Sheriff Poole & The Mech Gang by Charles De Lint Page B

particular metal to sustain
their weight, they’d just break.
    Bottom line, Sheriff Poole is something
special. Dad told me he dates back to the 1800s, that his own
great-grandfather either found him or made him. The sheriff is
supposed to be the reason the ranch survived Indian raids, rustlers
and whatever else was thrown at us. But he wasn’t able to stop what
happened the night the Showdown Ranch was shut down for good.
    “I know a guy,” Tommy says. “He used to work
on animatronics in places like Disneyland, but he was always doing
his own research on how to make his pieces better. He’s an old guy
now—retired years ago. But he might have some ideas.”
    I don’t say anything.
    Tommy gets it right away. I thought he might,
which is why I showed him the Mech Gang in the first place.
    “It’s cool,” he says. “We don’t need to let
anybody else know. You say the word and I didn’t see anything
myself. But I’ve got to tell you—this is something I’m never going
to forget.”
    “Trust me,” I tell him. “I know. But there
just comes a time when you have to show it to someone who’s going
to appreciate it.”
    “No one else knows?”
    “Just my wife Mason.”
    He smiles. “And I’m guessing she’s as
enthusiastic about them as my Ellen is about the carnie rides I
bring home. She almost left me when I came into the yard towing the
Ferris Wheel behind my truck.”
    “I’d like to see those rides of yours.”
    “Any time.”
    We talk for so long that before I know it,
it’s time for dinner. Mason’d have my hide if I let Tommy go off
without at least an invitation.
     
    We’re sitting on the porch after dinner when
the talk turns to the Showdown Ranch and what happened the night of
the explosion. Tommy made a good impression on Mason—especially
after offering to help with the clean up. We got the kitchen fixed
up in good time, coffees made, the desert night cooling down the
day’s heat when we stepped outside. Buddy’s asleep at my feet,
Mason’s dozing against my shoulder, but she straightens up when
Tommy asks the question.
    “It’s hard to explain,” I say.
    “Try impossible,” Mason says from beside me.
She smiles before adding, “But that won’t stop him from
trying.”
    “It looked like the workshop just blew
up,” I say. “Like Dad wasn’t storing his oils and gasoline properly
and something set it off. But if you study the wreckage with a
suspicious eye like I have, you’ll see that it didn’t blow up from
inside—or at least not at first. Once whatever it was hit the
workshop—of course all that crap was going to blow. But someone
fired something into it first.”
    Tommy has his feet up on the rail, looking
out at the desert night. He drops them to the wood plank flooring
and turns to look at me.
    “You’re saying somebody attacked the
ranch?” he asks. “With what? A rocket launcher?”
    “I couldn’t say what they used.”
    That’s a lie. But while I like Tommy, I don’t
know him well enough to trust him with something this big.
    “But I found a piece of the sheet metal
roofing with a hole in it,” I go on. “Perfectly round. Like a laser
had gone through it. But this was back in the sixties. Were they
even using lasers back then?”
    “I don’t know.” He waits a beat before he
asks, “Your father…was he inside when it happened?”
    “No, he was outside—where he got cut in two.
The coroner said it was from a flying piece of sheet metal.”
    “But you don’t believe it.”
    I shake my head. I almost add, “Not with what
I know,” but we’ve gone as far as I want to go with a stranger.
    “So those carnie rides of yours,” I say. “You
have them all set up and working?”
    For a moment I think he’s going to say
something more, but then he takes the hint.
    “A couple,” he says. “I’m working on the
Ferris Wheel right now, but there’s a lot of weak metal, especially
in the baskets. I’m in a bind because they’ll never be safe