The Last Philosopher

Pea-keeping ain't easy

Back at his desk, the slight smell of beeswax still hung in the air. It always stuck to his hands, but they weren't as slippery as this chicken thief. Even so, after chewing it over, Earl'd figured a way to catch him. Bres would've been giddy if he'd told him. But the judge favoured not knowing, in case he ever needed to deny knowing. Also, Earl preferred not to tell him things, unless he wanted to be sure everyone would know.

Either way, telling Bres wouldn't have helped him to keep the 'peas'. The first marshals had been a glorified crop watchers. So, pea-keeper had stuck in the local jargon as slang for the job.

Bres wouldn't give someone the steam of his piss. And the court's preferred method of injustice was all the least amount of effort, for the greatest personal profit. Whether the p-word rumour was true or not, the case would surely be the most profitable in years. Bres would milk it for all the Pirate gold, Bergre crones, and Rotan calfs he could get. Earl'd never been happy about how things worked. Still, his duty was clear. Which led him to the plan this manhunt. But there was one big flaw he could find no way around, he would have to ask for help. And not just any kind of help.

"I wish I could see a way to get it done without relying on civilians," he puffed into his hat.

But it wasn't like he had an office full of deputies. The courthouse wouldn't even agree to pay for one. In theory, he could round up a posse in case of a real emergency. And he was pretty sure that if it ever came to that, the following disaster would be a given.

Pacing from his desk, past the wash-basin to the stove. He rechecked if it was loaded and ready to light. Even though the season when a fire would be needed was still weeks away. Circling back to the basin, he took a look in the Knome-mirror. He looked tired, and sticky. So he washed his face, and smoothed down his mop of hair with the left over wax on his hands. The stubble would have to wait.

"There's nothing to it but to do it," he said at last heading over to Bern's.

If taking Rascal made Charlene feel better about him going, that was reason enough to ask Fannie. Still, he couldn't see the so called dog being of any actual use. The only thing that interested it was gnawing its rocks. He would've liked to think training it to track was going well, but he'd be lying to himself.

Grabbing his whip by the less greasy part of the handle, he fastened it to his belt. Out on the porch he raised his arms, stretching with a nice crack in his neck. It was still hot. He pretended to adjust his hat as he scanned the people in the square. Working with watching people had taught him one thing, if you weren't watching them, they were watching you. And no amount of Fannie teasing him that he was too suspicious would change his mind.

Halfway across the square to Bern's, under the shadow of the hanging tree, he realised what'd been nagging him all morning.

"Charlene's birthday!"

He hesitated mid-step, but before his foot hit the ground, he'd already decided he couldn't postpone the hunt. People were like nervous cows, all it took was a loud noise to make them stampede. But he'd try to wrap this up quickly. It wouldn't be the first time he missed something important because of duty, but this was her twentieth.

Even with the complications, Earl was kinda proud of his plan. It was almost elegant in it's simplicity. It reminded him of something Arlene would've come up with back in the old days.

As the thefts always happened at night, and he couldn't track the culprit, his regular tricks had failed him. But the key was in the pattern of movement, and a new theft every few days. Once he'd struck on the thought, it wasn't hard to figure whereabouts the next one would take place. That was where Earl would set up his ambush. Hopefully, an arrest would unspook people. Then perhaps whatever the race of the p-word was, wouldn't cause something worse than a stampede.

Updated: 28.10.2023