"Dodge City is a wicked little town.
Indeed, its character is so clearly and egregiously bad that one might conclude, were the evidence in these later times positive of its possibility,
that it was marked for special Providential punishment."
-Washington D.C. Evening Star, January 1, 1878.
"Sheriff! What a pleasant surprise." John Princeton exclaimed, rather half-heartedly as The Sheriff was ushered into his study by one of his footmen. John rose from his desk to shake his hand but was disregarded and met with an acknowledgeable grunt from The Sheriff as he sank into a luxurious dark mahogany chair. John nervously wiped his hand on his pocketed vest, and strode to the bar.
"Care for a drink?"
"Whiskey," came the curt reply.
John handed a drink to his company, and then leaned on his desk, taking in the sight of the lawman. He was a stout, gruff man with a dark complexion and an perpetually unshaved face. His worn, black hat still sat disrespectfully on his head, shielding his dark eyes from view. He took a lengthy sip of his drink before speaking, "You're probably wonderin' why I am here, Mr. Princeton."
"As a matter of fact, I am. What is your business?"
Seemed like anyone who called on John Princeton came to talk business. Of course, his reputation did suggest he was a gentleman of dealings. He was the so-called richest man in the West.
Contrary to others who came out West for gold, he struck it rich in the mining shafts of Northern California. After claiming his riches, he returned to Sherwood and resided in a large manor in the center of town. Shortly after moving, he was elected mayor, due to his large wealth and connections.
Although John Princeton was powerful, he was by no means the law in Sherwood.
That power lay in The Sheriff.
"Have you heard of the outlaw who goes by the name, Rob Hood?" The Sheriff asked, finally removing his hat and setting it on John's desk.
"Vaguely," John replied, "Please refresh my memory, dear Sheriff."
The Sheriff winced slightly at the title before reaching into his coat pocket and revealing a folded piece of yellowed paper, and tossed it wordlessly onto the desk. John shifted his heavy frame and shuffled back behind his desk to settle back into his chair before reaching over and picking up the paper. He opened it and squinted, feeling for his spectacles in his breast pocket.
The Sheriff sighed at the lengthy to-do, and silently watched as John affixed his spectacles on his nose, and cleared his rusty throat before taking in the information on the article.
It was a wanted poster, illustrated with a crudely drawn portrait of a shaggy-haired man with a dark bandanna covering his nose and mouth. It read:
WANTED: ROB HOOD AND MERRY MEN GANG
DEAD OR ALIVE
WANTED FOR ARMED TRAIN ROBBERY, ROBBERY OF WELLS FARGO & CO. STAGECOACH,
ESCAPE FROM DODGE CITY COUNTY JAIL, AND NUMEROUS OTHER CRIMES.
REWARD: 1,000 PER OUTLAW
2,000 FOR ROB HOOD
5,000 FOR GANG
After he finished reading, John peered up at The Sheriff, raising his eyebrow, "What is the significance of all this?"
Before answering, The Sheriff ran his tongue across his teeth, then he growled, "We must capture him."
"Capture him?" John exalted, leaning back in his chair, "These criminals are like petty cash for me. Besides, I'm not a bounty hunter, and neither are you, Sheriff."
"There already is a warrant out for his arrest from the State of California, Mr. Princeton, but story is that Rob Hood killed the messenger and burned the warrant, making him even more of a wanted scoundrel."
"What do you suppose is your plan then?" John asked, opening up a cigar box and retrieving an expensive smelling Cuban. He offered one to The Sheriff, but he refused, and instead, raised a sharp toothpick to his lips and bit down. Hard.
"I propose that the town of Sherwood hold a quick draw contest," he said, turning his head fitfully towards the window, profiling his crooked profile in the late-afternoon light.
"…And I propose you look elsewhere," John said coolly, exhaling his cigar smoke in a long puff, not taking his eyes off of the Sheriff.
"John," The Sheriff sighed, uncrossed his legs and landed them purposefully on the floor, "Do not forget that I have some cards in my hand too."
"And what would that be?" John chuckled, mildly amused.
He then watched as The Sheriff withdrew another folded stack of papers from his coat pocket and threw it onto his desk, this time with more force. He glanced at the stack, briefly noticing the Wells Fargo seal on the first page. John Princeton knew exactly what the papers were.
The Sheriff stood, his frame backlit from the window, casting a shadow onto John Princeton, "I'm sure the United States Government would like to hear about how California's richest man is neck deep in a suitably large embezzlement case. And try to explain the secretive trains arriving in the middle of the night, trafficking thousands of dollars to Sir John Princeton's small-town doorstep."
John's eyes widened, "You! You wouldn't dare! I gave you the upper hand of the law in this town and I only asked for ten percent of the cuts. And now you're threatening blackmail? All over some insignificant outlaw?"
'Click' went the pistol in The Sheriff's hand. It was drawn and at the ready in one quick moment, pointing across the desk and aiming at John's head.
"Provide me a contest with a handsomely enticing cash reward, and I will see to it that the sound of your dirty money does not reach the ears of Washington."
John gulped loudly, weighing the options in his mind, but at this point, there was only one choice.
"Very well," he said, defeated.
Flashing him an austere white grin, The Sheriff tipped his hat and then turned to stride out of the study. Before he exited, John called from his frozen seat at the desk, "Hear me now, Sheriff, after this contest you will never show your face in Sherwood again!"
The Sheriff turned slightly and spoke darkly from underneath his hat, "I don't intend to."
