pulled the impressive Sniper rifle from behind the backseat.
He made a point of showing it off to a few of the spectators, pretending to ignore the situation at hand.
Richard was getting nervous, and his captor even more. “What are you going to do with that?” asked Richard, his smug confidence now waning.
“It’s really a distance rifle,” the deputy replied, as he walked backward 25 yards.
Richard held his man closer now, peering just around the whimpering man’s head. “You’ll have to shoot through him first!” called out Richard, now intentionally hiding behind his shield.
“Way I see it is you have a, what is it, about a 350-pound man hiding behind a 170-pound shield? There is just no way to cover all of your parts. It could be an elbow or shoulder hanging out, or maybe even a knee. I would stay completely still for hours on end in my former jobs, waiting for the kill shot. With you, I don’t need just one shot. I can just hit multiple body parts until you let him go.”
He instructed his deputies to clear the path in front of and behind the soon-to-be-captured man.
The deputy made an obvious gesture to inspect his rifle, slowly loading one round. He pretended to check the wind direction, as he had done many times before when the shot was a much longer distance. Nodding to the readied cowboy on horseback, he aimed his weapon.
On cue, Richard dropped the shaking man from his clutches and turned to run. “Watch this,” the deputy said to his fellow officers, as the cowboy’s rope began to swing. “That man there has been the steer-roping champion in both Trinidad and Pueblo six straight years, with the last one only a few years back.”
The big man ran wildly, heading somewhere, anywhere away from where he was.
The cowboy let him run nearly 50 yards down the main road before giving chase. Closing in and whipping the lasso over his head, he let it fly over the accused man’s head and around his midsection. He was careful not to get him around the neck and possibly kill him as the horse stopped abruptly, tightening the rope.
Richard was thrown violently backward, landing on the ground with a loud thud, knocking the wind out of him. The cowboy was off his steed in seconds, binding Richard’s arms and feet as he would a steer’s legs.
The crowd from the earlier games gathered around the spectacle, with a few laughing and pointing, but most staying silent.
The deputies handcuffed him, escorting him on foot to the jailhouse, only a quarter of a mile up the road, to see the Sheriff.
“Why didn’t you just shoot him?” asked one of the deputies to the man with the gun.
“That’s a good question, since I used to be ordered to shoot bad guys from quite a distance. These were very bad men that, left alive, would cause major problems to innocent people. This guy here,” he said, squeezing Richard’s shoulder lightly, “is just an a-hole with a big mouth. He deserves a rundown by a rider cowboy, but he’s not bad enough for me to consider shooting—unless, of course, he gives me no choice. Now he’s soon to be someone else’s problem.”
* * * * * * *
Chapter Twenty-six
Weston, Colorado
“Howdy, big boy,” announced Sheriff Johnson, with his feet propped up on his desk. “I wondered if you would make it in here alive, and I see that you have. You must have just surrendered peacefully,” he added, having already been briefed over the radio by another of his men.
“No, sir,” he replied. “They ran me down like a damn animal and tied me up. I was minding my own business, playing games with other townsfolk, when they started harassing me for no reason. Now let me go! I’m getting tired of this crap!”
“Is that so?” replied the Sheriff calmly. He was determined not to get upset or out of hand, at least in front of his men.
“What do you like to eat, Richy boy? I mean, besides the ravioli sauce you had all over your T-shirt the first time you disrespected me at the hangings.”
Richard stammered, playing the moment over in his head. Fear filled his eyes, as he realized this was a coordinated effort all along, and he had only seen people leave this jailhouse by hanging on the end of a rope.
“I’m sorry, sir…I mean, Sheriff, about that,” he stated, with his voice cracking.
“I can’t quite recall what you were eating when we met again in front of the new greenhouse land, where you disrespected me a second time,” continued the Sheriff.
Richard had no response to this, and his knees weakened, causing him to stumble forward, only caught by the deputies.
“So, I’ll ask again. What do you like to eat? I like to make sure all of our guests are well fed while in our company.”
“Anything, sir,” was all he could muster for a response.
“Well then, you just may be one of our easier guests, after all.”
“How long will I be here, if I could ask?” said Richard.
“Oh, probably not too long. I don’t like taking good food out of the mouths of our lawful citizens, only to redistribute it inside these walls. Let’s introduce him to the former councilman, gentlemen,” he said to his deputies, pointing down the hall.
