This installment is all over the place. Sorry for the disorganized information dump...I hope it proves interesting at least.
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Tex tapped her fingernails against the tabletop as she waited for the Sheriff to get back with the drinks. He was taking his sweet time at the bar, shooting the breeze with Miss Folfax, and Tex exhaled her irritation. Goddard nuzzled her leg from beneath the chair, and she patted him as she surveyed the room. She hadn't given it much thought before, but the Retro Valley Juke Joint had to be one of the cleanest and best-decorated saloons in all Texas. A painting of an opera house sat above the piano, and Libby had matched the rest of the room to its maroon and gold color scheme. A fiddle hung beside the bar, and a velvet curtain half-concealed a quaint little country stage and an adjacent back room. It was upbeat, inviting, and packed to the rafters with good cheer – frankly, Tex couldn't comprehend how the whole place hadn't been ransacked by thieves and shot full of bullets ages ago.
“Sorry for the wait,” came the Sheriff's voice. “Thanks to a certain someone, I had to explain to Libby why a gunshot interrupted her morning tidy-up.”
Tex turned to find him beside the table, carrying two full glasses of milk. He set one down in front of her, and she gaped at it as he took his seat.
“Milk? You brought me to a saloon and ordered me milk?”
“What? I promised to buy you a drink if you saddled the horses in under two minutes. I never specified what kind of drink.”
Tex pulled her hat down over her ears. “Ugh, God's teeth, you're a pain in the ass. Next time I'll make sure to specify before I...hey...wait a minute...” She peered into his face, and her eyes widened. “Oh holy hell, you're not one of them crack-brained Temperance Leaguers, are you?”
“The anti-alcohol crowd? Not by a long shot,” he replied. “I just consider it unwise to ingest liquor before the midday mark. But never fear – if you'd still care to drink come suppertime, I'd be happy to oblige you. After all, once you've fallen into a drunken stupor, it'll be a simple matter to roll you over, help myself to those pistols, and handcuff you to a piece of furniture.”
“Oh-ho! How sporting of you to warn me. But I'm afraid you've got it wrong, Mr. Lawman. I never, ever get drunk unless I'm with someone I trust with my life. Do you have any idea what would happen to me if I passed out in the wrong company? I'm a woman in the wilds, Sheriff. Assuming I was lucky enough to even wake up afterward, I doubt there would be much felicity left for me in living.”
This seemed to trouble him, and he frowned into his milk glass. In the ensuing silence, Libby's voice rang out from somewhere in the back room.
“Hold up just a second more, Sheriff! Almost got the money together now. Just gotta count a couple more coins out the tip jar...”
“I already told you, Miss Folfax,” he shouted back, “there's no rush. Take your time.”
'Almost got the money'? thought Tex. What is she talking about?
She treated the Sheriff to a quizzical squint, and he lowered his voice. “Listen, Vortex, just so we're clear, I want you to leave the townsfolk out of this. You are my problem, not theirs. I told Miss Folfax that you're a deputy-in-training from Red River County, so that’s the identity you must assume. If anyone asks, you tell them that you're here to obtain field experience under my guidance, understand?”
Tex choked on her milk. “Oh, you have got to be kidding me – field experience, under your guidance? Sweet mother Mary above. I hope you've got smelling salts on hand, Sheriff, 'cause if you keep talking like that, I'm liable to have myself a laughing fit.”
“Just...shh! Just play along, all right? We need to keep our stories straight. It's not like I'm asking the impossible...I imagine you're well-accustomed to telling lies about yourself, being a vicious, evil backbiter and all.”
Tex kicked him under the table, and he clenched his jaw in anger, but held his tongue. Seconds later, Libby emerged from the back room carrying a white envelope. Her walk was jaunty, and there was a hint of pride in her smile as she approached the table.
