Prayers the Devil Answers (17 page)

“I know how to shoot.”

“Oh dear. Do you?”

“I'm tolerably good at it, too, if that matters. Better than your Mr. Snyder, I'll wager.”

The thought of that other candidate, the one that nobody wanted, brought him up short.

“You think that you could deal with a violent and dangerous job?”

I sneaked another look at the gilded eagle for reassurance. “I'm willing to try, sir. Maybe I couldn't have dealt with John Dillinger or
Pretty Boy Floyd, but the kind of lawbreakers we have around here? I could handle them. If you think it would ever come to that.”

“You ought to assume that it may. And if you went up against some desperate men—say, bootleggers—who fought back, there wouldn't be anything you could do about it. We'd be afraid you'd get hurt—or worse. Remember what happened to poor Sheriff Tyler? Why, you'd be risking your life. Think of your sons, ma'am. They have already lost one parent. Are you willing to risk making orphans of those poor boys? Shouldn't you think of them?”

Shouldn't you stay home with the children?
I knew I'd hear that sooner or later. “I am thinking of them, sir. Their schooling in town is important. Albert would have wanted them to stay and get a good education. And as for the job of sheriff being dangerous? I suppose it is, but just lately I learned a hard lesson. Life is dangerous, no matter what you do. My husband took sick and died within a week. It wouldn't have mattered if he'd been a sheriff or a preacher or a railroad bum. He still would have died.”

“All the more reason for you not to take any chances with your life then, Mrs. Robbins. You don't want your sons to be orphans.”

“I don't want them to starve, either, and that's more likely to happen if I don't do something. Look, sir, the sheriff's department has two full-time deputies on each shift, most of them big as bears and twice as mean.”

That wasn't strictly true. Falcon Wallace had the height and bulk that people expected of a peace officer, and the air of calm authority needed to reassure ordinary citizens in times of trouble. Albert always sent Falcon out to look for lost children or break up a fight between man and wife. He was a strapping, towheaded farm boy, as loyal as a hound to his boss, according to Albert. He wondered if Falcon obeyed orders without question because doing so kept him from having to think too much. He said he had finished the eighth grade in a one-room schoolhouse and then lit out for “the big city” (by which
he meant this jerkwater town of five hundred souls, which was all of seven miles from his family's farm). Falcon Wallace was indeed tall and he had the farm boy's well-honed muscles, but, like a big shaggy dog, he had a gentle nature—peaceable because a big dog didn't feel the need to prove himself the way the little ones did. When he wasn't arresting people he seemed to be a kind man. I knew a little about Roy Phillips, but Albert never said much about the other two. That was all right. I was betting that Vernon Johnson didn't know much about them either.

I did know all of them well enough to speak to, anyhow. One or the other of the day shift deputies was around nearly every time I stopped by the office to talk to Albert. Roy Phillips was the short, bandy-legged fellow, with hair like black seaweed. He didn't look fearsome, but Albert said he was about the best shot anywhere around and that he never fell for a sob story from anybody. Albert had called Roy Phillips “the smart one.” If a report had to be written up by the arresting officers, Roy took care of it. When they weren't busy in the office Roy would have his nose stuck in a Zane Grey dime novel. He went through two a week. He told Albert he'd rather have books than cigarettes. Of course, it didn't take much to be the smart one in a little county sheriff's department. At best, Roy had gone to high school a year or two longer than the other deputies and reading had educated him even more, whereas Albert had stayed on to get his diploma, even though his father had insisted that he do his share of the farm work. On top of all his other duties, I doubted if Roy Phillips could have handled the book work and the ciphering a sheriff was expected to do. I even had to help Albert with it now and again.

Falcon Wallace was the deputy Albert hired when he replaced Sheriff Tyler, and he was happy to have found him, because every law enforcement department needed somebody like Falcon. And, if they were lucky, at least one employee as
unlike
Falcon as possible. Tyree Madden was his opposite number. If a suspect tried to resist arrest,
Tyree brought him down. He broke up fights, herded drunks into jail cells, and took an ax to the whisky stills they found in the woods. But Albert preferred that the other deputies raid the stills instead of Tyree, because he suspected Tyree of keeping some of the confiscated moonshine instead of pouring it out on the ground.

“I am acquainted with the other officers, ma'am.”

