copyright 1992, DanSara Publications THE SURREALISTIC COWBOY The Surrealistic Cowboy had awakened suddenly, as always, and known he was needed. He didn't hurry at first. Instead, he hunkered down by the fire and let the coffee simmer while he listened to the whisper that had breached his dreamless sleep. Some time later he drowned the fire with the rest of the coffee and rolled his sleeping gear. He'd been in Mexico this morning. Back roads and nighttime had carried him north through various small towns and then in a wide circle around Tucson. Tucson, like Phoenix, or Dallas, or any big city, was beyond needing him. Their voice was a cacophony and no individual call could reach through to him. If they had spoken to him, he would have ignored the call. He had that choice. Midnight found him on the outskirts of White Eagle, a small town dying on the edge of a dried river bed. White Eagle wasn't even a fly speck on the map he hadn't used to get here. It was just a place that called out to him in the moments before death might choose to take it, leaving nothing but sand and sage brush to cover where hope once lived. He grabbed third gear and topped a rise. Dust rose behind the old truck like jet exhaust. He turned a corner, washboard rattling every bolt in the truck and every bone in his body. Hunched over the wheel with his eyes fixated ahead, his whole body pulled toward his destination as though being pulled by a magnet. He was. The road followed the rise for a way, then disappeared down to the left, only to reappear again as the main street of his destination. He pulled over and shut down before the road's turn to the left. It was an ideal spot from which to view the town. The full moon afforded enough light to roll a smoke with, though he could have done it with both eyes closed in a coal mine. He slipped the cigarette unlit between even teeth. He didn't carry matches and the lighter in the truck didn't work. Yet when he drew on the cigarette the end began to glow and his lungs filled with smoke. It was something he never bothered to think about anymore. There were no street lamps down below. Here and there a porch light burned, making a small enclave against the dark. In the single two story building in the town, a light glowed in one window, casting twisted shadows from the tree that stood outside. That particular window held his gaze for a long time. He drew in one last lung full of smoke and then ground out the cigarette in the ash tray. His gaze swept one more time over the town, lingering only briefly on the lit window. As he started his truck, the light went out. When he rode down main street a few minutes later, he was the only person awake in town. He continued through, following the road for a few miles and then pulled off the road far enough to be undisturbed and made camp for the remainder of the night. Tomorrow he had work to do. He parked his truck in front of Hall's General Store and Cafe at daybreak. It was the building he had watched from the rise the evening before. The closed sign in the window was flipped over as he stepped from the truck. He took his hat off and slapped it against his pants to rid himself of some of the dust from the trail. It didn't help much. He stood for a moment in the street, using the hat to shade his eyes against the morning sun. The town was silent, though signs of life were beginning to show. At the other end of the street a dog barked and then was silent. He turned and walked into the cafe. Inside, the cafe still held the cool of the night. He seated himself by the window, turning his coffee cup upright. There was a fan in the middle of the room, turning slowly, knowing the fight would be lost before noon. On the far wall a calendar hung askew showing the wrong month. The waitress, a thirtyish woman, slender and tired, filled his cup. She plopped a menu down in front of him. "There's no melon, if you're wanting any," she said. "Other than that, the menu's fairly accurate." She brushed a strand of hair from her eyes and went over to stand by the register while he pondered his choices. A small boy sat on a stool behind the counter. He watched the Surrealistic Cowboy with the openness of the very young. The door slammed open just as the waitress, Alannah, her name tag read, returned to the table for his order. He watched her tense as she caught site of the big man coming through the door. Behind the counter, the young boy slid off the stool and faded into a corner. He watched the new arrival with wary eyes. A badge pinned to the newcomer's shirt caught the morning light. The big man looked up and down the room, his eyes coming to rest on the Surrealistic Cowboy. He grimaced, as if he'd discovered a bad taste. The floor groaned under his heavy steps as he walked in their direction. The waitress went to meet him, stopping him halfway. She planted herself in front of the big man, arms akimbo. "Sheriff, you got no call to scare off my customers." He looked down at her and smiled, a snake's smile. "Well, it would appear to me that as Sheriff, I have an obligation to check out strangers, Lannah. I'd sure hate to think you would be interfering with official police duties." He stepped around and past her, before she could respond. He was quick for such a big man. "Besides," he tossed over his shoulder, "I don't think one paying customer will make a big difference on how much longer