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“So where were you last night, Lemuel?”
Lem stopped on the wooden sidewalk outside of Elias’ shop, brought up short by the insistent tone of the barber’s question. The truth was, he’d spent a quiet evening at home with the folks, losing to Dad two out of three at checkers. Not that he was anxious to share that information.
“It was my night off—”
“Well, you missed all the excitement-- that bank robber tried to escape!”
“What?”
“That’s right, Deputy,” Elias said, shaking his head emphatically and setting his wispy hair in motion. “He broke out of jail. Good thing those bounty hunters were in town ta help the Sheriff catch ‘im.”
“You say the bounty hunters helped Sheriff Cutler?”
“Yup. Heard the whole story from Mr. Thatcher himself this mornin’. Beats me why John is keepin’ such a dangerous man here in town, stead of packin’ him off to Denver.”
Even though he’d been wondering pretty much the same thing, criticism of Sheriff Cutler never set well with Lem, and he didn’t appreciate hearing any from Elias now.
“Sheriff gave the prisoner two days to prove who he is. I don’t suppose Mr. Thatcher mentioned that the Sheriff ain’t convinced he’s the one they’re lookin’ for.”
Elias placed one hand on each of his apron-covered hips and gave Lem a look. “He tried to escape. That oughta be proof of somethin’.”
Well, the man had a point, not that Lem was inclined to admit it. Instead he just told Elias he’d talk to him later and hurried on towards the jail.
When he got inside, the first thing he saw was Sheriff Cutler seated at his desk, holding a mug of coffee in both hands. It seemed as if he’d been staring at the empty desktop, but he looked up when Lem entered and offered his usual “Mornin’, Lemuel.”
“Mornin’, Sheriff,” Lem replied, his eyes moving to the cell, finding the spaces between the bars. The prisoner was still in there, sitting on the cot with his knees bent and his back against the wall. He had a book in one hand and another one of those white coffee mugs in the other. The prisoner looked up and nodded politely. Lem quickly turned his attention back to the Sheriff.
“Is, ah, everything . . . is everything all right, Sheriff?”
Cutler pinned Lem with a look, and took his time answering. “I guess you heard we had some commotion.”
The Sheriff shoved the chair back from the desk and stood up, pushing his hat back on his head as he turned to look towards the cell. “Seems our guest here got loose. But he didn’t do it by himself. Somebody helped him.”
Cutler stood with his hands on his hips, and beyond the Sheriff, behind the iron bars, Lem could see that the prisoner had closed the book, still keeping one finger inside the pages to hold his place. He’d been sitting with his head bowed, but he looked up when the Sheriff said somebody had helped him.
It was the Sheriff who broke it off, turning away from the cell.
“Who d’ya think—”
“I’m not sure, Lemuel. Coulda been his brother. Might’ve been those bounty hunters. You and me, we’re just gonna have to keep an eye out.”
“Sure will, Sheriff.”
There was another long pause, while Lem considered that the bounty hunters wouldn’t have been helping the prisoner exactly, more trying to steal him. But Elias had said they’d helped Sheriff Cutler . . .
“Think you could maybe head over to Sadie’s, pick us up some breakfast?”
“Sure thing, Sheriff.” It was a bit late for breakfast, but maybe the Sheriff hadn’t wanted to leave the jail. “Be right back.”
Over at Sadie’s diner, all the talk was about the night before and the dangerous big city criminal now being held in the Live Oak jail. The few folks lingering over their coffee knew Lem hadn’t been on duty, so they didn’t ask him about the escape attempt, but they had plenty of questions about the prisoner.
“What’s he like, Lem, big n’ mean lookin’?”
Lem started shifting uncomfortably. It was going to take Sadie a few minutes to cook up the food, so he was stuck here with everyone looking at him. “No, Hal, he ain’t that big, kinda tall, but not big.”
Mr. Winston from the bank was sitting at the table with Hal Hawkins. “Fortunately, none of us has ever actually encountered a bank robber and murderer, Lemuel, so we’re curious as to what such a man might be like.”
“Well, Mr. Winston, the man we got locked up sounds pretty smart, he’s real . . . polished, kinda sly maybe, but he’s real polite. But he says he’s somebody else and Sheriff Cutler isn’t convinced he’s the bank robber----”
The banker interrupted. “But he tried to escape, didn’t he?”
Mr. Hawkins saved Lem from having to answer. “Now Howard, whether he did it or not, he’s sure not goin’ to want to take a ride all the way to Denver with a couple a bounty hunters.”
“No, I suppose not.” Howard Winston turned his attention back to Lem. “Deputy, you don’t think the Sheriff is going to let this man go?”
Lem shook his head. “No Sir, Mr. Winston, I can guarantee you Sheriff Cutler isn’t going to do anything like that. Not without some kind of hard proof that he’s who he says he is.”
“That’s good to hear.” The dapper banker finished off his coffee and wiped his mouth carefully with his napkin before setting it aside and rising to his feet. “Well, if you’ll excuse me, gentleman, I must be getting to the bank.”
Just then Sadie came out to the counter with two breakfasts on a tray and called Lem over. “You tell John ‘good mornin’’ for me and tell ‘im not to be a stranger,” she said as she held the door open for Lem. Carefully holding the heavy tray out in front of him, Lem waited for a hay-filled wagon to pass by and then headed back across the dusty street.
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Scott Lancer closed the cover of the book and set it aside. It had been one of three volumes that the Sheriff had had on hand, none of which had seemed especially appealing. He’d reluctantly selected the Hawthorne, even though he’d read it before. At least it had helped the day pass by. And it had been a long day.
He’d spent much of it replaying his encounter with Julie Barrett and berating himself. He’d been so intent upon showing up his brother by obtaining a date for a church dance that he’d been utterly taken in by Miss Barrett’s very abrupt change in attitude. She’d gone from acting like a starched collar to . . . well, to behaving much like the real Miss Colefax. And Scott had been so foolishly pleased with his apparent success in charming her, that he’d failed to wonder when the young woman was suddenly not only willing to spend the afternoon with a stranger, but also eager to bestow a kiss upon him--- as well as an envelope full of money.
The last thing he remembered, prior to coming around in a chair in the Sheriff’s office, was accepting the envelope and assuring her that he would “treasure it” until her return. He groaned inwardly as he recalled the words.
That envelope—not to mention the tell-tale lip rouge—had been part of the evidence against him. Frustrated as Scott felt, he could understand why the Sheriff had locked him up.
The Sheriff and his deputy had been in and out during the day, one of them always present, so he’d never been entirely alone. There’d been no sign of Lucas Thatcher or his partner, but there had been a steady stream of townsfolk stopping in. Scott had had to duck behind the book to hide a smile when an older woman the Deputy had addressed as “Miz McHatten” had demanded to know, sotto voce, “So is that him, Lemuel? Is that why you were out on official business yesterday?”
