The E.R. Slade Western Omnibus No.1

by E. R. Slade

  “Well, Sheriff,” Jeremy said, turning on all the sincerity he could muster, “I sure hope you can find out who did it. I seen other men dead, but I never stumbled over any in the dark before, and felt how cold they was, and clammy. It made me think what a cold-blooded fellow a killer has to be, to gun people down like that. I never thought so hard about that before.”

  “Uh huh,” the sheriff said noncommittally.

  “I don’t really see how you’re going to track whoever done it, though,” Jeremy went on. “I didn’t see tracks. But I guess you know more about this kind of stuff than I do, and got ways of doing it. I hope so. I don’t know who these guys was, but they just looked like a couple of cowhands to me, probably tumbleweeding from someplace to someplace else, just like I am, and it don’t seem fair that somebody killed ’em. It just don’t seem fair at all. You know? So I hope you can find out who done it, and string him up. After a fair trial, o’ course.”

  “Mmm,” the sheriff said.

  Jeremy could see he wasn’t getting anywhere this way, maybe going behind, by the sound of Watson’s voice. So he thought a while and then he said, “Where you from, Sheriff, I mean originally?”

  “Kentucky.”

  “That so? I growed up in Texas. Pa has a ranch down there, maybe you’ve seen the brand. The ZW.”

  “Can’t say I have.”

  “Well, come to think of it, I don’t recall ever trailing any cattle over this way, except to the Indian reservations.”

  This was hard work, trying to get on the right side of the sheriff, and falling flat as dead water. Jeremy was sweating, and not just because of the sun.

  “Who was those three you hung yesterday?” he asked Watson.

  “Gang who shot Cecil England.”

  “Wasn’t he the owner of the Prince of Parkersville mine?”

  “Yep.”

  “Why’d they shoot him?”

  “Cards.”

  “They were playing a card game with him?”

  “Yep.”

  “Just the three of them and England?”

  “What’s your interest?” He asked it looking over at Jeremy with a hard-eyed, sizing-up glance.

  “Nothing. Just curious. You ride into town and see three men all hung out to dry like that, it crosses your mind to ask what they done.”

  The sheriff said nothing.

  On they rode. Jeremy didn’t open his mouth again all the way to the creek, which they reached at sundown. They made camp and Watson slept with his pistol in his hand, banishing Jeremy’s fleeting thoughts of riding away quietly in the middle of the night.

  In the morning, they found the bodies just the way Jeremy had left them. They both worked at unpiling the rocks. Once Tyler and Hart were uncovered, the sheriff took a long careful look at them, studying their faces as though trying to decide if he recalled having seen them staring back at him off a wanted poster. Then he went through their pockets, fingering Cookie Tyler’s makings, Ton Hart’s ratty wallet. He still said nothing.

  Now the sheriff went over the ground. Jeremy described his smelling them first, and then moving camp twice after he discovered them, and then dragging them here to cover them because it seemed like the best place. The sheriff looked at all three of Jeremy’s camps, and at the drag marks, and then circled round and round the whole area in ever-widening circuits, obviously hoping for tracks, but he was out of luck there; the ground just wasn’t the kind to show much for tracks, and where it was, it was sandy and the wind blew it indistinct and then smooth pretty quickly.

  Finally, they ate some lunch, which wasn’t anything more than warmed over beans and coffee. And then they loaded the bodies, which were now pretty ripe and humming with flies, and rode back for Parkersville. The sheriff kept his mouth shut the whole way, looking grim. Jeremy figured that the best thing he could do would be keep his own mouth shut, too, so he did.

  They unloaded the bodies at the undertaker’s after dark, and Jeremy waited for Watson to tell him he was free to go.

  Instead, the sheriff said, “You’re under arrest.”

  Chapter Nine

  The hoosegow behind the sheriff’s office was not only uncomfortable, dirty, smelly, dark and damp, but worst of all, it was boring. Particularly it was boring for a man who spent the better part of his time thinking about gold and speculating on the whims of two pretty girls. He hadn’t been there an hour before he was feeling mighty desperate. He had been sitting on the hard, warped plank that was supposed to resemble a bed, but now he got up and began pacing.

