“Your honor, I have nothing further,” Bryant said.
Apprehension gripped Prissy’s mind like an icy glove. What was the lawyer up to?
Judge Everson had listened intently throughout Sam’s testimony, and now he turned to Tolliver’s lawyer. “Mr. Hammond, do you wish to cross-examine Sheriff Bishop?”
“No, Your Honor.”
“No?” Judge Everson repeated, eyebrows beetling. “You don’t wish to question the state’s witness against your client, sir? Why ever not, may the court inquire?”
Prissy, staring at the lawyer along with the rest of the courtroom, saw Hammond’s lips curve into a slick smile.
“Because, Your Honor, we accuse Sheriff Samuel Bishop of being an unreliable witness, and unfit for the office he holds.”
Prissy’s jaw dropped. She stared, first at Hammond, then at the man she loved sitting in the chair to the left of the judge. The color had drained from Sam’s face, leaving it white as bleached bones. The haunted look which Sam’s eyes had held earlier had transformed itself into a hunted look, as if he was now cornered prey.
What on earth was Hammond saying?
The saloon-turned-courtroom had gone utterly silent. Not a bench creaked, not a petticoat rustled. Women who had been fanning themselves laid down their fans. Even the half-dozen flies which had been bedeviling those in attendance seemed to cease their infernal buzzing. Prissy could feel her heart thudding in her chest.
“Explain yourself, Mr. Hammond.” The judge ground out the words, leaning forward, his chin jutting pugnaciously out. “And I warn you, I won’t allow my courtroom to be turned into a circus.”
Prissy shifted her gaze to Pennington, Byrd and Raney. Even from the side, she could see that they were grinning from ear to ear.
“Yes, Your Honor,” Hammond said with obsequious deference. “We do not make these charges lightly. Samuel Bishop is unfit to be the sheriff, upholder of the law in Simpson Creek, because he himself is a thief, having swindled the sum of two thousand dollars from the First Bank of Houston, Texas, as well as a ruby ring from Mr. Kendall Raney, here present.”
Sam jumped to his feet. “It’s a lie! Your Honor—Judge Everson—he’s lying!”
Prissy froze in her chair as everyone started talking at once. The judge pounded his gavel repeatedly until the room was once more quiet. She saw everyone staring at Sam, and then some turned and fixed their gazes on her.
Furious at their avid curiosity, she trained her eyes on Sam, but his eyes were fixed on the judge the way a drowning man’s eyes would be fixed upon a man who might or might not throw him a rope.
Judge Everson cleared his throat, which had the effect of hushing those who had begun to whisper and point.
“Mr. Hammond, I warn you that I will not tolerate mischief, even from a so-called lawyer. Do you have any proof of these outrageous charges you’re making?”
The lawyer’s face was the epitome of smugness as he nodded. “Yes, Your Honor, you have but to send someone to search Sheriff Bishop’s quarters. You’ll find the money and the ring there, I’m sure.”
Everson stared at him for a long moment. “And just who do you suggest I send to do that, Mr. Hammond? I’m certain you had someone in mind.”
“I did, Your Honor,” Hammond answered. “I took the liberty of asking Sheriff Hantz of Colorado Bend to be present today as an impartial party capable of making such a search. Sheriff Hantz, will you stand, sir?”
Prissy turned in time to see a stocky man rise from a bench at the back of the room, a man wearing a tin star similar to the one on Sam’s shirt. She gasped, remembering how Sam had told her how the sheriff of Colorado Bend had been unwilling to listen to his concerns about the Alliance.
“He shouldn’t go alone,” her father said, standing too. “I’ll go, to verify anything he finds—if he finds anything, which I doubt he will.”
“And I, too,” Reverend Chadwick said, getting to his feet.
“Very well, gentlemen,” Everson said. “This court will be in recess until you return.”
He raised his hand to bang the gavel once again, but Hammond stepped forward. “Your Honor, surely you don’t mean for Bishop to be at liberty while they search,” the lawyer suggested in his oily voice. “Why, he could do anything—flee, or even follow Sheriff Hantz and attack him.”
Judge Everson glared at Hammond, but the man merely smiled with a meekness Prissy knew was false.