* * * *
Judge Lowry headed back to the courthouse, keeping his anger off his face. Once inside, he dismissed his longtime clerk for the remainder of the day, calmly telling her she deserved an afternoon off and locking the door behind her.
He paced the smooth tile floor back and forth, growing angrier by the second. While he wasn’t exactly surprised that this scenario could happen, he just wasn’t fully prepared yet.
He always knew the Sheriff would eventually make a power move against him, and his plans were in motion but this was too soon, and the story of his orders being questioned would spread through the town quickly over the coming days.
Think! he thought, pacing faster now.
Finding himself in his study, a small room void of windows and secured by a padlocked door in the basement of the 100-year-old courthouse, he reviewed his plans.
Nobody else had ever set foot in this room, or even knew it was there, since he took over as town Judge years ago.
Lighting the oil lantern, he locked himself in with two deadbolts, one just above the door center and the second a foot above the first.
A glass of James’ finest was poured into his favorite glass he had received years ago from an old college buddy when he first became a judge. It was a whiskey glass with the scales of justice on one side and a custom saying on the other. He laughed every time he read the words: I shall only rule when my glass is empty. Only he knew the truth that he only ever drank alone…well, almost always.
Walls were covered with pictures of various people, including Sheriff Johnson, his deputies, the former to
wn council, and other prominent citizens. James’ photo covered the former Mayor’s, as the newest art hung.
The Judge was fully aware that, to anyone else, his study would look like a scene from a television drama, where the serial killer had pictures of his victims he has obsessed about strewn around the dimly lit room.
This was not the obsessed dungeon of a crazed man with no filters but a carefully calculated working space of a sitting Judge, and arguably the smartest man in town, he thought.
Opening his black spiral notebook, he reviewed his simple five-step plan typed one day after “the day” on his old manual Smith Corona typewriter. Each step, separated by ten spaces, had ample room for handwritten notes.
Step 1: Gain the trust of the sitting Sheriff and establish a hierarchy. “Check,” he said out loud.
Step 2: Find a man who can win an election in a landslide. This had the name “James VanFleet” handwritten under it.
Step 3. Give an impression of weakness. Written underneath was “Be intoxicated in front of those listed above one time, and then purchase alcohol by the case.”
He smiled, as he looked to the corner of the dimly lit room, with the cases of moonshine he had purchased from James VanFleet stacked neatly and nearly undisturbed.
He found it difficult to let himself drink in front of the Sheriff and James, as he didn’t like the taste and disdained not being in complete control over himself or any situation. He made exceptions only when alone and mixed it with any type of soda he could find.
After first learning of James’ still, he spent several hours practicing the drinking parts in his mind, careful to say only enough to make him appear compromised but not spill any of his future plans. James and Jason assumed the Judge had ruled on the hangings of the vegetable thieves after a night of drinking, but in truth he had already made the decision.
Step 4: Strip the sitting Sheriff of power, shifting it all to the court. This one seemed to be working to plan, until today’s happenings. Judge Lowry was agitated but remained calm. He would not allow his anger to beat him or be shown as a weakness, like the Sheriff had done.
Step 5 was blank.
* * * *
Saturday was trade day, and the Second Chances Ranch bunch were all excited to attend. Chance would tag along this day, giving James some anxiety about leaving the ranch unattended.
The girls filled in Billy on every possible thing he might see or eat there.
Working all week, gathering items to sell, the trailer was extra heavy this morning. As they pulled the trailer behind the bright yellow truck once again, James and Jason got waves, thumbs-up signs, and even a few hoots as they made their way into town for the official traders’ morning kickoff with the Sheriff.
The vendor list had nearly doubled this week, but James kept the same stand number.
After a short introduction of the rules for the new vendors, Sheriff Johnson once again pulled James onto the back of a semitrailer for a short speech about the greenhouses starting construction next week.
“We just keep reminding them why they voted for us, so come election time again, we can run unopposed,” he whispered to James.
“Plus, the occasional hanging to scare the hell out of them,” James said sarcastically, almost holding his tongue.
“Exactly. And speaking of that, I’ve got another one coming up soon,” the Sheriff replied.
“Really?” asked James. “I hadn’t heard that. Judge Lowry has already ruled?”
“Not exactly, but we will see what happens,” he replied with a grin.
