It was a crisp early summer morning on the Comstock as LEGO-Sheriff Triibeard and Deputy Westin each enjoyed a fresh cup of hot coffee on the steps of their office. The sound of approaching hoofbeats and creaking wagon wheels drew their attention to the colorful figure coming their way on C Street.

"Mornin' Sheriff..., Deputy!" said the man in the wagon.

"Howdy, Jake," greeted the Sheriff. "Long time no see 'round these parts."

"What's it been, two months since you made it up here from Six-Mile Canyon?" asked the Deputy.

"Awww, you guys know me. I only wander up here to get my subscriptions from the Post Office. I got all the new issues of my favorite newspapers and magazines right here in my wagon. I might get a few supplies now and then, but I pretty much just keep to muhself and read."


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"What's been keepin' ya busy, Mr. Wilson?" asked the Deputy.

"Waaaalll, lemme tell ya, young man. I been puttin' together a water collectin' system so's I don' hafta carry water up from the creek to my place no more. Got pipes running down from the hills into a biiiiiiig ol' tank on my roof. It's all run by gra-vee-ta-shun-al at-trak-shun so's I don' hafta pump it neither. Hee, hee, it's slicker than deer guts on a door knob!" the old hermit cackled.

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The three men chatted a while about the recent drought and the hopes for relief that were building along with the storm clouds headed east over the Sierra Nevada Mountains.

Jake narrowed his eyes at the growing thunderheads and said, "Gotta git, fellas. Ol' Nelly here ain't much for socializing when those Washoe Zephyrs start to howl, so we'll be on our way." He clicked his tongue and muttered a quick "giddyup", and Nelly dutifully trotted off with Jake in tow.

"Be careful heading down the canyon, Jake," said the Sheriff. "See you in few weeks."

"Bye, Mr. Wilson," shouted the Deputy as Ol' Nelly moseyed down to the Canyon road on the north end of town while Jake whistled a melancholy tune.

"Sheriff, that ol' hermit gets more reading material than anyone I know in the whole Territory. Whatdya suppose he does with all that stuff."

"Stuff is right, Deputy. That hermit hoarder never throws anything away - ever!" said the Sheriff. "Why, I've been out to his place and seen him stuffing his collection of old reading material into the store room right above where he lives. It must be stacked wall to wall, floor to ceiling in there. He probably has every single issue of every subscription he's ever received."


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By mid-afternoon, the white puffy cumulus clouds had grown into dark thunderheads, and soon sheets of wind-driven rains announced the beginning of the end of the drought. For the next few weeks a steady series of storms brought welcome relief in the form of gentle rains and cooler temperatures. Virginia City and Gold Hill streets were a muddy mess, but few people complained much because of the region's desperate need for moisture.

One day a break in the storms brought sunny skies and a warm afternoon, so Sheriff Triibeard and Deputy Westin took the opportunity to saddle up and take a casual ride through town. All was well until the Deputy shouted, "Hey, Sheriff, isn't that Ol' Nelly coming toward us?"

"It sure is, Deputy," said the surprised lawman. "But I don't see Jake or his wagon anywhere on the street. I wonder what she's doing up here in town by herself!"

Ol' Nelly galloped up the street toward Triibeard and Westin. She looked anxious and agitated as she stopped and reared up in front of them.

"Easy, girl," said the Sheriff in a calm voice trying to soothe the panicked animal. "Whoa, Nelly."

The Sheriff's white horse, Neva, snorted and whinnied a bit as if to tell Nelly to calm down and explain what happened.

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"Where is Jake, Nelly? Is Jake alright?" asked the Deputy.

Nelly turned around and took off like greased lightning toward Six-Mile Canyon Road with the two lawmen in hot pursuit. It seemed like an eternity before they arrived at the hermit's isolated home, and they were astonished at the disaster that lay before them.

The entire upper level of the house had collapsed and buried poor Jake Wilson under a pulpy mass of water-soaked newspapers and magazines. Apparently Jake's water collection system had worked far too well, over-topping the roof-top tank and leaking into the jam-packed storeroom. The second floor had given way under the immense weight of that much saturated paper and crushed poor Jake as he lay in bed. Only his two hands were visible above the wreckage and accumulated papier mâché.

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The two men scrambled feverishly to dig out Jake from the broken wooden timbers and suffocating pulp, but they were too late. It appeared that the old hermit had died instantly when the upper floor collapsed on him without warning.

Several citizens of Virginia City joined the two lawmen in cleaning up the devastation, and they buried Ol' Jake Wilson in the remains of the remote dwelling that had been his home for as long as anyone could remember.

The Territorial Enterprise reported on the tragedy with great flourish, and ended the obituary notice with the touching words of the epitaph carved into the granite tombstone erected at the site:
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HERE LIES JAKE WILSON

THE MAN HAD A LOT OF ISSUES

Triibeard's Thirty-NINE years of being bearded    (The recent journey from a short- to a long-beard)
Introducing LEGO-Sheriff Triibeard     (The origin story for our polymeric polychromatic hero)
Sheriff Triibeard and The Case of the Missing Beard Balm   (In search of that scoundrel RiffRaff)
Sheriff Triibeard and the Hermit Hoarder    (Consequences of acquisitiveness)

In a world of shorn faces, it is our privilege to offer those around us the exquisite opportunity to know a gentleman with a beard.
Last Edited By: Triibeard Feb 15 16 6:13 PM. Edited 6 times.