Curly Bob

The sun had just begun to creep over top of the hills when Curly Bob stepped out of his front door.  Not one for much sleep, Bob released a bucket of fresh water in which to wash his face.  The rainwater collection system he had installed the previous year came in very handy during dry times such as these.  After washing, he poured the remains of the water into a dish on the porch, shortly to be appreciated by the dog.

After finishing his breakfast and getting dressed, Curly Bob stepped out his front door, whistled for his horse Honeykins, and being careful not to catch his hoop dress on the saddle horn, began the two-mile ride into town.

The year was 1882, the place, southern Arizona. Curly Bob had come out to Arizona from New York City nearly two decades ago, greatly desiring to get away from the crowds.  This he certainly did, for this part of the country, so far away from civilization and close to Mexico offered Curly Bob the silence and freedom he sought.  Slowly more people moved into the area and a small town developed.

Curly Bob rode into town, his golden ringlets, bounced and blown in the wind, encircled his bearded face. Bob dismounted, being careful not to catch his dress on anything and ambled into the tavern. "One glass of milk, please," Bob requested from the bartender.  

Just finishing the milk, Bob sat down the glass and turned to leave, only to come face to face with John Redbeard, resident thug.  "And what the hell are you?" The thug spat in his face.  "Well," Bob began, "as your question is somewhat ambiguous, I'll do my best to answer.  Biologically speaking, I am bi-pedular mammal. From a theological perspective, I am an Anglican.  Ethnically speaking, I am Norwegian. And if you are wondering about the ontological perspective, well, that question is possibly one of the more difficult philosophical questions that has plagued man even since the time of Plato." Bob paused and looked his opponent in the eye.  "Judging from the glazed over expression and confused look, I will assume that my brief discourse failed to answer your question in an acceptable way.  I will try again.  I am a transvestite. And though I am sure you understand the meaning of that word, for the sake of those in your present company, I will explain.  Etymologically, the word is prefixed with "trans" meaning "across" and the root of the word, which I'm sure you'll recognize from the Roman Catholic term "vestment" meaning "to clothe."  Thus the term means to dress across standard clothing norms.  In other words, I wear women's clothes." Bob's head suddenly snapped back and upward as Redbeard's fist made contact with Bob's chin. Bob picked himself up of the floor, apologized for any inconvenience, and bowing, stepped out of the swinging doors.

Bob paused for a moment and caught his breath.  He then straightened himself and worked his way across the street to the post office. Upon entering he was greeted by Sally, the assistant post matter.  Clarence, the senior postmaster, glared at Bob, grunted, then turned his back.  "Good morning Sally," Bob said. "Do I have any mail?" "Just this one magazine you receive each month.  What is this anyway? Russian?" "Yes, that's right," he replied.  "My grandparents on my mother's side were from Russia.  I like to stay up on the language.  Thank you, Sally.  Have a good day." Bob turned and left the post office, heading back to his horse.
"I don't know why you even talk to that freak," Clarence suddenly ejaculated.  "I mean, what kind of man walks around in a dress?  It's just not right.  No good is going to come of that guy."
"No, you're wrong," Sally retorted.  "Don't you remember when my Clement fell and broke his ribs?  It was Bob who came over and took care of all our animals until Clement could move around again." Sally paused.  "And remember when old man Johnson died?  It was Bob who helped widow Johnson get her farm in order and sell off the animals.  Now she has enough money to take care of her needs."
"Well, that sounds all nice and everything, but Jim Anderson told me that he was out one night on the back portion of his property when he saw your Bob there standing buck naked, up to his ankles in that swamp that borders between their property.  He was waving one arm around like he was swatting at flies or something.  Some kind of pervert or something, that guy is." "I think you're wrong Clarence, Bob is an unusual but a good guy. You know full well that Jim always has bottle in his hand."  Clarence just grunted.

Later that evening, as Bob sat in front of his fireplace, reading, a sudden beating upon the door jarred him from his introspection.  "Bob! I know you're in there, come out with your hands where I can see them!"  Bob calmly sat down his book, slipped on his high heel shoes and opened the front door.  He met the barrel of a shotgun, at face level, along with the sheriff, who held the gun, and three deputies stood in the immediate background.  "Hello sheriff, what's this all about?" Bob asked.  "Like you don't know, you sick freak!" the sheriff growled.  "We found the little girl's body where you left it. Now be quiet and come with us."  Bob said nothing and obeyed the sheriff's commands.  Within an hour, Bob was in the town jail and small mob had gathered outside. 

"Bob," the sheriff said, "we've got a witness claiming they saw you sneaking away from the Anderson ranch, just after dusk.  And about an hour ago the Mr. Anderson found the body of their little girl in the trees just outside their farm.  You better just admit to it and maybe a judge will have some mercy."  Bob looked the sheriff in the eye, but said nothing.  Without another word the sheriff unlocked the cell door, and turned and left the building.  The mob quickly filed his absence.

The next morning the men carried the lifeless body of Curly Bob out and buried him behind the jail with only the county judge in attendance.  At the same time, across town, Mrs. Anderson found a small package behind the chair on their front porch.  Inside was a wad of cash and short note, reading, "I hope this helps - B."

Later that afternoon, Sally slowly picked through the meager belongings inside Bob's log cabin.  In a tin box, high on a shelf, she found several wads of cash and a slip of paper with the names of several townsfolk.