by Joe Slade
Despite the sheriff crowding him, Sumner kept his attention focused on the glass of whiskey that he rolled absentmindedly between his palms, but the lawman had no doubt that the man was aware of him.
‘Have you been here long?’ Anderson asked, noticing the red skin and yellow blisters developing on the man’s right hand.
Tight-lipped silence answered him.
‘That’s a nasty looking burn. How’d you get it?’
Lamplight glinted off filthy, heavily oiled hair as Sumner lifted hazel-green eyes to stare insolently at the sheriff through the mirror.
‘Is that kerosene I smell on you?’ the lawman persisted.
Sumner sniffed, shrugged. His right sleeve was damp up to the elbow, there was no point denying it.
‘All right, if that’s the way you want to play it, I’m arresting you on suspicion of arson and murder.’
Sumner swallowed his drink and turned somewhat drunkenly to face the lawman. There was a hint of amusement in his feline eyes. ‘Arson ain’t my line of work but...’
He shoved the front of his coat away from the old six-gun holstered at his hip and stumbled back a couple of steps. Around the room, a hush fell over the twenty-odd men gathered there. Those closest to the unfolding drama scurried away from the line of fire. The barkeep disappeared with a groan as he threw himself onto his hands and knees.
Anderson covered his own sidearm. He knew that behind him, Rick would be doing the same.
Sumner laughed. ‘Easy, Sheriff.’ He reached carefully across his body and grasped the butt of his gun between two fingers of his left hand. He drew it slowly from the holster and held it out. ‘You can take it. I’ll come peaceful…being as I’m not guilty of anything.’
With his hand still on his own weapon, Anderson took the gun and shoved it into his pocket. A flick of the wrist indicated that Sumner should precede him out of the saloon and with Rick to his left, the three made their way to the jailhouse.
At the sight of a small figure sitting on the law office steps, Anderson swore under his breath. ‘Miss Harris! I told you to go home,’ he shouted.
She came forward to meet them. ‘I’m sorry, Sheriff. I just had to see the man who could do such a horrible thing. Has he said who put him up to it?’ She reached forward and grabbed Sumner’s arm. ‘Is that kerosene on his sleeve?’
The woman and her incessant questions annoyed Anderson more than they should. He pushed her away and drew in a steadying breath. ‘You’re obviously a very perceptive woman, Miss Harris, so you should realize things are never that black and white. Now, if you’ll excuse us.’
She held her ground. ‘Well, I suppose if I was him I’d keep my mouth shut too.’
Anderson doubted that. The woman had an opinion about everything and he found himself waiting for the next one. It wasn’t long coming.
‘A man like him, I’d be willing to bet he was well paid,’ she surmised. ‘Probably by someone who wouldn’t take kindly to being double-crossed.’
Sumner chuckled. ‘Lady, if I saw the shadow of a noose, money wouldn’t mean a hill of beans to me.’
‘Well, you just remember you said that.’ Anderson elbowed him in the ribs. ‘Now, Miss Harris, I want you to go home and leave the law to me. Would you feel safer if I sent my deputy with you?’
‘No.’ She backed away. ‘I’ll be all right.’
This time, he watched her until she walked out of sight. ‘I can’t help thinking she’d make a damn good lawman with that enquiring mind,’ he said, grudgingly. ‘Now let’s get you locked up.’
Once inside, Sumner walked meekly into an empty cell and threw himself down on one of the cots.
‘Have you got anything to say?’ Anderson asked as he shoved the key in the lock. ‘Like, who paid you to set that fire.’
Sumner held up his red and blistered hand. ‘I need a doc.’
As the image of Bob Johnson’s burned corpse crossed his mind, it was tempting for Anderson to tell the man responsible to go to Hell but he simply nodded before walking back to his office. He left the cellblock door ajar and tossed his hat on the desk. Suddenly, he felt tired, sluggish even. He was glad Sumner hadn’t put up a fight, but it wasn’t surprising looking at his hand. It would be weeks before he could draw a gun.
