by Jeff Carson
Wolf followed, keeping total slack in his rope, more than a little relieved the calf was struggling against the tow, rather than dangling lifeless due to a broken neck.
As the men branded the calf, Wolf noticed the self-satisfied grin on MacLean’s face, as if a plan of his had come to fruition without a single hitch.
Once again, Wolf felt bested by this man, in an arena he was unfamiliar with. Being appointed the job as Sheriff of Sluice County, just like Hal Burton before him, and just like Wolf’s father before Burton, Wolf had never had to pander to the masses. He’d never had to act a part, he’d simply shown up for work and done the best job he could have.
Now that the smaller Sluice County was merging with its neighbor to the south, Byron County, things were changing. Big time. Down in Rocky Points, just a block –and-a-half from the station, a three-story monstrosity of a Municipal building and new Sheriff’s office, complete with state of the art jail cells in the basement, was going up in record time. And with the new structure came something even bigger. An election. And a campaign. Multiple campaigns, because not only were the people of the newly formed Sluice-Byron County voting for a Sheriff, but for other seats in the new county government.
It was now Spring and the election was to be held in mid-summer by special order of the Governor of Colorado. With the political atmosphere like a mosh pit at a thrash metal concert, Sheriff Will MacLean seemed to be at home amid the chaos.
Wolf wondered just how MacLean planned on cutting and pasting all this video footage. What exactly he was going to do with all these photos.
No doubt something awe-inspiring, just like the rest of the man’s campaign for sheriff had been thus far.
Wolf felt no awkwardness when it came to mountain living. But the pixels captured through those lenses said otherwise. That’s all that mattered. The airtime on television that MacLean’s campaign could buy would undoubtedly show the people otherwise.
“And that,” Margaret Hitchens yelled, “Is Sheriff Wolf’s attitude towards his job in action. Never give up! Never give up!”
A smattering of applause. A lone whistle.
MacLean nodded respectfully.
Wolf felt his face go red. He jumped down and handed over the reins, then walked to Travis Chapman, eager to disappear back into the action as another calf was dragged in.
“Wolf!” A male voice called.
Wolf pretended not to hear.
“Sheriff Wolf!”
He realized it was Rachette, so he looked up.
Rachette had his cowboy hat off, waving it in the air with one hand and a radio in the other. Deputy Patterson stood next to him with excitement painted on her face, and not because of the recent action. She held her radio, too.
“What is it?” He asked as he reached them.
“We’ve got a…”
“What?” Wolf asked, not catching Patterson’s last word.
Patterson was a head shorter than Rachette, so she climbed two slats of the fence to be heard.
“We have a dead body,” she said. “Correction: almost a dead body.”
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