by Bill Crider
"I don't blame them," Ryan said.
Bass didn't know what to make of that remark, so he went on with his story. "Well, Billy swore up and down that he didn't kill your sister, that she was dead when he walked in the shack. But he admitted that he'd been there awhile, sort of shocked by her murder, he said. I guess you could say it just came down to what folks wanted to believe, and they wanted to believe that he was guilty. Most of them have been looking for a way to get back at the Kane family for years, and this was their chance."
"Do you think he did it?" Ryan said.
"I did at first," Bass said. "Now? Now I'm not so sure."
"Why not?"
"Well, I've dealt with a few hardcases in my time—not many, but a few. And it seems to me that every single time, when the chips were down, they told the truth. That guff you hear about a man goin' right up on the gallows sayin' he's an innocent man all the way? Don't you believe it. They always confess in the end, either to me or the jailer or the preacher. They want to tell somebody, seems like.
"But Billy? Not him. And let me tell you somethin'. Billy's not any hardcase. He's soft inside as anybody I ever saw. He's so scared right now, he can't hardly eat or sleep. I've talked to him, told him how he'd feel better if he got it off his chest, but it didn't work. He still swears he didn't do it."
"And there was no evidence against him?"
"There was some evidence, I guess you could call it.”
“I'd think it would take more than guessing, in a murder," Ryan said.
"Whoever killed your sister, well, he did it hard," Bass said, looking at Ryan to see how he'd take it.
Ryan just sat there, looking at Bass with those pale eyes.
Bass made himself another smoke. "Whoever did it had to be marked up some, and Billy was marked up, all right."
"So that was the evidence?"
"That was it." Bass blew smoke.
"So what was wrong with it?"
"Who says anything's wrong with it?"
"You do. You said it was evidence, 'I guess you could call it.'”
"Did I say that?"
Ryan moved in his chair. Something changed in his eyes.
"All right, I said it."
"So what was wrong."
"When Congrady brought him in, he wasn't in any condition to have killed anybody. Congrady had pretty well beat him up. He could've got the marks from Congrady, that's all."
"Did Congrady say how he looked at first? Before he beat him up?"
"Says his face was all red, like he'd been hit before.”
“And that was good enough for a jury?"
"The jury we had? Yeah, it was good enough."
"It's not like Kane to take this so easy," Ryan said. "I know he doesn't think much of Billy, but I'm surprised he's going to let him hang. I thought he had more control of the town than that."
"So did he," Bass said. A smile crossed his face. "I think he was the most surprised man in town when that guilty verdict came in. But there was a judge he couldn't buy, and a jury that hated the name of Kane. I swear, I thought he would have a stroke right there in the courtroom. His fat face got so red it looked like he was on fire."
"But he's let Billy sit right here in jail, right up to the time for the hanging."
"That's right. Don't think I wasn't worried. But I got my deputy out there watchin', and I'm right here all day and night. And the jailer stays, too. Two of us sleep back in the cells, and one of us watches here in the office."
"Your deputy must have had the last watch," Ryan said, thinking of Meadows's heavy eyes.
"That's right," Bass said. "How'd you know?”
“Lucky guess. Think I could talk to the prisoner?"
"I don't know about that, Ryan. That could be a dangerous proposition."
"I'm not armed. You've got the jailer back there. You're here. You've got your deputy right outside the front door. You think I could get past the three of you?"
Bass looked at him appraisingly. "There was a time . . ." he said.
Ryan didn't seem to hear him. "Can I see Billy Kane?"
Bass stood up. "I guess it wouldn't hurt. But just for five minutes now. No more."
"That should be enough," Ryan said. He stood up.
Bass got a heavy iron key from his desk drawer, and he and Ryan walked over to the thick wooden door in the wall that separated the cells from the office. There was a small window in the door, with four short iron bars in it.
"I'm comin' in with a visitor, Jack," Bass called through the window.
"All right, sheriff, come ahead," Higby called back.
Bass put the key in the lock and turned it, then swung the door open. The hinges needed oil; they squeaked as the door moved inward.
Bass and Ryan stepped through the door. There were only four cells, all of them small, holding nothing more than a cot and a slop bucket. Jack Higby sat at the far end of the hall in a wooden chair like the one Meadows occupied out front. He held a shotgun like the one Meadows had, too.
"Jack's gonna have to stay here with you," Bass said. "I'm goin' back to the office. Knock on the door when your five minutes is up."
"I'll do that," Ryan said.
Bass went through the door and swung it shut behind him.
Ryan looked at Higby, whom he had met a time or two years before. "Hello, Jack," he said.
Higby didn't recognize him at first. He leaned forward in the chair, still keeping a careful grip on the shotgun. "Ryan?"
"That's right. Sheriff Bass said I could talk to Billy."
"All right with me," Higby said. He was glad for the interruption. It was hot in the jail, and about the only entertainment he got was taking out his bandanna every few minutes and wiping off the sweat that was running down his face. One thing for sure, Billy Kane wasn't any fun. Mostly he just sat on his cot and felt sorry for himself. Higby had tried to talk to him at first, Higby being a man who liked to talk, but Billy hardly ever bothered to answer. And when he did he just said something like "I swear to God I didn't do it, Jack."