this greasy spoon lasts. Then you can sell out to me, like everyone else has." She stood there, angry and defeated. The Sheriff put a foot on the seat opposite the Surrealistic Cowboy. "What's your name, boy?" The Surrealistic Cowboy sighed, looking up from his menu. It always went like this. He could have been looking at a script instead of a menu. "Call me Morrison," he said. "Well, Morrison, you got any ID." "No." The Sheriff looked nonplussed. "Now why would that be." "Because, I haven't forgotten who I am," he said. "What about you, Sheriff? Do you know who you are?" Behind the Sheriff, the waitress giggled. The man called Morrison allowed a brief smile to touch his lips. "You know, Morrison," said the Sheriff, "things happen out here in the desert. People get lost, die. You know what I mean. This isn't the big city." "Jack Bedford," said Morrison, looking directly into the Sheriff's eyes. The Sheriff dropped his foot off the seat and drew in a quick breath. He stepped back a step, as much from the look in the stranger's eyes than anything else. "What'd you say?" he sounded incredulous. "Aaron Hall," said Morrison. This time both the Sheriff and the waitress gasped. The last name on her name tag was Hall. She rushed forward. "What do you know about my husband?" "The question," he responded, "is what does the Sheriff know about Aaron Hall? Or Jack Bedford? Or Giles Ramirez, or a lot of other people, for that matter." The Sheriff had his pistol out and pointed at Morrison in an eye-blink. "I think maybe you should come on down to the jail and have a chat with me, Morrison." "I don't think so." "Really," said the Sheriff, sneering, "and why would that be?" He pulled back the hammer on his pistol. It was aimed straight at the stranger's head. "Because I'm hungry and the bacon and eggs here sound real good to me." From beneath the table the sound of a gun being cocked could be heard quite plainly. Both of Morrison's hand were under the table. In the still cool of the cafe the Sheriff began to sweat. "Morrison, you got any idea how much trouble you can get into for pulling a gun on a police officer?" "I don't see any gun but yours Sheriff." He looked at the waitress. "You see me pull a gun on the Sheriff ma'am?" She smiled and shook her head. "Okay Morrison," said the Sheriff. "You and I'll talk before you leave my town. That's a guarantee." "Maybe so, Sheriff. Right now, I'd like to enjoy my breakfast. Without company, if you don't mind." For a minute it looked like the Sheriff would pull the trigger. He was a man who didn't push easy. The moment passed. He uncocked the pistol slowly and re-holstered it. He turned and walked away. "You haven't heard the last of this, Morrison," he said from the doorway. "You're in my town. I can get plenty of back up, if necessary." "By that time, Sheriff, one of us could be dead. On the other hand, with all those others around, I'd have a better chance of being heard, wouldn't I?" The Sheriff glared at him. "Another time Morrison. This isn't over yet." The big man turned and left. "No," said Morrison, looking weary, "it never is." The waitress left him alone with his breakfast. She was aching to ask questions, but there was something about him that put her off. He was used to it. He put most everyone off. He stepped out of the cafe and into the sun. Heat waves were already dancing off the road. He didn't much feel it. He didn't much feel anything any more. Across the street and down a couple of buildings a curtain moved back and eyes peered at him. It was the Sheriff's office. He smiled and tipped his hat. He felt something tug at his pant's leg and looked down. The small boy who'd been behind the register had followed him out. He looked up at the stranger with eyes that belied his youth. "Thanks mister," he said. "What for?" "For coming." Morrison pondered this for a moment. He reached down and patted the boy's head. "You're welcome, Stevie." He stepped out into the street in the direction of the newspaper office. The White Eagle Gazette was formerly owned and operated by one Sam Haskins. He was a small man who moved with bird like motions. He had sold his newspaper, and apparently his soul as well, to the Sheriff about six months prior. The Sheriff kept him on as editor. He had a knack for finding out things and enough sense to keep his mouth shut about what he knew. Sam Haskins dentures were loose and ill fitting so that he whistled on any word with an "s" in it. Little boys would stop him on the street and ask him his name and then run off laughing. He never got it. He stood up from his desk and walked to the counter when the stranger came in. "Something I can do for you, Mister?" "PasCo Oil," said Morrison. Haskin's face went suddenly blank. He visibly paled. "W-What'd you say?" "I just wanted to look at some of your back issues and read up on Pasco Oil. They've done some drilling here-abouts, haven't they?" "Now, I don't rightly recall," said Haskins, suddenly wary. "Tell you what, Mister, why don't you come back in about a week and I'll see what I can find for you." Morrison smiled. "A week, huh. Seems like a bit of a wait for a few newspaper articles. I don't plan on being in town much longer." "Well, that's a shame," said Haskins, "but I'm just swamped here and it'd take me that long to find what you need." "Thanks anyway," said Morrison. "You've told me all I need to know." He