Support Your Local Deputy: A Cotton Pickens Western

by W. , Johnstone, William

  “They’re plumb gone, professor.”

  “A pity,” Zimmer said. He clamped his black silk stovepipe hat over his graying locks, and beat it. He’d do his first show after lunch, and another late afternoon, and the big show in the evening. The lunch show got the women out, and he pitched his elixir for female complaints and vapors. The night show, that was for cowboys, so he pitched his elixir for virility. But that just meant the old men in town lined up for a bottle or two.

  I wandered over there to his camp on the edge of town, just to see him give another of them stem-winders. There sure were a mess of women there. I didn’t know we had so many women, of all shapes and sizes and ages. And there was Zimmer, silk stovepipe hat, swallowtail coat, holding a bottle of his magic potion in hand.

  “Ladies, this is your last chance. I implore you, buy while you can. Don’t suffer regrets that you failed to purchase not one, but six, bottles of my elixir. Remember this: My elixir regulates female cycles and improves health. Are you worn down? Zimmer’s Tonic will lift the aching heart, bring up the chin, brighten the eye. Are you weary of childbearing? Take Zimmer’s Tonic each morning, and you will see magical results. Do you yearn for more children, or the attentions of your handsome and gifted husband? Why, take a double dose, two teaspoons, late in the evening, and your smile will radiate through the whole room, and win smiles from your happy mate. Do you hurt? Are you melancholic, at times? Zimmer’s Tonic does wonders for the spirit. Now, as my parting offer, I am going to give you the bargain of a lifetime: two bottles for the price of one. Two bottles for two dollars cash. You’ll have one for the future, or one to share with your husband when he’s worn down. Just two dollars buys you a cornucopia of joy.”

  The women looked undecided. Some had parasols, and twirled them in the warm spring sun. They were consulting, weighing, hesitant. But then a woman Cotton hadn’t seen before laughed and said, “Save two for me!”

  He looked closer; it was the grass-skirt lady in the show, but all dolled up in a blue dress and bonnet. She pushed forward, waving two greenbacks, scooped up two bottles from one of the teamsters who took her cash, and strutted off. That sure started it. A mess of them ladies lined up, pulled dollars out of their reticules and pockets, and began snapping up all that stuff in the green bottles.

  Zimmer smiled and waved his accordionist up to the stage, and pretty quick the feller was pounding out a jig, while the ladies snapped up bottles.

  I spotted Rusty coming at me like a clipper ship, and he waved me aside.

  “We got trouble. George Waller’s says he’s been robbed.”

  “What? When?”

  “A whole list of stuff. He’s still trying to figure it all out. He took some shipments two days ago, and now stuff’s gone and no one in the mercantile sold it.”

  “Burgled or robbed?”

  “He says the store’s been locked tight at night, but someone’s sneaking stuff out when no one’s looking. He says arrest all these medicine people.”

  “He got any proof?”

  “He says they’re here in Doubtful, and that’s all he needs.”

  I hurried over there, only to run into Hubert Sanders, who owns the Merchant and Stockmen’s Bank.

  “Little problem, sheriff. My tellers tell me there’s cash missing. We’re doing an audit; seems someone opened the cash drawers and made off with coin and greenbacks, when no one was looking. It’s impossible; my people are always alert. But someone did it.”

  This was getting serious.

  “George Waller’s got some trouble, too. I’ll put Rusty on that, and I’ll see what’s happening at the bank. When did you find out?”

  “It’s three o’clock, closing time, and my tellers, they’re counting the cash, and something’s haywire in two cash drawers.”

  “Hardly seems likely a light-finger thief would go into your drawers, Hubert.”

  “If you’re insinuating that one of my tellers did it, then we need a new sheriff,” he said.

  I’d heard that sort of sentiment pretty near once a week in Doubtful. But I still had a job.

  We rushed up those sandstone steps into the bank, and the clerks were waiting.

  “Drawer A is lacking forty dollars and twenty-five cents. Drawer C is lacking seventeen dollars and two cents, sir. We’ve double-checked, and it’s clear someone nipped cash, maybe when one or another of us was at lunch or occupied.”