It got real tiresome after a while, so Higby was glad to see another face and maybe have the chance to talk a little bit. Or at least listen to Ryan talk.
"You can't go in the cell," Higby said, "but you can talk to him all right from here."
Ryan looked through the bars at Billy Kane, who sat cowering on the cot, looking back at him.
"How are you, Billy?" Ryan said.
Billy seemed to shrink into himself, pushing his back against the wall as if he wanted to push right through it and be outside. He didn't answer Ryan.
Ryan let the silence grow for a full minute. Then there was a barking laugh from Higby.
"He won't talk to you," Higby said. "I been after him for days, but he won't say a blessed word."
There was a small barred window in the cell, and the light slanting through it made a barred pattern on the floor.
Billy sat in shadow, but Ryan could see that he had recovered from the worst of his beating. He tried again.
"They say you claim to be innocent," he said.
Billy moved a little on the cot and brought his eyes up to look back at Ryan, but he remained silent.
"Told you he wouldn't talk," Higby said. "I bet he ain't said a word to me in two days. Just sits in there and listens to the hammerin' outside. They oughta be about finished with that thing by now."
Ryan thought again of that night at Shatter's Grove, of how Billy had fired at him and missed, of how Kane had pushed him to shoot. He wondered for the first time if Billy had missed deliberately.
"She was my sister," Ryan said. "I'd like to know how it happened. You're the only one that can tell me."
Billy opened his mouth and seemed to want to speak, but the words didn't come.
"Give it up, Ryan." Higby leaned his chair against the wall and balanced it on the two back legs. He pulled out his handkerchief and mopped his face. "He won't talk, I tell you."
"I guess you're right." Ryan turned to go
.
"Wait," Billy said.
Ryan heard Higby's chair legs hit the floor.
"I'll be damned," Higby said. "He can talk, after all."
Ryan turned back.
Billy Kane got off the cot and walked to the bars of the cell, wrapping his hands around them. "I want to tell you," he said. "I know you won't believe me any more than the others did." He stopped and shook his head. "I don't even blame you. I never killed Sally. I never killed anybody."
To Ryan, Billy looked about fifteen years old. He was nowhere as fat as his brother, but he had a smooth, babyish face even though he probably hadn't shaved for days. His skin was pale and white from the time he'd spent in the jail. He didn't look like he could kill a sick dog, much less a healthy woman.
"When I got there, she was dead. That's the truth. I just want you to know. I never wanted to kill her. I wanted to marry her."
"What?" Ryan couldn't believe he'd heard right.
Higby laughed at Ryan's surprise and grabbed his chance to get in on the conversation. "Hell, Ryan, everybody knew that. Young Billy's been sneakin' over to that shack of your sister's for a year or more."
Ryan stepped closer to the bars. He stared into Billy's eyes as if hoping to see the truth hidden there.
"I didn't kill her," Billy said. There was a hopelessness in his voice that indicated he didn't expect to be believed. He released his grip on the bars and walked back to the cot, where he sat listlessly, not looking at Ryan. Not looking at anything.
The door at the end of the hall opened.
"I expect you've been in here long enough, Ryan," Bass said. "Don't want you to tire out the prisoner."
Ryan didn't move. He stood looking intently into the cell, but Billy didn't raise his head or say anything else.
"Let's go, Ryan," Bass said.
Ryan turned away from the cell and walked to the door. As Bass swung it shut, Ryan said, "Has he said anything about being in love with Sally before this?"
Bass didn't meet his eyes. "He said it at the trial. It was something people in town talked about."
"And they still think he killed her?"
"She hated him, Ryan. You think she'd have anything to do with one of the Kanes? He probably killed her because she wouldn't."
"You believe that?"
Bass shook his head. "I don't know. It's possible, ain't it?"
"Maybe," Ryan said. "Thanks for letting me see him.”
“Sure," Bass said.
Ryan went outside and got his gun belt. He put it on awkwardly, holding it in place with his still left arm.
Bass came out the door and stood beside Meadows, both of them watching Ryan. Neither man would have dreamed of offering to help.
Ryan got the belt buckled and climbed on his horse, another awkward process, since he had to mount from the right side. The horse didn't seem to mind.
As he was about to ride away, Bass said, "You've been gone a long time, Ryan. Things have changed. Maybe even your sister changed, but not enough to love a Kane. You should have come back sooner."
Ryan turned the horse's head and rode out of town.
Chapter 5
Ryan hadn't been able to come back. Not for a long time, anyway.
He had opened his eyes slowly against the bright light of the sun. He had no idea where he was, or how he had gotten there. All he knew was that his body was a single throbbing ache.
The sun stabbed at his eyes. There was someone – something – sitting nearby, watching him.
Ryan's eyes were gritty, but he found that he couldn't move his arm to wipe them. He tried, and the ache expanded inside him. It was as if a hot iron were being driven up the length of his arm.
He blinked. Even that took an effort. Even that hurt.
