Date: 2013-05-03 07:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Fantasy; Science Fiction
Description: Sheriff Poole & The Mech Gang is set near de Lint's fictional desert town of Santo del Vado Viejo, where his novels The Mystery of Grace and The Painted Boy take place, and where some of his recent short fiction has been set. It is available here for the first time in any format. Dan Cutler lives with his wife Mason in the foothills of the Hierro Madera Mountains near the ruins of Showdown Ranch, his father's old amusement park. Although the ranch is now owned by developers, nothing has been done with it since the day Dan's father died there in a mysterious explosion. Four generations of Cutle
Publisher: Triskell Press

Sheriff Poole & The Mech Gang

A short story by

Charles de Lint

Copyright 2013 by Charles de Lint

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for John Joseph Adams
who got me to write this story

I know what Tommy Mansfield’s looking at the moment I usher him into the barn. It’s the first thing everybody sees: that old poster from the Showdown Ranch with a painting of the whole Mech Gang facing down a lone lawman on a dusty street. You can see variations on that theme in any of the western art galleries in town, except the bad guys wouldn’t be clunky robot outlaws that look like they should be on the cover of some old sci-fi pulp magazine. But back in the day robots and animatronics were the whole theme of the Showdown Ranch.

“I remember that place,” Tommy says moving closer to the image. “My uncle took me and my brother one weekend—God, years ago. That poster’s still in nice shape.”

Everybody in town knows about the folly of Showdown Ranch, but only the old folks remember that it was my dad’s folly. It’s mine, too, even though we lost the land, lost all the workshops, lost everything except for what I’ve managed to salvage and stash away here in the barn. I’ve got the complete set of the Mech Gang now—all five of them—though they’re missing a bits and pieces. I’ve got Sheriff Poole, too. The only thing wrong with him is some scorching on the left side of his face, which makes him look more like one of the villains instead of the hero.

Nights I can’t sleep I leave the farm and walk to the next canyon over, the dog at my side. He sits and sifts through the night air for smells he likes while I sift through the ruins of Showdown Ranch. Developers were going to do something with the land but then the bottom fell out of the real estate market, and Linden is just far enough into the foothills of the Hierro Maderas to make the commute to Santo del Vado Viejo less attractive than those developers might have hoped. They’ve got the whole canyon boxed in with chain link fencing, but that’s not going to stop anybody. It sure doesn’t stop me.

One day I’ll buy the place back. Moon dreams, Mason tells me, trying to hide the worried look in her eyes, but I just smile. I know it’s not going to be tomorrow. Probably not for a whole mess of tomorrows. But I’m a patient man. And until then I’ll keep going through the rubble from the explosion and salvage what I can.

Tommy looks away from the poster. His gaze travels around the barn, but there’s not much to see. I’ve got the Mech Gang stashed under tarps in the old horse stalls. My workbench takes up the opposite length of the wall. The sheriff is lying there, except there’s a tarp over him as well, so unless you knew, you’d have no idea what I’m working on.

“So what did you want to show me?” Tommy asks, finally pulling his gaze away from the poster.

Tommy’s a picker, one of those guys who travels the countryside looking for deals on antiques and junk that they can buy cheap and sell for a profit. I met him at Sam’s Garage in town. I was getting gas for the truck; he was asking Sam’s widow if she’d mind him poking around the field of junked cars behind the garage. When I realized what he did for a living—when he told me his personal obsession was old carnie rides—I knew I had to invite him back here.

“Well,” I tell him, “it’s not a vintage Ferris Wheel or a Tilt-a-Whirl, but it’s something special all the same.”

I lead him to the stall that holds the leader of the gang and hit the light switch before I pull off the tarp.

“Tommy,” I say. “Meet Johnny Scales, the leader of the Mech Gang.”

I’ve seen him a thousand times and I still find it impressive whenever I take off the canvas covering. Scales stands six-foot-four with a barrel chest, arms and legs like enormous metal tentacles, and a head like a bucket with what appear to be two lights for eyes and a grill where his mouth would be if he were a man. He’s wearing oversize jeans and a cowboy hat, and has a six-gun strapped on. He’s not wearing a shirt. His curved chest door is open, showing an intricate tangle of clockwork parts.

I turn to Tommy and his reaction is everything I hoped it would be: shock and awe.

“My God,” he says. “It’s a freaking work of art.”

It takes him a long moment before he can tear his gaze away to look at me.

“Does it still work?”

“He,” I correct him, “and yes he does—after a fashion. Would you like to see?”

“Are you kidding me?”

