by Bill Crider
"I have no idea," Randall said. "I thought that was your job. To find her."
"I'll send some men out to look for her," Vincent said. "I don't reckon she's gone too far."
He already had in mind a couple of places for the men to search. He knew that Lizzie had been in the habit of straying around the town after dark lately. That was no surprise, considering the way Randall kept her hobbled. Vincent suspected that she was meeting a young man. He hated to break up a rendezvous, but it was late, after all, and the time for her to be getting home. She'd probably just lost track of the time.
"You go on home," he told Randall. "I'll take care of things. We'll have her back before you know it."
Randall appeared reluctant to leave. "Shouldn't I stay here and wait until you find out something?"
"There's no reason for that," Vincent assured him. "Jack'll be in any minute, and I'll have him round up a few men to look for your daughter. They'll find her. Don't worry about that."
"Well," Randall said hesitantly. "If you say so, I suppose it's all right."
"You can count on it," Vincent said.
"You'll let us know as soon as you find her?"
"That's what I've been tellin' you."
Randall left then, but he was clearly not happy with the situation. It seemed to Vincent almost as if the preacher didn't want to go back home.
He had not been gone long before Jack came in.
"Town's quiet, Sheriff," he said. "Not much stirrin' around tonight." He smiled, which had the effect of making his face a bit less grotesque. He was always glad to report a quiet evening. He didn't like action any better than Vincent did.
"We do have one little problem," Vincent told him. He filled him in on Randall's visit.
"Damn," Jack said. "You know, a few nights back I thought I saw her over to that grove of trees on the west side of town. That was earlier than this, though."
"I remember," Vincent said. "I don't think there's anything to this, but we might as well do it right. Anybody still drinkin' over at the saloon?"
"A few," Jack said.
"Well, round 'em up and get 'em out lookin'. Send a few over to the springs, and you take the rest over to the woods. If we don't locate her there, we'll try something else. I expect she'll be home before you hardly get to lookin'."
"All right, Sheriff," Jack said. "You want me to bring her in if I find her?"
"That's the idea. I'll give her a little lecture on not worryin' her daddy, and we'll let it go at that."
5.
Vincent looked at the clock again.
Eleven-fifteen.
He was beginning to wonder why Jack hadn't come back when he heard horses outside. The door banged opened and Turley Ross came in.
"Howdy, Sheriff," Ross said.
"Howdy, Turley. You one of the search party?"
"Yeah. We found her."
"Good," Vincent said, getting out of his chair. "Where --"
"We found the sonofabitch that killed her, too," Ross said.
Vincent felt as if someone had hit him in the kidneys with a three-foot club. "Wait a minute, Turley, what're you --"
"It was that Paco Morales," Turley went on. "Meskin kid that lives in a shack out past the edge of town. He's the one done it."
Vincent took a deep breath and tried to steady his nerves. "Lizzie Randall," he said. "You tellin' me she's dead?"
"Damn right, she's dead. Raped, too, probably, you ask me. It was that meskin kid, like I said. Len Harper's gone for the doc."
Vincent sat on the edge of his desk, trying to take it in. He could feel his sweaty shirt sticking to his back. "You're sure she's dead?"
"Hell, you oughta see her. She's dead all right." Ross shook his head. "Damn shame, too, her daddy bein' the preacher and all."
Vincent could hardly believe what he was hearing. Lizzie Randall, dead. And killed by the same boy whose father had been shot in the only other incident that had disturbed Vincent's more or less peaceful career as sheriff of Dry Springs.
"YOu say you caught him red-handed?"
"Damn right we did. We shoulda strung him up on the spot, you ask me. Throwed a rope over one of them tree limbs out there and hung him like the murderin' bastard he is."
The lawman in Vincent took over. "You can't do things that way, Turley. This is a law-abidin' town. We don't go in for lynchin'."
"Wouldn't be lynchin', exactly. Hell, we caught him in the act."
"How'd he kill her?'
