The Talisman - Crisscross

by Shaunna Gonzales

  *

  Trish shook her head at the nag that stood hitched to Pierre's aging wagon. She couldn't decide which was in more need of replacing. It would be better than walking the long miles to Root Hog. She climbed onto the wagon seat and snapped the reins.

  The nag was only too happy to stop when they reached the jail, dropping its head to search for absent fodder.

  Trish brushed the dust from her skirts as best she could. Zelda had insisted she wear the blue suit, saying it looked better on Trish than it did her. Trish took a deep breath and pushed the door to the jail open. She stepped inside, her skirt dusting the rough wood.

  "Mornin' ma'am." A freakishly large man towered over the desk, reminding her of a pro football player sitting at a kindergartener's table. She pulled her eyes away from him in search of Quinn. Seeing him behind bars, she straightened. At least he was okay. She kept her eyes on him. "Good morning."

  Quinn's head jerked up, surprised disbelief flooding his expression. For a moment, she thought she caught a smidgeon of pleasure but it faded, arresting the delicious shudder in the pit of her stomach. His expression spoke volumes, telling her he had his doubts.

  "May I visit with him?" she asked the brawny man.

  "Tuckett didn't say nothin' about visitors." He looked at Quinn, then at her. "You ain't got a knife, do ya?"

  Trish laughed. "Certainly not, or any other kind of weapon."

  "Go ahead an' visit, but I gotta stay right here."

  "Thank you." Trish smiled. Knowing both men watched her, she walked to Quinn with deliberate steps. "Are you okay?"

  "Where did ya go?" Quinn's question was barely more than a whisper.

  "Home." A wave of distrust burst across his face. She pushed on. "Why do they have you in here?"

  He squinted at her as if divining her true intent. "Ya don't belong here."

  "Quinn, I'm here to help you."

  "I don't need yer help. What I need is ta get out of here."

  She lowered her voice, hoping Jed couldn't hear her. "I know that wasn't fair to do to you, but in my defense, I couldn't afford the luxury of explaining. And here is not the place. What if I figure out who killed Albert and prove it? Would you be willing to trust me?"

  "Tuckett's plumb set on me killin' the lot of 'em."

  "The lot. Who?"

  "Old Curly, Albert, an' you." A wry smile tugged the corner of his lips. "Least wise with you showin' up he won't pin yer disappearin' on me."

  Trish gripped one of the bars in an effort to keep from sagging to the floor. They'd found Old Curly? She set her jaw, biting back an unexpected nervous chattering of her teeth. She felt sure she knew he hadn't killed Albert, but she needed to follow the same process as if he had hired her as his attorney. "Did you kill Albert?"

  "No." Quinn visibly bit off his curse that no doubted accompanied his vehement denial.

  She studied his features. "Who do you think did?"

  "You seemed to think ya had a good lead the other day. Do you know who dun it?"

  "A lead is not proof. I don't have proof yet and I still have to work out how I'm going to go about getting it. What about Curly? How does Tuckett have you linked to that mess?"

  "Don't ya worry 'bout that. Bailey saw me up there a few days ago."

  "You returned to the scene of a murder?"

  "There ain't no proof. That there blanket remnant couldda come from anywhere."

  "Remnant? He has physical evidence?"

  "Just a tattered piece he claims was Old Curly's." Trish's mind spun. Could he be talking about the ragged Indian blanket Old Curly had draped around his shoulders?

  "And how about you? Do you think it could be Curly's?"

  "Don't care a continental if'n it is or it ain't. Tuckett don't, neither. He's got me where he wants an' is sure to see me hang."

  Trish stared at him. "You can't be serious?"

  "Plumb serious. This ain't no game for ya. Good to see you right as rain, but my range days are gone. Thank ya kindly fer stoppin' in."

  She knew she'd just been dismissed, but she couldn't let it go. "You are not going to hang for a crime you didn't commit. Not if I have anything to say about it." Quinn shook his head and moved away from her. She turned to the oversized deputy, knowing 1887 was different than the twenty-first century. The question was whether or not this deputy liked Quinn. "Quinn mentioned evidence. May I see it?"

  The deputy watched her, seeming to weigh her request. At last, he opened the drawer. Trish steeled her expression. Now was not the time to reveal any of her secrets. The remnant and horseshoe were placed on the desk without regard for the papers littering the desktop.

  Trish stepped closer to the desk. "May I-- I mean, is it okay if I look at these things?"

  "Don't think Tuckett would like that seein' how you’re friends with the prisoner and all."

  She smiled, knowing he just might be risking more than his boss’s disapproval. She reached out, nudging the horseshoe aside to see the design of the Indian blanket. It certainly could be the one Curly'd had, but she couldn't be sure.

  "Pulled that shoe off Quinn's horse," Jed volunteered.

  "Why?"

  "Tuckett said he needed it to match it to the hoof prints they found."

  "And did it?"

  "It sure did."

  "So Quinn's horse had all its shoes pulled."

  "Nope. Just the back ones." Trish stared at the deputy.

  "Why just the two?"

  "Guess just in case Quinn takes a fancy to runnin'." The deputy wrapped the horseshoe in the remnant.

  "So, if he runs, his horse will most likely go lame before he gets very far."

  "Yup." The deputy returned the evidence to the drawer.

  "I don't see a cast here. Did Sheriff Tuckett have one made?" The deputy's expression registered his befuddlement. "A mold… of the imprints… found wherever it was that Quinn was supposed to have been."

  "Don't think so."

  "I see. So when is Tuckett expecting the judge?"

  "Judge Fairbanks ain't supposed to get here until midweek."

  "Wednesday or Thursday. Thank you, you have been very kind."

  Trish returned to the aging conveyance. She allowed the old nag to pick its way home, the wagon wheels turning ever so slowly, echoing the plans in Trish's mind. She had three days at best to prove her case and get Quinn off. If Judge Fairbanks was an open-minded and just man, it might work.

 

  Chapter 41