His Son

The Sheriff

The cloudless sky was a curse in the desert. There were no clouds to block the strength of the sun's rays. The heat wasn't the worst thing about the sun's deadly gaze, but rather the way the light reflected on the ground. The sand that covered the cobbled path was weathered to the point of which it reflected light like glass. The entire area was so bright, it was blinding. As it reached high noon, no one dared to go outside. The light combined with the heat was enough to cause serious harm for long exposure. But, John needed to get to his saloon. However, a certain sheriff stood by the swinging doors of his saloon.

The sheriff's golden star shined brightly in the light, standing out against the tanned leather that was his vest. The long sleeved white shirt was much more crisp than John's. His pistol was holstered on his belt, a pair of handcuffs right beside it. The sheriff's hat was tilted to keep the sun out of his eyes. He leaned against the sun bleached wall that kept the sand out of the teen's saloon. A piece of hay was sticking out of his mouth. There was no reason for him to be chewing it, but it obviously was out of pure boredom. But, the question still remained: why was he here?

When the sheriff saw the teen walking down to the saloon, he pushed himself off of the wall. He reached up, pulling the piece of hay out of his mouth, tossing it on the ground with a flick of his wrist. John took the last few steps up to the sheriff, nervous for the visit. The sheriff never visited early in the evening, coming in after his shift to take a beer and let the day's worries leave him with each swig. That was why the teen had built the saloon in the first place. Though, he never expected that the sheriff, the man who had originally raised him, to frequent the bar so much. He approached the sheriff, letting out a nervous laugh. "H-hey Sheriff Sherman!"

The sheriff observed him, arms crossed as he watched the tall teen walk up to the saloon. His pink hair was held back by a small leather tie, but it was draped over his shoulder. "Afternoon, John. Got a minute to talk?"

"Yeah, yeah. Got plenty of time to open. Come inside for a drink?" The teen side stepped after the initial greeting and pulled out his key to open the door to the saloon. The pinkette turned, eyes remaining trained on the teen in search of any threat.

"No drinks, but yeah. No need to be in this heat."

So, the two of them entered. The area was still quite messy from the previous night. Plates and glasses were still left on tables, the floor filled with sand from the entering and leaving of the patrons. An ashtray sitting on the table by the door was still filled with ash and cigars. The smell was horrendous, but was typical of the saloon. John immediately apologized for the mess. His nervous tendencies made him begin cleaning up the forgotten dishes.

Sherman frowned, his gaze leaving John for a moment to survey the trashed bar. As soon as he had swept the area, he turned his gaze back on the man that was scrambling around. The man placed his hand onto the man's shoulder, making the teen under him jump and freeze. The audible hiss that came from the teen did not go unnoticed by the sheriff. Sherman did not move his hand, but he could almost see the bandages through the ratty shirt that John wore.

"Let's talk, not clean."

John nodded stiffly, placing the items he had collected on the table. Turning with another perfect about face, he faced the tall piglin that towered over him. When he had turned, the piglin's arm fell off his shoulder and he was faced with the much larger piglin. He couldn't help but associate the piglin with his previous master. Immediately, doing as he was trained, he ducked his head, staring at his feet and keeping his hands in clear view, folded together and resting by his belt. Instead of seeing the shiny shoes of his master, he saw the sand covered boots of the sheriff. Sucking in a breath, he began to focus on the shoes, trying to not forget that he was not with Sir Billiam. But, his mind replaced the shoes in front of him with the black polished shoes of his master.