While Sam bent to do as the saloonkeeper suggested, George spoke again. “Like I said, he started the whole thing, insultin’ Luis here, then talkin’ nasty about his sister. There ain’t a nicer young girl in Simpson Creek than Luis’s sister Juana. She cain’t be but what…fifteen, Miss Prissy?” he asked, looking over Sam’s shoulder.
“Yes, that’s right,” she said.
Sam jerked his head around and saw her framed in the doorway. “What are you doing here?” he said, turning around again to keep an eye on the man still sputtering on the floor. “You shouldn’t be in here.”
He heard her chuckle. “I’m only standing in the doorway, but I’ve known George Detwiler and his mama for years, haven’t I, George?”
“That’s a fact, Miss Prissy,” confirmed the barkeeper.
“And I just came in because I happened to be coming out of the house just as Luis was thrown in the horse trough, and then I saw you go in. Naturally, I was concerned.”
“Naturally, she was concerned,” mimicked the man on the floor. “That yer sweetheart, Sheriff?” he asked with a snigger.
“Shut up,” Sam snapped, putting his boot squarely on the man’s neck. “Miss Prissy, please, you’d better go,” he said without looking at her. He was touched by her worry over both him and the boy but was too savvy to give the man on the floor less than his full attention. The stranger had enough fight left in him to take advantage of it.
He knew Prissy had done as he asked when he heard a swishing sound as the batwing doors swung closed and the light within the saloon dimmed again. Pulling on the rope that bound the man’s wrists together, Sam hauled the man on the floor to his feet.
“Now, what’s your name, stranger?”
“Tolliver,” the man snarled. “Leroy Tolliver.”
Now that he had the time to study him, Sam could see that Tolliver had taken some damage from the altercation as well as dished it out—a bruise here, a cut there, several scrapes. “You just passing through, Tolliver? ’Cause I suggest you get back on your horse and ride on. After you spend the night in jail, that is.”
“Spend the night in jail?” the man demanded, his face incredulous. “What for? For teachin’ a greaser where he don’t belong?”
“For disturbing the peace and assault. Come along,” he said, shoving the man ahead of him toward the door. “You, too, Luis.”
“Sì, Señor Sheriff,” the youth said. “You do not need to tie me.”
Sam turned back in surprise. “You’re not under arrest, Luis. I just want to talk to you.”
Hampered by his bonds and the whiskey he had consumed, Tolliver stumbled and would have fallen if Sam hadn’t rushed forward and steadied him. Keeping a hand on the rope between the man’s wrists, Sam marched his charge down the street toward the jail.
“I ain’t no drifter,” Tolliver muttered as he trudged along. “I work for the Alliance bosses.”
Sam stiffened. “‘The Alliance?’” he echoed. That was the group the mayor had been concerned about, wasn’t it?
“Yeah, the Ranchers’ Alliance. The ones who’re gonna be runnin’ this county soon enough,” Tolliver said with a sneer. “My bosses ain’t gonna be happy ’bout you puttin’ me in jail, Sheriff.”
“Then you shouldn’t have assaulted the young man.”
“You’ll be hearin’ from my bosses,” the man boasted. “You’ll be regrettin’ puttin’ me behind bars, directly.”
“Is that so,” Sam said flatly. “Are you threatening me, Tolliver?”
“Me? Naw. But you don’t wanna offend the men of the Alliance. I’m thinkin’ you won’t be wearin’ that badge much longer, once they take over.”
By this time, they had reached the jail. Leaving Luis outside, Sam lost no time pushing Tolliver into one of the cells and locking the door behind him. “Make yourself comfortable,” he told him, then rejoined Luis.
“Gracias for not arresting me, Señor Sheriff,” the boy said, as soon as the heavy door creaked shut behind Sam. “Mi madre—my mother—she would be so ashamed.”
“My name’s Sam Bishop,” he said, extending a hand. “Defending yourself isn’t wrong, Luis.”
Luis shook his hand, still acting as if he couldn’t believe his good fortune.
“You know anything about what Tolliver was babbling about? This Ranchers’ Alliance?”
