The Mars Cowboy

Part 2: The Sheriff

In the elevator, the Sheriff took his Photonic from his Neptune-Blue belt and pulled up the wanted poster again. The guy didn't look like so bad, but his head was worth 10,000 dollars. Next to that detail his looks were irrelevant. The only name on file was one assigned to him at a duel two weeks ago, The Mars Cowboy. The Sheriff slid the photonic back into its slot, made sure his poncho was pulled down low, and adjusted his Stetson.

The elevator doors opened onto the 67th floor.

Inside were cocktail dresses, bowties, and waiters with silver platters that called you sir. There was a ripple of discomfort when he walked in the room. Not open animosity, not fear, discomfort. The several poker games going on paused and looked over, the bartender ceased his rapid, efficient movements for just a moment then looked back to his customers. The DJ, looked over at him and almost forgot to put on another song. The blusteing business men were reminded of what the law once was, and what they did to it. They all averted their eyes.

He recognized the Cowboy immediately.

He walked slowly through the crowd and settled at an empty poker table, U-shaped with a black screen coating the top. A dealer walked up to the table and the screen flashed to life. The dealer moved his hands through the air, and a deck of holographic cards spread out between them.

Sherriff, I hope you know that you can’t play without other players, said the dealer.

He’ll be here, said the Sheriff. He pulled out a cigar and threw the lighter to the dealer. The dealer made some motion of protest, but he took another look at the Neptune-blue gun belt peaking out from under the Sheriff’s poncho and lit the cigar. The Cowboy left another table. He walked over and sat down as far as possible from the Sheriff. The Sheriff chomped down on the cigar.

Looking for someone, Sherriff? said the Cowboy.

Shall we play? asked the Sherriff. He motioned to the dealer, who flicked each man five cards. The cards stood up straight in front of their faces, right on the edge of the table. The Sheriff got a pair of twos, and not much else. He slid his fingers across the holograms of the three useless cards and sent them back to the dealer.

I’ve been at this job a good while now, said the Sheriff, I know the good un’s from the bad un’s. Son, you don’t look like a bad ‘un.

The Cowboy said nothing.

The Sheriff laughed. Shoulda known, with young men, being good is a fault.

I’m missing something, said the other man, flicking two cards back at the dealer.

Is it a woman?

I very much doubt it, sir.

Is it something someone else has?

I doubt that as well, sir.

Did you try to take it?

No sir.

What is it then?

I’m not sure. It’s not something you can hold or steal, if that’s what you’re asking.

The Sheriff bumped his Photonic against the table, and the wanted poster moved onto the table’s screen. He slid it over to the other man. Well then I’ve got to ask you, son, how come I got your picture?

Gilea, Sir. I beat a fix.

Gilea, huh? Well, she has people in the right places, but if I let everyone who made a vague reference to corruption go, I think I’d have an empty jail.

Well Sheriff, said the Cowboy, as if he were mulling the words over. You may have a jail full of innocent men.

I ain’t responsible for that. I bring ‘em in, that’s that.