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Nanofiction
The first time I saw the drifter was when Taggert brought him into the jail. The last time I saw him was on the highway leading out of town. You want to know why I didn't stop him, all you have to do is look at what's left of Taggert.
Taggert and me were sheriff's deputies in a little West Texas shithole you never heard of with a population of about 100. The sheriff was on vacation somewhere in the Gulf, and the receptionist/dispatcher was out in Lubbock taking care of her sister. I worked days, Taggert worked nights, so we only saw each other for about an hour or two each day. I was just about to take off when Taggert called in and said he was on his way in with a transient to throw in the drunk tank. Me, I had better things to do then pick up every wetback who had gone through two bottles of tequila and then decided to take a walk down the highway, and I thought Taggert had more sense then to pick them up as well, considering we damn well couldn't leave the guy alone in the jail, for fear that he'd hurt himself and we'd get our asses sued off.
I let Taggert know straight out that I wasn't spending any extra time watching a damn fool or the drunk he brought in, and he said he'd watch over it himself. Not like we needed to be patrolling anyways. When it's over ninety degrees at night, most folks stay inside where it's cooler to drink beer and watch the TV. About a minute later, he pulled in and I laid eyes on this drifter. Wasn't a mexican like I thought it would be, and I'm surprised Taggert had handled him by himself. Fella must have been almost six and a half feet tall, and Taggert barely touches six inches shorter then that, plus he's packing about eighty more pounds then he needs to. Ratty clothes, cracked boots, and one of those broad-brimmed hats I'd seen preachers in the old Westerns wear.
This drifter, and trust me friend, you get to know them by sight after a while, was as pale as could be, and that's a surprising thing when you're about a foot from the sun, like West Texas is during the summer. Meek as anything, he let Taggert push and prod him into one of the two cells we had. Didn't ask for a phone call, didn't ask for a lawyer, just sat down on the bunk in the cell, and stared at Taggert.
I made small talk with Taggert for a few minutes, reminded him about keeping the phone logs up to date if anyone called, and left. The drifter was still staring at Taggert when I took off. Not a mean kind of staring, just looking at him. Kind of like Taggert was the only thing there worth watching.
I got in the next morning a little early, and Taggert was already gone, the bastard. A note said he'd gotten tired of the bum staring at him, and it's not like there was anything I needed to do in the morning. The drifter, or bum, or whatever he was was all the way back in the corner of the cell, only a little thin light from the window playing over him. He had that hat still on, but so low you couldn't see a bit of his face in the shadows. The way he was sitting, I could tell he wasn't looking at me, which would have been damned spooky enough, but instead, and I swear to God on this, he was staring in the direction of Taggert's place a few miles down the road. And there was no damn way he could have known that.
Policy was, at the time, to take any transients to the bus stop and load them on, the County picking up the fare. Why that didn't happen, you already know. Not a damn thing I could have done to make the bus show up anyway, so he spent the day in the cell and was going to spend another night. Taggert wasn't too happy about that, but he had to stay where the phone was in case anybody called in with a problem. I went on home, leaving Taggert and the drifter alone for a second night.
About an hour later is when I figure the screaming started.
It woke the people closest to the sheriff's office, and they came and got me. By the time I got there, a small crowd, most of the town 'cept for the kids and even some of them were gathered around the office, not going inside, even though most of them were better armed the .45 I carried. I could smell the blood and gunpowder as I walked in. Taggert, crumpled and ruined was near the door to the cell that the drifter had been in. His gun still in his hand, even if the hand was no longer attached to the arm. The door halfway torn off the hinges.
I told the doc to cover the body, and he gulped a bit but he did so. Damn near threw up, and I couldn't tell you how I managed not to. I only remember getting back in my car and driving down the highway, the only way the drifter could have gone. I caught up with him a mile or two down the road. He was walking along like nothing had happened, and maybe to him, nothing had. I had him dead in my sights when a gust of wind kicked up some of the desert sand. And he was gone.
No, I don't know where he went, or how he managed to disappear on a stretch of road that's straighter and flatter then anything I've ever seen. And I try to think about the words written on the walls of the cell as little as possible. Words written in Taggert's own blood. As much as you've paid to hear the whole story, there's no amount of money to get me to tell you those words.
