I Meet the Sheriff by Ralph Moody
Completion requirements
Unit 1
What Does it Mean to Show Respect?
I Meet the Sheriff" by Ralph Moody
All during the time we were building the cellar and the corral, Grace and I had to do our schoolwork after supper. Father worked with us, too, but I couldn't make out what he was doing. He had some big sheets of wrapping paper that came with the groceries, and his steel square and dividers, and while we were studying, he'd be drawing pictures. Once in a while he'd ask Mother to figure out an arithmetic problem for him, and then he'd change his drawings all around.
The morning after we finished building the pole corral he and I drove Fanny to Englewood. It was at the end of the Denver streetcar line and had lots more stores than Fort Logan.
First we went to the blacksmith shop and got a couple of lengths of angle iron, small pulley wheels, and pieces of round iron rod. Then, at the hardware store, we bought sheets of galvanized iron, three or four kinds of screen wire -- some coarse and some fine -- and lots of bolts, screws, and other things.
There was so much that I knew it would cost a lot of money, and I asked Father if we'd have any left. He took out his long leather pouch and showed me that there was quite a little silver and some bills in it. Then he said that part of it was mine and asked me if there was something I wanted to buy. I told him I wished I had a steel trap, so we went over to the corner where the guns and traps were, and he helped me pick out one the right size for prairie dogs and skunks.
I was wondering what were going to do with all the hardware and iron, and after we started for home Father told me we were going to build a winnower [a machine to separate the chaff from the grain]. He said it would cost too much to have a big machine come to thresh our peas and beans, but we'd have plenty of time during the winter to do it with hand flails and a winnower.
After we got home, he spread a roll of brown paper out on the bunkhouse floor, got his drawings, and began cutting patterns the way Mother did for making clothes. Father didn't need me to help him, so I went out to set my new trap. Before I left he told me I'd have to set it quite a ways from the buildings, so our dog King or one of the cats wouldn't get into it, and then I'd have to stay away from it if I expected to catch anything. I took it clear over beyond the railroad tracks and set it near a prairie-dog village. I knew they like peas, so I sprinkled dried grass over it till it was almost hidden, then put a handful of peas right above the trigger plate.
After it was all set I went back to the bunkhouse and watched Father cut patterns for a while, but I kept asking him if he didn't think it was about time I brought in the cows. I was wondering if I'd caught a prairie dog yet, and I could go around that way when I went out for the cows without having it seem too obvious that I was anxious about my trap.
Father didn't let me go for them till sunset. As soon as I got out behind the barn where nobody could see me I ran to beat the band. From the railroad track I could see that there was something in my trap, but it didn't look like a prairie dog. It looked bigger and brighter. When I got close enough I found that it was a big cock pheasant. His head was inside the jaws of the trap and there were a few feathers blowing around from his flapping when the trap broke his neck.
The first thing that popped into my head was what our neighbor Fred Aultland had once said about spending the rest of your life in the hoosegow (jail) if you killed a pheasant. I was so scared I got all shaky. First I thought the best thing to do would be go get him out of there and hide him in the bottom of the deep gulch. I looked all around to see if there was anybody in sight; then I stepped on the trap spring and took him out....If I hid him in a gulch, and somebody found him, they'd know what happened. Then I figured that if I didn't hide him, but just threw him down in the gulch, the coyotes would come and eat him.
It wasn't very dark yet, and I was afraid somebody might see me if I just lugged him away across the prairie, so I took off my coat and wrapped him up in it. After gathering up all the loose feathers, I started for the gulch, but the further I went the more I worried for fear the coyotes might not eat him. It seemed as if it would be like trying to eat a pillow. I was sure they wouldn't do it, because they'd get their mouths all full of feathers. Then I thought if I picked him they'd be sure to eat him -- and I could let the wind blow the feathers away so nobody could every tell I'd had anything to do with it.
By that time I reached the edge of the gulch and slid down over the bank to start picking. It was getting pretty dark, but when I unwrapped him I could see what a mess I was in.... My coat was all red and sticky. I didn't know what to do. Just as if he were deciding for me, a coyote howled from somewhere farther down the gulch. I bundled the pheasant up quick and went after the cows. I knew I'd have to have Father's help to ever get out of the mess I was in.
Everybody was in to supper by the time I got the cows home, so I hid the pheasant, slammed the bunkhouse door as if I'd been in to hang up my coat, and went inside the house. ...
