The Warrior Sheep Go West (6 page)

The Sheriff of Gunslinger City

The man holding the gun was huge. He was tall and upright, with broad shoulders and a leathery, tanned face. He wore cowboy boots and a fancy waistcoat, and stared down at Gran from the shade of a Stetson hat. Pinned to the breast of his waistcoat was a sheriff's badge.

“Howdy, ma'am,” he said to Gran, lowering the gun only a little.

“Hallelujah!” cried Gran. “How did you know we were here?”

“I've been watching your smoke all night,” said the sheriff. “Fires ain't permitted in this territory. Could I ask what you're doing here?”

Tod was standing beside his gran.

“We're looking for our sheep,” he began. “And…”

“Uh-huh.” The sheriff was still pointing the gun. “And what sheep would that be, exactly?”

“The Eppingham rare breeds.”

“Is that so?” The sheriff nodded but he didn't sound as if he believed a word. “Could I ask you to empty that bag, please, ma'am?”

Gran hesitated, then upended her bag. The contents of the bottomless pit cascaded out on to the ground. The sheriff surveyed the resultant untidy pyramid of bath plugs, head lamps, sticky tape, clothespins, and toilet paper rolls; then he stepped forward and poked it warily with his shotgun.

“You good people got I.D.?” he inquired.

“I'm Ida White and this is my great-grandson Tod.”

“Not names, ma'am. I.D. Proof.”

Tod and Gran looked at each other, then at the jumble of bag contents.

“Oh dear,” said Gran. “I must have left our passports in Mr. Rhubarb's car.”

The sheriff nodded. It was the same style of nod he'd used before.

“Mr. Rhubarb's car…” he repeated thoughtfully. Then he waved the gun at Tod. “Go put that fire out, boy, and come straight back.”

Tod went quickly into the ranch house.

“You can restack your bag, ma'am,” continued the sheriff. He watched while she rammed the contents back in, then added, “By the way, you're under arrest.”

“You're arresting the wrong people!” cried Tod, stamping on the remains of the fire. “We've been kidnapped and dumped here. He said he wanted to keep us out of the way until B-Day. But we haven't got a phone to contact the police.”

The sheriff gave him another disbelieving look. “Then I guess you'll have to make do with me, son. The name's Tiny. On account of I ain't. And I'm the sheriff of Gunslinger City. Can you ride?”

Tod and Gran nodded and the sheriff looked toward the sagging gate, where a huge white horse and a small brown mule were tethered.

“You can share the mule,” he said.

Tod helped Gran onto the mule, then hoisted himself into the saddle behind her. There was just room for both of them. The sheriff looked down at them from the comfort of his own beautifully decorated leather saddle.

“This is Lightning,” he said, patting the horse's neck. “You ever been to Gunslinger City?”

Tod and Gran shook their heads.

“Well then,” said Sheriff Tiny, jerking the mule's tether free of the gate and leading his captives away. “Your day's about to get even better.”

The horse and mule walked steadily through the desert for some time. Nobody spoke. Tod's mind was racing. Should he try to escape? Should he try to fight? Should he try to explain again about Rhubarb and the sheep? He glanced up at the sheriff's stern face. And at the gun. He decided to keep quiet for a bit. The mule stopped abruptly to tear at a cactus plant and Tod had to hang on tight to stop himself and Gran falling off. He would wait until they got to Gunslinger. Surely there would be someone there who would believe their story?

The sun was getting higher and hotter when the sheriff eventually announced, “Here we are, folks. Gunslinger City.”

“It's just a ghost town,” said Gran as they jolted down the main street.

High on his white horse, Sheriff Tiny flinched slightly. What the old lady said was true, but it hurt him to hear it.

“My great-great-gran'pappy was sheriff here in the Gold Rush,” he said proudly. “There was a lotta gold found hereabouts. Gunslinger was one heck of a place then. Full of miners, traders, saloon girls…”

“That's history,” said Gran. “It's a ghost town.”

She was still angry at being arrested and didn't care about the sheriff's great-great-gran'pappy.

“You can't say it don't look real enough,” said Tiny. He nodded at the general store, the chapel, the hotel, and the saloon as they passed.

“There are no people,” said Gran.

“There will be. The first bus'll be arriving in half an hour. We can get upward of five hundred folk a day.”

This was true as well, but Tiny took no real satisfaction from it. A hundred and fifty years ago, Gunslinger had been on the cattle trail and the gold trail. Now, it was on the tourist trail; it had a café and a gift shop. As sheriff, his time was mostly spent directing people to the washrooms or posing for photographs. Today though, he'd made a genuine arrest. He intended to make the most of it.