"Don't know that. Guess the doc'll have to tell us."
"I thought you caught him in the act."
Turley shook his head and looked stubborn. "We did, kind of. We caught him tryin' to get away, and that's the same thing. There just ain't no doubt he done it."
"Was Jack with you?" Vincent asked, hoping that Turley would tell him that the deputy was at the preacher's house breaking the bad news.
"He's standin' guard with the prisoner and the body, waitin' for you to come out there. He said you'd have to be the one to go and tell the preacher."
Vincent had been afraid of that. He sighed and got off the desk. There was no use putting it off.
On the other hand, maybe he should go out to the scene and see if Turley was right in saying that Lizzie Randall was dead. There was always a chance that he was wrong, and it wouldn't be right to give the Randalls a false report only to find out that there had been some kind of mistake. Maybe the girl was just badly beaten.
"Where'd you say she was?" he asked
"Didn't say. But she's out in that grove of trees over to the west of town."
"Let's go," Vincent said.
"Ain't you gonna wait for the doc?"
"He's here," Vincent said, and then Turley too heard the sound of a buggy driving up outside the jail.
They went out, where Doc Bigby and Lane Harper were waiting, Harper on horseback and Bigby in the buggy. Bigby was the most cheerful man in Dry Springs. Vincent had never seen him without a smile or a chipper remark to make.
"Howdy there, Sheriff," Bigby sang out as the two men came out of the jail. "You ever see such a fine night at this time of they ear? I swear, the air's like ambrosia." Bigby took a deep breath, and Vincent could see his teeth shining in the starlight.
Bigby was a short, dapper man, with a fringe of white hair showing under the brim of his hat. It was just about all the hair he had. Vincent liked the man, in spite of his constant good cheer. Vincent couldn't quite figure out how anybody could be that happy all the time.
It wasn't his practice, that was for sure. Most of the people in Dry Springs knew that Bigby wasn't a real doctor, and though he seemed to know a little something about most ailments, they would often just as soon trust their own remedies as to call on him.
Whenever there was a real emergency, however, or whenever somebody needed a tooth pulled that took a little looking or an extra pair of hands, or even whenever there was a really sick horse or cow that just didn't seem to be getting any better, Bigby was the man they looked for. Sometimes his cures worked, and sometimes they didn't, but he did well enough to keep from scaring everyone completely away. Besides, he was the closest thing Dry Springs had to a doctor, and the closest they were likely to get. And at least he wasn't overly fond of cutting off your body parts, like some doctors Vincent had run into over they years.
He looked a little less than dapper this evening, and when Vincent asked, he explained that a horse had foaled out at the Stuart place and there'd been a pretty rough time of it.
"But I understand you folks got you a real problem," Bigby said, still smiling.
"That's right," Vincent told him. "If what I've heard is right, we got some trouble."
"Well, let's get on out there and see. You might's well ride with me, Sheriff. I could use the company, and you could tell me what's goin' on."
Vincent tied his horse to the back of the buggy and climbed in, making the springs squeak.
"Could use some grease, I guess," Bigby said. His teeth flashed.
"You fellas go on ahead," Vincent told Turley and Harper. "We'll follow along after you."
The horses walked around the buggy and the two men started for the west side of town. Bigby slapped the reins on the neck of his little bay, and the buggy moved off after them.
"Harper says that Lizzie Randall's been murdered in cold blood," Bigby said as the buggy rolled along.
"That's what Turley tells me," Vincent said. "I was hopin' maybe they were wrong about that."
"About her bein' murdered?"
"About her being dead. They ain't experts."
Bigby looked sideways at the sheriff. "From what Harper said, there's not much doubt."
"We'll check it out anyway."
"I could tell the family for you," Bigby said. "I've had to do that kind of thing before."
Vincent was sorry he was that easy to read. "I'll do it. It's my job. I just want you to make sure."
"I understand they've got the fella that did it, too," Bigby said.
"Paco Morales. I ain't too sure about that, either."
