She was the banker’s wife, and she could cow anyone or anything. She was built along the lines of a perfect cylinder, and if there was anything female in there, she took pains to hide it. Her brown skirts touched the ground, and the rest of her from neck to wrists was swathed in brown also. She had a brown parasol, folded up now, she used to jab at anything that slowed her progress through towns. She’d been known to wound dogs with it, and kill cats. Rusty sat sort of low in the swivel chair, and seemed to get lower and lower as she berated him. But when I walked in there she turned on me. “You’ve been fired. What are you doing here?” she asked. “I’ve given myself a thirty-day notice,” I said. “How can you do that? We told the supervisors to fire you.” “Well, I did it,” I said. “Where’s Sheriff Berg?” “He’s my guest back there,” I said, pointing toward the lockup. “How dare you put him in there? He’s the new sheriff!” “Well, he’s there.” “Let him out immediately.”
