Which was surprising, since he had only met Raney the other day in front of the mercantile. Had they had a confrontation after that meeting, and he had not wanted to worry her by telling her about it? That would be just like him, she thought, as she began to fall asleep, drifting toward dreams of her life with Sam Bishop.
Sam appeared to do his best, hours later when they sat together in front of the jail and devoured barbecued chicken sandwiches washed down with lemonade, to join in her excitement over the wedding plans, agreeing with every suggestion she brought up.
He agreed early October would be a fine time for their wedding. With any luck the trial would be past them by then, and with God’s help and the town standing together, they might have also persuaded the Alliance to pack up and move on. Yes, he thought First Corinthians Thirteen would make a fine wedding text, once she started reciting the verses of it. She had to remember Sam hadn’t grown up reading the Scriptures as she had.
He chose Nick to be his best man, though he was happy to have Nolan Walker stand up with him, too. Prissy guessed the two men would have been sufficient for him, but when she said she wanted four bridesmaids, he mentioned Luis, as she’d thought he might. She offered to compromise by having only three bridesmaids.
Yes, he supposed he needed a new frock coat and trousers made for the wedding, and promised to go see Señora Menendez without delay. But even though they were in complete harmony with the choices she suggested, she sensed there was something else on his mind—the upcoming trial?
After all, if Sam was able to prove that Tolliver’s possession of the gold pocket watch meant Tolliver had murdered William Waters, the man would be executed. A sobering thought. Her father would push for any execution to take place outside Simpson Creek town limits, for he’d never held with the common practice of making a hanging into a social event in the middle of a town, with everyone turning out as if it were a picnic. She shuddered at the thought and deliberately introduced a new subject.
“Sam, I realize what with all that’s happening, you probably won’t be able to finish fixing up the house down the street before the wedding,” she began. “Realistically, we might have to start our marriage in that little cottage on my father’s grounds, much as I know you wanted us to start out in our own place.” She reached out a hand and touched his beard-roughened cheek, wishing she could smooth away the furrows in his brow. Poor Sam, he looked as if he hadn’t slept much last night.
He gave her a rueful smile before kissing her forehead. “Once the murder took place, I didn’t even had time to go talk to Mr. Avery about buying the house, let alone working on it. After all my fine talk about providing for you.” He sighed. “I appreciate your understanding, Prissy. I’m a lucky man.”
“Wherever we are, darling,” she added, “if I’m with you, I’ll be happy.”
He smiled at her again, but his attention was captured a moment later by something beyond Prissy. She looked around to see a man walking toward the jail. As the man drew closer, she recognized Mr. Jewett, the telegraph operator. He waved a paper.
“Afternoon, Miss Prissy, Sheriff,” he murmured, reaching them. “Good news. The judge will be arrivin’ a little early, Tuesday ’bout noon. He says to notify the prisoner that the trial will begin on Wednesday, so his lawyer better be ready. Oh, and he asks that you secure him and the prosecutor hotel rooms for the duration of the trial.”
“Oh, but that won’t be necessary,” Prissy said. “Papa wouldn’t hear of him staying at the hotel. We’ll put him up at Gilmore House.” She’d met Edwin Everson, the circuit judge, once before, and remembered him as a dry, austere man.
The news of the judge’s arrival seemed to relieve some of the heaviness which had weighed down Sam’s smile. Prissy was glad, though she knew proving Tolliver’s guilt would be no easy task. The prosecuting attorney would have to prove his case without a shadow of a doubt.
“Any lawyer show up for Tolliver yet?” Jewett asked. “Th’ law says even a man like Tolliver’s entitled to legal representation.”
Sam shook his head. “Not yet, but the Alliance might send someone now that the judge is coming.”
“Probably some no-account carpetbagger that Raney b—uh, scoundrel—” Jewett corrected himself hastily, with a glance at Prissy “—will haul out of a Houston swamp, the ink still wet on his forged lawyer papers.”
“We’ll just have to wait and see, won’t we,” Sam said with a tight smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.
