Out of the Darkness

by Robert D. McKee

  He pointed to the first track. It was the darkest of the three and consisted of an arcing six-or seven-inch line. The line was an eighth of an inch wide at the top of the arc and three inches wide at the bottom. “The way I figure it, when the man stepped out of the room into the blood, he didn’t put his whole boot down, only the toe, and most of his weight was on the inside of his foot. The only part of the boot to leave a track was the inside edge of the sole. You can see it right here.” He ran his finger along the arc of the first track. “The other two tracks get fainter with every step he made toward the front door, but the first one’s pretty clear. You can see the arc of the boot’s sole, and right here—” He pointed to a squiggly line inside the other line. “—is what looks like an S.”

  Micah took Sonny’s boot, placed it on its edge beside the mark, then rolled it over. The line’s arc exactly matched the curve of Sonny’s boot sole. The worn-out spot fell on top of the squiggly line.

  Micah looked toward Sonny. He sat in his chair silent and impassive. Micah then turned to Chester and tossed his friend a smile.

  Chester saw Micah’s smile and raised it with a laugh. “I’ll be damned,” he said. “It looks like you’re a pretty fair policeman after all.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  Micah dropped Brad Collins’s star on the counter at the hardware store and told Reginald Barker, the store’s owner and chairman of the board of county commissioners, that the county no longer had a sheriff.

  “He handed over his badge and told me he was finished,” Micah said.

  Barker’s head was as round as a ball. Micah figured a fella could probably play ten pins with Reginald Barker’s head.

  “What’s the county to do for a sheriff, then?” Barker asked.

  “The commissioners’ll have to appoint someone to serve until the election next year.”

  “How ’bout you, Micah? We’ll appoint you. I heard you brought in Sonny Pratt—gonna charge him with the murder of Hank Jones.”

  News could travel fast in Probity. The town’s gossip line was quick if not always accurate.

  “I’ll not be your sheriff, Mr. Barker. As a matter of fact, as of right now, I’m resigning my position as deputy. I was deputized for about five hours, and that is plenty long enough for me.” Micah headed for the door. “I’ll check in on the prisoner from time to time and see that he’s fed, at least until you appoint someone new.” He stopped when he got to the door and turned back to face the man behind the counter. “Don’t you be too long about doing it, though. I do not plan to make this my career.” He smiled, gave a quick tip of his hat, said, “Afternoon,” and left.

  Chester and Micah had split up when they first got to town. Micah left to deposit Sonny in the jail—a pleasant experience despite Sonny’s threats—and Chester took the two bodies to the undertaker’s. Micah and Chester were to meet afterward at Buck’s for a beer, and Micah headed over there now.

  The bar was busy for a weekday afternoon, but Buck always did a thriving business. The saloon business seemed to be about as profitable as any business around. About ninety percent of the matters to come before the court down in Cheyenne when Micah was studying the law had the use of alcoholic beverages mixed up in them in one way or another. As much as he enjoyed a beer—or even better, a glass of Chester’s fine Scotch whisky—Micah sometimes thought the temperance people had the right idea. They described strong drink as a blight upon society. They wanted to ban its use in every state in the union. But even if the temperance folks got their way, Micah wondered if people would ever stop drinking.

  Chester was at a table in the far corner away from the door. He was smoking a cigar and had a half-empty glass in front of him. Micah made his way to the bar, ordered two beers, and crossed to Chester’s table.

  “Thank you, sir,” Chester said, accepting the beer Micah set before him. “Did you get your chores all done?”

  “I did,” Micah said. “And you?”

  “Yes, the bodies are delivered to the undertaker. It was interesting too,” Chester said, taking a long puff on the fat cigar he held between his teeth.

  Micah lit a cigarette. Every time he did, he felt guilty. The trial was over, and he still hadn’t stopped smoking. “What was interesting?” he asked.

  “When John Summerhayes saw that one of the bodies was Emmett, he actually sat down and cried.”

  “Summerhayes cried? I didn’t think it was possible.”

  “Not cried so much as wept. It was all I could do to console him.”