I hadn't seen as much of the other two deputies as I had of Falcon Wallace and Roy Phillips. Usually when I stopped by the office and Tyree Madden was on duty, he'd get up and walk out without a word, leaving me to pass the time with Albert and whoever else was on duty. He didn't strike me as shy, though—I knew what shyness looked like, and Tyree Madden wasn't it. He was just indifferent to other people's society and even more so to their feelings. Albert said it might be because he didn't have to be polite to people in his job, but I thought that might be the very reason that some people became lawmen in the first place.

It was fine with me for Tyree Madden to avoid me. I didn't try very hard to have a conversation with him. He was always cold and silent—Albert said he'd never seen the man smile, except when other people were crying. A time or two I had seen his pale shadow of a wife bringing his lunch in a paper sack when he had gone off without it. He never thanked her. She cringed like a whipped hound, which I took as a sign that Deputy Madden behaved at home just the way he did on duty. He was usually paired to work on either shift with Galen Aldridge, who really was as burly as a bear cub, and about as fearless as one to boot, but since he was about seven inches short of six feet, maybe his short temper was a form of self-defense. He looked like the sort of fellow who had been bullied by his schoolmates, and Albert and I wondered if he sought out a job that gave him a gun on account of that. I hoped he'd never be called on to arrest one of his old tormentors.

Until recently there had been a jailer, too. Forrest Burdette, who
had once been a deputy, before he got too old and unsteady to do the job. He was still spry and alert enough for light work indoors, but he looked like an old turtle with that beaked nose on his leathery face, and his skinny neck poking out of the gaping collar of his uniform. Nobody wanted to fire him, though, on account of his many years of service, so he was kept on by the department to guard the prisoners and to take them their meals—which usually meant tending to a couple of drunks, a job no more taxing than minding a flock of chickens. If they thought they had somebody more dangerous in the cell, the deputies would put him in irons when they brought him in. Nobody had wanted poor old Mr. Burdette to get beaten to death trying to deliver a bowl of pinto beans to a prisoner.

Finally, though, age and infirmity forced Mr. Burdette to quit on his own, so now there were just the four deputies to share the duties of jailer among themselves. Falcon Wallace was probably best at it. The prisoners never gave him much trouble, perhaps because most of them had known him, or someone like him, all their lives. He did his best to be kind, but mostly because he smiled most of the time. I learned that the usual run of prisoners—young men who got locked up for drinking and fighting—were often first-timers. When they sobered up in a jail cell they were confused and afraid. One of them even tried to hang himself with his belt, but Falcon saw him in time and went for help. What the remorseful drunks needed was a friendly face, not an angry and scornful lawman who would make them feel even worse.

Big as bears and twice as mean.
That was stretching the truth to the breaking point. Still, two of them were rather big and one of the others was mean, so what I said was mostly true, and I hoped it would convince the commissioners to appoint me sheriff. Whatever it took. If that didn't work, I would have to make them feel sorry for me, but that was a last resort.

“About these sheriff's deputies, Mr. Johnson. I believe you said you're acquainted with all of them?”

“I am, yes, but what about it?” Vernon Johnson's pause before he answered made me sure that he had taken no particular notice of the deputies, but that he was too proud to admit how little he knew. It didn't matter, though. There were four of them, so even if they had been Barbary apes their very existence helped my argument.

I smiled, feeling on safe ground for the first time since I entered the office. “Those deputies are the answer, sir. I'm saying that it is on account of them that I can do the sheriff's job. The way I figure it, those deputies can take care of the warrant serving and the arresting—anything that involves dealing with the people arrested. According to my late husband, they generally do that anyhow. But that still leaves a lot of supervisor's work for the sheriff to do. Paperwork mostly. Drawing up schedules, dealing with money matters, and talking to ordinary folks who have problems.”

He smiled in spite of himself. “Old ladies with lost dogs.”

“I saw how it worked when Albert was sheriff. Sometimes of a night he'd tell me what went on at work that day, and I'd help him with the paperwork, so I know.”

“And you are proficient in reading and writing, Mrs. Robbins?”

“I'm no professor, but I like to read. And I'll wager I am better at both reading and arithmetic than any of those deputies. Albert even said I was better than him, and he would know. We went to the same school and I made better grades than him.”

He smiled, and I could tell he didn't doubt my word, because it wasn't saying much to claim you could read and write better than any of them. “Well, this isn't the Wild West, of course. Our sheriffs aren't like the ones in the cowboy movies.”

