Paper Sheriff

by Short, Luke;

Sebastian smiled resignedly and shook his head before he struggled into speech. “I’ve got a better idea, Reese. If you find evidence, why not have the prosecutor with you when you find it.”

  “Jen?” Reese asked in surprise.

  “Why not?” Sebastian asked. “If she’s there, you won’t be required in court to testify to anything.”

  Reese looked at Jen who seemed as surprised as he was. Before either of them could speak Sebastian said, “Amelia will be here for another ten days. She can feed me and tuck me in bed, like she used to do when I was a little tad. Jen’s tired and bored and I’m bored with her. Take her with you, Reese.”

  Reese looked at Jen now and saw her expression change from disapproval, to thought, to pleasure. “What about it, Jen? We can loaf on a horse all day and anybody will put us up at night.”

  “Do it, Jen. That’s an order from the District Attorney.”

  4

  Inevitably there was one of the Hoad clan employed by Sutton County, since any man elected to a county office and wishing to be re-elected could not overlook the Hoad block of votes and the simplest way to acquire and hold them was to give a Hoad a job.

  Washington Plunket was a county maintenance worker. He was the son of Sarah Hoad Plunket, whose sister was Amy Bashear and whose brothers were Orville and Ty Hoad. His was the title given the man who janitored the court-house, repaired bridges when they needed it, served papers when they had to be served, ran errands for the brand inspector, cleaned the town’s irrigation ditches, kept the ditch books and was the cemetery sexton. In a country where denim pants, cowman’s boots and shapeless Stetsons made up the countryman’s dress, and a dark suit was the, uniform of a townsman, Wash Plunket clothed his big frame with bib overalls, shod his large feet with ploughman’s square-toed boots and crowned his thatch of pale Hoad hair with a farmer’s straw hat. At twenty-eight he seemed twice his age: a morose man, possibly made so by the memory of the graves he had dug that reminded him of the end of man. A surly, hard-drinking bachelor, he slept on a cot in the court-house basement and acted as night jailer.

  Orville Hoad knew his habits well, having been in his custody for fourteen nights, so that he was sure Wash would be at Tim Macey’s Saloon precisely when darkness fell and the saloon lamps were lit. As Orville rode into town that evening, he was pondering what Callie had told him less than an hour ago. Reese, Callie said, had gone off somewhere and he wouldn’t tell her where. At Ty’s place Callie had been jumpier than usual. She had scornfully told her father and Orville that it was just as she had predicted: Reston hadn’t shown up and Reese had left, probably to hunt the rustled cattle. Orv had soothed her by telling her the cattle were sure to be out of the way by now and would be out of the county by late tomorrow.

  But Callie’s guess as to the reason for Reese’s absence was only a guess, and Orv wanted information.

  As he reined in before Macey’s Saloon and dismounted, he remembered his parting with Wash Plunket. It hadn’t been very friendly. Their disagreement had started when Orv had asked Wash to sneak him in a gun, and Wash had refused. Then he had asked Wash to smuggle in a file, and again Wash refused. To Orv it was unthinkable for a Hoad to refuse help to another Hoad. While Wash agreed with this, he had pointed out that if he helped Orv, he himself would take Orv’s place in jail. It didn’t make much sense, Wash had said, to change one Hoad for another. Besides that, his job and his freedom would be gone. To ease the harshness of his answer, he kept Orv supplied with liquor the whole two weeks of his stay in jail. But Orv had never wholly forgiven him.

  Tonight Orv was warned of the crowd inside Macey’s by the babble of voices that could be heard on the street. He shouldered his way through the swing doors, a gaunt, commanding man with sly, fanatic eyes that searched the room for his big nephew. Wash was, Orv saw, at the back end of the bar by himself.

  Orv pushed down the too narrow aisle that separated the now filled twin card tables and the bar. The low-ceilinged, draftless room trapped and held the smoke from the cigars and pipes and it was mingled with the rank stench of the several cuspidors inside the bar foot rail.

  When Orv halted by Wash, his nephew greeted him with a barely civil nod. His beak nose in the sallow face was less flamboyant and pronounced than Orv’s, but he was unmistakably a Hoad.