  “That’s not only interesting,” Micah said, “it’s unbelievable.”

  “I must know of a couple of hundred bodies that man has worked on over the years,” said Chester, “and not once have I seen him show the first sign of emotion.”

  “Why with Emmett Pratt?” Micah wondered.

  “I asked him the same question. Seems they grew up together back in Illinois. They were the best of friends. Even came west together.”

  “I didn’t know that. I guess I wasn’t even aware they knew each other.”

  “No one was aware of it,” Chester said.

  “What’s the story?”

  “They made the mistake of falling in love with the same woman, and Emmett won her hand.”

  “You mean Alice, Pratt’s first wife?”

  “That’s the one. I guess Summerhayes wasn’t a very good loser, and for twenty years he’s refused to speak to Emmett. He told me today he wouldn’t even acknowledge the man when they passed on the street.”

  “But,” Micah asked, “he broke down and cried when Emmett was killed?”

  “The nature of friendship is a strange thing indeed,” Chester pointed out.

  Micah nodded and sipped his beer. “I’m glad this week is about over.”

  “It has been eventful,” Chester allowed. “Even exciting.”

  “Exciting, yes,” Micah said. “Too exciting. I for one am finished with excitement for a while.”

  Chester smacked him on the shoulder. “Oh, hell,” he said, “stop being such a baby. Excitement’s good for the soul.”

  “I suppose I’ve always liked excitement as much as the next fella.” Micah felt he needed to defend himself. “But right now my soul could do with some boredom.”

  “Well,” Chester said, “it’s not going to happen.”

  “Oh, and why do you say that?”

  “Because tomorrow morning, I’m going to teach you how to ride the moto-cycle.”

  “Not a chance,” Micah said. “I’d rather be shot out of a cannon than ride that machine of yours.”

  Chester leaned forward and rested his big forearms on the table. “Look,” he asked, “how well do you know me?” His large face hovered over Micah’s.

  “Too damned well,” Micah said.

  “Then you know that I will hound you, berate you, and mock you in front of pretty girls until you agree to my demands, right?”

  Micah didn’t answer.

  “Right?” Chester repeated.

  Micah still didn’t answer, but he knew what he’d be doing tomorrow morning.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  If he ever got the chance, Sonny Pratt vowed to smash that God-damned clock. He’d had to listen to it make its noise every hour since McConners had thrown him in this cell the afternoon before. What the hell were they doing with a clock in a cell block anyway, Sonny wondered. Why would anybody in jail give a damn about the time?

  The clock chimed eight, and Sonny draped his arm over his eyes. He’d been locked up now for over sixteen hours, and he hadn’t slept at all. It wasn’t only because of the clock, although, God knew, that was part of it. Mostly he hadn’t slept because of his anger. It was a hot and painful anger. It made his insides ache and made his head feel like it would explode. It had been rare in Sonny’s life when anyone was foolish enough to make him angry. But it was a simple fact that Sonny Pratt felt anger now.

  The chiming of the clock always brought him back to this jail cell, but between
the clock’s chimes, Sonny allowed his mind to flow in whatever direction it chose. Its usual direction was what he planned to do to Micah McConners once he got out.

  Micah McConners was going to die. That much was for sure. The only question was how would Sonny choose to kill him. It gave Sonny pleasure to ponder all his many choices. McConners had died a hundred deaths during the long night Sonny had spent lying on this bunk, and each was more grisly than the one before.

  Sonny was deep into these thoughts when he heard a key being inserted in the door out front. McConners had come in and checked on Sonny a couple of times during the night. About thirty minutes earlier he’d brought Sonny in a breakfast of biscuits and gravy. The front door opening up was strange, though. Every time before when McConners came in, he’d used the back door off the alley.

  Sonny sat up on his cot and pulled on his boots. They weren’t his boots, of course. McConners said he was keeping Sonny’s boots for evidence. These were Hank’s boots. McConners pulled them off Hank’s feet yesterday at the Jones place and gave them to Sonny to wear even though the damned things were two sizes too big.

