Cally And The Sheriff

The dog growled, and they both turned to see two ladies hurry away. The undertaker glared at the dog but smiled sympathetically when he turned back to Cally. “We have a nice selection of coffins, and you’ll be wanting the services of our hearse.”

Cally’s irritation at the man’s phony thoughtfulness made her bold enough to ask, “Will the county pay for it?”

The man’s mustache drooped a little lower. “I wouldn’t think so.” He opened a door and led her into a storeroom. Lighting a lamp, he crossed to a long narrow table where the body lay covered with a sheet.

Cally barely glanced at it. She felt her stomach tremble and wanted to run away. But this was what she had come for, and there were things to be settled. “If he’d hanged, would the county have paid then?” she asked.

“Perhaps. Now, our services can include mourners if your father wasn’t…ahem…well, if he didn’t…”

Royal growled again, and the man leaned to the side, trying to see the front room.

Cally knew he imagined more potential customers scurrying down the street. She was as eager as he was to have this done. “He died in jail,” she persisted. “Why won’t the county pay for his funeral?”

“Look, Miss, if the man was a derelict, the county will bury him in potter’s field. But I can’t imagine a good daughter letting such a thing happen. I am more than willing to discuss some financial arrangement so your father can be buried properly.”

Cally’s eyes narrowed at the man’s harsh tones. “Maybe the sheriff killed him so the county wouldn’t have to pay for his funeral.”

The mustache twitched. “That’s an outrageous accusation! The sheriff wouldn’t be paying, in any case.”

Cally shrugged, as if dismissing a small matter. “I’ll take Pa home,” she said. “My cart’s outside.”

The mustache seemed to take on a life of its own. “Why, you can’t. That is—you’ll still need a coffin.”

Cally had already turned to go. “I’ll make him one…from his cot. He won’t be needing it anymore.”

Cally marched out of the Furniture House, hoping her courage would last until she left town. She untied Jewel from the post in front of Lafferty’s, barely noticing the trace of oats on the mule’s nose, and led her forward until the cart was directly in front of the furniture store.

The undertaker watched her from his threshold, sputtering. Finally convinced of her determination, he drafted a passerby to help and went back inside. Cally rubbed Jewel’s nose while she waited, trying not to think.

In a few minutes they returned and loaded the body into the cart. If the stranger spoke to Cally or even tipped his hat, she didn’t notice. The sheet had slipped to reveal one worn boot hanging over the end of the cart. Cally stared at it, swallowing hard.

The undertaker delivered a parting shot. “I daresay you’ll regret this, Miss DuBois.”

It brought Cally back to her senses. Without responding, she swung onto Jewel’s back, turned the mule in a wide circle and headed out of town.

Andrew watched her go, fighting the urge to follow. The girl intended to take her father’s body home for burial. She intended to dig the grave herself, wrap the body, toss dirt on her own father’s chest. He couldn’t picture it. In fact, he couldn’t allow it.

He had other responsibilities, however, and couldn’t simply leave town. First, he would have to let his deputy know where he was going. Sick wife or not, the man could relay a message if someone needed to find him. And he would leave a note on his office door as well.

In less than half an hour, Andrew was on his way to the DuBois farm. He wanted to kick his horse into a run. It was a ridiculous notion, he knew. He needed to arrive in time to help her, but there was no need to beat her home. As slow as that mule was, he could almost do that anyway.

But he hated to think of Cally making the trip alone, even though it was scarcely two miles. His concern for the girl perplexed him. She had been riding into town every day for weeks, and he had never once worried about her safety. What had caused the change?

Will you look out for my Cally, Sheriff?

He heard the words as if they were spoken by a ghost. Was that really all it took to make him feel so protective, or had something about the girl touched him? He felt a twinge in his upper arm and muttered to himself, “Yeah, the tip of her knife is what touched me.”

In a manner of speaking, as sheriff he looked out for everyone in the county, but he had never been anyone’s guardian. He didn’t know where to begin. Exactly what were his responsibilities to Miss Cally DuBois? It would surely take some time to decide, but for now he knew he couldn’t let her bury her father by herself.

Cally rode the mule to a little rise near her house. A weathered wooden cross barely marked her mother’s grave. All the way home, she had tried to remember what had happened when her mother died. Had neighbors come? Had Pa sent for a preacher? Had he bought a coffin? Or had he made one? It was all a little hazy.

She decided it didn’t matter. She had no choice but to do this herself. When she had unhitched the cart in the shade of the apple tree and led Jewel to grass nearby, she decided it didn’t seem right to leave Pa alone while she went for the spade. “Royal, stay with Pa,” she said.

As she walked the short distance to the barn, she decided nothing seemed right. Her whole world was upside-down, and she was supposed to make decisions she had never before thought about.

Was it wrong to bury Pa wrapped only in a sheet? Should she try to make a coffin from his cot? She had said it only to shut up the undertaker, but now she wished she could really do it.

