Installment #2
Chapter 3
3
Sheriff Otis Cady was up with the sun, afraid all of Eden was going up in flames. His wife, Patty, was less concerned. She lay snoring softly, sealed off from the world in her sleeping mask and earplugs. She had barely stirred when the telephone rang.
Having been married to him for so long, even in her sleep Patty knew that when a call came, even in the darkest hours, it was for her husband and that he would answer it.
Pulling on his khaki pants and shirt, Sheriff Cady grabbed his badge and gun before putting his fingers to his graying mustache. Blowing his wife a kiss so as not to disturb her. Then slipping out of the house, pausing to feed and water the dogs and take in the sunrise along the horizon.
Off in the distance he thought he heard a gunshot and braking tires but quickly convinced himself it was probably nothing more than a car backfiring.
His own squad car needed alignment, listing to the left slightly as it flew down the gravel road. The road running between two pastures that looked identical yesterday but were very different today. They both shared low hills rolling to the horizon and small groups of trees dotting their landscapes. But the pasture on Sheriff Cady’s right was black and smoldering, having been set afire and burned off the previous evening.
It was sometime around five that morning when the fire line crept over a hill and ran down the other side, coming too close to the Rind’s hog farm. It was Mr. Rind who had called Sheriff Cady to tell him that he and his sons had managed to beat back the fire. And to let it be known that he was none too happy that his pigs had almost turned to bacon before their time.
The pasture wheeling past Sheriff Cady’s left was scheduled to be torched later that afternoon. At its far side, the pasture brushed up against the edge of Eden. Most of the ranchers went about burning off their grasslands in a safe, responsible manner.
And then there was Mike and Mike.
Mike and Mike weren’t ranchers, just two local boys who had turned their enthusiasm for fire into profitable businesses—demolition, fireworks and burning off ranges. They did solid work when it came to setting off rocks at the quarry or bringing down old barns and bridges around the county. Even Sheriff Cady was willing to concede they did a nice job with the fireworks displays every year for Eden’s Fourth of July celebration. But when it was time for torching fields, their passion for their work sometimes overrode any professional concern for safety.
When Sheriff Cady saw their trucks pulled off in a ditch up ahead, his lean, weathered face broke into an easy smile of disbelief. Mike and Mike were relaxing on a tailgate, tossing back breakfast beers.
Mike – or Mexican Mike as people called him when the two Mikes were together or when they were telling a story about the two Mikes and wanted to differentiate between them – had his beagle beside him, scratching her behind her floppy brown ears.
She was the first to notice the Sheriff’s squad car. The dog hopping down from the tailgate and ducking under the truck. Mike and Mike trying to hide their beers behind their backs.
Sheriff Cady stepping from the air-conditioned car into the morning heat from above and the lingering heat of the scorched earth under his boots.
“Hi Mike,” Sheriff Cady said to both men. Adjusting his straw Stetson on his head so that it blocked the sun from his eyes.
“Buenos Dias, Sheriff,” Mexican Mike said.
“Morning Sheriff,” Mike said. “You’re up early. Hot enough?”
“Too hot,” Sheriff Cady said. He was about to mention the beers but taking in the worn appearance of the men, dirty faces, red eyes under singed eyebrows, sweat soaking through the pits and guts of their shirts, Sheriff Cady let it go. Instead, getting right to the point.
“Hot enough to fry an egg, as they say. Have mine over easy with a slice of ham. You can cut the ham right off the smoked carcass of one of Dennis Rind’s hogs yourself. I hear things got away from you over that way this morning.”
Sheriff Cady kneeling, attempting to coax the beagle out from under the truck.
“What’s wrong with your dog, Mexican Mike? Don’t she like people?”
“She shy,” he said
“What’s her name again?”
“Scarlett.”
“C’mere Scarlett. C’mon,” Sheriff Cady said. Extending an upturned palm to the dog. The dog taking a curious step toward it before stopping, uncertain.
Sheriff Cady again coaxing her, c’mere pup. Keeping his eyes on the dog but talking to the Mikes.
“Anyway, you boys best watch what you’re doing. Don’t over burn. And better keep watch over the perimeter, all of it. I get another call, you boys will get another visit, not so polite next time either. Fire’s a nasty thing. Does what it wants. You think it’s burning one way, it goes the other, spreading as fast you breathe. Looks like you were up all night. Better get some sleep before you start in again. Can’t be alert if your tails are dragging in the dirt. Mexican Mike, what the hell did you do to this dog?”
“Oh, she’ll warm up to you. Give her time,” Mexican Mike said. The dog cocked her head at Sheriff Cady when he made kissing noises at her but she would not approach him.
Sheriff Cady stood, saying, “I don’t got time to convince a dog that petting is a good thing. Just like I don’t have time to give you two boys a fire safety course. There’s scoring where the fire burned up over the road there. I been driving around and saw more acreage burned than was slotted for last night.”
