Artisan

We all saw him come in to town. All dressed in a long black coat, crisp white shirt and a tall top hat. I marveled at how white his shirt was, leading his cart around the dusty street. As he walked into town, he didn’t say much, just inquired about empty space among and by the storefronts, finally finding a spot he liked.

The only person he talked to much was the sawmill man, Oscar. Oscar told us the man walked to his place and asked for just so many and so long of plain boards: didn’t tell Oscar what he wanted them for, and was real clear about what he wanted.

When it came time to pick up the wood, he drove his simple wagon up there, paid for it, then returned to his little spot at the edge of the other stores all by himself. Next day I happened by to welcome him.

“Morning,” I said.

He looked me over a bit, then tipped his hat. “Morning.”

He didn’t say anything more, and didn’t invite me to stop, so I kept on my way. The man was still there when I walked back toward my office an hour later, and I could see the wood he bought from Oscar. On the back of the wagon were a whole bunch of tools: two big saws, all kinds of hammers and planes and such. It looked like he was a real woodworker, like maybe he made cabinets, though I hadn’t heard of anybody needing that kind of work around here. Most of us build what we need and trade with other folk if we don’t know how. But he was single minded about his work, kept measuring and cutting, and began making something on his fourth day in town.

I happened by one more time and saw that instead of a cabinet, the box he was making looked awfully long even for a chest. It could have been a trough, but it wasn’t deep enough, But then I noticed the angle on one end of the box, like a flattened triangle. And that’s when it became clear what he was building.

Next day, I hadn’t even gotten to the livery when Sam pulled me into his saloon.

“You seen that man?”

I knew who he meant, so I nodded. “Yep.”

“You see what he’s making?”

“I saw.”

“Well, what are we going to do about it?”

This surprised me since Sam isn’t hard to deal with. “What do you mean?”

Sam looked at me like I had lost my mind. “Well, something’s gotta be done!” he snapped. “I mean, a man comes into town like this, and nobody does nothing about it?”

“There’s no law against making coffins, Sam,” I said, “and,”

“But you’re the sheriff!”

“And that’s why I won’t make somebody do something if they aren’t breaking the law, Sam. What if I told you you couldn’t sell a certain beer or something because somebody didn’t like it?”

“That’s different. People come into my saloon because they want to drink something.

“So if somebody didn’t like that you sold beer because they didn’t come into town to buy it, I’d need to do something about that?”

Sam was annoyed with me now, I could feel it. “You’re not getting the point, Jed. The fact is that man is out there making coffins and there ain’t nothing justifying it, is all. And somebody,” he looked at me when he said that, “ought to do something about that.”

I eyed Sam a bit more, then gestured toward the street. “And I suppose more people than you think that, am I right?”

Sam nodded. “Of course. We don’t want people coming into our town makin’ trouble.”

“And a man making coffins is trouble?”

“That’s the way we see it.”

Sam wouldn’t be swayed, and I didn’t want to argue with him. He also had the ears of the other merchants in town, so there probably was an uneasiness because of the coffin maker. I sighed, gave Sam a one-finger salute to my hat and left the saloon.

The man was busy measuring a board before he cut it. “Morning, sir,” I said, and stood in his way.

“I see you’re the sheriff or the marshal— I can’t read the badge too good from here.”

“Sheriff,” I said. “Duly elected.”

“Um hmm.” He waited for me. “And you have business with me, I take it?”

“I might.” I leaned my head toward the street and added, “At least some of the merchants think I do.”

“Do tell.”

“Because, as you may have noticed, there aren’t any coffin makers in this town.”

“Guess I’m the first one—professional, I mean.”

“I suppose you are.” He didn’t move or react again. “And there are people who are a little uncomfortable with that.”

“They don’t like my coffins? They’re well made, you know. Come over and look at one.” I hesitated, but decided he was being more friendly than he was earlier, so I went.

He pointed to one leaning against the side of the adjoining building. When I ran my hand along the edge, I understood what he meant. It was smooth as glass. I’d never felt something so smooth made of wood, and I couldn’t figure out how he could have shaved it so smooth without a fancy machine.

“It takes a lot to get it that smooth,” the man said. “And people appreciate good work like this.”