* * * *
Heading back to the jailhouse, the Sheriff hadn’t checked on his guests since earlier last night.
“How are my boys?” he asked, walking in the front door, as his deputy came up from the back.
“Well, there seems to have been an altercation with those two, and the former councilman didn’t fare so well. I’m not sure what happened,” the deputy said.
“Maybe I should have given them two dinners last night, instead of just one. Big guys love to eat. Is he alive?”
“Yes, sir, but he will need some medical attention.”
“OK,” said the Sheriff. “Get Doc Walters up here to take a look at him and get your boys to help put him in a different cell before the doctor arrives.”
The good doctor arrived nearly 45 minutes later, medical bag in hand.
“How can I help you, Sheriff?” he asked, with a handshake.
“I’ve just got a man I need you to take a look at is all. It seems he likes to fight but didn’t fare so well.”
“Sure thing,” the doctor replied. “Anything for the town.”
It took Dr. Walters a full hour to return from the cell with an update.
“He’s got three fractured ribs, near as I can tell without an X-ray. He also has a mild concussion and several lacerations on his face. Two fingers are broken on his right hand, with no X-ray needed to confirm. Other than that, I think he will survive. I patched him up as best I could. Oh, and Sheriff, will you please feed those two separately from now on?”
“Thank you, Dr.,” the Sheriff replied, without answering the question.
* * * *
Trading today was robust, honest, and fair all the way around. Jenna, Carla and Candice kept both Chance and Billy close, carefully examining each booth for candy and other items kids like.
Each girl and Billy were given a small amount of walkaround junk change that Jason was able to trade a few silver coins for.
The girls scouted every booth, finding plenty to consider purchasing. Billy only wanted a yo-yo, like the one he used to have a few short weeks ago. He accidentally left it behind at a road stop while traveling with his father. When they finally found one he liked, he was short on money, so Carla made up the difference with most of her change. “Thank you, sister!” coming from Billy made it all worth it.
James’ stand was inundated with well-wishers and average folks hoping to gain his ear for new ideas.
“You’re going to have to take over the stand,” he told Janice and Lauren. “We’re not going to sell anything like this.”
He and Jason slowly made the rounds to each vendor, talking about the future of the town and the upcoming greenhouse project.
Judge Lowry made an appearance, leaving the courthouse for the first time since yesterday afternoon.
Knowing he would have to face the Sheriff sooner than later, he maintained a casual demeanor.
His chance would come quickly, running into the Sheriff only 30 minutes later at James’ booth.
“Are you back for more moonshine?” asked the Sheriff jokingly.
Judge Lowry smiled, clenching his teeth. “No, not today,” he replied. “I hear you have a couple of men in the jail now,” he continued, coming out as a statement. “A former councilman, as we already discussed, and the big guy.”
“Yes, that’s right,” replied the Sheriff, waiting for the part about him not asking permission.
The air was thick, and even though Janice didn’t know what was happening, she could tell it was some sort of passive-aggressive standoff between the two most powerful men in town.
“Well, I’ll need to gather all of the facts before making my ruling in the coming days,” continued the Judge.
Sheriff Johnson pretended to get a call on his radio, as he did more frequently now. He was getting better at the ruse, and this time he had both Janice and the Judge believing it was real.
“Excuse me” is all he said, talking to the radio as he walked away.
The Judge stayed a few more minutes, making small talk with Janice and Lauren. He spent the next two hours visiting each and every booth for more of the same. Although he didn’t particularly like talking to people who were not standing below him in his court, he made an effort today, just in case he needed their support, sooner or later. Thankfully, no one asked about the large man, Richard, or anything about the happenings yesterday.
In all the booths he visited, be bo
ught only one thing. It cost him a pretty penny—four silver dollars, to be exact—but the item fit seamlessly into his future plans for the town.
James and Jason met praise at every booth, and their popularity did not go unnoticed by the Judge. As the trading came to a close, James and Jason returned to their stand to good news.
“We nearly sold out today!” announced Lauren, pointing to the picked-over tables in front of them.
“Chance was really good also,” added Janice. James noticed the new collar straightaway. It was bright red, contrasting with his dark fur, and could be seen from quite a distance.
The tag looked like a miniature green Colorado license plate but contained the name “James VanFleet” and “Second Chances Ranch,” along with their address.
Next World Series (Vol. 3): Families First [Second Wind] Page 25