Rupert and Maddy sat in Hell's Kitchen, the diner across from the post office. By ancient tradition Rupert should have ordered fries and coffee, while Maddy had a Smiley-Face. Specialty of the house: a buttermilk pancake the size and weight of a manhole cover. With strawberries for eyes, whipped cream for insane grin. But not this morning. This morning she requested toast and coffee.

The waitress gave Rupert a side-look that asked if he thought it right a young thing have coffee. Bad for the growth of body, soul and mind. The woman put a whole lecture in that look. Diner waitresses being masters of short-hand communication. Rupert near shook his head to say 'no coffee'; but stopped himself. Considered the girl across from him. Maddy looked grim. In a mood for black coffee. He ordered himself the Smiley Face. Maddy rolled her eyes, the waitress shook her head.

Maddy stared out the window into the morning street. A relaxing view. Birds flittering, cars passing, kids biking. Folk in a hurry to get summer chores started before the day turned hot. A dog trotted down the sidewalk with a shoe in its mouth, proud of its catch.

Rupert let her brood. Kid had had a scare. Granted, she usually looked as if she'd just had a fright. Born that way. Considering her birth, couldn't blame her if she walked through life shy as a cat touring the dog pound. She didn't get those worry-genes from him. And sure not from her mother. Heck, Melody had married Ranulf Rupert; biggest ugliest man in central Texas and contender for the state Big and Ugly championship.

When the food came, they ate in silence. Not an uncomfortable quiet; just mutual respect for their inward thoughts. Rupert rearranged the whipped cream, turned it to a frown. Borrowed a toast slice from Maddy's plate, added it for a slanted hat.

"There's our suspect," he declared.

Maddy frowned at his plate, picturing it upside down. For a moment the face of 'Mr. Smith' glowered at her. She giggled, stopped herself, returned to sipping coffee, looking out the window. At length they declared themselves bored with breakfast and inward thought. They got up, paid, crossed the street back to the post office. Ding went the bell, announcing her return.

"We'll count that as your lunch break," said Postmaster Mint, sorting mail.

Rupert glared at the man, then turned to his daughter.

"You okay?"

Maddy fiddled with her glasses.

"Yep," she whispered. He nodded.

"Then I'm off to patrol. Wulf over in Elysium says gypsies made camp in some pasture 'tween Theory and Hell. I'd better drop by first. Or that dang man will growl at 'em, shout at 'em, piss them off. They'll cast hellacious gypsy curses. Give Wulf two heads, make him governor, something evil."

Maddy nodded, not listening. She unfolded her official post-office smock. Pulled it on, tying the string expertly behind her back. For a second the sheriff's heart jumped. How'd the girl know how to do that? All the crazy moves of tying a bow behind. Just like her mother buttoning a Sunday dress.

"Gonna have the gypsies tell your fortune?" asked Postmaster Mint. Rupert turned unfriendly eyes upon the man.

"Nope. Going to have them read your fortune. And if I find out you're handing off the crazies to my child, the crystal ball is going to go damned dark."

Mint crossed arms defiant. "Ha. Don't start. You know the job. Best the girl get used to it. Unless you want her working one of them fireworks stands 'tween here and Austin."

"Oh, no way," whispered Maddy, shaking head. "I'm not standing in a box filled with explosives by the highway. That's just crazy."

"Girl's got a point," sighed Rupert. "Right. Well, text me when the next suspicious stranger drops by. Look for fedoras, trench coats, ski masks, dark cloaks, hockey masks, turtleneck sweaters. Anything not in tune with our rural manner of dress."

He exited the post office, scanning the street for 'Smith'. Gone. For sure that'd been the man's car over by the park. Rupert had radioed soon as spotting it. A rental; the man's real name was some kind of cheese. No current warrants; just a long weary record of domestic abuse, assaults and such.

Rupert returned to his patrol car, determined not to worry about Maddy. Working in the post office had its dangers. But so did all the summer jobs in farm country. Christ, nothing worse than getting your foot caught in a field harrow. Or being crushed against a fence by a steer with an itchy back. Or tangling yourself in rusted barbed wire. And no way would he let that shy child sell makeup door to door.

He slowed to a stop at the town's traffic light. Waved to folk who waved right back, glad to see that even the sheriff obeyed the fool thing. All considered, Hell, Texas was a decent place. It was the name, most folk agreed. That name made everyone work just a tad harder to keep friendly, keep clean, keep kind.