I had to agree. “But they usually want it when someone dies, ain’t that right?”

“Most, I reckon,” said the man, “But you never know when you might need one. Get one before you need it, I always say. And I figure this is a good town to set up my business.” He leaned into me. “You never know when you might need one, Sheriff.” He was smiling. I sighed.

“I appreciate that sir,” I began, “But people just don’t seem to be happy about you making these—boxes—in the middle of the street.”

“Couldn’t afford a storefront,“ the man offered. “And I know the law. I can be here so long as I don’t obstruct anything else.” He pointed to the storefront next door. “I already asked the owner, and he said it was okay to lean my work on his wall while I’m working.”

“He did, did he?”

“He did. Mr. Hahn was very nice.”

“Did he know you were making coffins?”

“Didn’t ask.”

“Uh huh. Well, you may want to ask him again, since,”

“No.”

“What?”

“I said no,” he repeated. “Man gave me permission, and a man’s word is his bond.” He set his lips in a thin line, so I didn’t press him. I also didn’t know if Jacob Hahn’s word was his bond the way the man said, but he didn’t know Jacob the way I did. I put up my hands.

“How long do you think you’ll be here?” I asked.

“Until I’m done.” One of those.

“Well, can you give me an idea of when that might be?”

The man looked over his wood and pondered his answer. “If I had to guess, I’d say four or five days.”

“And no more coffins after that?”

The man shook his head no. “Won’t need any more.”

I thought for a moment and reminded myself that he still hadn’t broken any laws. Four or five days was good enough for me.

“Well, I guess that’s okay.” I touched the brim of my hat again. “You have a nice day now, sir,”

“You too, sheriff.”

Sam wasn’t happy when I spoke to him again.

“Why can’t you get him out of town? I’m sure if you asked Jacob he would tell you that that man has to go!”

“Do you believe Jacob talked to this man and gave him permission?”

“Why would you,” he started, but I cut him off.

“Do you believe it, knowing Jacob Hahn like you do?’

Sam stopped and his shoulders slumped. “I guess.”

“I guess so too,” I said. “And if Jacob told the man he could be there and lean his work against his wall, there’s nothing I can do about it.” I turned to go, adding, “and since it’s only for four or five days more, I think we ought to just let him do his work and leave town, don’t you agree?”

Sam struggled with the idea, but he knew I was right. “I guess.”

I smiled at Sam and left the saloon.

Over the next three days, I checked in with the man, and noticed he had finished three coffins and was working on a fourth. Trying to be friendly, I talked to him again admiring his work. I didn’t know what these coffins would cost, but they were worth every penny. A few people were asking me about him since so few had ever talked to him. The man stayed in the hotel and ate only one meal a day there. He used the livery for his horse, stopping by there every evening. He just got up in the morning, made some coffee on the fire by his stand and began his work.

I noticed that the coffins weren’t all the same as I thought they were: two of them were a little smaller than the first he had made, and it looked like the fourth coffin he was making was full size like the first. I meant to ask him about them when I heard,

“Sheriff!” from two cowboys riding full bent into town.

“You gonna tell me what’s going on?”

“It’s the Andersons, sheriff,” Boney said, out of breath. The Andersons, father and three sons had been staying out of town for the last year since the last time they came in and shot a deputy. They hadn’t gone to jail for that since people said the deputy started the fight. But most of us knew better: that the judge who ran the circuit then was good friends with Anderson, and he didn’t care if they let off some steam once in a while. The judge didn’t live in any of the towns the Andersons had shot up in the past, so he had no idea of what having them “letting off some steam” meant to the rest of us.

“Damn!” I said. “That’s the last thing I need.” Turning to Boney, I asked, “Can you get the deputy and maybe a couple others to help for when they get to town?”

“Like extra deputies?”

“Don’t you think that’s a good idea?”

Boney nodded his head. “I’m on it, Sheriff.”  

I turned to the coffin maker. “Nice to see you today, sir. There may be trouble around here today, so please be careful.”

“Nothing for me to worry about.” He smiled. “I’ve heard you’re a good sheriff.”

“I appreciate the confidence, but you take care, anyway.” The man nodded, and I left his outdoor workshop.