We went out to milk right after supper. I don't think I had more than a dozen squirts of milk in the bottom of my bucket -- just enough so that it didn't ring any more -- when Father said, "What did you do, get your own foot in your trap?"
I said, "No, sir." Then I went ahead and told him about catching the pheasant, but I didn't tell him about wanting to hide it. I asked him if he thought they'd put me in the hoose-gow, as Fred said, if the sheriff found out about it.
[The next morning I went in to see the sheriff.] The sheriff was talking to another man when I got back there, so I stood behind him and waited for him to get finished. He was the biggest man I'd ever seen; my head didn't come up as high as the top of his cartridge belt, and the longer I waited the bigger the lump in my throat grew. At last the man behind the bar came back and told the sheriff I was there, so he leaned over and said, "What can I do for you, son?"
I had to swallow hard before I could make a sound, then I said, "I broke the law and Father made me come down to tell you."
He said, "Well, well, well! We'll have to look into this." While he was saying it he sat me up on the bar in front of him and asked me what I'd done.
All the men along the bar came and made a big crowd around us. I showed him the pheasant and told him that I didn't kill it on purpose, but it got in my trap when I was trying to catch a prairie dog.
He took the pheasant and laid it on the bar beside me. Then he rumpled up all its feathers and felt it all over with his hands. After he'd finished, he said to the men, "That's the way he got it all right. I'd a sworn his old man shot it and sent his kid in to get himself out of a pickle."
I didn't like that, and I guess I must have yelled, "Father would not try to get himself out of a pickle."
Everybody laughed and hollered, and the sheriff said, "Kind of like your old man, don't you? What makes you think he wouldn't try to get out of a scrape?"
The morning after we finished building the pole corral he and I drove Fanny to Englewood. It was at the end of the Denver streetcar line and had lots more stores than Fort Logan.
First we went to the blacksmith shop and got a couple of lengths of angle iron, small pulley wheels, and pieces of round iron rod. Then, at the hardware store, we bought sheets of galvanized iron, three or four kinds of screen wire -- some coarse and some fine -- and lots of bolts, screws, and other things.
There was so much that I knew it would cost a lot of money, and I asked Father if we'd have any left. He took out his long leather pouch and showed me that there was quite a little silver and some bills in it. Then he said that part of it was mine and asked me if there was something I wanted to buy. I told him I wished I had a steel trap, so we went over to the corner where the guns and traps were, and he helped me pick out one the right size for prairie dogs and skunks.
I was wondering what were going to do with all the hardware and iron, and after we started for home Father told me we were going to build a winnower [a machine to separate the chaff from the grain]. He said it would cost too much to have a big machine come to thresh our peas and beans, but we'd have plenty of time during the winter to do it with hand flails and a winnower.
After we got home, he spread a roll of brown paper out on the bunkhouse floor, got his drawings, and began cutting patterns the way Mother did for making clothes. Father didn't need me to help him, so I went out to set my new trap. Before I left he told me I'd have to set it quite a ways from the buildings, so our dog King or one of the cats wouldn't get into it, and then I'd have to stay away from it if I expected to catch anything. I took it clear over beyond the railroad tracks and set it near a prairie-dog village. I knew they like peas, so I sprinkled dried grass over it till it was almost hidden, then put a handful of peas right above the trigger plate.
After it was all set I went back to the bunkhouse and watched Father cut patterns for a while, but I kept asking him if he didn't think it was about time I brought in the cows. I was wondering if I'd caught a prairie dog yet, and I could go around that way when I went out for the cows without having it seem too obvious that I was anxious about my trap.
Father didn't let me go for them till sunset. As soon as I got out behind the barn where nobody could see me I ran to beat the band. From the railroad track I could see that there was something in my trap, but it didn't look like a prairie dog. It looked bigger and brighter. When I got close enough I found that it was a big cock pheasant. His head was inside the jaws of the trap and there were a few feathers blowing around from his flapping when the trap broke his neck.
The first thing that popped into my head was what our neighbor Fred Aultland had once said about spending the rest of your life in the hoosegow (jail) if you killed a pheasant. I was so scared I got all shaky. First I thought the best thing to do would be go get him out of there and hide him in the bottom of the deep gulch. I looked all around to see if there was anybody in sight; then I stepped on the trap spring and took him out....If I hid him in a gulch, and somebody found him, they'd know what happened. Then I figured that if I didn't hide him, but just threw him down in the gulch, the coyotes would come and eat him.