walked out of the newspaper office and across to his truck. He sat in the cab and rolled a smoke. In the rear view mirror he watched Haskins come out of his office, scurrying down to the Sheriff's office. He popped the smoke in his mouth and started the ignition. Eyes from many different windows watched as he left town. It didn't take long in a town this size for something unusual to reach the grapevine. It was the same story everywhere he went, fading into one long memory. He tried, as he had many other times, to go back further than this memory. He met only a blank wall of whispers, hints, and washed out dreams that suggested he had been someone else before he had been the Surrealistic Cowboy. All he had from that time was the name he had told the Sheriff. He followed the road from town for about three miles. A little used dirt road turned to the south and he took it without slowing down. Dust boiled up from behind the truck, thin as talcum powder. He entered a small canyon. The sun beat down mercilessly. There was no fence around the oil well, just a sign saying "PasCo Oil, No Trespassing." He parked the truck next to it and got out, stretching his long legs. The cigarette dangling from his lip since town, suddenly began to smoke. He pulled in a deep lung full and leaned against the oil well framework. Eyes closed, he waited. His consciousness flowed into and around the oil well. The present began to fade. Time stopped, then began to ease backwards. The days unreeled, becoming weeks, and then months. He rode the memory like a temporal surfer. The wave eased and he came to rest in a time not long past. He tested, pulling against the anchor that was his body, six month in the future. It held firm. Opening his eyes, he glanced around. There were men and equipment moving in a flurry of activity. The oil well was new and gleaming, freshly erected. Walking as a ghost among the living he surveyed these events. A subtle rumbling reached up through the desert floor to his feet. Smiling, he walked back a few steps. Activity around the drilling site stopped suddenly. The men working ceased what they were doing and came to stand in a ragged semi-circle around the drill site. The rumbling became more pronounced. A lizard scurried for cover. With a roar, echoed by the men surrounding the drilling rig, a solid column of fluid erupted from the ground. It reached for the sky, gathering rainbows as it went. "Aw shit!" yelled the foreman. "Cap it off! Cap it off!" He walked back to a small shack. "The boss ain't gonna like this." Morrison smiled understanding. His eyes followed a vulture as it lazily crossed the sky. It went past a rise behind the well. Sitting on the rise, was the Sheriff's car. The Sheriff stood there, watching through binoculars at the promise of water from men who had only asked for oil. Morrison let go of the past, his consciousness returning to the present. His body still stood by the well, his glance upward toward the rise. He was surprised for a moment and then chuckled. The sheriff's car was on the rise. He waved to the Sheriff. "Come on down, Sheriff. I'll pour you a glass of water. Or maybe I could water your lawn, or golf course, or cut a drink at the White Eagle Country Club." He could feel it, now that he knew it was there. It rolled slowly, several hundred feet below the bedrock and sand. An underground river that the instruments of man had said might be oil. They would pack up and leave, oil slaked their thirst, water was a waste of their time. The Sheriff and his cronies would keep it all quiet while they slowly bought up the town and the countryside. With water, they would wallow in riches. Morrison got into his truck. He could have ended it here, but the Sheriff was not alone. He would bide his time. The Sheriff standing on the rise, watched a leak starting from his carefully constructed dam of secrecy. It would not do for anyone to know yet what they had here. He watched the truck start up and leave the drill site. It wasn't over yet. He had already killed to keep this secret. One more wouldn't hurt. He turned to his underling, Sam Haskins. "Give me the transmitter." "Now wait a minute, Sheriff. You paid me to keep my mouth shut about this water deal. I didn't agree to be part of a murder." "Give me that you lisping pansy," growled the Sheriff, reaching for the transmitter that Haskins was holding. Haskins jerked his hand back. The Sheriff's reaching hand just grazed the transmitter and it went flying down off the rise to land by the drill site. "Damn you Haskins," said the Sheriff. He back-handed the smaller man knocking him into the sand. It was obvious that he could not reach the transmitter before Morrison got to the narrow place in the canyon where the charge was set. He faced in that direction, his hand hovering over his pistol. Haskins picked himself up from the sand and wiped blood from the corner of his mouth. "No way in hell, you're gonna hit that from here Sheriff," he said, "No way in hell." "Shut up Haskins, before I have a mind to shoot you instead." He watched the truck draw near the spot. He eased out his breath, growing calm. Now. His hand was a blur of motion as he brought the pistol up. The sound of the shot was lost in the thunder of the blast. A small section of the canyon wall began to fall, majestically gathering speed. The Sheriff watched Morrison's vehicle as it disappeared