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Sheriff John Dance hadn’t slept much. When the night started, they didn’t have any customers, so he sat outside on the porch waiting for the heat to die down. About eleven he took a quick turn around the town. There were few drunks, but everything was quiet enough. Those goddamn cowboys from Burdock’s place weren’t in town, so nobody was expecting trouble.
He thought it was safe to go to bed. So he kicked the dust over to the Cavalier, Grantham’s third-finest rooming house, and had just about closed his eyes when Speedy Pete had come a-hammering on his door. Pete was out of breath and that was a bad sign. Speedy Pete’s nickname was ironical in nature, and he wasn’t one for hurry.
Turns out Dance had been wrong about Burdock’s boys. Well the worst of them at least. Earlier in the evening, the youngest son, Charlie Burdock, had installed himself at Saloon #3. What the name of the establishment lacked in originality it made up for in accuracy, being the third saloon built on the spot. The first one had been blown over and the second had burned down. Dance didn’t want to speculate about what Act of God or gross negligence would result in Grantham receiving saloon number #4.
He sent Pete in through the front and had him pretend to be staggering drunk. Pete was all but worthless in a fight, what with speed being of the essence, and smarts of a bonus. But Pete did have the virtue of being so non-threatening that he was liked by everybody. He was sort of the mascot of Grantham. Which came in handy.
Dance slid in through the back and found the place empty but for Charlie, Pete, a dead man on the floor, and Oscar, bartender and unlucky owner of saloons one through three. Old Oscar’s eyes went wide and he almost gave the play away.
Charlie didn’t notice. He was loaded to the gills and regaling Pete with the story of how the dead man got that way.
Spit flew from Charlie’s mouth as he said, “And Pete, hand to God, he went for his pistol and… well, I HAD to shoot him. You wouldn’t arrest a man for defended hisself would you?”
“No sir,” said Pete nice and slow, “that sure enough… ain’t no crime… that I know of.”
Charlie slammed his palm on the counter and turned to Oscar Brace behind the bar.” See, Oscar — I told you. I TOLD YOU! Was self-defense, the law even says so!” Charlie said, putting a swerve on the word ‘says’.
It was a convincing performance. Hell, even Dance wanted to believe him. Except for one problem. The poor bastard on the floor wasn’t heeled. No evidence of a gun whatsoever. In fact, from what Dance could see, the rough lookin’ Polack on the floor had a surprised look on his face. Hell of a way to go. Dance hoped he’d live at least long enough to see Saloon #5.
He eased his pistol out of the holster and carefully pointed it at the back of Charlie Burdock’s head. He put his thumb on the hammer but didn’t cock it, wary of the click.
Dance stepped forward as quietly as he could. Part of him hoped Charlie Burdock would spin and try for his gun. He wouldn’t feel bad about putting this man down. Hell, he wondered if he shouldn’t just let fly now. He had done worse to better for less. But the damnable thing was, Dance liked Charlie. Hell, everybody did. Even if he weren’t no damn good.
Another step. Charlie poured Pete a drink from his own bottle.
Maybe he didn’t shoot because he knew that Pete would be flat rattled and never trust him again. And poor Oscar would be cleaning blood and brains off the bottles behind the bar. But it wouldn’t be the first bullet hole in the mirror behind the bar.
Another step. Speedy Pete threw his drink back and looked to Dance as he brought his head down. Dance shook his head, *not yet.*
It’d be better for the Sheriff’s office, in general, to have it done with right here, that was sure. Take Charlie in, he’d have to hold him until the Marshall came to fetch him. Three days at least, maybe a week. And Burdock was going to come for his boy. And he’s got thirty-some-odd hands at the Bar-D and the money to hire more. Most of whom feel a special attachment to Charlie.
He took another step, this one over the dead man’s leg. Pete was slapping Charlie on the shoulder, they were both laughing about now. Oscar found a reason to head to the other end of the bar.