The light clicked green, he drove on, window down, radio buzzing. Passing the sign declaring 'Welcome to Our Town! Pop 1000'. No clever slogan was going to keep any variation of 'Welcome to Hell' from sounding sarcastic. Else a warning to abandon hope. The nearby towns of Angelica, Elysium and Theory had it easier. 'In Theory You're Welcome', worked fine. 'Welcome Home, Angel' went cheerful. 'Rest Easy in Elysium.' Peaceable, if a bit funereal.

Rupert cruised the two-lane country road, windows down, letting the wind juggle old coffee cups around the back seat. Passing stands of oak and pecan, bramble-tangled and mist-filled in the late morning light. Passing rows of corn or cabbage, or just fresh-plowed dirt waiting for something to happen. Steers watched him pass, chewing thoughtful as philosophers weighing Truth. He waved to a gaggle of kids on bikes, counting the ratio of helmets to 'potential organ-donors'. Sixty to forty. Could be worse. He'd post something on the community board. Bags swung from their handlebars, stuffed with pecans to sell to the weekend tourists in Angelica. Kids hereabouts made a fortune raiding old squirrel troves. Not like in his day. You wouldn't have found a tourist within a hundred miles of Hell or even Angelica. It'd been ground zero for the Boredom Bomb, world capital for hicks, sticks and hayseeds. But now? Dang wineries were everywhere. Folk drove all the way from Houston to sit in trendy little shops that ten years ago were greasy gas stations with bathrooms that'd forever reduce a visitor's health and joy in life.

Fresh skid marks on the road ahead made him slow to a near stop. They led through flattened grass, on into brambles where a pine sapling lay bent and broken. Deep in the tall grass showed the hood of a car. Hadn't been there yesterday. Rupert parked on the dirt shoulder, listened, sniffing. No sign of trouble, no smell of fire or gas. He got out, approached.

It didn't surprise to see it was Smith's car. Blood not yet black smeared the grill. The windshield showed cobwebs of cracks right above the steering wheel. Plenty of blood smearing the inner side of the glass. While in front of the car something began to thrash, making the grass wave. Rupert frowned, drew pistol, stepped near, knowing what he'd see.

A deer, broken and bloody, trying to rise up on once beautiful legs and bound away. Rupert shook his head. Fool thing must have run in front of 'Smith's car. He'd hit it, panicked, swerved into the brush. With those skid marks he'd been going seventy, at least. Rupert bent down, put gun muzzle to the creature's head. It rolled its eyes, met his gaze. Beautiful eyes. He fired. It jumped, lay still. Birds flew about, not liking the noise. Well, he didn't like it either. He sighed, rose.

"Mr. Smith?" he called out louder. What had been his real name? All he could think of was 'Gorgonzola'. Something like that. He went to the car, peered in. Empty, with the driver's door open. Some fast-food wrappers, a suitcase in the back. Heck of a lot of blood across the steering wheel, the seat, splattering the driver's window, centering the shatter in the windshield. Air bags hadn't triggered. Not enough impact. Idiot would have been fine if'n he'd worn the safety belt. Going over the ditch and through the grass and saplings must have bounced him like an egg in a cement mixer.

He went back to the patrol car, radioed Wulf in Elysium, the Betty in Angelica. Then the clinic. Giving the warning to be ready for a patient, prep the ambulance.

"Mr. Smith?" he shouted. Crows and grackles jumped from branches, answering back with caws and cackles. No other voices. He listened for moans, cries for help. Just a peaceful summer day. He could hear the trucks on the highway. Why the heck would the fool go wandering? Hell, with that much blood in his car he didn't. Had to be hereabouts. Unless some Good Samaritan had come along, rushed him to the hospital... Wasn't a soul round about that would just drive past someone hurt beside the road. Well, not many anyway.

Rupert circled about the car, seeking the trail of blood that ought to show bright in the sunshine as red neon. Didn't spy a drop. Ten paces beyond the pines was a cattle fence. No accident victim climbed that; and why would they try?

Eventually Wulf drove up, grumbling. So did the Betty, sheriff from Angelica. The Betty, as folk called her. Like 'the Captain,' or 'the Devil'. It emphasized a certain authority. Rupert watched these newcomers prowl about the trees and grass, not finding any more than he had. Wulf headed down road, the Betty walking up road, checking the tall grass, calling out 'Smith' and 'Gorgonzola' as they chose. Rupert opened the man's trunk in case someone'd stuffed him inside. Found an expensive-looking briefcase, nothing else. The others returned, wiping sweaty faces. Day was fast turning hot.

