short story (1100 wc) | setting: western | form: humor/metafiction
This is part 3 of the Banter series.
The Sheriff waited at the jailhouse, whittling the end of a Dixon pencil with a pocket knife. He’d located a few old writs of deputation that had been scribbled in haste by the town’s only attorney shortly before the horse thieves against whom the deputies were being deputized ended the poor barrister’s career with a bullet. Since then, Banter had acquired several new lawyers, but few deputies, the recently late Goose Chaffing being the last.
The stranger stepped into the jail. To the Sheriff’s considerable gratitude, the shiny metal thing held out in the stranger’s hand was a badge.
“There was, in fact, a badge on that man’s shirt.” He set the brass star on the Sheriff’s desk.
“No matter. From what the townsfolk said, it was an honest mistake.”
“So, you’ll be delegating me the shrievalty?”
“The what?” He folded the knife and slid one writ away from the others. “I’ll be making you principal deputy if that’s what you mean. Banter’s only deputy, actually.”
“So, I’ll be in charge of the jail?”
“The jail hardly has a purpose. The losers of most disputes here end up at the undertaker’s. You’ll be in charge of making sure those losers are all on the other side of the law.”
The stranger said nothing.
“So,” the Sheriff rolled the pencil between his fingers and set the tip to the writ. “Name?”
The stranger’s face coiled tighter than a startled snake. “Do you need one?”
“Do you have one?”
“Of course I do. Everyone who ain’t raised by wolves has a name.”
The Sheriff waited, but the stranger just stared back.
“Alright,” he set the pencil aside. “Are you wanted by the law?”
“Not that I know of.”
“No, I mean,” he ran his hand through his hair, “do you not want to tell me your name because you might be wanted?”
“No.” The stranger hooked his thumbs in his belt.
“Okay, let’s keep this simple. Why don’t you tell me why you don’t want to tell me your name.”
The stranger’s lips pursed. “It’s a silly-sounding name. I don’t use it.”
“My last deputy was named Goose Chaffing. Can’t be much sillier than that.”
“Did he like being called Goose Chaffing?”
“I guess not.” He grabbed the pencil again, just to have something to do while he thought it out. “How about this: you could change it.”
“I could?”
“Sure, Judge Gibberson can fix you right up.”
The stranger looked unconvinced, so the Sheriff added: “And the only ones that’ll have to know your old name are you and Judge Gibberson.”
“He won’t tell nobody?”
“He won’t tell nobody.”
“You swear that you’re not changing your name to escape a debt or otherwise avoid the consequences of the law?”
“I do so swear.” The stranger twitched. “Can I take my hand off the Good Book, now? My mother wouldn’t like me swearing on it.”
“Is she a Quaker?”
“Is it material?”
Judge Gibberson shot an annoyed eye at the Sheriff, who was dutifully sitting out of earshot, near the door of the courtroom. The Sheriff shrugged.
“Alright, son, you can take your hand off.”
The stranger hooked his thumb in his belt.
“Now, how bad can this name be that you want to change it?” He dipped a pen in ink and set it to a sheet.
“You’re going to write it down? I thought nobody but you and me would know.”
“No one but you and I will ever see this paper, so long as you stay square with the law which, considering your recent skirmish with the seven good men who are currently being fitted for pine boxes, seems unlikely, notwithstanding the flattering testimony of the Sheriff here that you were acting in self-defense.”
The stranger sniffed. “So, nobody but you and me will know.”
Gibberson cocked an eyebrow. “No one but you and I will know. Christian name?”
The stranger grunted and glanced over his shoulder at the Sheriff, who nodded him on. He turned back to Gibberson and softly repeated his given name.
“My, my. That is,” he stroked his chin, “unfortunate. How about we change that to Patrick?”
“Patrick’s an Irish name. My family is Scottish.”
“So was mine, son. Many years ago. On any account, Patrick is a good Christian name. You have a better idea?”
The stranger shook his head.
“Patrick it is.” He scribbled on the sheet in two places and looked up. “You have a middle name?”
The stranger whispered it.
“Pardon me?”
The stranger leaned forward and whispered it again.
“Can you spell that, son? I don’t believe I’ve ever heard that name before.”
The stranger looked at his boots and slowly enunciated each shameful letter.
“How about we make that simply Joseph? Patrick Joseph alright by your ear?”
“That will do.”
“And your surname?”
The stranger cleared his throat and spoke.
“Son, are you putting me on? I won’t have you making mischief with the actions of this court.”
“It’s where my family is from.”
“I have never heard of such a place.”
“It’s a farm where my grandfather worked, on the Marches.”
The Judge leaned back, scowled, suppressed his skepticism, and leaned forward again. Setting pen to paper, he said: “How about Clark? That’s a good, square Scottish name.”
“Yes sir.”
“Then,” he scribbled and scratched, redipped the pen, and signed the order with a flourish, “By the power invested in me by the Territory of New Mexico, you shall henceforth be known, both legally and in whatever manner you so choose, as Patrick Joseph Clark. Sign here.” He spun the paper around. “Under your old name.”
The stranger stepped forward, took the pen and, for the last time in his life, signed the name his parents had given him. He handed the pen back to Judge Gibberson and stepped back.
“Patrick Joseph Clark.”
“That’s the extent of it. You may now be sworn in as deputy under that name.”
“Patrick,” he said. “Joseph Clark.”
The Sheriff stood. “Let’s head back over to the jail, then, Patrick?”
“It’s a good name,” the stranger said.
“It is,” the Sheriff said, and nodded out the door.
And yet, even after taking his first real job in his good new name — and a job as an officer of the county government at that — under his skin, Banter’s newest commissioned keeper of the peace, Deputy Sheriff Patrick Joseph Clark, still just felt like Potiphar Junedeal Clartyhole.
