The Cactus Creek Challenge (5 page)

She entered the jail, or at least she tried to. The door stuck and ground hard against the floor. She had to throw her shoulder into it to get the rotten thing to even move. Glancing down, she noticed the deep, pale groove worn into the floorboards in a perfect arc. The hinges squealed as if being tormented.

After the bright morning sunshine, she had to let her eyes adjust to the dimness of the interior. A musty fog hung in the air, lingering testament to dust, boot scrapings, and unwashed men. Grime clung to the two front windows, defeating the sun that tried to penetrate the gloom.

She froze when someone in the rear grunted. A squeaking sound, like ropes being pulled taut, came from the cells. She’d thought she was alone.

“Who’s there?” Fiddlesticks. Her voice had trembled. What kind of sheriff quaked at the first sign of something amiss?

Another grunt and more squeaking. She ventured toward the dark cells. A shadowy figure turned on the bunk, his hat falling to the floor.

“Is that you, Jigger?”

“My mercy! What time is it?” He hauled his bulky self up off the protesting bunk.

“It’s after nine.” The musty smell was worse back here. Cold iron bars, dirty blankets, aged straw pallets. When was the last time this place was even swept out?

“Miss Cassie.” He grinned, his face pale and his beard jutting. Jigger hauled at his belt and smoothed his wrinkled shirt to little effect. “Sheriff for a month.”

“So it seems.”

“Don’t you fret. I can handle everything for you. Don’t worry your pretty little head. You won’t have to do a thing.” He swiped at his beard and ran his fingers through his wiry, unkempt hair. “Where’s my hat?”

“There. And what do you mean you can handle everything?”

Grabbing up his battered headgear, he scratched his armpit. “Just that. I reckon I can take care of the town this month, and you can walk around wearing the badge and raising money for your cause, letting folks pretend you’re the sheriff.” He nodded as if this made perfect sense. “Ben told me what he expected of me, and it ain’t nothing I can’t handle.”

“Oh, he did, did he?” Her hands went to her hips.

“Well, sure. We figured that’s what the town council really wanted, what with having him and you swap jobs. No lady can be a sheriff, not a real one, but if you was just to be a … well, a figurehead, so to speak, then it would be all right. The town would be safe, law and order would continue, and you could stay out of trouble.”

She took a firm grip on her temper. Men, and lawmen in particular, were the most exasperating creatures upon the face of the earth.

“Jigger, let’s get one thing straight. For the month of April, in the year of our Lord eighteen hundred and eighty-eight, I am your boss. I will
be
the sheriff of Cutler County, not just pretend to be, and
I
will be responsible for the safekeeping of this town and its citizens. It is your job as the deputy to follow my orders, assist me in keeping the peace, and otherwise make yourself useful. Is that understood?” She used her best teacher voice, even going so far as to point at him with her index finger, a tool she’d found quite powerful in dealing with children and simple men like Jigger.

He blinked as if a kitten had just turned into a bobcat in front of him. “Yes, miss.” Scratching his other armpit, he shifted his weight. “Are you sure?”

“I’m quite sure. Now, I have a few orders for you.” Parking her hands back on her hips, she surveyed the nasty little cells. “I want you to haul these filthy straw ticks out back and burn them. They’re not fit for dog beds.”

“But what’ll I … I mean, the prisoners sleep on? You can’t make ’em sleep on the bare ropes.”

“You let me worry about that. For now, just get them out of here. This place is going to get a thorough scrubbing. A hog wouldn’t want to live in here, and I’m certainly not going to work in such grimy surroundings for a whole month. Whose responsibility is it to keep this place clean?”

Jigger shrugged. “Mine, I guess, but Ben don’t seem to care if I sweep up or not.”

“Well, I care. I’m going to get this place clean, and you’re going to keep it clean.”

“Yes, miss.” He began throwing aside blankets and dragging the straw ticks off the bunks.

She covered a smile. “I’ll be back soon. I just need to go down to the mercantile. But first, where is the key to the gun cabinet?”

“Miss?” Jigger straightened, sticking his finger in his ear and popping it out as if he hadn’t heard her correctly.

“The gun cabinet. A sheriff can’t do her job properly without a firearm. As your previous boss didn’t see fit to take care of this issue, I shall do it myself.”