"Why not?"
"Turley's story didn't exactly fit together real smooth."
"Harper says the Morales boy did it. Says they caught him in the act."
"That's what Turley says, all right. But he didn't know how the girl died, if she died. So how did they catch him in the act and not know that?"
"I see what you mean." Bigby thought about it for a minute. "This could get bad, Sheriff. If she's really dead, and if that meskin kid was really there."
"He was there, all right. They caught him."
"Lots of folks won't like that, a meskin kid around where a white woman's been killed. 'Specially a preacher's daughter. Lane Harper says they shoulda hung the boy right there. Would've done it if Jack Simkins hadn't stopped them."
"Jack stopped them?"
"That's what Harper says."
"I'll be damned." Vincent wouldn't have thought Jack had the nerve to stand up to a bunch that wanted to hang somebody. Maybe there was more to Jack than he thought.
"We're comin' to the trees," Bigby said.
Vincent didn't answer. He was afraid of what they'd find.
6.
She was dead, all right; Vincent knew that the minute he saw her, the light of the moon falling on her through the trees. He shook his head. "Have a look at her, doc," he said.
"I tell you, I never seen anything like it," Harl Case said. "That damn Paco."
"Where is he?" Vincent said.
Harl hitched a thumb over his shoulder. "Back yonder in the trees."
Leaving the examination of the body to Bigby, Vincent walked back there, his boots scuffing through dried leaves. He saw Jack leaning against the tree. "Well, Jack."
"Yeah," Jack said. He looked like some kind of vengeful ghost standing there, his glass eye not quite lined up right, the scar on his face livid in the dim light.
Vincent looked down at Paco. "Jesus, they did a real job on him. He still alive?"
"I think so. I checked a few minutes ago, and he was still breathin' then."
"Better get him back to the jail and lock him up, then. You think we can carry him?"
Simkins pushed away from the tree. "He don't weigh that much."
"Let's try not to hurt him anymore than he already is," Vincent said as they bent down. The took the unconscious boy by his legs and shoulders and lifted him.
Paco groaned, and a bubble of blood formed on his mouth.
"Broke ribs," Vincent said. "We'll have to get Doc Bigby to look at him." He looked at Simkins. "You did good, Jack, not lettin' those fellas hang him."
"They might try it again. They were mad as hell."
They carried the injured boy to Bigby's buggy and laid him in the seat. Vincent was aware of the men watching them from the edge of the trees.
Bigby walked over. "Looks like she was beat up on pretty good, knifed a few times. I'll have to look her over better to know for sure."
"All right. Let's put her in the back of the buggy. YOu can take her to your office."
Bigby had a little office and examination room over the store where Paco had gone to buy the salt and sugar.
"There's some of us don't like the idea of her bein' in the buggy with that greaser," Turley Ross said when Vincent told the men what he was going to do.
"That's just too damn bad," the sheriff said. "There's not much he can do to her now."
"It don't seem right," Harl said. "Seein' as how he's the one killed her."
"I don't want to hear any more of that kind of talk," Vincent said. "Not until it's proved."
"It's proved enough for me," Ross said. "I say we hang the bastard right now."
"You all tried that idea out once already," Jack said. "It didn't wash, and it still won't. Go on home now. Get some sleep."
The men grumbled for a few more minutes, but finally they gave it up. They went over to where their horses were tied to some low-hanging branches, mounted up, and rode away.
"I think we'll be hearin' some more from them," Jack said.
"I'm afraid you're right," Vincent said. "Doc, you go on into town. I'll ride along with Jack, and you can meet us at the jail. In the mornin' we'll see what you can tell us about the girl."
He watched Bigby climb wearily into the buggy and thought about what he was going to tell the Randalls. Whatever he said, it would not be easy.
7.
It turned out to be worse than he thought.
The Randall's house was on the outskirts of town. It had a neatly kept yard, surrounded by a picket fence, and someone, probably Mrs. Randall, had tried to start a flower garden. It had not done well, and Vincent could see only a couple of droopy-headed roses on a scraggly bush.
