“Well, maybe you could make your ladies more enticing.”
“What are you trying to do, insult us? Our merchandise is the best in Doubtful. I run them all through my personal coaching. I got classes I give to incoming ladies. Before they’re graduated from the Denver Sally School of Amatory Arts, they’re whizbangs.”
I sighed. “I just hate to do it, Sally, but New Year’s is it. If you have a quarrel, take it to the county supervisors. They’re the ones passed the new law, not me. I just am stuck with making it happen, and that’s going to mean pinching violators, and that means trials and fines and all the rest, which I don’t like any but can’t help.”
Denver Sally was staring at me. “You’re standing right under the mistletoe, Sheriff. Guess that means I gotta act.”
“No, dammit, Sally, I’m just here for a palaver.”
“Is that what you call it? Well, I’ll give you a palaver you’ll never forget.”
She zeroed in on me, grabbed me in her commodious arms, and bussed me good and proper. I didn’t mind that one bit, but it was the wrong kind of business. It took me a long time to extricate myself, and I thought I was being smothered until I came up for air, but eventually I got loose.
“See what you’re missing, Sheriff?” she said, wiping my face with a handkerchief.
“You don’t have to tell me about it, Denver. My ma, she always said—”
“You and your ma. Now you sit down in that horsehair couch and listen to me, and tuck your shirt back in.”
I did as I was told. She settled across from me in the deep quiet.
“Me and the rest of the madams here, we’ve been talking about this, and we’re not going to cave in. We’re going to serve booze, law or no law. It’s the only way to get some men out of their pants. So you’d just better get used to it.
“What’s more, if the county tries to pressure us, we’ll go on strike. Every cathouse in Doubtful will shut down until we can serve a picker-upper to them fellows that can’t get it up and running.”
“There’s a lot of people on the north side of town who’d say a strike is the best thing that could happen.”
“That’s what all those pious bastards want to think. But here’s how it goes, Sheriff. If you shut down the saloons, and the parlors of paradise go on strike, you just ain’t gonna have any business making a dime in Doubtful. There’s maybe three hundred cowboys and ranchers out there, and they come into Doubtful to spend all their pay, and they just plain won’t be coming here anymore. Sure, we get some of their pay, but so does every merchant in town.”
“Strike?”
“Strike, idiot. We close our legs and tie ’em shut.”
“But, Sally, that would be dumb.”
“We’ll pick up and go. No reason we stick here. It’s not far to the next county. And we’ll get twice the business.”
“But you’re licensed and taxed here.”
“You’re thick-headed, just like they say, Pickens. Now either drop your pants or head out the door.”
It wasn’t an easy decision, but I finally decided I’d head out the door, and maybe palaver with some more of them ladies. If it was true they was going on strike, I’d better tell the supervisors about it. Them women were the biggest source of tax revenue for Doubtful, and Puma County, and if they quit and moved, the whole blasted county would likely dry up and blow away.
It was one of the shortest days of the year. Even midday, the shadows were long. On this overcast day, there was only twilight and wind. I let the wind push me toward Mrs. Goodrich’s Gates of Heaven. It was the costliest joint in Doubtful, with nice, acrobatic ladies and a few who smelled sweet, too. Mrs. Goodrich required cleanliness, and the girls had to get into a hot tub once every two weeks.
She was sitting at a table in her bar, also located to one side of the parlor, knitting a purple scarf.
“I heard you were over here, dearie,” she said.
“Word travels fast.”
“Sheriff sets foot in the district, everyone knows it in two minutes.”
“I’m letting all your nice gals know that you’ve got to shut down your bars on New Year’s.”
She smiled, her needles clacking, and said nothing.
“You going to comply all right.”
She just smiled away.
“I’ll be checking.”
“You poor dear boy, why don’t you just stop in. I’ll give you a free token, and you can begin the new year with a whoop and a holler.”
“That’s real kind of you, ma’am, but I’ll be on duty.”
“So will we, my boy.”
“I kinda have the feeling that it ain’t gonna happen, ma’am, and if it don’t, I may have to pinch you.”
“That’s the sweetest thing you’ve ever said, Sheriff.”