“I don’t believe Ben meant for you to go around town armed, missy.” His brows came down, and his jaw jutted.

“I’m not interested in what Ben meant. And don’t call me missy. My name is Cassie or Miss Bucknell, or for the duration of this month, Sheriff Bucknell. Now, where is that key?”

He dug in his pants’ pocket. “I got it right here. Do you even know how to shoot?”

“Point and squeeze the trigger, right? I’ve done my fair share of target shooting.” With Ben, as it turned out.

And just like that she was fifteen, sitting on the riverbank, watching Ben reload. Sunshine dappled the creek water and cast reflected light on the undersides of the overhanging trees. Insects buzzed, birds chirped, and her heart overflowed just being with him
.

“Can I try it?”

“Girls don’t shoot guns.” He flipped the cylinder shut, raised the pistol, and fired at the log on the far bank. Cassie barely had time to get her hands over her ears and brace herself. A puff of smoke and chips flew off the log as the sound of gunfire ricocheted off the water and the far bank. She flinched even as she grinned, proud of his ability
.

“Girls don’t get the chance.” She tried not to wrinkle her nose at the tang of gunpowder hanging in the air. “I think men are afraid to let women have guns for fear they would soon rule the world
.”

He laughed and pushed his hat back, his eyes sparkling. “Okay, Miss Sassy Mouth, let’s see how you do. Stand up.” He handed her the pistol butt-first
.

It was heavier than she’d expected, and she used both hands to hold it level. Closing one eye and squinting with the other, she sighted down the barrel
.

Ben shook his head and pushed on her wrists until she was aiming at the dirt. “That’s no good. Here, let’s try it this way.” He led her over to where a branch grew parallel with the ground, about elbow high. “Brace your forearm along here, then rest the other wrist on it holding the gun. Cock the pistol, aim at the log, and squeeze the trigger.”

She did as he said, aware of how close he stood behind her
.

BANG!

“Did I hit it?”

His smug laughter rang out. “If you hadn’t closed your eyes, you might’ve seen where you shot.”

“But did I hit it?”

“Not even close. Try it again, and try to keep your eyes open.”

By the time they’d burned through his entire box of ammunition, she was getting pretty good. The target was a mass of splinters and bullet holes, and her arm ached from the kick of the gun, but she was ridiculously proud of herself for impressing Ben
.

Until he reached out and tugged her braid, winking at her like she was a child. “Not bad, sprout. Dunno where you’ll ever use this talent, but it was fun. I need to get back to work, and you need to hustle on home. You probably have some schoolwork or chores to do, don’t you?”

“Target shooting ain’t the same as shooting at a man.” Jigger’s statement yanked Cassie out of the past.

“Nevertheless, I have a job to do.” She took the keys from him.

“You planning on carrying a rifle around town?”

“I’d prefer a handgun.”

“Then you don’t need those keys. We only keep the rifles and shotguns in the rack. Ben’s got another Colt in his desk drawer. Are you sure I can’t talk you out of this?”

“No, you can’t.” She sat and pulled open a drawer. Paper crammed every inch, jamming into the slide so the drawer stuck.

“Them’s our wanted posters. The gun’s in the belly drawer.”

She pulled out the middle drawer and lifted the gun. It was as heavy as she remembered, gleaming blue-black with a dark wood grip, smelling of gunpowder and oil. “Is it loaded?”

Jigger scrubbed his bristly whiskers, then reached over with an enormous paw and removed the pistol as if it were a toy. “Treat every gun like it’s loaded.”

Snapping open the chamber, he leaned over and plucked a box from the drawer, deftly inserting five bright, shiny bullets into the cylinder. “Only load it with five if you’re going to carry it around. You don’t want a live round under the hammer. You’ll wind up shooting your foot off.” He snapped the chamber closed. “This is plumb foolish. Like giving a gun to a baby.”

“I’m not a baby, thank you very much. I’m your boss.”

Jigger’s expression changed from slightly befuddled and tolerant to focused and stern in a flash. “When it comes to being safe around guns, little missy, I’m not just your elder, I’m your better. I’m the one who could end up getting killed while you play Miss Sheriff in Petticoats. I’ll go along with your games, but only so far, for the sake of this ridiculous Challenge and because Ben told me to look out for you. If you’re determined to carry a gun, you’ll do it safely or not at all.”