He sighed as he ran shaky fingers through his mass of grey hair. He was getting too old for this. He should be at home with his wife in their warm bed, but neither of his regular deputies was back yet and he couldn’t leave the prisoner unattended. He glanced towards Rick where he leaned against the wall rolling his neck and shoulders.
‘That was easier than I thought it would be. Do you want coffee?’ Anderson asked, frowning as he shook the empty pot.
Rick answered in the negative. Beneath the sooty mask, he looked pale and haggard. His blue eyes were red rimmed and teary from the fire and the soot.
‘You might as well get going. I want to take a good look at that fire site in the morning.’
Rick didn’t put up an argument. He was already standing by the door and smoky air breezed in as he pulled it open and stepped out.
‘When you see your friend the doc,’ the sheriff called after him, ‘tell him I’ve got a patient for him.’
The door clicked shut and Anderson slumped into his chair. Stiffly, he lifted his feet to the desk while he waited for the coffee to boil. With everything that had happened the past few days, he had a lot to think about. Resignedly, he clasped his hands over his belly, preparing to mull over each event beginning with the murder of Sam Pickering, but as he started to ponder, his concentration waned and he drifted off to sleep.
Doc pushed up from the uncomfortable chair beside Maggie’s bed. ‘I thought Doc Porter was back in town,’ he grumbled. ‘Seems like he should be the one dealing with this.’
‘You’re probably right,’ Rick said, ‘but Ben asked me to send you over.’
‘Well, I’m not happy about it. Martha says Maggie’s been restless. I should be here.’
Brought from her bed by Doc’s loud ranting, Martha appeared in the doorway wearing a flannel nightdress and rags in her hair. ‘Don’t worry,’ she said, good-naturedly. ‘I’ll keep an eye on both of them.’
Doc turned and frowned at Rick who was already reclining in the uncomfortable chair with his hat pulled over his eyes. ‘Well at least someone in this house is getting some sleep.’
He was still chuntering when he reached the law office.
‘Catch,’ someone said, barely above a whisper.
He had been about to mount the plank walk, but he stepped back to take a look along the alley that ran next to the jail house. For a split second, a moving flash of light illuminated a pale face in the otherwise pitch dark.
‘Who’s there?’ he shouted.
The light was gone as quickly as it had appeared. Someone yelled and a yellow glow seemed to hover halfway up the wall. He heard a thud and a groan and then the sound of feet running in the opposite direction.
‘What the hell?’ He stepped back onto the plank walk. ‘You kids should be in bed!’
His hand was on the door when he heard screaming coming from inside the squat building. Too late for caution, he burst in to see the sheriff disappear through a door at the back. The screaming sent a shiver along his spine as he was reminded of another time not too long ago. He shook it off and followed the lawman.
Inside the cellblock, Anderson flung open a cell door and dodged inside where a man reeled around as flames engulfed his arm and chest. Several times the sheriff tried to grab a blanket from the cot, missing as he ducked to avoid the flames.
The next empty cell was open and Doc lunged inside and grabbed a blanket. ‘Here,’ he said, feeding it through the bars.
By now the man’s oiled hair had burst into flames turning his head into a fireball. He crashed against the bars. Anderson yanked the blanket through and covered him, dragged him down beating violently at the flames.
Coming back around, Doc shoved him aside. There
was nothing he could do. The victim’s breath came in short pained gasps as his throat blistered and swelled. Within seconds, it was over. Doc pulled the blanket over the blackened features and stepped out. Despite being no stranger to seeing death, seeing the many ways a man could die never got any easier.
‘I don’t understand,’ the sheriff mumbled as he wandered back to his office. ‘Why would he set himself on fire?’
‘Didn’t you search him before you put him in there?’ Doc asked, falling back on facts and logic.
‘Of course I did.’ Anderson sat down, opened the top draw of his desk and gestured at the gun, dented silver-plated watch, tobacco pouch and matches there. ‘That’s all he had on him. It doesn’t make sense. A man like that drinks himself to death or dies by a bullet, not screaming in agony.’
Neither man said anything for a few minutes as they each mulled over the scene.
