The Sheriff of Cheyenne

I was driving down a rough country road when I suddenly saw the lights top the hill behind me coming up fast.  I slowed down and pulled over to the side of the road to let him pass.  It was evident that he was in a much bigger hurry than I was.  But the car didn’t pass.  It pulled right up behind and as I watched in the rearview mirror, I saw the red blinking lights go on.  I pulled farther to the side of the road, let the car roll to a stop, took it out of gear, and put on the emergency brake.  I took my driver’s license out of my billfold and Betty Ann handed me the papers to the car as I watched Sheriff Barlow get out of the car and waddle up to us.  By the time he got to my door, I had the window rolled down.

“What the hell are you doing way out here in the middle of nowhere, Boy?” the Sheriff asked.

“Heading home,” I answered.

“You’re a long ways from home, Boy.  What’re you doing away up here?”

“If you must know, Sheriff,” I answered, “I’m campaigning for sheriff.”

“So you say,” he said, taking my license and he started writing a ticket.

“What’s the ticket for?” I asked.

“Speeding,” he answered.  “Do you know I had to drive seventy miles an hour to catch you?  That’s way too fast.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I could see that Betty Ann was furious as I signed the ticket and I was hoping that for once, she wouldn’t say anything.  But hoping for something very seldom gets you what you want.

“Why you fat-assed dumb…”

“Shush, Betty Ann.  Shush,” I said.

But I was too late.  “What were you saying?” Sheriff Barlow asked.

“She was talking to me, Sheriff.  She was telling me how dumb it was for me to be driving so fast.”

But it didn’t work.  Sheriff Barlow jerked the car door open and said, “Out of the car, Boy,” and I stepped out.  “Now you, young lady, slide across the seat and come out this side.”  Betty Ann did as she was told.  “Now turn around and put your hands on the car, take a step backwards, and spread your legs.”  I did as I was told and I felt his hands frisk me.  When he was done, I heard him say, “Now your turn, young lady.”

That’s when I stood back from the car, turned to face him, and said, “I don’t think so, Sheriff.”

“But I think so,” the Sheriff said, and he pulled his gun.

It was a cool evening but as I looked at his face, I saw sweat dripping off his nose.  His little piggy eyes were squinted and his lips were slack.  I knew right then that I was as close to death as I had ever been in my life.  I could tell by his stance that with a little more guts or a little more provocation, he would pull the trigger.  And if he killed me, he would have to kill Betty Ann.  A sudden chill of fear ran down my spine.  I stood perfectly still and watched him.   Watched him make up his mind whether to pull the trigger or not.  At last he made up his mind that it would be better to let me live in favor of frisking Betty Ann.  I watched as he frisked her, groped her would be a more appropriate word.  Betty Ann stood there motionless until he was through.  I watched as he walked backward to his car, his pistol still pointing at my midsection.  I watched as he carefully opened the door, the gun still trained on me.  Betty Ann and I stood still as the Sheriff turned the blinking red lights off.  I stood very still as he put the car in gear, pulled out on the road, and drove past us.  I turned and watched his taillights disappear into the night and breathed out a pent-up breath.

It was then that Betty Ann threw herself in my arms.  “Oh, Billy, Billy,” she sobbed.  “Me and my mouth.  I almost got you killed.”

“That slimy bastard,” I said.  “Maybe I should drop you off at home, gather up my brothers and go pay the Sheriff a visit.”

“No, Billy, no,” Betty Ann said fiercely.