Western Tale: Chapter 7

Half an hour later I was walking along the boardwalk on Main Street--I'd left Joe to get some breakfast.  

An older gent, perhaps in his forties, approached me wearing a leather vest under his jacket, and a black hat with a silver band.

"Excuse me ma'am, but are you Miss Mary Blythe?"

"I am," I replied, "And you are?"

"Sheriff Hayes, ma'am.  Glad to make your acquaintance." He held out his hand, and I shook it.

"Is there something I can do to help you sheriff?"

"As a matter of fact, there is," he replied.  "I have heard rumours about what happened to your companions on the stagecoach, but I'd really like to hear from a witness to the events.  Could you please explain what happened?"

The sheriff escorted me to the jail and sat me down to explain the events of the last few days.  He had long dark hair, swept back under his hat, and big hazel eyes. The more I explained the wider those eyes became.  He was rapt--leaning forward in his chair as I told the tale.  I didn't even mention the more intimate parts.

"And what do you plan to do now?" Asked the sheriff when I finished.  Before I could answer there was a crack of thunder and rain started to hammer against the shingle roof of the jail house.  I jumped up from my seat--the sound was too much like a gunshot.

“It’s all right,” said the Sheriff, “It’s only thunder: nothing to be afraid of.”

I gradually sat back down in my seat.  I felt flushed.  Sheriff Hayes looked over at me and smiled.  He opened a drawer of his desk, pulled out a liquor bottle and two glasses.

“Seems to me, you’ve had a bit of a shock,” he said as he poured two generous shots.  “Here, have this.”  He handed me a glass and took the other for himself.  Thunder cracked again and a little of my whiskey spilled over my fingers when I jumped involuntarily.

I swapped the glass to my other hand and sucked the whiskey from my fingers.  It tasted good, and tickled my tongue.  The sheriff was watching me intently, and, when he saw I was looking back at him, took a big swallow of whiskey.  I took a little sip in response and coughed.  I wasn’t prepared for how strong it was, and how it burned on its way down.

“Goodness!”

“You feeling better for that Miss Mary?”

I raised my eyebrows.  “If you are going to call me that, I think it only right that I know your Christian name.”

“Paul,” he said, “My name is Paul Hayes.”

“Paul,” I repeated.  I took another sip of whiskey, this time without the coughing.  I smiled at my own success.  The thunder rumbled and the rain pounded down.

“I think,” he said, “That you were going to tell me what your plans were for the future, Miss Mary.”

I smiled, nodded and took a larger sip of whiskey, this time needing to suppress a cough, but very much enjoying the burn of its descent.

"I would love to retrieve the carpet bag containing my possessions, and then continue my journey so that I may begin my position as school teacher."

"Well," he replied, "Let me see what I can do to help."  He poured himself another shot and raised the bottle to me.  I nodded and held out my glass.

I returned his smile.  “How long do you think it might be before I can continue my journey?”

“Probably only a day or two, Miss.”

I nodded.  The bandit’s money would be enough to keep me at the hotel for longer than that.  

Paul looked out at the weather.  The rain was falling in buckets, and the street was awash.  “Weather gets like this sometimes in these parts.  Ain’t nobody goes out ‘til the rain calms down.  I reckon we’ll be here for a couple of hours at least.”

I stood and walked to the doorway.  There was no one visible on the streets, no horses, no pedestrians.  The sky was grey, the air thick with rain and the street a sea of mud.

I took a sip of whiskey, “I hope you don’t mind me taking shelter here, until the rain passes, Sheriff Hayes.”

“Paul, Miss.  Please call me Paul.  I would be only too pleased to make you comfortable until the weather passes.”

I smiled back at him, and he finished his glass of whiskey once more.  This time when he poured more for himself, I declined.  I still had quite a bit left in my glass, and could already feel my head was a little woolen.

“In the meantime, if there’s anything else I can do--absolutely anything--please let me know.”  He threw down the remaining whiskey in his glass and put the empty glass on the table.  I took another tentative sip of mine.  

With nothing better to do, I wandered towards the back of the room.  Through a door, I realised that there were a couple of jail cells at the back of the building.

“Do you have anyone incarcerated at the moment, Sher… Paul?”

“No, Miss.  Not presently.”

I stepped through the door into a short corridor that ran in front of the two cells.  The walls of the cells were iron bars--both between the two cells and between the cells and the corridor.  The back walls of the cells were the stone of the building.

“Do you ever have occasion to lock up women?” I asked, a propos of nothing.

Paul came to the door, his glass refilled, and leaned against the doorpost as he answered, “Very rarely, Miss.  When we do, it is generally on charges relating to drink.”

“I see,” said I.  “But in those circumstances, they would have no privacy, would they?”

Paul took a sip of whiskey, “That’s right.  I suppose they forego that kind of privilege when they get themselves arrested.”

“Would you ever have men and women in the same cell?”

“No,” he replied.  Then before he thought any further he carried on, “Not that that stops…” Too late he realised he’d said too much.

“Stops what?”

Paul looked at me with those dark hazel eyes and poured the rest of his drink down his throat.

“I’m not at all sure I should say, Miss Mary.”

“But I’m asking you directly,” I replied.  “I would be obliged if you would answer my question.”

“I’m afraid, you might find the answer a little embarrassing.”

I still had little idea of what he was going to say.  Maybe it was the school teacher in me, maybe it was the whiskey--most likely it was both.  But like a dog with a bone, I held onto my question and asked again.

“None the less,” I said, “What were you going to say?”