‘On my way in here,’ Doc said, suddenly, ‘I saw someone in the alley next to the cellblock. Whoever it was ran off when they saw me but I think they might have pushed something through the bars.’
Anderson snapped to attention. ‘Why didn’t you say something before, man?’ He grabbed the lamp that provided a meager light for his office and ran outside.
Several patrons from the saloon had spilled out to see what the noise was. None seemed eager to cross the street for a closer look.
‘What’s going on, Sheriff?’
‘Everything all right?’
‘Go home,’ Anderson shouted.
Beneath the bars of the cell, several boxes had been stacked. Some had fallen away but it was obvious they had been placed there to form a platform of sorts. The sheriff dropped to his haunches and scoured the ground. At last, he picked something small out of the dirt.
‘What is it?’ Doc asked, craning his neck to see as he hung back.
‘It looks like you were right.’ Anderson held out several broken matchsticks on the palm of his hand. ‘You said whoever it was ran off in this direction?’ he asked, creeping forward as he moved the lamp around over the hard-packed earth.
‘Do you see any tracks?’
‘Uh huh.’ The sheriff got to his feet, staring off across the street for a moment, his eyes narrowed towards something or someone. ‘Is Maggie O’Bannen still unconscious?’
‘She was when I left the house,’ Doc said, following his gaze and seeing only drunken faces. ‘Why?’ He shook his head as a thought occurred to him. ‘You can’t possibly think she had anything to do with this.’
The sheriff scowled. ‘You know for an educated man you can be quite a jackass,’ he said, striding away without a sideways glance. ‘Send me your bill and I’ll see it gets paid.’
Chapter Fifteen
‘And he called me a jackass!’ Doc concluded as he related the night’s happenings to Rick the next morning over strong coffee in Martha Peters’ kitchen. ‘I tell you, the man couldn’t find his ass with both hands.’
Rick hadn’t slept well and Doc’s immediate and violent verbal assault didn’t sit well before breakfast. ‘You’re not giving him a chance.’
‘Is he giving Maggie a chance?’
‘I’m sure he’s keeping an open mind,’ Rick argued, wanting to bring the conversation to a swift close.
‘Huh.’ Doc’s skepticism was obvious. ‘It beats the hell out of me why you’re defending him when the first name he thinks of when anything happens in this town is Maggie O’Bannen.’
‘That isn’t true and you know it,’ Rick said irritably.
‘I’m sure I don’t. It seems to me he’s had his eye on Maggie since we rolled in to this Godforsaken place.’
Rick turned on him. ‘Look, Doc, I know how you feel about Maggie but I trust Ben Anderson,’ he said, feeling protective of the lawdog. ‘He’s a straight shooter. One of the good ones.’
Doc arched an eyebrow, the expression of doubt challenging him to explain.
It needled Rick and he considered long and hard what to say next. Torn between wanting to defend the sheriff and wanting to keep his own past to himself, in the end it came down to one thing. One person. Maggie. Anderson could be a real ally for her if Doc would let him.
‘He saved my life when I had a rope around my neck,’ he said bluntly.
Doc’s intense, hawkish gaze skewered him but for a change he didn’t push.
‘About a year ago, I killed my half-brother. The lynch mob had a noose around my neck. They believed I should hang.’ He chuckled mirthlessly. ‘Hell, I believed I should hang.’
For once, Doc waited in silence for him to go on.
‘I’m not going to tell you it was an accident or a fair fight, if that’s what you’re thinking, just that I did it.’
‘You said Anderson was a straight shooter. What you’re saying now seems to contradict that.’
Rick marveled at Doc’s knack for picking out facts. ‘I can see that’s how it might sound, but Ben’s like you, he’s a stickler for detail, and justice is carved into his bones. I thought I deserved to hang. He knew I didn’t. That’s why I know if anyone can help Maggie, it’s him. Just give him a chance, Doc.’
Rick could see a dozen questions forming in Doc’s mind. He braced himself but, without a word, Doc stood up, stretched his back and dropped his mug into Martha’s copper washbowl. ‘Maggie’s my only concern. I’m going to get a couple of hours sleep before the next crisis rears its head.’
