Paper Sheriff by Luke; Short

When Jen said nothing, Reese said, “What was it you wanted in the top pigeon hole?”
    â€œFourth from the left.”
    Reese moved over to the rack and had to stretch the long length of him to reach the paper. He returned to the desk, gave it to Jen and said, “Why don’t you lower that damn thing?”
    â€œDad put it up and he could reach everything.”
    â€œHow’s he doing?”
    â€œThe same.” She grimaced slightly. “Everything’s the same, isn’t it?”
    Reese nodded, turned and walked out.
    He found himself making work for the rest of the day. His two weeks’ freedom from Callie—his week and hers—had been surprisingly pleasant ones, reminiscent of the time before he was married. He had a faint feeling of shame when he recognized that he not only hadn’t missed her but was glad that he didn’t have to be with her. The sight of her when Ty brought her home last evening had brought back that feeling of quiet desperation so familiar to him. They had exchanged only moments of talk, mostly about Amy Bashear and the doings of her children and their children. The talk had bored him and Callie knew it and soon had gone to her room. Reese had read for a while in the kitchen, then gone to his room. He supposed this would be the pattern for all of his days.
    Arriving at the Slash Seven now, he unsaddled, turned the horse out to pasture and stopped by the bunkhouse on his way. Ames Tolliver and Ryder were sitting on the bunk-house steps and Reese halted and got the report from Ames of the day’s work. The last rain, Ames reported, had been a godsend. They would not have to move to summer range for another ten days.
    They chatted a moment and Reese turned and headed for the house. Then he halted abruptly and said to Ames, “Tell the boys to keep an eye out for any R-Cross branded beef, will you, Ames?”
    â€œR-Cross? Whose brand is that?” Ames’ thick-lensed spectacles emphasized the bewilderment in his eyes.
    â€œA Texas brand. A trail herd was stampeded on the National last week. The owner thinks some of them might have drifted as far as here.”
    Ames nodded and Reese moved toward the house. There was no sense in telling Ames of Reston’s suspicion of rustling, since the story would soon blow into a rumor that could not be stopped.
    At the house he entered through the kitchen door and hung his hat on the nail inside. Everything was the same, he thought. Callie, in her drab dress, was at the stove, and when she turned to greet him, he saw the apathy in her eyes. He noticed now something that he had been too indifferent to notice last night. Callie’s sallow complexion held a faint sunburn. He supposed that she and the Bashear girls had done some riding this past week. He went through the nightly ritual of washing and making a drink for Callie and himself. He put both drinks on the kitchen table and sat down. Presently, Callie moved over to her drink, took a sip and then asked indifferently, “What’s happened in town, Reese? Amy’s girls never go in, and you wouldn’t even tell me if the town had burned down.”
    Her tartness of speech hadn’t diminished since their quarrel, and Reese supposed that he had been thoroughly discussed by the Bashears, and that Callie had been the recipient of quite a bit of female sympathy. Well, what had happened in town while she had been away?
    He said, “Tom Burbank’s mare foaled an albino colt, ugly as sin. And a trail boss came in yesterday and thought we might have rustlers in Sutton County. He got stampeded on the National. Jim Daley got a sprung back from being pitched off that bay of his.” He paused. “I guess that does it.”
    When he looked up, Callie had her back to him at the stove, her glass in her hand.
    â€œRustlers in Sutton County,” she repeated. “Do you believe that?”
    â€œNo. If I were you, I wouldn’t