  “Reckon I owe you some drinks, Wash—a lot of them,” Orv said pleasantly.

  “Some, likely.”

  “Well, let’s catch up,” Orv said and he rapped a coin on the counter to attract the bartender’s attention. When a bottle of whisky was brought, Wash’s glass refilled and Orv’s filled, Orv knocked off his drink and poured another. Wash watched him gloomily, content to let his drink rest for the moment.

  Orv said then, “What’s the talk over at my old boarding-house, Wash?”

  “Ain’t any. Daley’s still creaking around with a sprung back and that’s about it.”

  “Good time to pick a fight with him.”

  “You aim to?”

  “I could work up to it,” Orv said judiciously. Then he added, “But not with Reese in town.”

  “He ain’t, if that’s all that’s holding you up.”

  “Where is he? I stopped by Callie’s and he wasn’t there.”

  “Gone.”

  “Where to?”

  Now Wash took his drink, let it settle, then said, “Ain’t heard.”

  “The hell you ain’t,” Orv scoffed amiably. “You know when anybody in that court-house scratches hisself.”

  Wash shrugged. “Ask Daley. He’s out on the street.”

  Orv looked at him carefully, surprised at his insolence. “Something eating you?”

  Wash nodded. “A little.”

  “What is it?”

  “Take another drink and let’s go outside and talk about it.”

  This puny saloon whisky really wasn’t worth drinking, Orv thought, but he poured out two shots. He was wondering idly what was troubling Wash. They drank and then Orv paid and led the way through the saloon and outside. There were a few people on the street but not many. Orv moved away from the saloon doors and the racket inside, then halted. Wash pulled up beside him.

  “All right, what is it?”

  “Well, it’s you and Buddy,” Wash said. “You told Ab and Marv not to tell me about this here stampede.”

  “And they told you,” Orv observed.

  “Hell, I’m their brother, ain’t I? I got the same Hoad blood as them?” He paused. “You trying to keep me out?”

  “Nothin’ like that,” Orv said with a shake of his head. “You’re at the court-house. You see Reese and Daley every day. If you don’t know nothing, you can’t give away nothing.”

  “Think I’d tell?” Wash asked angrily.

  “Not on purpose, but other things will give a man away besides his mouth.”

  “Like what?” Wash challenged.

  “Well, if you ain’t too young to understand this, here’s some. From now on you’ll start dodging Reese and Daley on account of they might ask you something about us. They’ll notice that too. You’ll start looking them in the eye longer than you have to, just to prove you got nothing on your mind and they’ll see that too. If Ab and Marv had kept their mouths shut, you’d’ve gone on acting natural like.” He paused. “Make sense?”

  Wash pondered a moment and Orv could see by the faint light cast through the saloon window that he was impressed. Finally he nodded and said, “For a fact.”

  “Now where’s Reese?” Orv asked.

  “Day before yesterday Reese come up to the court-house about daylight. I seen him through the basement window. He was leading a second horse that was saddled. While he was getting something from his office I got some clothes on. After he come out and headed for the street, I grabbed me a shovel and went outside. I got around the corner of the building in time to see him turning.”

  “What was the shovel for?” Orville interrupted.

  “I’m coming to that. I handle the town ditches, Uncle Orv. A
nybody sees me with a shovel, they figure I’m changing water or some ditch trouble’s come up.”

  “Then what did you do?”

  “I followed him. When I got to the corner I seen his two horses tied in front of Truro’s, so I sat down against a tree and waited. Pretty soon him and that Truro woman come out, along with a little old lady. Reese and this woman mounted, and the old lady waved goodbye. Then they rode east and turned north on Grant Street.”

  Orv grunted in disgust. “And if Ab and Marv hadn’t told you about us, you’d have went up and asked Reese where they were going, wouldn’t you?” When Wash didn’t answer, Orv persisted. “Wouldn’t you? Natural thing to do. But knowing what you did, you were afraid to.”

  Wash said angrily, “Goddamn it, Uncle Orv, you ain’t my Pa!”