into a wall of dust proceeding the avalanche. There was no way that nosy bastard would escape. He turned toward Haskins, his anger at the smaller man extinguished in the satisfaction over his shooting. Haskins looked at him, then down at the pile of rocks covering the road into the canyon. The dust in the air made the visibility poor, but there was no doubt about it. That was one crunched stranger down there. He shook his head and got into the car. Stevie led the Sheriff down to his usual table but was stopped by the big man's hand on his shoulder. He flinched and looked up. Stevie was scared of the Sheriff. He knew that his momma didn't like him either, because he had heard her use a bad word one day when she was talking about the Sheriff. There was a connection between the Sheriff and his Daddy not coming home any more, but he wasn't sure what it was. When he asked his momma, she just said, "can't prove anything son." That was why Stevie had prayed for God to send somebody to get rid of the Sheriff. "I think I'll sit over here," said the Sheriff, motioning to the spot where the stranger had sat this morning. He smiled at some inner joke. He eased himself into the booth. "Have your Momma bring my dinner out. I got some talkin to do with her. Mind you get me some water boy." "Water," he said, chuckling, then laughing out loud. "Oh yes water." He took his hat off and lay it on the table, accidentally knocking off a dinner fork. "Damn," he said, bending over to pick it up. As he straightened up, his water was being placed on the table. "That was quick boy, now where's your...Jesus Christ!" he exploded, pushing himself back into his seat as he noticed that it wasn't the boy delivering his water. "Evening Sheriff, mind if I join you," said Morrison, taking a seat across from him. "But, but, you're supposed to be..." "What, Sheriff, dead maybe?" The Sheriff sat silent, gathering himself. Morrison should've been dead, but he wasn't. The man was lucky as a cat. Okay, deal with it, he thought, slowly regaining his composure. He leaned back, relaxing. There was always some way to handle a situation. "Okay, Morrison. How much?" He looked at the Sheriff for a long moment, then reached across the table and picked up the glass of water he had just set down. He drank it in one long drink. "I'm supposed to make you an offer," he said. The Sheriff grinned. So, this lucky odd ball was working for someone. "I'm all ears," he responded. "I'm supposed to tell you there is one way out for you. If you donate all the property back to the original owners that you either forced or cheated out, if you turn yourself in for the murders you have committed, then I can let you go. That's the deal." "You're nuts, Morrison," said the Sheriff, leaning forward, angry as hell. "I don't know who you're working for, but you tell them, that no one has anything on me. There isn't a man alive that I'm afraid of. Inside a month I'll own enough of this town to do exactly as I please. You, or your people ain't nothing to me." Morrison stood. "I had to make the offer," he said. "I'm glad you didn't take it though. Not that I expected you to. I may enjoy this one. We'll settle up tonight." He picked up his hat, nodding to the waitress and her little boy and stepped out into the warm evening air. A brisk wind plucked at his hat so that he had to hold it onto his head. Behind him, the Sheriff sat, open mouthed, suddenly no longer hungry. The moon hung heavy over White Eagle. Most of the lights of the town were out. Only the Sheriff's office still had light coming from the windows. That too went out as the Sheriff eased himself out of the door, cautiously checking that no one was out there. The wind bit at him, stinging his exposed face with bits of sand. It was getting hard to see. Moonlight fought through the sandstorm, faintly lighting his way. Sand crunched underfoot, unheard against the wind. He looked across the street, barely able to make out the buildings. The wind picked up more as he stepped out into the street towards his patrol car. He wished he hadn't left it by the cafe after dinner. The air was so full of sand now that he couldn't make out anything at all. He continued in the direction he had been going, one arm covering his eyes while he reached out like a blind man with the other. He became disoriented and knew after a few moments that he must be walking down the middle of the street. He turned at a right angle and was comforted when his hand touched a hitching post. Hitching post? The wind stopped. Not dying down with a sigh, but completely and without warning. Sand dropped like rain for a few seconds. Dust hung in the air, a weird desert fog. He looked at the hitching post under his hands. It was, by God, a hitching post. He stepped up on the sidewalk and immediately stepped back, as though he had met a rattlesnake. His boots had echoed on wood, not concrete. He backed out onto a main street that was dirt. On some of the buildings, lanterns were burning, breaking through the gloom. He heard footsteps down the street. Slow and measured on the wooden sidewalk. Spurs jangled loudly in the quiet. Morrison stepped out into the street, facing him. "Evening Sheriff. Did you give my offer any more thought?" The Sheriff faced Morrison, enraged. "What the hell is all this Morrison? What have you done to me?" "I haven't done anything to you Sheriff. You've