I grin and walk over to Scales. Reaching into his chest, I flick a lever, then close the door. There’s a whirring sound inside his chest and after a long moment his eyes slowly begin to glow.

“Don’t much care for your tone, stranger.”

The voice is a recording and comes out of the mouth grill sounding like a radio just off the station.

Tommy takes a couple of steps back—I don’t think he’s even aware he’s doing it. I hold my hand over a holstered six-gun that I’m not carrying.

“Are you going to draw or suck eggs?” I say.

The right arm moves, the hand draws his gun and he’s firing before I can even clear my imaginary holster. If the gun had bullets in it, I’d be dead. As it is, all we hear is the click of the hammer falling on an empty chamber. Scales blows on the end of his gun and smoothly returns it to its holster. Then he’s still once more, his glowing eyes the only sign of “life.”

“Holy crap!”

Tommy’s staring wide-eyed with a huge grin on his face.

“I didn’t think it was a real machine,” he says. “I mean, I’ve seen it live when I was a kid, and I’ve looked at the YouTube videos, but I always thought there was a guy inside.”

“Everybody does.”

He takes a tentative step forward. “Who built it—I mean, him?”

“My dad. Back in the day they were all in perfect working order. I’ve got the whole outlaw gang, but they’ve all got problems. Scales is in the best shape. The only issue with him is that I still can’t get his legs to move.”

“He’s just amazing,” Tommy says.

I nod in agreement but the truth is, none of the Mech Gang can hold a candle to Sheriff Poole. Beside him they look exactly like what they are: clunky clockwork robots. But they were the best Dad could do. What I don’t tell Tommy—what I’ve never told anybody—is that they’re just poor echoes of the sheriff. Everybody thinks they’re the way they are to make them look like villains. But it’s more that Dad just didn’t have the skills or parts to make them any better.

He had the sheriff for a blueprint, but it wasn’t like he could take him apart to see what made him tick. I mean, he could have, but there was no guarantee he’d be able to put him back together again. It’s the same reason I haven’t dismantled the sheriff. I suppose I could bring him in to some high tech research company, but they’d be faced with the same challenge, and these days, what does anybody know about clockwork mechanics? Everything runs on microchips now.

But Dad figured a lot of it out—more than I have so far, that’s for sure. Still, he was never able to make the parts as small as they are inside the sheriff and still have them work for more than a couple of days. The sheriff’s cogs and wheels look like regular steel alloys, but whatever the metal actually is, it’s stronger than anything Dad could get his hands on. His parts had to be larger, and without that particular metal to sustain their weight, they’d just break.

Bottom line, Sheriff Poole is something special. Dad told me he dates back to the 1800s, that his own great-grandfather either found him or made him. The sheriff is supposed to be the reason the ranch survived Indian raids, rustlers and whatever else was thrown at us. But he wasn’t able to stop what happened the night the Showdown Ranch was shut down for good.

“I know a guy,” Tommy says. “He used to work on animatronics in places like Disneyland, but he was always doing his own research on how to make his pieces better. He’s an old guy now—retired years ago. But he might have some ideas.”

I don’t say anything.

Tommy gets it right away. I thought he might, which is why I showed him the Mech Gang in the first place.

“It’s cool,” he says. “We don’t need to let anybody else know. You say the word and I didn’t see anything myself. But I’ve got to tell you—this is something I’m never going to forget.”

“Trust me,” I tell him. “I know. But there just comes a time when you have to show it to someone who’s going to appreciate it.”

“No one else knows?”

“Just my wife Mason.”

He smiles. “And I’m guessing she’s as enthusiastic about them as my Ellen is about the carnie rides I bring home. She almost left me when I came into the yard towing the Ferris Wheel behind my truck.”

“I’d like to see those rides of yours.”

“Any time.”

We talk for so long that before I know it, it’s time for dinner. Mason’d have my hide if I let Tommy go off without at least an invitation.

We’re sitting on the porch after dinner when the talk turns to the Showdown Ranch and what happened the night of the explosion. Tommy made a good impression on Mason—especially after offering to help with the clean up. We got the kitchen fixed up in good time, coffees made, the desert night cooling down the day’s heat when we stepped outside. Buddy’s asleep at my feet, Mason’s dozing against my shoulder, but she straightens up when Tommy asks the question.

“It’s hard to explain,” I say.

“Try impossible,” Mason says from beside me. She smiles before adding, “But that won’t stop him from trying.”

“It looked like the workshop just blew up,” I say. “Like Dad wasn’t storing his oils and gasoline properly and something set it off. But if you study the wreckage with a suspicious eye like I have, you’ll see that it didn’t blow up from inside—or at least not at first. Once whatever it was hit the workshop—of course all that crap was going to blow. But someone fired something into it first.”

