Splintered Elm Bonus Content - Sheriff Grater

October 2, 1902

Sheriff Wade Grater never repeats himself. If you missed what he had to say the first time, you

weren’t listening. He also keeps his words to a minimum, opting to let the object of his focus do

most of the talking—and they usually oblige, spurred on by Grater’s prying, gray eyes. Over the

course of decades as a lawman, his whisker-stubbled face has evolved into a permanently suspicious scowl. He always seems to have a layer of dust on him, even when stepping out of a tub.

But what appears to be dust is, in fact, the history that hangs upon him like a weathered blanket,

nicked and scarred and torn away in parts. He understands the townsfolk speculate about his past, and he has no desire to set the matter straight. He prefers the dead and buried to remain so.

Besides, as of yet, no one has dared ask him about it.

Like many others in Williamston, Grater never figured he’d wind up in a small town in southern

Illinois. But the Illinois Central Railway provided work, which provided a need for people to

congregate and form towns, and towns need order. Age had long ago beaten away Grater’s sense

of adventure. Nowadays he just wants a place of employment away from the mayhem of the West, a place to slow down before hanging up his hat. Williamston, he figures, fits the bill. As good as any town situated upon the Illinois Central.

From his journeys, Grater brought with him his tin coffee cup, his guns, the clothes on his back, and a fierce dedication to the safety and protection of the law-abiding citizens whom he serves.

He’s just not necessarily friendly about it.

On this day, a complaint has been filed about rustled sheep, and the sheriff has a good idea of

the perpetrator.

Todd Loney has a peculiarity for telegraphing the next idiotic thing he’s about to do, and he let

slip, weeks back, he had lost his last fertile ewe to a wolf. Grater has it figured Todd just left the

pen open because if Todd had spotted a wolf, and he let it traipse off with a sheep without shooting it twelve ways from Sunday, they’d have much bigger problems.

But Todd Loney is a bonehead, and a liar, and probably doesn’t know the difference between a wolf and a cocker spaniel. So, an unlatched gate is the best bet.

With a sigh, Grater sets his paper down and strolls out of his office. His destination--Guppy’s

Tavern, just one door to the south. Though a canopy covers the uneven plank walkway connecting the Sheriff’s Office to Guppy’s, and to the Inn beyond, he squints at the harshness of the sun reflecting off the dirt road and the buildings opposite Franks Street. Dust, kicked up by passing horses and pedestrians, drapes the air at knee height. Everything takes on an amber hue in the waning sun. A wedge props open the front door to Guppy’s, welcoming what little breeze gets stirred up. The start of fall has arrived, and it is as hot and arid as the end of summer.

Without breaking stride, Grater notes the voices; the tone, and the volume emanating from the

tavern. An explosion of laughter rises above the racket—Virgil Boller, howling at something

apparently only he finds humorous. By the sound of it, Grater figures Virgil has about another hour before Guppy ushers him out by the elbow. The sheriff pushes Virgil’s laughter from his hearing and keys on Todd’s voice, discussing Guppy’s limited menu with his kin. Grater pulls out his watch and thumbs it open.

6:33. About right.

He snaps the watch shut and returns it to his pocket. The sheriff heaves another sigh, and

saunters into Guppy’s.

He strikes an imposing figure, despite an appearance no different from any other man in town,

with the exception of the silver star pinned to his chest. Dust, real dust this time, camouflages every stitch he wears. Williamston has gone without rain for weeks, and dryness permeates everything.

Under a brown duster, he wears patched pants tucked into faded black boots, a striped shirt

with patches at the elbows, and a dingy black vest. An old bolero hat shadows his stern face.

Holstered on his hips, two mis-matching guns. On his left, a Smith & Wesson double action Frontier revolver. Its matching partner currently rests on the bottom of the Rio Grande, a casualty from a former life. On his right, a .45 Colt single action, an acquisition from a man who no longer has use for it, from that same former life. The sheriff favors his left hand. The Colt he seldom touches, it’s used mostly to balance his gun belt.

As per usual when he pays the tavern a visit, conversations lower to a more reverent tone. Even

Virgil quiets, suddenly interested in a raised piece of blackened wood grain on the bar that requires his immediate attention. He picks at it with his thumbnail as his widened, bloodshot eyes dart between it and the sheriff. Grater scans the room, passing over Virgil, deliberating upon every other man with casual analysis.

The entire tavern wears the patina of time. It has stood in this spot for over fifty hard years.

Guppy’s has attracted patrons, mostly men, of all stripes throughout the town’s history, and many haven’t gotten along so well. The early years of Williamston differed little from the Wild West, as people arrived in town. Most fleeing something, eager to leave their old lives behind. Some had just wanted to start fresh in a new locale, drawn by the chance to do so. It took time for the town inhabitants to settle into daily life, until the town took on its own unique persona.