I won’t let the sun go down today without telling Prissy the whole truth about what happened in Houston, Sam resolved that morning. Everything Raney had done—and what he had done, as well. Before things go any further.
Judge Everson and the prosecutor, Gabriel Bryant, arrived promptly at noon, as promised, but the judge announced they would be staying at the hotel rather than Gilmore House—to avoid any appearance of bias, as he put it, though he and Bryant accepted an invitation to supper with the mayor, Sam and Prissy. And he stated they would begin the trial the next day, whether the defense was ready or not.
“No use in dillydallying,” he announced in his dry, no-nonsense way over supper at Gilmore House. “I have trials waiting to start in Chappel and Sloan, then back in Harkeyville again. And I understand you two have an upcoming wedding to plan, as well, so there’s no use wasting time,” he said to Prissy and Sam across the table. He had a way of smiling without the smile ever reaching his hound-dog-sorrowful eyes.
“The accused man’s lawyer visited him this morning,” Sam informed the judge, picturing Lamar Hammond, the attorney who had shown up without warning to speak with Tolliver. If Pennington reminded Sam of a fox, this fellow was a javelina, with his small, mean eyes and coarse, bristly hair. All he needed was a pair of protruding tusks. “He’s got a room at the hotel. I can stop by on my way back to the jail and tell him to be ready to start tomorrow morning.”
He hoped Everson would offer to inform Hammond himself, since he was going to the hotel, too, but the judge apparently wanted to keep a sense of separation between himself and the defense attorney, for he said, “Good, good. Tell him nine o’clock sharp. I won’t abide lateness. A delicious dinner, Miss Gilmore. I’ll bid you good night now.”
“I’ll tell our cook,” Prissy said, smiling as she rose also.
“Prissy, may I speak to you for a few minutes before I leave?” Sam asked, knowing that the conversation he’d put off for so long couldn’t be postponed any longer.
“Of course, I’ll walk you out.” Her smile was so innocent. She was unaware he was about to shatter her belief in him. When he was done talking, she would know him as a liar and a thief. Would she still love him after that? Would he still be the sheriff, after she had told her father?
The judge put up a hand. “Sheriff Bishop, I think you and Mr. Bryant should discuss the case, since you’re the chief witness.”
“You gentlemen can use my office,” James Gilmore said, rising.
Sam stifled a groan. He wished he could refuse. He didn’t want to wait another minute to get his confession to Prissy over and done with. But hopefully he could steal a few moments alone with her when the attorney was done with him.
He had to tell Prissy what Raney knew about him before Raney exposed his character flaws in front of everyone. He’d heard nothing further from Raney, and he hoped his own silence had served as his answer to the man. But he had little hope that Raney wouldn’t carry out his threat to expose Sam, and he couldn’t risk embarrassing Prissy by not confessing to her first.
He saw Prissy looking at him, and when their gazes met, she gave him an encouraging smile. This will all turn out all right, her eyes seemed to say. You can do this.
Sweet Prissy, you don’t know what “this” is.
Chapter Nineteen
Darkness had fallen by the time Gabe Bryant was done going over the facts of the case and let Sam go. He agreed Tolliver’s possession of the watch might not be enough to convict him, but he hoped by skil
lful questioning to trip Tolliver up while he was on the witness stand and get the man to convict himself with his own words.
Flora came out of the kitchen when Sam left the study. “Señorita Prissy has gone to bed, Sheriff. She knew you had a lot to do and needed to get back to the jail, so she said she’d see you at the trial.”
Sam sighed in frustration as he bid the servant good night. Prissy couldn’t have guessed how deep his need was to speak to her. As he stepped out into the night, he looked back up at Prissy’s window, but no light shone through the curtains there.
He went on to the hotel and found Tolliver’s lawyer in his room, curled around a bottle and holding a losing poker hand. At the table sat Pennington, Byrd and the last man Sam wanted to encounter, Kendall Raney.
“Just the man I wanted to see,” Raney said, rising. “Deal me out, fellows.”