Not that it was at all funny to be set up by a pretty young woman and then mistaken for a bank robber and murderer, although Scott could think of plenty of people who might be amused to hear the story—assuming that he lived to tell about it. The Sheriff had made it pretty clear that he wouldn’t, not if he set out for Colorado in the company of the two bounty hunters.
Which had almost happened last night. Scott wondered if the Sheriff would have come after them. If Cutler had been convinced that the bounty hunters had staged the so-called escape, he hadn’t let on, though it had been almost laughable when Thatcher had tried to suggest that Johnny had unlocked the cell door.
Just where the Hell was Johnny?
He should have caught up with the girl early yesterday afternoon, unless she’d somehow given him the slip. But Scott had more faith in his brother than that. Johnny would have stopped to ask around—someone would have noticed an attractive young woman heading out of town, and pointed him in the right direction. Julie Barrett hadn’t had that much of a head start; all Johnny had to do was find her and bring her straight back to the jail, where she’d have to admit the truth.
But he hadn’t shown up yet. Which probably meant that instead of doing what he’d been asked to do, Johnny had gone ahead with his own plan to go after Jonas Barrett. Leaving Scott to spend a night behind bars---and almost ending up on the road to Denver.
The Deputy—Sparks—had brought in a pretty decent breakfast. And Scott had been optimistic that he’d be out of jail by lunchtime, once his brother returned with both Barretts in tow. However, mid-day had long since come and gone, and there was still no sign of Johnny.
In between the lines of Hawthorne, he’d been worrying about his brother, the soft turn of each page marking the passing of time and reminding him that Johnny was overdue.
There might be a simple explanation—a wrong turn taken, a horse coming up lame. Still, Scott couldn’t help remembering Thatcher saying there had been more than one man involved in the robbery. Johnny could have run into any kind of trouble, been distracted by the girl, surprised by Barrett, simply outnumbered. Those were the stories he found himself creating in his head, each plot like something out of a lurid dime novel.
He was unable to do anything else. Mounting concern pushed Scott to his feet, propelled him against his will to stand in front of the bars, gripping them with both hands. That grasp was achingly familiar. Scott had so far simply refused to react to being so confined. It wasn’t like before, nothing like it in fact. This was just a small town jail, clean enough, with regular meals. His growing sense of helplessness was merely the result of the forced wait for Johnny, the time spent trying not to worry about his brother. Scott consciously released his hold on the bars and slid his hands through them instead, willfully allowing them to dangle outside the cell, loose and relaxed. The Sheriff had given them two days. Johnny knew that. He’d be back.
In the meantime, Scott was resigned to the fact that he’d probably be spending another night in this cell. It was quiet at least, another difference.
He’d still been standing there when they’d heard the pounding of horses’ hooves and the rumble of wheels. The Sheriff had barely glanced up from his ever-present mug of coffee, but the Deputy had gone to the door. When he’d opened it, the noise had already gone past, but Scott could see dust still hanging in the air of the main street.
“Stage’s in,” the Deputy had announced. He looked over at Scott, and then he’d added a bit more. “The one comin’ down from up north.”
Sheriff Cutler hadn’t commented, but Scott had, addressing the back of the man’s head. “It’s too soon for my father to be returning. He won’t be back until tomorrow—at the earliest.”
“Southbound stage comes in this time everyday.” The taciturn Sheriff set his coffee cup on the desk and swung around in his chair. “And those two days are up at two o’clock tomorrow.”
Scott met Cutler’s gaze, willing the dismay out of his eyes, trying hard to prevent his mouth from quirking in disbelief. He wasn’t sure that he’d been successful; it seemed he was out of practice. The Sheriff had looked away first, reaching once more for that white mug and then instructing the Deputy to go get himself some supper. Cutler had followed Sparks outside, Scott had heard them talking for some time on the boardwalk in front of the jail. Unable to make out the words, unwilling to be caught trying, he’d retreated to the bunk, where he lay with his eyes closed, listening to other voices passing by.
Two days. Clearly, Sheriff Cutler was a man of his word. He’d said “two days,” and he was sticking to it. Even after the “escape attempt.” Then again, even if the Sheriff had seen through Thatcher’s story, the bounty hunter’s guilt wouldn’t actually be proof of Scott’s innocence. And that’s what Cutler wanted, Proof. Scott admired the Sheriff’s insistence upon it, even while feeling frustrated by his own inability to convince the man that he wasn’t a bank robber, or a murderer. It was a classic case of mistaken identity, another cliché of bad fiction.
Scott sighed, his fingers drumming restlessly on the cover of the book. Certainly, it would have been easy enough for the Sheriff to simply release him to the bounty hunters and have done with it. There wasn’t any Law at all in the towns closest to Lancer and the few Western lawmen Scott had encountered had failed to impress him: that Sheriff in Blood Rock, Murdoch’s friend Barker. So perhaps his one piece of good fortune in this whole episode was to have found himself in the custody of Sheriff John Cutler. But it appeared that his good fortune was due to run out precisely at two p.m., tomorrow. Unless, of course, Johnny returned--- with the Proof---to rescue him in the nick of time.
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"You keep a sharp eye out tonight, Deputy."
That was as close as the sheriff had come to mentioning last night's escape attempt - if that was what it was. Then he'd lifted his hat off the rack and slipped out into the warm summer night.
Watching him disappear into the darker reaches of the street, heading for what Lem hoped would be a quiet night's sleep, Lem figured he knew what the sheriff meant. He meant, don't trust nobody. Keep your eye on the prisoner because he may have broke out of that cell last night. And don't turn your back on them bounty hunters, because it may have been the other way around. If they took the prisoner out of jail, what wouldn't they do next? True, the sheriff didn't act like he was especially worried, but he was a tough man.
Lem straightened and turned away from the open doorway. He wouldn't leave this jail tonight, for any reason. They weren't used to dealing with desperadoes around here. The casual drunks, pickpockets and horse thieves that occasionally occupied their cells could be safely left if he or the sheriff were called away.
But not this man.
Lem cocked his head in the prisoner's direction. He sat hunched over a plate, prodding at the green beans with his fork. Not like he didn't like them, more thoughtful like, like he'd forgot he was supposed to eat them. With only the profile to go by, Lem didn't see much to help him guess what was on the man's mind. A firm jaw, a straight nose, a high cheekbone. No strong feelings clenching the jaw, no deep concentration to wrinkle the high forehead. But if he'd been a betting man, Lem would have bet he was worrying at something all the same.
Another jailbreak attempt, maybe? Well, if he needed concentration for that, Lem would make sure that he didn't get it.
"You done fork dancin’ with them beans? If y'are, I'll get that tray out of there."
Now, that might have been a risky move. Retrieving that tray would probably be the most dangerous thing he would do tonight. Lemuel puzzled how to accomplish it without lowering his guard or getting to close to the prisoner.
"I'm done," the man said, looking up at Lem for the first time since the sheriff had gone.
Lem rose and pulled his gun even before he reached for the keys on the post.
"Just set it down on the floor, right against the door."
The prisoner stood, reminding Lem, unintentionally maybe, that he was taller, fitter and probably stronger than Lem. Maybe faster, too, though the deputy considered himself speedy.