This sure was getting nowhere fast. “I guess I’ll have to bring in my posse, then,” I said. “I was kinda hoping you’d cooperate.”
“We’re in the cooperation business, sweetheart.”
“What about them other gals? Are they going to cooperate?”
“We all love to cooperate, dearie. Now, you move a little left, until you’re under that chandelier, and I’ll give you a sample.”
I glanced upward, seeing a three-lamp fixture sporting some fresh mistletoe.
“Oh, no, I’ll get outa here,” I said.
But too late. She loomed next to me, cheer radiating from her mottled face, and clasped her long arms right around me and kissed me on both cheeks, the nose, the mouth, and was starting down my neck and chest when I wiggled free.
I collected my hat and backed away.
“You have a beautiful posse,” she said. “You come riding in any time. I just love sheriff’s posses.”
I felt dumber than an ox, but there wasn’t nothing I could do except retreat from there. I stepped into the mean December wind, decided I’d had enough bordello visits for a while, and headed for my sheriff office and the hot stove. I couldn’t embrace the hot stove, but it would have to do, I thought.
“Where you been?” Rusty asked when I blew in.
“Talking to the sporting gals. They ain’t helping me any.”
“What do you expect? You’re cutting into their business.”
“The way they tell it, you can hardly get a man out of his pants until you’ve given him a drink or two. It sure makes them cowboys look like pansies. But that’s what having a saddle pound on your parts all day does to you.”
“That’s why I’m not a cowboy,” Rusty said.
“Rusty, I want you to go out and pull down every sprig of mistletoe in Doubtful. That includes every store, every saloon, every cathouse, every boardinghouse, and anywhere else it’s hanging. I’ve declared war on mistletoe.”
“War on mistletoe?”
“I been kissed more times today than in the last twenty years.”
“And that’s a problem?”
“It is when I’m on duty.”
“I tell you what, Cotton. I’ll go on a mistletoe patrol, but I’m going to buy some and hand it out to every blessed soul in Doubtful. If I get enough mistletoe strung up in Doubtful, no one’ll notice it when we start shutting down the saloons.”
“We, Rusty?”
“Yeah, dammit, I’ll stick. We’ll keep the lid on Doubtful.”
“Don’t you come near me with that mistletoe, Rusty, or I’ll throw your ass into the cage.”
But Rusty was just laughing away. “Say,” he said, “Consuelo Bowler’s in town and wants to see you. He’s at the hotel and says he’ll be there all day.”
Bully Bowler, as he was called, was a big-time rancher south of Doubtful. “Did he say what he wanted?”
“Yeah, Cotton, he did. He doesn’t like your plans for New Year’s Eve.”
“So what’s he gonna do about them?”
“You better find out yourself, Cotton.”
Rusty sure was acting nervous. “He was talking about hanging the county supervisors unless that dry law get
s repealed real fast. And you know what, Cotton? He meant it.”
CHAPTER SIX
Bully Bowler was actually the manager of an outlying ranch owned by Britons. His name was honestly earned. He was a massive man, fifty pounds heavier than me, and quick to make full use of his strength. He had massive fists, a thick neck, and a thicker skull. He ruled supreme out at his spread by simply pounding any cowboy who didn’t toe the line.
Now he was in Doubtful, making noises I didn’t want to hear. I donned my overcoat and hat, and plunged into the icy wind, headed for the Wyoming Hotel. Some said the hotel was the only good place between Laramie and Douglas, with two sheets on every bed and a tablecloth on every table. I wouldn’t have known the difference, and didn’t care. But I cared about Bully Bowler’s threats, and that’s what took me over there.
Bully never traveled alone, and I found him with four of his skinny cowboys, sitting at a table in the dining room, smoking cigars.
“You were looking for me?”
Bully tapped some ashes over the remains of a pancake, smiled, and nodded. He said nothing, making me wait.
But I didn’t press the man and stood quietly.
One of Bully’s boys sipped coffee, looking a little smirky.
“Well, I guess I was mistaken,” I said. “Someone told me you wanted to see me.” I turned to leave.