Sherwood was a town that ate a man for dinner every night, chewed him like a wad of tobacco, and spit him back out in the morning. It was a dusty, whistle-by settlement, located east of the crest The Sierra Nevada mountains, lost to a penniless existence after the end of the Gold Rush. Those who stayed lead lonely, miserable lives under the desert-like sun, thirsting for what they could not have.
The Sheriff toyed with this fact ruefully as he strutted into Sherwood's Inn and Saloon. A slight hush followed his entrance, but it was as per usual. Most of the townsfolk were familiar with his reputation as a rough cold-hearted lawman, and knew to stay out of his way. As soon as the noise and bustle of the bar resumed, he slowly scanned the Saloon with his sharp, dark eyes.
It was packed tonight, full of regulars and harmless cowpoke farmers, a few weary travelers. There was nothing unusual about the rambunctious crowd that frequented Sherwood's nightlife. If there was a stranger in his midst, The Sheriff would be the first one to know.
He stalked to the bar, his silver spurs hitting the wooden floor like slave hammers on railroad tracks, and plopped down in a seat, slamming his palm on the counter.
"Whisky, Tuck." He ordered, and a pudgy mustached bartender rushed from the end of the bar to his service, grabbing a glass and a bottle of whiskey from under the counter.
"Evenin' Sheriff," Thomas Tuck nodded, adjusting his tiny glasses while pouring him a drink, "Fancy seein' you here on a Tuesday."
"Well, I couldn't damn wait til' Thursday. It's been a rough few days here, Tuck," he said, leaning back in his stool, drink in hand.
"Ya don't say…" Tuck responded absentmindedly, almost forgetting to set a tiny vessel of toothpicks before The Sheriff. As soon as he was seen too, Tuck whipped a towel from it's resting place on his shoulder and preceded wiping down the bar.
"Yesssserrie…quite a few days…" he mumbled, drawing a toothpick out of the vessel and to his teeth. The Sheriff was notably ruthless and fearful, but underneath his rugged exterior, there was a jaw full of perfect, white teeth.
It was no secret that the Sheriff believed in impeccable dental hygiene; he was a weekly regular at the town's dentist and apothecary office. Although it had become an obsessive, consuming habit, it was something he prided himself on.
He swiveled around in his chair, leaning back on the bar, his eyes directed towards the stage. Some poor old washed-up broad was singing off-key to a bouncy piano tune that told a humorous story about a cheating wife. Others were listening, or singing along, and in The Sheriff's opinion, they weren't improving the melody. He noticed several tables playing cards, accompanied by the pre-loved whores that frequented Sherwood.
The prostitutes who were dancing and swaying with their potential customers didn't interest The Sheriff. They were beautiful and buxom, unmistakably peaking his male interest, as any fine tart would tantalize a man. But as much as they were desirable, they seemed used and dirty to him, and not born with enough brains to darn a sock. He'd had his fill of those strumpets in the past.
Suddenly, a female voice awoke him from his reveries. He turned and saw the barmaid standing at the edge of the counter, waiting for her drink orders to be filled by Tuck.
"Marian," The Sheriff said, flashing her a pseudo-charming smile, although it came off more like a grimace, and touched the brim of his hat in greeting.
"Well shoot my boots, it's The Sheriff on a Tuesday," came her unemotional, yet witty remark.
"That's what I said!" Tucked called distantly from the end of the bar.
"It seemed like the kind of night to get a little whiskey in me," the Sheriff said in a quieter tone, eyeing up Marian from under his hat. She was a slender young thing, although her body was shapely with curves like any other woman. Her forehead glistened wth a thin layer of sweat from the heat and the work and her dark brown hair was tied in a loose bun at the nape of her neck.
"Even though you snuck up on Master Whiskey, Sheriff, it still might sneak up on you. Could knock you plain on your ass," she replied, raising an eyebrow at him.
"Shit, Marian," The Sheriff remarked, while taking a sip of his drink, "You got a face that's prettier n' a Texas sunset, and then you go and open your mouth. Got a trap on you that's a sharp as a Montana bobcat."
"Well I got in some practice in my past on many dirty tough guys like you," she answered, leaning closer, narrowing her hazel eyes at his gruff appearance. He could smell the remnants of the sweet soap she used on her skin, a scent amplified by the sweat on her brow. And like a ravenous wolf who smells a tantalizing whiff of its prey, he pounced.
"I say, Marian," he spoke softly, so only she could hear, "You look prettier and prettier everytime I come in here."
"That's what you always say, Sheriff," Marian shook her head, "And it ain't ever true. You've had too much to drink." She made to move away from him, but he caught her elbow, drawing her towards him. She was unable to escape as he had blocked her in with his other arm, which brushed against her back and pulled her closer to his body.
"You're the only woman in these parts who makes me eat my words. You're the only woman brave enough to call me an asshole," he said, his breath hot on her face and stank of liquor, "I must have you." Her smell was stronger now, emitting a wild and exciting scent of fear.
Marian tried to escape his trap, but was held fast by The Sheriff's surprising strength.
"I ain't nothin'." He said, looking up into her face with startling tenderness. The young woman gazed down at him for a moment, looking deep into his wicked, dark eyes. She would have melted in his arms right then if she didn't know any better. He'd used this trick on her before, and it didn't work those times, and it wasn't going to work this time. Fortunately, Marian knew it was only a ploy for her to hike up her skirt for him like an obedient dog bitch. She gathered up her courage.
"And I ain't nothin' either," she said, pointedly, reaching up and removing the chewed toothpick from between his lips. He let her go, startled by the sudden action and watched as she snapped it in half deftly with her hand.