“Mr. Hammond, you’re treading on thin ice,” Everson said. “Please don’t presume to advise me again.”
“No, Your Honor.”
Everson ignored him and looked at the man sitting next to Prissy. “Nicholas Brookfield, it’s my understanding you have served as a deputy in times past. Would you be willing to stand guard over both Mr. Bishop and Leroy Tolliver in the back room of this saloon while these three men leave to search Mr. Bishop’s quarters, until such time as they return and report to this court?”
Nick Brookfield stood. “Yes, Your Honor.”
Everson banged his gavel again. “Very well. Mr. Brookfield, I’m holding you responsible. Sheriff Bishop and Mr. Tolliver are not to speak to one another, much less—ahem!—come to blows.”
“Yes, Your Honor, I understand.”
Sam threw Prissy a look desperate with entreaty before he allowed Nick to march him and Tolliver toward the back room.
Her father looked at her, too, a look she couldn’t interpret, before he followed Reverend Chadwick and the Colorado Bend sheriff out of the courtroom.
So that’s what Sam had been trying to tell her, she thought, sick with horror. He’d been trying to confess that he was a thief and a swindler. Was the love he’d professed for her nothing but a lie, as well?
Sarah reached her side before anyone else and laid a comforting hand on her shoulder. “Prissy, I’m sure they won’t find anything. It’s all trumped-up nonsense.”
“Yes, Tolliver’s lawyer is only making trouble, trying to obscure the facts that clearly point to his client’s guilt,” her husband agreed.
“Prissy, dear, everything will be all right,” Mariah Fairchild, who’d been sitting down the row, chimed in.
But Prissy couldn’t answer them, couldn’t even thank them as they kept the gawkers and the nosy gossips at bay during the painful hour that followed. She kept her face buried in her hands, heedless of the tears that soaked through and trickled onto her skirt as she replayed each moment she’d shared with Sam over the past weeks, looking for a sign.
How could she have been so wrong about a man?
Chapter Twenty
Sam walked back into the improvised courtroom on legs that felt like wooden stilts and listened as Sheriff Hantz was sworn in. He tried to catch Prissy’s gaze, but she only stared with tear-swollen eyes at some point on the saloon wall closest to her.
She believed he was guilty, he realized. Well, of course she did. Why wouldn’t she?
Hammond stepped forward to question the other sheriff. “Sheriff Hantz, tell the judge what you found in Sheriff Bishop’s quarters.”
“I found the money, all two thousand of it, hidden within the mattress on the sheriff’s bed. I sent the mayor to the bank to fetch this sack that now holds the money, Your Honor—” he raised a sack, grunting slightly as if it was very heavy “—but I kept the Reverend with me to guard the money. Oh, and we also found this, Your Honor.”
Sam saw the Colorado Bend sheriff shove a meaty hand into his vest pocket and come forth with the ruby ring he’d returned to Kendall Raney only last night. He closed his eyes in misery.
“Count out the coins, Sheriff Hantz, right here on the bar—ahem!—bench—in front of me,” the judge ordered.
Sam opened his eyes but kept his gaze lowered as the coins spilled out of the sack, clinking together on the wooden bar. He listened as the Colorado Bend sheriff counted the twenty-dollar gold coins into stacks, each one thudding like a death knell, until the sheriff had counted one hundred coins.
Sam knew with a sick certain
ty that Raney had had the money and the ring planted there as soon as he and Luis had marched their prisoner down to the saloon-courtroom. The jail was empty then, and no one would have been watching it—everyone for miles around Simpson Creek had gone to the saloon to attend the trial.
“That must have made for a pretty lumpy mattress, Mr. Bishop,” the judge commented. “How did you ever sleep on it?”
“I—” Sam began. What was the use? He could tell by the fact that the judge had called him “Mister” instead of “Sheriff” that he doubted him already. How could he possibly fix this?
“Your Honor,” Gabe Bryant said, rising to his feet. “With all due respect, any questions you have for Sheriff Bishop should be held until the sheriff is once more on the witness stand.”
“I’m considering Samuel Bishop still under oath from his earlier testimony,” Judge Everson snapped.
