Chapter 3

TROUBLE IN PARADISE

BY WINSTON CONLEE

“Welcome To Paradise.” The wooden sign was huge. Probably three feet high and eight feet long, and was supported between two weathered poles. It hung so high in the air visitors could see it long before they reached the town. Most of them stopped and stared up at it. This rider was no different.

Even though his horse was so badly in need of water it kept tossing its head, neighing and pawing at the ground, he reined in the impatient animal and took the time to study it. It was badly in need of a paint job and it looked as old and weathered as the town he was about to enter. It swung lazily in the breeze at a crazy angle because one of the chains that held it up was shorter than the other. Occasionally its rusty works gave a groan of protest when hit by an extra hard gust of wind. But what caught the rider’s interest were the bullet holes. The sign and the poles were pockmarked with them and it looked as if somebody had been using the word Paradise as a target for shooting practice.

Finally giving into horse’s demands, he urged it forward at a canter that didn’t stop until the animal had reached a horse trough conveniently placed in front of a building. While the horse immediately lowered its head to quench its thirst, Amos looked around but there wasn’t all that much to see. Judging by several structures that had wooden sidewalks bordering their front doors, and the way they towered over a row of smaller dwellings, he figured he was on Main Street, if you could call it that. Of the two tallest buildings, one had a small wooden sign that read: “Hotel, Rooms, Hot Baths, Drinks.” Amos made note of it as he figured he could make use of everything it offered. The other had a bigger, faded but once colorful banner that fluttered in the wind. It read: “Good Eats.”

“Yup, a place like that could also come in handy.” Amos muttered

He stretched his neck to look behind him and saw two dusty roads leading either to the left or right. Behind the row of lower buildings he caught a glimpse of a row of similar structures.

That took care of one side of Main Street. The buildings on his side of the street weren’t much different. To his right was the similar row of smaller building amongst a couple bigger ones. Down near the end of the street he spotted a sign that read STABLES. He kept that in mind as he knew his horse was going to need some tending to. At the end of the street on his left, and only a couple of doors down stood the town’s all-purpose store.

Maybe it’s owned by the same person who tended to the welcome sign. A small smile crossed Amos’s hard, wind beaten face. Its sign read: “If you want it we may have it.” He decided to check that place out too because he needed some ammunition for his guns and someone to repair broken cinches on his saddle. He figured with luck the place may have the ammo and the stable could fix his saddle.

Right in front of him sat the reason he had come to Paradise. It was a long, low building with windows only in the front. The series of iron bars that ran along its length, gave away its purpose. It was the town jail and sheriff’s office.

Amos took one last look around and wondered why the town was in need of a peace keeper. The last place he policed was as rough and busy as a month of Saturday nights because it was trail’s end for cattle drives. His main job was to try and keep a bunch of rowdy cowboys in check. Although most of them were pretty decent, some had a habit of getting drunk in one of the town’s saloons and then celebrating by using some of the town’s fixtures for target practice.

Worried that some innocent bystander was going to get plugged, or that a drunken cowboy would accidently shoot himself, Amos soon put a stop to that dangerous practice. He confronted the over exuberant cow pokes when they arrived in town and confiscated their guns. He was always tough but fair, but in the beginning, there were the usual protests. However that ended after a couple rebellious revellers refused his demands.

The foolish trail hands thought they were real gun slingers and tried to out draw him. The shootout was brief but fatal for one cow hand. His partner survived but was wounded in the chest and leg. Amos still wondered what went wrong with those shots because from a distance of 15 to 20 feet he was able to drill holes right though the centre of the heart about nine times out of 10. That was his usual target because he didn’t want to take any chances that his opponent could live long enough to shoot back.

After that the cowboys knew who the boss was. They still came into town at the end of the cattle drive and their celebrating was still riotous but it didn’t involve guns. Unfortunately that deadly incident ended his job by mutual agreement. The town became so peaceful the businessmen who hired him thought he wasn’t needed anymore, which was just as well because he was beginning to get bored anyway. The town was way too peaceful for him now, and keeping the peace was much too easy. So without argument, he turned in his badge and began searching for another town that might need his special set of skills. When he heard of a town called Paradise whose sheriff was retiring he saddled his horse and headed towards it because he figured working in a town with that name was going to be a different experience.