  “But it’s all in plain sight. I see every person coming in and going out.” He turned to me. “It’s the medicine show.”

  “They’re having some trouble, too, Hubert. Zimmer lost every cent he had, his strongbox opened up.”

  “Huh,” Sanders said. “Do you believe it?”

  “I’m checking it all out.”

  “What have you done?”

  “Talked to Zimmer’s people, and asked all the barkeeps in town to tell me about big spenders.”

  “Sherlock Holmes you definitely are not,” Sanders said. “Get that money; solve this, or else quit.”

  I talked a little with those two tellers, McAffee and Barnes, trying to get some handle on when it happened, and when those two weren’t in their teller cages. And trying to figure how someone could reach through the teller window, open the cash drawer, scoop up some money, and slide the door closed without being spotted. From the sound of it, the best time was around the lunch hour, when Sanders was gone and one or another teller was gone, leaving just one man in the bank. But both men swore they were constantly vigilant. And neither saw anyone, male or female, from the medicine show lingering around the place.

  They enacted how it had to happen, with McAffee acting the part of the thief, reaching through the window when no one was around, sliding the drawer away from him, nipping some money, and sliding the door closed. That accounted for one window, but two? It sure was a head-scratcher, I thought.

  “All right, you fellers think of anything else, you get ahold of me or Rusty. I gotta talk to George Waller. He says his store’s been hit.”

  “Him, too?” Barnes asked.

  “So he says. He says the medicine show people did it.”

  I found Waller and his clerk, Gasper, along with Rusty, in the gloomy mercantile. There sure wasn’t much light in there. I’d hate to spend the day in a place with just a little window light coming in, and heaps of merchandise everywhere, but hard to see. If someone was nipping stuff from the store, it wouldn’t be hard in a place like that.

  “George, what you need is some of them skylights in the roof. Maybe this wouldn’t happen if you let some light in here,” I said.

  Waller glared. It was a fire-the-sheriff glare, and I’d seen it a few times. But I was right, so I thought I’d rub it in.

  “Women, they come here for cloth, and the first thing they do is haul it to the front of the store so they can see what they’re buying.”

  “I’ve just been robbed, and you tell me how to run my store.”

  “Yep, maybe the two fit together. Dim store, no one sees the nipper.”

  “Blame the victim!”

  “Maybe you need some blaming, George. But I’ll check this out, and if you got a list of stuff that got took, I’ll head over to them medicine show wagons and turn the outfit inside out, and if I find any of your stuff there, they’ll all end up in my little iron-caged hospitality house.”

  That lowered the boiler pressure a little.

  He was missing some ready-made skirts, women’s stockings, men’s underdrawers, a box of candles, a jug of lamp oil, some ready-made wire-rimmed spectacles, some bars of Fels-Naptha soap, four horseshoes and a box of shoeing nails, a carton of saltine crackers, a bottle of dill pickles, and a red blanket.

  “Probably more. It’s hard to keep track,” Waller said.

  “All right, me and Rusty, we’ll head for the medicine show and have a look.”

  “You won’t find a thing,” Waller said. “They’re too smart for that.”

  “If they got it cached, we’ll find the cache,”
I said.

  Nothing but trouble now in Doubtful.

  Chapter Seven

  That evening, the orphan train rolled in. I’d never heard of it, but there it was, three wagons, each drawn by a four-horse team, a mess of boys and girls and two adults, a man and a woman. That sure was one strange outfit rolling in. The boys, most of them little squirts, they seemed to be handling the teams just fine.

  I thought I’d solved the burglary problem. It was pack rats. The whole town was full of pack rats, and there wasn’t a one-inch crack somewhere they didn’t come through. I was thinking maybe pack rats made off with all that stuff, but Rusty thought I was nuts, and it was two-legged rats cleaning out the mercantile. Pack rats are cute little buggers, and they like to show off some, sitting on windowsills, especially at night, and stealing anything they can. I’ve seen pack rat nests loaded with coins and paper money and rings and spoons and corks. But Rusty, he thinks I’m joking. I’ve seen a pack rat haul stuff ten times his size and weight, and I’m not joking. Rusty, he’s too young to know about pack rats. I’m thirty-one, and he’s twenty-seven, and no one under thirty knows anything.