"Now, step back," Lem commanded.
The tall man backed up slowly. He even raised his hands for good measure. Lem hadn't told him to do that. Of course, maybe he was being extra helpful in the hope of catching Lem off guard.
It wasn't until Lem looked down at the tray at his feet that he realized how foolish he had been. That tray could have stayed right in the cell till morning, when the sheriff came in and he went out to get the prisoner's breakfast. But now it sat there on the floor, and there was no way Lem could get it without giving the prisoner a chance at him. He could try nudging it through the door with his booted feet, but to do that he would have to move closer to the prisoner and turn his back to him. That wouldn't be any better than stooping down to pick it up, giving the prisoner a good chance to jump him. Though maybe he could pick it up faster that way? A quick glance at the prisoner showed him an expressionless face and a relaxed body, not tensed to spring. Just to make sure, Lem waggled his gun at him.
He looked at the tray again, considering the best course of action. There was that blasted teacup. If he broke Sadie's teacup she would have his ears. The fine china cup had come to California in a boat that had sailed around the Horn. It stood out from the thick white plate like the aristocrat of crockery that it was. He had warned her that anything might happen to it. They had had drunks who'd broken all the dishes handed through the cell door. But she had just smiled sweetly and shook her head, saying she knew that he would take good care of it — and wouldn't it be something to serve tea in that cup and tell the ladies that a famous bank robber and murderer, a wanted man with a price on his head, had once drunk out of it, too?
With a nervous look back at the prisoner, Lem stooped quickly and rose with the tray between his hands, his pistol still in the right hand, too. Almost in the same motion, he took a big step backward. That was a mistake. Like one of them magicians pulling a tablecloth out from under a pile of dishes, he almost pulled the tray out from under the prisoner's meal. Only the dishes didn't stand still. The delicate cup tilted over the edge, turning its flower painted bottom at Lem as it flipped over the lip of the tray.
"No!" Lem lunged for the cup with both hands, sending the tray and the plate - and his gun - clattering to the floor. He grabbed air. Missed it!
But the cup didn't drop. Another pair of hands had caught it. And Lem was almost nose to buttonhole with the prisoner.
The man held out the cup to him. He didn't say anything, but the brightness in the man’s eyes told Lem how ridiculous he'd made himself. Before Lem could speak, the other man had backed up, clear to the wall, and raised his hands again.
Exasperated, Lem snatched up his gun and grabbed the tray in the same hand and backed out of the cell door. He propped the tray against the bars and holstered his gun so he could turn the key in the lock. Then he set the cup down on the sheriff's desk and placed the tray beside it. He grabbed up the wastebasket and went back to the cell to clean up what he could of the mess by reaching through the bars. Inside the cell, the prisoner knelt down, too, and grabbed up the broken bits that Lem couldn't reach, passing them through the bars to Lem.
Chagrined, Lem couldn't help thinking it was a good thing that the man had mostly cleaned his plate or he'd have a bigger mess to clean up. A few remaining green beans had scattered wetness on the cell floor. When he had dried his hands on the cloth they kept for dusting, he passed the rag through the bars to the prisoner.
Feeling as clumsy as a schoolboy, Lem then turned his back on the man and went back to the desk, where he sat and pretended to study the wanted posters that had come in the morning mail. When his embarrassment had faded, he was able to think more clearly about what had happened.
If the prisoner had set his mind set on a jailbreak, he sure missed his chance just now. The simple fact was that when he could have gone for Lem’s gun, the man had gone for Sadie’s china teacup instead. Wasn’t no time for him to think about it, to calculate. That had been his instinct. Instead of saving himself, the man had saved that fool china.
A soft noise from the cell drew the deputy's eyes back to the man, Barrett or Lancer, whoever he really was. He was sitting on the bench with that same book he'd been looking at all day in his hands. But he wasn't reading now, just holding the book with the cover closed.
“I thought you done read that straight through.”
It was the first time that Lem had ventured a bit of conversation with this one, though he chatted freely enough with the other men who had occupied that cell.
“Your library is a bit limited,” the prisoner said mildly, raising his head to look at Lem.
“We don’t get much call for books,” Lem admitted.
A faint smile of acknowledgement twisted the man’s lips. His gaze had returned to the still closed book. He must be about sick of it by now, Lem thought, reasoning that spending a whole day with one book would be about like being shut up in a closet with Elias the barber gossiping away at you for hours on end, refusing to hear a word you said of disagreement.
The same, long wakeful night stretched ahead of them both. Most prisoners would have been sleeping by now, but this man seemed to have a restless mind that wouldn’t let him lay still.
“You play checkers?” Lem asked.
They had a board in the office. On a slow day, the sheriff might play a game or two with him, and it wasn’t rare for Lem to while away an hour or two over the checkerboard with whoever happened to be locked up.
“I do,” the prisoner said, looking up.
He might be glad to get out of that closet and away from that author who had twisted his ear all day, maybe.
Lem wrenched out the bottom desk drawer — it always stuck —and pulled out the folded board. It took a little rummaging to locate the box of playing pieces, but at least they hadn’t spilled out in the drawer again. He rarely beat the sheriff, but he had seldom lost to whoever he had faced through the bars.
Leaving the board and pieces on the desk, he lugged a stool over to the cell. Lem unfolded the board across it, set the box of game pieces on the board, then went back for a chair for himself.
When he returned, he found the prisoner sitting on the end of his cot, knees close to the bars and hands reaching through them, already sorting the pieces. “Red or black?” he said, raising an eyebrow at Lem.
“Black.” The sheriff’s habitual preference, it was Lem’s choice when he played anyone else.
A simple game that progressed quickly and didn’t demand too much concentration — unless Lem was playing the sheriff-- checkers also allowed for easy conversation. Or, it did, when Lem could find his tongue. It wasn’t easy to make small talk with a man when you didn’t know whether he spent his time herding cows or robbing and shooting folks. He thought over what the prisoner had said about himself.
“What’s Boston like anyways?”
The prisoner looked up from the board. “Assuming I’ve been there?”
“Yeah. Assuming.”
As they mulled over their respective moves, the man told him about Faneuil Hall and Back Bay, about winter and snow, about ship’s masts in the harbor like a thicket of lodge pole pines and the tang of the salt sea in the air.
But soon enough, his opponent turned the conversational table on him.
“You been in law enforcement long?”
“Long enough,” Lem said, hearing the defensive note in his own voice, remembering the scattered green beans and broken plate.
“Your sheriff, he seems like a reasonable man.”
“Fair and honest,” Lem said firmly. He groped in his mind for something else to talk about, to keep the conversation in his hands. “Where’d you say that ranch of yours is?”
His opponent looked up at him, one eyebrow raised. “Morro Coyo,” he said. “The answer won’t change, no matter how many times you ask it, Deputy. It happens to be the truth.”
Then he reached through the bars to jump one of Lem’s “men” on the checkerboard.
“King me,” he said.