"Can't never get a proper signal out here," complained the Betty, shaking her phone. "But last I checked, no local hospitals or clinics reporting any accident victims."

"He can't have just taken a hike, no more than that deer," whispered Rupert.

"A feller in Angelica has some hounds. I'll be getting him out here," declared the Betty. Making it clear she thought this her case. Wulf and Rupert exchanged sour looks. The Betty was a bossy sort. A sensible tongue tacked on 'the' to designate the queen hereabouts.

"But you know it same as I do, Rupert," she said. "If he'd wandered, we'd see a blood trail. Ain't one. So someone stopped. Bandaged him, left with him. Probably took him to Austin."

"Shit, that don't make no sense," growled Wulf. "For an emergency? That's hours away, even speeding."

"We don't know how bad anyone was hurt," said Betty. "Someone had the sense to cut the ignition before the grass set a'fire."

"Maybe they found him and decided to rob him," speculated Wulf.

Rupert shrugged. He disliked playing detective. And he positively hated watching Wulf play detective. The man wasn't stupid, but he had half the analytic skills of a cinder block.

"Didn't take the suitcase or the briefcase," Rupert pointed out.

Wulf and the Betty began arguing fingerprints, helicopter searches and jurisdiction. Rupert sighed, opened the trunk of his patrol car. Went to the dead deer, lifted it up from the grass. Not yet stiff. He carried it to the trunk, laid it in.

"Ain't that evidence?" asked Wulf, sarcastic.

"It's dinner," declared Rupert. "Waste not." He shut the trunk, nodded to his colleagues, drove on.

He drove at walking pace, lights flashing, scanning for any sign of 'Smith'. Gonzago. That'd been the man's real name. He hadn't crawled hurt across any cattle fences. Sure hadn't gone for a hike either. Might be lying in high grass farther on. If so, turkey buzzards would find him before any dogs. The pecan woods were the only place anyone could hide hereabouts. But those kids would have come across him. Rupert considered turning back. That deer wouldn't keep forever in a hot trunk.

But ahead at the crossroad to Elysium he spotted rising smoke. He cruised on, coming to a field with two caravan trailers parked 'neath the oaks. Obviously the gypsies he'd meant to check on. Maybe they'd found Smith. Rupert slowed to a stop, careful not to get stuck in the muddy ditch. And then he waited, giving the folk a bit of time to take a breath, get calm, shove anything out of order under the bed or into the bushes.

He'd pictured horse-drawn gypsy wagons surrounded by colorful folk wearing bright scarves and roguish grins. Nothing so picturesque. These were highway camper-trailers, hand-painted with swirls and symbols that'd fit nicely on hippy vans from the '60s. Smoke of a fire ascended blue and easy up from a waste barrel cut short. An un-colorful man leaned against an oak, arms crossed, watching the smoke rise. Ignoring the patrol car completely.

Rupert did a check on the plates. Louisiana registration. Not stolen, no warrants for the owners. Good. Last thing he wanted was exciting bank robbers or German spies. He yawned, counted to five, climbed out the car.

The man still leaned against the tree, eyeing the rising smoke as if it were his smart phone and he texted the sky. Rupert doubted this casual pose. No one ignores the cops driving up, lights flashing or not. More casual they seem, the more they must be up to something.

"Afternoon, Sheriff," said the man, eyes still aimed at the sky.

Rupert nodded, approached. A second man stepped out from a trailer. Near tall as Rupert, he bent head to pass through the door. Good deal thinner. Patched clothes hung on him like they would on a scarecrow overlong in sun and rain. Gray, straggly hair hung limp over a face that looked grey and patched as well. Only color about him was in the teeth and eyes. The eyes shone black as shiny new buttons. Those teeth were yellow as old piano keys, and near as big. This scarecrow grinned at Rupert, one dog showing off its teeth to another. He felt an urge to check the snap of his holster. Not an urge Rupert felt often.

"Afternoon, Sheriff Rupert," croaked another voice. He looked about, did a double take. An old woman sat on a folding chair by the fire. He hadn't seen her there. Magic gypsy trick? More like, the smoke had hidden her.

He tipped his hat, rumbled a low "And hello to you, ma'am." Considered asking where they'd met. She looked fat and happy. A wrinkled pink ball of an old woman with moss for hair. Arms and legs skinny and long, giving her a spiderish look. He knew damned well they hadn't met.

The scarecrow fellow approached. He didn't do it straight. He skittered sideways, stopping and starting again, like a cat stalking a bird. But those black eyes and yellow teeth reminded more of something doglike. A hyena, maybe. The fellow looked hairy enough. Tuffs of rough hair showed at the sleeves of his shirt, up from the collar.

