The officer parked in front of the office before getting out
of his squad car. He waved out at them and headed up to the front door. After
living the last seventeen years in the city, this man was the strangest lawman
he’d ever seen. His brown uniform was pressed and neatly arranged on his imposing
frame. The sheriff’s star hung over his right breast pocket while above it was his
name tag of R. Mayberry. Somehow the name fit the owner. His skin was leathery
from years in the sun, his hair a dash of salt and pepper over strawberry blonde,
and a handlebar mustache so bushy across his upper lip that it looked like the
thistles of a wicker broom.
He nodded
his head at him, touching his finger to the faded cowboy hat on his head before
he mumbled, “You must be Mr. Williams.”
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