The young man hesitated, then said, “There have been many strangers in town in the last few days, Señor Sheriff. Wealthy-looking men, as well as vagabundos—how do you say it? Drifters, saddle tramps. They do not have the look of honest men, Señor Bishop. A couple of them have been swaggering around the saloon—Tolliver is one. His compadre bothered a woman who serves drinks there. Señor Detwiler sent her home early so the men could not bother her. The other man left before Tolliver started insulting me, señor. And I’ve heard wealthy men have been buying land from whoever they could frighten into selling it.”
It jibed with what the mayor had told him. Sam wished once again he weren’t so new to town that he couldn’t differentiate between a stranger and a longtime resident. Sounds like he needed to keep his eyes and ears open.
“Thanks, Luis.”
“It is my honor to assist you, Señor Bishop.”
“Could I ask you for a couple of favors? I’d like you to wait while I write a note to Miss Gilmore, then take it to her home. And would you be willing to fetch supper from the hotel for me and that sidewinder in there?” he asked, nodding toward the jail behind him. “I want to keep an eye on him.” He reached into his pocket and came out with four bits. “Here. For your trouble. And the information.”
The boy shook his head. “I thank you, Sheriff, but it is not necessary. The old sheriff, he would have thrown me in the cell, not the other hombre. I will wait for your note, and then bring your meals. Though why that man deserves to eat, I do not know.”
Sam went inside and quickly wrote a message to Prissy, explaining that he had a prisoner in his cell and would pay a call on her tomorrow if possible. He hoped she would read between the lines and not come to the jail to visit. He didn’t want Tolliver laying his beady eyes on Prissy any more than he already had. The last thing Sam needed was for a man like Tolliver to think the sheriff had a weak spot.
He was going to have to make some inquiries about town to see if anyone else had been harassed by this Ranchers’ Alliance, as Luis said. If Tolliver’s bragging was anything to go by, the Alliance certainly wouldn’t benefit the good people of Simpson Creek.
When he returned outside with the note, Luis said, “Señor Sheriff, would you consider hiring me as your deputy? I would be honored to serve you.”
He had to smile at the boy’s earnestness. “Luis, I’ve just been hired myself. It doesn’t seem like the sheriff of this town has enough to do to require a permanent deputy—at least right now,” he added, when he saw disappointment in the youth’s dark eyes.
“Sheriff Bishop, trouble is coming. You may change your mind,” Luis said.
Sam considered his words. “You may be right,” he admitted. “But I have to hope you’re wrong.”
Chapter Nine
“You want some coffee, Tolliver?” Sam asked the next morning, coming into the jail from his quarters. “I’m going down to the hotel for some.”
The cowboy he’d arrested yesterday at the saloon clutched the bars of his cell and glared at him. “Naw, I just want outta here.”
Sam paused. “You got the five dollars for the fine for disturbing the peace?”
“I told you I didn’t yesterday. It ain’t likely any money miraculously appeared in my pocket overnight.”
Sam went past him toward the door. “Then you can wait till I’ve had my coffee.” Surely he’d be able to tolerate the man’s surliness once he’d had some coffee. If the man continued to insist he had no money, Sam would have to figure out some other way to penalize him for the incident yesterday. But either way, he was going to have to release him this morning.
Just as
he reached the door, however, it was pulled open from the outside. A narrow-faced fellow stood there, medium height, his chin sporting a black goatee. He wore a rust-colored frock coat with a waistcoat of some sort of shiny black cloth with a gold watch chain draped conspicuously across it. His eyes were small and amber. The cumulative effect of his clothes and features put Sam in mind of a red fox.
He doffed his hat and entered with a sinuous grace.
“Good morning, Sheriff Bishop. I believe you have something of mine.” His small amber eyes looked over Sam’s shoulder at the man in the cell.
“I don’t think we’ve met, sir,” Sam said, and waited. This fellow wasn’t one of the many people he had met at church on Sunday.
“Garth Pennington,” the man said, bowing with a sardonic smile that was devoid of real friendliness. “And this ugly fellow behind you is one of my employees. What’s he done?”