Tommy has his feet up on the rail, looking out at the desert night. He drops them to the wood plank flooring and turns to look at me.

“You’re saying somebody attacked the ranch?” he asks. “With what? A rocket launcher?”

“I couldn’t say what they used.”

That’s a lie. But while I like Tommy, I don’t know him well enough to trust him with something this big.

“But I found a piece of the sheet metal roofing with a hole in it,” I go on. “Perfectly round. Like a laser had gone through it. But this was back in the sixties. Were they even using lasers back then?”

“I don’t know.” He waits a beat before he asks, “Your father…was he inside when it happened?”

“No, he was outside—where he got cut in two. The coroner said it was from a flying piece of sheet metal.”

“But you don’t believe it.”

I shake my head. I almost add, “Not with what I know,” but we’ve gone as far as I want to go with a stranger.

“So those carnie rides of yours,” I say. “You have them all set up and working?”

For a moment I think he’s going to say something more, but then he takes the hint.

“A couple,” he says. “I’m working on the Ferris Wheel right now, but there’s a lot of weak metal, especially in the baskets. I’m in a bind because they’ll never be safe to use as they are, but I hate the idea of replacing all that vintage metalwork.”

We talk a while longer. Mason goes to bed first and we follow soon after. I show Tommy to the guest room, then take a stroll around the ranch buildings with Buddy. I study the sky above the old Showdown Ranch canyon but it’s clear, so I turn in.

It’s long past midnight when Mason nudges me, but I’m already awake. Outside I hear Buddy whining. I look to the skies above the canyon. Cursing, I get dressed. Before I leave the room I grab my six-gun and its holster from where they hang in the closet.

“Dan,” Mason says.

She’s sitting up, bedclothes pulled up to her chin.

“I’ll be careful,” I tell her as I leave our bedroom.

I know she’ll be out to help like she always does. She’s a good woman. Wish I didn’t have to keep putting her through this.

I draw the six-gun from its holster and cock the hammer as I walk down the hall. Tommy sits up when I kick in the door and point the pistol at him. He’s obviously disoriented, but I’m too pissed off for it to register much.

“Goddamn!” I yell at him. “We fed you. We put you up. And this is what we get in return?”

Tommy holds up his hands.

“Easy there, cowboy,” he says. “I don’t know what’s got you all worked up, but if I did something to offend you, I swear it’s nothing I ever intended.”

I point to the window with the hand that’s not holding the pistol. That remains steady, aimed at his head.

“We’ve had three months of peace,” I tell him. “That’s the longest we’ve ever had. Then you show up and they’re back. You’re telling me there’s no connection?”

“They…?”

He’s torn between wanting to look out the window and keeping his gaze on the six-gun pointed at his head, hammer cocked. In the end curiosity wins out over fear and he glances out the window.

“What the fuck?” he says when he sees the light show above the canyon.

That’s when I know for sure and lower the pistol. The fact that he woke up completely disoriented finally registers.

“They’re back,” I say.

“Who’s back?”

“The things that killed my dad.”

He turns away from the light show. It looks like helicopters training spotlights on the ground, except they’re not helicopters. And the creatures in those flying aircraft aren’t human.

“But your dad’s dead,” Tommy says. “Why would they come back?”

“I figure they’re looking for the sheriff.”

“But—”

“If we make it through the night, I’ll tell you what I know. Right now we need to get ready because they’ll be here in about ten minutes.”

I leave the room without waiting for an answer. Buddy and I are halfway to the barn when Tommy catches up to us, breathing heavily.

“What…the hell’s…going on?” he manages.

I’m at the barn’s side door and I fling it open, hitting the lights as I head for my workbench.

“Can’t talk,” I tell him. “You can help or stay out of my way.”

“What do you want me to do?”

I grab a box of shells off the workbench and toss it to him.

“Go into the stalls and load up the Mech Gang’s guns,” I tell him.

“But—”

“Either do it, or go back to the house and stay out of my way.”

I know he’s got a thousand questions, but I guess he sees something in my face that tells him how serious this is.

“Load their guns,” he says. “Right.”

“They’re under the tarps. I’ll help as soon as I get the sheriff ready.”

“The sheriff…”

He’s headed toward the stalls, but stops dead in his tracks as I pull back the tarp covering Poole where he’s lying on the workbench.

“Oh man,” he says. “You have the freaking sheriff!”

“Move!” I tell him.

His gaze is locked on the sheriff for one long moment, then he nods and hurries over to the old horse stalls. I turn back to the sheriff.

“Sorry,” I say to him as I reach into his chest and turn him on.