“Just trying to work ahead, Sheriff,” Mike said.
“Yeah, work efficiently,” Mexican Mike said, tapping his finger against his grimy temple. “Smarter not harder, you know?”
“Smarter not harder my ass,” Sheriff Cady said. “Cheese?”
The sheriff offered an imaginary hunk of cheese to the dog. Interested now, the dog creeping from under the truck to sniff the sheriff’s empty hand. She bolted away when he tried to pat her head.
“The hell is wrong with your hound?”
“Don’t worry, Sheriff,” Mike said, “We know what we’re doing. You know us. You know we’ll be careful.”
“Yeah, I know you. A couple of goofballs, you two. What were you, thirteen or something, the first time I had to haul you in? Roman candle fight, aiming the damn things at each other’s heads. Should have charged you both with assault with a deadly weapon.”
“Nope, that was later,” Mexican Mike said. “First time was flaming balls. Remember that, Mike?”
“Hell, yeah! That was out back by that apple tree, right? Soaked them tennis balls in gas for, like, an hour before we threw the things up in the air and tossed a match at them. Blew up in a big old flash. Great sound too, whoosh-pop. That was so cool. I mean, yeah, it was dangerous, Sheriff. Wrong, sure. But it was cool.”
“Well, burning down half the town ain’t cool, Mike,” Sheriff Cady said. “Maybe you boys are too young to remember but we almost got toasted once or twice before. Fifteen, twenty years ago. Winds were up, more than usual. That jackass Mel Baker lit more than he could watch, the damn drunk, God rest his soul. It spread up to the outskirts of town. Lost the old Rawling’s hardware store, the Reed place and almost set off Tom Casey’s grain silo.”
“That there would be like a rocket,” Mexican Mike said. “Can you imagine that, Mike?”
Sheriff Cady shaking his head, calling the dog. She poked her head out from under the truck, looking at him with blank, brown eyes.
“Get over here,” Sheriff Cady said softly. “Just want to rub them big ears of yours.”
The beagle scurried back under cover of the truck when Sheriff Cady moved toward her. When he planted his foot in the grass, his boot slipped forward a bit and he knew without looking that he had stepped in something squishy. Mike and Mike tried not to laugh.
“Think it’s funny, goofballs?” Sheriff Cady said. “No? Then why are you laughing? Ought to cite you, Mexican Mike, for not cleaning up after your dog.”
When Mike and Mike busted out laughing, Sheriff Cady’s neck started to burn. Putting a smile on his face. Goofballs. Real funny.
Casually he moved in close to Mike and, looking him in the eyes, wiped his boot on Mike’s pant leg. When they realized what was happening, Mike and Mike leaped off the tailgate, scattering in opposite directions, too late. A gritty brown stain clung to the cuff of Mike’s jeans.
Mexican Mike managing to put the truck between the Sheriff and himself. The beagle standing in the middle of the road, baying at all the commotion. Sheriff Cady heading around the truck toward Mexican Mike.
“Do not run from me,” Sheriff Cady said.
Mexican Mike took off. Laughing and yelling, “Mierda, Mierda!”
Running down the shoulder of the dirt road, his beagle bounding along beside him. Mexican Mike with no idea where he was running to.
Sheriff Cady ran fast, his lungs and heart handling the work. It was his back that was giving in—the disks erupting in pain with every pounding stride. Drawing close to Mexican Mike, Sheriff Cady kicked at his heels, knocking his ankles together painfully and tripping him. A mean schoolyard trick.
Mexican Mike tumbling face-first and hard to the gravel road. The beagle licking Mexican Mike’s ears and face as he rolled on the ground. Sheriff Cady, catching his breath, standing over Mexican Mike and his dog.
“Said don’t run, goddamit,” Sheriff Cady said.
Wiping the sole of his boot on the ass of Mexican Mike’s jeans.
“You don’t listen, Mike. Neither of you. Never have. I say don’t run, you’re off like a jackrabbit. Listen—control these fires. I will not allow this town to be burned to the ground. Especially not by two jokers like you and Mike. You got it, Mike?”
Mexican Mike sat up and nodded. Sheriff Cady helped Mexican Mike to his feet.
“You’re very fast of an old guy,” Mexican Mike said.
“Damn right I am. And be sure to tell everybody. Tell them all, so I don’t have to go proving it over and over. Liable to kill me.”
When they reached the trucks, Mike was wiping at his jeans with a fist full of napkins.
“What do you feed this dog?” Mike said. “This dog shit reeks.”
“She likes burritos,” Mexican Mike said.
“That can’t be good for her,” Sheriff Cady said, bending to stretch out his back. While he was down there offering his hand to the dog.
The dog sidling up to him, letting him scratch her soft ears.
“But who don’t like burritos?” Sheriff Cady said, gently working his fingers in the soft spot behind the dog’s ears. “Huh, Scarlett? Who don’t like burritos?”