After that it seemed like checkers wasn’t such an easy game after all. Not that the prisoner played a cutthroat game like old Elias did, but more with a lazy ease that told Lem he wasn’t having to ponder his moves. More like the sheriff.
Hoping to gain an edge by sidetracking his opponent, Lem ventured another question, asking about the War. It was a subject he never tired hearing of anyway. He soon learned all about how the Rebels had set up defenses around Vicksburg, and how the Yanks dealt with them — but nothing about the man doing the talking. Hadn’t been much personal in the conversation about Boston either, he realized. It was about as public as that Faneuil Hall. But when the man talked about the Boston winter, Lem had felt the gritty bits of ice that had worked their way under his collar when he went hunting with his dad in the Sierras years ago.
They were into their third game when a sound behind him brought Lem out of his chair in time to see the office door swing wide and Lucas Thatcher fill its frame. Cautiously, Lem brought his hand to the butt of his pistol.
But Thatcher wasn’t even looking at him. “You still here?” he said to the prisoner.
The prisoner had risen to his feet and stood close to the bars. “You here to take me for another outing?” The words were softly spoken.
Thatcher smiled. “Oh, we’ll have an outing soon enough,” he said.
Then he turned to Lem, as if just noticing him. “Why, Deputy, I’m glad to see you’re here keeping an eye on Jonas. You’re a brave man, Deputy. Sheriff tell ya what happened here last night? ‘Bout the prisoner almost escaping?”
Uncertain how to respond, Lem gave a short nod.
“Good. That’s good. Then you know what you’re up against.” He wiped his hand over his face and scowled down at the checkerboard for a moment before casting a considering look at Lem.
"You know, Deputy, a part of that reward money will be yours. Yessir, you and the sheriff will get ten percent of that $2,500 on his head." He pointed at the man watching in the cell, then looked at Lem as if he expected a comment. When Lem said nothing, Thatcher shook his head. "Of course, I can't get you your share till I can get this dangerous prisoner back to Denver."
Suspecting a question in those words, Lem knew he had only one answer. "Sheriff Cutler says the man has two days, Mr. Thatcher."
Thatcher's face split into a wide grin.
Maybe he hadn't expected anything else? But that grin made Lem nervous. He reminded himself that Lucas Thatcher was a dangerous man.
Lem guessed he had to be, to do what he did for a living.
“I’ve got a job for you, Deputy.”
<<I have a job,>> Lem thought anxiously.
“Look through them wanted posters of yours. See if you got a ‘Johnny’ that fits the description of Jonas’ ‘brother.’”
Lem just shook his head, suddenly more annoyed with Thatcher than perturbed by him. “You got any idea how many men they are named ‘John’ in trouble? Just in the state of California?”
“Look, Deputy, I need your help.” Lucas didn’t sound so cheerful now. “This is costing me money, all because that sheriff of yours can’t see what’s plain as July daylight. Seems you two owe me a little help here. Let’s see …”
“You’ve got no business with my brother,” the prisoner spoke from behind Lem. His voice was low and husky now, but Lem felt the menace in it.
Thatcher turned to face the man in the cell, looking at him across Lem’s shoulder. “Afraid I’ll find something, Jonas?”
“I’m not Jonas Barrett. The name’s Lancer. Scott Lancer. And no, I’m not afraid you’ll find something. I’m afraid you’ll believe you have.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
Lem edged out from between the two men, silently thankful that there were bars to separate them and wishing he had the sheriff’s commanding presence. He had a feeling he was going to need it in a few minutes.
“It means that you’re a dangerous man, Lucas Thatcher.”
“You bet I am. You just remember that when we set out for Denver.”
The man behind the bars went on as if Thatcher hadn’t spoken. “A man who can never see more than one possibility is a very dangerous man.”
Thatcher drew back in disgust. “C’mon! She was kissing you, Jonas. She gave you that little packet of money she’d carried all this way for you.”
“So she did. Doesn’t it seem the least bit odd to you that she met her ‘brother,’ who is wanted by the law, in such a public place?”
“Wasn’t nobody there, but us, was they?”
“The very people she would most have feared. If Jonas had been there.”
Thatcher snorted. “He was.”
“How would you know? Have you ever actually laid eyes on her brother? You’ve been following the woman all this time. You wouldn’t know —“
“I know,” Thatcher said, coming close to the bars. “I know she gave you that money, all she had in the world. And left. I don’t reckon she’d a done that if you weren’t her brother. I know you fit the description on that wanted poster. I know you look like a dandy and your ‘brother’ looks like trouble from the border country. You two ever actually lay eyes on each other before you partnered up for the robbery? Cuz it looks to me like he’s done lit out on you now.”
Lem had twisted his head in time to see the prisoner frown at that. The man looked like he had more he wanted to say, but he didn’t say it.
“Time’s running out on you, Jonas,” Thatcher said quietly. “I can wait. It’ll be a long trip to Denver. I hope you make it.”
Then he nodded at Lem. “I could use your help, Deputy. But seein’ as how you don’t offer it, would there be any objection to my partner coming in to have a look at your posters.”
Lem found his voice. “No objection, Mr. Thatcher.”
“Thank you kindly.”
The bounty hunter was turning to go when he glanced down at the checkerboard again. With a swift movement of his hand he plucked up one of Lem’s pieces and jumped across the board, raking the prisoner’s ‘men,’ kings and all, aside as he jumped them one by one in a move Lem would never have seen.
He watched the bounty hunter sweep out of the office and knew there would be no more checkers tonight. Behind him, the man in the cell had settled down on the cot, and Lem was curiously reluctant to look at him. In his head, he kept hearing the difference in the way he had said “my brother” and “the woman.”
But that wasn’t proof. Sadie’s china teacup wasn’t proof neither. “Proof” was beginning to sound like an ugly word to Lem
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Scott stretched out on the cot, resigned to another sleepless night behind bars. Throughout the afternoon and evening, he’d been half-anticipating Johnny’s arrival; in fact, Scott had expected to see his brother when the door to the jail opened to admit Lucas Thatcher.
Where the Hell was Johnny?
He’d be back. He’d said he would be.
“No need, unless you have the proof.” That’s what the Sheriff had told Johnny. Jonas would be “proof.” But so would Julie Barrett—she could provide testimony, at any rate.
He could still arrive any time, Scott reminded himself; Johnny would have no qualms about riding through the night. But with each passing hour, Scott became more certain that something had gone wrong. It was purely a guessing game as to what, but it would be a cruel coincidence if Barranca had pulled up lame or lost a shoe. Odds were that the girl hadn’t been able to give Johnny the slip. No, at this point, Scott would put good money on Johnny having followed through on his stated intention to go after Jonas. That seemed a pretty safe bet. Which meant that whatever had gone wrong had involved the fugitive bank robber. And possibly his partner.
With that thought, Scott was on his feet again, moving about the cell, trying to work off some of the frustration that came over him in waves, every time he allowed himself to think about Johnny being in endangered while trying to help him. Scott didn’t care that the deputy was eying him, but he did care that pacing about the small space only served to make him feel all the more trapped and helpless. And he did care that Sparks had moved over to the desk that held the stack of wanted posters.