Amos was already disappointed. First off: The town was way too small for his liking, almost rinky-dinky and he was beginning to wonder if it would be worth the trouble to take over the sheriff’s job. He preferred something a little bigger with a lot more action and a definite criminal element that needed taming. And second: From what he’d seen so far, Paradise, despite its captivating name and its unusual welcoming sign, didn’t seem that popular a destination. The town looked almost deserted. The only residents he’d seen so far were a couple of old codgers in faded overalls and work shirts. His sharp eyes missed nothing. He spotted them right off the bat. They were sitting in rockers lined up on the sidewalk outside the hotel. He paid them no mind because one glance told him they wouldn’t be causing him any problems.

He also spied a couple of pedestrians but they were hurrying down the wooden sidewalk and barely gave him a glance. Still, he eyed them carefully. No problem now, right, but he tucked their faces into his mind for future reference. There were also some faces he’d noticed staring at him from behind the curtained windows of several houses. Nothing distinctive to mark their features but he would remember they were there. One couldn’t be too careful.

Then there were the men he’d seen entering the hardware store. He also spotted them pretty quick, and these were the ones that really caught his attention. They were younger, male, dressed like the usual cowboys and most ominously. They were wearing guns. That put a frown on his face. Experience told him. You take away the guns you take away the problem. And that was about it except for a couple of women he’d seen smiling at him from the “Good Eats” front door. The inviting smiles, although interesting, meant nothing because he’d discovered that women were usually pretty tricky. No matter what they said or did, they were an unknown quantity, you couldn’t trust them. So on that pair, he’d make no decisions until he got to know them better.

Now it was finally time to meet the retiring sheriff and see what his new job involved. It didn’t look like much now but he’d get the full facts before making any decisions.

Just as Amos was about to get off his horse which had finished its drink and was standing docile, he spotted someone else. His well-honed survival instincts were immediately on full alert.

He half turned, one hand on his gun, ready for anything. Then he realized it was a young colored boy, probably early teens, running across the street towards him. He wore a battered straw hat full of holes, and bib overalls with only one strap on his shoulder. The other strap appeared to be missing. The cuffs were stuffed into a pair of well-worn, scoffed up work boots with holes in their toes.

A mere kid, that’s what he was, and he certainly didn’t look dangerous but Amos never took unnecessary chances so, as he carefully watched the boy race towards him, he still kept one hand real close to his Colt 45. It was the one on his right side because, although he was lightning fast with both hands, he was naturally right handed and therefore a fraction of a second faster with it. And in a gun fight, seconds could be an eternity, especially when your staring down a man with a gun. At that point your whole life was at stake.

It was only when the colored kid stopped next to his horse and stared up at him that Amos started to relax. From astride his mount he stared intently into the boy’s big, round eyes and decided he was harmless. He noticed he didn’t even carry a gun. Amos sighed with relief and slowly moved his hand off his gun but didn’t dare take his eyes off the boy.

“Mister, mister.” The lad asked in a breathless voice because he was still breathing hard from his run.

Amos eyed him carefully. “What do you want, boy? Don’t you know you could get yourself shot one day by pulling off a stupid move like that?” The words came out in a nasty drawl.

“Didn’t even get to see you ride in. I just noticed you now. You goin’ into the sheriff’s office?”

Amos nodded slowly. Wondering what the boy was up to.

“Then I was wondering if your horse needed looking after? Stable’s just over there, I can walk him to cool him down, take your saddle off him, wash him down good and let him out in the pasture. It’s enclosed with plenty of feed and water and he looks like he needs it.”

Amos eyed the boy again from his lofty position atop his horse and then turned to look at the stable. The kid was right. He and his horse had come a long way. They’d left the last town he tamed just over a day ago. That was 80 miles back. A pretty damn good ride for a horse and rider but since he was in a hurry to get to Paradise, he’d pushed his horse to near its limits.”Sure thing, kid,” he announced with a sudden spurt of enthusiasm.

He quickly dismounted, turned and grabbed a saddle bag before handing over the reins to the colored lad. “You take him over to the stables and, ‘cuz I know you’re gonna take real good care of him, I’ll give you this.”

The lad watched, excitement setting his eyes aglow as Amos dug into his pants pocket, pulled out a leather pouch and withdrew a silver coin which he tossed up into the air.

“Wow, a whole silver dollar,” the boy gasped. His eyes never left the coin which sparked in the sunlight as it flipped over and over, outlined against the bright sun and the clear blue sky. He suddenly reached out, caught it, bit on it to see if really was real and stuffed it into his pants pocket.

“What’s your name, kid?” Amos asked one last question before he turned towards the sheriff’s office, his saddle bags over his shoulder.

“Oliver, mister”

Amos frowned. He didn’t like complications.

“Oliver what?”

“Just Oliver, ‘cuz that’s what everybody calls me. Don’t have no other name.”

