Sheriff Poole & The Mech Gang by Charles De Lint

Sheriff Poole & The Mech Gang
     
    A short story by
Charles de Lint
     
    Copyright 2013 by Charles de Lint
     

     
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    for John Joseph Adams
    who got me to write this story
     
    I know what Tommy Mansfield’s looking at the
moment I usher him into the barn. It’s the first thing everybody
sees: that old poster from the Showdown Ranch with a painting of
the whole Mech Gang facing down a lone lawman on a dusty street.
You can see variations on that theme in any of the western art
galleries in town, except the bad guys wouldn’t be clunky robot
outlaws that look like they should be on the cover of some old
sci-fi pulp magazine. But back in the day robots and animatronics
were the whole theme of the Showdown Ranch.
    “I remember that place,” Tommy says moving
closer to the image. “My uncle took me and my brother one
weekend—God, years ago. That poster’s still in nice shape.”
    Everybody in town knows about the folly of
Showdown Ranch, but only the old folks remember that it was my
dad’s folly. It’s mine, too, even though we lost the land, lost all
the workshops, lost everything except for what I’ve managed to
salvage and stash away here in the barn. I’ve got the complete set
of the Mech Gang now—all five of them—though they’re missing a bits
and pieces. I’ve got Sheriff Poole, too. The only thing wrong with
him is some scorching on the left side of his face, which makes him
look more like one of the villains instead of the hero.
    Nights I can’t sleep I leave the farm and
walk to the next canyon over, the dog at my side. He sits and sifts
through the night air for smells he likes while I sift through the
ruins of Showdown Ranch. Developers were going to do something with
the land but then the bottom fell out of the real estate market,
and Linden is just far enough into the foothills of the Hierro
Maderas to make the commute to Santo del Vado Viejo less attractive
than those developers might have hoped. They’ve got the whole
canyon boxed in with chain link fencing, but that’s not going to
stop anybody. It sure doesn’t stop me.
    One day I’ll buy the place back. Moon dreams,
Mason tells me, trying to hide the worried look in her eyes, but I
just smile. I know it’s not going to be tomorrow. Probably not for
a whole mess of tomorrows. But I’m a patient man. And until then
I’ll keep going through the rubble from the explosion and salvage
what I can.
    Tommy looks away from the poster. His gaze
travels around the barn, but there’s not much to see. I’ve got the
Mech Gang stashed under tarps in the old horse stalls. My workbench
takes up the opposite length of the wall. The sheriff is lying
there, except there’s a tarp over him as well, so unless you knew,
you’d have no idea what I’m working on.
    “So what did you want to show me?” Tommy
asks, finally pulling his gaze away from the poster.
    Tommy’s a picker, one of those guys who
travels the countryside looking for deals on antiques and junk that
they can buy cheap and sell for a profit. I met him at Sam’s Garage
in town. I was getting gas for the truck; he was asking Sam’s widow
if she’d mind him poking around the field of junked cars behind the
garage. When I realized what he did for a living—when he told me
his personal obsession was old carnie rides—I knew I had to invite
him back here.
    “Well,” I tell him, “it’s not a vintage
Ferris Wheel or a Tilt-a-Whirl, but it’s something special all the
same.”
    I lead him to the stall