A head peered out a camper window. The face of a girl near Maddy's age, dark and pretty. The child scrunched her face at Rupert, stuck out her tongue, crossed her eyes. Rupert nodded, considered making a face right back. But he already had a face ugly as a Halloween jack-o-lantern two weeks into November. Crossing eyes, sticking out tongue... these things were just gilding the roadkill.

Out from behind the same trailer came a woman in tattered white. Rupert blinked. She wore a wedding dress. Or what might have once been one. Satin and lace, now torn and stained till it was a kind of mossy shroud. One sleeve mostly gone. The woman herself looked clean and pretty as an actress playing debutante gypsy. Long glossy black hair, same as the girl peering from the window. The woman leaned against the trailer, arms folded. Thus posed, she studied Rupert with eyes cold and distant as caves on the night side of the moon. The girl peering through the window began waggling her ears, competing for Rupert's attention. The leaning woman made no such appeal; just stared at him.

"Sit for coffee?" asked a voice in his ear. Rupert turned, hand twitching to unsnap the holster. The old man leaning against a tree had come up right behind. Old; but sly and spry. Eyes happily boasting that his soul was a rusty old razor blade, best beware.

"I'll pass," declared the Sheriff. Took a breath, a step back from the man, looked aside. The scarecrow fellow had come nearer. Rupert now stood in the middle of a triangle, with the spider-like woman, the old man and the Scarecrow for three sinister points. Practically bracketing him. He planted his feet square, prepared to defend the triangle center.

The door of a trailer slammed open. The girl who'd peeked from the window rushed out, feet bare, long hair flying. She wore a dark dress faded with wear. Probably daughter to the woman in tattered white staring and glaring at Rupert.

The child ran behind the trailer with a shriek. Everyone watched. She came around the other side, made off towards the trees waving arms excitedly. No one said anything; nor looked a bit startled. Possibly the girl acted so on regular schedule.

Rupert looked to the other trailer. The door was open. Something large sat within, too deep in shadow to discern whether man or beast. It had yellow eyes that caught faint light. Blinked at him. Rupert shook his head, forced attention back to the old man.

"You Mr. Bode?"

The man grinned. "Checked the plates already?"

Rupert nodded. "I hate to begin unfriendly-like to strangers," he announced. "But folks aren't supposed to be camping hereabouts."

Bode nodded. He wore pants and coat somber as a funeral director; but shabby and stained as if he wore them while embalming and grave digging. A scarf of yellow around his neck gave faint nod to expectations of gypsy style. Not that even the dogs round about didn't wear a bandana in the summer.

He gestured with a hand. "Come," he invited, and turned and walked towards the edge of the clearing. Rupert hesitated, annoyed. Considered calling the man back. The Scarecrow grinned, defying him to show authority. The Spider-woman grinned too. No telling why. Probably she'd just had her breakfast of bacon and babies. Rupert sighed, followed the old man. They passed the trailer with the open door. Rupert peered in. Damned dark inside, as though every window were sealed shut, painted black. Something growled out to the world, showing teeth. A dog? If so, it was sitting in a chair.

Rupert backed away, followed Bode. They stopped before a great wrinkled oak that shadowed half the camp field. Stretching its branches out and up, forming twisted arches of a green church vault. The old man pointed to a side of the tree. Rupert peered close, wary of a trick, a joke, the sudden drop of a panther from the branches.

A series of scars ran across the trunk, extending up. Each scar a bit more overgrown, merging into the trunk. Hard to say where the last one ended. Down low was a fresh cut. Sap still bleeding out.

"Been marking this tree every time we camp by the crossroads," declared the old man. "We pass through these parts every ten years or so."

Rupert considered. Counted fifteen slashes, at least. "Ancient family camping spot?"

"Exact so," said the old man. "I believe the Wheeler family owns this pasture?"

That knowledge surprised Rupert. "Yep. And no. Old Wheeler's in a nursing home in Theory. Think the bank has the title now." The two men shook their heads at mention of banks.

"Well, we've had that family's permission to camp here since they huddled in a lean-to by the creek beyond that pasture," declared Bode. He crossed arms, daring a defiant frown. "Dying of typhus and hunger they were, till my folk offered them tonic and hearth fire."

Rupert studied the man. Behold a simple soul demanding his simple rights, keeping to ancient tradition and family agreements. And it was bullshit. The rich, wet shit that ranchers sold as high-grade fertilizer. Behind the old man's solemn face was a wild howl of laughter. The grin of a soul that didn't give a shit for ancestral tree-slashes or dying settlers.

