by Jack Bates
The Sheriff of Sorrow
By Jack Bates
Cover Art: Designs By Rachelle
Published by Mind Wings Audio at Smashwords
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Copyright 2011 Jack Bates
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This story is a work of fiction, created entirely from the imagination of the author. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
The Sheriff of Sorrow
“It’s like this, son,” Bertram Overmeyer said. He puffed on a large cigar. The other men seated in the opulent room either did the same or rolled their cigars between their fingers and thumbs. “Up here we got copper, we got coal, and we got timber, which means we have a hell of a lot of money passing through Sorrow.”
Cal Haskell sat in a simple wooden chair with a dimpled leather seat unlike his interviewers who sat in plush furniture. He was in their midst hoping they’d offer him the job of sheriff of their town. Cal had no doubt about the amount of money over which the men worried. He did wonder if they were more concerned with their wealth than the well-being of their citizens.
They had gathered in Overmeyer’s den to discuss the job and its duties. The men were a little slow in getting to what they’d be expecting of him. A man with a shiny scalp and a thin ring of brown hair leaned forward. He pointed at the men with the butt end of his cigar as he spoke about of each of them. The balding man’s name was Ollie Flath. His family had been part of the Finnish immigration explosion that took over the northern tier of the Midwest.
“Olds Langston there laid claim to the mine, and slowly the town you see out there grew around it,” Flath said. “Overmeyer started the lumber mills around here and my family dug up the coal. Ham Jonson here built the piers to move the raw materials for us.”
“Keeping my fingers crossed we can get a railroad to come up this way as well,” Jonson said. The industrialists nodded. Overmeyer even offered a, “Hear, hear,” and slapped the palm of his hand on the thick, brown leather covering the arm of his great chair. It coughed up a cloud of dust that lingered in a shaft of sunlight streaming in through the window behind him.
“Seems like you gentlemen might want to change the name of your town to Prosperous,” Cal said. He smiled and laughed at his own joke, expecting at least a little in return from the men sitting around him. When none came, he shifted a bit in his leather-covered chair. The dimpled cushion beneath him gave off a rumble that sounded as if he had broken wind. This the fat cats did laugh at. Cal grimaced and laid blame on his seat.
“It’s okay, son,” Flath said. He slapped a hand on the shoulder of the man next to him. “At least with you it was the chair. Olds Langston here isn’t so lucky.” The men burst out laughing.
Olds Langston smiled and tipped a withered old hand to his forehead. The skin was stretched so tight over the man’s forehead Cal thought he could see the skull beneath it. When Langston spoke, it was like listening to the last gasp of a dying man.
“The town of Sorrow is named after my granddaughter,” Olds Langston said.
“I’m sorry, sir. I meant no disrespect.”
Langston waved it off. The other men relaxed. They, in addition to being the financial giants they were, pretty much made up the majority of the town council holding four of the seven seats. Cal knew if he survived the process, he’d be wearing the badge.
“She lived only a day,” Langston said. “My grandson took and painted ‘Home to Sorrow’ beneath the name we used to have. After a while, it was what we were called.”
Cal flashed the men a smile. “Well, fellas, I think I’d be right proud to serve as your sheriff.”
“Listen, Haskell,” Overmeyer said, “we’d really like to have you.”
“Well, what’s stopping you from offering me the job, Mr. Mayor?”
Jonson tapped his ash into a dark-red, glass dish that was attached to a brass stand. “The last man we hung the badge on couldn’t take the winters. They can be brutal up here. Seems like lately each one brings a record amount of snow.”
“You found me in Wyoming,” Cal said. “We get cold and snow out there, too.”
“Not like here,” Flath said.
“Where was the other fella from?” Cal asked.
Olds Langston said, “Arizona,” and the men around him raised their eyebrows and shook their heads.
“Pretty country,” Cal said, “but not really gonna make a man who can handle a real winter.”
The elders nodded in agreement. They said things amongst themselves about the West. Cal wasn’t sure any of them had been any further west than where they sat in northern Michigan, and from Cal’s perspective, that was a long way east. Cal had ridden as far as Mackinaw City. The Straits separated him from the tip of one peninsula to the cove of another. For the first time in his life Cal Haskell had to board a ship to get across the stretch of water where Lake Huron blends into Lake Michigan.
Bertram Overmeyer crushed out his cigar and stood up. The other men stood with him. Flath had to put a hand on Langston’s elbow to help the man stand. The four of them formed a half moon around Cal. Overmeyer stuck out his beefy hand and Cal shook it.
“Council will meet tonight, son,” Overmeyer said. “I don’t see any problems in naming you the sheriff of Sorrow.” Overmeyer looked at his compatriots. Each in turn shook Cal’s hand, nodding in agreement. “Be at the town library just before seven.”
*****
Cal felt good upon leaving Overmeyer’s home. He unhitched his horse from the post out front and led her by the reigns. The ride from Medicine Man, Wyoming, to Sorrow, Michigan, had been a long one. Even for an Andalusian like his mount, Stormwind, a little reprieve from his weight would be welcomed.
