The Sheriff
of
Sundown City
Smashwords Edition
Copyright 2011
by Jody Studdard
This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be sold or given to another person. If you would like to share this eBook with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this eBook and you did not purchase it, or if it was not purchased for your use only, please purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of the author.
This eBook is a work of fiction. Any similarities to actual persons, living or dead, are purely coincidental.
Cover design by Jody Studdard, copyright 2011.
For my family and friends
One-Arm Bill
John Westwood could hardly believe what had happened. He had only been the sheriff of Sundown City for a day, and already something had gone wrong. The nefarious outlaw, One-Arm Bill, and his equally nefarious sidekick, Yellowstone Malone, had robbed the local bank.
“What direction did they head?” John asked the bank’s teller, an elderly, wiry man named Ned O’Sullivan.
“You’ll never catch them,” Ned answered, shrugging his shoulders in resignation. “No one ever does. The sheriff before you — he never did. And the one before him — he never did, either. If you were smart, you’d save your hide and forget this whole thing ever happened. That’s what I’m going to do.”
“What do you mean?” John asked. “We can’t let him get away with this. The last time I checked, robbing a bank was a crime.”
Ned sighed. “There’s nothing you can do. And don’t go getting any funny ideas about chasing One-Arm Bill to get that money back. I don’t want your blood on my hands. One-Arm Bill will shoot you as fast as he shot the past two sheriffs.”
John frowned. When he had first moved to Sundown City (a week ago) to take the job as the town’s sheriff, he had heard it had had a long problem with outlaws. He had not heard, however, that the past two sheriffs (including the one he was replacing) had been killed by One-Arm Bill.
He looked around the bank. Several people were still recovering from the stick-up. An old lady brushed dirt from the folds of her dress. Apparently, in the commotion, she had been knocked down.
“Is everyone okay?” he asked.
There was no response, so he assumed everyone was fine. He turned back to Ned and continued his investigation.
“What does One-Arm Bill look like?” he asked.
“He’s the nastiest, vilest man in the entire west,” Ned said. “He only bathes once a month, sometimes not even that much, so you can smell him coming from several blocks away. His chin is covered with a nasty goatee, and his eyes are as black as the night sky.”
“What type of gun does he use?” John asked. As a deputy in Kansas City, he had learned it was wise to find out what type of weapon your opponent carried. A man’s weapon told you a lot about him.
“Colt .45,” Ned said, running his fingers through his wispy, red hair.
John shrugged. A Colt .45 was an impressive weapon. As far as side arms went, it was one of the best. It had good range and was very accurate. Clearly, One-Arm Bill was a wise man, at least as far as weapons went.
Ned continued. “He calls his gun Widowmaker. And trust me, it’s an appropriate name.”
“Why do they call him One-Arm Bill?” John asked.
“His real name is William Johnstone,” Ned answered. “When he was a kid, he was playing near a railroad. He fell asleep on the tracks and didn’t hear the locomotive until it was too late. It took his arm off at the shoulder. Folks have called him ‘One-Arm Bill’ ever since.”
“Is he from around here?”
Ned nodded. “He used to live outside of town, down by Clara’s Creek, but that was years ago. Nowadays, no one knows where he lives. Most people think he roams from town to town, robbing banks, stagecoaches, and trains along the way. He’s wanted in at least four states, probably more. In Texas he’s known as the One-Armed Bandit. In Mexico he’s called el Bandido.”
John nodded. “What about Yellowstone Malone?”
Ned chuckled. “He’s dangerous, but nothing compared to One-Arm Bill.”
“Does One-Arm Bill have any other accomplices?”
“Supposedly a nephew. They call him Weasel. I’m not sure what his real name is. One-Arm Bill keeps him around to do chores and the like. Unlike the other two, he’s not too dangerous. I’ve heard stories he’s good at making things.”
“Thanks for the information,” John said. “I’ll see what I can do to stop this from happening again. While I’m sheriff, robberies will not be tolerated in Sundown City.”