  Orville said, “No, but I’ll do what he’d do,” and without further talk he drove his fist into Wash’s shelving jaw. Wash staggered back off balance and fell. His straw hat sailed onto the boardwalk. Cursing now, Wash came to his feet and made his charge. The impact of his collision with his uncle knocked off Orv’s hat. They wrestled a moment, then Orv pushed away, anchored himself, then moved ahead at Wash, arms windmilling. The racket of their boots on the plankwalk brought out the first spectators from Macey’s and they in turn passed the word inside. Jim Daley, who had been cruising the opposite side of the street, now crossed the road. Tim Macey came out and put himself between the fight and his threatened windows.

  The fight was a savage one and both men seemed to be enjoying it. For Orv it was an assertion that he was still the old bull who could dominate the herd. For Wash it was a challenge, an assertion of his independence.

  Orv fought the only way he knew how: a free-swinging, free-kicking style acquired in a hundred brawls in backwoods moonshine camps, in cross-roads bars and at school house dances. He made no attempt to parry or dodge Wash’s pitcher-size fists. It was part of Orv’s pride that he could and should take any punishment for the chance to give it in return. Wash’s blows, even when solidly planted, seemed to glance off Orv’s lean and sinewy frame and to Jim Daley, who by now was leaning on the tie-rail with folded arms, he was a marvel.

  The two men were ringed now by spectators, one of whom, seeing Jim Daley, asked, “Ain’t you going to stop this, Jim?”

  “Stop two Hoads fighting?” Jim asked incredulously. “I hope they hack each other to pieces.”

  Wash’s face was bloodied now by a cut. He hunched his shoulder to rub off the blood on his shirt and then charged again. Orv kicked out at him and if Wash hadn’t turned his thigh, the kick would have caught him square in the groin. His grunt signalled pain which in turn told Orv that Wash would find it hard to move very fast for a minute or so. He moved in slowly now, taking Wash’s blows and slugging back savagely. To Jim Daley, he seemed utterly implacable, proud that the young man couldn’t stop him and joyfully confident that he could cut the younger man down.

  He did. His sledging fists drove past Wash’s protecting arms time and again and their impact on Wash’s body could be felt by the spectators through the quivering boardwalk. The watchers now sensed the kill coming and yelled encouragement to Orv. If he heard them, he didn’t show it, only kept moving ahead with a senseless, blind stubbornness. Wash backed up a step and then another, his arms almost hugging his body. Orv shifted then from Wash’s body to his face. The first blow he delivered after his change of tactics caught Wash on the jaw bone with a crunching thud that could be heard over the crowd’s yelling.

  Wash went down then, caroming off a spectator, and now Orv moved in swiftly and kicked him in the chest. It was a token kick, not meant to damage but to humiliate.

  Jim Daley called out sharply, “No stomping, Orv! Hear now!” Daley swung under the tie-rail and moved up to Orv, who slowly turned to look at him.

  “Why, he’s my nephew,” Orv panted. “I wouldn’t stomp him.” Orv’s cheek was marked and his left ear was bleeding, but he only stood there smiling down at Wash, breathing deeply, gaining back his breath. Wash pushed himself to a sitting position now and said, “All right, Uncle Orv. Let’s get us a drink.”

  A couple of men helped him to his feet, and now Orv accepted his hat from one of the men watching, then lifted his arm and pointed to the watering trough up street. “Let’s clean up first, Wash.”

  Jim Daley asked soberly, “What was that all about, Orv?”

  “Why, nothing at all,” Orv said quietly. “It was just for fun, Jim.”

  Daley watched as Orv took Wash’s arm and they headed through the dispersing crowd toward the water trough in front of the blacksmith’s shop upstreet. It was just possible, he thought, that Orv was telling the truth. The Hoads were like that. They fought each other often, Reese had told him, and said his guess was that it was a kind of practice, a sort of training for the serious fights with outsiders.

  Jim half-turned, about to resume his cruising, when caution touched him. It was a strange fact but true that one fight could precipitate another. Orv and Wash had their difference settled, but among the men watching the fight there were some who were enemies of others watching. Excited and goaded by the memory of the fight, they might elect this night to settle their own differences. A man was not much different from a dog, Jim reflected; often he had watched two dogs start a fight, attracting others. They, in turn roused by the fight, would attack each other for no reason whatsoever.