It wasn't very dark yet, and I was afraid somebody might see me if I just lugged him away across the prairie, so I took off my coat and wrapped him up in it. After gathering up all the loose feathers, I started for the gulch, but the further I went the more I worried for fear the coyotes might not eat him. It seemed as if it would be like trying to eat a pillow. I was sure they wouldn't do it, because they'd get their mouths all full of feathers. Then I thought if I picked him they'd be sure to eat him -- and I could let the wind blow the feathers away so nobody could every tell I'd had anything to do with it.
By that time I reached the edge of the gulch and slid down over the bank to start picking. It was getting pretty dark, but when I unwrapped him I could see what a mess I was in.... My coat was all red and sticky. I didn't know what to do. Just as if he were deciding for me, a coyote howled from somewhere farther down the gulch. I bundled the pheasant up quick and went after the cows. I knew I'd have to have Father's help to ever get out of the mess I was in.
Everybody was in to supper by the time I got the cows home, so I hid the pheasant, slammed the bunkhouse door as if I'd been in to hang up my coat, and went inside the house. ...
We went out to milk right after supper. I don't think I had more than a dozen squirts of milk in the bottom of my bucket -- just enough so that it didn't ring any more -- when Father said, "What did you do, get your own foot in your trap?"
I said, "No, sir." Then I went ahead and told him about catching the pheasant, but I didn't tell him about wanting to hide it. I asked him if he thought they'd put me in the hoose-gow, as Fred said, if the sheriff found out about it.
Father didn't say a word for a minute or two. Then he said, "It isn't a case of if the sheriff finds out about it. It's a case of your breaking the law without intending to. If you tried to cover it up, you'd be running from the law. Our prisons are full of men whose first real crime was running away because they didn't have courage enough to face punishment for a small offense. Tomorrow you must go to see the sheriff. I'll explain to your mother about your coat."
[The next morning I went in to see the sheriff.] The sheriff was talking to another man when I got back there, so I stood behind him and waited for him to get finished. He was the biggest man I'd ever seen; my head didn't come up as high as the top of his cartridge belt, and the longer I waited the bigger the lump in my throat grew. At last the man behind the bar came back and told the sheriff I was there, so he leaned over and said, "What can I do for you, son?"
I had to swallow hard before I could make a sound, then I said, "I broke the law and Father made me come down to tell you."
He said, "Well, well, well! We'll have to look into this." While he was saying it he sat me up on the bar in front of him and asked me what I'd done.
All the men along the bar came and made a big crowd around us. I showed him the pheasant and told him that I didn't kill it on purpose, but it got in my trap when I was trying to catch a prairie dog.
He took the pheasant and laid it on the bar beside me. Then he rumpled up all its feathers and felt it all over with his hands. After he'd finished, he said to the men, "That's the way he got it all right. I'd a sworn his old man shot it and sent his kid in to get himself out of a pickle."
I didn't like that, and I guess I must have yelled, "Father would not try to get himself out of a pickle."
Everybody laughed and hollered, and the sheriff said, "Kind of like your old man, don't you? What makes you think he wouldn't try to get out of a scrape?"
I told him, then, what Father had said about our prisons being full of men who ran away from the law, but that time nobody laughed. The sheriff put the pheasant back in the bag and handed it to me. He said the law was that you couldn't shoot a pheasant, but he didn't remember anything in it against catching one in a steel trap, so I'd better take it home for Mother to roast....
That night when we were milking, [Father] told me it had been a day I should remember. He said it would be good for me, as I grew older, to know that a man always made his troubles less by going to meet them instead of waiting for them to catch up with him, or trying to run away from them.
That night when we were milking, [Father] told me it had been a day I should remember. He said it would be good for me, as I grew older, to know that a man always made his troubles less by going to meet them instead of waiting for them to catch up with him, or trying to run away from them.
Ralph Moody (1898 - 1982) grew up on a ranch in Colorado. In his books Little Britches and Man in the Family, he tells of his own boyhood adventures. Moody says, "My goal in writing is to leave a record of the rural way of life in this century, and to point up the values of that area which I fell that we, as a people, are letting slip away from us". (New York Times Book Review, August 6, 1967).