Sam shook his head. “I have to get back to the jail. I only came to tell Mr. Hammond the trial begins at nine tomorrow. The judge said not to be late.”
Hammond nodded, his eyes bleary. “I’ll be there.”
“I’ll walk with you, Sheriff. I know you’re a busy man,” Raney said smoothly, and gestured Sam out of the room. There was no way he could gracefully refuse.
They walked down the shadowy boardwalk, their way illuminated only by the half-full moon.
“Is this what you were after?” Sam asked without preamble, reaching into his shirt pocket and holding out the ruby ring he’d retrieved from his mattress.
“Among other things,” Raney murmured, reaching out for it, his teeth gleaming in the dimness like a wolf’s. “Tell me this, Bishop. Why did you take my ring, of all things? You don’t seem a man of expensive tastes,” he said, with a meaningful look at Sam’s simple trousers, shirt and vest.
“I’m not,” Sam agreed. “But at the time it seemed important to make sure you couldn’t ever lay open some poor fellow’s cheek with it again.”
Raney’s lips curved upward. “I did leave a bit of a scar, didn’t I?” Then his face hardened. “But I didn’t come along with you to discuss your looks, Bishop. You know I want an answer.”
“I would have thought you’d have guessed, a clever fellow like you,” Sam said. “The answer is no.”
Raney blinked. “No? Have you found some loco weed to chew on, Bishop? Do you know what you’re giving up?”
“I’m not giving up anything I want,” Sam said. “My good name’s become more important to me than what you’re offering, Raney.”
Raney shook his head and smiled as if he was trying to explain philosophy to a lunatic. “I don’t think you understand, Sheriff. When I get done with you, you won’t have that, either. Think the mayor’s daughter’s going to stand by you when you’re a disgraced ex-sheriff? Not on your tintype! Want to change your answer? This is your final chance,” he warned.
Sam shook his head.
Raney stared at him. “You’re a fool, Sheriff. You’re going to wish you’d given me a different answer.”
The trial would take place in the Simpson Creek Saloon, since the town lacked a courthouse and the church had been burned. Prissy’s father had offered the ballroom of Gilmore House, but the judge deemed the saloon a better choice as it was neutral ground. The saloon was the only other building with enough space to seat everyone who would want to attend, and as it was, George Detwiler had had to borrow every chair and bench Gilmore House and the hotel could spare.
Since she had only to walk down the street to reach the saloon, Prissy had taken her time with her toilette, wanting to look suitably dignified and a credit to her father and to Sam. As a result, it was five minutes to nine o’clock when she left the house in her sedate but pretty skirt and waist of navy trimmed with white piping and its short matching jacket. She suspected the day’s heat would soon cause her to shed the jacket and rue the long sleeves of the blouse, but for now she felt her ensemble would strike just the right note.
The chairs had been set into two sections with a narrow aisle in between, with the bar serving as the judge’s bench. Her father’s big chair from his study had been pressed into service, and was raised slightly above the level of the bar on a hastily built platform.
It appeared half of Texas sat in that room. Every chair was occupied and people were crammed together on the benches. Prissy knew that if she hadn’t been the mayor’s daughter, she might have had to stand in the back, but her father had motioned her to an open seat in the second row. She saw Pennington, Byrd and Raney sitting in the first row on the other side. The room buzzed with speculation about Tolliver and the murder.
As she started to make her way toward the front, Sam appeared at her side. Apparently she’d missed him standing at the back.
“Oh, there you are, Sam,” she began with a smile. She peered at him more closely. His gaze was tense, his eyes haunted. “What’s wrong?”
He bent and spoke in a low tone into her ear, “Prissy, I only have a minute before the judge will come down from upstairs, so please listen.”
“I’m listening—”
“Prissy, I—”
“All rise.” Her father’s voice rose above the hum of the crowd, and Prissy and Sam turned to see Judge Everson making his way down the steps from the upper floor.
Next to her, Sam closed his eyes for a second. Under the rustle of clothing and the creaking of chairs, he whispered into her ear, “Prissy, no matter what you might hear, I love you. Believe that, will you?”