Tiny reined in outside the jailhouse, dismounted, and tethered his horse and the mule to the hitching rail. Tod jumped down and helped Gran. At any other time, he would have been thrilled to be here. It was like being in the actual Wild West.

As Tod looked around, Gran suddenly made a break for it.

“Run, Tod!” she cried, ducking away, but the sheriff took just one step, stretched out a long arm, and grabbed her.

“That's resisting arrest, lady,” he said disapprovingly.

“Too right,” answered Gran, wriggling and kicking.

To be on the safe side, Tiny grabbed Tod with his other hand and with one squirming prisoner tucked under each arm, stepped onto the boardwalk.

“I want to speak to your boss!” yelled Tod. “The Marshal or the Mayor or someone!”

The sheriff merely tightened his grip, barged open the door to the jailhouse, and strode inside. Passing through a small office, he kicked open the cell door and dropped Tod and Gran on the floor. Gran swung at him with her bag, but Tiny dodged the blow.

“Easy now…” he warned.

He clanged the cell door shut. Tod rushed at it and rattled the bars as Tiny turned and removed the key.

“You can't do this!” Tod shouted.

“I just did, boy.”

“But we're not criminals!”

“Of course not,” agreed Tiny with a disbelieving smile. “You're friends of Mr. Rhubarb. Now you just let me know when you wanna start talking sense.”

And he turned away and strolled out, taking the cell key with him.

Snorting Sam

Fort Wilmot was a big town with an airport, a railway station, and a lot of wide, busy roads. There was no sign of Red Tongue, though, and the warriors weren't sure what to do next as the helicopter landed outside the hospital.

When the engine was switched off and the sheep's ear protectors had been removed, Wills heard the paramedic speak again.

“Where did you dumb kids think you were going, anyhow?” she asked.

“Here,” said Phoenix, trying to stand up. “Fort Wilmot. D'you think we'll be able to see the Rams tonight? When they go head to head with Red Tongue?”

“No way,” said the paramedic.

“But we'll be fine by then,” protested Phoenix as Wills shifted closer to listen.

What rams did they mean, he wondered? Oxo and Links? The paramedic gave Wills a pat.

“You know,” she said, “I reckon these sheep are brighter than you guys. You get lost in the desert with no water, no phone, no radio. And you get your dates wrong too. Red Tongue slaughtered the Rams here
last
night. You missed it. They've moved on. Las Vegas is next.”

She gave Wills a smile and another pat as a hospital team arrived to disembark the humans.

“I'll see if the vet can transplant you an ovine brain cell or two,” she said to the boys. “That is, if your mom doesn't strangle you first.”

“Look after those sheep,” called Cameron anxiously, to no one in particular, as he was wheeled toward the hospital.

But Wills didn't wait to be looked after by anyone. He led the way down the ramp out of the helicopter.

“We're too late,” he explained unhappily. “There was a slaughter of rams here last night.”

“Ohmygrass…” For once, Jaycey spoke for everyone.

“Respect for the dead, man…” murmured Links.

They all looked at their hooves in silence.

“So I think,” said Wills, “we have to get to a place called Las Vegas now.”

He'd seen a railway line as the helicopter was landing. The warriors, even Oxo, knew about railways as well as helicopters. They'd been on a train once, though only in the guard's van. It was time to try again.

Wills found a green man and crossed a road, then saw a sign to the railway station. The only problem was that it directed the sheep down a side street full of houses. Each house had a low white fence. And inside each fence was a well-watered lawn. After the desert experience, the temptation was too much.

“Feed the fleece to fight the foe!” cried Sal.

Oxo didn't need telling twice. He skipped over the first fence and got his head down in the life-giving greenery. The noise of juicy ripping soon had the other sheep, even Wills, following his example.

“Keep moving,” called Wills, between stuffed mouthfuls. “Eat on the hoof.”

So the warriors shuffled through the gardens like four-legged lawn mowers.

When they finally reached the station parking lot, Wills saw a poster with a picture of a strange-looking train.

ALL ABOARD SNORTING SAM!

FORT WILMOT TO GRAND CANYON AND BACK

JUMP OFF FOR LAS VEGAS

In the distance beyond the station, he heard a loud, slightly mournful whistle.

“Guys!” he called urgently. “I think there's a train coming!”

The others dragged themselves away from their lawns and followed as Wills hurried toward the station and squeezed through a gateway on to the platform. A large crowd of people was already waiting, chatting excitedly, craning their necks to catch a first glimpse of the oncoming train.