  The floor was stone, and Jeremy was still wearing his riding boots and spurs, and so his pacing echoed around in the place good and loud. For him the familiar sound of spurs jingling was company, after a fashion. But it wasn’t very long before Sheriff Watson came to the big, heavy, iron-studded oak door leading into the stone room full of cells.

  “Knock it off, Waite,” he said.

  Jeremy stopped at the door of iron bars at the end of his cell.

  “Sheriff, you really do have the wrong man, you know.”

  “Just set down and shut up.”

  “You can’t try me without some kind of evidence, and you know just as good as I do there ain’t any.”

  “I told you to shut up.”

  The sheriff went away.

  Jeremy’s mouth twisted off to one side in disgust, and then, irritated, he began pacing again, this time on purpose to get the sheriff’s goat.

  There was no way the sheriff could make anything stick, and the man knew it. He wasn’t even trying to get a confession. What was he doing, then? Just making it look good? It wouldn’t work for long. Watson couldn’t keep him here forever, and if there was any kind of trial, it would be over before it ever got started—wouldn’t it?

  Sure it would. There was no evidence at all. It was just Watson’s guess and nothing more.

  Jeremy paced determinedly, setting his heels down solidly, jangling up a storm with his spurs.

  The sheriff came and gave him the coldest kind of glare, and yanked the big oak door shut. It closed with a shuddering echo, and left the jail dark.

  Jeremy paced fiercely for another minute or so, and then got gloomy and sat down.

  Now, of a sudden, he was thinking the sheriff must have something he wasn’t talking about that looked bad for old Jeremy Waite. After all, Watson didn’t seem the kind who would arrest somebody without having a pretty good reason, in spite of that office that looked like a rat’s nest.

  So, what could it be?

  The question just hung there, without any answer.

  Suppose he was here for weeks, or even months? That was a pleasant thought. Meanwhile Leanda and Cork would catch up with the wagonload of gold, and he’d be left out altogether.

  Well, there was always that locket of Leanda’s he’d found. He had it in his pocket still. If things got bad enough he could haul it out and tell where he’d found it. But if he didn’t do it for quite a while, it wouldn’t look so good, and people would think he might have found it anywhere. Of course, they might think that anyway, now that he’d already been arrested for the crime. Before, there wasn’t much good reason for anybody to think he was lying, but now it might be different.

  So, should he call the sheriff back here and hand over the locket and tell everything he knew? Maybe the sheriff would cut him loose, and he could just ride out of this mess and forget the whole thing. Whether or not that was the result it was the honest thing to do, was what his father would expect him to do, and what he might very well wish afterwards he had done.

  But how often did a man get a chance at a wagonload of gold?

  Jeremy put his face in his hands, shook his head dismally. Why did life have to be so complicated sometimes?

  Jeremy was still thinking that profound thought when there was a clank, a screech of hinges, and light flooded the stone jail. Jeremy looked up and saw two shapes against the brightly lantern-lit sheriff’s office: Watson’s huge form, and the small, graceful, gent
ly rounded form of a girl or woman.

  Then the sheriff reached down the lantern from beside the door and brought it into the jail with him and Jeremy saw that the girl was Sarah Hooper, carrying a tray on which steamed something that smelled like beef stew.

  She smiled at him warmly.

  “That looks mighty fine, Miss Hooper,” Jeremy said, stepping briskly to the bars of the cell door.

  “The Ladies Charity Circle believes that everyone should have at least one proper square meal a day,” Sarah Hooper said.

  Watson opened the door, eyeing Jeremy like it was in his mind that as far as he could see nobody in jail deserved to eat anything at all, let alone a meal like this, but that it wasn’t smart for him, being a politician, to object to any notion the Ladies Charity Circle might take. That was how Jeremy read him, anyhow, and he felt pretty sure he wasn’t far wrong, because he’d seen a little of sheriffs back home, and heard his father’s talk about politics.

  Miss Sarah Hooper came in carrying the steaming platter and set it down on the end of the warped board bed. The smells of beef stew and hot coffee wafted pleasantly around the jail. Jeremy’s mouth began to water.