She blinked, fighting the embarrassment swirling in her cheeks, and took a deep breath, knowing he was right. “I’ll be careful. I’m not a fool. I realize guns are dangerous, but if I don’t carry one, no one will take me seriously. I intend to do this job and do it well. Now, where can I find a holster? I don’t want to put the gun in my pocket.” It was so heavy, it would rip the cloth in no time, and if she hid it in her pocket, it was just the same to anyone watching as if she wasn’t carrying a gun at all.

Jigger found a stiff leather gun belt. “Here.”

She wrapped it around her waist, but it was too big. Jigger ended up punching more holes in the leather so she could keep it on. The unfamiliar weight at her side reminded her of his stern warning to be careful and treat every gun as if it was loaded. He’d yank the thing back in a heartbeat if he knew she hadn’t fired a pistol since that one time with Ben.

“I’m going down to Svenson’s Mercantile. When I get back, I expect those straw ticks to be gone.” There, she’d reestablished her authority. “Start as you mean to go on” was her motto.

By midafternoon her arms ached and her fingers stung from the lye soap she’d used to scrub every inch of the inside of the jail, but the place was finally clean. Not that she’d anticipated wearing out a scrub brush on her first day as sheriff. Jigger had abandoned the jail after the first hour, saying he needed to patrol the town, though she suspected he was just tired of following her orders and toting buckets. It was just as well he’d left, because if she had to hear one more time that “Ben’s not going to like this,” she might hurl a bucketful of sudsy water over him.

Might be the first bath he’d had in a month.

Anyway, Ben would either be pleased with her efforts or he wouldn’t even notice. No man could object to someone cleaning his office, especially when it was in such dire need of cleaning.

And she’d come up with a splendid idea sure to garner her plenty of votes in the Challenge.

At the mercantile, she’d purchased several yards of pillow ticking as well as some serviceable calico, charging them to the county since the supplies were for the jail. Tonight she’d borrow her mother’s sewing machine and create new straw ticks, pillows, and a set of curtains for the windows. After that, she’d tackle the disorganized paperwork and institute some sort of filing system.

While sweeping the boardwalk in front of the jail, her attention was drawn to a commotion up the street. Several men emerged from Barney’s, and a pair of them circled one another, fists up.

She dropped the broom and trotted toward the fracas.

As she drew near, she identified the combatants. The Shoop brothers, Melvin and Alvin. She’d gone to school with both of them, though they were older than she, about Ben’s age, and they were a shiftless, lazy pair who drank and fought and eked out a living on a spit of land north of town. Rumor had it they rustled just enough calves every spring to keep them in beer and cigars for the year and otherwise left work strictly alone. There was another brother, older, but he hadn’t been seen in these parts in a while.

“You take it back, you flea-bitten son of a motherless goat.”

“I won’t. And who’re you calling a son of a motherless goat, you fool? We’re brothers, and we had the same mama.”

“I’m going to pound you to perdition, you idjet!”

A ring of spectators had formed as Melvin, the older of the pair, took a mighty swing at Alvin. If he’d connected, he’d probably have fulfilled his own prophecy, but as it was, he missed by a good two feet and wound up staggering and crashing into a hitching post. Alvin laughed so hard he lost his balance and hit the dirt, raising a puff of dust. He scrambled up at the same time Melvin stopped draping himself across the hitching post, and they ran headlong at one another, clashing and grappling, grunting and straining to knock each other over.

Cassie stepped forward to take on her first real test as sheriff. “That’s enough. Break it up.” She used her best teacher voice, expecting immediate and total obedience.

They appeared not to hear.

As she drew close, they lost their grip on each other, and one of them—she thought it might’ve been Alvin—flailed to keep his balance, elbowing her in the eye and knocking her onto her backside in front of the entire town. Her skirts flew up over her knees, and she banged her elbows on the hard-packed dirt in an effort to keep her head off the ground. A laugh went up from the spectators, and shame washed over her.

Hands reached for her, and she realized as she was hauled up that her gun had fallen out of her holster and lay in the dusty street. She wrenched away from the helpful hands and snatched up her pistol. The Shoop brothers ignored her, once more wrapped in a muscle-straining clinch.