“Here he comes, Junior,” said a man, hoisting a little boy up on to his shoulders.

“Is it Snorting Sam?” asked the boy excitedly.

“The real deal,” his dad assured him.

The whistle blew again and a huge cloud of smoke belched from the funnel as the train clanked into the station. It was a very old steam locomotive, with big wheels, high carriages, lots of shiny brass, and a huge metal scoop fixed to the front.

“That's a cow catcher,” the dad said to Junior. “They used to scoop away critters that strayed on to the rails.”

The driver was standing on the footplate, pulling on the brake. He waved to the waiting passengers as the giant wheels ground to a halt. Beside him, sweat streaming down his coal-blackened face, the stoker leaned on his shovel in front of the open furnace. At the very back of the train, there was an open platform with a thick brass rail around it.

People clambered eagerly up the steps into the carriages and found their seats. Junior's dad made his way to the back, to the viewing platform, and stood leaning against the rail with his son.

“Let's follow him,” said Wills. “We won't be so noticeable out there.”

He'd remembered something about needing tickets. The sheep squeezed through and stood on the viewing platform, trying to look as if they weren't there.

“This is so much nicer than the last train we were on,” said Sal approvingly.

“Yeah,” said Links. “Everything in America's more modern, right.”

The whistle screeched, jets of steam hissed out on to the platform, and the wheels began to turn. Junior waved excitedly and the train chugged out of the station.

“Who brought the woollies?”

A ticket inspector had appeared in the carriage next to the viewing platform. Everyone shrugged and looked at everyone else.

“Aw, they're not doing any harm,” called Junior's dad. “Let 'em come for the ride.”

The inspector shrugged. “OK,” he said. “I'll give 'em a sheep day return.”

He laughed, pleased with his joke, and slapped a ticket on Sal's broad back.

The warriors settled to chew the cud and look out at the scenery rushing past. The last of the desert soon gave way to fields, then forest, as the train climbed higher and higher. Soon, all they could see were pine trees on either side.

An old man wearing a Stetson hat and carrying a banjo came and sat in the carriage next to the viewing platform.

“Howdy, folks,” he said. “Y'all enjoying the ride?”

Everyone said they were.

He strummed the banjo. “I'll soon put a stop to that.”

Everyone laughed.

“A few things I have to tell you first. When we arrive at the Canyon, there'll be a bus waiting for those going straight on to Vegas. Don't be late. The bus won't wait.” He strummed a few more chords on his banjo. “Las Vegas…Funny kind of name for the place, ain't it? It's Spanish: means ‘The Meadows.'”

Everyone laughed again, but Wills didn't understand why.

“Meadows? What? As in grassy fields?” asked Oxo eagerly when Wills told the others what the banjo man had said.

“Got to be, man,” said Links. “Meadows have sheep, right. That's why Red Tongue's goin' there. To carry on the slaughtering ting.”

So Oxo shut up about meadows. But then the old man with the banjo strummed a bit more and started singing.

“Oh, I'm a lonesome cowboy, and I'm a long, long way from home…”

Links hunched his shoulders. “Man…where's the ear protectors when you really need them?”

The rest of the warriors weren't so fussy. In fact, they all enjoyed the music.

“Oh, Su-sannah…” sang the human passengers.

“Baa…baa…ba-ba…” bleated the sheep.

“Don't you cry for me…!”

“Ba, ba, ba, ba, ba…!”

“For I'm goin' to Grand Canyon with a sheep right on my knee!”

They were all still singing when the train finally clackety-clacked to a halt. Wills watched as most of the passengers hurried excitedly away from the station.

“They're going to see the Canyon,” he said wistfully. “I wonder if we've got time?”

“Don't be late, the bus won't wait,” chanted Jaycey primly. She could see it in the parking lot.

“What is this Grand Canyon ting, anyway?” asked Links as the rest of the sheep followed Jaycey.

“It's like a valley,” said Wills. “But massive.”

“What, bigger than Soggy Bottom?” said Oxo disbelievingly.

Soggy Bottom was the valley in Eppingham where they sometimes went for a change of grass.

“Much bigger,” said Wills. “I saw it on Tod's TV. It's miles wide and deep and it gets so hot and dry in summer that hardly anything can live there.”

“So…correct me if I'm wrong,” said Oxo, “but you're saying this Canyon thing is just a hot, dusty hole in the ground. With no grub?”

“A special hole,” insisted Wills.

But he'd already lost their attention. Jaycey and Sal had come to a halt beside the parked bus. The doors were open and the driver was asleep behind the wheel.

