Sixes Wild: Manifest Destiny by Tempe O'Kun Read Free Book Online Page A

heartsick pup. The people of White Rock deserve better than having me mope around. I shocked my family enough by coming out here in the first place, it might kill them outright to hear of my failing at it. I run a wing over the worn cover of one of my uncle’s journals, wishing I felt even a tinge of encouragement seep from it. I don’t.
    I splash some water on my face, dress, and step out of my room. Harding is already here, of course.
    Steady as a stone, that old hound. He never says too much and folks generally think him a simpleton to one degree or another. Wisdom glints in his eyes, though, and he’s proven time and again to be a more than capable deputy. What’s more, he’s yet to mention to a soul having to let me out of the jail cell half-naked and wholly indisposed, a kindness for which I am very grateful.
    Damn that bunny.
    If it were up to my mind, I’d stop thinking about her. She’s probably gone for good anyhow— the most of folk don’t come back to a town where they’ve locked up the sheriff. Unfortunately, and to my ever-growing indignation, other parts of me are involved.
    I realize I’ve been staring at the deputy for nearly a minute. He looks back at me with cool, calm eyes and perhaps a touch of amusement.
    “Morning, Harding.”
    “Blake.” He pours me a cup of tea. The man never drinks coffee, just various concoctions of dried plants.
    I eye the contents of the cup. Like every morning, I ask: “What is this stuff?”
    “Mountain jointfir and green juniper berries.”
    I take a sip and manage not to make a face. “Either you’re making better tea or I’m just getting used to how terrible it is.”
    He gives that rumbling chuckle canines favor. “I reckon it’s both.”
    We finish our drinks in amiable silence then I head out to make the rounds. Being bare-pawed, I avoid the dark wet spots. Who knows what evil lurks in the puddles I can’t identify?
    I follow the scent of fresh timber and sawdust to find Morgan repairing his roof. The squirrel’s a farrier and had some initial friction with the long-standing solitary blacksmith when he arrived a year ago. That’s over now, I’m proud to say, having had my part. I am, however, beginning to think the jitteriness that I attributed to the war of nerves is actually just part and parcel of being a squirrel. He jumps when I say hello, nearly skittering off the edge of his roof before greeting me in return.
    The few folks in the street this early stop what they’re doing and glance my way like wary wildlife. As day wears to night, more and more of those looks will include bared fangs, perhaps the open fondling of a gun. I sometimes find myself wishing I were more like Collins, my predecessor, whom folk actually liked. Then I remember how he ate a bullet. Guess he wasn’t liked quite enough.
    Years ago, another Blake was sheriff here—my uncle. His diary drew me here. Some of the old timers like Doc and Charlotte remember him. They sometimes rib me that I’d best start my own journal, just in case I ever have a nephew.
    Stepping out of the way of a train of Hayes’ mining wagons, I see old Harland Myers sitting on his porch with his rusty sickle. He refuses to take a whetstone to it, fearing he’ll wear the echo right off. That’s not to say it’s any less sharp— I saw him bury it halfway through a table once to make a point about minding the rules in poker. He’s never started trouble, though, so I’ve had no cause to be anything less than cordial to him. I’m glad.
    I call out a greeting, raising a wing.
    The old raccoon stares into the aether. A distance wells up in eyes. Thin trails of tobacco drip down the sides of his muzzle. No movement to him at all, save for a gentle stroking of the sickle’s handle. I study him closer, maintaining a polite, out-of-reaping distance, so as to not upset the coon when he notices me. A scattering of glittering rock dust lies in front of his rocking chair and dusts his pant legs, catching