“Well,” he was still hesitant, but carried on, stumbling over his words, not sure how best to explain, “There was this one time, when I had a young lady--she worked in the saloon as a dancer, and waitress.  I had jailed her for smashing a bottle over some cowboy’s head.  She’d only knocked him out, but she’d had a skinful (pardon my language Miss).  Miss Olivia was her stage name, as I recall.  Anyways, in the other cell was a young cowpoke, name of Charlie Butcher.  Now Charlie had a way with the ladies, if you understand my meanin’?”

I did, and nodded, so Paul continued.

“I had been out taking a walk in the night air around midnight.  And when I got back, I found Charlie and Miss Olivia were… well… having relations.”

“But they were in separate cells?”

“Yes, Miss Blythe,” he replied.

I looked quizzical, took a sip of whiskey, and asked, “How?”

“Through the bars,” he said.  A multiplicity of images erupted in my mind.  None of them would have occurred to me a week ago, but, given my own awakening over the past few days, I realised all kinds of things might be possible through the bars.

I put my hand to my mouth, “Oh my!”  My cheeks were bright red--through embarrassment and alcohol, I’m sure.

The sheriff stepped away from the doorway and reappeared in moments with his glass refilled.

I lifted my glass to my lips and drank the remainder of my glass.  The burning sensation in my chest felt wonderful, and let me concentrate on something other than the images playing in my mind.

“I’m sorry, Miss Mary.  I…”

“That’s all right.  I understand--it was me.  I asked you to tell me, and you did warn me.  I didn’t think for a moment that… well… that… You know.”

He nodded and took a swig from his glass, rolling it around his mouth before swallowing.

“I can’t imagine,” he said, “That you had any notion as to the kinds of things that might happen in a jailhouse.”

Thunder rumbled outside, and I turned away from the sheriff.  I saw water pouring down from a hole in the roof onto the floor of one of the cells, spattering on the stone floor.

“Neither can I imagine what it feels like to be locked in one of these jail cells.”

The sheriff reached up to the door frame and lifted off a key ring.

“I can show you how that feels, Miss Mary.”

He walked over to the closer cell and unlocked the door.

“Step inside,” he said.

I did as I was told, and walked into the cell.  Before I had turned around to face him, he had closed the door, and was locking it.

“Now I ain’t never been convicted of a crime, but when I was a little ‘um, my pap sent me to the sheriff and had the sheriff put me in a cell.  I still remember how it felt, though I was only inside for a few minutes.  it’s a powerful feeling.”

I nodded.  He was right.  The sheriff had stepped away from the door, and I realised I couldn’t get myself out of that cell.  My heart started racing, and I became a little anxious.  I looked at him pleadingly.  “Oh sheriff,” I said, “There is an unsettling feeling which is starting to overcome me.  I don’t think I could hardly stand to be in here for more than a few minutes.  If I were locked in here, I don’t know what I wouldn’t do to try to get out.”

Though I said no more, it occurred to me that female prisoners might well use their sex in order to assure their freedom.

The sheriff nodded.  “Many’s the folks who’ve felt that,” he said, “And many’s the offer been made.  I don’t think you’re alone in those feelings, Miss.”  He unlocked the door and pulled it open.  Immediately I walked through the doorway, I felt better; the anxiety flowed out of me.

I turned to face the sheriff and lifted the glass to my lips.  I was so distracted, I didn't realise it was already empty.

“Here,” said the sheriff, “Let me help you with that.”  He brushed passed me into the office and took the bottle from his desk, then poured us each another measure.

“Anyone suffering that kind of… containment would quickly feel desperate.”  I took a swig.

“Certainly they do.  And for some, once they've spent some time in jail, they know the last thing they want to do is go back.”

I nodded.

“But when the judge sentences them to thirty days, it’s here they're going to come.  I’m sure glad there ain't no one locked up right now.”

“Why’s that?”

“Well, after the first week, the smell can get pretty ripe.”

I raised my eyebrows.

“Well, not to be too indelicate, I'll give ‘em a chamber pot, but they don't get more’n a bucket to wash up in.  And they cain’t ‘xactly change their clothes.”

“I see.”

“So last week, old Curly left me after a two week spell and I needed three days with the windows open to get rid of the funk.”

I smiled.  Lightning cracked, with the thunder only a heartbeat behind it.

“Storm’s getting closer,” said the sheriff, “It’ll still be a while before the rain dies down.  Why don’t you come back through and sit down?”

I followed the sheriff back into his front office and took the chair he offered.  I took a sip of whiskey and he mirrored me.

“So what’s the longest you’ve had a lady locked up here?” I asked.

“Hmm,” he replied, and took a sip as he pondered, “Probably Patsy O’Sullivan, last year.  She was here through the month of October.”

“Goodness.”

“Lucky for her there weren’t no one else got locked up around then, so she had the place to herself.”

“She managed to maintain her modesty then.”

Paul guffawed.  “Seems you ain’t never met Patsy.”

“No.  I can’t say I’ve had the pleasure.”

“Well, one minute she can be as ornery as a bobcat, and the next minute as beguiling as a pussy cat.  Trouble is, you never know which one you’re gonna git.”  He took a sip.  “And when she’s like a pussy cat, well…”

He glanced over at me, once more realising that the whiskey had loosened his tongue.

“What, Paul?”

“I… I can’t say.”

I took a sip of whiskey, “Would it make me blush?”

“I should think so, Miss Mary.”

“Are you certain?”

“Pretty darn certain.”

The combination of whiskey and that brief moment in the jail cell had left me in a strange state.  I don’t think I was quite myself.  Perhaps that’s just an excuse for my behavior.  At any rate, I do believe that what I said next was somewhat out of character.

“Well, there’s only one way to find out.”