Taggert and me were sheriff's deputies in a little West Texas shithole you never heard of with a population of about 100. The sheriff was on vacation somewhere in the Gulf, and the receptionist/dispatcher was out in Lubbock taking care of her sister. I worked days, Taggert worked nights, so we only saw each other for about an hour or two each day. I was just about to take off when Taggert called in and said he was on his way in with a transient to throw in the drunk tank. Me, I had better things to do then pick up every wetback who had gone through two bottles of tequila and then decided to take a walk down the highway, and I thought Taggert had more sense then to pick them up as well, considering we damn well couldn't leave the guy alone in the jail, for fear that he'd hurt himself and we'd get our asses sued off.
I let Taggert know straight out that I wasn't spending any extra time watching a damn fool or the drunk he brought in, and he said he'd watch over it himself. Not like we needed to be patrolling anyways. When it's over ninety degrees at night, most folks stay inside where it's cooler to drink beer and watch the TV. About a minute later, he pulled in and I laid eyes on this drifter. Wasn't a mexican like I thought it would be, and I'm surprised Taggert had handled him by himself. Fella must have been almost six and a half feet tall, and Taggert barely touches six inches shorter then that, plus he's packing about eighty more pounds then he needs to. Ratty clothes, cracked boots, and one of those broad-brimmed hats I'd seen preachers in the old Westerns wear.
This drifter, and trust me friend, you get to know them by sight after a while, was as pale as could be, and that's a surprising thing when you're about a foot from the sun, like West Texas is during the summer. Meek as anything, he let Taggert push and prod him into one of the two cells we had. Didn't ask for a phone call, didn't ask for a lawyer, just sat down on the bunk in the cell, and stared at Taggert.
I made small talk with Taggert for a few minutes, reminded him about keeping the phone logs up to date if anyone called, and left. The drifter was still staring at Taggert when I took off. Not a mean kind of staring, just looking at him. Kind of like Taggert was the only thing there worth watching.
I got in the next morning a little early, and Taggert was already gone, the bastard. A note said he'd gotten tired of the bum staring at him, and it's not like there was anything I needed to do in the morning. The drifter, or bum, or whatever he was was all the way back in the corner of the cell, only a little thin light from the window playing over him. He had that hat still on, but so low you couldn't see a bit of his face in the shadows. The way he was sitting, I could tell he wasn't looking at me, which would have been damned spooky enough, but instead, and I swear to God on this, he was staring in the direction of Taggert's place a few miles down the road. And there was no damn way he could have known that.
Policy was, at the time, to take any transients to the bus stop and load them on, the County picking up the fare. Why that didn't happen, you already know. Not a damn thing I could have done to make the bus show up anyway, so he spent the day in the cell and was going to spend another night. Taggert wasn't too happy about that, but he had to stay where the phone was in case anybody called in with a problem. I went on home, leaving Taggert and the drifter alone for a second night.
About an hour later is when I figure the screaming started.
It woke the people closest to the sheriff's office, and they came and got me. By the time I got there, a small crowd, most of the town 'cept for the kids and even some of them were gathered around the office, not going inside, even though most of them were better armed the .45 I carried. I could smell the blood and gunpowder as I walked in. Taggert, crumpled and ruined was near the door to the cell that the drifter had been in. His gun still in his hand, even if the hand was no longer attached to the arm. The door halfway torn off the hinges.
I told the doc to cover the body, and he gulped a bit but he did so. Damn near threw up, and I couldn't tell you how I managed not to. I only remember getting back in my car and driving down the highway, the only way the drifter could have gone. I caught up with him a mile or two down the road. He was walking along like nothing had happened, and maybe to him, nothing had. I had him dead in my sights when a gust of wind kicked up some of the desert sand. And he was gone.
No, I don't know where he went, or how he managed to disappear on a stretch of road that's straighter and flatter then anything I've ever seen. And I try to think about the words written on the walls of the cell as little as possible. Words written in Taggert's own blood. As much as you've paid to hear the whole story, there's no amount of money to get me to tell you those words.