“Pickens, stay put,” Bully said, and still offered no explanation.
I yawned, waited a moment, and started to leave. The hell with it.
But a massive paw, lightning fast, caught my belt and yanked me back to the table.
“Now, Sheriff, you’ll listen even if you’re wetting your pants.”
That’s how it went with Bully Bowler. I had heard enough stories to fill a book or two, and none of them flattering.
Bowler let go of my belt just before I was about to do something about it.
“The boys are coming into town New Year’s Eve. They’re going to have a fine time. Every ranch hand in the area, three hundred, four hundred, in for a whoop-de-doo.”
I nodded.
“You ain’t gonna shut down the place.”
“I’m glad you think so,” I said.
“Because you won’t want anything bad to happen to your supervisors.”
I just kept quiet.
“Because that’s what’s gonna happen.”
“Thanks for letting me know, Bowler.”
“I ain’t done with you yet, you little fart.”
“I didn’t think so,” I said.
“That dry law, it’s going to be repealed. And if it ain’t, you ain’t going to enforce it. That law’s dead as poisoned wolf.”
“You going to repeal it?”
“I already did.”
“I haven’t seen it published yet. Supervisors do it?”
“Pickens, I always heard you’re thick between the ears.”
“If it’s not repealed, why do you say it is?”
“That law’s gone away, sonny boy, gone. That’s what I’m telling you. Now beat it.”
“Just your say-so, is it, Bowler?”
“I’m tired of you.”
“Guess I’d better protect you from them Temperance women. You better stop in at my jail and I’ll lock you up safe and sound.”
That started the crew laughing, but Bully Bowler stuffed out an arm and grabbed my shirt and yanked me forward. I hadn’t seen it coming. Then the manager’s iron arm shoved me backward, over the table, spilling coffee cups, plates, dead food, and silver. I landed on the far side, sprang up, and bulled into Bowler. I heard other patrons screaming. The floor was littered with food and tableware.
I hammered at the man. It was like hitting the door of a safe. Bully Bowler simply grinned, let me discover what I faced, and then lowered the boom. A few pops with those ham hands, a knee to the groin, a couple of elbows, and I was sprawled on the dining room carpet, discovering hurts I never knew I could enjoy and hearing the screech of waitresses and hotel guests. But Bully didn’t quit. A few kicks with his boots caught my ribs. And that was the signal for his four henchmen to join the act. Every time I tried to get up, or fight, all five of them got in their licks. And I got the arithmetic lesson, and quit.
“Some sheriff you are, Pickens,” Bully said, grinning.
I was more interested in all the ways I hurt than in my reputation.
“Gimme that rag,” Bully said, and one of the henchmen handed him a tablecloth. Swiftly, Bully wrapped me in it and yanked another cloth from another table, and wrapped that around me until I was wrapped in a winding sheet that was tied tight with anything handy, including scarves and belts. I was as helpless in my cloth prison as if I’d been lowered into a grave. My arms were pinned so tight I couldn’t get any purchase on anything, and my legs were wrapped to close that I couldn’t even bend them.
“Let’s show the town what kind of sheriff it’s got,” Bully said cheerfully.
One of the ranch hands pulled the pins out of a hinge and freed the wooden door into the kitchen. They loaded me on the door, and the pallbearers lifted the catafalque and marched into the bitter cold. One of those hands settled my hat on my chest as the cortege proceeded up Wyoming Street, through the heart of town, past the shops and eateries, straight up the one street where no one would miss the show, and toward the Courthouse Square, my sheriff office, and jail.
It might be December, but people flooded to windows and opened doors to view the horrible sight.
“Is he dead?” someone shouted.
“Might as well be,” someone else said.
I eyed Mayor Waller and then spotted Turk, the livery owner, and watched Hubert Sanders watching the spectacle from his bank window. I saw Leonard Silver, owner of the Emporium, peer from his door and spotted Doc Harrison studying the parade from the Beanery, and there was nothing I could do. If they wanted a sheriff who strode through town with a six-gun at his hip, a sheriff whose frown stopped little boys from tossing firecrackers at dogs, whose squint deterred burglars, whose beckoning finger corralled drunks, whose bold gaze intimidated cowboys bent on shooting up the town for sport, they could only be dismayed. The young man they’d employed to keep the lid on Doubtful, and keep all the he-cats and she-dogs at bay, namely me, was being hauled through town like dead meat.