Out of the corner of his eye, Sam saw Lamar Hammond ooze forward.
“Your Honor, as Mr. Tolliver’s lawyer, I’d like to suggest Mr. Tolliver be freed, since the state’s key witness has been revealed to be a criminal. His testimony is clearly unreliable, and so Mr. Tolliver should be let go, as there is no convincing evidence to hold him.”
Judge Everson gaped at him, then snapped his jaws shut and fixed Hammond with a furious glare. “Silence!” he roared, leaning on the bar with both hands. “The court will entertain no such outrageous suggestions from you, Mr. Hammond. You make any more and I’ll cite you for contempt!”
“Sorry, Your Honor.” Hammond said, but his lips twitched as he attempted to smooth out his satisfied smile. He darted a glance at the three men in front, who had received no such orders from the judge and were grinning broadly.
Sam wished he could shove a fist into each of their faces in turn—Raney’s first, of course.
“The Simpson Creek jail has two cells, doesn’t it?” the judge demanded, his question aimed at Nick.
Brookfield looked uncomfortable. “Yes, Your Honor.”
The judge turned to Tolliver’s lawyer. “Mr. Hammond, I assume you can prove your outrageous allegation with testimony by this Houston banker?”
Hammond inclined his head. “Yes, Your Honor. Mr. Gregory Timkin, president of the First National Bank of Houston, is due to arrive in Simpson Creek tomorrow, if the weather holds.”
“Very well. Mr. Brookfield, I understand you were acting sheriff until Mr. Bishop came to town, and I’m giving you that job back until further arrangements can be made. Are you able to carry out that job impartially, even though you and Bishop have been friends?”
Nick Brookfield’s face was stony. “I am, Your Honor.”
“Samuel Bishop,” the judge said, “you’re under arrest on suspicion of stealing two thousand dollars from the First National Bank of Houston and a ruby ring belonging to Kendall Raney.” He turned to Nick. “Acting Sheriff Brookfield, you and Deputy Menendez are to take this man—” he pointed straight at Sam “—and Mr. Tolliver back to the jail and install them in their cells.”
“Yes, Your Honor.”
“Sheriff Hantz, do you have a set of come-alongs he could borrow?”
“I do, Your Honor,” Hantz said, and handed them to Nick.
“Stand and stick out your hands.” There was no hint of warmth in Nick’s tone, and no hint of regret in his eyes.
Sam complied, nausea churning in his stomach, and held out his wrists, feeling Hantz’s come-alongs snap with cold, metallic finality over his wrists.
Prissy jumped to her feet and opened her mouth to protest as Sam was being led away, but no sound would come. Once the batwing doors swung shut again after the men had left, her father turned to her.
“We’re going home, Prissy.”
“But—but you have to do something, Papa!” she cried. “You can’t just let them put Sam in jail! He didn’t do anything—I know he didn’t! You can’t let them put Sam into a cell next to that murderer as if Sam was a criminal, too!”
Everyone was staring, whispering. Her father’s face seemed to have transformed itself into stone, just like Nick’s. “We will talk at home, Priscilla.” He put a heavy hand on her shoulder. “Come.”
Mariah Fairchild fluttered behind them, clearly at a loss as to what to do. Her father seemed to remember her at last.
“Mariah, perhaps it would be best if I called upon you later. Priscilla and I need to discuss what has happened. Will you be all right, my dear?”
“O-of course, James…”
Sarah said, “I’ll come see you later, Prissy. It’ll be all right, you’ll see. There will be an explanation.”
And then her father put Prissy’s hand upon his arm and guided her out of the makeshift court.
Flora met them at the door of Gilmore House, her eyes full of questions, but her father just shook his head, and the servant let them by.
“Prissy—” her father began, but she waved her hand helplessly at him and ran up the stairs.
She made it to the sanctuary of her room before she collapsed into tears and threw herself on the bed in a paroxysm of weeping. Houston leaped onto the bed and tried to console her, but she pushed him gently away. At last he contented himself with huddling close to her on the quilt, and she drew what comfort she could from the dog Sam had given her.