Rick got up to leave. ‘Just give Ben a chance.’
Doc waved a hand as he walked away yawning. It wasn’t an agreement, but Rick knew it was the closest he was going to get from the stubborn medic.
With the Fourth of July celebrations over, life returned to normal in Flamstead Junction and the next couple of days passed quietly. Maggie didn’t regain consciousness and the worry showed on Doc’s haggard and unshaven face. He barely left her side now and if he did sleep it wasn’t in a bed but rather in the chair beside hers.
‘You need to get cleaned up and get some fresh air,’ Martha Peters scolded. She handed him a cup of coffee and snatched up the blanket that had fallen at his feet. ‘If Maggie woke up right this minute she’d think there was a bear in the room with her.’ She sniffed. ‘And I’m not just talking about those whiskers.’
Doc ran his hand over the three-day old stubble on his cheek. Martha was right. He hadn’t done more than splash water on his face since the fire, and his clothes still reeked of smoke.
She flung back the curtains, letting in a shaft of sunlight. ‘I’ve boiled some water and laid out a fresh set of clothes in Bill’s office for you. I’ll sit with Maggie for a while.’
Martha Peters had surprised Doc. Far from being the timid, world-weary woman who had greeted him and Maggie only a week earlier, she had turned out to be organized and determined. She hadn’t turned a hair when he had moved in without invitation and she seemed content to provide him with three square meals a day and a helping hand when he needed it.
‘Where’s Leo?’ he asked.
‘I sent him to the store for a few things.’ She grabbed Doc’s elbow and manhandled him to his feet. ‘A youngster like that shouldn’t be cooped up indoors. Now, you go downstairs and get cleaned up. When you’ve done that, I’ll get you something to eat.’
‘Yes, ma’am.’
Doc chuckled. She was almost as fierce as Maggie.
Twenty minutes later, as he wiped away the last of the soap from his clean-shaven jaw, an urgent knock at the front door disturbed the peace. He heard movement upstairs and grabbed his shirt, pulling it on as he hurried along the hallway.
‘I’ll get it,’ he shouted. ‘You stay with Maggie.’
‘You must be Doctor Simpkins,’ the elderly man who had knocked said when Doc opened the door. He dropped the carpetbag he was clutching and held out his thin, veined hand. ‘My name is Andrew Philips. I’m the Stanford family attorney. May I come in for a moment?’
They shook and Doc stepped aside to let the stoop shouldered attorney pass.
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‘I won’t take up much of your time,’ Philips said, stopping in the hallway. ‘I’m on my way to catch the train. I just came to see how your patient is doing?’
‘There’s been no change.’
The attorney frowned, looked about to say something, then shook his head as if he had decided against it.
‘Was there something else you wanted to discuss?’ Doc urged, sensing the man’s reluctance to leave despite his furtive glances towards the door.
Philips gave it some more thought.
‘The sheriff tells me that you’re her husband.’ He said it almost as a question. ‘Cavanaugh was reluctant to confirm that but tells me Miss Stanford trusts you implicitly. Is that correct?’
‘I hope so. What’s on your mind?’
Philips’ frown deepened. He looked ready to run despite the general frailty of his advancing years.
‘Look, you didn’t come here just to check on how Maggie was doing,’ Doc said, guessing. ‘What is it you wanted to say to me?’
The man groaned. ‘I don’t know if you’re aware that I saw George Stanford the day before he died.’
Doc nodded.
‘He had me draw up an affidavit swearing that the woman known as Maggie O’Bannen was his daughter Margaret. He signed it and it was duly notarized by me. Upon his death, all his assets including money, property and shares in numerous business interests passed to her.’
The attorney let the news sink in for a few seconds. ‘I’m telling you this because without it there’s no proof that Maggie O’Bannen is Margaret Stanford and, based on the terms of his last will, she has no claim.’
‘So what’s the problem?’
‘Last night, someone broke in to my office. They managed to open my safe and the only item taken was the affidavit.’