they can be mean drunks, but I’ve never known them to do anything to deserve this. He shook his head as he thought about the victims who he knew better than his own children. He saw them more often anyway because he had arrested most of them well over a hundred times.
Jethro and Jeb were regulars. They would blow off some steam from time to time by stealing horses, or tipping cows, mostly things done by a group of drunks as a mischievous nature. Nothing, he thought again, that would bring on a killing of vengeance. The Sheriff leaned back in his chair, pulled his cigar from his mouth and blew some smoke in the direction of the stranger. This man doesn’t seem like a killer. Just a farmer with a new gun.
“Why would a farmer,” the Sheriff broke the long silence, “who is not from around here want to kill those men?” He shrugged. “It might make a little sense if you were from around here," he huffed a laugh. "Heck, you could have just got tired of those rustlers stealing your cows, or shootin' 'em.”
He grunted as he stood. His gut was so large that he had to heave twice to remove himself from his chair. He could hardly keep his breath as he walked over to the bars of the cell that was less than ten feet from his desk. He put his mustache-covered face as close to the bars as he could before he continued. “But you see, you ain’t from around here. We’ve got enough problems around here," he furrowed his brow in the attempt of intimidation. "We don’t need any strangers bringin’ in more.”
The stranger didn’t respond as the Sheriff waddled back to his chair. “So,” he grunted as he sat back down, the chair cried out as he sat. “What did you farm,” he waved his hand with his cigar between two fingers before placing the cigar back into his mouth, “back in Missouri, or wherever it is you come from?”
“What makes you think I'm a farmer?” The stranger broke his silence.
The Sheriff looked at him through a squinted eye as he puffed on his smelly cigar and pointed to the old beat up boots on his desk.
The stranger sat up in the bunk to get a closer look at where the obese arm pointed. “Ah, yes, the worn out boots.” He shrugged. “How do you know I didn’t steal them from a farmer that I killed on the trail,” he shrugged. "Good boots are hard to come by."
“Well, you see,” the fat Sheriff leaned forward to grasp the shiny gun that belonged to the stranger, “that’s the mystery, isn’t it?” He sighed, “It didn’t take much thinkin’ on my part to realize that a new gun,” he paused to admire it a little, “and a nice piece it is. As I was sayin’, a new gun, a new hat and a new duster means that they were all bought,” he chuckled, “well, new, and probably at the same time.” He shook his head, “Anyway, I think you bought this gun just to kill six men.” He opened the revolver of the gun to pull out the lone bullet in the cylinder and sat it on the desk. “Otherwise, you’d have more than one bullet left. Five men; five bullets. One man left; one bullet left. It does make for an odd coincidence.”
The stranger noted the sarcasm in the voice of the overweight Sheriff. It seemed by the look on his face that he had underestimated the man on the premise of his outward appearance alone. “I can buy bullets anywhere. Maybe I’m just out.”
“Nope,” the Sheriff answered shaking his head. The extra chins on his neck shook like the goblet of a turkey. “You bought this gun to kill those men. You see,” he stood again, and struggled as he did, the chair creaked as if it breathed a sigh of relief, “you're an educated man. You ain’t no outlaw. You’re a man that grew tired of his life back east and decided to become a farmer, and somehow, you were discouraged from farmin’. Some sort of tragedy. A storm. A fire. A loss. The only thing that I can’t figure out is, what sort of tragedy?” He made it to the cell again; this time he pulled up a chair and sat down. “What would make a reserved person like yourself do the things that you did? You’re no killer. Heck, you probably weren’t even a good farmer.”
The stranger answered with a stare. The Sheriff, who had returned to his seat after pulling it up to the cell, just sat there and stared back as if he were waiting for an answer. After a few awkward moments of the stare down, the stranger spoke.
“You’re right. I was a farmer, but I’m not from Missouri, although Missouri does have something to do with my story. You are also right in saying that I am not a killer, well, at least not until recently, but I felt as if I was left with little choice.” He hung his head and for the first time since he started killing, remorse set in. His breath had been taken from him in an instant as the realization of what he had become set in on him and he responded with a deep gasp. “What have I done?” He shook his head, tears beginning to well in his eyes. “I thought it through thoroughly before I did it. I just haven’t allowed myself to think about what I was actually doing since I began. Mindless vengeance.” He stared at the ground and shook his head. “God forgive me,” he whispered as he choked back the tears, “what have I done?”
The Sheriff looked at him and wondered what could have happened to this young, innocent looking man terrible enough to turn him into a killer. At first glance this man reminded him of a school teacher, the type of guy that grew up without a worry in the world. A cupboard full of groceries and even some hired servants to care to his every need. Aside from the beard that appeared to be only a few weeks old, he didn’t have a blemish on him. This is not the face of a killer. Thought the Sheriff, Huh, I bet his guy ain’t even been in a fight before. The Sheriff sat, stared and waited for the stranger to continue. An eternity passed, it seemed, as the stranger sobbed in the silence of the night.
(4)
“I guess the best place to start is at the beginning.” The long silence finally broke as the stranger began his story. The sheriff leaned in with anticipation as the man continued to speak. “Again, you were right. I did move west from back east and I did it because I was tired of the bedlam.” (Bedlam: one of the many words from this conversation that the Sheriff had to look up later.) “I felt like I needed space so I packed up my family and moved to California.” He sighed and leaned back as if he were gearing up for a long story.
“California proved to be too feral for all of us. I had two children at the time, a boy and a girl. My wife was pregnant with our third child when we moved from California to Iowa. Life was perfect there. With the little money that we had left from selling everything in California and taking the trip to Iowa I bought a small plot of land, about fifty acres, built a house, bought some livestock and started my own farm. Life was better than I thought it could ever be. We were our own family living in our own little country. No one to bother us, get into our business and no hustle and bustle of life in the city. The only time we saw anyone other than ourselves was when we went to town or when the occasional stranger would pass through.
We would often feed those who traveled through and offer them the barn for the night to keep out of the weather and allow for a restful night away from the elements.
The way we kept in touch with the world was through the travelers. Sometimes because of the weather, they would remain for several days. Most of them were gentlemen, well, as gentlemanly as cowboys could be anyway, but I’ve seen all sorts.”
He paused again as if he were unsure if he should continue with his story or not. The silence remained so long that the Sheriff became uncomfortable and was afraid that the man might not continue. Just when the Sheriff was about to pry the man from his meditative state, he continued to speak.
“Our own kindness became our undoing.” He swallowed and looked at the Sheriff. “Can I have some water, please?” His stare had become cold and blank. Empty.
Because of his intrigue, the sheriff moved quicker than anyone had ever seen him move before. The stranger took a couple of gulps before continuing. Sighed and nodded his thanks. The sheriff nodded in return.
“
It wasn’t uncommon for a group of five to ten men to come through, most of whom were herding cattle to Kansas City, and would want to just stay the night in my fields or water their herds and horses in the stream that went through my land. Of course while they were there my wife would always feed them and we would offer them the barn to rest in.
Sometimes they would sleep in the barn and other times they would not. Some had tents. At any case I would rise early the next morning to do my work and most of the time find them gone, although there were a few times some of them would still be resting in the field or in the barn when I left. I never thought twice about it.” He paused again to finish the water and hand the cup back to the Sheriff. “Thanks.” He sighed and stared at the ground. There was another long, awkward pause before the man continued.
“One evening a group of six men came through with a small herd, twenty head of cattle. A large storm had blown in and the rain fell hard and fat. The way the clouds covered the sky, it seemed like it was only going to get worse. They asked if they could bed down in the barn for the night, or until the storm passed. The hour was late, but my wife fixed them a meal