The Mighty Peculiar Incident at Muddy Creek
A Short Story by
Ian Thomas Healy
Copyright 2011 Ian Thomas Healy
The day was already hot, and that would mean tempers flaring by nightfall. Sheriff Jesse Hawkins scraped his boots on the edge of the boardwalk to remove the mud. Whoever said that the West was supposed to be dry and dusty had never been to Muddy Creek. Damned if it didn't rain four days out of every week during the spring and summer. Rain meant mud, and mud meant that both the Chinese laundry and the general store both did a brisk business in cleaning and cleaning supplies.
But the rain also meant that the surrounding plains were lush and green, and made for good farming and better ranching, and that was why the citizens of Muddy Creek were more than willing to put up with dirty footprints. Times were good, and there was a lot of money being spread around the town because of it—mostly at the gambling halls, taverns, and bordellos at the south end, and that often led to trouble of one kind or another.
Jesse removed his hat, a wide-brimmed gaucho with a beaded leather strip around the crown, and brushed his sleeve across the tin star pinned to his vest, making sure no errant spatters marred its surface. He sauntered into the front office of the department, whistling.
"Mornin', Jesse. You're awful cheerful," said Hank Clemson, the nighttime deputy. He had his feet up on the desk and was playing with a deck of cards, working them through his fingers with amazing dexterity.
"Hank," said Jesse. "Coffee on?"
"Just brewed up a fresh pot. Joe Gentry done drank it all up earlier, trying to sober up. He's in the back. Poor bastard puked all over hisself. His old lady's gonna be spittin' mad."
Jesse nodded, pouring out a cup of the thick, fragrant coffee that Hank preferred. It looked exceptionally dark that morning. "He puke before or after you gave him this swill?"
Hank chuckled. "I'll just go wake him up so he don't stink up the place too bad today." He picked up a bucket of water and headed for the cells in the back of the building. Jesse set down his cup, waiting.
"Mornin', sunshine!" hollered Hank, followed by the sound of water splashing. Jesse broke out in great guffaws of laughter. The first time Hank had done that to someone, he'd nearly pissed himself from laughing so hard, and that was three years ago. Even today, it was still funny as hell.
A minute later, a sopping-wet Joe Gentry trudged out from the back of the jail, followed by a grinning Hank. "Oh, Lordy… I ain't never drinkin' again," he moaned.
"I believe you said that to me last time, Joe," said Jesse.
"And the time before," said Hank.
"And the time before that," said Jesse. "Now how many more times are we gonna have to lock you up ‘fore you figure out that you just ain't cut out for drinkin'?"
"I'm sorry, Sheriff. I didn't mean to cause no trouble." Gentry sounded truly apologetic, looking as pitiful as a half-drowned cat with his soaking hat held in his hands.
"I know you didn't, Joe. Now get on out of here and go home. And stop by the store on your way and buy something nice for Hattie and maybe she won't make you sleep in the coop again." Jesse held open the door for the miserable man.
"Dang, it's bright out." Gentry jammed the wet hat onto his head and staggered out into the morning.
Jesse and Hank watched him wander off down the street, nearly veering into a tavern before apparently thinking better of it and making for the general store. "That's one sorry son of a bitch who ain't gonna live to be forty," said Hank.
"What, and you are? The way you carry on with them whores, you'll be lucky if your cock don't drop off."
Hank grinned. "Well, speakin' of that, Jesse. If you ain't gonna need me for anything, I'll be on my way. There's a bed out there somewhere that's callin' my name." He moseyed off, heading toward the Elegant Pussycat, his favorite house of ill repute.
Jesse sighed, taking a sip of his coffee. He had reports to write. The new Mayor, a tenderfoot from somewhere in Connecticut, liked to know exactly what his civil servants were doing with their time, and he'd made it clear that those who didn't turn in paperwork to him with some sort of regularity would find themselves turned out of office. He sat down with a pencil and soon became absorbed in his work.
