The Real Sheriff

Jaybird, the old black man who was my boyhood best friend and mentor, warned me not to be deputized, but our little Mississippi Delta farming community was too far out for the law’s long arm to reach quickly, so I let the sheriff talk me into carrying a badge.

---

“Purty soon, we might git a chance to see jes how tough a lawman you are,” Jaybird said, as I was leaving for church one Sunday morning. “Once agin, Tump Thompson is tryin’ to court Pete Plugg’s daughter, Lottie Mae. I’ll let you know if trouble starts brewing.” Pete hated Tump, a ne’er-do-well city slicker, and was determined not to let him anywhere near Lottie Mae, but since ladies love outlaws, Tump was the only suitor she paid much attention to. I strutted into the Lord’s House looking like a real sheriff, decked out in boots, khakis, big belt buckle, bolo tie, Stetson, and a new coat Mama bought me, a blue blazer with gold buttons. The preacher told that wonderful story about how Jesus suffered and died on the cross and returned to Heaven to wait for us. After the last hum of the last hymn, we farming folks talked weather and crops a bit, then went our separate ways. I looked forward to one of Mama’s big Sunday dinners.

---

---

Jaybird was waiting. “Tump’s drunker’n a coot, and him and Pete are threatening to kill one ’nother.” Pete was a mechanic, and his backyard was cluttered with junk cars, spare parts, jacks, hoists … and Woof – a huge hound, part Mastiff, part woolly mastodon – whose sole purpose was protecting his master’s junkyard, a job he truly loved. When I pulled up, Lottie Mae said, “Thangs is gittin’ clean out of hand back there. You might oughta call the law.” Humph! What did she think I was? Patting the badge confidently, I strolled around back. Pete and Tump were nose to nose, circling like two fighting cocks about to fricassee each other. Stepping between them, I commanded, “Break it up – I’m the law.” I turned to Tump, whose eyes were as red as maraschino cherries and whose 100-proof breath would have defoliated cotton. Flashing my badge, I said, “Tump, by the authority vested in me….” That’s all I had time to say before we were on the ground, grappling fiercely with each other, rolling over and over. Lottie Mae Plugg was right. Things were clean out of hand, and I wasn’t exactly getting the upper hand, either. Then a third combatant entered the fray — Woof! Tump forgot all about me and sprinted straight to the nearest tree. When the sheriff arrived, that’s where he was … staring down in abject terror at Woof’s glistening, salivating fangs. “Lord, Son, what happened?” Mama asked, staring woefully at the coat, with ripped-out elbows and missing gold buttons. “Mama, please don’t ask,” I groaned. “How ’bout we just say the blessing and eat?” The next day, I mailed that badge back to the real sheriff.

---