“The charge is disturbing the peace. Specifically, he assaulted a young man in the saloon who’d done nothing to provoke it. And he was additionally responsible for some broken glass.”
“He weren’t nothin’ but a dirty greaser,” Tolliver muttered.
Sam waited to see if Pennington would consider that a valid excuse, but if the man felt that way, he was too clever to admit it.
Pennington tsk-tsked in Tolliver’s direction. “My apologies for my employee’s actions, Sheriff. What’s the fine? Naturally, I’ll accept responsibility for what my employee did, and whatever it was won’t happen again. Did you hear that, Tolliver?” His voice cracked like an expertly wielded whip.
“Yes, boss.” The man’s tone was docile enough to fool most people. Not Sam.
“Five dollars,” Sam said, and was not surprised when Pennington reached into his coat pocket, pulled out a gold half eagle, and handed it to him.
“Very well,” he said, putting the coin into the center drawer of his desk until he could ask the mayor what was done with such fines. He pulled out the ring of keys from the drawer, then walked over and inserted the longest one into the cell door lock, turning clockwise until the door opened.
Tolliver walked out, smirking at Sam.
“How’d you know where to find him, Mr. Pennington?” Sam inquired.
Pennington’s lips thinned. “A lucky guess. Leroy has a weakness for strong drink, don’t you, Leroy?”
Tolliver’s cocky grin vanished. “Yes, boss.”
“So naturally, the saloon is the first place I looked when he didn’t return last evening.” Pennington turned back to Tolliver. “I trust your accommodations were…sufficiently uncomfortable—” Pennington glanced meaningfully into the cell, where the rumpled sheets on the cot and dirty plate, knife, fork and spoon on the floor were mute testimony of his recent occupation “—that you will not wish to repeat the experience anytime soon? If you wish to remain in my employ, that is.” He laid a hand on Tolliver’s shoulder, and Sam saw him push the man toward the door.
“You have a ranch around here, Mr. Pennington?” he asked, pretending the mayor hadn’t already told him about it.
Pennington paused. “Yes, La Alianza, southwest of here, between Simpson Creek and Colorado Bend,” He raised a brow as if surprised that Bishop had had to ask. “We’re adding to our acreage every day—not just in that direction, but all around here. We enjoy a cordial relationship with the sheriff in Colorado Bend—I trust it will be the same with you, Sheriff Bishop.”
Sam knew enough Spanish to know La Alianza meant “The Alliance.” So “we” must refer to the bosses of this Ranchers’ Alliance. He met the cold amber stare. “As long as you and your men are law-abiding, I don’t see why we can’t get along.”
“You’ll have to come out and pay us a visit sometime, Sheriff,” Pennington said, gesturing broadly with his black-trimmed hat before he put it back over his oiled black hair. “I think you’ll be very impressed.”
“Perhaps I will.” If only to see what you’re up to.
The door closed behind him. For all of his genial cordiality, something about Pennington reminded Sam of Kendall Raney.
He sighed. No matter how far one rode, it seemed there were disagreeable men who wielded some sort of power. He had no proof as yet that Pennington used it to do more than buy up land—nothing except an apprehension that snaked around his spine and rattled in his brain like a diamondback.
He thought briefly of William Waters III, and wondered if he was part of the Alliance. If so, would he use his ownership of the land next to the Brookfields to pressure the Brookfields to sell out? Somehow, though, he doubted the easterner was one of the Alliance bosses. He was irritable and arrogant, but there’d been nothing sinister about him. Perhaps his disagreeableness had been nothing more than the fatigue of travel coupled with the disappointment of finding the ranch in such a deplorable condition.
Sam raked a hand through his hair. He still needed that cup of coffee, and once he’d had it and a bit of breakfast to go with it, perhaps he’d mosey down to Gilmore House and report his conversation with Pennington to the mayor. And he’d see Prissy, which would automatically make the world sunnier.
However, as soon as he stepped out of the hotel, he was stopped by Mrs. Detwiler, who was distraught because she’d found a stray goat eating her prized roses.
“Look at that beast. She’s eaten the blooms off every one of them,” the elderly lady moaned after Sam accompanied her home and caught the goat.
