|
This is the conclusion of The
Alien Sheriff.
Episode 45
I found a brrkup encased in an earring box one late December
morning in 1901 on the doorstep of my blue bungalow. There was a note, too. No
hard feelings?, the note read. Though it was unsigned I instantly knew who
wrote the note: Graax.
I looked around for him so I could slug him and hug him at
the same time—I had mixed feelings about him. He had to be around somewhere.
All I saw were people passing by on the street.
I ran back inside my house and grabbed my collection of
monocles I'd ground. Each one had its own case Becky and her sewing bee in
Prescott had made for me. Several families from the old days in Contention
City lived in Prescott. I think there were more believers there than anyplace
else.
Figuring Graax was there but invisible to my unaided eye, I
tried to see him by using one of my lenses, one after another. Even though
none of them worked, I still was sure he was there somewhere.
"Graax!" I said in a normal conversational tone so
as to not cause a scene in front of potential voters. "Graax!"
That day I started wearing my multicolored monocles of
different thicknesses around Durango. When questioned, I told people I was
trying invent a better type of glasses.
Keep looking, read another note from Graax two cold
mornings later. It had been stuck in the door. Keep trying. When you find
me, we can talk ---- Graax
"Damn you Graax!" I cried, tired of his encouraging
taunts. "I've built and tried almost forty damn sets of monocles and I
still can't see you!"
I can't help you more than I'm doing, still another
note read the morning after. You have to find me on your own.
"I don't blame you anymore," I said loudly on my
doorstep as three passers by looked at me askance.
"You and the missus having a little tiff, Sheriff?"
a man said, smiling.
I chuckled and shrugged.
"Get her some flowers. Flowers work every time,"
the man said, continuing on his way.
"Thanks for the advice, friend," I said.
I huddled in the bushes by my porch the next night on a stake
out. When my old alien friend put another note in his customary spot, I'd
tackle him. It was only 10 degrees (-12 Celsius) outside, but the pain from my
aching joints and the shivering would be more than worth it if I got answers
to my questions.
A few minutes before midnight, I saw a folded up piece of
paper floating up the walkway. It wedged itself in the space between the
doorjamb and door.
I jumped out of the bushes and grabbed at patches of air
where I thought Graax's hands and body could be. I suspected he somehow made
himself invisible and was carrying the paper.
I was wrong, touching nothing but the freezing air. Somehow
the note had floated up to the door by itself.
"Dammit Graax!" I said. I thought to try my
monocles to see him again, but dismissed the thought because even if they
worked they couldn't have been much use in darkness. I went inside, lit a lamp
and read the note:
Buck ----- I'd like to help you, but it wouldn't do for
either the Lebe'piti or humans. You just have to keep trying to build your
glasses. What you build has a better chance of being right for your people
than what you get from us.
If the birds were threatened by a group of your people,
you couldn't give the birds guns. Their talons couldn't pull triggers. Neither
could they use dynamite, swords nor arrows. The only way the birds could be
saved, if they couldn't do it themselves, would be for another group of humans
to come and bargain and argue on behalf of the birds. That's what we Lebe'piti
are trying to do for your people. We may be successful, we may not be. My
people hold out hope, and so should you.
Good luck, Buck!
(Signed) Graax, friend ---
P.S. Have a couple deputies at the Durango State Bank on
Wednesday at closing—just a tip ----- again -----ñ Sheriff Graax
My left eyebrow raised in surprise, reading the words at the
end. Someone was planning a bank robbery, I figured. I was interested, but
still, at the time, it wasn't what I wanted to read. I crunched his note with
my left hand while my right fist struck out at the heavens, toward Squaattoos.
"Damn you Graax!"
"What's the matter?" Edith said, waking up, coming
out of the bedroom in her nightgown.
I threw the ball of paper at her. "Read it!"
In the morning, I stayed home from the office grinding,
grinding, grinding. I made two new lenses.
Wednesday, December 23, at four o'clock, I hid in a closet at
the Durango State Bank. One of my deputies stayed in the counting room. Three
gunmen burst in just as they were closing the doors for the day.
"All right! This is a robbery! I want everybody down on
the floor! Keep your hands where I can see them!" the shortest of the
gunmen said. He kept his gun trained on the bank employees while his two
cronies went around to empty out the teller's drawers.
As the employees dropped to the ground, I stepped out of the
cleaning closet to the side of the gunmen. A push broom fell out.
"Freeze!" I commanded. "There ain't going to be any robbery
here today."
The robber spun around, ready to plug me. I shot him square in
the chest. He fell back, discharging his gun into the ceiling.
"You . . . bastard," the wounded criminal said.
"You drop that gun or there ain't going to be a way for a
doctor to help you," I said. "I'll finish you!"
"Listen to the sheriff!" my deputy said, stepping out
of the counting room. "Get down!"
Lester Hopkins, the tall, balding bank president, ran out of
his office, excited. "You were right! How did you ever know?"
"We received a tip on these gentlemen from one of the
former sheriffs of Contention City, Arizona," I said, cuffing one of the
robbers. I pointed at one of the tellers, "Go and get Dr. Wyann for this
one! Hurry!"
"Where's that?" one of the robbers asked.
"We ain't ever been there," the other insisted,
sneezing and coughing.
The injured gunman groaned as blood stained the front of his
shirt.
"That don't matter none! He's always watching you! He's
like that Santa Claus feller!" I said, smiling.
Hopkins and his employees laughed at what they thought was a
joke.
"Let's get them out of here, Bud!" I said to my
deputy, yanking the sick robber up by the chain of his handcuffs.
"Ow!" he screamed, coughing again. Phlegm ran down
his chin.
"You should know better than to rob a bank when you've got
a cold! Didn't they teach you that at bank robbing school?" I said.
"Lucky we've got a nice, warm cell for you."
Then, turning to everyone else, I called out, "You all
have a nice afternoon! Merry Christmas!" I shoved the robber out the door,
snot dripping out of his nose, door jingling behind me.
"Merry Christmas!" Hopkins and his employees called
back as the door closed.
©2004 StoriesByEmail.com
|