Some people moved on to other pastures, some stayed. But most of this sorting and establishing

had occurred here, at Guppy’s. As a result, bullet holes still dot the white-painted tiles of the tin

ceiling. Not as many, but still enough to be noticed, pepper the wood floor, worn smooth where

decades of foot traffic has passed over.

The bar, on the right, dwarfs the rest of the room, a grand piece adorned with elegant molding

and scalloped columns every six feet. Originally stained dark, it now appears black as molasses

from the absorption of years of tobacco smoke. A half dozen brass spittoons line the floor, spread

over the length of the bar, dented from countless skirmishes.

Behind the bar stands Guppy himself, a Williamston original, most agree. Easily the oldest resident in town, he speaks almost never. Skinny in stature, with unkempt wisps of gray hair flying about his head, and deep-set, bloodshot blue eyes. No one knows his real name, nor the story behind his aquatic nickname. Some say he’s a veteran of the merchant marines, some say the name had been given to him at birth, but this is mere guesswork. Guppy’s jaw works constantly, chewing God-knows-what with no teeth. Lying on a straw-stuffed pillowcase, on the floor behind the bar, lays an old Basset Hound named Larry. On the rare occasions Guppy speaks, it’s usually to yell at ol’ Lar to shaddup, though no one has ever heard the dog bark.

As Grater looks around the room, no one but Guppy can hold his gaze. He makes note of the

more particularly agitated glances, then steps to Todd Loney’s table with a cool ease.

With his thumbs tucked into his gun belt, he observes the fidgety Todd. The younger man

pretends not to notice the dusty figure looming six inches to his right.

“Sheriff.” Geoff Loney, Todd’s brother, attempts to break the ice.

Grater says nothing in reply, ignoring Geoff totally. He keeps his eyes trained on the top of Todd’s greasy, hat-flattened hair. His abused crusher hat, sweat-stained and limp, droops on his chair back.

The silence of the tavern hangs thick, but Grater feels relaxed in the moment's discomfort. Chair

legs jutter against floor planks as some begin standing to watch Grater and the poor recipient of his squinted focus.

“Todd,” Sheriff Grater addresses the flustered man, as if greeting him on the street.

Todd’s Adam’s apple rifles up and down, and his eyes dart left and right. But he keeps quiet.

His hand slowly creeps up from his lap and straightens his dinner fork, which now makes it the only piece of properly aligned dinnerware on the hastily set table. Presentation is not one of Guppy’s finer qualities. Grater scrutinizes this subconscious action, then returns his silent gaze to Todd’s matted, empty head.

Todd gulps again, his eyes flicking around the table at his brothers, whose returned expressions

clearly inform Todd he is on his own. A drunken laugh explodes from the back of the room,

followed close by a brusque hushing. The tavern holds its collective breath. The only sound now, the slight creak of the front door on its hinges, reacting to the puff of breeze that has finally wafted in.

In a sudden move that makes Grater drop his left hand to his Smith & Wesson, the desperate

man turns to face Grater.

“Aw hell sheriff, I’ll put ‘em back, I swear it! First thing on the morrow, I swear it to you truly. I

done wrong, sheriff. Just let me put it to right tomorrow, I begga ya.”

Grater holds his tongue for a few seconds longer, watching Loney squirm. Then he leans down

to look at the distressed man level in the eye, then stays there, observing poor Todd with a

calmness, as if perusing the cheese selection in the display case over at Dupree’s.

“Make it so,” the sheriff finally growls.

“Yes sir, sheriff, I shorely will.” Todd’s head bobs furiously. “First thing. Shore will. Thank you,

sheriff.”

Grater straightens back up, turns, and gives a small nod to Guppy behind the bar. Guppy,

leaning on both hands flat against the well-worn wood, returns the nod.

The sheriff exits, to return to his newspaper.

The jail cells in the back of the Sheriff’s Office are seldom occupied. Grater prefers to keep

Judge Johnston’s caseload light. More efficient, Grater figures.

Back at the office, the sheriff kicks his boots up on his desk and retrieves the paper from the

floor. Streaks of sunlight still streaming into the front glass windows illuminate the office with the glow of honey. Grater creaks the chair back and sits with his back turned to the front of the office, holding the paper to the natural light and squinting at the small print. Turning his back to the front door ceased to be a worry long ago. He knows his people.

Pipes supplying natural gas to the overhead and wall-mounted lamps crawl up the wall and

spider-web across the ceiling. Grater usually waits as long as he can before opening up the valves and lighting the lamps. He dislikes the added heat, which makes the cramped office feel even more confined.

Dark-stained walnut wainscoting topped by simple chair molding surrounds the office. Plaster walls rise above and extend to the tin ceiling. And nailed to the plaster wall above his desk:

two crooked pictures of the sheriffs who had preceded him: Adolphus Wainwright, 1855-1869 and Evan S. Claypool, 1869-1883. Each had lasted fourteen years in service to the town, a fact Grater often ponders, now that he himself has been sheriff for fourteen years. Retirement beckons to him like a Siren, and he finds it more and more difficult to ignore it as the days pass.