The door banged open. Jesse's gun was out of its holster before he was even aware of it, but the man in the doorway was certainly no threat. Angus McTavish was the town barber, and his shop was only four doors down from the Sheriff's department.
"Lord A'mighty, Jesse, I thought ye were goin' te shoot me!" cried the Scotsman, waving his empty hands up in the air.
"Ain't you ever heard of knockin'?" Jesse slid the six-shooter back into his holster. "What're you all excitable over?"
"It's the train, Jesse! It's nae stoppin'!"
Jesse looked sharply at the clock in the corner. Sometimes Hank forgot to wind it in the middle of the night but this time he had. It was ten minutes to nine. The train passed by twice a week, once in each direction, stopping to take on water and any passengers who cared to leave town.
"Not stopping?" This was a first. The train had been coming by regular as clockwork as long as Jesse could remember.
"Aye! Me brother's supposed te be comin' fer a visit, so I was waitin' by the water tower, an' it just kept ri' on goin'."
Jesse stood, working the kinks out of his neck. It wasn't common knowledge that the train carried the payroll for the miners five towns down the line, but then it wasn't exactly a secret either. His hand was cramping from writing; men were not meant to write reports. This would be a welcome break, even if, as he suspected, it turned out to be nothing more serious than an engineer asleep at the throttle.
He thrust a pistol at Angus, who visibly recoiled from the weapon. "Oh, for Chrissakes, it ain't a snake, Angus. By the powers vested in me by the township of Muddy Creek, I hereby deputize you."
"Wha', a deputy? Me? But… I'm jus' a barber, Jesse."
"Not today, Angus, now let's go have a look at that train."
The two men hurried over to the stables. Since Muddy Creek was so small, most people simply walked to where they needed to be and kept their horses at the stables. Andy the stable boy was very excited to be called upon by no less an important personage than the Sheriff, and he fell all over himself trying to get their animals as fast as his eight-year-old legs allowed.
At last, Jesse and Angus rode out to the edge of town, where people had already gathered to watch the train receding in the distance.
"Hey, Sheriff! Train didn't stop!" someone called.
"You gonna go catch it?"
"Nice tin star, Angus. Givin' up barberin'?"
Jesse ignored the catcalls, his eyes following the column of smoke moving away from the town. The train didn't seem to be rolling particularly fast; he thought that they could catch it on horseback as long as it didn't accelerate.
"Hup!" Jesse dug his bootheels into the horse's sides and flipped the reins. The mare leaped forward. "Come on, Angus."
"But I'm a barber." Nevertheless, the Scotsman urged his own horse into a gallop after Jesse.
In fact, it only took a few minutes for them to catch up to the train. It was barely chuffing along, kicking out far more smoke than steam as the boiler was running dry. Angus pointed at the cars as they rode past. "I canna tell if anyone's aboard."
"Me neither, Angus. You ride alongside until I get the engine stopped, less'n you're feelin' more heroic than me."
The Scotsman shook his head, so Jesse angled his horse up next to the tender. He couldn't see anyone in the engine's cabin where there ought to have been at least two men: an engineer and a fireman. He gauged the distance in his mind. The
train wasn't going all that fast, but still fast enough that if he missed his leap, he'd break his neck or fall under the wheels or something equally as fatal. He swung his leg over the horse, balancing on one stirrup for a moment, then leaped across a few feet and caught the railing alongside the boiler. After dangling for a few seconds, he managed to pull himself up onto the narrow walkway.
Pistol out, he peeked into the small window of the cabin. He couldn't see anyone inside. Just to be sure, Jesse rapped the butt of his pistol on the cabin door. When there was no response, he opened it, fully expecting to see a dead body.
Instead he found an empty cabin. He didn't know a lot about the workings of steam engines, but the gauge labeled Pressure was barely twitching. The train would stop on its own soon enough, but Jesse didn't want to be climbing all over a moving train. That kind of stunt would get a man killed.
"Hey, Angus!" he shouted out at the barber. "You know how to stop a train?"
"I'd think