Page 8 of The Outlaw and the Heir

"Well, can't speak for the state they're in now," the sheriff said with a shrug. "But I'm sure you could get them into decent shape and get some long-term use out of them. Or run 'em down. What goes on on your ranch is up to you."

Again, I was struck by the difference between father and son. James stared back at the sheriff as if inviting him to say more, listening to him with little or complete disinterest or warning him. Quite honestly, it was frustrating and fascinating how impossible it was to read the man and his intentions.

When I was a boy, I had gone walking after a particularly brutal couple of weeks of storms during the cold winter far northand east of here. I hadn't realized it until my footing slid, but I had stepped onto the ice. It was the first time I’d experienced something so brutal and unforgiving as that winter, having always lived in milder places. The idea that ice could grow so thick from the cold that it wouldn't break under my weight was fascinating, and I spent longer than I should on that sheet of ice, admiring how implacable and unyielding it was...kind of like this man.

His son, however, felt more like a cheap duplicate of his father. Almost like an apprentice clockmaker who knew how to put a clock back together because he’d seen it done hundreds of times and yet couldn't tell you what the pieces were for or how exactly the clock worked or could be improved. He tried for the cold stoicism of his father, but there were too many cracks in his facade for it to work. The emotions still found ways to get through and show themselves to anyone who paid attention, especially when you caught him right after something happened.

Ambrose wasn't happy with what the sheriff had to say. Now, whether that was because he didn't like the idea of taking a trio of criminals to his ranch or because he was offended that the sheriff hinted something nasty could happen to us on the ranch, I didn’t know. I would give him some credit at least; he wasn't as good at concealing everything like his father was, but there were still things, nuances, that were lost that I couldn't pick out from under his attempted stoic mask.

"That said," the sheriff said, turning back toward us, "you three seem more than capable of doing more than sitting around, waiting for judgment day to come, unlike some here and others whose judgment day is only a couple of months away. So instead, I'm gonna be nice to you folks, probably nicer than you've been to good people in a long time, if ya ever have at all."

Which was a lot of assumption, but who could blame him when he had arrested all three of us? It wasn't like our pastswere going to say good things about us. It was probably nothing to assume we'd been rotten from start to finish. Of course, it was ridiculous to assume that a baby could live a life of crime and wickedness, but I wasn't going to argue. I'd probably just get thrown in jail again to rot away until I starved or keeled over from the heat.

"So," he continued, "instead of being locked up like you deserve, you three are going to go work at the nearby ranch, understood? You're gonna work your butts as hard as James and his people say, and you're going to take whatever they give ya in return. And if you behave, I might just consider not dragging you back here and hanging you for the outlaws and murderers you are."

"Do what I say, murderers, or we'll kill you," I said, wondering if irony existed in his dictionary. From his dry look, irony might not have been a word he knew, but he was intelligent enough to understand I was mocking him.

"And that one, you can let rot for all I care," the sheriff said, finally letting his irritation at me show.

"That's...fair," I noted and then grew quiet as I watched while Broken Nose finally caught up with the rest of us.

"Now, hold on," he snarled. "We ain't been given what we were owed! We're s’posed to go afore a judge! S’posed to have a trial!"

"You boys sure do love living by the way it works out here until it bites you in the ass," the sheriff said with a snort. "I am your judge, your jury, and if you want, I can be the man who hangs you too. Or you can be a smart son of a bitch for the first time in your life and take the good deal you're being given. Which you would, if you had the brains the Lord saw fit to give to a prairie dog."

"We're just lettin' 'em go?" the bailiff asked, and I wondered if Knocked Stupid might be a contender for the most brain-dead person in this weird show.

The sheriff gave him a pointed look. “Weren't you just bellyachin' yesterday that watching and listening to them all day was driving you crazy? Well, here's the solution, and the biggest pain in the ass is going with them, so you come out on top."

That...was probably me.

"Don't seem right, is all," the bailiff muttered, clearly annoyed to lose toys he could play with by starving and mocking them whenever they called for water or hurt themselves. The line between justice and cruelty was as thin as the one between a righteous man and a tyrant, and my chubby little friend here loved to pretend to be on one side of the line so he could reap the benefits of the other.

"You're damned right it ain't right," Broken Nose snarled. "I ain't bustin' my back to work for some random asshole just cuzyousay I broke the law. Prove it!"

"You were caught after your friends decided they weren't going to stick around and help you when you got hurt fighting us," the sheriff said dryly. "The only one who had any decency in your group is that fellow there who stayed behind, trying to help you."

"Well, you didn't catch me in the middle of any gunfight," I pointed out.

His eyes narrowed. “And if you don't think we didn't recognize the Old Boys symbol on the inside of your shirt, then you must think we're stupid or blind."

"Now, I don't think it's in my best interest to try and guess how stupid you are," I said with a slow smile. "But that's not proof. C'mon, anyone can find clothes and put them on."

"And anyone can lie through their teeth, which you do quite a lot," he said. "Either take the offer or go back to the cell until I figure out what else to do with you...if you survive that long."

I didn't consider that a threat, as the sheriff struck me as the kind of man that, if he intended to kill you, would just let you know outright. No, I think he was aware of the conditions of his jail and the chances that we’d make it another week or two. That or he was aware he had a monster on a short chain as his bailiff and knew our chances were dwindling every day while he was in charge.

Not that I needed a threat to see the writing on the wall. It was theonlychance I would get not to rot in jail. Sure, I might find a way to get out of the cell. I might be smart enough for that. The problem was, this town was the only one for miles and by now, everyone knew what I looked like. There was no way for me to get away after breaking out without ending up back in the cell or dead.

Working my butt off at a ranch didn't sound appealing, but it was the one chance I had. Maybe I would end up getting worked to death, or maybe, just maybe, they might follow through on their word and let me go. Of course, that meant taking them at their word, which...again, trusting the law in a place like this was a dangerous and unpredictable game.

Still, I wasn't a betting man, but I knew how to handle odds when needed. Staying here meant inevitable death, either by starvation and dehydration or from the heat that would eventually bake me alive. Going to the ranch and working would mean the possibility of death from whatever might happen out there, and that included them going back on their word. I would take possibility over certainty any day, especially regarding my life.

"I ain't workin' on no ranch," Broken Nose said, and I sighed, rolling my eyes. I could see his pride swelling from the apparentwound it had taken at the mere idea of working on a ranch. I didn't know if it was because he hated being pushed into something against his will or wasthatopposed to the idea of a hard day's work. There were outlaws out there who saw the idea of honest work as blasphemous.

"Then get your ass back in the cell, and we'll get the rest of them moving," the sheriff said, and I truly believed he didn't care one way or the other. All that mattered to him was that he got his problem taken care of so he could move on to the next step in whatever plan was in his head.

"Well, unlike my, uh...aesthetically challenged friend here, I don't have a problem with it," I said with a shrug. "What's a little slave labor to work off my debt to society? Plus, if you're on such good terms with the righteous and honorable sheriff here, I don't see a problem agreeing. You seem like men of your word."

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