Unlike Johnny Scales, the sheriff immediately sits up, the movement smooth as my own. Smoother. He closes his own chest door, his gaze ranging throughout the barn until they finally settle on me.

“They’re back?” he asks.

His voice has a slight mechanical tone, but otherwise it’s indistinguishable from a human’s.

I nod in response to his question.

“How many?” he asks.

“I don’t know. But there are a lot of lights. Three? Maybe four?”

He nods. “We’ve got our work cut out for us.”

“How’s it going with the Mech Gang?” I call out to Tommy.

I turn when there’s no response to see him standing by the open door of the first stall, slack-jawed, his eyes big.

“Get the boys ready,” the sheriff says. “I’ll go stand guard.”

I walk over to Tommy and pluck the box of shells from his hand while he stands there dumbfounded watching the sheriff walk outside.

I’ve got the tarps off the gang and I’m loading guns when Tommy finally gets himself together enough to help me. I’ve finished with Johnny Scales and the Linden Kid and I’ve moved on to the Myers Brothers, Chris and Pike. Chris is missing his legs, Pike one of his arms. But not his shooting arm.

I grab a handful of shells and hand the box to Tommy.

“Get their guns loaded,” I tell him.

He nods and gets to work without any more questions, though I can see them written all over his face. I cross the stall to the last of the gang, Paco Mendez. All that’s left of him is a torso jammed into a small wagon and held in place with ropes. I load up his guns then pull the wagon out into the main part of the barn, heading for the door. By the time I get back to the stalls, Tommy’s finished loading the Myers Brothers’s guns.

“I’ve never seen rounds like these,” he says rolling one of the bullets between is fingers.

“I’m not surprised,” I tell him.

I get him to help me roll the rest of the gang outside—each of them tied into place on heavy-duty dollies, which makes them easier to move than Mendez is in his wagon. You just have to be careful you don’t tip them.

“The sheriff makes the bullets,” I add. “He says they’re equal parts lightning, whiskey powder and despair.”

“What does that even mean?”

“I don’t know. You could ask him. The time I did, he started talking about alchemy and confined energy spheres and my head started to spin.”

The sheriff is standing in the middle of the yard, his scarred features turned to face the canyon where the lights are still playing over the ground below. It won’t be long now before they reach us.

Mason steps down from the porch carrying her granddad’s old buffalo rifle. She delivers it to the sheriff, then pulls a six-gun from the waist of her jeans.

Tommy turns from the sheriff and looks back at me. “I think I’ll pass,” he says.

Mason and I switch on each member of the Mech Gang and arrange them in the yard, three of them facing the canyon, two facing the rear. We came up with this arrangement after the last time, when the enemy split up and came at us from both sides.

“Eyes to the sky,” I say to them. “Make every shot count.”

The Mech Gang draw their weapons. Five metal faces tilt upward and glowing red eye sensors scan the sky.

The sheriff checks the buffalo rifle’s load even though he knows Mason would have done that before she brought it out to him. But that’s just the way he is. Careful. It’s why he’s survived as long as he has.

“Incoming,” Mason says.

We look up at the lights that are now heading our way. The sheriff settles the stock of the rifle against his shoulder and takes aim.

“Can you shoot?” I ask Tommy.

He nods. “But what am I shooting at? Lights in the sky?”

“Pretty much. We just need to keep them back—lay down a covering fire so the sheriff can do his thing. You won’t believe the range on that buffalo rifle.”

“There’s not much about today I do believe,” Tommy says.

But he takes the six-gun I pass him, checks its load.

“Where do you want me?” he asks.

“Stick close to Mason. And go easy on your ammo. These bullets take a while to make.”

“But—”

“All you need to remember is that we want to keep those damned creatures far enough back that their lasers can’t reach us, but close enough for the sheriff to make his shot.”

I don’t expect him to do much, but a man needs to be made to feel useful. We don’t really need him. By now we’ve got this down to a fine art. I fetch my rifle and take a stand beside the Linden Kid.

The Mech Gang starts to lay down fire, choosing their shots carefully.

“Come on,” the sheriff mutters, gaze fixed on the approaching aircraft.

The lead one’s almost close enough to fire on one of the outbuildings when the sheriff takes his shot. The buffalo rifle booms like a clap of thunder and the craft explodes in a flare of bright light. Then it winks out and there’s nothing left in its place except for a cloud of fine dust. The other two craft veer off, right and left, before they circle back for another run. Now they’re coming at us from both sides.