Boney was as good as his word: he had rounded up three dependable men: Scott Hansen, Bill Porter and Andrew Mace along with himself and Randall, my regular deputy. I swore the extra men in and outlined what I wanted.

“We can’t afford something like what happened last time,” I said. “Old man Anderson may listen to reason if we take it slow, so let me take the lead.” Everyone nodded and agreed, so I left it alone.

We didn’t have to wait long: the Andersons came into town about two hours later, already drunk or at least having had a taste before riding in. They dismounted and walked a little unsteady toward Sam’s saloon. I walked up to them, just as friendly as I could manage.

“Afternoon, Silas,” I said to the father who stopped and looked at his three sons; more ragamuffin-like men I hadn’t seen since the war.

“Sheriff,” said Silas. “We ain’t gonna have no trouble like last time right, Sheriff?”

“Not unless you cause it, Silas. You have a nice visit to town and head on back home when you’re done. That sound good to you?”

Anderson looked at his sons, then back to me. “Sounds fine, Sheriff.” He walked toward me and I shifted aside so he could enter Sam’s with two of his sons giving me looks I didn’t much like.

The first hour at Sam’s went okay for the Andersons, but as the third hour started and they got more oiled, the youngest one—Elias—got in the face of Leroy, one of the older patrons.

“Why did you look at me like that, old man?” screamed Elias to a cowering Leroy, or at least that’s what was told to me. I arrived five minutes after the scuffle started and tried to restore order.

“Over here, sheriff,” said Sam, pointing at Elias Anderson.

“Trouble?”

“They don’t need to hassle Leroy,” Sam said. “I mean, he don’t bother nobody.”

“He bothered me,” said Elias, “and he needs to apologize!”

As scared as Leroy was, he wasn’t about to apologize to a scamp like Elias Anderson, so we already had a situation. I turned to Silas. “Silas. Your time in town has about run out, don’t you think?”

“Not finished, yet,” said Silas, who looked at his sons. Then he turned back to me, adding, “But maybe we can go out now, and,”

“But Pop!” screamed Elias. “This man ain’t,”

 Silas backhanded Elias, sending him to the floor. “You sassin’ me, boy?” Elias rubbed his chin, but said nothing as he rose and stood, looking down.

“That’s what I thought,” said Silas. The small, wiry old man looked at his remaining two sons, declaring, “time for us to go.” The four men took their last drinks and meandered out of Sam’s.

Sam turned to me. “Thanks Sheriff. I don’t mind the business, but they can’t be nice to people.”

“Don’t think anything of it, Sam,” I said. “If we can get out of this with only a little trouble, I’d say we did okay.” I shook his hand and left the saloon to return to my office, hoping for peace and quiet. It wasn’t to be.

Twenty minutes later, I heard the gun shots from south of town. The deputies and I gathered up our rifles and positioned ourselves at the southern entrance to town, hoping we could scare them off. Silas Anderson rode in by himself and rode through quickly, not firing a shot. Elias followed him, guns out, but silent.

“No fire!” I shouted to the deputies. Once Elias got through town, I told Boney and Randall, “They’re trying to get us to shoot. Hold your fire as long as you can.” Those words were prophetic, for a minute later, the two other Anderson sons came into town from the west, with Silas and Elias coming in from the north. This time, their guns were blazing.

“No one’s gonna tell us what to do!” shouted Elias. I’m sure he was even drunker now than when he left Sam’s. Either his or Silas’ bullets were the first to hit a man as they clipped Bill Porter in his shoulder. They hit close to his neck, but he’d be okay. The next shot came too close to Scott Hansen for him to hold his fire: I didn’t blame him, and I had my rifle ready, too.

Less than a minute later, three of the Andersons were on the ground, dead: the last one, Uriah was fighting for his life, but he was wasting his time. He had nothing to say, and I closed his eyes as he let out his last breath.

I told doc and the deputies to carry the Andersons toward the livery since that was the largest open space in town. As they marched toward the livery and the commotion died down, I saw a wagon in the distance pulled by a single horse framed in the moonlight. I turned toward the end of town and saw four coffins, ready for the Andersons.

Just like he said: You never know when you might need one.