  “This looks like a mighty fine meal, Miss Hooper,” he said, sitting down beside it and picking up the spoon. He tasted the stew; it was just as good as it smelled, only better. He looked up and smiled at her. She sure was a pretty girl, and she was still smiling at him.

  “It’s real nice of you to bring me a meal, Miss Hooper,” he said, having hunted around in the dim recesses of his mind like it was an old attic full of junk, trying to find something worthwhile to say to her.

  “You’re welcome,” she said. She stood smiling on, and he ate, beginning to feel kind of warm and still hunting around for things to say. Her smile made him hope she had changed her mind about him since the previous day.

  “I guess you think I must be a terrible outlaw, being in here,” he said, looking up cautiously at her for a reaction. There was just a sympathetic cant of the head, and the same warm smile, so understanding. He was encouraged to go on. “Well, I wouldn’t want you to think that,” he said, “because it ain’t true. This is all a mistake. Watson here, he’s got it all wrong about me. It’ll come clear soon enough, I’m sure, and then he’ll let me go with his apologies.”

  Watson gave him a cold look, but because Jeremy was feeling so good having such an understanding, pretty girl listening to him, he wasn’t bothered and smiled at Watson.

  “I guess you didn’t believe me, Miss Hooper, when I said I would give you something for your collection, did you?”

  She murmured soothingly, “Please don’t worry about that, Mr. Waite.”

  “Well, I really do mean to give you something. But you see,” he went babbling on, “I have to get paid first. I should have told you before, but I just started to work for Jacob Pryne today, because I’m flat broke. The way today has gone, spending most of it away from the livery, I don’t know as I’m apt to collect much pay for it. So I can’t promise you when I’ll be able to give, but as soon as I can, I will.”

  “It’s all right, Mr. Waite,” Sarah Hooper said. “Please don’t you worry a thing about that now. Mr. Waite ...”

  “This is mighty fine stew, Miss Hooper. Did you make it?”

  “Yes. Mr. Waite ...”

  “It’s just about the best stew I ever tasted, Miss Hooper. ’Deed it is.”

  “Quit flapping your jaw and eat it then,” put in Watson. Jeremy had forgotten him altogether, and now glanced over at his obliquely lit face with some irritation. He wished the sheriff would leave the lantern and clear off for a while so he could talk to Sarah.

  “How did you hear I was in here, Miss Hooper?” Jeremy asked.

  “Everyone knows,” she said. “I saw you come into town with the ... bodies.”

  “It’s all right,” he told her soothingly. “I only found them, I didn’t make them—I mean, I didn’t kill those two.”

  She shifted from one foot to the other. Her hands were folded in front of her, and her fingers worked like they were trying to get untangled but not succeeding.

  “Mr. Waite,” she said, and looked even more uncomfortable for a moment; then she bucked up, drew a firm breath and said, “Mr. Waite, have you a Bible?”

  “A Bible?” he said.

  “Yes, Mr. Waite, a Bible.”

  That, thought Jeremy, is one thing Leanda would never ask him. It just showed how different these two were—and yet the thought of either one of them gave him that careless happy feeling.

  “No, Miss Hooper, I can’t say I do,” he said carefully, trying to think how best to talk about the subject so as not to wind up offending her again.

  “Then I’ll bring you one,” she said. She was looking at him with big, scared-doe eyes, and Jeremy was beginning to feel just a little uncomfortable about this himself. There was getting to be a warning prickle at the back of his neck.

  “All right,” he said. “I guess that’s okay, if you want to go to the trouble. I don’t read much, you know. I mean, I can, but I never do.”

  “But you have read in the Bible sometimes, haven’t you?” she asked. She really looked worried about it. Jeremy thought of his Bible-thumping Uncle Bert and Aunt Sue and their revival meetings. Somehow, all that kind of stuff never took with him too much. He noticed how folks would go to one of those and carry on and promise to love Jesus and believe in Him and be good Christians and sin no more, and then the very next day, you’d see them all pretty well back to their old ways, drinking heavy if that was their vice, or coveting their neighbor’s wife, or stealing the neighbor’s water, or rustling his cows.

  “Well, I heard it read from,” he told Sarah, “but it ain’t been often I’ve read in it myself.”