“Here we are, Mr. Neutron,” said Miss Folfax, “the last payment. $15.25, as promised, and in full.” She handed the envelope to the Sheriff, who tucked it into his vest pocket – without, Tex noticed, checking to make sure the money was inside. Libby noticed too, and she rolled her eyes. “Sheriff, you sod-for-brains naive trustin' fool, you're spoiling my fun! You're supposed to look inside the envelope first. Go on. Open it!”
Puzzled, he retrieved the parcel from his vest and popped open the paper flap. Tex leaned across the table, watching as he pulled a piece of stationery from among the dollar bills.
“It's an invitation!” blurted Libby, before he'd even had the chance to read it. “The Retro Valley Juke Joint has been in business a full year now, an' as of this moment, my loan is finally paid off. Naturally I'm throwin' a party to celebrate. Monday night, startin' at 6pm and goin' until daybreak, we are gonna happify ourselves into oblivion. Everyone who's anyone is gonna be there...Mr. 'n Mrs. Wheezer, Oleander and Miss Emily, Britney, Injun Nick, Ike, Nissa, Wendell, Doctor Bolbi, Ignishka, Butch if he's sober enough to walk through the front door...”
“...Señor Estevez?” suggested the Sheriff, with the slightest of eyebrow-raises.
“Yes, the Señor. Lands sakes, it wouldn't be a party without Sheen staggerin' 'round half plastered, prattlin' on about Cabarrus, North Carolina and the biggest gold nugget ever dug up...”
Mr. Neutron started cracking up, and Miss Folfax followed suit. Tex smiled into her glass, and for a moment she basked in secondhand mirth...then she remembered what she was: a stranger with a gun, seated across from a man with a cross-hair on his heart, listening to an inside joke about someone she barely knew. Her smile quickly faded.
“And Miss Tex,” continued Libby, “I expect to be seein' your pretty face there, too. I've never met a lady deputy before, and I'd love for the two of us to get better acquainted. Plus, let's be honest...you could probably teach the Sheriff a thing or two about Texas shindigs. I swear, if Mr. Neutron spends one more town get-together sittin' in the corner doin' sums on my napkins, I'm gonna flip my lid.”
Tex kept her gaze on the table. “Me. You're inviting me to your party. ...Why?”
“Simple. Mr. Neutron was the one who lent me the money to build this place. He got me on my feet, set me up with the essentials...gave me an interest-free loan, when nobody else with two cents to rub together would even spit in my direction. I owe him a lot, Miss Tex, so any friend of his is a friend of mine. Yourself included.”
Tex peered over at the Sheriff from underneath her bangs, trying to get a read on his expression. He was watching her watching him, however, and he merely took another sip from his glass. Libby picked up on their silent exchange and gave both of them a funny look, but before anyone spoke, a loud knock-knock-knock interrupted from the other room.
“Sorry,” grimaced Libby, “would you two excuse me for a second? I've got someone at the back door.” She hurried off to attend to it, and Tex looked down at the table again.
“So,” she said, tracing a finger along the rim of her glass, “you sweet on her?”
Mr. Neutron seemed genuinely taken aback. “Miss Folfax? Not in the slightest. Why?”
“Oh, just trying to figure out why anyone would give an interest-free loan to a woman with no visible capital. Way I see it, you're either sweet on her, or you are spectacularly devoid of business sense.”
His expression darkened. “Keep quiet about things you don't understand, Vortex. I didn't do it for her.”
“Then who'd you do it for?”
A grating voice echoed from the back room, followed by a short burst of laughter. Libby stuck her face out of the doorway and called to Tex and the Sheriff.
“Apologies for runnin' off,” she half-chuckled, “but we got us a situation back here. Doctor's pet goat got loose again, and this time he went after Sheen. Bothersome varmint knocked him into some brambles and ate half his shirt off.”
The prospector muttered something to Miss Folfax, and she answered him over her shoulder. “Don't you back-sass me, Señor Estevez...I've got two more of your shirts above stairs. And no, not the one that caught fire last week – I told you, I can't mend a chest-sized cinder hole. What? Yeah, I'm comin'...” She turned again to her guests, mouthed the word 'sorry', then disappeared into the back room. Tex and the Sheriff heard creaking as the proprietor and her charge ascended the staircase up to the second floor.
