Writer 1879: Solitary Journey in France

Chapter 445 Terrible Trouble!

In the room, Lionel was pondering another of the Black Jazz's "masterpieces," "My Rules Are the Rules."

This poem is more straightforward than the previous two, and between the lines are the "philosophies of life" that Black Jazz gleaned from cheap adventure novels—

The law is bullshit.

Might makes right.

Who's blocking my way?
Whoever does so will go to see God.

...]

Lionel held a pencil, while Black Knight sat opposite him with a shotgun across his lap.

His eyes were fixed on Lionel, like a student waiting for their teacher to grade their homework, nervous yet expectant.

Just as Lionel was about to say something, there was a sudden knock on the door.

Black Knight instantly straightened up, slammed his right hand on the handle of the shotgun, and then winked at Lionel, signaling him to deal with it.

Lionel took a deep breath, walked to the door, and did not open it immediately.

"Who?" He tried to keep his voice calm.

A deep voice came from outside the door: "Sheriff of this town, Buck Raven."

Lionel turned to look at Black Knight; Black Knight, meanwhile, had a furrowed brow and an irritated expression.

He glanced at the sky outside the window, weighed the consequences of an open conflict with the sheriff in the town, and finally nodded helplessly.

In remote towns like those in the American West, sheriffs are like local tyrants, wielding immense power. Once they're targeted, it's very difficult for them to leave smoothly.

Lionel understood what he meant and opened the door.

Sheriff Buck Lavin stood in the doorway, a star-shaped badge pinned to his chest and a Colt revolver holstered at his waist.

He didn't go inside, but only glanced at Lionel and then at the gloomy-faced black knight inside the room.

Sheriff Buck Raven first confirmed the two men's identities: "Mr. Bolton? Mr. Morgan?"

Lionel blocked the doorway, refusing to let him in: "Yes, Sheriff."

Buck LaVine then asked, "Where are you from?"

Lionel answered with the same answer he had previously discussed with Black Knight: "I came from Carson City."

Carson City is the capital of Nevada, far enough away and populated enough to make verification difficult.

Buck LaVine's heart skipped a beat, thinking that it was indeed someone sent down from above.

But he still mustered the courage to ask, "Where are you planning to go? When are you leaving Windbreak Town?"

Lionel tried to make his answer sound natural: "Going to California to find some work, leaving first thing tomorrow morning."

Buck LaVine, of course, did not believe that it was possible to travel from Carson City to San Francisco without passing through Storm's End.

He stared at Lionel for a few seconds, seemingly trying to find a flaw in his face, but Lionel remained perfectly calm.

He glanced at the silent Black Knight in the room, hesitated for a long time, and couldn't find any other problem.

Finally, he could only coldly warn the two of them: "You better be like this. I don't care where you come from or where you're going. In Windbreak Town, you'd better behave yourselves!"
Stay in your room, don't wander around, and don't cause trouble. Tomorrow morning, I want to see you all out of my territory. Understand?

This inexplicable hostility left Lionel and Black Jazz somewhat bewildered, but they were happy about it.

Lionel obediently replied, "Understood, Sheriff. We won't cause any trouble."

Buck LaVine snorted again, glared at them, then turned around, deliberately stomping his boots on the wooden floor to make a creaking sound, and went downstairs to leave.

Lionel closed the door, and Black Knight breathed a sigh of relief, but did not loosen his grip on the shotgun.

Black Knight cursed under his breath, "That damn sheriff, he's like a wolf that's smelled meat!"

Lionel walked back to the table and looked at the song "My Rules Are the Rules" on it: "It seems that the 'rules' here are a little different."

But the sheriff's warning did not give the two any peace and quiet; less than two hours later, there was another knock on the door.

Black Knight became alert again, gripping his shotgun and signaling Lionel to deal with the situation.

Lionel walked to the door and repeated the previous question: "Who is it?"

A friendly voice came from outside the door: "Good evening, sir. I'm the blacksmith in town, everyone calls me Old Joe."

The blacksmith? Lionel and Black Knight exchanged a puzzled look—the sheriff had just left, and now the blacksmith was here?
Black Knight nodded helplessly again. In a place like this, it was not a wise move to easily offend a local.

Lionel opened the door.

Standing outside the door was a tall, broad-shouldered man, about fifty years old, with a face full of wrinkles and an apron covered in coal dust.

He greeted them with a smile: "Good evening, Mr. Morgan, Mr. Bolton!"

Lionel maintained his distance: "I'm Morgan. Mr. Joe, what can I do for you?"

Old Joe's smile grew even brighter: "It's nothing serious. There's a dance party at the school in town tonight, everyone's just having some fun."

I'd like to invite both gentlemen to join us. It's good to make friends when you're traveling.

Lionel declined without hesitation: "Thank you for your offer, Mr. Joe. But we're just passing through and will be leaving first thing tomorrow morning. We don't want to cause any trouble." Old Joe's smile faded, and he leaned closer: "Trouble? Did that Buck LaVine guy threaten you? What did he say to you?"

Lionel was taken aback, not expecting the other party to be so direct: "The sheriff was just reminding us to follow the town's rules."

Old Joe scoffed, a "I know" look on his face: "Rules? Humph! His rule is to keep himself in that position forever!"

He lowered his voice and winked, hinting, "Gentlemen, stop pretending. I know who you are."

Lionel was baffled: "Identity? What identity?"