The sheriff doesn’t even check his shot. He breaks the rifle open and expels the spent shell. Reaching into his pocket, he gets another round, inserts it and snaps the rifle shut again. He’s so fast that it almost seems he has the stock back against his shoulder before the echo of his first shot dies away.

“East,” he says, indicating the target he’s chosen.

I turn west and fire at the incoming craft on my side. It’s too far away for me to do any damage, but it shoots straight up into the sky to escape all the same. Behind me I hear the boom of the buffalo rifle again, followed by another explosion as the second craft bites the dust.

You’d think they’d learn by now. You’d think the surviving ship would beat a retreat. But here it comes, dropping straight down from the starry sky directly above us. The buffalo rifle booms a third time and the last craft explodes. A fine dust drifts down from the sky.

“Don’t breathe that crap!” I warn Tommy. “Or let it get in your eyes.”

Mason and I are already pulling up bandanas to cover our noses and mouths. We shut our eyes. Both the Mech Gang and the sheriff are holding their fire. I feel the weird tingle as the dust settles upon us and brush it away. It’s only dangerous in the first few moments after the ship explodes. After that it might as well be corn flour.

I open my eyes and look around. The Mech Gang are still scanning the sky for danger, but the sheriff has lowered his buffalo rifle.

“We got all three!” Tommy says.

The sheriff nods.

“I counted four over the canyon,” Mason says.

I play back in my head the light show we saw above the canyon earlier and realize she’s right. We all study the sky, waiting for that last ship to appear.

The minutes tick by.

“So what exactly are we blowing up here?” Tommy asks.

“I’m not really sure,” the sheriff tells him. “Back where I’m from, all we know for sure is that they’re some kind of gas-based life form. They can’t hold a solid shape for long. Long enough to cause some damage—“ He gives me a glance. “—but then they just come apart. I don’t even think we’re killing them. We’re just returning them to another state. Sooner or later they reform and they come back.

“Used to be, I thought they were looking to use me for a more permanent vehicle, but now I think they’re just pissed off and want to finish me off.”

The rest of us keep scanning for that fourth ship, but Tommy can’t take his gaze from the sheriff.

“So you’re real,” he says. “I mean, you’re like a real person except you’re made of metal and clockwork, right?”

“I don’t understand the question.”

“Well, no offense, but I just took you for something somebody made.”

“Somebody did make me.”

Tommy nods. “Well, yeah. But you still think and feel like a human being. You have independent thought.”

“I can think for myself, yes,” the sheriff says.

“So why do you let Dan turn you off?

“I don’t let him. I ask him to.”

“I don’t get it,” Tommy says. “So you just go from battle to battle? What kind of life is that?”

The sheriff shrugs. “It’s what I do. It’s why I am. I’ve had too much of the time in between where I don’t fit in. A warrior’s not made for peacetime—just ask the old Indian chiefs. Geronimo, Cochise. They understood. But so long as the enemy keeps coming for me, I can’t go away. At least here we’ve got a good defense set up.”

“Earlier,” Tommy says, “you said something about ‘where you come from.’ Can I ask where that is?”

The sheriff scratches at his burnt cheek—a gesture I’ve noticed he does when he’s thinking. It always makes me feel a little disconcerted since it makes him seem more human, less the clockwork man.

“I don’t know that I can tell you,” he says finally. “It’s not from here and it wasn’t in this clockwork body. When Nate Cutler—Dan’s great-grandfather—was putting the finishing touches on this body and turned it on, I found myself inside and I’ve been here ever since. But I can recall some other place and something pushing me out of my own body.”

“Was it something Nate did?”

The sheriff shakes his head. “No, I think it was one of the enemy taking me over and so I fled and ended up in the next available container that would hold whatever it is that makes us what we are. Nate made this body to protect his family, so that’s what I do.”

Tommy looks from me back to the sheriff.

“Seems to me,” Tommy says, “that your being here is what’s putting the Cutlers in danger.”

“Now you hold on there!” I tell him. “The sheriff’s done a lot for my family. He’s fought off Indians, Civil War deserters, rustlers and outlaws. If you think I’m turning my back on him now, you’ve got another thing coming. Jack Poole’s family, and that means something around here.”

Tommy puts up a hand in a peaceful gesture, palm out.

“I’m not suggesting anything,” he says. “I’m just thinking aloud, is all. You can’t tell me it’s never crossed your mind.”

Mason and I have talked about this before and I tell him the same thing I tell her when she suggests that maybe the sheriff should hole up somewhere in the Hierro Maderas.

“I’ll stand by his side for a long as I’m alive.”

“And I appreciate it,” the sheriff says.

“Listen,” Mason says.

We all turn to her.

“What is it?” I ask her.

She touches her ear. “Listen.”

