ME LORD, YER WIFE, LADY PART 3 APPROACHES...

The Wheezer Farmstead was situated on acres of rolling, flower-specked prairie. Bluebonnets and stalks of wheat bobbed up and down in the river-breeze, and Tex closed her eyes, listening to the bumblebees that droned from blossom to blossom. She passed a livestock pen filled with horses, and another with cattle; the beasts flicked their tails to keep flies and other biting insects from settling on their flanks. One more bend in the dirt track brought Tex to a newly-constructed barn. A dozen fuzzy llamas cavorted around the pasture, and the farmer who sat among them looked so at home that Tex nearly missed him. He rested with his back against a stone wall, combing the tangles from a baby llama's wool. Tex trotted up for a closer look.

Farmer Wheezer proved to be a pudgy Irishman – pale, ginger-haired, and covered with freckles. He sported an ugly orange shirt and green suspenders, and he had the cross-eyed squint of someone whose glasses no longer quite did the trick. His legs were altogether too skinny for his roly-poly torso, and Tex had to stifle a chuckle when he heaved himself off the ground to greet her.

"Need some help, Miss?" he asked, before lifting his spectacles to peer up at her. "You are a 'Miss', right?"

She laughed disarmingly, then moved right on to ingratiating herself. "Those are some fine beasts you have there," she said. "I don't know many farmers who raise llamas north of the border."

He beamed with pride. "They're a well-kept secret, Miste– err, I mean, Miss. Sheep's wool chafes like grit in your girdle once you've felt llama fur. It's like running your hands over the clouds in heaven."

Tex suppressed an urge to roll her eyes. It was so easy to gain the favor of strangers, as long as you were willing to feign interest in their boring, second-rate lives.

"Remarkable," she breathed, gazing around in exaggerated admiration. "I must say, sir, this farm is the very pink of perfection – I had not expected to encounter such charming scenery or such well-mannered folk when I first volunteered to carry a message to Retro Valley."

"A message? Is it for me?"

"Oh no, sir," she giggled, slipping further into the role of charming ninny. "I have a message for a Mr. James Neutron – you don't know where I could find him, do you? It's quite important that I give it to him straight away." She patted her coat pocket, as if to indicate a letter – knowing that Mr. Wheezer could not see the revolver concealed underneath.

"Aww, sorry, Miss. He won't be back until sundown. He's out in the desert with Goddard right now."

"Goddard?"

"Oh, that's his dog. The two of them always go out into the desert on Fridays. Something about quartz crystals...or was it lightning?"

She leaned forward and lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "Is he really off his rocker, then, like people in town were saying?"

Farmer Wheezer's eyes flashed. "Don't you listen to them, Miss! Our Sheriff is as sharp as they come. You know, he came up with a fancy new irrigator for my crops, and now we have more food than we know what to do with...than the whole town knows what to do with!" He gestured toward the river, and Tex raised her eyebrows in genuine interest.

The outlaw was about to press him further about the irrigation system when she heard footsteps coming toward them. Tex looked to her left to find a young lady approaching through a trail in the flowers. There were daisies in her flaxen braids, and a green bonnet kept the sun off her exquisitely pretty face.

"Carl my love, dinner is being ready now!" Her voice rose and fell in sing-song tones. "Will you be coming in soon for the eating?"

Mr. Wheezer answered in the affirmative, then introduced the woman as his wife Elke. Tex was taken aback. This lady, his wife? Mr. Wheezer was so ugly he could bluff a buzzard off a meat wagon – how in heaven's name had he managed to secure such a stunning bride?

Money, no doubt, concluded Tex grimly. A man who owned a prosperous farm could afford a beautiful woman. Everyone has their price, she thought. I wonder what mine is?

"Will you care to be joining us for the dinner, Miss?" asked Mrs. Wheezer.

"Oh...no thank you, Ma'am," replied the outlaw, trying to place Elke's accent – Swedish? "I was just on my way to the Sheriff's."

"Well," said the farmer, "His house isn't too much farther up the road. And if you don't feel like waiting 'til sunset, you can always leave the letter on his table. He keeps the front door unlocked most days. Unless of course you need to speak to him in person or something..." he trailed off. "Anyhow, don't be afraid to stop by the farm tonight if you need a place to rest your heels and take care of your horse!"

Tex thanked them with a tip of her hat, then steered Humphrey back onto the main track. As the mismatched couple grew smaller behind her, Tex's smile widened into a bloodthirsty grin.

What kind of a Sheriff left his doors unlocked while he was out wandering in the desert? What kind of a person designed and built irrigation systems for a fat, guileless neighbor and his too-pretty wife? Tex was rarely curious about her targets, but this man – this man might prove to be different.

I'm sick (as usual) and bored out of my mind, so I'd be much obliged if you'd mitigate my suffering with a review~

HISTORICAL SHIT AND BULLSHIT SHIT
-I have no idea if llamas were raised outside of South America in the 1870s, but I don't really give a flying crap. CARL IS NOT CARL WITHOUT TEH LLAMAS
-As an Irishman, Carl's parents would likely have come over from Ireland during the Great Potato Famine of the late 1840s. Most Irish immigrants settled into crappy urban conditions, but some opted to go west and seek greener pastures (literally, in Carl's case). Since Carl would've been born in America, he's got no accent, unlike Elke, who's pretty much fresh off the boat. Prior to the 1890s, Swedish immigrants were not particularly numerous, and they generally failed to assimilate into American society. Elke is doing better than most, then, seeing as she speaks English, is married to a financially-secure dude, and has a way cool bonnet.
-Carl's green and orange clothes are not only delightfully canon, but also a subtle reference to Ireland's deep-seated religious divide (orange for protestants, and green for catholics, as immortalized in the AWESOME Irish Rovers song "The Orange and the Green". Google it, seriously)
-Goddard's namesake, the famous physicist and inventor Robert H. Goddard, wasn't born until 1882, so it doesn't really make much sense for Jimmy to have named his dog this. Fortunately, there was another scientist named John Frederick Goddard who was born in the late 1700s, and who was something of a genius chemist. So yeah, in this version of reality, Goddard the dog is named after him instead.