Bobby Fix-It Dances with the Sheriff: The Billy the Kid Saga Continues

Blame this on my friend Mike. I had fully intended for this to be the final chapter. I have plans on making this an eBook series and I wanted to get busy with that project, so the HP version was going to end today.

But then Mike asked me if I would be willing to continue since he’s enjoying it so much, and I have a real hard time saying no to friends who ask so nicely….so….

This series will continue for a little while. How long I know not, so Mike, don’t be surprised when it does finally end. From here on it’s pure gravy for you, Mike. And thank you for liking it so much.

When last we visited Bobby Fix-It, he was following a crooked sheriff around town. He had discovered that the sheriff was having an extra-marital affair in addition to demanding protection money of the town businesses. Bobby is getting ready to fix matters in that unique style he has.

And away we go!

Bringing down the powerful really isn’t that hard. They really make it easy for someone who is determined. Their egos are their Achilles, simple as that. They are convinced they are untouchable, that the common people would never dream of bringing them down. It’s been my experience that nobody is untouchable, not the Russian mob, not the Mexican drug cartel and certainly not some two-bit sheriff in a Wyoming town no larger than a dot on a map.

Sheriff Wyman thought wrong in this case. He was going down, and the instrument of his demise was a transplanted New York Irish mutt who never could stomach the bullies of this world and who refused to play by the rules. My old man told me when you’re in a street fight, everything within reach is a weapon and all rules are suspended. Follow those truths and you just might live to see another birthday.

My buddy Ray Atkins, owner of the Fire Pit, my favorite watering hole, placed another Bud in front of me and sat down. Ray’s a good guy. He’s a friend of mine. Enough said.

“Is the sheriff still squeezing you?” I asked him. Sheriff Wyman was taking “protection” money from local businesses. Ray paid it for quite some time, silently playing the game, but now times were tough and he couldn’t keep it up, not and continue paying his wife’s medical bills. I knew the answer to my question but I had to hear it one last time before I set my plan in motion.

“Yep, the bastard comes in like clockwork, takes his money, winks and leaves.”

“Okay. Well, don’t worry about it anymore. I suspect the sheriff is about to see the error in his ways.”

Ray looked at me for a few counts, tipped back his micro-piss beer and took a healthy slug.

“What are you planning, Bobby?”

I killed my beer and winked at him.

“Me? I’m just a ranch gofer. What the hell makes you think I’m planning anything?”

I slapped him on the shoulder and took my leave. Dawn was waiting at home with the promise of roast duck and sex, not necessarily in that order.

What I told Ray is true in a limited scope. I am just a hired hand on a local ranch, but I’m also a former street urchin who can’t abide by the strong taking advantage of the weak. It just doesn’t set well with me. I can abide by a certain amount of shit piled on me, but try to pile it on my friends or loved ones and, well, things usually turn ugly. The only reason the sheriff was upright at that moment was because Dawn, the mother of my soon-to-be-delivered child, asked me to mellow out a bit and cut back on the violence. As you might suspect, that made dealing with the likes of Sheriff Wyman a bit more difficult.

Dawn had the duck on the table when I walked into our cabin. I swear, there are times when the sun shines through the window just right, and washes over Dawn, and it’s like the heavens have opened up and the angles are smiling on me. I never knew that feeling until I met Dawn. A man would be a fool to ignore something like that, and daddy didn’t raise no fool.

I kissed her, kissed her stomach, felt our baby reaching out for a handshake, washed the ranch shit from my hands and ate dinner with my lover. Dawn may not be a gourmet cook, but her food sticks to your ribs, and she gets such a pleasure out of pleasing that it tastes like the best damned food ever cooked. I told her about my day but that’s not what she was interested in hearing.

“What about Sheriff Wyman? What are you planning?

So I told her, and when I was finished she approved, which means death was not a part of the plan.

“Just you stay safe, Bobby. Do that and I’m fine with the rest.”

I spent the rest of the evening typing up the letters and addressing the envelopes. I gathered up what I would need for my plan to succeed, kissed Dawn, tucked her in for the night, and headed out the door at ten-thirty with a backpack slung over my shoulder and my Glock tucked in my belt.

In most cases like this, first place goes to the bold. Boldness elicits surprise and surprise elicits delay, and any New York street rat will tell you that delay will get you killed. My daddy believed in that as does his son. I doubted very much if the sheriff had ever given it a thought.

Wyman lived a mile out of town in a two-story log cabin that sat on fifty acres. He wasn’t a rancher but liked to think of himself as such. He had a few head of cattle and a couple horses, just enough for appearances but not so many as to require help taking care of them. His cabin sat back from the main road about two-hundred yards with Ponderosa Pines blocking any view from the road. His nearest neighbor was a good quarter-mile away. In other words, he was a sitting duck for the bold.

Another of my daddy’s beliefs….hit first, hit hard, show no mercy. Turf fights have no rules and this was just a glorified battle over turf.

I parked my truck on a logging access road, tucked it in among the trees, grabbed my backpack and commenced walking the five-hundred yards to Wyman’s property. The clouds covered the moon, providing perfect cover as I strolled along, going over it all in my mind. Picture your moves then execute them…another of daddy’s pearls of wisdom.

