Over the long head table in the Blue Room of the Holiday Inn, west in Dallas, Texas, hung a huge Banner. WELCOME MEMBERS OF THE S.S.S.C. it blared in brilliant red, white, and blue. The Southern States Sheriff's Conference was in its second day and some boring little twit from Memphis, Tennessee was blabbing something about the latest Techniques in firearm identification.
That is, Deputy Sheriff William Taylor would have been bored, had he been listening. But Bill was not listening. He was busily trying to suppress a broad grin from spreading across his face. He was pleased with himself at the foolproof plan he had engineered for later this evening. For three, long four-year terms he had waited for this night. Waited hoped and secretly worked for the defeat of Sheriff Mosley Jackson. But the stupid lazy people of Crawford County voted for Brown over and over, despite the riches the fat slob raked in from the graft and corruption that infected his office. Well, this would be the end of that!
How fine the golden letters would look on the Sheriff's door when it was his name emblazoned there. Emblazoned! He loved that word. He had read it in a Max Brand novel and had immediately created a mental picture of that door.
Soon it would all be his. His clever plan was coming to pass. Sure, of course, at first he would be 'acting' sheriff, but he was a shoo-in to be elected after the 'temporary' period. Everyone knew, everyone accepted that he was the right man for the job. And tonight would be the night. Tonight, Sheriff Samuel Mosley Jackson would die!
Mose Jackson had lobster and Porterhouse for lunch. Bill grabbed a burger at the local "Stop and Chaw". In the beginning The fat pig had tried to prevent him from attending the conference, but he had gone over the sheriff's head and gotten permission from he county board. Provided, of course, that he pay his own expenses. And lately, because of the plan, he had been more broke than usual. Though it had cost him most of his retirement money, he considered it an investment. After it was over, HE would be the one making all the great deals, raking in the cash.
Immediately after lunch, Bill made his way to the room next to his, where the sheriff was, most likely, having his afternoon snooze. It brought him a small twinge of pleasure to knock louder than necessary. "Sheriff Jackson," he yelled loudly.
Finally the door opened a crack. "Yeah Billy Boy, what is it?"
"Sorry to . . . uh . . . disturb you sir, but I have to talk to you. It's very important."
"Well Billy boy, come in. You come right on in. I allays got time ta talk ta one a ma depitys."
Mose Jackson stretched out on the king sized bed, pudgy hands linked over his enormous belly. His colorful red-and blue cowboy boots with the silver caps on the toes made a deep impression on the cheap chenille bed spread. "Now. What kin I do fer ya"
"It's about the Crawford case, sir," Bill said.
"Er you still thumpin' that ole mule? Why thet case's so cold the best coon dog in the county couldn't sniff it out."
"Well, sir, I've got a theory about the case and some evidence. I thought you might listen to it and tell me what you think."
"Well, git to it then. Reckon it caint hurt none ta talk."
"I think that old man Crawford was offed by his son. He sure as hell has motive enough, all that money laying around. And everybody knew they didn't get along."
"Now you lookee here, Billy boy. Ya jus caint go pokin' no finger at a man like thet. Ain't ya got a bit a sense? He'd have yer hide nailed ta the courthouse door inside a two minutes if ya came at him with acoosations like thet."
"But, but sir, I know he did it. I have even found the murder weapon. It's registered to the Cawford kid and it was thrown in Thompson creek."
"Now look, kid, smarten up! No jury in Crawford county is gonna jail a Crawford no matter what you think he did."
The sheriff's voice had lost that phoney "down home" quality he used to disarm everyone. "You will never get to be sheriff of anything if you insist on doing stupid things like accusing a Crawford of anything."
"Now look. We're at a convention here. All them fancy speeches and such, (the dialect returned), well, they is jes fer the show. We are really here ta have us a good ol' time. Now why donja jes simmer down. Go out tanight and git ya some a that good ol' Dallas poontang. You'll feel better about the whole thing in the mornin'. "Here! The sheriff struggled mightily, but finally reached the wallet in his back pocket. He handed Bill a fifty dollar bill.
"But Sir. I can't I mean we cant just let. . ." The sheriff interrupted.
"Deputy Taylor! I run this department and I will continue to run it until I am in my grave. And maybe even after that. Haw Haw Haw. I say we are dropping the case and so we are. Do you understand?"
"Yes sir," Bill said, his face bright red.
He was halfway to the door when he whirled on the sheriff. "No, you look you fat old slob." I've got the goods on the Crawford kid and I am gonna nail him. I'll be the most famous lawman in the country. I am going to get him and no one can stop me. Especially you. Rafe Tolliver just broke out of the state pen, shall we say, with a little help from a friend. He knows just where to find you There's nothing you can do to stop it. It's all set." Bill didn't tell the sheriff that he had filed the firing pin off of the fat pig's service automatic, but he would find out. Boy would he find out.
Big Mose Jackson looked startled for a moment, but quickly recovered and laughed in Bill's face. "Ha. Ha. Ha. I ain't skeered a Rafe Tolliver and I sure as hell ain't skeered a you ya little pissant. When we gits back ta Crawford County, the first thing I'm gonna do is fire ya! Then I'm gonna kick yer pukey ass. Now git otta here for I changes ma mind and kicks it rat now."
For the next few hours Bill worried. Maybe he shouldn't have told the sheriff anything. Maybe the old man would call in the Dallas Police and surround the place or something. Naw, he didn't think so. The sheriff was the type to handle it himself. What if Rafe got careless and got picked up?
No! Everything would be fine, great, he couldn't fail. The key was the girl. Ah yes, the girl. He knew that ol' fat ass would never be able to resist the girl. He laughed out loud at the thought of Mose with that beautiful young thing. The grand it had cost him was well worth it. When this was all over, he might try a taste of that himself. See! He told himself he was already thinking like a sheriff.
*** *** ***
That evening, Samuel Mosley Jackson sat at the bar in the air-conditioned Plantation lounge of the Dallas Holiday Inn, sipping on his favorite drink, Comfort and Coke. After four or five he began to feel pretty darn good. He smiled as he remembered his "talk" with that stupid young Billy Boy this afternoon. "What a fool that boy was! Arrest Jim Crawford! Ridiculous!"