That was a new worry. Best not to show it. Scott returned to the cot, sat down and slowly, deliberately, removed his boots before casually stretching out again. And then he considered the things that he didn’t know about his brother. He wasn’t sure how old Johnny was, couldn’t at the moment recall his exact date of birth, although they’d celebrated it, belatedly, not long after they’d arrived at the ranch.
And he couldn’t be sure that there wasn’t a wanted poster somewhere with a description of Johnny Madrid. Not that Johnny acted like a wanted man—he hadn’t avoided going anywhere, didn’t act like he had anything to hide. But Scott understood that the low-slung gun belt was the easily recognized trademark of a professional gunman. Certainly the sheriff and his deputy had made note of that, and so had the bounty hunters. It couldn’t have added much credibility to their claim to be ranchers.
He couldn’t exactly fault the Sheriff if he didn’t believe that he and Johnny were brothers, or that they’d only recently met. It wasn’t an easy story to believe. Scott wondered if Cutler would recognize the name Johnny Madrid. From what Scott did know about his brother, if Johnny was wanted anywhere, it would be in Mexico. Still, he wished the deputy would stay away from those posters.
At least the Sheriff hadn’t accepted the poster on Jonas Barrett as evidence of Scott’s identity. He’d made it very clear before Johnny left that they had only two days to come up with proof otherwise. But as far as Scott could recall, Cutler hadn’t specified exactly when that time would run out. Now he had, and the deadline was steadily approaching. Johnny might think he had til sundown, or even until the next daylight.
But Scott knew that he didn’t have until evening. And since it was, after all, his own fault that he’d gotten into this mess, it would be fitting if he had to get himself out. He didn’t have proof, not the kind the Sheriff was looking for. However, Cutler did seem to be a reasonable man. “Fair and honest,” according to his deputy. If Johnny didn’t show up by noon, Scott was going to have to find out just exactly how reasonable the man might be.
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PART FOUR
Lucas Thatcher didn't come back and there'd been no sign of his partner either. No excitement at all in town that night, and nothing to disturb a man's sleep, other than a mouse scurrying across the floor in the wee hours of the morning.
Lem heard it, from his cot. The door to the cell he was sleeping in was wide open, and he'd kept the keys with him, just in case. When he'd turned over and shifted around to find a more comfortable position, he took a look at Scott Lancer in the adjoining cell. Lancer didn't glance in Lem's direction, but it seemed like maybe he was awake, too, lying on his back staring up at the ceiling.
Sheriff Cutler showed up early, bringing some food for the prisoner, and Lem headed home. He had breakfast with the folks, then Ma had some things she needed help doing around the house, so Lem moved some furniture and toted some boxes out to the shed. He wasn't on duty again til later in the afternoon, but once Ma had gotten a good start
on readying up the spare room for the long awaited visit from Aunt Mae, Lem went back into town.
He picked up a few things at the mercantile and would have liked to have watched the old timers playing checkers, but in the end he didn't linger. All everybody wanted to talk about was the dangerous criminal being held over at the jail and why Sheriff Cutler didn't just turn him over to the bounty hunters. Lem carefully explained that there was a question about the man's identity and that Sheriff Cutler had given him until mid afternoon to prove who he was.
"You think he's the man, don't cha Lem?" Luke Sawyer had asked.
"Well . . . there ain't no proof one way or t'other."
They'd had more questions, but Lem let them think he had to be getting back to the jail, so they'd let him go.
Once out on the boardwalk, Lem had considered stopping in to see Elias, and get a trim, but he kept on going when he saw the bank manager, Mr. Winston, sitting in Elias' chair. He knew what they'd want to talk about.
So he kept on walking and found himself headed toward the jail. The Sheriff was standing outside, leaning against one of the posts and holding his mug of coffee.
"You're back early, Lemuel."
"Yes sir, well, no sir, actually-- I'm headin' over to Sadie's for lunch."
"Kinda early yet."
"Sure is, but Ma put me to work this morning, guess it stirred up an appetite. Thought I might bring something over for the prisoner when I get done, an' you could maybe step out for a bit yourself."
Cutler took a sip of his coffee, then lowered the mug to study its contents.
"T'other day, Miz Sadie said to tell you not to be a stranger."
The Sheriff drained what was left of his coffee. "You go along. Bring `im back whatever she's got extra."
As it turned out, Sadie was feeling poorly and hadn't come in to work that morning so her cousin Sara Beth had been left in charge. Sara Beth was a real nice lady, and a decent cook too, but she wasn't used to running the place and got kind of flustered when Lem asked for a plate of "extras" for the prisoner over at the jail.
When Lem got back to the office, Sheriff Cutler was brewing a fresh pot of coffee and Scott Lancer was sitting on the cot in his cell, just watching him. Lancer slowly got up and moved closer to the bars when Lem announced that he'd brought him some lunch.
The Sheriff reached out and lifted up the pie plate Sara Beth had used for a cover and raised an eyebrow at Lem when he saw what was underneath.
"Sadie ain't in today, Sheriff."
Cutler let the pie plate drop back into place. And the two of them approached the cell, Lem carrying what he expected would be Scott Lancer's last meal in Live Oak — one way or another.
"Want some beans, Son?"
The Sheriff wasn't in the habit of calling prisoners "Son"; for a moment Lem almost forgot he was holding the plate. Then he caught himself and offered it up. Scott Lancer stretched one arm through the bars and lifted the cover just like Sheriff Cutler had done, but he barely seemed to look at Sara Beth's beans.
"No, thank you."
"It ain't much, I know."
Lem wasn't sure just what he was supposed to do with those rejected beans, and was about to offer them to the Sheriff when Cutler gestured for him to take them away. Well, there was no point in letting good food go to waste, and Sara Beth's beans were good.
Better than they looked anyway. Lem headed towards the poster-strewn desk over in the corner. Once he'd settled into the chair, he could see that the Sheriff had started towards his own desk, but Scott Lancer hadn't gone back to his cot; instead, the man was still standing, leaning on the bars and studying John Cutler. Another moment passed and then he started to speak in that mild voice of his.
"Sheriff . . ."
"Yeah?"
"You've got about three hours left."
Lem stopped his fork in midair at that, the idea that it was Sheriff Cutler who had three hours left. The Sheriff had turned to face the cell when the prisoner'd spoken, but now he looked away.
"Yeah, I know."
When the Sheriff stepped around the post to get to his desk, he had his back turned towards both the prisoner and Lem. Figuring that was it, Lem went back to work on the beans.
"Let's hope your brother's got the proof."
"What if he hasn't, Sheriff? What if he can't find that girl? Or what if he finds her and he can't get back in time? You know as well as I do that if you turn me over to them, I'm nevah gonna get to Denver alive."
John Cutler had been sipping at his coffee, not showing any sign at all that he'd been listening to what Lancer had to say, but of course he had. The Sheriff turned to face the cell and Lem quietly set his fork down and waited.