Her father came to her room some time later, after she had cried herself out. She’d been staring at the sapphire ring on her finger when he entered, but she shoved her hand under her skirt so as not to remind him that she wore it. She wasn’t going to give it up, any more than she was going to give up on Sam—at least not without hearing what he had to say.
“Priscilla, sometimes we make mistakes,” her father began, “in trusting—loving—certain people, and I know it hurts when events prove us wrong.”
“I’m not wrong,” she said. “I love Sam, and he loves me, and I know there is more to this story than what we’ve heard so far. We have to go to him, to listen to what he has to say. There has to be an explanation!”
“I went to see Bishop after I brought you home,” her father said. “I made sure he was comfortable. But he wouldn’t talk to me. Evidently he has nothing to say, now that he’s been found out as a thief and a swindler.”
“Papa, we have no one’s word for it but that snake of a lawyer’s!” Prissy retorted indignantly. She could hardly believe her ears. Was this her father, who had always been open-minded, never believing the worst of a man until he’d given him every chance to prove otherwise? Evidently his open-mindedness stopped when it came to her.
A muscle jumped in her father’s right temple and his jaw set. “Priscilla, that stolen money and that fancy ring didn’t stuff themselves into Bishop’s mattress. He’s been caught red-handed with stolen goods, daughter.”
“I don’t believe he took those things. I’ll never believe it. Why should he take such a big sum of money and then apply for a job that pays as little as being sheriff does? He could have bought property, set himself up as a gentleman of leisure,” she argued. “I think the money and the ring were planted.”
Her father sat down heavily on a chair by her bedside, looking suddenly twenty years older. “I spoke to Nick Brookfield, Priscilla. It seems he had his doubts about the man from the start. He suspected Bishop had never been a lawman before he came to Simpson Creek. He admits he’d thought he was wrong about Bishop, but he put the question to him when he put him in the cell. Bishop admitted it, right before I came to the jail.”
Prissy stared at her father as the words thudded dully against her aching heart. “He admitted to Nick that he lied about being a sheriff in Tennessee and Louisiana?” she repeated.
Her father nodded, his face downcast. “Prissy, honey, I know it’s hard for you to hear, but you’re a young lady of means, and some men…well, they’re willing to take advantage of a trusting heart. They don’t want to work for their fortune. They merely want to marry it.”
“But…but Sam didn’t want us to live off of you, when we’re married.
He said so,” she protested. “He wanted to buy that old house on Travis Street and fix it up for us, and live on his sheriff’s salary. He told me that, and I believe it! Why are you so quick to think the worst of him?”
“Prissy, did he ever actually buy the house, or was it all just fine talk to convince you he loved you for yourself?” her father asked, his red-rimmed eyes sad.
“He-he didn’t get a chance to!” she cried. “Before he could speak to Mr. Avery, Tolliver was arrested, and Sam was spending every spare moment at the jail guarding him!”
Her father cleared his throat. “Be that as it may, the engagement is over now. My daughter will not be marrying a convicted thief. We should just thank God we found out before you married him and he dragged your good name into the mire along with his own.”
Who was this cold man who got heavily to his feet now? It couldn’t be her papa, for her papa would never have been so unfeeling. Beside her, Houston growled, and her father glared at the dog.
Prissy rose from the bed with as much dignity as she could muster and placed herself between the dog and her father, eyeing the latter through eyes swollen with shed tears. When she spoke, her voice croaked. “I think I have something to say about whether or not my engagement to Sam is over, and I say it isn’t. I won’t believe anything you’re saying about Sam, not unless I hear it from Sam himself. I’m going down to the jail right now.”
Her father stood before her. “No, you’re not. I forbid it. You’ll hear all his sordid lies soon enough when that bank president from Houston arrives and Sam’s trial begins, if you insist on going. If I were you, though, I’d stay home and spare yourself the embarrassment.”
She was silent for a moment, wondering what the best tactic was to use with her suddenly obdurate parent. “He’s going to be proved innocent, Papa, you’ll see.”
“And what if he isn’t, Priscilla?” her father countered. “What if he’s convicted of stealing two thousand dollars from that banker? And the ring?”
“Then I’ll wait for him, Papa. I love him, and he won’t be in prison forever.”
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