“I don’t hear anything,” I say.

But then I get it. The desert night’s always full of sounds. Rustles and stirrings in the dry brush. An owl hooting from the top of some distant cactus. Javalinas rooting around down by the dry wash, looking for prickly pear.

Right now there’s dead silence except for the wind banging a shutter up in the barn.

“Look sharp,” the sheriff says.

We scan the skies on all sides. I can’t see anything.

“Over there,” Tommy says, pointing above the house.

I start to tell him there’s nothing there, except then I realize it’s like the absence of sound in the desert around us. The sky is always thick with stars—this far away from pretty much anybody, there’s no light pollution and you can see the galaxies in all their glories. Except above the house there’s an empty spot. No stars. Nothing.

Because the last of the enemy ships is there and it’s using something new: some kind of stealth tech. Instead of a glowing oval that’s a little like a dirigible, there’s just the shape of it blocking out the stars.

“Sheriff!” I call over.

The sheriff brings the stock of the buffalo rifle up to his shoulder. It’s an easy shot, but he doesn’t take it. He just stands there, staring up at that absence of stars.

I lift my rifle. The range is iffy but I think I can make the shot. But before I can squeeze the trigger a laser flashes out of the enemy ship. It burns the dirt at the sheriff’s feet then rises up to cut him in two. He falls to the ground in a jumble of metal and little clockwork bits that spill across the yard. His head bounces once, then rolls up against the wheel of the wagon holding the Linden Kid.

I start firing at the ship, but it’s already in retreat.

And then it’s gone.

For a long time I stare at the mess of scorched parts that used to be the sheriff. Buddy approaches it and sniffs at the metal, whining. Mason touches my arm in sympathy but I shake her hand off and turn to Tommy.

“Goddamn,” I say. “Why’d you have to fill his head with all that crap you were spouting?”

“It was his choice,” Tommy says.

“Is that right? And what are we going to do the next time those bastards show up? Nobody could shoot like him.”

“Maybe they won’t come anymore since they got what they were looking for.”

I’ve got nothing left to say. I start to take a swing at him but Mason grabs my arm and hangs on.

“You better make dust,” she tells Tommy.

A year later I’m steering down a dusty side road in my old pickup. Mason’s got the shotgun seat, Buddy’s riding in between us. We’re towing a new-to-us old Airstream trailer as I follow the directions Mason reads from the GPS app on her phone.

“That’s it,” she says, pointing ahead to where a dirt lane leaves the side road and heads out to some buildings we can see out in the brush.

It’s a crappy track, full of potholes, and I take my time pulling the trailer along its half-mile length. By the time we reach the ranch house a woman is standing on the porch, shading her eyes. She’s got a couple of lean, reddish-brown dogs beside her on the porch. The dogs are obviously interested in us—gazes steady, ears twitching—but trained enough to stay with her and not bark.

I pull in under the shade of a tall mesquite, roll down the window, and get out of the cab. Mason follows suit, but we leave Buddy inside.

“Ma’am,” I say and touch the brim of my baseball cap with a finger. “Is Tommy around?”

“He’s out by the barn,” she says, “but I wouldn’t get your hopes up. He’s pretty particular about what he buys.”

I guess she thinks we’re here to try to make a deal on the Airstream.

“We’re not selling,” I tell her.

She smiles. “Well, then you’re most welcome. The last thing we need around here is more junk—no offense. That trailer actually looks to be in pretty good shape.”

“It better be. We paid enough for it. Is it okay if I go talk to Tommy?”

“Sure. If he’s not in the barn then he’s in the workshop behind it.”

I touch the brim of my cap again. “Thanks.”

“You go on ahead,” Mason says when I turn to her.

I nod. She knows this is something I have to do on my own.

“I’ve got iced tea,” I hear Tommy’s wife say as I’m leaving. “If you’d care for a glass.”

“That would be lovely,” Mason tells her.

Then I’m out of earshot.

I follow the sound of a hammer on metal around back of the barn. When I turn the corner I see Tommy banging out the dents on the side panel of what looks to be an old bumper car.

“Hey,” I say.

He lifts his head. It takes him a moment to recognize me and then a wary look comes into his eyes.

“Should I be wishing I had my shotgun in my hand,” he says, “instead of this mallet?”

I shake my head. “I’m not here to make trouble. I came by to apologize.”

He sets the mallet down on the hood of the car.

“There’s no need for that,” he tells me. “Things were pretty messed up that night and I should have kept my mouth shut. You were doing just fine before I came along.”

“There hasn’t been an attack since then,” I tell him. “Not one. We’ve never had so long a stretch.”