“Is this the one we want, dear?” asked Sal.

The driver snored loudly and shifted about in his seat.

“Yes,” Wills whispered, reading the sign on the front. “It's going to Las Vegas. Better sneak on quietly though. It says ‘No Pets.'”

“Pets!” snorted Links. “Pets is cats and dogs. We's warriors, man.”

The driver grunted loudly and shifted his weight again.

“Sshhh…”

Wills waited for the man to settle and then sprang up the steps and into the bus. He tip-hooved past the driver and ran lightly along the aisle to the back. He'd hoped they could hide behind the seats, but Oxo, Links, and Sal were much too big to squash in.

“Perhaps if we sit very still on the back seat, he won't notice us,” murmured Wills.

So they scrambled quietly onto the back seat and sat in a line, facing forward, as if they were part of the bus.

A few people from the train were hurrying across the parking lot now. The driver heard their trundling suitcases and shook himself awake. He took their money and handed them tickets as they clambered aboard. A few of them nodded at the line of sheep on the back seat. The sheep nodded politely back. They'd become acquainted on the train. The humans settled into their seats and the driver closed the doors.

“Las Vegas only,” he called, without turning in his seat. “Las Vegas next stop.”

And he drove off without noticing his extra passengers.

***

A few hours later, the Fort Wilmot hospital doors hissed open and Holly Boomberg strode in. She marched to the reception desk.

“I'm looking for a flock of sheep,” she announced abruptly. “Where are they?”

The receptionist looked up. She'd developed a way of dealing with rude customers. It was called “being rude back.”

“This is a hospital, lady,” she said. “The H is for humans.”

Holly clenched her fists. And her teeth.

“They arrived by air ambulance earlier today,” she said. “I
know
they did.”

“Try the veterinary center across the park,” suggested the receptionist, no longer looking at her. “We don't do sheep.”

“We saw some, didn't we, Dad?”

The voice behind her made Holly spin round. A small boy was sitting on a chair beside his father. He'd fallen over and cut his knee when jumping down from a train, and was bravely waiting to be stitched.

“Sure did, Junior,” said his dad.

“Where?” snapped Holly. “How many?”

“There were five,” said Junior, still excited. “On Snorting Sam. Then they got on the bus to Vegas. They were real cute.”

“Sure were,” said his dad.

Holly was already on her way out. The doors hissed shut behind her as she jabbed fiercely at her phone. Eventually, her husband answered. “Hi, honey,” he said cheerfully.

He was back at base now, surrounded by computers and people in white coats who called him “sir.” He'd completely forgotten Tod and Ida.

“Stanley, I'm going to Las Vegas,” his wife snapped.

“Vegas?” Stanley tried not to snap back. What was she talking about now? “This is no time for a vacation, honey.”

In the background an automated voice was chiming down the seconds: Ninety-two thousand, one hundred and fifteen…

“Can you hear that?” demanded the Professor. “The countdown? Tomorrow
is
B-Day, remember. Where are my sheep?”

“Stanley.” Holly's voice was sharp. “Shut up and catch a plane. Your sheep are in Las Vegas. Meet me there. I need your help.”

She switched off her phone and drove her golf cart to the airport.

“
You
need
my
help?” muttered the Professor to his silent phone.

For a moment the surprising thought pleased him, but then he remembered the countdown again and began to panic.

***

Tod and Ida's cell in Gunslinger City was clean and cool, with a dirt floor and white painted walls. There were two bunk beds, a chair, and a little stove with a pile of logs beside it. A door in one corner led to a tiny toilet cubicle. There was no window, but plenty of daylight from the sheriff's office and the street beyond. And the prisoners were not alone.

All day, they'd been rattling their cell bars and pleading with the tourists who wandered in and out of the jailhouse. None had taken them seriously.

“Great act,” the man now standing by the sheriff's desk called. “You sure look like the real thing. Wild Boy Billy and Granny Gunsmoke.”

“We are not an act!” shouted Tod for the hundredth time. “We're not even American. We're prisoners!”

The people in the jailhouse laughed and clapped.

“Well done, son,” said the man as he turned to go. “You've got a great future in the movies.”

The rest of the group followed him out, chuckling. Tod sighed and turned to Gran.

“It's beginning to get dark,” he said. “There won't be any more visitors now. We'll have to try again tomorrow.”

Gran was looking thoughtful.

“Is Sheriff Halfwit out there?” she asked.

Tod peered through the bars.

“I can't see him. Why? Did you want more food?”