  “McConners,” Sonny called as he crossed from the bunk to the cell door, “is that you? Come in here, you son of a bitch. You can help me decide how I’m going to kill you.”

  Sonny was past trying to hide his ways. He figured McConners had him pretty good on shooting Hank. The best Sonny could hope for was to figure out a way to escape and make it to another part of the country.

  Before he left, though, by God, he would kill Micah McConners.

  “McConners, God-damn you, get your ass in here. I want to make my threats right to your face.”

  No one answered, but Sonny heard footsteps. After a moment the door leading into the front office opened, and a man stood in the doorway. Because of the light coming from behind, Sonny couldn’t see the man’s face, but he looked too big to be McConners.

  “Who’s that? Come in here where I can see you better,” Sonny said.

  The man stepped into the cell block, and Sonny saw it was Brad Collins. “Well, I’ll be,” Sonny said, “if it isn’t the ex-sheriff of this fine county. I heard you’d run off, Mr. Collins. Whatever brings you back?”

  Collins ignored Sonny’s comment about running off. “I came in to get my things,” he said. “I’ll be leaving directly.” Collins pulled a chair up next to Sonny’s cell and sat down. “It appears like they got you caught, son.” He lifted a pouch of tobacco and some papers from his shirt pocket and rolled a cigarette.

  “Well, don’t you be enjoying it too much, you old coward,” Sonny said. “I won’t stay caught long, and when I get out, I just might kill you.”

  “My word, but you are full of killing talk, ain’t you, Sonny?”

  Sonny narrowed his eyes at Collins, and he could see his gaze made the older man uneasy.

  Collins turned his head first this way and then that. “This is a finely built jail,” he said, looking around. “I don’t reckon you’ll be getting out until someone opens that door you’re leaning up against.” He struck a match on the underside of the chair and lit his smoke. “If your plan is busting out, I got to warn you, son, them bars in front of you are solid steel imported from Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, and that wall behind you’s made of three layers of brick.”

  “What’s your point, Collins?”

  “My point’s a simple one, Sonny. I am prepared to come to your rescue, if you are prepared to make it worth my while.”

  Sonny smiled. “Well, Mr. Collins, that depends,” he said, “How much is your while worth?”

  Collins flicked an ash toward Sonny’s dirty breakfast dishes that were on the floor outside the cell. There was a slot in the bars at floor level to slide the dishes in and out. “I may be wrong, but it doesn’t strike me like you’re in much of a position to bargain, young fella.” He jerked his thumb toward the front office. “In that room yonder, there’s a set of keys in the desk drawer. For a price, I’ll go in there, get them, and let you out.”

  “And what’s the price?”

  “One thousand dollars.”

  “A thousand dollars? Hell, it’s only about forty feet from here to that desk. I’d say that’s pretty damned fine pay for walking forty feet.”

  Collins rubbed his chin as though he was calculating something out. “Well, let’s see,” he said, “forty feet. That’s about thirteen steps. Why, hell, that’s the exact number of steps you’ll be climbing to the gallows.”

  Sonny gave the man another smile—a wider smile this time. “Aren’t you a clever old cuss, though.”

  “I’m betting you know where you can lay your hands on a thousand dollars, Sonny. Am I wrong?”

  Sonny shook his head. “No,” he said, “you’re not wrong. We got a floor safe in the house out at the ranch. I expect there’s a thousand dollars in it.”

  “So,” Collins asked, “do we have us a deal?”

  Sonny shrugged. “Now, wouldn’t I be a fool to say no to such a tempting offer?”

  Collins took a drag on his half-smoked cigarette and dropped it onto one of the dirty dishes. It hissed as the gravy soaked in. “I’ll be back,” he said. He walked down the aisle between the cells and into the outer office. After a bit he came in carrying a ring of keys. He inserted one in the lock and gave it a turn. There was a sound as the tumblers clinked that was as sweet as music to Sonny.

  Sonny stepped out of the cell. “My God,” he said, smiling at Collins and slapping the older man on the back, “to think it was as easy as all that. Ain’t that the damnedest?” He then ran into the office and tore the desk drawers open.