“Any idea who owns the critter?” he asked, hoping he wasn’t going to have to ask from house to house, towing the pale-eyed brown and white nanny goat.
“Oh, it’s the Menendezes’ goat. They live down the road yonder. You tell Mrs. Menendez if I catch that goat in my garden again, I’ll be serving cabrito for supper,” she threatened.
“Yes, ma’am,” Sam said, smothering a smile at the old woman’s militant tone, and turned to lead the goat away.
“Thank you, Sheriff. Why don’t you come back for supper tonight? Say, six o’clock.”
“Oh, you don’t have to do that, Mrs. Detwiler, I’m happy to help you.” He didn’t want the old lady to think she had to feed him just for doing his job. And he’d been hoping to spend the evening with Prissy.
“Horsefeathers. It’s the least I can do to thank you. And bring Prissy, why don’t you. You two make a handsome couple.”
Ah, so word of their picnic had made its way around town after all. He wondered how Prissy would feel about that. “Why, thank you, ma’am, I’ll accept,” he said. “I’ll go ask her as soon as I take this critter home.”
He could only hope that she’d be pleased people thought of them as a “handsome couple,” and not embarrassed.
There was only one way to find out.
Milly Brookfield sent a note back with Antonio telling Prissy that next Wednesday afternoon would be fine for the Spinsters’ Club visit to meet the new baby, so Prissy went to spread the word to the members. She went first to the post office to see Caroline Wallace, hoping she could talk Milly’s friend into making her famous peach punch to take to the party.
“I suppose I could,” Caroline said in the lifeless monotone she’d used ever since her fiancé had passed away. She still wore the deep black mourning clothes she’d worn to his funeral service.
Prissy’s heart twisted with pity for the girl. To have met the man you wanted to spend your life with, only to lose him to the same fever that had taken your mother, was a tragedy indeed.
“It’ll be good for you to get out and visit, Caroline,” Prissy told her, and hoped she didn’t sound patronizing. “Milly especially hoped you’d come. How have you been?”
Caroline shrugged. “Fine.” But her gaze strayed away from Prissy’s as if she knew Prissy would see through the lie.
An uncomfortable silence fell between them like a heavy gray curtain. Prissy wondered what to say. If she could only remember the condolences others had spoken to her and her father right after her mother’s death, she’d have the right words.
; Should she prattle about the weather? There was nothing new to converse about there—it was hot and sunny as always. Should she even try to penetrate the melancholy that Caroline wore around her like an all-enveloping shield, and assure her from her own personal experience that time would heal her wound? But who had the right to say what would heal another’s heart? Caroline might take offense.
Jesus, help her, she prayed, watching Caroline staring at her fingers as if she wished Prissy would go now that she’d accomplished her mission. Please, Lord, bring joy into her life again. Show me how I can help her. Teach me what to say.
“Well, I’d better be on my way to tell the other ladies,” Prissy said, eager to return to the sunshine outside. “We’ll meet at my house Saturday at one o’clock, all right? Antonio will drive the wagon—”
“Prissy, you mustn’t worry about me,” Caroline said suddenly, just as Prissy was turning to go. “I’ll be all right. And I’ve got news—I’m to be the new schoolteacher this fall.”
“New schoolteacher? But what about Miss Phelps?”
“She’s going to India to be a missionary,” Caroline announced. “She wanted to go before, but she didn’t want to leave the Simpson Creek children teacherless. I…I decided I would be their teacher.”
Prissy felt her jaw drop. “You, a teacher?”
Caroline lifted her chin. “Why not? I was valedictorian of my class, remember?”
Prissy smothered a smile. Caroline’s class had consisted of six boys and girls, counting Caroline, but Caroline had been hands-down the smartest. “Why of course, Caroline. That’s wonderful news.”
“And since I’ll never have children of my own now, I’ll have all the Simpson Creek children as mine this way, don’t you see?”
“Never have children?” Prissy echoed. “But Caroline, it’s too early for you to say something like that—”
Caroline’s face turned to stone. She put up a hand as if it was a wall. “No. It’s just not to be.”
The Sheriff's Sweetheart Page 9