He waves me over to where a couple of plastic lawn chairs are set in the shade.

“Nothing?” he says as we settle into our seats.

“Nothing. So you were right. It was him they were after all along. Once they took him out…well, we haven’t seen hide or hair of them since.”

“I’ve thought a lot about that night,” Tommy says but he doesn’t go on.

“And?”

He shrugs. “And nothing. It all seems like a bad dream. Like I ate a lot of pizza and ice cream while watching one of those big blockbuster movies where things blow up every couple of minutes or so. Then I fell asleep and found myself in the middle of that alien shootout.”

“Except it wasn’t a dream.”

“I know that.” He leans back in his chair. “Do you ever wonder where he came from—the sheriff, I mean—and where he’s gone now?”

“All the time.”

And I do think about where he is but it’s nothing I feel like talking about. I feel guilty enough for keeping the sheriff around as long as I did. Mason’s even starting to sleep through the night now.

“I’ve got something for you,” I say as I get to my feet. “It’s back in the truck.”

He stands up and we head back to the house.

“Nice Airstream,” he says.

“Yeah, it’s a ’66, but it’s in crazy-good shape. Mason and I are going to do a little travelling. Visit her sister in New Mexico first, then see where we feel like going after that. We’ve never been able to travel before.”

We’ve reached the truck. I lean into the bed and pull off the tarp that’s covering Johnny Scales, the leader of the Mech Gang.

“You’re giving me him?”

I nod. “I thought maybe you could talk to that friend of yours—see if he can get him walking again.”

“I could do that. What about the rest of them?”

“I’ve got them in storage. If your friend figures something out, maybe you could email me and let me know?”

“So you can try to fix the others?”

I nod.

“What about the sheriff?” he asks. “What’d you do with what was left of him?”

“We buried the parts up in the Hierro Maderas where no one’s going to find them.”

Tommy turns to look at where the mountains rear up in the distance. They’re not as close from this vantage point as they are to the ranch, but they still seem to go up into the sky forever.

“God rest his soul,” Tommy says. “If he has one.”

I nod.

Tommy returns his attention to the still form of the clockwork outlaw weighing down the bed of my truck.

“I’ve got a little front loader back in the barn,” he tells me. “We should be able to lift him out with its bucket.”

“Did you tell him?” Mason asks as we’re driving away from the house.

I shake my head. “Why give him something to worry about?”

“Maybe because there is something to worry about?”

“The enemy’s not coming back. They cut the sheriff in two—that’s all they were after.”

“We don’t know that for a fact.”

“It’s been a year,” I say.

A year since we buried the body—like I told Tommy we did. But we kept the head. It’s in the Airstream now in a padded box to keep it from getting banged around. Evenings we take it out and set it on a cushion. I don’t know how or why, but the sheriff’s still in there. Some nights he just tells us stories about what it was like back when the state was a territory. Some nights we try to figure how to get him another body because I’ve got to tell you, it’s damn weird talking to just a head.

The sheriff thinks he can move into another body if we can get something in working order.

This friend of Tommy’s getting Scales fixed up is a long shot. We’ve considered lots of other options.

Like sneaking into the tunnels under Disneyland and stealing one of their old animatronic figures. Grab one of those Yetis and let the sheriff go wandering deep in the mountains. That’d give the area a for-real Mogollon Monster. I’d love to see the face of the hiker who runs into him wearing that body.

Or breaking into a morgue to get someone newly dead, but the sheriff doesn’t think he can exist in flesh and it doesn’t seem right, him walking around in a corpse. Damn thing’d probably rot out on him.

No, he needs clockwork, or some kind of machinery. Something that’ll last.

So far it seems pretty hopeless. But I’m not giving up.

I’m a Cutler and it seems we’ve always got to have ourselves a folly.

###

About the Author

Charles de Lint is a full-time writer and musician who makes his home in Ottawa, Canada. His many awards include the World Fantasy Award, the Canadian SF/Fantasy Aurora Award, and the White Pine Award, among others. Modern Library's Top 100 Books of the 20th Century poll (voted on by readers) put eight of de Lint's books among the top 100. With 37 novels and 18 collections of short fiction published to date, de Lint writes for adults, teens and children. His new middle grade book is The Cats of Tanglewood Forest, illustrated by CHarles Vess (Little Brown, 2013). His most recent adult novel, The Mystery of Grace (Tor, 2009), is a fantastical ghost story and a heart-wrenching tale of love, passion and faith. His newest young adult novel is Over My Head (Triskell Press, 2013). His latest collection of short fiction is The Very Best of Charles de Lint (Tachyon Publications, 2010). For more information, visit his web site at http://www.charlesdelint.com.