“Ah,” said Tex, after their footsteps had faded, “so it's the prospector. He's the one who's sweet on her.”
“Eureka,” Mr. Neutron replied dryly. “Problem is, no woman in her right mind is going to settle down with a man who spends most of his time camped out in the desert with a pack mule.” The Sheriff sighed. “Look, I'll make it simple for you. When I left Massachusetts a year and a half ago, I was alone. Carl and Sheen were the first real friends I made after I bought this valley. They may have their idiosyncrasies, but they've treated me better than my own family, and I don't take that sort of thing lightly. Sheen wanted Miss Folfax to stay in town until he could get better situated, so I made it happen. That's what I do, Vortex. I make things happen.”
Tex stared at him. “Hold up a second. That's a touching story of loyalty and can-do attitude and all, but...did you just say that you bought a valley? How does one 'buy' an entire valley, pray tell? I mean...burning wads of cash to impress me, financing saloons, purchasing vast swathes of land...just how much money do you have?”
“Me? $15.25. My parents? ...More than some mid-sized countries, I'd say.”
“Your parents?”
He sighed again. “My father is a big-shot investor back East. He owns a controlling stake in the corporate empire of Mr. Hank McSpanky. Long story short, back when McSpanky was just a penniless entrepreneur, my father struck a bargain with him – a full partnership, in exchange for $50 of start-up cash. Obviously it paid off.”
Tex gripped the edge of the table. “Wait...Agri-King McSpanky? The smelly, crazy-eyed tycoon who's wealthier than the dreams of avarice? That Hank McSpanky?”
“The very same.”
“Jesus Christ on a crutch,” blinked Tex. “You must be rolling in it.”
“My parents are rolling in it, not me. They reduced my yearly stipend after I showed no interest in stock trading and refused to marry McSpanky's pedigreed twit of a niece. That $1,500 I burned really was the last of my funds.”
“You passed up easy money and a dumb broad who'd cater to your every whim?” She shook her head. “Bonehead move on your part, Neutron.”
“Easy for you to say. You didn't have to grow up in that household. My parents were obsessed with their financial empire. They didn't care if I gargled liquid nitrogen and set the drapes on fire, as long as Hilgo the maid cleaned it up afterward. I spent most of my childhood locked in the backyard summerhouse, filling my spare hours with research and experiments.”
“Experiments, huh? You mean like your pet table cactus?”
“Yes, like my – no, not like the cactus, curse you! Would you quit harping on that?”
She hid a smile. “All right, so you don't get on well with your parents. That doesn't explain why you came west. You could be living the high life with some gorgeous society lady in Richmond or Boston right now. Why come here? Why buy Retro Valley? And why appoint yourself town sheriff, instead of mayor, or blacksmith, or...anything else, really? No offense, but you don't particularly strike me as the rootin' tootin' gunslinger type.”
The clunk-clunk-clunk of descending footsteps forestalled the Sheriff's reply. He and Tex turned to find Sheen standing in the doorway, scratching at the starched collar of his new teal shirt.
The Señor nodded to Mr. Neutron. “Oiga, amigo! What you doin' with pistol chica, eh? You two friends now or somethin'?”
“Coworkers,” corrected the Sheriff. “Sheen, this is Tex. She's...a deputy of sorts. I'm training her for the remainder of the week.”
“Oh, lucky man! Maybe that's what I need, you know? Get me a couple gold-hunting disciples, teach 'em the ropes, maybe trick 'em into doing my laundry...”
“I already do your laundry, estúpido,” said Miss Folfax, appearing from the back room. “And if you don't take a bath soon, next time I wash your clothes, I'm gonna pitch you into the washtub along with the load. Hold you down and scrub you like flea-ridden cat.”
“Gotta catch me first, mamacita,” winked the prospector.