When I reached Wyman’s driveway I pulled the ski mask over my face, checked that the safety was off on the Glock and strolled up to and on his porch without a care in the world. Lights were on, one upstairs and one down. No other car in the driveway but the Sheriff’s department-issue. All was going according to the script in my mind.

I knocked on the door and waited. Five seconds went by before I heard footsteps approaching. No way the wife answers the door, not that late at night, not with an alpha male in residence, and again it happened just as I planned. The door cracked open an inch and then I put my foot into it, good push with the hips, door meets sheriff’s face and knocks him ass over teakettle with me following. I had his hands duct-taped before he could focus his eyes. Ten seconds from knock on the door to Wyman tied up and helpless. Ten seconds and his life takes a decided turn for the worse.

I slapped a piece of tape over his mouth and gave him a good kick in the ribs to keep him occupied while I introduced myself to Mrs. Wyman. She was upstairs in bed. I entered her bedroom, leading with the Glock, caught her completely by surprise and silenced her with a finger to my lips.

“Mrs. Wyman, your husband is tied up downstairs. There is absolutely no reason for either of you to get hurt tonight. All you have to do is follow instructions. Do you understand?”

She nodded and asked who I was.

“Obviously we’re not going to exchange names, Mrs. Wyman. Mine isn’t important. I’m only here to deliver a message. Now I’m going to tape your hands so you don’t do anything stupid, and then we’re going downstairs and join your husband. I beg you please, don’t fight me or try to run. This will all be over in ten minutes and then you and your husband can go back to your regular lives.”

She was a good-looking woman, maybe forty, maybe a little less than that. She kept herself in shape, hour-glass figure, toned muscles, short dark brown hair in a page-boy cut, a trophy wife for the town’s power broker…..and she was noticeably frightened and more than willing to follow my lead. I tied her up and led her downstairs.

I sat them both down at the kitchen table. The sheriff was not in a good mood. The wife was resigned to the fates.

“Here’s the thing, Wyman,” I told him. “You’ve been squeezing some of my friends for protection money. That shit is about to stop. Now I’d love to chat with you about it, and appeal to your kinder nature, but I don’t think you have one. People like you, Sheriff, think you can do whatever you want to do and to hell with the consequences. Well, the consequences are about to bite you in the ass.”

I pulled out a photo and a letter and placed them on the table. I could see in the sheriff’s eyes he recognized the photo. Realization that his life was about to change quickly passed over his face.

“Mrs. Wyman, that’s a picture of your husband coming out of a motel room with another woman. Her name is Crystal Anderson. She’s a waitress at the Hungry Horse Café and she lives on Etheridge Street. I don’t know how long your husband has been screwing her, but just between you and I, he’s a fool. I’ll let you decide how you’re going to deal with that matter.

“The letter on the table there, that’s a copy of a letter that I sent to the major newspapers and television stations in the state. In that letter I explained, Wyman, that you’ve been extorting local businesses. Now I don’t have any proof but I really don’t need any. Once those newshounds get the scent of a scandal they don’t stop, and I suspect you don’t have many friends in the news business. I also sent a copy to your relatives, the district attorney and the judge, and to the state attorney general. It’s my experience if you kick enough beehives, sooner or later someone is going to get stung. I’m betting that someone is you, Sheriff.”

I got up from the chair, took a lead-weighted sap from my backpack, and placed it on the table.

“Mrs. Wyman, I wish you good luck. I suspect you’ll need it. If it were me, I’d beat this sonofabitch to within an inch of his life. Just don’t kill him or you end up doing more time than he will.”

I untied her and walked out the front door. Dawn was keeping the bed warm for me, and I wanted to wake her up and tell her I had kept my promise. Nobody died.

I walked into the Fire Pit the next day after work. Ray saw me, grabbed a Bud and joined me at the table.

“Did you hear the news, Bobby?” he asked. “Sheriff Wyman had the shit beat out of him last night. He’s still in the hospital with six broken bones. Word has it he heard a sound outside his home, went out to investigate and some guy jumped him and beat him half to death.”

I took a sip of the brew. Damn, that tasted good.

“That’s a damned shame, Ray. I guess the sheriff won’t be around to collect for awhile. Sooner or later, guys like that get what’s coming to them.”

Ray studied me long and hard.

“You don’t look too surprised, Bobby. Almost like you know something I don’t know. Did you have anything to do with that incident?”

“Me, Ray? I’m just a ranch worker. I don’t have a clue what you’re talking about. Dawn will tell you I was home all night long, cuddling with my honey. I will tell you, though, that I’m not going to shed a tear over the sheriff’s problems. Seems to me he had it coming. Now, are you going to keep jabbering, or can you manage to go get me another beer?”

“Coming right up! I think, from now on, I’m going to call you Bobby Fix-it!”

“Call me anything you want. Just get me that damned beer.”

I’ll be back next week with another installment in the Billy the Kid Chronicles. Mike, the next one’s for you.

2016 William D. Holland (aka billybuc)