Frank:
The prisoners were yelling when I walked into the sheriff’s station. The new guy, Sergio, had been manning the station, but it was time for him to go home to his wife and baby boy.
Five trays with dirtied plates and leftover mugs of coffee sat on my desk. I could smell the remnants of chicken gravy. It must have been chicken cutlets for dinner. A few string beans lingered on one plate. Guess someone didn’t like his vegetables.
I’d need to remind Sergio to return the trays to the restaurant on his way out. Meanwhile, I promised myself a good wipe down of my desk. No sense getting gravy smear on the paperwork I needed to do.
“The men ate their dinner like good little puppies,” Sergio said. “Except for their griping about the food. I have no idea why. I always get the same thing they have for dinner, and I think it’s mighty good. Frankly, sometimes the meal’s better than what my wife cooks, but then fixing dinner with a baby in hand complicates things, she tells me. At least the prisoners don’t get burned food.”
I chuckled softly and shook my head. “Be patient. Or better yet, learn how to cook. That way you can help out your wife.”
I hoped Sergio wouldn’t resent my suggestion. You never knew what folks would take offence to.
I did a look-over of the four guys in the cells, checking for problems like I was supposed to. The men all looked good and healthy. The toilets were working, and no one had started scratching at the walls to make some grand but impossible escape.
“Everybody good?” I asked. The yelling had stopped the moment they saw me.
The wife killer came closer, hugging the metal bars. “No, I want my rights. Where’s my court case?”
He was right. We should have heard from the traveling judge by now, but the judge was probably tied up on a case. He’d get back to me when he had the chance.
“You could spend your time repenting,” I told Carlos’ and Francis’ father.
The man stepped back with a scowl on his face and moved over to sit on his cot. “That woman deserved it. She was too skinny and a really bad cook. The food here is better.”
“Are you interested in the welfare of your boys?” I asked curiously.
“Nah. Those two brats? They aren’t worth nothing either.” He spat into the toilet, making his viewpoints even more obvious.
“The rest of you okay?” I asked, looked at the other three.
“I don’t mind staying here,” the town drunkard said. “It beats sleeping in the dirt. Food’s better, too.”
“Sorry you feel like that, Donalds. You’ll be on your way out tomorrow morning.”
The other two, the ones that had lied about Shama stealing the stallion, plus had called her a witch, which, I guess was actually the truth, had nothing to say to me. They’d already made their demands. If they had their way, they’d be riling up the town for a witch burning. I’d bet anything that they were the ones moaning about the food. They whined about everything.
Since everything looked good, I locked the outer door and returned to the office area. “These prisoners aren’t complaining about the food, Sergio,” I told him, picking up the earlier subject. “It’s just the fact that they’re locked up and need to fuss about it.”
Sergio smiled, hung up the rifle he’d been cleaning, then gave a massively loud yawn while stretching his arms full length.
“Donalds sounds sober now and seems calm. For him, anyway.”
I nodded. ”Yep. I’ll let him go in the morning. If I open the door now, he’ll just go back to causing problems at the saloon. He already owes them for two broken chairs. Morning’s soon enough for him to go searching for trouble.”