Strange Perceptions by Chuck Heintzelman Page A

say.”
    One thing about Duffy, he knew his shit.
    As we kept moving upstream, the woods varied from sparse trees, easily navigated, to underbrush so thick we had to walk dozens of yards out of the way to get around. At one of these detours Duffy looked back at me and stuck a finger to his lips. We crept to the edge of a clearing. In it, four men sat around a campfire.
    Duffy wore his shit-eater again. He whispered, “Let’s spy on these guys.”
    I nodded and squatted down next to Duffy. They were a rough looking bunch. Definitely outlaws. The back of my neck shivered.
    Duffy kneeled down next to me. “I can’t believe it. The man with the beard is Dry Gulch Davis.”
    My look told Duffy I had no idea who Dry Gulch Davis was.
    “The bank robber? His picture is up in the post office.”
    “Oh that Dry Gulch Davis,” I said.
    “You don’t know who he is.”
    “Sure,” I said, “He’s a bank robber.”
    “What bank did he rob?”
    “I can’t remember.”
    “What have we here?” came a man’s voice from behind us.
    I sprung sideways. There were two of them! One grabbed for me and just missed. Duffy wasn’t so lucky. The butt end of a rifle connected with his forehead. I was off like a hare, glancing back once to see Duffy crumple to the ground.
    They chased me, but I was smaller and able to squeeze under a large fallen tree and run toward the stream. The men pursuing me had to go around. I ran like I had never run before, dodging branches, leaping over deadfall, and ducking under obstacles too high to jump over. When I made it to the stream I ran down it, trying to stay to the shallow, rocky bottom. I sprinted right past our fishing spot without slowing down. Once on the road, I had to stop running and catch my breath. I kept walking fast, head twisted around, checking if the bad guys were behind me.
    Was Duffy okay? They gave him a pretty good wallop upside the head. He must be hurt, or worse. I had to get him help. And fast.
    After I caught my breath I took off running again. The bridge over Trundle Creek was a mile from town. Covering the distance in record time, I ran down main street and into the Sheriff’s Office.
    When you walk into the building the Sheriff is to your left; the Post Office is to your right. I barged in, went left, and looked around for the Sheriff. Not a soul in sight. This couldn’t be. When you needed the law they were nowhere to be found.
    “Can I help you?”
    I spun in my tracks. It was Mrs. Yates, standing behind the Post Office counter. In my rush I hadn’t even seen her.
    “Oh, you’re the Widow Hennessey’s boy. William, isn’t it?”
    “Yeah,” I said. “Where’s Sheriff Rawlings?”
    “He’s out to the Taylor’s place. Seems Ol’ Bishop Taylor’s got himself a barn fire. Probably started it himself, you ask me.”
    Behind Mrs. Yates, several wanted posters plastered the wall. Smack dab in the middle was the evil looking, black bearded, Dry Gulch Davis. They offered a $1500 reward for him alive, $500 dead. I couldn’t believe it, Duffy was right.
    “What do you want Sheriff Rawlings for?”
    “I need him. Duffy Jenkins was—”
    “I knew that boy was trouble. Just like his father and brother. No good.” She threw her hands up in the air. “Why God burdens us with people like that, I’ll never know.”
    For a minute, I didn’t say anything. When Mrs. Yates assumed Duffy had caused the problem, I realized what was going to happen if I did find the Sheriff. Sheriff Rawlings would think Duffy was at fault too. They didn’t understand that a kid could have a no-good father but still be somebody’s best friend. I made a decision then. I would save Duffy myself. Mrs. Yates stared at me, waiting for me to agree with her. I turned and headed out the door.
    “William? What happened?”
    I ignored her. I’d go get Buster Daniels to help. He was a friend to Duffy and me, and a great shot with a .22. We’d spent many afternoons in his back field, shooting