"You askin' for more time?"
"Time isn't going to do me any good, because it's only gonna force them into trying to kill me again. Next time . . . I might not be so lucky."
The prisoner glanced down for a moment, before lifting his head and looking the Sheriff in the eyes.
"No, what I'm asking is----"
"You want me to let you go."
Scott Lancer didn't seem surprised by the Sheriff's words, but Lem was. Not surprised that the Sheriff had guessed what the man was asking, but that Cutler didn't seem insulted by the idea. But that didn't mean anything, Lancer might as well save his breath because there was no way in the world that Sheriff John Cutler was going to let a prisoner just walk out of jail. But Scott Lancer kept on talking.
"And I know it's not an easy decision to make. All I've got to give you is my word that I'm who I say I am and that I'll be back later and prove it."
"I don't know, you're askin' a lot . . . give your brother another hour. . . if he ain't come back by then . . .
The pause could only have lasted for a moment, but it seemed like an eternity to Lem, tucked away in his corner with a plate of cold beans in front of him. He was aware of the prisoner shifting his arms on the cross bar of the cell, as he too waited in anticipation of what the Sheriff might say.
John Cutler carefully set his coffee mug down on the stove before he finished his statement. "You can go."
Then the Sheriff turned to face Scott Lancer, pointing his finger at the prisoner.
"You'd better be telling the truth — you'll have me trackin' ya along with them two."
The Sheriff's tone was angry. Lem had no doubt that if it came to it, Cutler would make good on his threat. Through the bars, Lem could see Lancer's serious expression; he didn't smile or look relieved, just nodded solemnly at John Cutler.
"Thanks, Sheriff."
In a way, Lem was grateful too; he hadn't exactly been looking forward to handing "Scott Lancer" — as he'd come to think of him — over to the two bounty hunters. He just didn't seem like a murdering bank robber.
There'd been plenty of men who'd stood behind those bars and belligerently announced "You've got the wrong man." Others had insisted — some drunkenly — that they "didn't do it." Not a single one had ever stood there and offered his word, and acted as if it meant something.
Not one had ever simply asked to be set free.
And, if Lem hadn't heard it for himself, there was no person on earth who could have convinced him that Sheriff John Cutler would ever agree to release a man without hard proof. Time and time again, the Sheriff had stressed how important it was to be certain, that a lawman based his decisions on the evidence.
Just then, Cutler turned and their eyes met across the room. The Sheriff had maybe forgotten that Lem was in the office, but his angry expression didn't change. Lem looked away first, hoping that his stunned uncertainty didn't show.
"I'll be back in fifteen minutes."
Lem heard Cutler's footsteps stride past; he didn't look up again until the door closed with a loud thump behind the Sheriff.
Well, even if the Sheriff wasn't happy about the decision he'd just made, Lem respected John Cutler and trusted his judgment. In fact, as far as Lem was concerned, the Sheriff's good opinion of a man just might be "proof" enough.
The man in question was still standing there leaning against the bars, staring at the door with something of a sympathetic expression on his face. When Scott Lancer finally glanced in his direction, Lem was fiercely determined to hold the man's gaze.
It was Lancer who dropped his eyes — but then he looked right back up at Lem again not half a moment later.
"He won't regret it, Deputy," Scott Lancer said softly, before he turned and slowly walked back towards the cot.
It wasn't proof. And yet, Lem felt oddly reassured, all the same.
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"She'll clear him."
The words echoed in Lem's head as he stepped out into the street to look for the bounty hunters. Any other time, one or the other of them would have been in plain sight - hanging over the saloon door, lounging on the sidewalk. But when Lem peered up and down the street, neither was to be seen.
She would clear him, the man had said. Lem stepped down from the plank sidewalk to the dusty street. The saloon was the likeliest place for the bounty hunters to be. Heck, he would have figured they'd be at the jail soon as that Johnny Lancer, if that was who he was, had showed up.
Lem shook his head. The man back there, shouting and shaking that girl, sure hadn't looked like the cool, amused gunslinger he'd met in the saloon two days ago.
But Scott Lancer had looked hopeful, even confident, when they came in, getting to his feet and looking at the young lady with expectation written all over his face. It hadn't taken long for him to realize that that brother of his hadn't brought anything hopeful with him.
Only now did he realize how truly he had come to believe that the man in the jail was not Jonas Barrett. Sheriff Cutler wouldn't have agreed to let him go unless he'd thought the same.
His head swimming with the thoughts that chased each other through it, Lem found himself on the sidewalk outside the saloon doors. He pushed open the swinging doors just enough to have a clear view inside. No Lucas Thatcher. That Wade fella wasn't in there either. Maybe they were at the livery making arrangements for their departure. Thatcher had counted on taking the prisoner today, one way or another.
Not even Thatcher would have expected the other man to come back and drive a nail in the prisoner's coffin. Maybe they really were partners in crime and maybe that Johnny fella had cut a deal with the prisoner's sister? But it sure hadn't looked like that. She seemed kind of fragile and scared when the gunslinger brought her in, but then she had sounded plumb defiant when she finally said yes, yes, that was Jonas in that cell.
Was she proof? Did they have to take her word for it? It just hadn't looked right. If the prisoner was her brother, she could have set him free right then and there by sayin' he wasn't. Though Sheriff Cutler would surely have asked her some questions, like why she gave him that packet of money.
Lem's hurried walking had almost brought him to the stable, and he knew he had the right place this time, because he could hear Lucas Thatcher's ringing voice, griping about his bill.
Lem stopped in the wide doorway. "Mr. Thatcher?"
The bounty hunter wheeled to face him and Lem could see in his eyes that he knew why Lem was there. "Sheriff says to come to the jail now." Lem thought he would choke on the words, but Thatcher didn't seem to notice anything. Didn't say nothing either. He was all business now. He only gave Lem a slap on the shoulder as he passed him on the way out.
Out in the street, Thatcher turned around to shout at his partner. "Get that wagon hitched up, now. Bring it on down to the jailhouse."
His long steps took him quickly toward the jail. Lem followed much more slowly. He kept seeing the prisoner's face, his surprise and disbelief, when the woman claimed him as her brother.
How could that brother of his have brought her there like that? He said himself that he'd killed her brother. How could he think she would save his brother's life if he had killed hers?
Lem shook his head. Either Jonas Barrett had a sister who had just betrayed him or Scott Lancer had a fool for a brother.
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"I can't, Scott, don't you understand that, I can't!"
Scott gripped the bars in frustration, clenching his jaw and staring down at the cell floor. Johnny had sounded so . . . distraught was the only word that came to mind. "I can't" had been his brother's response each time Scott had told him to go find Miss Barrett and convince her to tell the truth.
But he had to. The alternatives were Scott setting out for Denver in custody as an accused killer — or making a run for it, with only Johnny's gun against two lawmen, two bounty hunters and whichever of the townsfolk might choose to join in. The odds wouldn't be very good. And they'd be fugitives on the run -- if they somehow managed
to make it past the town limits. Which was probably about as far as he'd get in the company of Lucas Thatcher and his partner anyway.