The message was clear. Doubtful was at the mercy of the ranchers and cowboys, and they intended to celebrate their New Year’s Eve exactly as they always had, and if there was any trouble, they’d show the citizens of Doubtful just who owned Puma County.
Women emerged from doors, saw the awful spectacle, and herded their children inside. A carriage horse whinnied and reared, the spectacle too much for its equine temperament. Bully led the parade, smiling cheerfully but otherwise not acknowledging the crowds, while his four ranch hands carried the door, one at each corner.
“Whatcha doing in the winding sheet, Pickens?” asked Alphonse Smythe, the postmaster.
I could think of no answer, so I kept quiet. My ma used to say that there was no way out of a winding sheet. But maybe they’d let me go.
“Send me a postcard,” Smythe said, enjoying himself.
I still hurt, and the cold was reaching me. I couldn’t wiggle enough to keep warm.
And still Bully’s parade marched onward, turned, heading now toward Saloon Row, the very blocks where I, Sheriff Pickens, always walked tall and subdued rough men in a rough neighborhood. This was going to be the most painful of all. I’d kept order there mostly because troublemakers knew I’d whip them one way or another. But now every lowlife in Doubtful was going to see me wrapped tight in tablecloths.
The wind sure was getting to me. I rolled around on my wooden door, and the pallbearers were none too gentle about hauling me along, never looking to my comfort. Bully Bowler proceeded nonchalantly ahead, ignoring the cold but making sure the whole town of Doubtful knew the score: this sheriff is a joke. This sheriff couldn’t enforce a law against stray dogs. Doubtful had no public safety. Those co
wboys out on the ranches were going to do whatever they damned pleased on New Year’s Eve or any other time.
My little funeral parade—that’s how I saw it now—drew no followers. It was just Bully and his hands and me lying on the hotel door. But by the time we reached Saloon Row every barfly and tavern keeper was on hand. Somehow word had buzzed ahead, and the show had arrived. I saw Sammy Upward frowning and the whole McGivers Saloon crowd gaping at the spectacle. Some of them were looking pretty smirky. I spotted a few lowlifes I’d thrown into my iron cages a time or two, some for public intoxication, some for threatening with weapons, some for brawling. And now they were enjoying the sight of their nemesis bound helplessly on a door. What sort of message was all this? I resisted a sudden impulse to resign and load up Critter with all my worldly goods and head for Argentina or some place.
Bully Bowler steered his pallbearers toward Lovers’ Lane, as some called it, and there the ladies flocked to the windows to watch. Some waved; some blew kisses. Most of them giggled, and a few flashed a little flesh. There was nothing like seducing a man tied up tighter than a hog going to market.
But eventually, the cortege slid past the bawdyhouses. Bully Bowler headed for the sheriff office, either tired of the sport or content that he had delivered an indelible message to the county supervisors. In any case, Bully and his boys entered the sheriff office, dumped me on the cold floor, stole one set of jail keys, and departed with the hotel door. Not a word was spoken. Not a warning, not a lecture, not a joke.
I lay on the cold floor, nearly helpless, but I soon found I could wiggle my fingers and arms. The long tour had loosened the bindings. It sure was cold in there, hardly warmer than outside because no one had built up the fire. I gradually freed my arms and hands, untied the rest, and stood, getting some blood circulating in my body at last.
I had complex feelings about the whole business. Bully and his four thugs had jumped me, deliberately planning the event. But that trip to town was what bothered me. I might as well turn in my badge. That was exactly the message that Bowler and his hooligans were sending to everyone in Doubtful.
I stretched, built up the fire with some kindling on hot ash, and pretty soon got a little warmth going. No one came in, and I was grateful for that. I wanted to think things over. I wanted to make some decisions. But I wasn’t offered that chance. County Supervisor Amos Grosbeak stepped in, glaring at me like a thundercloud.
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