Sheriff

The town of Red Oak had seen one sheriff in forty years. Elias Boone took the badge when he was twenty-five, his jaw sharp as a hatchet and his eyes full of fire. Now, at sixty-five, the fire had banked to a low, steady glow, and the jaw had softened into jowls that quivered when he laughed—which wasn't often.

Boone took a sip of his sarsaparilla. Set the glass down. "Tell me something, son. You know what a sheriff actually does?"

Boone finished his sarsaparilla. He set the glass down with a soft click. "Because I know the governor," he said. "He wasn't a tall man. Couldn't stand to be around anyone over six feet. That fella was six-two if he was an inch. No way the governor would have pinned a star on someone he had to look up to." Sheriff

The sheriff looked at her for a long moment. Then he took down his hat from the peg by the door. His fingers, gnarled as oak roots, brushed the brim once, twice, a habit from decades past. "The governor's been dead six years, Mabel."

"Well, nobody told this fella."

"Enforce the law."

He tipped his hat to the room and walked out into the dust-choked light, the old tin badge catching the sun just once—a small, defiant gleam—before he disappeared into the shadow of the jailhouse porch. The town of Red Oak had seen one sheriff in forty years

The stranger turned. His star caught the light—brass, not tin, and engraved with the state seal. "Your badge?" He smiled, and it didn't reach his eyes. "I don't see your name on it, old-timer. I see a town that's been sleeping. I'm here to wake it up."