done it all yourself. This is just a small stop on the way to hell." The moon stood high behind the Sheriff, his shadow reaching long before him. Morrison was illuminated, his figure given a soft glow by the dust still hanging in the air. The Sheriff sneered. All in all, Morrison made a great target. Man or devil, the Sheriff feared neither. "Get ready to meet your maker," he said, his hand hovering over his pistol. "I already have," whispered Morrison. "I already have." The Sheriff's hand moved like lightening. He gripped the pistol, sliding it from the holster and cocking it at the same time. He brought it up, dead center on Morrison's chest. In the silence of midnight, the sound of a single shot was quite loud. Alannah Hall came awake with a start. A sound. Something had awakened her. She lay awake for a moment before it came to her. A gun shot. She had heard a gunshot. She got up quickly, slipping on a robe over her nightgown. She went to Stevie's room. Her heart skipped a beat when she saw the bed empty. "Stevie?" "Right here ma," he responded. She followed the sound of his voice. He was standing by a window, looking out. She went over to him. "What are you looking at son?" she asked. He looked up at her then back down at the street. "The man who came into town today just killed the Sheriff. It was really neat ma, just like TV." She looked out into the street, following the gaze of her son. Porch lamps were beginning to come on. She hadn't been the only one to be awakened. In the street, blurred somewhat by the dust in the air, lay a body. "Stay here!" she instructed her son and went running down the stairs. A crowd was already beginning to gather around the body when she came up. It was indeed the Sheriff. Moonlight and death had left him pale a caricature of the man he had been. Dead, he looked small and pitiful. "Let me through!" said a gruff voice. A small, wizened old man pushed his way through the crowd. Old Doc Simmons carrying his bag, knelt down by the Sheriff. There was no need to lift the Sheriff's eyelids, they were opened and focused on eternity. A check for a pulse found only a cold wrist. "Well, he's a deader," said the Doc. "Looks like he had a massive coronary right here in the street." "Coronary?" asked Alannah. "I thought he was shot." "Yeah," said another voice from the crowd, "I heard a shot too. That's what woke me up." Other's echoed that sentiment. None of them seemed too saddened by it. "Come to think of it," said the Doc, "so did I." He began to examine the Sheriff's body closely, going so far as to practically strip the man right there in the street. He scratched his head. "I don't know. I can't find any sort of wound and there sure as hell ain't no blood. I'd bet my retirement the big guy had a coronary." The crowd stood around for a while. A couple of volunteers came back with a stretcher. Alannah looked up at the window above the cafe. Stevie was still looking out the window. She waved tentatively at him and he smiled down at her. He looked somehow more relaxed than he had since his father had been found dead in the desert. She knew the Sheriff had frightened him. Hell, the Sheriff had frightened her. Part of her relaxed too, knowing the big man was dead. Looking around, she could see it mirrored in the faces of the people around her. The dust in the air had finally settled. She looked up at the night sky. It was beautiful, full of stars intersected by the milky way. She loved it out here. She turned to go back into her home above the cafe. There was change in the air. Something told her that things were going to get better. A lot better. She never questioned her son about what he had seen that night. Sam Haskins was a deep sleeper, sleeping through all the commotion. He wouldn't confirm the Sheriff's death until the next day. The night held its own surprises for him, though. Working his way up to consciousness, he slowly realized that the light was on in his room. He brushed at the cobwebs of his mind. Hadn't he turned off the light before he went to sleep? He sat up in bed and gasped. A dead man was sitting across from him in the rocker, slowly rocking back and forth. Morrison smiled and tossed a thick manila envelope onto the bed. "There are deeds and a will in that envelope. I want you to see that this is all taken care of nice and proper Haskins. I think we will all find that the Sheriff was a much more generous man in death, than he ever was in life." Haskins gulped. His throat was dry and his voice had taken a vacation. He looked at Morrison, mute as a stone. Morrison stood. "Do as I told you, Haskins and I won't have to come back here looking for you." Haskins bobbed his head up and down rapidly. He looked at the envelope on his bed, reaching out to take it in his hands. His voice returned. "What...?" he started to say, looking up. He began to shiver. Sam Haskins was alone and scared in his own bedroom. The Surrealistic Cowboy camped a good distance outside town for a few days until things began to feel like they were on track. He loved the desert. It was clean and clear. You could find your soul out here, he mused, and laughed to himself. On the fourth day, he awoke suddenly. Half heard, insistent whispers had interrupted his sleep. No rest for the wicked, he thought, while making coffee. In a while, he began to break camp. By noon, he was well on his way to Oregon. THE END