  I was fixing to tell Zoroaster Zimmer that he was robbed by rats, and any pack rat can gnaw right through metal. But just as I was about to go over there, this here bunch of wagons rolls in with a mess of little farts on board. They roll right up to my office, too, like their first business is a talk with the law. I looked them over, wondering how one couple could have seventeen children pretty near the same age, maybe six to twelve. That’d be a mess of triplets, but the woman didn’t show any wear and tear.

  Those big wagons halted out front. They were peculiar looking, with high canvas bows so someone could stand inside. This here man and woman, they come on in, skinny folks, but clean and trimmed.

  “Sheriff? I’m Hatfield McCoy, and this is my wife, Judith. We’re members of the Children’s Aid Society. Are you familiar with it?”

  “I’m Cotton Pickens. My ma, she always used to say, if you don’t know something, listen hard, so I’m listening.”

  “Well, good, I’ve a chance to talk about our mission. The society was formed back East to help the thousands of orphans in the big cities, especially New York, children who have lost their parents or are simply running free, unsupervised. Did you know, sir, there were thirty thousand of these? It is the society’s mission to place these children on western ranches where they’ll become valuable additions to the homes and businesses that adopt them. They are hard little workers, and even at a tender age entirely competent. You see the little fellows handling the teams. The girls cook and clean. The boys do the teamstering, the girls the housekeeping. What we do, sir, is bring these children west in trains, and then take them out to towns where they might be adopted. I suppose you know of a dozen ranches in the area that might welcome additional help.”

  “Well, that sure’s the truth.”

  “These are sturdy little folks, with good muscle and teeth, though a few need spectacles, and all they need is a home and some good parents. We can arrange adoptions, and have all the papers on hand. So what we want, sir, is to let the ranches know that we’re here, and the farmers and ranchers can see for themselves what fine additions to their families we’ve got here.”

  There was something a little odd about all this. “You just sort of sell ’em off?”

  “A small fee, sir, is charged to underwrite our cost.”

  “And them ranchers, they just get the pick of the litter and walk off?”

  “That’s correct, sir.”

  “And these little people, they got no say in it? Not even if they fear and dread some new parent?”

  “They’re minors, sir, under adult supervision. We are their legal guardians.”

  “And what happens when friends are separated? Are some brothers and sisters?”

  “That’s a sad prospect, sir, but we usually allow only one child to any new parent.”

  “And these new parents, can they do whatever they want with the children? Work ’em hard? Turn ’em into little drudges?”

  “It is better than running loose in a big city, sir, turning to lives of crime and desperation. Most of them could survive in the cities only by pilfering and violence. The society is their salvation, sir.”

  “What if some of them are troublemakers?”

  “A firm hand is needed; spare the rod, spoil the child. Once in a while, there’s a small discipline problem, but that’s rare, sheriff. Most adoptions go well.”

  Well, this sure was something new for Doubtful. There weren’t very many children in town. Cowboys don’t breed, and some folks say they can’t breed, after being crotch-hammered in the saddle. They hardly know what a woman is. My ma, she always said that cowboys and women don’t fit together. The merchants in town don’t breed neither, being too busy making money instead of babies. So now it looked like Doubtful would get a whole mess of little ones, and probably there’d be some trouble in it.

  But I took kindly to this. My ma, she always said if it wasn’t for her and Pa, I’d be an orphan. So I studied on those little fellers, sitting restlessly on wagon seats, eyeing the town and wondering about their fate. There was one little freckle-faced boy, nose pointy like a rat, I thought needed a good home in Doubtful, Wyoming.

  “How does this here work?” I asked McCoy.

  “Well, tonight we’ll put them on display at the courthouse, and tomorrow we’ll sell them to the highest bidder.”

  “You mean they’re for sale?”

  “No, but somebody wants a good little worker and is willing to pay more than the regular five-dollar fee, we look kindly on it.”

