“I think I can do that,” she said, taking his arm and casually strolling the trading booths.
They stopped by the VanFleet/Davis booth for a quick look, where he introduced her as “his friend that is a girl.”
* * * *
Voting took three hours, from noon until 3 p.m. The count was done like a traditional voting night before the day, when the news outlets called the race long before counting every ballot. This time Judge Lowry’s vote counters would not need to be bribed with a popcorn break or be subjected to sleight of hand. They knew full well this election was a landslide victory and Kate would be named Sheriff.
The final announcement came at 3:30, before the end of trade.
“It gives me great pleasure,” announced Judge Lowry from the top of the hanging gallows, “to announce the new Sheriff of Weston, voted by our citizens. Ms. Kate Shields is our Sheriff-elect.”
Most cheered, with only a few boos.
“Thank you all for your confidence and votes today,” she said over the megaphone to the large crowd, ignoring the few naysayers she would deal with at a later time.
She officially expanded the town and promised the citizens that those bad men in her jail would be dealt with swiftly once Judge Lowry had decided their fate. Walking off the platform, she headed straight towards James.
“Well, how did I do?” she asked, not caring either way about the answer.
“It seems they like you,” he responded.
“Where are your friends from? I haven’t seen them in town before,” she said.
“Up on the mountain, beyond our place,” replied James without elaborating.
“That sounds like less than 40 miles to me,” she replied. “Can we expect you all at our next trading days?”
“It’s a possibility,” replied David. “Our group may be able to find a few things to trade.”
“Your group?” asked Kate. “Do you have a name?”
“Yes, ma’am. We are the Raton Pass Militia.”
She paused, smiling slightly. “I think I will rename you the Raton Pass Westoners,” she said, calling over one of her new deputies.
“Get them a booth number for next Saturday. I want them right next to James.”
“I believe someone already has that number, ma’am,” her new deputy replied.
“Then boot them. Put them on the end, or wherever. I don’t care.”
“Yes, ma’am…I mean, Sheriff. I’ll get it done.”
“It’s settled then. I’ll see you all next Saturday,” Kate said. “And James, thanks for the vote,” she added, waving as she walked off.
“You didn’t really vote for her, did you?” asked Janice in a whisper to her husband.
“I know the kid got at least two,” he replied, squeezing her shoulder lightly.
“I warned you about the Sheriff and Judge,” said James to David.
“That you did,” he replied. “That you did.”
* * * * * * *
Chapter Seven
Baker’s Camp
St. Vrain State Park ~ Colorado
Mike had only one thing on his mind after the sirens turned off and he was back in his bunk, drifting into a hospital-cot sleep that differed in many ways from a sleeping-bag-next-to-your-girlfriend-and-son sort of sleep.
“Get Baker’s book!”
Sergio relayed that, before the day, when you watched a football game—college or pro—the coaches would put something in front of their mouth when they called plays out of their book. “Why, I bet they crapped, showered and shaved with it,” he added.
Sergio continued: “Baker carries the key around his neck and it’s the only one I know of to the box containing a book so valuable that it could change the course of history—at least for your friends and family—but one could always just take the box and figure out how to open it later. The difference between the two could be a few hours’ head start vs. a few minutes, and only if Max doesn’t snap and try something first. There’s a lot at play here and the Col...I mean, Baker…already said he has big plans for you. None of it means anything, of course, if you can’t get around. I wish you had a few months to get better, but it’s more like a week if we are to pull this off and save the Valley.”
“So, cut off the head of the snake, and the body will die?” asked Mike.
“Yes, but ideas are harder to kill than snakes.”
“Viva-Zapata! Right?—that Marlon Brando movie,” asked Mike.
“That’s right, and don’t forget about Anthony Quinn. Most people wouldn’t know that. My dad showed me that movie a week before he died, just him and me. I held his hand the whole time, and he didn’t tell me not to. It was the last thing we ever did together, just him and me,” he said, tearing up.
“Have you ever cried, Mike?”
“Close, and only a few weeks back. Before that, never.”
“Me too. We don’t—guys like us. We don’t care much about a lot, but what we do care about gets us here,” he said, pounding his chest over his heart. “Anyway, the missionaries had it on an actual film roll, and I’ve watched it once every year on the anniversary of his death. I’ve never missed one…not one.”
“What’s the day?” asked Mike.
“October 23rd,” replied Sergio. “Doesn’t matter anymore, I guess.”
“They have a working TV and a VCR, or disc player, in our group, but I’m guessing they don’t have that title,” replied Mike.
“Which is it—a VCR or DVD player?” asked Sergio, with genuine interest.
“Well, it’s a DVD player, I’m pretty sure. They have maybe ten movies but not that one.”
“I do!” said Sergio excitedly. “I have three copies of it in my pack. You get me two hours alone with the TV and I’ll help you win the war!