Ned laughed. “You law enforcement types are a strange breed,” he said. “The past two sheriffs said the same thing. Now, they’re pushing up daisies in the local cemetery.”
“I’m not like the past two sheriffs,” John said. “I’ll get the job done. When I was a deputy in Kansas City, I always did.”
“This ain’t Kansas City,” Ned said. “This is Sundown City. Around here, danger lurks around every corner.”
Deputy
John Westwood returned to the sheriff’s office and began to arrange his belongings. He had always dreamed of being a sheriff, and now that he was one, he was determined to be a good one. In order to be a good one, however, he needed to do something about One-Arm Bill. And he needed to do it quickly.
He decided to hang some reward signs around town. He would offer one hundred dollars for the capture of the notorious bandit, dead or alive. That way, Sundown City’s residents would see he was serious about catching the outlaw once and for all.
His thoughts were interrupted by a not-so-distant whinny. He hurried outside and headed in the direction of the noise. Directly behind the sheriff’s office was a small, rickety stable that looked like it was a hundred years old. Maybe older. It was white, but its paint was faded and peeling badly. Just above the stable’s door was a wooden sign. Carved on its face was a single word.
Deputy.
John swung the door open and walked inside. Chewing on a mouthful of straw was a tall, gray stallion with a magnificent, jet-black mane.
John patted him on the head. “You must be Deputy,” he said.
The horse snorted loudly, as if he were responding to John’s question.
John was impressed. When he had been offered the job as Sundown City’s new sheriff, the town’s mayor, Jebediah Cheatum, told him a horse would be provided for his use. At the time, he had had no idea the horse would be so remarkable.
“Are you hungry, boy?” he asked.
Deputy’s eyes grew large, and he pawed the ground anxiously.
John glanced from side to side. In the corner of the stable, just out of Deputy’s reach, was a bag of feed. John grabbed a bowl and filled it.
As Deputy devoured his meal, John looked around. Hanging on a wall was a saddle, a set of reins, and a pair of shiny spurs. He removed all three, slipped the saddle and reins on the horse, and led him outside.
John was a little nervous. Although he had grown up on a ranch and had ridden horses a lot over the years, he had never ridden a horse as large and as muscular as Deputy. In addition, it had been quite awhile since he had ridden. As a deputy in Kansas City, he had seldom needed to. Most of his work had been in the busy downtown area, where horses were rarely, if ever, required.
As they galloped out of town, his initial nervousness faded quickly away. Deputy was a magnificent creature — undeniably the fastest horse he had ever ridden. They raced through a cavern at a brisk pace. Deputy followed each of John’s commands perfectly. With the slightest tug of the reins, he veered to the right. Another tug sent him back to the left. A slight tap of the spurs sent him flying forward, even faster than before. John had to keep both feet in the stirrups and one hand on the saddle horn at all times to keep from falling.
John was equally impressed with Deputy’s jumping ability. Twice, he leaped over fallen logs like they didn’t even exist, and he cleared a small ravine with ease. The horse feared nothing, and he was filled with limitless energy.
They returned to the stable. As Deputy cooled down, John removed his riding gear and brushed him off, including his tail and mane. Both were long, soft, and as black as a raven’s feathers.
John was pleased, to say the least. He had only been the sheriff of Sundown City for a day, but already he had found a valuable partner. With Deputy as his steed, his chances of catching One-Arm Bill had vastly improved.
Outlaws
One-Arm Bill kicked open the door to the abandoned train depot and glanced quickly from side to side. As he had suspected, he didn’t like what he saw.
“There’s going to be a hangin’!” he yelled as he marched inside and tossed several bags of cash onto the nearest table. Yellowstone Malone followed him inside, his spurs clanking on the depot’s wooden floor as he walked.
“Weasel!” One-Arm Bill shouted. “Where are you, you little varmint?”
There was no response.
“Don’t make me come looking for you,” One-Arm Bill shouted. “If I do, I’ll wring your scrawny, little neck.”
