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The sheriff sat up there an'
his face coulda been carved outta the same stone as them bluffs
three miles up the trail. He was squintin' with suspicion out
at some risin' dust way out on the trail, maybe two miles off.
Y'see, there'd been some serious trouble in Gillian Gulch for
the past three weeks. Serious trouble. An' I'd wager the sheriff
had a lot on his mind.
First, Kid Cavanaugh and his gang had rode through and made
the bank give up 'bout all it had, and that was all the people
round here had, too. Bein' as it was the first such robbery in
the county since Hawkeye McGee eight years back, it took us all
by surprise.
Next, Poppy Keenan, daughter of the mayor, shows up after
bein' missin' for months--an' she's knocked up. She won't talk,
neither, she won't say a word, and I mean not a word to no one,
not even her pa. Shut up tight as a wineskin on Sunday. We're
all hopin' bein' home with her pa'll eventually help her find
her tongue. An' then whoever it was better watch out, 'cause
quicker'n'a boot in the rump he's gonna wake up with a shotgun
in his ear an' a Justice of the Peace in the doorway.
Then there was all those cattle foaming at the mouth, then
the lightning bolt that hit a travelin' salesman between houses
an' assigned him to a new territory altogether, and that same
week we get flood rains for four days straight and when the sun
comes back out, it don't shine on ol' Ned Targo's mill by the
river, cause it ain't there no more, and Ned with it. That mill'd
stood every kind'a weather, tornados, draught, two fires, and
floods 'bout every year and never had no trouble. Guess this
time the Almighty jus' had it in for Ned, an' we'll never know
the why of it.
Finally, last Friday, when we thought things couldn't get
no worse, Steel-Toe Casey tried to kill a beast back of his shed,
an' he swore it was one of them tigers from Africa! Bright orange,
he said. But it shot away so fast he could barely see it, let
alone get his rifle aimed proper. Since Casey's been off the
juice for near to five years now, we was all inclined to believe
him. Such a thing likewise might explain Franny Snead's missing
cats.
So that's when the sheriff started deputizin' trees. He started
with the saplings that the O'Dougalls grow on the rise south
of town. Tom and Ella -- nice folks. About seven nice straight
lines of young trees up there, and then the older groves of apple
n' pear trees behin' 'em. He went up there and pinned the gold
star on all them trees so they looked like a buncha soldiers
'bout to march down the hill. He gave 'em a nice speech, too,
'bout how they was to do what he said, and uphold the law and
all that, and how any one of 'em didn't think he could live up
to bein' a deputy, he should speak up here and now. Well, 'course
none of 'em spoke up--they're trees, for god's sake--and then
the sheriff gave a really inspirin' speech about the importance
of upholdin' the law in these lawless times. Why, even I stood
up straighter and felt proud to be on the sheriff's side.
When he was done, he jus' turned an' rode back down toward
town. Long the way he stopped two or three times and deputized
a couple of poplars and an oak, and jus' before he got back to
Main Street he pinned the star on a ficus, which I told him was
more like a bush than a tree, but he jus' ignored me and went
right on. By sundown, we had about 184 deputies.
So there's that cloud of dust, no way of knowin' who it is
comin' this way, and I don' know if the sheriff's plan, whatever
it is, s'gonna help, though mebbe the next outlaw passin' through
the area'll think twice 'bout robbin' a town that folks're hearin'
tell has 184 deputies. But what do I know? I'm just a bear.
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