I smiled, remembering Albert telling the boys exactly that.

“And I suppose that in the past we have had sheriffs who behaved like the railroad foreman: overseeing the heavy work, but not doing it personally.”

“Yes sir. It's a shame Mr. Tyler wasn't one of those.” He had been
getting up in age himself by the time Albert signed on as deputy. Maybe if he had stayed in the office doing the paperwork, he could have lived another ten years and died in his bed instead of getting shot and bleeding to death out in the woods.

“Yes, I take your point, but nevertheless you are female, little lady. What if one of those deputies wants the job? Your late husband did.”

“These deputies don't.” I blushed to sound so brash before this man who could decide my future, even though I doubted that he'd care much one way or the other.

“They're experienced peace officers. What makes you think they don't want it?”

“I asked them.” I had asked Falcon and Roy anyhow. Tyree wasn't any more partial to talking to bureaucrats than he was to talking to felons, women, or anybody else. “None of them wants to be sheriff. They're the ones who believe in cowboy movies. I reckon that's why they wanted the job. They don't like the idea of sitting at a desk, writing out reports. They'd rather be working outside. Anyway, I think they actually enjoy the danger.”

The commissioner steepled his fingers and looked down at his desk, apparently deep in thought. When he looked at me again, his expression was stern. “That's as may be, Mrs. Robbins. I don't doubt your word. But it seems to me the real question is whether a bunch of strapping young men will consent to taking orders from a woman. Why they might just quit in disgust, and then where would we be? The county would have no lawmen at all.”

I decided there was no use arguing that point. Either it was true or it wasn't. Neither of us could say for certain. “Ask them yourself, Mr. Johnson. Ask them yourself.”

chapter ten

R
oy Phillips's answer surprised his fellow deputies almost as much as it had the chairman of the board of commissioners. “A lady sheriff, huh?” He shrugged. “Well, a boss is a boss, I reckon. Especially seeing how it's the sheriff's widow.”

Falcon nodded. The three of them were alone in the little station, Falcon and Roy Phillips working the day shift, as they mostly had been since Albert Robbins died, and Galen Aldridge passing the time because he had woken up early after pulling the night shift, and there wasn't much else to do that day. The cold rain coming down in steady sheets made all of them reluctant to do anything that required leaving the office, unless they received an urgent call for help, so they sat near the telephone, hoping that nobody would be out in the bad weather needing their assistance. It wasn't the sort of day you'd choose to rob a bank or go looking for trouble.

“The sheriff's widow. Yep, that certainly does make a difference. I'll tell you what I told that Mr. Johnson when he stopped me on the street. I says to him,
“Since you asked me about giving the Widow Robbins her husband's old job, I think it makes sense.”

Roy was cleaning his pistol, more out of boredom than because it needed cleaning. He was short and bandy-legged, with the sharp
brown eyes of a weasel, and a blank expression that made it hard to know what he was thinking, except that you were sure that he was thinking, about a mile a minute. When he wasn't reading dime novels, he passed the time in pistol cleaning. Short and almost comical looking—like that Buster Keaton, people said—but they seldom mistook him for stupid. Aldridge was almost as quiet as Madden; neither of them ever said enough to give anybody much evidence from which to form an opinion about his intelligence.

Aldridge nodded. “Yeah, that's what we thought, Tyree and me. We talked it over one night when business was slow. Giving the job to the sheriff's missus does make a certain amount of sense.” He took a sip of bitter coffee. “Maybe a woman sheriff could improve on the coffee-making.”

They all laughed at that, but nobody thought it was a bad idea.

Falcon pointed his pencil at Roy. “Now that's a point in her favor, isn't it, boys? I'm not saying that she'd be the ideal person for the job, of course—” On a blank notepad Falcon was doodling outlines of trees with thick trunks and rounded blobs for foliage, but despite this show of unconcern, he had been listening carefully.

“No, the little lady's sure as hell not the perfect candidate for sheriff, and in the ordinary way, I'd be trying to elbow both of you aside to get the job, because I
am
the perfect candidate.” Roy's tight smile did not mean that he was joking.

Galen laughed. “That's mighty brave of you, Roy, to consider taking the job, seeing that the past two sheriffs died in office.”

“Well, I figure that reduces the odds of it happening to the next one. Anyhow, if danger concerned me, I wouldn't be a deputy, would I? Mind you, if I wanted to work in an office all the time, I'd be a bookkeeper, but I'll pass on the job for one reason: I can't see that Mrs. Robbins has got any other way to feed her children. Has she?”