A young man wearing overalls stepped from a room near the back of the depot. He was One-Arm Bill’s nephew. His real name was Logan, but everyone called him Weasel.
“I tried to clean the place,” Weasel said, “like you wanted, uncle, but this place is huge. I liked our last hideout a lot better.”
One-Arm Bill’s eyes turned red with anger.
“You mean to tell me,” he said, “that Yellow and I’ve been out robbing banks all day, risking our necks to make a little money, and all you’ve been doing is sitting around? Tell me you at least made dinner?”
“I tried to,” Weasel said, “but Sally Mae hasn’t arrived with the groceries yet.”
One-Arm Bill growled. “So tell me then. What have you been doing with yourself all day?”
“Let me show you,” Weasel said. “I think you’ll like it.”
He led the two outlaws into a small room in the back of the depot he had converted into a makeshift workshop. He grabbed an object off of a table and held it up for them to see.
“This is my latest creation,” he said. “I made it just for you, uncle. It’s a prosthetic arm.”
“A what?” One-Arm Bill asked. He had never completed the first grade, so he had never heard the word ‘prosthetic’ before.
“A fake arm,” Weasel answered. “To replace the one you lost. But look, it’s much better than a normal arm.”
He held it up for them to see more closely. It was roughly the size of a real arm, but it was made entirely of strips of metal Weasel had welded together.
“You put it on like this,” Weasel said, slipping it over One-Arm Bill’s shoulder. “And you strap it on like this.”
“Why in the world would I want to wear a silly contraption like this?” One-Arm Bill asked, moving the metal arm awkwardly from side to side.
“Because it can do this,” Weasel answered, pushing a small lever on its side. A round saw blade emerged from a slit and began to spin rapidly.
“And this,” Weasel continued. He pushed another button and a small hose appeared. He lit a match, held it in front of the hose, and a massive flame shot across the room, missing Yellowstone Malone by less than a foot.
“Nice,” One-Arm Bill said with a menacing smile. His nephew had always been good at making things, mostly gizmos and the like, but this was by far his greatest creation. This new arm would make One-Arm Bill an even deadlier outlaw than he already was.
“I may have to keep you around a little longer after all,” he said to Weasel, patting him on the back. “But anyway, I’m hungry. Where’s that darn sister of yours?”
Almost on cue, the door swung open and a young woman carrying a large bag of groceries walked in. She wore a tight, red corset and her hair was tied in a bun above her head.
“Where’ve you been, Sally Mae?” One-Arm Bill asked. “We’re famished.”
Sally Mae began unpacking the groceries. “I heard about your little job in town today,” she said, pulling a can of refried beans and a loaf of bread from the sack. “It’s big news all over town. It’s even got the new sheriff looking into it.”
“They got a new sheriff already?” One-Arm Bill asked. “That didn’t take long. What’s up? Do these sheriffs grow on trees nowadays?”
“I haven’t met him yet,” Sally Mae said, “but I caught a glimpse of him this morning as he wandered around town. I have to admit, I’m impressed. He’s young. And quite handsome, if I do say so myself.”
“Did you hear that, Yellow?” One-Arm Bill asked. “Sally Mae here, showgirl extraordinaire, thinks the new sheriff is handsome. You know what I think about handsome sheriffs, don’t you, Yellow?”
“You like to shoot ‘em,” Yellowstone Malone answered with a snicker.
“You bet I do.”
Sally Mae looked up from her groceries. “Now why you gotta go and do that, uncle?” she asked. “Every good looking man who rides into town, you always go and shoot them. Can’t you leave one — just one — for me?”
“What do you need another man for,” One-Arm Bill asked, “when you got old Yellow over there? He’s a bachelor and he’s looking for love. Ain’t that right, Yellow?”
Yellowstone Malone puckered up his lips and made a rude, smooching sound.
“Please,” Sally Mae said in disgust, turning back to her groceries. “I’d rather kiss a mule.”