Still, it was no one's skin off anyone's nose whether they camped here or not. Might help, if Smith was wandering the road out of his damaged mind. Rupert settled for a shrug. The old man patted the tree to tell it good job, stay there. Turned and walked back towards the campfire. Rupert considered giving the tree a kick. But the girl in the faded dress poked her face from around the trunk. Stuck out her tongue at him again. He stepped back, near colliding with the Scarecrow. Its turn to sneak up behind him.

For a moment the two men stood face to face. Rupert judged him about thirty. Skin grey, eyes black with red lines across the white. He seemed sickly as someone staggering down a hospital hallway. But near shaking with energy. Fevered maybe.

"You really don't want to be coming up behind a lawman like that of a sudden," whispered Rupert. "We're nervous folk."

The Scarecrow nodded, as if to say he'd heard it were so. Rupert stepped around the man, walked towards the campfire. Bode was checking on a coffee kettle set beside the flames.

"This morning there was an accident 'bout five miles down the road," said Rupert. "Can't find the driver. You seen anyone wandering hurt hereabouts? Heard anything?"

"No sir," said the old man, scratching his head. "Haven't seen a living soul." He looked to the Scarecrow. The creature shook head, denying he'd seen such a thing.

"We're just setting to early supper," said Bode. "Care to stay?"

"Not anyone's missing chickens, is it?"

Bode laughed. The Scarecrow laughed. The Spider Woman laughed.

"We solemnly promise not to steal chickens, kidnap babies or poach the king's deer," declared the man. He pulled the kettle from the fire. Found a tin cup, poured. "Coffee, if you dare." Held the cup out.

Rupert studied the offering. It looked old as Bode and near as untrustworthy. He prepared to shake head. But it was hard for a man hereabouts to decline polite offers; still worse an honest dare. And these folks were daring him. Rupert didn't give a crap what they thought of him. Problem was, he could tell they didn't care what he thought of them. His face, his size, his badge... didn't scare 'em a bit.

He took the cup. Near too hot to hold. He sipped, not surprised to find it blistering his lip. He managed half, handed the cup back.

"Speaking of the king's deer, you robin hoods know how to dress one?"

"We do indeed," said Bode. The spider-like woman nodded. The Scarecrow nodded. The thing in the dark of the trailer made a noise that might have been agreement.

Rupert nodded, went to his patrol car. He opened the trunk, lifted out the deer. Stiff now. Leaving some blood on the floor of the trunk. He'd get to cleaning it later. Not the first deer he'd carted from the roadside. He hefted the body across his shoulders, a proper hunter returning in triumph from the hunt. Looked about for a place to set it. Not by the fire. Best someplace they could hang and drain it. He carried it over to the great old oak, set it down like an offering. From out behind the trunk, the mad girl peeked, eyes wide.

The three grownups by the fire watched him, silent. No longer grinning. The pretty woman leaning against the trailer watched as well. Angry look turned puzzled.

"Well, now," said Bode. He searched for words. "Well now. That's a gift." That declared, he drank down the rest of the coffee cup himself, disinterested in its heat.

Rupert nodded, considered more to say. He could warn them about fires and drunk deer hunters, staying out of cattle pastures. For sure they knew the risks and rules. So he tipped his hat in sign of 'bye for now', returned to his car. Backed around, headed towards home.

He considered how they'd known his name. So what? He wasn't exactly anonymous. You meet the sheriff from Hell, and you remembered the sheriff from Hell. You told friends about him. Took selfies, grinning with his placid goblin grin. Strange, though. The only thing they'd taken seriously in his drop-by was that gift of a deer.

But why not? Traveling folk learned to make use of what came along. And to get along with the Man, the Law and the Locals. Heck, they'd invited him to supper. What supper? He'd heard gypsies cooked hedgehogs. Weren't any hedgehogs round about. Anyways, he didn't think those folk were real gypsies. Just wanderers giving themselves airs.

The sun settled into the mesquite horizon. Day birds winged home, night birds tested wings and voices. Rupert sighed. Twilight in the country was always a somber change of worlds. Things of light hurrying and scurrying home to rest safe. While things of the night stretched themselves, licking lips, thinking about breakfast. Porch lights snapping on, while evening shadows gave a man dark thoughts about life and meals, necessity and death. Now a dark thought crossed Rupert's mind, made him grin, made him shiver.

Suppose the folk at that camp had found Smith, and decided 'waste not'?