Don't Poke the Bear!

Chapter 34

HOLLIS AND I watch the ladies go up the stairs. Then he says, "Someone shot and butchered one a' my cows."

"I'm sorry to hear that."

"Sorry don't cut it. I want you to ride out to my place, find out who done it, and arrest him. Or them."

I take my hat off, smooth my hair down, then put my hat back on, and shape it some.

"Your spread's an eight-hour ride?"

"That's right. And it takes four hours to cross, from one end to the other."

"And how many cows you got?"

"About sixteen thousand."

"About?"

"That's right."

"Might you have sixteen thousand and three?"

"I might have sixteen thousand three hundred. What's your point?"

"My point is, you could lose three hundred cows and not know the difference. Why come all this way for one cow that some hungry feller probably ate to survive?"

Hollis Williams jumps to his feet.

"Is that the type of attitude we're to expect from you as a sheriff?"

"Let me think on that a minute," I say, reviewin' the words I'd spoke. After doin' that a minute, I get up from the table, walk to the bar, remove a good bottle of whiskey from under the counter, bring it back and hand it to him.

"Yes," I say.

"Yes, what?"

"That's the type of attitude you can expect from me about wastin' what could amount to days or weeks of my time over one cow from a herd that's so big you can't even count it. The whiskey's to let you know I'm sorry about your cow. I hope it brings you comfort on your long ride back."

"That's it?"

"No, there's one more thing."

He don't speak, so I say, "If you ever come across the person who butchered that cow, I hope you'll be charitable toward him."

The red creeps from his neck into his face. A vein on the side of his head, just below his ear, looks like it's about to bust.

"You can bet this ain't over!" he snarls.

"Well, I'm sorry to hear that."

He grabs his whiskey and stomps off the same way he stomped in, except that his spurs ain't makin' music. When he gets to the front, he suddenly remembers the spurs, turns, and walks back to retrieve 'em. He puts 'em in his pocket, gives me one last scowl, and leaves.

I'd sheriffed once before, but back in them days, people didn't have time for these sorts of problems. I ain't sure this type of sherrifin' suits me.

I head up the stairs, knock on the guest room where Shrug had slept. Gentry opens the door and beckons me in. Then closes it behind me, and sits on the bed next to Rose.

Rose says, "Gentry and I came up with an idea, but I need to ask you a question."

"Go ahead."

"Are gunfighters superstitious?"

"Very."

"You think Bose is?"

"I'd count on it. Why?"

"If we could make him believe his bullets won't work in Kansas, would he stay away?"

"Well, he misfired six times in a row. But he might be inclined to blame the gun or bullets before blamin' the state of Kansas."

"But if we plant the idea in his head," Gentry says, "maybe we could condition his mind to believe it."

"He'd need more proof."

Rose says, "I aim to give him plenty."

"You gonna put a spell on his gun?"

"Do I look like like a witch to you?"

I look at Gentry. She mouths the word Yes!

I smile at her, but direct my answer to Rose.

"I don't know enough about witchery to say. But I had three perfectly good bullets in my gun that didn't work awhile ago, and that ain't never happened before. Nor have I ever known a gunfighter like Bose to have six straight misfires."

"So if Bose had thirty or forty straight misfires, with different guns, what would he think?"

"He ain't likely to blame Kansas, no matter how much proof you give him."

Rose says, "But if we put enough doubt in his mind, would he feel unlucky in Kansas?"

"If he's superstitious enough, and has enough proof, he might not want to rely on usin' a fire arm in Kansas, but I reckon he'll cross the border and take a few shots from time to time to see if it's really true."

The ladies look at each other.

Rose says, "What do you think?"

Gentry says, "I think it's worth a try."

They look at me and I say, "What've you got in mind?"