Words From the Fragile Spire

Dust

Knock. Knock. Knock. Guthrie opened the door, and a swath of hot air and dust blew in. The Sheriff, black-clad with signature wide-brimmed hat, stood sternly before him.

"Morning, Guthrie," the Sheriff said.

"Sheriff! Come on in!" Guthrie said as he stepped aside for the Sheriff to enter.

With long, straight-legged strides like a toy soldier, the Sheriff strode in and removed his hat. Guthrie kept the door open and swept up a broom leant against the wall next to it. He took forceful swipes at the wooden floor to repel the sand that had blown in.

"You'd better close that door and wait till this wind dies down. As of now, more's coming in than you can sweep away with it open," the Sherriff said.

"Ah, you're probably right, Sheriff," Guthrie said and closed the door, returned the broom to its standby position. "I'm sorry Sheriff, I haven't been too welcoming, have I? Let me fix you a drink or something. Water?"

"No. A cup of tea, perhaps?"

"Certainly, Sheriff. I'll get Elena down here. She can whip up a pot right quick."

"No, no, you needn't do that. No need to get her involved."

Guthrie pushed out words through wavering breath: "Sure thing, Sheriff." He strolled towards the kitchen.

"Guthrie, you surely must know why I've come," the Sheriff said. "I sure hope you haven't forgotten about our arrangement- "

A sharp creak sounded from the faucet handle as Guthrie turned it; the pipes rattled as the water poured out. "Sorry, Sheriff. Can't seem to fix this thing," he said as he rubbed his dirt-stricken hands.

The Sheriff chuckled. "I remember the first day you came to this town," he started. "You were at the end of your rope, and you came to me pleading for my help. Remember?"

Guthrie was silent.

The Sheriff continued: "You and your wife needed a place to stay, to lie low, and I provided that. But for the promise that I'd be repaid."

The sink produced another loud creak as Guthrie stopped the waterflow. "Look, Sheriff, I can get your money- "

"You don't have it, Guthrie? You're a good shooter, son, I'd expect you'd be employed. Don't tell me you spent it repaying some old debts. Those gangsters – your old life – that's in the past. I'm what you need to worry about now."

"What exactly are you implying, Sheriff?" Guthrie asked.

"I'll say this: I'm sure there's a lovely family, like yourselves, who would love to live in this here house. Who can afford to live here. The way I see it, Guthrie, you're taking up space you don't need to be."

From Guthrie's view, the Sheriff's all-black attire blended seamlessly with the dark floor, like the Sheriff was a part of the house. A gentle creak of floorboards came from above them, and the two men turned to see Elena descend the staircase.

"Elena," Guthrie said.

"Morning, Sheriff. I didn't know you'd be here," Elena said.

"I don't mean to be making a scene in front of your wife," the Sheriff said.

"Then why don't we step outside, Sheriff?" Guthrie posed.

A sly smirk arose on the Sheriff's face. "I think I'd best be going. But remember this: not a lot of bad people come through this town, I make sure of it. But that don't mean that I don't know bad people. Some of whom I'm sure you'd be familiar with. I'll be back 'round some other time. And then, I expect our arrangement to be carried out."

Guthrie looked towards Elena, who looked back at him with an unconscious stare. "Good day, Sheriff," Guthrie said as he looked back towards him. The Sheriff replaced his hat upon his head and departed. He left the door open behind him.