Martha Randall let him in the door at his knock, leading him to the lamp-lit sitting room. There was a hooked rug on the floor, and Vincent looked at its pattern as if there might be a message there for him.
There wasn't, and he took off his hat, bringing his head up and met Mrs. Randall's eyes. "Where's your husband?" he asked.
"He's in the back room, praying. Have you found my daughter? Have you found Lizzie?"
"We'd better get your husband in here," Vincent said, knowing it was the wrong thing but unable to think of anything better.
Mrs. Randall looked at him stonily, then turned and left the room, her broad back tensed as if she expected Vincent to hit her.
In a few seconds, Randall entered the room, clutching his Bible. His wife stood behind him in the doorway, filling it.
"You've found her?" Randall said. "Where is she?"
"Yes," Vincent said, twisting his hat in his hands. "We've found her. She . . . she's at Doc Bigby's office."
"She's hurt? What happened? A fall? Did she --"
"She's dead," Vincent blurted out. He couldn't think of any other way to put it. Hell, there wasn't any other way.
Mrs. Randall gave a brief, strangled cry and fell forward. She hit the floor hard, and Vincent was glad for the momentary distraction. He stepped past Randall and knelt down beside her. There was a horsehair sofa on one side of the room, and it had been his intent to get her to it, but he saw that he could not do so without help.
He got her rolled over onto her back, and then he felt Randall's heavy hand on his shoulder. "Leave her. Tell me what happened to me daughter."
Vincent stood up slowly. His knees popped. Maybe it was better this way. Mrs. Randall wouldn't have to hear the terrible details, at least not from the sheriff.
Randall stood stiffly while Vincent told him.
"There must be some mistake," he said when the sheriff had finished. "My daughter can't have been killed like that."
There was a faint stirring from Mrs. Randall, and what might have been a sigh. Vincent looked down at her, but she gave no sign of being aware of anything. Her eyes were closed.
"It's her," Vincent said. "There's no mistake."
Randall walked over to the sofa and sat down. He put his Bible down caref
ully on an end table covered with a white crocheted doily. Then he clasped his hands and bowed his head.
Vincent stood there awkwardly. He didn't know whether to say or go, but he felt he should do something for Mrs. Randall if her husband didn't intend to.
She lay on the floor unmoving, however, and Randall continued to pray silently. Or Vincent guessed he was praying. That was what it looked like he was doing.
"She's at the doc's, like I said," Vincent said finally, but Randall ignored him, and his wife did not hear.
Nothing changed for a full five minutes, so Vincent walked to the front door and let himself out.
There was another house he had to visit that night.
#
The home of Paco Morales was quite different from that of the Randalls. There was no fence, and no flower garden, not even the pretense of one. Even in the moonlight, Vincent could see that the roof needed repair and the paint was peeling. The yard was hard dirt, and there were some chickens roosting in the lower limbs of a chinaberry tree near the house.
There was a light in one of the front windows, and it occurred to Vincent for the first time that there was another mother who had most likely been up all night waiting for her child to come home.
He knocked on the door, and it was answered immediately by a short, round-faced woman with coal-black hair and anxious eyes.
"Miz Morales?" Vincent said. He knew very well who she was. He had met her more than once when her husband had been killed.
"Si, I am Rosa Morales, Sheriff."
"It's, uh, about your son."
"Paco. Where is Paco?" The voice came from a little girl about six years old who was standing beside Mrs. Morales. Vincent hadn't noticed her earlier.
"Go to the bedroom, Aurelia," Mrs. Morales said. "It is time that you were asleep."
"But where is Paco?"
"Never mind about that. Go to bed." The woman's voice was firm, and the little girl turned reluctantly away.
Her mother watched her go. When the girl was gone, Mrs. Morales turned back to Vincent. "And now, was my daughter asked, where is Paco. Where is my son."
"Well, ma'm, he's in the jail."