All around Cal were planted the seeds of a new America, an industrial America. Like everyone he passed, Cal’s past was rooted in the old America, the one of exploration and great discovery. He was now a part of a country that was going beyond an agrarian society to one that was going to produce great quantities of raw materials and become an economic giant. A powerful feeling deep inside him told Cal he was going to be in the heart of this America.
He was going to enjoy being the sheriff of Sorrow.
The jailhouse looked a little run down to Cal. For one thing, it was three streets north of Main and sat at the dead end across from a run-down livery with the name Jonson above the double doors. Both buildings abutted the base of a mountain that rose roughly 1700 feet over the town. It probably seemed like a good idea at the time to build a jail against the base of a mountain. Looking up at it, the sheer drop from a ridge to the road was a good six hundred feet. “Foothill,” Cal thought, a smile slipping onto his face. If this little hill was all Michigan had to offer, it was going to pale in comparison to the Laramies back in Wyoming.
From the looks of it, Cal figured the spot where he now stood had been the original Main Street. As the town grew, those early businesses moved further north filling the dwindling space between the mountain and Lake Superior. Most of the homes stood in pockets at either end of Main or stretched out along lower ridges of the mountain. Still other folk
built higher up the hill.
*****
“Can I help you, sir?”
Cal turned around. A man a few years older than him stood inside the door of the sheriff’s office. A dog standing next to the man sniffed the air. Cal held out his hand.
“Cal Haskell,” he said. The man shook the extended hand. “I’m here to be the sheriff.”
“Hank Books,” the man said. “Sheriff in the meantime.”
Cal dropped his smile and his hand. “I wasn’t aware.”
“I’m not surprised, Mr. Haskell. The old boys, they have their ways.”
“I don’t mean to step on any toes.”
“You won’t be. Kind of glad you’re here. I was beginning to think I’d get stuck with this.” Hank unhitched the star from his shirt and handed it to Cal.
“You weren’t planning on being sheriff?”
“Wasn’t ever asked. I knew full well I’d go back to being deputy once they found their new guy.”
Cal looked at the tin star in his open palm. “If you want to speak to them before the council meeting tonight, I’d understand.”
Books shook his head. “No, sir. If I’d wanted to do that I would have.”
Cal tucked the star into his shirt pocket. “Any other deputies I should know about?”
Books laughed. “You’ll meet Knuckles soon enough.”
“Knuckles?”
“Yep, Knuckles. Come on. I’ll take you through town and buy you a drink at the Three Trees. The old livery there is where we keep our horses. This your horse?”
“She is. I call her Stormwind.”
Books took him into the livery. He nodded to a stall and Cal put Stormwind in it. Books dumped a bale of hay in a corner for her before he added a bucket of water to a trough.
“You don’t have a liveryman?”
“Got Cordy here,” Books said. He looked at the dog, clicked his teeth, and said, “Stay.” The dog whined a bit, barked once, and flopped down on a frayed hooked rug. “No one messes with Cordy. Only beast to challenge her has been the Kahru.”
“What in the hell is that?” Cal asked.
“A big, old, ornery bear. There’s a lot of Finns here in Sorrow and a lot of their folklore comes with them. They kind of have a high regard for the bear. The old timers keep saying Kahru is coming down from Copper Peak looking for food because there’s work being done up on the bluffs.”
“What do you say?”
“Well, they’re partly right. It is spring and it was a tough winter. Everything up there is looking for food. Cordy tussles with the wolves and coyotes every now and then.”
Cal nodded. Looked like there wasn’t going to be much difference between Wyoming and Michigan’s northern tier after all. The two men made their way south along Jonson Avenue and turned east at Main Street.
“We got three saloons in Sorrow,” Books said. “Three Trees is the most popular. Then there’s The Copper Slag over on Flath and First. Just to give you some bearings, Main runs in the middle with First and Second on either side. All the name streets run north and south.”
“So where is the third saloon?”
“Well, sir, unless you have to bust up a fight or look for a criminal, I’d steer clear of the Feather Beds.”
Cal laughed. “Got yourself a whorehouse all the way up here?”
“Where there are tired, thirsty men there’s women.” There really wasn’t much difference between the two territories.
“Guess it keeps the economy going, huh?”
Books laughed. “Puts money right back into the pockets of the men who dish it out.”
“The councilmen own the cat house?”
“Well, not officially.” Books stopped and looked back at Cal who stood a step or two behind as he took in the information. “Don’t worry. Prostitution is only frowned upon in Sorrow, sheriff. It ain’t illegal. Well, at least not for now. There’s a couple on the council who want to ban it altogether within the city limits.”
“Let me guess. Ain’t any of the ones who brought me here.”