“None that we know of,” said Falcon. “I talked to Eddie, and he didn't seem to know what they were going to do next, but he did
say that his mother wasn't too keen on going back where they came from.”

“No, I didn't think she had anywhere to turn. So, qualified or not, she could use the money more than we could.”

“Speak for yourselves, boys.” Galen yawned and reached for his coffee mug. “It's not like any of us is rich, you know. Not on our salaries. More money always comes in handy. I know you two don't have any kids to support . . .”

Roy snickered. “None that we know of, anyway.”

“But I do. Me and Willadene have two growing boys, and a little girl just learning to walk. Feeding that crew ain't cheap. Willadene plants a garden and keeps chickens and between that and my paycheck, we can just about get by.”

“Makes me want to swear off having a family, ever.” Falcon shuddered. “All those people depending on me. Imagine having to think how something would affect your family every time you were fixing to do something.”

“Well, the sheriff's widow also has two boys to feed, and you've still got money coming in these days, Galen, but she doesn't.” Roy never agreed with Galen if he could help it. “I figure she deserves some help in taking care of them, and I can't see any other way for her to get it. As far as I'm concerned she is welcome to the job.”

This unexpected generosity made Falcon wonder if he had misjudged his fellow deputy. Roy had a cantankerous pride, and very little use for the weak or the shiftless. He wasn't big on conversation, but the other deputies knew they could trust him when they ran into trouble on the job, and really that was all that mattered.

“She needs the money, right enough, and like you I don't begrudge it to her, but . . .” Falcon scribbled another bushy tree on the notepad, and under it he sketched a tombstone. “Still, it wouldn't do for her to go getting shot, neither. Then where would poor Eddie and Georgie be? Clapped into an orphanage, like as not.”

Galen shrugged. “Oh, there's bound to be a relative somewhere who would take them in. They might not like to do it, but most people do end up doing their duty in the end, like it or not. But the bread of charity can be bitter, no question about it.”

“Like I told you before, that county commissioner, Mr. Johnson, asked me what I thought about it, and I said I'd let him know after I talked it over with you fellas. Galen, maybe you could tell Tyree how we feel about it when he turns up for duty tonight.”

Falcon drew a curved line representing a hill behind the lollypop-looking trees. At the top of the hill he drew a smaller tree with stick branches and only a few short slanted lines for leaves. “If it's all right with you two, I'd like one of us to tell the commissioner we all support the idea. He needs to know pretty soon. Those sons of poor Sheriff Robbins are fine boys. Let's do what we can for them. Maybe Eddie can still come and do odd jobs around here. I reckon I could use the help mopping out the cells.”

“Well, better him than me.” Galen hated doing chores. “Do you boys think it was Commissioner Johnson who thought up the idea of appointing the Widow Robbins to serve out her husband's term?”

“He says not, Galen. According to him, Miz Robbins asked for the job herself, and he wanted to sound us out about how we felt. I think he was still mulling over what he thought of the idea himself. Considerate of him to ask us about it before he made up his mind, though.”

Galen grunted. “Careful, more like. The commissioner is afraid that all of us might dig our heels in over the prospect of working for a woman, especially if one of us wanted to be appointed instead. Then we'd walk off the job. And, what with the sheriff dead and all, if we did quit, the county would be in a bind until they could find some more men willing to sign on.”

“Right,” said Roy. “No telling what kind of lawlessness would start happening here if there was nobody wearing a badge and ready to put
a stop to it. That commissioner asked my opinion because he's testing the waters, to find out if we would be willing to work for her or not.”

“But is it up to him? What about the rest of the board?” said Falcon.

“From what Sheriff Robbins said, I think Mr. Johnson usually gets his way.”

“But you wouldn't mind a lady boss, Roy? How about you, Galen?”

“Not if it was little Miz Robbins,” said Roy. “I don't have nothin' against her.”

They both looked at Galen, who stared at the ceiling awhile before he said, “I'll go along with you. Can't afford to quit anyhow, on account of my wife and kids. Now, mind you, I wouldn't want to work for some bossy old heifer who would try to throw her weight around to let everybody know she was in charge. If Mrs. Robbins was like that then I would walk off the job, paycheck be damned. But I don't see the sheriff's widow behaving like that, a quiet little lady like her.”