Libby exhaled in defeat. “Sheriff,” she went on, “pay Doctor Bolbi a visit on your way home, would ya? Tell him he needs to keep that bloodthirsty goat of his locked up. If I catch that thing roamin' 'round my property again, I'll be servin' up goat pot-pie at Monday's get-together.”
“Mmmm, nothin' beats goat pot pie,” said Sheen appreciatively. “Served alongside rotisserie squirrel, smothered in possum gravy with a side of gecko gruel... That's the stuff.”
The Sheriff pushed away from the table. “Sheen, you never cease to fascinate me. Miss Folfax, thanks again for the drinks and party invitation. I'll have a word with the doctor and let you know what he says tomorrow morning, when we see you at church.”
He nodded politely, adjusted the top button on his vest, and then headed toward the door. Goddard yawned and obediently rose to follow, and Tex leaped up a moment later.
“Church?” repeated the outlaw, hurrying to catch up with him. “You're gonna make me go to church?”
He held the door open for her. “What's the matter, Vortex? Does your kind burst into flame when you pass beneath a steeple?”
Her snappy objection launched the pair into a fast-paced repartée, and they continued to argue as they exited the building. Miss Folfax watched them go, scratching her chin as the washboard doors swung shut behind them.
“Huh,” mused Libby. “Yesterday that girl acted like she'd never heard of the Sheriff in her life. Day later, they're hangin' 'round my juke joint, mouthin' off and givin' each other the hairy eyeball, like they got some big secret I don't know about. Bit odd, wouldn't you say?”
“Nahhh. People all got some big secret, right? Take my mule Sal. She acts all innocent, like she don't know who ate those pepinos I got from Carl...but I know better. I know.”
“Oh, pish.” Miss Folfax picked up their empty glasses and tucked them under her arm. “I'm gonna get to the bottom of this, you'll see. Those two got somethin' goin' on, and I'm gonna find out what it is. I bet you a three-dollar piece I have 'em figured in less than a week.”
“Make that a three-dollar piece and a half-pound of taffy, and you're on.”
“Deal,” she said, and they shook on it.
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Let the small-town gossip begin.
Also, I finally got to do the saloon milk joke. So many of my dreams are coming true. 
HISTORICAL SHIT AND BULLSHIT SHIT
-When Tex talks about "Temperance Leaguers", she's referring to a nineteenth century reform movement that was aimed at limiting or restricting the sale and consumption of alcoholic beverages. The American Temperance Society was formed in 1826, and within 12 years it claimed more than 8,000 local groups and over 1,500,000 members. By 1839, 18 temperance journals were being published, and in the 1840s the movement spawned a series of Broadway plays about the dangers of drinking. The most famous of which, "The Drunkard", was wildly popular and continued to be a staple of the New York theater scene until 1875, bringing the Temperance movement into mainstream consciousness in the process.
-Since I mentioned handcuffs...let's have a look at their history, shall we? Wrist restraints have been around forever, but there weren't really any handcuffs in the modern sense until 1862, when inventor W.V. Adams patented a design for cuffs that had adjustable ratchets. His design was used all the way 'til WWII.
-Anyone who has read a good (or bad) Victorian novel has probably heard of Smelling Salts. Historically, the pungent preparation of ammonium carbonate and perfume was sniffed as a stimulant to relieve faintness or fits of hysteria.
-Libby bets Sheen a three-dollar piece - this coin was minted from 1854 to 1889. Its value was intended to tie in with the postal system - at the time, a first class postage stamp was worth 3¢, and such stamps were often sold in sheets of one hundred stamps. Therefore, the three-dollar piece was exactly enough money to purchase a sheet of stamps. 
Lastly, I named Sheen's mule "Sal" because of the classic American song "Erie Canal", whose lyrics go "I've got a mule, and her name is Sal, 15 miles on the Erie Canal..." Oh, and "pepinos" is Spanish for cucumbers 
~*Mara*~ = ^.^ =
NEXT PART -> A Mere Regional Enterprise