“That can be arranged,” One-Arm Bill said. “But anyway, keep an eye on this new sheriff for me. Tell us what he’s doing, just like you did before. It’s good for us to keep one step ahead of the authorities. And you never know. One of these days they might actually find one who’s got some skills for a change.”
“Whatever,” Sally Mae said. “Anyway, I’ve got to get back to town. Sam’s expecting me at the saloon in half an hour, and he wants me to sing tonight.”
Without another word, she turned and left.
One-Arm Bill turned to Weasel, who was standing in the corner. “Well,” he said. “The food’s here. Start cooking.”
Something More
A young, Native American woman walked quietly through the forest. Her name was Snow Rose, and she had been through this part of the forest many times, so she knew it well. To her left was a small, clear pond with sparkling water. To her right was a fallen, moss-covered log. She raised her fingers to her lips and gave a loud, shrill whistle.
The forest came alive all around her. Birds began to sing. A chipmunk raced across a nearby branch, a large acorn in its mouth. A beaver swam through the pond and waddled his way slowly onto the nearby shore. He carried a rose in his mouth, and he held it in place with his big, buck teeth.
“Did you bring this for me?” Snow Rose asked, taking the rose from him. She sniffed it deeply, smelled its sweetness. It was absolutely exquisite.
Snow Rose had an ability that was rare among her people, and completely unheard of among white people. She could speak to animals. And they could speak back.
“Sure did,” the beaver said. Snow Rose had known him for as long as she could remember. His name was Flat Tail. “Do you like it?” he asked. “It was the best one I could find.”
“Of course I like it,” Snow Rose said. “I like all the presents you bring me, Flat Tail. Where did you find it?”
“Over by the stump. It’s just like the flower on your cheek. Except it’s red, of course.”
Snow Rose nodded. The flower Flat Tail was referring to was the one painted on her left cheek. It was white, and it was meant to symbolize her name. Snow Rose was a member of the Cheronee tribe, and one of her tribe’s most honored traditions was face painting. All of the members of her tribe wore a symbol (or two, or three) painted on their faces.
A bird swooped out of the air and landed on Snow Rose’s shoulder. It was a jay with deep, blue feathers and a black crest on its head. Like Flat Tail, Snow Rose had known him forever. His name was Skyjay.
“How are you today, Skyjay?” she asked.
“I’ve seen better days,” Skyjay said. “The pickings are pretty slim today. Haven’t found a single worm all morning.”
Snow Rose nodded. Skyjay complained about his inability to find food on a daily basis. She knew it wasn’t something to worry about, however. Despite his incessant complaints, he had a nice, plump tummy. Clearly he was finding food somewhere.
Snow Rose slipped off her moccasins and waded into the pond’s clear, cool water. As always, it was exhilarating. When she was chest deep, she turned around, leaned back, and floated to the center of the pond. Flat Tail paddled next to her.
“What are you up to today?” he asked.
“Same thing as always,” Snow Rose responded. “My father wants me to help the other women with the chores. I do my share, but he just doesn’t understand.”
“I hate chores,” Skyjay said as he landed on Snow Rose’s stomach.
“I don’t mind a few,” Snow Rose said. “But my father thinks chores are what we women should do all day long. It gets old fast. The braves get to run in the woods and play all day. They go on hunting trips and explore far parts of the country. In the meantime, we women sit around, sewing and weaving.”
“Your father is the chief,” Skyjay said. “And everyone thinks he’s one of the best chiefs ever. He’s very wise.”
“Not wise enough,” Snow Rose said. “Otherwise, he’d see how unhappy I am. Why do you think I sneak out here every day?”
“To see us?” Flat Tail asked.
“Of course,” Snow Rose said with an affectionate smile, patting him gently on the top of the head. “And also to look for something else. There’s got to be more to life than just hanging around a bunch of teepees all day. There’s got to be something exciting.”
As if on cue, a porcupine emerged from the bushes at the edge of the pond. His name was Prickle Pad.
“Snow Rose, Snow Rose,” he said, breathing heavily. “I ran the whole way.”