Amos shrugged. Maybe it wasn’t all that complicated after all.

He watched Oliver slowly lead his horse towards the stables until he was satisfied he was capable of handling him. Then he turned, readjusted the saddle bag on his shoulder and stepped onto the sidewalk that led to the sheriff’s office.

Amos gave the sheriff’s door a quick knock before he grasped the door knob. It turned so he knew the office was open and he stepped right in. The interior was dark and gloomy compared to the bright sunlight outside so he stood in doorway with the door open until his eyes got adjusted. That was a habit he acquired ever since hearing about a deputy sheriff that got himself shot dead because he walked into a room without doing just that. It hadn’t happened to him yet and Amos always wanted to be on the safe side. On the other hand, it hadn’t occurred to him that he made a perfect target when he stood framed in the doorway.

When his eyes got properly focussed, he did a quick scan of the interior. Nothing unusual. Walls covered with wanted posters framed the windows. He’d study them later because bringing in a fugitive was always good for a few extra bucks, especially when it was dead or alive. Whatever was easiest was his motto. Just a couple of wooden desks and chairs that looked they seen better days. One of the desks was bare and it was scratched from its legs upward with initials. Amos could see several of them from where he stood. Half of the other desk had several inches of paper stuffed in a wire basket. He frowned and sighed in frustration when his eyes fell on what was covering the other half.

It was the sheriff’s gun, my God ... and he was stretched out in one of the chairs with his cowboy boots on the desk and a hat pulled over his eyes. It was a delicate balancing act, but the chair seemed to have no intention of tipping over.

Amos eyed the sheriff in disapproval. No wonder he was retiring. From the looks of it, he was way too old for this type of business. Anybody could see that. With half closed eyes that peaked out at him from underneath the big hat and from the leather, brown face that was so creased it looked like one of those fancy new road maps, he didn’t look prepared for any kind of emergency. In addition, he looked badly out of a shape with a huge belly that stretched his torn, faded shirt and hung over his belt buckle like a pumpkin. And he was way too careless. Leaving his gun out like that was an invitation to an early grave because it would way take too long if some hombre came rushing in here looking for trouble.

Amos decided he’d had enough.

“You always leave your gun out like that? ‘Cuz it’s gonna get you killed some day.”
“Right, but you forgot one important thing.” A lazy voice replied from underneath the hat.

“What?” Amos snapped. His patience was wearing thin.

“Who needs a gun? After all, this is Paradise” The sheriff laughed loudly at his joke, slapped his knee and let the front legs of the chair fall back to the floor with a solid thud.

“Besides,” he added between bouts of laughter that made his big belly shake. “I’m retiring and the town’s yours if you want it, so if somebody comes in here intent on shooting a sheriff, guess who’s ass is going to be sitting in this here chair?”

Amos was silent ... stone faced ... like he didn’t get the joke at all.

“Sheriff Tom Ritter ... er ... ex-Sheriff Ritter.”

Amos stared at the offered hand and then into Ritter’s face, which wore such a broad smile the skin on his cheeks and under his eyes was crinkled up even more than the rest of his lined face.

Finally he shook it. “Amos Deacon.”

Ritter noticed the man’s hands. His grip was firm. What they call a man’s grip but his skin wasn’t hard and calloused like most hard working folk. Instead, they it was soft, almost as soft as a baby’s bottom. That gave him the first clue. He glanced down and saw while the rest of Amos’s arms and wrists were stained a dark mahogany brown from the hot summer sun, his hands were almost as white as flour. That meant he wore gloves and it wasn’t because it was cold outside. It was to keep them warm and supple at all times.

“Oh no, not another gun slinger,” Ritter sighed. The last one that came into Paradise thinking he could tame the town lasted about a day. He got run out after pulling a gun to break up an argument in the hotel pool room. It was the main entertain in Paradise unless you fancied one of the women that hung around Good Eats. Ritter tried to warn him that Paradise had its own way of settling problems so it was best to let Uncle Albert handle the pool hall disputes, most of them were minor anyway.

The town folk were so broke participants played for nickels and dimes which was small change compared to most places, but then, they weren’t living in Paradise. Occasionally a sore loser would use a pool cue to take a swing at the person who just took his money. The guy would throw the eight ball at him in retaliation but then Uncle Albert, would step in and solve the problem. That was because he owned the hotel and the pool table that had been specially carted by wagon from some big city. When it was assembled it was such a big day that at least 10 people lined up to play. Uncle Albert, with a mile wide grin, supervised the games, collected the coins for each game played and proudly proclaimed, although it was a big investment, he always knew it would be a real money maker.