"That's the trouble with witnesses. They always look at the wrong things."
― Craig Rice, Trial by Fury
We were sitting around a small campfire. Second full night resting on a cold ground instead of back home in bed with my wife Jennie, who was probably worried out of her mind. Sheriff volunteered to stand watch on this night. He wasn't very talkative, no matter the topic. The Sheriff didn't have much of an opinion on any particular subject, mostly preferring to listen than interject. Surprisingly, receiving an occasional nod or shrug sufficed.
"We have an idea who the pasta maker is for, but who is that kitten for?" Spencer was curious even though he knew we would never really know. Not from the horse's mouth, we wouldn't.
"Probably for his wife." I assumed.
"Wife doesn't like cats."
Spencer and I were both shocked by a response given by our Sheriff. Only Spencer quickly recovered from such a rare chance at dialogue.
"Got it for yourself?" Spencer became more interested in this little known fact about the Sheriff's wife. A wife that the town knew very little about except she was married to the town's top law office and was expecting a baby any day.
"Was told someone likes them. No different than the pasta machine." Rick shrugged. He spoke as if it was a matter of fact.
"Everyone knows who wants, or will die without a pasta maker. I can't imagine who would ask for you to bring back an animal that isn't a cow or a pig, or a rooster. A cat is a luxury. I glanced from the Sheriff, who sat on the other side of the fire to Spencer next to me. The Sheriff remained preoccupied with a tiny hairless kitten who preferred to stay tucked away inside of his jacket.
Spencer scratched his head. We waited, but the Sheriff didn't respond any further.
"Fuck that; a cat is good eating." Daryl stepped out of the darkness of the woods. His sudden appearance lit by the campfire could have caused his sudden demise. The Sheriff had his gun already drawn before Spencer, and I could register an intruder was in our mist. Daryl's golden fingertips illuminated in the night and even brighter with the help of our camp fire's light.
Unexpectedly, there was a simple click of a gun aimed by the Sheriff in his direction, slowed Daryl to a halt. Daryl was smart to have waited for the Sheriff to withdraw his weapon before proceeding to come and sit closest to us two deputies.
"You always quick to draw?"
"I've killed all I needed today, what is one more?"
"You have no idea how your bodies keep me busy on the right side of the wall."
"You have no idea how that yellow stain on your fingers saved your life."
"Only protection I got."
"How about you tell us what you are doing on this side, Daryl?" I had asked the question that we men who were held responsible for laws would generally want to know.
"I found my wife."
"You found Sasha?"
"Rosita, too."
"Where?"
"Ten miles out past the main birthing camp."
"The Badlands?"
"I'm going to need help to get her back. I can't do it all myself—too many of them. I barely made it out. I only came back because Sasha insisted the odds would be best if I have more than just me. Told Sasha, I don't give a shit about Rosita, but she gives a shit about Rosita. If I can't get anyone to help, I'm just going to go back alone."
We didn't offer any assistance for the Badlands. That far away? No was my answer by remaining silent. Spencer kept his head down.
Daryl continued, "I rather die trying than begging. I told my wife Sasha that. I'm telling you all that."
"If anyone can, it would be him." Spencer touted what we weren't sure our Sheriff would offer, and he didn't. He remained quiet too.
"I believe it." Daryl's eyes remained steadfast on our Sheriff.
"The law does not extend outside the gates."
"Then what you doing outside here for, and you being the law?"
"Out here, I'm uprighting wrongs. I suggest you do the same. Fight your own damn battle."
"Is that what you call it with these two with you?" Daryl challenged.
"Every man needs a witness."
"I wonder how things will play out when the Governor's crew arrives at the station. Traveling up from the south. About a day,"
"Governor in the Badlands?"
"Andrea. Representing the Governor. She pretended like she didn't know who the fuck I was, but that's alright. When she makes it to Baptist town, one look, shit will hit the fan, especially Negan bitching in the right ear about his men gone missing. They appoint who they want as Sheriff and the Governor will replace your ass faster than an unsure woman bound to change her mind."
"You think I'm worried?"
"I guess, not. Outside of killing folks, I would never believe you would have no other reason to be out here. I guess you do need witnesses. Because I, for one, wouldn't believe it. Not even coming from them." Daryl had tipped his head towards Spencer and me.
"Come again?" Our Sheriff asked for clarification.
Daryl continued to spout, "My two eyes have seen it all. A damn spaghetti maker mounted on the back of your horse. A gotdamn diseased cat in your shirt pocket to give to who the fuck knows would want it."
I had nudged Spence not to speak. Not to say a single word that could antagonize the situation regardless if he was bringing an educational public service announcement. The cat wasn't a diseased animal but a healthy pure as they come hairless sphynx—all according to Spencer.
By the time we were back in town, word had spread like wildfire that Shelly had got her pasta maker. The Sheriff had secretly, so he thought, gifted Michonne with the kitten.