Snow Rose rolled over and swam back to shore. Skyjay and Flat Tail followed her.
“What is it?” she asked Prickle Pad.
“It’s a white man,” the porcupine said. “A white man is heading to your village.”
That’s interesting, Snow Rose thought as she walked from the pond and shook the water from her long, ebony hair. Her village was only a short distance from one of the white men’s towns, a place called Sundown City, but, even so, white men rarely, if ever, came there. She couldn’t even remember the last time it had happened.
“I’ll see you all tomorrow,” she said as she turned and ran into the surrounding trees, heading back toward her village. She wanted to find out what was happening, and she wanted to find out as soon as possible.
The Village
John Westwood spent most of his day preparing reward signs and hanging them around town. He hung one by the town chapel, one by the blacksmith’s office, one by the train station, one at the post office, and one at the general store. He put two by the saloon, because, as he had learned in Kansas City, news traveled fast near saloons.
After hanging the signs in town, he decided to head to the outskirts. He had heard from Sam Wellington, the bartender at the saloon, there was a small tribe of Native Americans, the Cheronee, who had a village about a mile west of town. Although John did not know much about Native Americans, and he had dealt with them only on a few occasions in the past, he wanted to make sure they knew about the reward for One-Arm Bill’s capture.
He and Deputy arrived at the Cheronee village shortly before dusk. A single thought entered his mind as a group of braves rushed out to greet him.
What a magnificent place.
He had never seen anything like it. It sat on the edge of a small river and was made up of multiple rows of teepees of varying sizes and colors. Each teepee was conical in shape and was constructed of large animal skins with a wooden support pole in the center. The outside of each was decorated with paintings, most resembling animals of different types. One teepee was adorned with a bear. Others had wolves, hawks, and mountain lions.
“State your name,” one of the braves demanded, somewhat sternly. He was young, in his late teens or early twenties, and was quite muscular, with a wide jaw and a heavy brow. He held a crude knife in one hand. Painted on his left cheek was a bright, yellow flame.
John climbed down and introduced himself. “I’m John,” he said, doing his best to sound as friendly as possible. “John Westwood. I’m the sheriff of Sundown City.”
“Why do you come here?” the brave asked.
“I brought this,” John answered, handing him one of the reward signs. The brave took it and looked it over. In the meantime, additional members of the tribe had gathered around, including several women and children. They were all curious to see what John had handed to the brave.
An elderly man with an animal skin of some sort draped over his shoulders stepped from the crowd. Painted on his left cheek was a large bear.
“You must excuse my son,” the elderly man said with a dignified smile. “Plays with Fire is a courageous warrior, but he has yet to master his social graces. My name is Mighty Bear. I am the chief of this village.”
“It’s nice to meet you,” John said, removing his hat as a sign of respect.
“It’s nice to meet you, too, John of the Westwood,” Chief Mighty Bear said. “Your visit is quite a surprise. Despite our proximity to your village, few white men have visited us over the years.”
Several boys were snooping through the bags that hung from Deputy’s saddle. The brave who had first confronted John — Plays with Fire — started to chase them away, but John stopped him with a glance.
“It’s okay,” he said. “I don’t mind if they look through my stuff.”
“What brings you to our village, John of the Westwood?” Chief Mighty Bear asked.
“I’m looking for a man,” John said. “He robbed the bank in town, and he has committed other crimes as well. Too many to count. I want to apprehend him, as soon as possible, so I brought this sign to give to you. Has anyone in your village seen him?”
Chief Mighty Bear looked at John’s reward sign. “I’m sorry,” he said, “but we cannot help you. We haven’t seen this man before. However, if we do, I will send someone to tell you immediately.”
“Thank you,” John said. “I appreciate your help. But I must warn you. This man is extremely dangerous. Do not try to apprehend him yourself.”
“My people are aware of the dangers of white men,” Chief Mighty Bear said. “We have heard stories from the east. Regardless, we thank you for bringing this news, John of the Westwood.”