Surely the Sheriff could see that the girl was lying . . . but obviously not. Cutler had believed Julie Barrett and not Johnny. He'd sent his deputy to fetch the bounty hunters. Then the Sheriff himself had stepped outside, preferring to risk leaving the two of them alone in the jail rather than listen to anything more that Scott might have to say.
The Sheriff, Scott realized, must now think he was Jonas. That he'd been lying all along.
Scott started pacing the small, enclosed space. The town wasn't very big, it wouldn't take Sparks long to locate Thatcher and his partner. Then the three of them would be leaving straight away for Denver — an hour early, he thought bitterly.
Why couldn't Johnny have been an hour later? Why the Hell couldn't he have simply stayed away? One more hour, and Scott would have been a free man. Sheriff Cutler had agreed to that, and the Sheriff was a man of his word.
If Scott had had something to throw, he would have. If Johnny had only listened, if he hadn't gone after Jonas, but simply brought back the girl . . .
Scott realized too late that he should never have let Johnny handle it, that he should have stepped up to the bars and spoken to Julie Barrett directly. Forced her to look him in the eyes and see if she would still condemn him to face the consequences of her brother's crimes. Which, perhaps she could have done, out of a desire to avenge Jonas' death at his own brother's hands.
His brother, who had just walked out of the jail, carrying those saddlebags in his hands. Hopefully to look for Julie, despite his emphatic assertions that he couldn't even attempt to change the woman's mind.
Scott took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. He thought carefully about what he did know about Johnny. He felt certain that no matter what he'd just said, Johnny would still try. After all, there was nothing to lose.
One thing was certain, when he stepped through that door in the custody of the bounty hunters, Scott knew he had to be ready for anything. That was the other thing he knew about Johnny. His brother never did seem to care about the odds.
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"Something's coming in, Deputy. Might be from Tucson."
The words drew Lem from his reverie. Riley was being mighty formal in his new job, calling his cousin Lem "Deputy." Of course, he'd never had official business with Lem before.
Lem rose from the window ledge, stretched, then walked across to the counter. He watched as Riley translated the sounds into letters. Lem knew for a fact that not many telegrams came in during a day. People didn't pay these prices unless it was something right important. And Riley hadn't been here long. So he could understand Riley putting on airs, like he was now. Conscious of Lem's scrutiny, his cousin had hunched over, blocking Lem's view of what he wrote. Maybe he was just afraid that Lem would see him make a mistake.
Well, Lem knew that feeling. He turned away from the counter and walked back to the window. Instead of sitting down again, he stood looking out at the busy street. He could see the stage depot from here.
After thinking about that Scott Lancer so much, Lem remembered now the last time he had seen the man.
When Lucas Thatcher and Wade Hackett had taken him out to the wagon, Lancer's brother had made a desperate attempt to get him free, and Scott Lancer had run. The Sheriff said later that Johnny Lancer had acted like a desperado, sure enough, but at least that time, Lem thought, he had acted a sight more like a brother. It was no good, though, here in town with somebody to see every step they took and trained lawmen and angry bounty hunters hot on their heels.
The Sheriff might have looked at the whole thing, with gunfire right out there in the streets, as a sign that the Lancer brothers really were bank robbers, if it hadn't been for that girl. She had found them in the alley, where they'd caught up with the Lancers. She had said she'd lied the first time, that Scott Lancer was not Jonas . . .
Lem looked over his shoulder. Riley was still scratching out the words he heard over the wire. Long telegram. Lem turned back to the window.
There wasn't no way, of course, that Sheriff Cutler would have taken those words alone as proof, after she had already said the opposite. But she'd explained how she had fooled Scott Lancer and made a date for the dance with him because she had seen the bounty hunters watching her. Told how she had planted the money meant for her brother on Scott Lancer and taken his billfold. A brief, stern interview with Fred had confirmed her story of what she'd done with the billfold. Finally, she'd told Lucas Thatcher that Jonas Barrett, her brother, was dead.
So the bounty hunter had lost his bounty and Scott Lancer was a free man. The Sheriff hadn't even put him back in the cell after Julie Barrett said he wasn't her brother, so the Sheriff only had to tell him he was free.
Lucas Thatcher had slapped his hat on his head and stormed out of the office with Hackett following, complaining about the wasted time and out-of-pocket expenses. Lem wondered if they would have counted the death of an innocent man as much of a loss.
The sheriff had handed Scott Lancer his gunbelt and the young man had put it on, not slung low like his brother's though. Before taking up his hat, Lancer had looked at the sheriff and thrust out his hand. "Thanks," he said, and they all, except the brother, knew that he was thanking the sheriff for a lot more than a courtesy.
The sheriff had taken Lancer's hand in a firm grip. Lem could still feel the pride he'd secretly sensed at that moment. The Sheriff had been right about their former prisoner. And so had Lem.
But that wasn't the last he'd seen of Scott Lancer. Lem had been standing right out there on the sidewalk, hearing about the plans to put the telegraph office on this site, when Clyde had hurried across from the depot and sidled up to Lem. That gang that Lem had been asking about was outside the depot right now, he had whispered.
Lem had turned away from the group of businessmen on the sidewalk to look at the three men across the street -- the Lancers. Clyde had been right, that Murdoch Lancer was a big man.
"Y'all need help to bring in that gang," Clyde had murmured. "Want me to go fetch the Sheriff while you keep an eye on `em?"
Clyde had just been itchin' to be part of a big drama, long as it was a safe part. But Lem had respected that offer to help all the same. He had only shook his head. "They're leavin', Clyde. They ain't done nothing wrong."
That had sure took the wind out of Clyde's bedsheet. "You sure, Lem?"
"I'm sure."
Clyde had looked back toward the Lancers, frowning. Reluctant to give up his picture of them as a gang of criminals.
Lem had watched them, too, until they disappeared toward Boney's Livery. He tried to see the family in them, but Clyde was right about that, too. They didn't look or act much like kin, and it wasn't just the difference in the way they were dressed and carried themselves. But they did look right comfortable with each other. Watching Scott Lancer walk away with his family, Lem wished he'd thought to ask the man one or two other things as well.
"Here you go, Deputy," Riley said.
Lem turned to see Riley holding an envelope out to him. He'd stuck the telegram inside.
"It's addressed to the Sheriff," he said pointedly.
"I kinda expected that," Lem said, taking it from him. He wouldn't let Riley's fussiness bother him. "Thank you."
Out in the street, Lucas Thatcher caught up with Lem. Not so interested in the Fourth of July barbecue after all, it seemed.
"C'mon, Deputy, what did they say?"
"I ain't read it yet," Lem told him.
Thatcher gaped at him. "Well, let's read it now," he urged.
"It's addressed to the Sheriff," Lem said, annoyed to find himself echoing Riley.
Lucas didn't give up until they'd reached the sheriff's office.
"You got your answer, Sheriff," the bounty hunter announced before Lem could say a word.