“Amen to that,” said Roy. “I took that into account when I said it was all right by me. I expect we'll get a lot of say in how things are run. Anyhow, it's one thing to have a boss foisted off on you, and quite another to have a say in who gets appointed.”

“Okay,” said Galen. “Fair enough. I reckon the rest of us can stick it if you can, Roy—considering the circumstances.”

“I can. I'm glad to hear you're both in favor of it.”

Galen laughed. “Being a deputy is one job that never changes much, no matter who the boss is. Anyhow, what other job is any of us gonna get in times like these? I reckon we'd have to work for a blind mule if they happened to appoint one.”

“And knowing the commissioners, they might,” said Roy.

Falcon put down the notepad. “Okay, then, we're all in favor of the commissioner's proposal; all of us for the same reason: because
the sheriff's widow and sons need the money.” He hesitated. “But one thing to keep in mind: those boys need their mother to stay alive, too. She's all they've got. There ought to be some way we can work it so that she gets the sheriff's salary, while we manage to keep her out of harm's way. I don't think anybody expects her to go out and arrest people.”

“The paperwork, Falc. That's safe as houses. She can do it without leaving the office.” Roy set his reassembled pistol on the desk. “Well, I reckon everybody has already thought of setting her to write up the reports and such, else the commissioner wouldn't be thinking of letting her have the job.”

“Same here,” said Galen. “The money would be nice, but as far as I'm concerned, she's welcome to be sheriff, on account of the paperwork, which is one part of a sheriff's job that I never wanted. All that writing is women's work anyhow, if you ask me.”

Falcon wondered if Galen was even educated enough to do the paperwork. You never saw him reading anything, not even a dime novel or a newspaper. Oh, he could sound out arrest warrants, and scrawl his name wherever he needed to, but composing lengthy, accurately spelled reports was in all likelihood beyond his ability. If that were the case, it might have a lot to do with his not wanting to attempt the recordkeeping, but Falcon saw no reason to embarrass him by bringing it up.

“It suits me,” said Roy, who had been doing the paperwork for the past couple of weeks. “I can do it all right—have been doing it, on top of my other duties—but clerking is not the job I signed on for. You didn't see Wyatt Earp doing paperwork. It's having to report to the county bosses that would sour me on higher office.”

“I wouldn't want to sit here pushing a pencil, either,” said Falcon. “I just hope she wouldn't think we were giving her the job as charity. I doubt she'd take it then.”

“I'll bet she would,” said Roy. “I'll bet she'd take it no matter
what. Like as not, she's the one who came up with the idea in the first place.”

Falcon was still stewing about the possibility that the sheriff's widow would refuse their help. “You know, letting Miz Robbins take the job wouldn't be charity, really. We need to make sure she knows that. We ought to tell her that we need her help to run the office. She needs to know that she'd be earning her pay and doing all of us a favor, because it would save us a world of bother if we let her handle the desk work so that we could get on with the real job.”

Galen scowled. “That would be fine, provided that's all she did. You don't think she'd actually
want
to go out arresting people, do you?”

“With a pistol on her hip? A little lady like her? I can't imagine she would. I think she's only trying to find a way to feed her children, and she wouldn't want to take any chance of leaving them orphans,” said Falcon.

Roy nodded. “As a rule, women tend to be more cautious than men. Anyway, I don't think she'd be obnoxious about being the one in charge around here. Not from what I've seen of her. She's bound to realize we know a lot more than she does.”

“That's what I thought,” said Falcon. “So we're all agreed then? Roy, you can go ahead and tell the commissioner that we say it's okay for him to give the job to the sheriff's widow.”

“What about Tyree?” asked Galen. “Doesn't he get a say?”

“Well, if he's against it, it'll still be three against one, so I don't reckon it matters. One thing, though . . .”

“What's that, Roy?”

“Have we made sure the sheriff's office is,” he hesitated, considering his words, “. . . clean?”

“I'll take care of it,” said Falcon. But, what with one thing and another, he didn't get around to it, and finally it slipped his mind altogether.

My swearing-in ceremony was nothing like the formal event Albert's had been. Punch and cookies did not follow, either. Everyone would probably have expected me to bake them myself. The commissioners had not even suggested having a reception, and as a recently widowed woman in mourning, I suppose I would not have accepted the offer had it been made. I officially became the new sheriff in a hasty, private event in an office in the courthouse with only a few people present.