John said goodbye, climbed onto Deputy, and spun the horse around to leave the village. He stopped momentarily as he spotted something in the distance, at the back of the crowd that had gathered around. A young woman slipped from the surrounding trees and made her way into the crowd. Without a doubt, she was the most attractive woman John had ever seen. Her shiny, ebony hair hung all the way to her waist. Her body was slim and athletic, and her arms and legs were long, lean, and muscular. Painted on her left cheek was a single white rose.
During the ride back to Sundown City, she was all he could think about.
Sam’s Saloon
John Westwood began his day by riding around Sundown City. He wanted to get a look around and become more familiar with his new environment. In order to be a good sheriff, he needed to know every inch of the town.
At one point, around noon, he stopped at the saloon for a quick break. During his stay, the bartender, Sam Wellington, introduced him to several of the establishment’s regulars. There was a gambler named Earl ‘Wildcard’ Jack, a showgirl named Sally Mae Stephenson, and a rancher named Selma King. Although John only visited with them for a few moments, they seemed like nice people. The showgirl, Sally Mae, was especially friendly.
“What do we have here?” she asked, sitting down on the stool next to him. She had bright, red hair and emerald eyes, and she wore a tight, velvet dress. “We’ve never had a sheriff this young before, now have we, Sam? Or one quite this handsome?”
“I’ll take your word for it,” Sam said, tapping his fingers on the bar. “What’ll it be, sheriff? You thirsty?”
“Not really,” John said. “But thanks anyway.”
“I’ve always liked a man in uniform,” Sally Mae said, touching John’s badge with her fingers. “I find a uniform so enticing.”
The gambler, Wild Card Jack, sat down on the stool on the other side of John, directly opposite Sally Mae. “Nice to meet you, partner,” he said. “You much of a gambler?”
John swiveled on his stool to face him. “A little,” he said. “I’ve been known to play a mean hand of poker on occasion.”
“Can you bluff?” Wildcard Jack asked.
“Unfortunately, no,” John said as he looked away, somewhat sheepishly. But then he turned back, somewhat abruptly. “But then again, I could be bluffing right now, couldn’t I? Trying to set you up for a future game?”
Wildcard Jack paused for a second, contemplating John’s words, then smiled. “I think I’m going to like you, partner,” he said. “One of these days, when you get some free time, stop by my table. We’ll play a hand or two.”
“Sounds good to me,” John said with a smile.
Wildcard Jack stood up and walked off. John turned back to Sally Mae, who was peering deeply into his eyes. She had a hand on his shoulder.
“May I help you?” he asked.
“In more ways than one,” she said, batting her eyelashes at him suggestively.
“Sam here tells me you’re quite a singer,” John said. “Perhaps I could hear a song?”
“For you,” Sally Mae said, “I’d do anything.” She walked over to the far corner of the saloon and sat down at a small piano. John was immediately impressed. Sally Mae’s voice was deep and throaty, and she hit each note perfectly, as though she had been singing for years. The saloon’s patrons clapped as she finished her song and returned to his side.
“That was nice,” John said. “If you were in one of the big cities back east, you could make a lot of money singing like that. What brought you out here to Sundown City?”
A mischievous smile crossed Sally Mae’s lips. “Let’s just say,” she said, “I had a few unfortunate misunderstandings with the law. But it doesn’t matter. Those places are way too crowded for me. I prefer a town like Sundown City. Things aren’t so stuffy around here.”
“I should probably be going,” John said. “I have a lot of work to do. But it was nice meeting you all. If anyone needs anything, you know where to find me.”
“Don’t stay away too long,” Sally Mae said. “I miss you already.”
As he rode slowly through town, he became absorbed in his thoughts. Normally, like most young men, he would have enjoyed Sally Mae’s attention immensely. She was an attractive woman (to say the least), and her singing was downright impressive. Today, however, his thoughts were on someone else. No matter how hard he tried, he could not get the image of the young Cheronee woman out of his mind. He could see her face as clearly as if she were standing in front of him. Painted on her cheek was that glimmering white rose.