“Believe me, you’ll know the two when you see them. One is a man by the name of Jeremiah Zenas. He’s a deacon at one of the churches. The other is Aggie St. Pierre, a retired school marm. They’ve been leaning on the other council members, but only one is starting to waiver. He’s the third wild card. Anthony Capparucio, he owns a couple of restaurants here in Sorrow. Very religious but not enough that he doesn’t visit Feather Beds every other Friday. But it’s okay. He goes and walks the aisle of his church to beg forgiveness, and wouldn’t you know it, he’s good for another fourteen days!”
Cal laughed. He decided he was going to enjoy Hank Books’ company. His father always told him, “Fight with a man, you’ll make an enemy. Laugh with a man and you’ll have a friend for life.”
*****
Cal could tell it was quitting time for the hardworking men of Sorrow. The Three Trees was a rowdy place but not in a violent way. Up on a small stage a beautiful woman with blond hair piled high on her head sang a bawdy song that made the men hoot and holler. Dusty men played cards at a couple of tables in a separate room. Mostly men lined up at the mile-long bar, so called because long mirrors set in the walls at either end of the bar made it look like it stretched on forever. High above the reflected shelves of liquor bottles behind the bar was a large oval made from pine planks. Chiseled into the oval were three pine trees.
“What do you think of the Three Trees?” Books asked.
“I think it’ll do,” Cal said. He clinked his mug of beer against Books’ mug.
“Got a good steak-and-potato dinner on Friday nights.”
“That when all these fellas get paid?”
“Mostly.”
The room erupted in cheers, whistles, and applause. Cal watched the blond woman who had been singing take her bow. The neckline of her dress dropped low and every man in the Three Trees craned their necks for a peek at her bosom. Cal was no exception, although he wasn’t as obvious. When she stood, she winked at the men and blew them a kiss.
“She’s got a nice set of pipes,” Cal said.
“Most men notice her breasts,” Books said. The two men laughed like lifelong friends.
“What’s that pretty little songbird’s name?” Cal asked.
“Calls herself Miss Jenny. She came here to sing opera to add a little highbrow to Sorrow, but found out the real money was here at the Three Trees.”
“You got an opry house here?”
“Yep. Get some actors in here a couple of times a year. Had a group did some Shakespeare for us.”
“Bet that was something.”
“Lots of sword fights. They’re due back in a month or two. Already got my front row ticket.”
“They that good?”
“Don’t really know. There’s this woman who acts with them. She played Juliet last spring. Talk about a set of pipes.” Books winked over the rim of his beer. Cal laughed.
*****
Miss Jenny diverted Cal’s attention by sliding a hand up his chest. He gave her a cocky grin and tipped his hat to her. “Ma’am.”
“It’s ‘Miss,’” she said, “although I’m sure Henry here already told you that.”
“He did. I was just waiting for the formal introduction,” Cal said. He offered her his name.
“So how do you know Henry?”
“Just met him today. I’m here to be your new sheriff.”
Jenny’s eyes lit up. “So you’re looking to stay for a while?”
“As long as the council wants me.”
“Well, keep in mind our winters are long but our nights are longer,” Miss Jenny said. Cal felt her hand pinch his buttock. “But we find ways to make them interesting.”
It was getting pretty interesting in the Three Trees, but as moments like those go, it was about to take a nasty turn.
*****
Shouts came from the card room and a well-dressed man tumbled out backwards, striking the floor planks with the ba
ck of his head. Another much larger man in work clothes held two dirty fists in front of him. The man on the floor raised himself up slowly and rubbed the back of his head. By now the ruckus in the bar quieted.
“We don’t put up with cheats in here, Langston. You ought to know that.” The man with the dirty fists took a step towards the man on the floor.
“I told you I wasn’t cheating, you ignoramus.”
The ignoramus bent down and lifted Langston by the front of his shirt. He held him with one hand and drew back the other to ramrod it into Langston’s face.
“Hold on, Buchanan,” Books said. The larger man slowly lowered his fists. Books shook his head at Cal. “This is the kind of trouble they usually get at the Slag.”
“Hate to see what goes on at the Feather Beds,” Cal said. Miss Jenny wrinkled her brow at the mention of the whorehouse.
“Nor should you, sheriff,” Miss Jenny said. Cal backed off, his hands raised in mock supplication.
“You ain’t sheriff yet,” Books said. “I’ll handle this.”
Books approached the two men. He slapped Buchanan on the arm. “Let him go, Buke.”
“After he gives me back my fifty dollars.”
“I told him, Hank,” Langston said. “I won it fair and square.”
“Horseshit,” Buchanan said. “You pocketed that queen.”
“You don’t believe me, why don’t you reach in my pockets and find out.”
“Careful,” Miss Jenny said. “He’s pulled that trick on me. Only thing I found in there was a little nub of wood.” Miss Jenny smiled at the laughing men. Cal kept his eyes on the scuffle. The younger Langston shifted his shoulders and adjusted his tie. There was a tinge of red in his cheeks.