He thought he could make out a man, crouched, sitting on his heels, his chin almost resting on his knees. He was only a few yards away, watching.
Ryan tried to say something.
Nothing emerged from his mouth but a rasping wheeze.
He wondered if he was dead, but he knew immediately that he couldn't be. Dead people couldn't hurt the way he did. He closed his eyes.
He thought he could feel the sun burning his face, but he wasn't sure. Maybe it was just the pain, the pain that now seemed to be rippling through him in waves.
He opened his eyes again.
The man was still there, dressed all in black, his head leaned forward over his knees, watching.
Ryan tried to raise his head. He couldn't do that, either. As he closed his eyes, he felt consciousness slipping away. And he thought, It's not a man. It's a buzzard.
The next time Ryan woke up, it was dark. There was no sun to torment his eyes, but at the same time he still couldn't see.
His mind had cleared. He could remember the events at Shatter's Grove, and he knew how he had gotten to wherever it was that he was now lying. The horse had dragged him for a long way, ripping his clothing to shreds. He remembered the rocks ripping at his skin, the cactus spines stinging him, the hard ground grinding against his legs.
It got worse when the saddle slipped. He was twisted over on his back, and there had been a collision with a big rock that had caused him to black out. How he had avoided the horse's hooves he had no idea.
When the horse had finally stopped running, he had slipped his arm out of the stirrup, a job that he almost hadn't been able to do. It almost required more strength than he had left and more maneuverability. There were parts of his body he couldn't move at all.
He knew that he was still alive because he still hurt. Aside from that, nothing else seemed to matter much.
The curandero squatted on his haunches and looked at the man lying beside the cactus. He had thought for a long time that the man was dead, but he watched to make sure. Some men were stronger than others. Some men were hard to kill.
When the man opened his eyes at about the middle of the day, the curandero knew that he was alive and that it would be all right to touch him. His spirit was still trapped within him.
It was hard to believe, because the man looked dead. His clothing hung on him in rags, and his skin was lacerated everywhere. His left arm was twisted at an impossible angle, and his skin had been burned by the sun.
The curandero had a little water in a leather skin, and he moistened a piece of rag and ran it over the man's lips. The man did not stir, so the curandero squeezed a few drops of the water into his mouth. There was nothing more he could do.
He was a very old man, and he hadn't set out to help anyone.
He had set out to die.
He did not know how old he was, and it had never seemed to matter before. He knew that there was no man or woman in the tribe whose birth he did not remember, so he was older by far than any of them, and that was all. He had possessed the power of healing, and he had been a help to all of them at one time or another. He knew which plants could be boiled to produce medicines, which could be eaten, and which would kill. He knew which animals made men strong, and which made them weak. He could ease a woman in her birthing, and he could cure stings and sores with the proper poultices.
But he had gotten old. He was virtually toothless, and his legs were bad. He could no longer run, and he could hardly even walk, unless he went very slowly. He found that his mind wandered more and more, that he could recall the days of his youth quite clearly and the days that he lived in hardly at all. To eat was no longer a pleasure, and to sleep was almost impossible. He was no longer of value to the tribe. He was only a burden.
One night he had simply left, walking slowly, very slowly, the only way he could walk, toward the north. During the days, he rested. At night, he walked.
Sometimes, if he was lucky, he slept.
He waited to die, but he did not, and something happened after he crossed the big river. He saw an eagle.
It was early in the morning, before he stopped for the day, and his spirit soared with the bird. The eagle had always been for him a source of power.
Fr
om that day, the old man grew stronger. He began to think more about life than death, to trap small animals for food—rabbits mostly, and he caught a lizard now and then.
He began to wonder why he had not died. He knew there was a reason, and he knew he would discover it. He kept walking very slowly to the north, but even his legs seemed to gain strength from the sight of the eagle.
Then he came upon the man.
It was early, the same hour at which he had seen the eagle, and the old man wondered if that was significant. He thought that it might be, and he squatted down to watch the man, to see if he was alive or dead. It took a long time to find out, but the old man was patient. He was going nowhere in particular, except to death, and that seemed to be even farther from him now than when he had begun. He had time.
So when the man stirred and opened his eyes, the curandero gave him water, and then later he gave him more. Not much, but maybe enough to keep the man alive.
There is something I can do here, the old man thought. I am a curandero; I can help this white man. But looking at the man, the curandero began to lose heart. He had helped many men, and he even knew a little about broken bones, but he had never seen a man in such a condition as this before.
He had seen a man once, a man who had somehow broken his leg and fallen down the side of a mountain, starting a small avalanche in the process and falling among a slide of rocks and boulders. That man had looked almost as bad as the one in front of him now.
That man had died.
But there was no way to tell about what was inside a man by looking, no way to judge his spirit while he lay broken before you. This man might not die. This man might share something of the spirit of the eagle. The curandero would have to wait and see.
The next day Ryan opened his eyes in shadow.
He had not been moved, and his body was still racked with tremendous pain, but he was in shadow. He couldn't move his head to find out why. He looked, and a few yards away an old man crouched, an old man dressed in ragged black pants and shirt, with a black headband tying back long gray hair.