He glances at these mustachioed, stern faces each day but pays them nearly no mind. He supposes soon his own face will appear next to them, in a similarly crooked frame, for the next sheriff to pay no mind to. If that will be the case, he wishes he had a picture from his younger days to share. As it stands, they’d be framing up a picture of his tired, scarred, haggard countenance. He much hopes they’d just forget the whole matter.

He settles back into an article about the recapture of a prisoner up in Kalamazoo, Michigan,

who had sawed through the bars of his cell and later got pinned down in a livery in Saginaw. The

article neglects to mention how he had accomplished such a feat. Grater bends the corner of the

paper and gives his own cell bars a quick once over, then back to the paper.

A man in Rockland is attempting to eat one quail a day for thirty-two days straight, under close medical supervision. Day sixteen and showing no ill effects.

Moron.

Deputy Brown slams open the front door.

“Sheriff Grater!”

“What!”

When startled, Sheriff Grater does not speak in question marks.

Deputy Brown removes his hat—he prefers a brown tweed cap that makes him look like he’d

be more apt to sell you a newspaper than place you under arrest—and holds it in both hands in front of him. He has forgotten his place.

“Uhhh…I mean…Sheriff Grater,” more docile this time, “it’s the Snead woman. She wants to

file another complaint.”

Grater returns to his paper. “Her rose seeds again?”

“Y-yessir.”

“I’ll speak to Floyd,” the sheriff says, his eyes still trained on the Gazette. The townspeople are

unaware this is how their constabulary goes about the business of “filing complaints”. Deputy Brown gets the message to Sheriff Grater, and Grater makes a note to do something about it when he feels good and ready. And missing rose seeds places far second in priority to finishing the paper while the sun still shines.

“Okay, sir. Thank you, sir. Well, back at it!”

Deputy Brown slams the door behind him, rattling the front windows in their frames. Grater

winces at that, as always. The boy is as delicate as an elephant on roller skates in an operating

room. Ernie Brown is the only person brave enough, or dumb enough, to sign up to be in the employ of Sheriff Wade Grater. A clumsy oaf of a boy, Brown has a penchant for placing himself in the exact wrong position nearly always. But what he lacks in policing skill, he makes up for in spades with a fervor for the job and devotion to the safety of the citizenry. And Grater much prefers that over some bright face with shiny brass buttons fresh out of the academy, lecturing him about proper investigatory techniques and other nonsense pulled from a book.

Ernie doesn’t much fit the classic definition of an officer of the law. He looks even younger than

his twenty-one years—portly, with a round, cheerful face, usually red and sweaty from exertion. The townspeople adore him openly and tolerate his enthusiastic efforts at policing. Yesterday he rescued Mrs. Creedy’s cat from the white pine in her front yard. By the time Ernie had climbed down, sweating and flushed, Mrs. Creedy had insisted he sit a spell with her on the front porch with a cool drink. They had a nice conversation about butterflies.

Despite their disparate personalities, Grater has a soft spot for the boy. Though the sheriff has

never once asked Brown for his story, Ernie has nevertheless revealed it to him over time, unable to hold his nervous tongue. He lives on his own here in Williamston, having moved from St. Louis. Early in his education at the St. Louis College of Pharmacy, the boy knew following the path of his father and taking over the family drugstore would not be in the cards for him. He desired action, and to be of service to the public.

Despite the many objections from his doubting parents, all Ernie ever wanted was to wear a star on his chest. His choice to move to Williamston for “action” illustrates the boy’s decision-making skills, but at least in Williamston he has a grateful public to watch over.

And nobody here insists he choose a career he doesn’t want, or become a man he doesn’t want

to be.

Ernie’s parents legally disowned him after he told them his decision to pursue a career in the law.

This made Grater’s eyebrow raise when Ernie dropped it into his dialog without hesitation, as if

commenting upon the paint peeling off the barn up at Hap’s. Because of his authoritarian parents and his weight issue, Ernie had no friends in St. Louis. After his decision, he had no family, either.

The sheriff supposes the town drew Ernie, like it has so many others, to a prospect of starting life anew. One look at the carefree, happy-go-lucky Ernie Brown, and one would never guess the turmoil the boy has suffered, at such a young age. That’s why Sheriff Grater secretly likes him. One could even suggest the sheriff admires the boy, somewhere down deep. Grater can relate to troubled pasts, and can respect those seeking to do good despite them. Also, Grater’s policing arsenal lacks the weapon of kindness, which Brown possesses in abundance, and kindness can sometimes pry a confession much quicker than fear.

The boy is just a good egg, with a heart sized properly for his profession. Through all his trivial

annoyances, he reckons he and Ernie make a pretty good, if not unlikely, team.