  “But you do want me to bring you one, don’t you?” she asked. She really didn’t look too good now—she looked hunted and half scared out of her mind, and she kept staring at him and staring at him so it got to be unnerving. Jeremy had quit trying to eat, it was getting to him so much now.

  “Well, sure,” he said, “I guess so, if you want to. It’s up to you.”

  She closed her eyes for a moment, and he couldn’t tell if she was offering up a prayer of relief or whether she was just momentarily overcome.

  “But you must believe in God,” she said. “I mean, you must, mustn’t you?”

  This girl sure had a knack for getting in deep quick and asking hard questions.

  “Well, Miss Hooper, I really can’t say as I know what I think about that. I reckon there must be somebody up there running things.” Watson, standing holding the lantern, was beginning to smile, grim.

  “Looky, Miss Hooper,” Jeremy said, “I don’t quite follow what’s caught in your craw, but if ...”

  “You sure are plain stupid,” Watson said. “The girl’s offerin’ you a Bible so’s you can make peace with your maker, ’fore you hang.”

  “’Fore I hang!” Jeremy said. He looked at Watson hard. “What’re you talkin’ about hanging for when you don’t even have any evidence yet? And I can tell you you won’t find any, because there ain’t any to be had. On account of the fact that I didn’t have nothing to do with killin’ them two. I never even seen ’em before I found ’em laying there dead. And there’s got to be a trial before there can be any hanging anyway, right, Sheriff?”

  Watson nodded. “That’s true enough. But there won’t be any trouble about that part. You’ll hang.”

  Jeremy canted his head sideways at Watson, still looking at him. “You sound pretty sure of yourself, Sheriff.”

  “Eat up, Waite. I ain’t planning to spend the night holding a lantern for you.”

  Jeremy just looked at him for a while. How come was the sheriff so sure of himself about this thing? Was the judge a hanging judge? Hang a whole town because his breakfast didn’t set well on his stomach? Or did the sheriff plan to tell whatever story was convenient just to have the thing solved quick and neat? If he thought he really had s
omething, what was it?

  “Eat, Waite. You got the count of twenty-five. I’m getting tired of holding up this lantern.”

  Jeremy pitched in, but his mind wasn’t on it. When he finished, Sarah picked up the tray. As she bent close to do so, Jeremy was distracted by the fresh, clean smell of her, just a fresh air and sunshine smell, not lilac-water soaked like a saloon girl. He had an urge to reach out and touch her and see if she was as soft as she looked, but he controlled himself.

  She straightened up, but before she turned to go she said, “I’ll bring you a Bible tomorrow when I come.”

  She met his gaze, and he could see she was still very unnerved.

  “You really believe I’m going to hang, don’t you?” he asked her.

  She looked away quickly. “Judge Quigly is a very stern judge,” she said.

  She hurried out. Watson gave Jeremy a thin smile and followed her taking the lantern. He closed the heavy oak door leaving Jeremy in complete darkness.

  Chapter Ten

  Jeremy didn’t sleep well at all that night. He lay down telling himself that he didn’t believe he would be hanged, or convicted of anything at all. But as soon as he closed his eyes, he began to wonder very hard what it was that Watson thought he had against him.

  Which was frustrating because there couldn’t be anything.

  Unless Leanda ... But she wouldn’t do that. Would she?

  Well, she and Cork had taken off without warning. And it appeared Leanda had killed Tyler and Hart. She’d be sure to find it more convenient if somebody else got blamed for that. But why him?

  Well, why not him? It got him out of the way, didn’t it?

  Jeremy imagined Leanda standing up in the witness box and pointing one of her imperious fingers at him and saying something like: “That’s him, that’s the man I saw kill those two poor men.”

  And then the judge passing sentence, talking about how he would be hanged by the neck until dead. However long that might take, Jeremy ruminated morosely. It was supposed to be quick, and it was if it was done right. It all depended on the hangman knowing what he was doing, so that when you fell your neck broke. Otherwise you strangled, and sometimes it could take a long time to die. Jeremy remembered his father telling about seeing a man hanged once where it was botched, and it had taken twenty minutes, the man jerking and kicking and turning purple ...