Sweet

They called him 'Sweet' on account of his sweet tooth, seems like there was never a time when he didn't have a candy or six hanging around in his pockets, but Jim Mahan was also the sweetest tempered man you'd ever meet. When Clyde, who'd eat raw onions for his lunch every day and then breath over you when he met you, got right up in his face, Sweet never even wrinkled his nose; just smiled his simple smile and carried right on with business. And when Jessica, who ran the general store back then and had no idea that the good ol' boys out front called her 'Vinegar-knickers' when they thought there was no-one but the kids around, told him that he couldn't have credit no more on account of her having heard tell that he'd kicked a dog, well he just smiled that simple smile and quit his smoking just like that. Even when she relented, after she found out that the dog was rabid and the size of a sheep, Sweet never went back to the store while she was there. And he never smoked a cigarette or cigarillo again, neither. The man had principles.
It was pretty much a good day when Cracker came back to town, driving up the highway in a dusty open-topped car with him at the wheel and a woman that looked cheaper than dirt sitting in the passenger seat, her blouse open and a red bra showing, one leg thrown over the car door all casual like, as though waiting for the next man through the door. The sky was blue, the wind wasn't blowing much, and the grit from the last dust storm was mostly swept away, so as Cracker roars in, the engine throbbing softly, hinting at power, all of the mothers appear from somewhere, and God knows but I never saw them coming, and the children are swept off the street and found tasks to do that'll keep them away from the windows and seeing Cracker and his woman.
Well, Cracker pulls up outside the bar, and Sweet's sat outside on a chair, balancing it on three legs and sucking on some candy or other. On the other side of the road, outside the general store, ol' Vinegar-knickers is closing the door and putting up the shutters and generally doing all that of locking up that means she's just locking up until Cracker's gone away again. The good ol' boys are still sitting there, watching what's going on, and more than one of them had their eye on that woman, though in all fairness she was pretty distracting.
Cracker gets out of the car, walks over to Sweet, and then spits on the floor at his feet.
"Where's the Sheriff?" he says, and Sweet can see that his fingers and clenching and unclenching all the time like he can't make his mind up if he wants a hand or a fist.
"Dead," says Sweet. "Died eight months ago now. Crabs, I think it was."
"What?" Cracker looks taken aback, and his hand settles on fist. "Sheriff Donny? Dead?"
And of course, that's what Cracker's come back for, 'cause of Sheriff Donny being the one who dragged him out of the barn he was hiding in and sent him off to the State for trial there, and they're the ones who locked him up for the last three, and told him to his face that he was a twisted, stub-souled son of a bitch.
"Ayup," said Sweet, mimicking Cracker's accent what he didn't leave town with. He leans around Cracker, peers at the car, and then returns his eyes square to Cracker's face. "Did you go and get yourself married then?" All sweet and innocent, and there's nothing in those words that could get a man all excited like it got Cracker, 'cause Cracker steps forwards and swings, and punches Sweet right in the side of the face.