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"Mr. Pritts," I said, "I believe you are involved in this crime. If the
evidence
will substantiate my belief you will hang also, right along with Fetterson
and
the others."
Why, he fooled me. I expected him to burst out with some kind of attack on
me,
but he did nothing of the kind. "Have you talked to your brother about this?"
"He knows I have my duty to do, and he would not interfere. Nor would I
interfere in his business."
"How much is the bail for Mr. Fetterson?"
"You know I couldn't make any ruling. The judge does that. But there's no
bail
for murder."
He did not threaten me or make any reply at all, he just turned and went
outside. If he had guessed how little I had in the way of evidence he would
have
just sat still and waited. But I have a feeling about this sort of thing ...
if
you push such men they are apt to move too fast, move without planning, and
so
they'll make mistakes.
Bill Sexton came in, and Ollie was with him. They looked worried.
"How much of a case have you got against Fetterson?" Sexton asked me.
"Time comes, I'll have a case."
Sexton rubbed his jaw and then took out a cigar. He studied it while I
watched
him, knowing what was coming and amused by all the preliminaries, but kind of
irritated by them, too.
"This Fetterson," Sexton said, "is mighty close to Jonathan Pritts. It would
be
a bad idea to try to stick him with these killings. He's got proof he wasn't
anywhere around when they took place."
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"There's something to that Tye," Ollie said. "It was Jonathan who helped put
Orrin in office."
"You know something?" I had my feet on the desk and I took them down and sat
up
in that swivel chair. "He did nothing of the kind. He jumped on the band
wagon
when he saw Orrin was a cinch to win. Fetterson stays in jail or I resign."
"That's final?" Ollie asked.
"You know it is."
He looked relieved, I thought. Ollie Shaddock was a good man, mostly, and
once
an issue was faced he would stand pat and I was doing what we both believed
to
be right.
"All right," Sexton said, "if you think you've got a case, we'll go along."
It was nigh to dark when Cap came back to the office. There was no light in
the
office and sitting back in my chair I'd been doing some thinking.
Cap squatted against the wall and lit his pipe. "There's a man in town," he
said, "name of Wilson. He's a man who likes his bottle. He's showing quite a
bit
of money, and a few days ago he was broke."
"Pretty sky," I said, "the man who named the Sangre de Cristos must have seen
them like this. That red in the sky and on the peaks ... it looks like
blood."
"He's getting drunk," Cap said.
Letting my chair down to an even keel I got up and opened the door that shut
off
the cells from the office. Walking over to the bars and stopping there, I
watched Fetterson lying on his cot. I could not see his face, only the dark
bulk
of him and his boots. Yes, and the glow of his cigarette.
"When do you want to eat?"
He swung his boots to the floor. "Any time. Suit yourself."
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"All right." I turned to go and then let him have it easy. "You know a man
named
Wilson?"
He took the cigarette from his mouth. "Can't place him. Should I?"
"You should ... he drinks too much. Really likes that bottle. Some folks
should
never be trusted with money." When I'd closed the door behind me Cap lit the
lamp. "A man who's got something to hide," Cap said, "has something to worry
about."
Fetterson would not, could not know what Wilson might say, and a man's
imagination can work overtime. What was it the Good Book said? "The guilty
flee
when no man pursueth."
The hardest thing was to wait. In that cell Fetterson was thinking things
over
and he was going to get mighty restless. And Jonathan Pritts had made no
request
to see him. Was Jonathan shaping up to cut the strings on Fetterson and leave
him to shift for himself? If I could think of that, it was likely Fetterson
could too.
Cap stayed at the jail and I walked down to the eating house for a meal. Tom
Sunday came in. He was a big man and he filled the door with his shoulders
and
height. He was unshaved and he looked like he'd been on the bottle. Once
inside
he blinked at the brightness of the room a moment or two before he saw me and
then he crossed to my table. Maybe he weaved a mite in walking ... I wouldn't
have sworn to it.
"So you got Fetterson?" He grinned at me, his eyes faintly taunting. "Now
that
you've got him, what will you do with him?"
"Convict him of complicity," I replied. "We know he paid the money."
"That's hitting close to home," Sunday's voice held a suggestion of a sneer.
"What'll your brother say to that?"
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"It doesn't matter what he says," I told him, "but it happens it has been
said.
I cut wood and let the chips fall where they may."
"That would be like him," he said, "the sanctimonious son-of -a-bitch."
"Tom," I said quietly, "that term could apply to both of us. We're brothers,
you
know."
He looked at me, and for a moment there I thought he was going to let it
stand,
and inside me I was praying he would not. I wanted no fight with Tom Sunday.
"Sorry," he said, "I forgot myself. Hell," he said then, "we don't want
trouble.
We've been through too much together."
"That's the way I feel," I said, "and Tom, you can take my say-so or not, but
Orrin likes you, too."
"Likes me?" he sneered openly now. "He likes me, all right, likes me out of
the
way. Why, when I met him he could scarcely read or write ... I taught him. He [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]