Old Joe, with an air of "we both know what's going on," said, "What else could it be? Election Day is next Tuesday, right?"

Lionel was completely stunned. He opened his mouth, wanting to explain that it was all a misunderstanding and that election day had nothing to do with him.

But Old Joe didn't give him a chance: "Don't worry! I, Old Joe, will defeat Buck LaVine fair and square this time and become the new sheriff!"
And then there's Mr. Sneijder from the funeral home; he's the man who's going to be mayor! We don't need to resort to those dirty tricks!

So you don't need to hide; you can attend the ball openly and honestly. Come on, look at our support among the ordinary people of Windbreak!

He patted Lionel's arm: "It's settled then, see you at the ball! You'll see then who truly deserves the title!"

After saying that, Old Joe, without waiting for Lionel to say anything more, confidently turned around and hummed a little tune as he walked down the stairs.

Lionel stood frozen at the door, and it took him a while to come to his senses before he slowly closed the door.

He turned around and looked at Black Knight, who also looked bewildered: "It seems we've gotten ourselves into a really bad mess."

Black Knight frowned and cursed, "Damn it, an election? What are these country bumpkins thinking?"

One of them was a wanted bandit who hijacked a post station carriage, and the other was a hostage who had no choice in the matter. They were actually treated as some important figure related to the election.

The atmosphere in the room suddenly became heavy. They had only intended to stay briefly, but now they might be caught in the quagmire of the town's political struggles.

--------

While Lionel and Black Knight were struggling with the misunderstanding about their identities, the outside world was already in an uproar because of them.

French literary giant kidnapped in the west! Sorel's whereabouts unknown!

Scandal of the Century! The Failure of American Law and Order!

The Savage West! A Disgrace to the Civilized World!

Similar headlines dominated the front pages of almost every major newspaper from New York to San Francisco.

The train robbery was horrific enough in itself, but the fact that the victim was a renowned French literary figure in Europe added explosive news value to the incident.

The report detailed the brutality of the attack—explosions, gunfights, and chaotic escapes—with particular emphasis on Lionel's fate, which remains unknown as he attempted to save his companion.

The author vividly portrays Lionel as a tragic hero who sacrifices himself for his comrades, while also depicting the American West as a lawless and untamed wasteland.

As for the story that "Black Jazz" kidnapped Lionel to revise his poetry, it was considered too far-fetched and a cover-up by the kidnappers; no one believed it.

Major newspapers fiercely criticized the incompetence of the western state governments, condemning the inefficiency of local law enforcement agencies and their inaction in allowing banditry to run rampant.

They claimed that this was not only a disregard for the safety of the American people, but also a great humiliation for the United States in the eyes of the international community.

An editorial questioned: "If we can't even protect invited European cultural figures, what face do we have to call ourselves a civilized nation?"

Another editorial was even more sarcastic: "The French want to give us a 'Statue of Liberty'? Is it too late to change it to Mr. Sorel's design?"

Émile Zola, Alphonse Daudet, and others jointly issued a strongly worded statement.

In their statement, they expressed "extreme shock and outrage" at the violence they witnessed on U.S. soil.
It was pointed out that the robbers had a clear target, pointing directly to the royalty checks they were carrying, suggesting that there might be someone behind them.

At the end of their statement, they declared emphatically: "We will suspend all visits to the United States until Lionel Sorel is found."

This statement was like the last straw that broke the camel's back, bringing the already overwhelmed police and government departments to the brink of collapse.

The suspension of the visit means that all previous diplomatic efforts and cultural exchanges may be in vain.
This also means that the United States' national image will suffer an irreparable blow.

Inquiries and urgent telegrams from Washington, the French embassy, ​​and even the White House poured into the Nevada state government and the Pacific Railroad.

The Nevada state troopers were terrified. They had been given a death order: they had to find Lionel Sorel as soon as possible, at all costs!
They expanded the search area, dispatched more people, and conducted a comprehensive search along the railway line and surrounding towns, leaving no stone unturned.

The Pinkerton Detective Agency also felt ashamed and under immense pressure.

Failure to protect its employer and the subsequent kidnapping of a key figure is an unprecedented disgrace for Pinkerton, a company known for its "efficiency and reliability"!

William Pinkerton, the head of the western Pinkerton district, personally took charge.

He was furious, seeing it as a blatant provocation against Pinkerton.

He immediately mobilized hundreds of his most elite detectives, personally leading them to sweep through all the towns, ranches, mines, and Indian reservations surrounding the site of the train attack.

William Pinkerton gave a stern order: "Find that son of a bitch Black Knight and bring Mr. Sorel back unharmed!"
I'll show everyone what happens when you mess with Pinkerton's customers!

(Second update complete. Please vote with your monthly tickets! Monthly tickets! Monthly tickets!)

　Election Day is the first Tuesday of November each year in the United States, so the end of October is a very sensitive period, especially in the 19th century.

　　In the 19th-century American West, sheriffs were almost always elected local officials, not appointed. Their terms were typically two or four years. Sheriffs held one of the most powerful local government positions in the United States at the time, controlling local armed forces, managing prisons, enforcing court orders, and appointing deputy sheriffs. In the movie *First Blood*, the sheriff is the one who initially removes Sylvester Stallone from the theater.

　　In rural America at that time, the power triangle typically consisted of the mayor, the sheriff, and the butcher.

　　
　
(End of this chapter)