  Collins came to the doorway between the cell block and the office. “What you looking for?” he asked.

  Sonny reached in the desk and pulled out the gunbelt that held his pistol and knife. He held it up for Collins to see. “I wouldn’t want to leave without this,” he said as he strapped it on.

  “No,” agreed Collins, “I reckon not.”

  Sonny moved to the window and peeked outside. The sun was slow rising this time of year. It had been up only a half hour or so, which meant the town, too, was tardy starting its day. There was very little traffic, and what there was moved in a lazy manner. Sonny could tell the morning still held a nighttime chill by the steam that blew from the nostrils of Collins’s horse tied to the rail in front.

  “I’m going to need a mount,” Sonny said as he came over to where Collins stood.

  “Yep, I thought of that,” Collins said. “I have an old plug at the livery I sometimes use as a pack horse. He’ll do for our ride out to your place.”

  Sonny nodded. “That’d work, all right,” he said, “but I was planning on using that fine-looking animal tied out front.”

  “What, you mean my horse?” Collins asked.

  “That’s the one,” said Sonny. “He’s wearing a mighty handsome saddle, and from the window there, that Winchester in the scabbard looks to be brand-new.”

  Collins snickered a disbelieving little laugh. “No,” he said, “I don’t expect you’ll be riding my horse.”

  “Well, sir,” Sonny said in his softest voice, “I expect you’re wrong.” And with one quick move, he unsheathed his knife and drove it into Collins’s throat all the way to the hilt.

  Blood exploded over Sonny’s arm in a gush. When it did, Sonny jerked out the knife and another explosion of blood came with it. “God-damn it, Collins, you’re bleeding all over me.” He gave the man a hard shove, and Collins toppled onto his back. He flopped about with his mouth opening and closing like a banked fish gasping for water. After a bit his eyes glazed over, and the flopping stopped.

  There was a basin of water in the outer office, and Sonny cleaned up as best he could. He wasn’t sure what his next move would be, but one thing was certain: by the end of the day, Lawyer McConners would be as dead as that fool Collins.

  Sonny dried off, found his coat, and buttoned it on. He looked again out the window. There was an occasional passerb
y, but for the most part the street was empty. He pulled down his hat, turned up his collar, and started for the door. He was almost out when he stopped, turned, and walked back into the cell block. As he came through the doorway, he was careful not to step in any blood. He knew it didn’t make any difference this time. McConners wouldn’t have any trouble figuring out who stuck Brad Collins, but still, not stepping in blood seemed like a good idea.

  He walked to the end of the cell block’s aisle, reached up, and took down the Regulator clock that hung on the wall. Using both hands, he raised the clock above his head and smashed it to the floor. The chimes clanged crazily and the glass over the face shattered into a hundred pieces. Sonny lifted his boot and brought the heel down on the clock over and over again. Tiny wheels, gears, and springs soared in every direction. When it looked as though no more damage could be inflicted on the thing, Sonny stepped back and kicked it as hard as he could. The clock rose in the air, turned over once, and crashed into splinters against the jail’s brick wall. Sonny looked at the debris and felt his lips blossom in a smile.

  Man, he told himself as he walked from the jail into the brisk morning air to locate Micah McConners, maybe he’d start every day by smashing a clock. That felt pretty damned good.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  “Pay the lady,” Micah said.

  “Wait. Didn’t I buy the beer yesterday afternoon?”

  “No, Chester, you did not.” Under his breath he said, “Now pay her, you cheap bastard.”

  “What was that?”

  “You heard me.”

  Chester handed Fay a dollar and said, “I apologize for my friend’s language, miss. He embarrasses me everywhere we go.”

  “He is hard to take,” Fay agreed.

  Micah had come to Lottie’s Café earlier, had gotten Sonny Pratt’s breakfast, and had taken it to him at the jail. Afterward, he came back and joined Chester. They had agreed to meet at Lottie’s, and after they’d had a bite of breakfast, they’d take the moto-cycle to the outskirts of town where Micah, against his better judgment, would learn to ride.