Trish stood at Quinn's side as Judge Fairbanks entered the jail.
He nodded their direction before firing a rather calm interrogating question at his nephew. "What are they doing behind bars? They were found innocent, if you recall."
"Jackson has been arrested for the disappearance of Old Curly."
"And Miss Larsen?"
"She insisted on coming along."
Judge Fairbanks turned back to the two behind bars raising an eyebrow. "You have illegally restrained an innocent woman and the man you've arrested has a knife on him. Ya put 'em all in the same cell. I'm surprised the prisoners haven't become violent in view of the trial we just finished. You set up a right dangerous situation for yarself, son."
The color drained from Tuckett's face. "He coulda kilt me right here."
Fairbanks stepped to the desk. "Son." His reprimanding tone brought a rush to Trish's belly. "This is shoddy law practice. What is it you are hoping to accomplish?"
"Jackson deserves to hang."
"And the reason?"
"He killed a man." Tuckett sounded more like a school boy reciting his lessons than a lawman.
"Bring yar chair over here, son. Let's invite them to sit so as to separate the guilty from the accused." Fairbanks reached for the chair Trish had occupied hours earlier, bringing it to the center of the small jail. He positioned Tuckett's more comfortable desk chair next to it and seated his bulky frame on the edge of Tuckett's desk. Tuckett sneered at the prisoners but said nothing as he opened the cell door. Quinn offered Trish, Tuckett's chair while taking the other.
Tuckett took up his position at one end of the desk, allowing his uncle the larger portion. He visibly flicked his tongue over his teeth as if making sure no remnants of his dinner remained.
"I guess ya gotta get it out of your system." Judge Fairbanks sighed. "This isn't a court of law. Mister Jackson, would you kindly remove your knife? You are welcome to set it on the floor so to pacify my overzealous but narrow-minded nephew."
Trish wasn't at all sure Quinn would comply with the request. Did she want him to? His having his knife had given her a sense of safety despite being incarcerated with Moore again. Quinn seemed to think about it before releasing the strap on his sheath. Slowly, he removed the knife, setting it on the floor.
"Judge, you'll understand how under the present circumstances, I'd prefer to protect the lady and myself."
"Very well. In the interest of fair play, Miss Larsen, would you care to act in the accused defense?"
"Of course, thank you."
"Quinn Jackson." Judge Fairbanks exhaled a heavy breath. "Apparently, you are accused of being responsible for the disappearance of… who did you say, Francis?"
Tuckett's given name was Francis? No wonder no one called him by his given name.
"Old Curly," Francis answered with a scowl.
"Old Curly." Fairbanks completed his statement. "Francis, do you have any proof?"
Tuckett reached into a desk drawer and set the blanket remnant and horse shoe Trish expected him to present on the desk. "This is what is left of Old Curly's blanket. Jackson was seen in the area and his horse's hoof prints were also found."
Fairbanks nodded. "At least ya got evidence this time. Miss Larsen, you care to say anything?"
Trish stood. "May I see that remnant?"
"Just like any other piece a cloth," Tuckett complained handing it to her.
Trish smiled and examined the dirty rag. "As you said just now. This is 'just like any other piece of cloth.' Sheriff, what makes you think a ratty old cloth and that horse shoe are enough proof of any crime? Where did you find these?"
"Up Pass Creek is where Bailey found that remnant."
"Bailey. I don't know or see a Bailey here. Do you have more than Bailey's claim? A sworn statement, perhaps?"
"Bailey swore to me he saw Jackson up there. He even identified the mark on the horseshoe here," Tuckett defended, pointing at the mark on the horse shoe.
"So that would be a 'no' on the statement. Is Bailey here to be called as a witness?"
"Ya see 'im, woman? No, he ain't here."
"I see. So what you are saying is that this Bailey wanders in here, possibly with a chip on his shoulder, and hands you this rag and a right neat story accusing Quinn over here." Trish weaved her defense.
"He could identify the horse's tracks."
"One horse's tracks are the same as any other, other than the size of the hoof, I presume."
"Oh no. Jackson and his brother put this here fancy mark on all their horses shoes," Tuckett said.
Trish turned toward Quinn. "Mr. Jackson, assuming Tuckett has his facts about the horse shoes correct, do you ever ride your horse into town?"
"Yes, how else would I get here?" Quinn answered.
"How else, indeed? And when you come to town, do you ever have need to tie your horse and take care of business?"
"Of course."
"And where do you tie your horse?" Trish asked.
"At the closest hitchin' rail."
"So anyone, even Bailey, could lift your horse's feet to see the mark, or at the very least observe the hoof prints under the animal?"
"Well, sure," Quinn answered.
"Judge, in all fairness to both Sherriff Tuckett and Quinn, I see this as, at best, a complete misunderstanding. Tuckett's evidence is circumstantial where Old Curly is concerned. I just don't see definitive proof to support the accusations and move for this unofficial 'man hunt' to come to an end."
"Miss Larsen, I wholeheartedly agree. Mister Jackson, you are free to go…"
"But Uncle." Tuckett jumped to his feet as Quinn retrieved his knife.
"Francis. You owe this man and lady, your apology. I will not stand for further shenanigans. The man is innocent. Bury your dislike deep because the next time you accuse him of some wrong doing, I'll be sorely tempted to release him due to his fine character alone."
A strangled huff came from Moore's direction. "You've gotta be kiddin'. Judge, clearly the sheriff is insane. I'm just as innocent…"
"Ma'am, Quinn." Judge Fairbanks ushered them to the door. "Have a nice day." He lowered his voice. "And just between the three of us, ya might wanna clear out of here. I understand Oregon's nice." He shut the door behind them, leaving Sheriff Tuckett to deal with Moore's ranting.
The Talisman - Crisscross Page 63