All-in-all, it might also be better for Charlie if Dance had gunned him down. Likable though he may be, it was hard for Dance to see how there could be a happy ending for him. He’s a poor citizen and he’d make an even worse outlaw. Dance knew something about both.
All Charlie’s good for is spending money and making trouble for his father. And everybody knows it, including Charlie. But the thing of it is, he’s a *good-time* Charlie. Everybody likes him. Including Dance.
So Dance took one final step and brought the butt of the pistol down on Charlie’s head. Charlie slumped over the bar, then slid onto the floor. Sheriff Dance said, “You’re under arrest.”
He had looked down at Charlie. And thought he didn’t look like a peaceful sleeper. He had an ugly, sorta pushed-in face. Like somebody had let a horse kick him when he was a baby.
Dance took a swig from the bottle on the bar and said, “Deputy, let’s get him to the jail.”
Pete heaved Charlie Burdock over his shoulder and off they went. Pete wasn’t fast and he wasn’t smart, but he was loyal and strong and that was enough for Sheriff Dance.
They put Charlie in one of the cells, then Pete and Dance took the other one and tried to sleep. Charlie snored so loud Dance almost changed his mind, got up and shot him in the middle of the night.
When he saw rosy-fingered dawn poking around the windows, Dance climbed down from the bunk, went out into the office and rolled himself a cigarette more from feel than sight. He lit it with a match but left the oil lamp on his desk dark.
With the cherry of his cigarette bobbing in the half-light, he threw a couple of logs into the stove on top of the coals leftover from the night before. He belted his pistol on and stepped outside, happy to leave Charlie’s snoring and his liquor-sweat smell behind.
Outside, Johnson’s Livery Stable was still across the street but was somehow obscured and shifting, as if it had become a ghost ship of a stable. The air was thick, filled with moisture. He exhaled cigarette smoke and it hung together almost like it had mass. Like... fog.
By God, it was FOG he was seeing!
There was no fog in this part of the Territories. Hell, Grantham barely ever even saw rain. The closest they came to water was when the wash at the other end of town formed a trickle in the spring as the snow melted somewhere on the far off-mountains.
He turned his head to the right and looked down Main Street and gasped. He stood there, mouth open with a confused look on his face. He couldn’t make sense of what he saw. At first, he thought it might have been a mirage, but it wasn’t hot. The sun was barely up. He waited for his brain and his eyes to come to some kind of agreement about what he saw and what it actually was, but it didn’t come. So he stood there as the sun came up, watching it distrustfully and hoping that the full light of day show him what was real.
What Dance had expected to see on the other end of town was the road to Bisbee cutting through a collection of dusty rocks and creosote bushes. But instead, the road stopped at full river. A river at least 300 yards across and God knew how deep. A river that didn’t look fordable, or even swimmable. And on the other side, a lush, green grassland dotted with trees likes of which he had never seen before. This was a totally different terrain, a different climate than what had been there when he’d gone to sleep the night before.
He started at it until the cigarette burned down between his fingers. With a curse, he threw the wad of burning paper and tobacco into the street.
Speedy Pete stumbled out onto the porch, yawned, and settled in on the rail next to Dance. He turned his head to see what the Sheriff was looking at and his jaw dropped open too.
Sheriff Dance asked, “Pete, did you order a river from the Sears and Roebuck?”
Without closing his mouth, Pete said, “Nah.”
Dance said, “Well, c’mon, let’s go take a look.”
“But Sheriff! What about our prisoner?”
“Well he can’t come, Pete. He’s under arrest.”
“I mean,” said Pete, as he leaned in and narrowed his eyes, “you think maybe this might be a Braddock trick so’s they can bust him outta jail.”
Dance looked from Bill to the river and back again. A smile broke across his weathered face. He said, “Well Pete, if that’s a trick, then they got me.” And he chuckled all the way to get his rifle.
Nowhere Ch 9 -- A River in the Morning