She was at the barn door when Royal’s warning bark brought her quickly around. Anger helped her forget all her questions. Sheriff Andrew Haywood was riding toward her.

He drew up a short distance away and dismounted. Why hadn’t Royal warned her? As she turned toward her dog, her eyes widened in horror. As this most hated of men walked slowly toward her, Royal, her trusted friend and protector, left his post on the hill and went wagging to meet him.

She stared as Haywood and the dog greeted each other like long-lost friends. How had this happened? Then she remembered leading the snarling Royal toward the sheriff and laying her hand on the dog’s head for reassurance as they stopped in front of Haywood. She groaned, closing her eyes in disbelief. Royal had misunderstood.

Well, there was little chance of explaining to the dog now. She decided her best reaction was to ignore him—them! She wouldn’t so much as nod to the sheriff. She certainly wasn’t going to call her dog! She spun around and went into the barn, grabbed her garden spade and walked back to the little cemetery without another glance in Haywood’s direction.

Haywood had the nerve to mutter something to Royal as they followed her up the hill. She picked the spot and pushed the spade into the dry earth. Her tiny feet inside her father’s old work shoes could barely press the spade into the ground. This would be harder than she’d thought, especially with Haywood watching.

“Do you have another shovel?”

She turned to discover that Haywood had removed his coat and was rolling up the sleeves of his starched white shirt. She lifted another puny spadeful of dirt. “It won’t work any better than this.”

“Go get it.” His voice was soft, but she heard it as a command. She thought she would enjoy telling him where he could go when his hand came down on hers, warm and gentle. It reminded her of her father’s loving touch and tears blurred her vision. She let go of the spade and escaped to the barn.

When she had herself under control again, she took the shovel to the rise, surprised at how much sod Haywood had broken in her absence. The shovel, though not as sharp as the spade, was wider, and she tried to use it to scoop up the dirt as Haywood loosened it. She only succeeded in bumping her shovel against the spade.

“I’ll take care of this,” he said gently.

Cally glared at him a moment. She hated to have any decision taken out of her hands, especially by Haywood, but it would be stupid to turn down his offer. She shrugged as if it made no difference.

After a moment of glaring at his back, she stalked to the barn, glancing over her shoulder once to see Royal lie down in the shade of the cart. Her dog’s defection rankled as much as the sheriffs interference. Muttering to herself, she found a hammer and knocked two short boards off a stall divider that she never used. With the old nails, she fashioned the boards into a cross. It wasn’t much, but it went with the cross at her mother’s grave.

By the time she returned, Haywood had made considerable progress. It would have taken her forever to dig the grave. She would bite her tongue off before she admitted it to Haywood, though. She leaned the cross against the cart and sat down under the apple tree near Royal. Haywood didn’t seem to notice that she had returned.

It was impossible to watch him work and not see the play of muscles across his back and shoulders as he broke dirt loose with the spade and tossed it aside with the shovel. A strong back like that could have the barn roof mended in no time, she thought. If the man felt guilty about Pa, maybe she shouldn’t discourage him. All manner of odd jobs came to mind, and she bit her lip to keep from grinning.

With Pa gone, the farm was all she had. Somehow, she would keep what was left of it and survive with it alone. The weather was warm for September, but she knew there wouldn’t be many more days before frost. She couldn’t help feeling regret and resentment for the days she had wasted while she dreamed of rescuing Pa.

She tried to shake such thoughts away by concentrating on her future. She had yet to dig the potatoes, and, after the first frost, she would have to carry all the pumpkins and squash into her cellar. The hayloft would be a better place to store some of these things but the roof leaked. She watched Haywood’s muscles flex as he shoved the spade into the dark earth, and imagined the roof repaired.

Besides harvesting her garden produce, she would have to chop enough wood to last through the winter. She watched Haywood send another shovelful of dirt onto the pile. It was easy to picture him replenishing her woodpile.

Somehow, watching him too closely made her stomach nervous and her cheeks warm. Deliberately, she pulled her thoughts back to her plans.

She needed to put up as many jars of tomatoes from her neglected patch as she could. The money she made selling her pies and bread paid for flour, sugar and a few other supplies, but mostly she had to live through the winter on what she saved from the garden.

Cally was used to hard work and deciding upon a plan felt better than the persistent hopelessness of the weeks since Pa’s arrest. In a way, she knew life would be easier. Pa, bless him, wasn’t really much help. Cally scolded herself for the disloyal thought. Poor Pa was right beside her!

Haywood’s shirt had become soaked with sweat, defining those useful muscles even more. Yes, her best bet was to humor the sheriff and play on his guilt as long as it lasted. With that in mind, she scrambled to her feet. She walked to the well and brought back a tin cup full of water. She didn’t speak but stood in front of Haywood until he looked up.