  “You check this out with the Abolitionists?”

  McCoy laughed. “It does look that way, doesn’t it? Actually, the child can be adopted, or indentured. If someone wants to indenture the child, he agrees to raise the child to age sixteen, and teach him a trade.”

  “What if a little feller don’t like it?”

  “He’s got no say in it. The contract’s between the buyer and the Children’s Aid Society, one copy filed at your courthouse. We act in loco parentis, as legal parent.”

  “What if someone wants one of these little girls to abuse her?”

  “We screen our customers, sheriff. We prefer to place our young females with couples.”

  “Well, what if some wife mistreats the girl?”

  McCoy sighed. “The children are better off. If you knew what hell they lived in, back East, you’d realize that we’re doing them a great kindness.”

  That seemed all right with me, even if I was a little itchy about it. “Well, we got a medicine show on the east side of town leaving tomorrow, so you and your orphans ought to camp on the west side, nice grove of cottonwoods there for you.”

  “Medicine show? We’ll camp over there. The more people see our orphans, the better the adoptions go. That’s perfect. Maybe the manager will adopt a couple orphans for his show.”

  That sure sounded peculiar, but I saw no trouble with it. If Zoroaster Zimmer wanted a few orphans to display, and the orphans liked his tonic, maybe that was better than running around on the streets of New York, the worst city on the planet, apparently, except for Laramie.

  “All right, sir, and madam, you just head on over there and get yourself settled.”

  “We’ll set up, and bring the orphans back here for the showing,” he said.

  “Sure beats all,” I said.

  I watched the orphan-master point toward the east side, over beyond Saloon Row, and pretty soon them little buzzards got the three wagons rolling that way.

  “We selling orphans now?” Rusty asked.

  “Nice outfit, seems like.”

  “I caught five pack rats and fed them to the dogs. That should eliminate our crime wave.”

  “Naw, Rusty, there’s thousands of pack rats, and we got to get them all. They’re all little burglars.”

  He was smirking at me. I meant it, and he was funning me. Some people
never do see the truth of things. Pack rats make a crime wave.

  Pretty quick, Zoroaster Zimmer, he came boiling up.

  “What’s this? What’s this? That’s my turf, over there. Get them out.”

  “It’s just one night, professor. They’re selling orphans, and want a large crowd on hand to look over their merchandise.”

  “Selling orphans? Those are a bunch of little thugs off the streets, Pickens. Orphans? They’re little hooligans. You run them out of Doubtful or none of us’ll be safe. And while we’re at it, have you made any progress getting my cash back?”

  “It was pack rats, professor. The Mercantile, it got attacked by waves of pack rats. They’re real saucy little suckers. They’ll strip the corn off a cob while you’re eating it.”

  “In other words, no. You don’t know which of your locals in this crime-ridden little burg stole my livelihood.”

  “It’ll show up. I got the barkeepers watching. And professor, the McCoys, they thought maybe you’d like to indenture an orphan or two for your show. Those boys, they’re real good with draft animals.”

  Zimmer stared, his orange whiskers quivering up and down, his black silk stovepipe hat bobbing on his generous locks. He didn’t reply; just whirled around and headed back to the east side. It sure was going to be interesting out there this evening.

  Sure enough, about the time the stores were closing up, the McCoys herded all their orphans to the courthouse steps, and that sure drew a crowd. Seems like word got around fast that an orphan train was in, and just about every adult in Doubtful showed up. I even saw Sammy Upward from the Last Chance Saloon looking ’em over, and a couple of madams were on hand, too, Denver Sally and Mrs. Goodbride. I was gonna have to make sure they didn’t adopt any girl. That’s just my prejudice; I didn’t know of any law against it. I suppose a madam has a right to adopt an orphan, same as anyone else.

  There was such a hubbub as I ever saw in Doubtful. Them children, they’d been through it all, and just stood quiet, maybe a little fearful, as people looked them over, looked for flab, squeezed their arms, pried open their mouths to look for bad teeth or no teeth. Nothing ruins an orphan like bad teeth.