You can also connect with him at:

Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/pages/Charles-de-Lint/218001537221

Twitter: https://twitter.com/#!/cdelint

Tumblr: http://cdelint.tumblr.com/

Sheriff Poole & The Mech Gang

Is an original Triskell Press publication and appears here for the first time.

Cover design by MaryAnn Harris.

Cover art by Ben Garrison.

http://bengarrison.com/fine_art.html

eISBN 978-0-920623-13-8

For information:

Triskell Press

P.O. Box 9480

Ottawa ON K1G 3V2

Canada
http://www.triskellpress.com

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the author or publisher except for the use of brief quotations in critical articles or reviews.

This is a work of fiction. Names, places, businesses, characters and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, actual events or locales is purely coincidental.

Discover other titles by Charles de Lint at Smashwords.

Other Books by Charles de Lint

OVER MY HEAD (young adult novel, Penguin Canada, 2013; Triskell Press, 2013)

THE CATS OF TANGLEWOOD FOREST (middle grade novel; Little Brown, 2013)

UNDER MY SKIN (young adult novel, Penguin Canada, 2012; Triskell Press, 2012)

EYES LIKE LEAVES (early work, 1980 novel, Tachyon Publications, 2012 )

THE PAINTED BOY (young adult novel, Viking, 2010)

MUSE AND REVERIE (collection, Tor, 2009)

THE MYSTERY OF GRACE (novel, Tor, March 2009)

WOODS & WATERS WILD (collection, Subterranean Press, 2008)

WHAT THE MOUSE FOUND (children's collection, Subterranean Press, 2008)

DINGO (young adult novella, Viking, 2008)

PROMISES TO KEEP (novel, Subterranean Press, 2007)

LITTLE (GRRL) LOST (young adult novel, Viking, 2007)

TRISKELL TALES: 2 (collection, Subterranean Press, 2006)

WIDDERSHINS (novel, Tor, 2006)

THE HOUR BEFORE DAWN (collection, Subterranean Press, 2005)

QUICKSILVER & SHADOW (collection, Subterranean Press, 2005)

THE BLUE GIRL (young adult novel, Viking, 2004)

MEDICINE ROAD (novel, Subterranean Press, 2003)

SPIRITS IN THE WIRES (novel, Tor, 2003)

A HANDFUL OF COPPERS (collection, Subterranean Press, 2003)

TAPPING THE DREAM TREE ("Newford" collection, Tor, 2002)

WAIFS AND STRAYS (young adult collection, Viking, 2002)

SEVEN WILD SISTERS (novel, Subterranean Press, 2002)

THE ONION GIRL (novel, Tor, 2001)

THE ROAD TO LISDOONVARNA (mystery novel, Subterranean Press, 2001)

TRISKELL TALES: 22 YEARS OF CHAPBOOKS (collection, Subterranean Press, 2000)

FORESTS OF THE HEART (novel, Tor, 2000)

THE NEWFORD STORIES (collection, Science Fiction Book Club, 1999)

MOONLIGHT AND VINES (collection, Tor, 1999)

SOMEPLACE TO BE FLYING (novel, Tor, 1998)

TRADER (novel, Tor, 1996)

JACK OF KINROWAN (omnibus, Orb, 1995)

THE IVORY AND THE HORN (collection, Tor, 1995)

MEMORY AND DREAM (novel, Tor, 1994)

THE WILD WOOD (novel, Bantam, 1994)

INTO THE GREEN (novel, Tor, 1993)

DREAMS UNDERFOOT (collection, Tor, 1993)

SPIRITWALK (collection, Tor, 1992)

HEDGEWORK AND GUESSERY (collection, Pulphouse, 1991)

THE LITTLE COUNTRY (novel, Morrow, 1991)

THE DREAMING PLACE (novel, Atheneum, 1990)

ANGEL OF DARKNESS (novel, as Samuel M. Key; Jove, 1990)

GHOSTWOOD (novel, Axolotl Press,1990)

DRINK DOWN THE MOON (novel, Ace, 1990)

SVAHA (novel, Ace, 1989)

WOLF MOON (novel, NAL, 1988)

GREENMANTLE (novel, Ace, 1988)

JACK, THE GIANT-KILLER (novel, Ace, 1987)

YARROW (novel, Ace, l986)

MULENGRO (novel, Ace, l985)

THE HARP OF THE GREY ROSE (novel, Starblaze, l985)

MOONHEART (novel, Ace, l984)

THE RIDDLE OF THE WREN (novel, Ace, l984)

###

Table of Contents

- Sheriff Poole

- Midpoint