[DRB]: The Picklock's Puzzle

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Photo by pine watt on Unsplash

Sitting on a ridgeline above the quiet mountain town, Filly fiddled idly with a fresh lockpick, spinning it pensively between her fingers as her mind mulled over the day’s events.

Only a few days into practicing consistently with the instrument, she couldn’t lie that she already felt rather comfortable with it. Whatever her reservations about the morality of it all and the overall plan, the skill itself came to her as readily as if she’d been doing it her whole life.

She’d been advised to travel light any time she was practicing. A single pick on her at a time, and a cattleman just in case she needed it.

It had been inevitable that she’d get caught. A local would spot her fiddling with a door and run off to alert law. Law would rush in, find her, take her back to the sheriff’s office. Confiscate her gun and pick. Probably send her on her way to Sisika.

It had finally happened that morning— though… not the way she’d pictured it.

Filly had slipped up. Said more than she’d intended to and piqued their interest. Their concern. They’d taken her pick, sure. But they hadn’t sent her away.

They’d given her community service. And talked. Talked for a while.

She’d walked out of the office still rolling questions over her tongue that she didn’t know how to answer. Even hours later, they chewed at the corners of her thoughts.

A long, troubled sigh escaped her, leaning forward on one knee. There were a few lawmen on horseback on the road below. She recognized several of their faces from earlier.

Seemed someone had stopped them on their way out of Strawberry, a small discussion ensuing but nothing apparently urgent.

It was strange. Part of her wanted to believe that they cared. They said they did, didn’t they? Sometimes she could believe it was genuine. Other times… other times, she thought it was just a job to them. For better or worse, it wasn’t really about her. It was about rooting out who she was with, their numbers, their home. It was about breaking the chain by a single weak link.

Her thoughts drifted back to the inside of the sheriff’s office, sitting on a bench and sipping at a berry juice they’d given her. The quiet chatter of the officers handling her incident report. A deputy sitting on the ground next to her, pressing her gently for information.

Her revolver, within sight but not grasp. They’d taken it from her holster, but only went so far as to set it down next to a stacked pile of papers on the desk. She’d paid occasional glances to it ever since.

It was a trust exercise, she thought. Showing her that they weren’t going to take it from her. Extending an olive branch of sorts. Giving her the option to try something rash or violent, if only to give her the option to show she wouldn’t.

And she wouldn’t. Of course she wouldn’t.

Still, her eyes traced over the wood and metal as the deputy continued to press her bit by bit for answers, prodding around the edges of her situation to find the details she was willing to give, and the ones she wasn’t.

The more details she gave, the better they’d be able to help her. He had only her best interest at heart, he told her. Everyone here did.

He sounded genuine. She wanted to believe he was.

…Even if he was, did that change what she was being asked to do? The more details she gave, the more she put the others at risk. The more she put *herself* at risk too. She’d barely said anything and had already said too much.

“These friends of yours. Do you truly believe that they have your best interest at heart…? *Yours*,” he stressed. “Not theirs.”

It was a question she didn’t know how to answer simply. On the one hand there was home — a warm bed to sleep in every night and food in the pantry whenever she needed it. There was the campfire — soft guitar and laughter amongst the group as they relaxed after a job well done. There was the confidence and certainty in familiar voices assuring her that no matter what happened, they’d keep her safe. There was the way they called her family.

On the other hand, there was the fear, the anxiety, the guilt — heavy on her shoulders and growing with each act they committed. There was gunfire and bullet wounds, prison time and fines. There was the debt they held over her — a number so high that ever getting rid of it entirely seemed impossible. A hanging threat keeping her hands busy doing the devil’s work.

There was the way she’d spent so long at the riverbanks washing blood out of the fur of her favorite coat that she was worried one day it wouldn’t come out.

Was family supposed to feel like… that?

They said they cared. She wanted to believe they did.

Questions, questions, questions, each poking holes in her logic and faith. Trying to lead her towards one conclusion over the other in a perpetual chase for answers and information. Did her friends truly have her best interest at heart?

Did these lawmen have any better intentions than her friends did?

Did… anyone?

Maybe one person, seated beside her on the rock. Sworn to secrecy about what had happened that day and the only person she truly trusted to keep to that promise.

There was a reason she’d taken to lockpicking over anything else. It was wrong — she knew that. Invasive too. But more than anything, nonviolent. She had to believe that it was going to help. That it was going to be worth it. That being useful like this was a way out of the debt that didn't involve bloodshed or betrayal. That the debt would go down if she just stayed the course.

A lock was just a little puzzle, and a puzzle was just a problem you could fix. Something with an easy solution.

…she had to admit those had been in short supply lately.

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