The prisoner, Ricketts, was already on his feet. He shook the bars of the cell, and shouted, "You've got the wrong man, Sheriff! A telegram don't prove nothin'! I ain't done nothing wrong. You can't hand me over to them. You gotta believe me, Sheriff! This is all a terrible mistake." His voice rose with every word.
Lem met the Sheriff's eye as he handed over the telegram. Last time around had sure been different.
"This is Ed Ricketts, Sheriff, just like I said. I'm bettin' that telegram says the same thing."
The Sheriff didn't say anything, just tore open the envelope to get at the telegram. He read quietly a moment, looking up once at the prisoner before reading on.
"There's been a terrible mistake here, Sheriff," the prisoner protested. "You ain't gonna believe scum like them bounty hunters, are you? Making a living by hunting down innocent men and gettin' 'em in trouble? Just look at them! You gonna believe them?"
Sheriff Cutler turned to Thatcher. "It appears that you have the right man this time, Thatcher," he said.
Thatcher grinned and rubbed his hands together. "Told ya. Now, let us take him off your hands, Sheriff."
"That won't be necessary. A U.S. marshal is coming to get him."
Thatcher bridled at that, but Lem felt relieved.
Before Thatcher could launch into the heated words Lem expected from him, Sheriff Cutler went on. "You'll get your reward money when he gets here. In the meantime, there is a celebration going on in town. I suggest you gentlemen enjoy it."
Nothing the man could say to that, and no need to try any jail break either. Thatcher wouldn't get his money if the prisoner was missing when the marshal got here. Lem couldn't help but notice that Thatcher didn't mention anything about a share of the bounty this time. But that wasn't his to decide either.
After the bounty hunters had left, the Sheriff reminded the prisoner he'd have his say back in Tucson and the man lapsed into a sulky silence. With a gesture of his head, the Sheriff indicated that Lem should step outside with him.
As soon as they were out of earshot, Lem asked, "You think he really is Ed Ricketts?"
Cutler nodded. "I questioned him while you were gone. He can't tell the same story twice, keeps changing the details. I don't expect much trouble out of him, but we'll have to stand watches till the marshal gets here."
Lem nodded. Like before, only not like before neither. "I don't expect he'll require any books," Lem said.
A brief smile twisted the Sheriff's lips. Then his eyes focused on some activity down the street. "Bad timing, with this crowd in town. We'll have to put in some extra hours today and this evening. Keep an eye on that man with the shell game. Might be some trouble there."
The Sheriff stepped back inside the office and Lem descended to the street, dodging a wagonload of farm folks late for the barbecue.
Unusually for the Fourth of July, they'd had no complaints of pickpockets or anything else to speak of. But there usually was trouble with a game of chance, sooner or later.
He could tell where the man was, down the street there, even without seeing him. The crowd knotted together outside the saloon had that focused, watchful look common to men occupied with a game of chance.
Lem worked his way to the outer edge of the enthralled group, trying to find a spot where he could watch for a few minutes without attracting notice. A glance around told him that this was a different crowd from the watchers he had seen earlier. Which was no surprise. Didn't take many losses to cure a fella of his interest in this.
But watching the man demonstrate his skills, Lem was soon caught up in it himself. The game hadn't started yet — the man was just making the shells appear and disappear in his hands to hook them in, assuring them that his hand was quicker than their eyes. When he judged the crowd to be suitably impressed, he pointed to the pip exposed on the scarlet silk that covered the top of his three-legged folding table.
The shell game artist then went into his spiel. Lem had heard it all before. He watched as the gnarled half of a walnut shell was clapped over the pip, then slid across the silk to the center of the table. The gamesman then lifted one of the other two shells, held it up for all to see that nothing was hidden within it, and set it down with a flourish beside the first.
When all three were lined up on the smooth silk, the showman tapped the center shell with a well-manicured finger, as if to remind them of what they already knew, that the pip lay beneath it. Then, with his fingertips, he whisked the shells around each other on his little stand.
Watching the shells pass and repass each other, Lem remembered his earlier thoughts about the truth and Scott Lancer. How Lucas Thatcher, Julie Barrett and Lancer himself had each told a story and only one of them had contained the whole truth, like only one of them shells there covered the pip.
As he watched the shells twist and turn about each other, he remembered how Thatcher had lined up his evidence and insisted on it over and over, sort of like that shell — at least, Lem thought it was the same one — that kept pushing right up to the front of the table, just teasing somebody to pick it when the game ended. Then that girl, she was out of the picture until right at the end, when she made her big emotional announcement. She was like that shell that seemed to slide along behind the other two, until it stopped at last, the man's fingertips leaving it slowly.
And Scott Lancer, why he had been the unlikeliest "shell" of all for holding the truth, at first. He had argued with the bounty hunter, but his words didn't bear much weight when he sat there with that girl's lip rouge on his face and her money in his pocket. His
peculiar family story shouldn't have helped him one bit either, being so unbelievable. Lem decided that he was like that third shell, that kind of bumped along, seeming to have trouble keeping up with the other two.
Lem smiled at his own foolishness. What was the chance he had kept them three shells straight when they looked almost identical? But there was something about that shell on the left, there really was. Lem wasn't a bettin' man, but if he had been, he would have put a nickel on the shell on the left.
Banker Winston's young son, Adam, tall and skinny, had watched the game as intently as Lem. Folks said his body had done outgrown his smarts, and that it'd be a year or two before the rest of him caught up. Lem reckoned that was true when the lanky 16-year-old offered up a nickel on the chance that he knew where the pip was hid.
Lem eased up closer to watch him make his choice — the obvious shell, the one front and center, that Lem had mentally labeled Lucas Thatcher. When the magician picked up the shell, there was nothing under it. The boy shook his head and swore, and some of the men in the crowd teased him about how sore his banker pa would be when he found out his son had thrown away hard money on a game of chance.
Lem was close enough now to reach out and pluck up that other shell, the one on the left.
"Care to take a chance, Deputy? New game will start in a minute."
Behind him, Lem could hear two or three voices demanding, still politely, to see where the pip was hid. From the gamesman's easy confidence, Lem was sure it was still on the table — sometimes they weren't. The man would show them after he had led them on a bit, but Lem didn't need to see. He was pretty sure he knew.
"Deputy? Take a chance for a nickel?"
Lem shook his head. "No thanks, Mister." <<I already have. And the stakes were higher than anyone can afford.>> Oh, it was Sheriff Cutler's gamble, but in his heart, Lem had made it, too. In the end, it hadn't much mattered, with the girl owning up to the truth after all. And looking back on it now, that Scott Lancer seemed like a sure thing.
But at the time . . .
Without waiting for more, Lem touched the brim of his hat to the gamesman and turned away. He nodded to the men in the crowd, as he passed back through them. The man with the game knew they were keeping an eye on him now, he'd be cautious, if not fair. And if he wasn't they'd hear about it.
Meanwhile, it wasn't too late to stop by the barbecue. Maybe Sara Beth would still be there. Or that girl with the parasol.
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