“Sheriff Bishop, is the prisoner present and ready to stand trial?” the judge called out as he reached the bottom.
Sam turned away from her and faced the judge. “He is, Judge Everson. I’ll escort him from the back room now.”
Prissy was left to make her way quickly to her seat, aware of the judge’s eyes on her, wondering what was troubling Sam. As she settled herself in her seat, murmuring a greeting to Nick and Nolan in the front row, Sam brought the prisoner, followed by his lawyer, out of the back room.
Tolliver wore come-alongs on his wrists, which Sam now bent and unfastened before taking his own seat in the front row across from the three men of the Alliance. If he realized he was on trial for his life, it didn’t seem to bother Tolliver. He smirked at the crowd as her father directed him to place his right hand on the Bible and swear to tell the truth. He winked at Pennington, Byrd and Raney as he sat down, and Prissy saw them grin back at him.
The judge pounded his gavel. “The prisoner will remember he is in a court of law,” Everson snapped, evidently irritated by Tolliver’s cocky expression. “Mr. Bryant, you may call your first witness.”
“Sheriff Samuel Bishop.”
Prissy watched, her heart full of pride as Sam raised his hand and took the oath. But something was wrong—very wrong. She could see it in his eyes. She’d heard it in the words that still rang in her ears. What could it be?
Sam’s voice was strong and sure as the lawyer led him into a recital of the facts—how William Waters III, the nephew of the late William Waters, who had owned a ranch southeast of Simpson Creek, had come to town to take possession of his inheritance, how Sam had ridden out with him to inspect the property and had first seen him consult the big gold pocket watch that would later be the critical piece of evidence.
“Is this the watch in question, Sheriff?” Bryant asked, dangling the object in front of Sam so that he and the crowd could see it.
“It is.”
“And when did you become aware that Mr. Waters felt threatened?”
Sam told how Waters had come to him and said he was being pressured to sell the property to the men who headed the Ranchers’ Alliance, who had lately been buying up property in San Saba and neighboring counties, and how he had ridden out to their large ranch, La Alianza, and told Pennington and Byrd to order their men to cease harassing the easterner.
“And are these men present in the court today, Sheriff?”
“They are.”
“Will you indicate them to the court, Sheriff Bishop?�
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Sam pointed. “That’s Garth Pennington there, and Francis Byrd, next to him.”
“And is it your understanding that there is a third man who also heads the Ranchers’ Alliance?” Bryant inquired.
“Mr. Kendall Raney, sitting next to Mr. Pennington, is also part of the Ranchers’ Alliance, but he had not come to town as yet,” Sam answered.
Prissy saw Raney smile as Sam pointed at him. She thought the devil himself could have no more sinister a smile.
“Please tell the court about the day William Waters III was found murdered.”
Sam recounted how he and the ladies of the Society for the Promotion of Marriage had gone to the neighboring ranch of Nick and Milly Brookfield to celebrate the birth of their new son, and how he and Nick had heard shots, seen smoke, and had ridden over to investigate, finding Waters dead in front of his burning ranch house.
“And did you suspect the employees of this so-called Ranchers’ Alliance of being guilty of his murder?”
Sam said he did. “But I had no proof—until Leroy Tolliver was witnessed by several people to have the watch in his possession.”
“Tell us about that event, Sheriff.”
Prissy listened as Sam painted a picture of the intrusion of Tolliver and the other hired guns at the wedding reception, of the struggle that had ensued and the pocket watch that had fallen out of the accused man’s pants.
“And how did you know the watch did not belong to Leroy Tolliver, Sheriff Bishop?” Bryant asked.
“Apart from the fact that I didn’t believe a hired gun like Tolliver could have afforded to buy such a valuable object,” Sam said, glancing at Tolliver, who glared sullenly back at him, “the watch had the initials ‘W.W.III’ engraved on the back.”
Prissy expected Tolliver’s lawyer to object to Sam’s disparagement of his client, but he remained still and untroubled, a bland expression on his face, seemingly content to be bide his time and wait for his turn.
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