  Accordingly, Jim moved into Macey’s and moved up against the bar. He ordered a beer and then, because Macey could not afford a back bar mirror to reflect the room, he turned to survey the place, putting his elbows on the bar top. The talk he could hear was about the fight and what a tough old man Orville Hoad was. Other fights were recollected and discussed.

  When Jim heard the bartender set down his glass, he turned and picked up the beer. As he drank he was aware that someone had come up beside him, but he paid the man no attention until a voice said, “You don’t like us Hoads much, do you, Jim?”

  Jim turned his head and saw young Willy Bashear standing beside him. Willy was a little drunk, Jim saw, and he hoped, remembering his sprung back, that this opening wouldn’t herald the second fight of the evening.

  “What makes you say that?” he asked.

  Willy Bashear looked like a Hoad too with the hawk nose, the pale hair, the squirrel teeth and the mean blue eyes which seemed to be carried in the Hoad blood like an ineradicable stain. Willy was twenty-three, tall, dirtier than necessary and, like the rest of the Hoads, overfond of whisky.

  “I heard what you said to that fella that asked you if you wasn’t going to stop the fight.”

  “If you heard it, why should I say it again?” Jim said.

  “Why d’you say it?”

  Jim carefully registered Willy’s tone of voice. There was less of truculence in it than of curiosity. He said reasonably, “Well, we just got through trying one of you Hoads for murder. The night he was freed, three of you Hoad boys took me on when I tried to arrest one of you.” At Willy’s nod he continued, “If you can do it, name me one family that has had more kin in the Sutton County jail than the Hoads. Tonight I come close to having grounds for throwing two more in. That answer your question?”

  “Hell, Uncle Orv was just having fun. He told you.”

  “I believe him,” Jim said and then added, “So help me. I doubt you could kill him with a broad-axe.”

  Willy laughed and Jim knew immediately that Willy was not hunting trouble. Then he remembered something and he motioned to Tim Macey who was helping the night bartender behind the bar and who was watching him and Willy. As Macey moved toward them, Jim said, “Would you hold still for a drink, Willy?”

  “Real still,” Willy answered pleasantly.

  When Macey stopped before them Jim said, “I reckon we’ll shift to the hard stuff, Tim.” Macey turned toward a bottle of whisky and two glasses from the back bar and set them before Jim who kept a glass and pushed the bottle and other glass in front of Willy. As Willy pour
ed his drink, Jim said, “I’m glad I never met up with your Uncle Orv when I was younger. He just naturally gravels me, and I might have lost a few teeth.”

  Willy smiled faintly. “You still could.”

  “No, you’re wrong,” Jim said quietly. “When me and Orv argue it won’t be with words or fists.”

  “He’s pretty handy with a gun, too.”

  “I believe you,” Jim said for the second time. Then, as if finished with discussing Orv Hoad, he asked, “You boys still trading?”

  “Some.” Willy eyed him cautiously.

  Suddenly Jim laughed, as if to himself. “You know, Willy, you ought to get your Uncle Orv to travel with you. He could plain scare a man into a trade.”

  Willy laughed too, now. “I God, that’s an idea.”

  Jim looked at him. “You mean you never thought of it. You mean he’s never traveled with you?”

  “Never has. I guess we figured he had enough on his hands. We asked Uncle Ty, but he’s had his bellyful of travel. Never thought of asking Uncle Orv, but we will.”

  Jim thought, Well, that shoots down Buddy’s story to Reese. Orv had never traveled with the Bashears, had probably never seen the Big Island country, so his quizzing of Reston about the folks down there was a lie. Undoubtedly Orv’s reason for talking with Reston was to find out how much Reston knew about who had stampeded his herd. Finding out and deeming it dangerous, he had surely killed Reston. Again he felt a pity for Reese, and he wondered bleakly how Reese could ever be rid of this maniac family he had married into.

  Now he pulled out some coins from his pocket, put them on the bar and said, “Have another, Willy. I got to move on.”

  Willy thanked him politely. Jim turned and shouldered through the crowd and out on the boardwalk. For some reason the whisky sat cold in his stomach, and the night seemed darker than it had an hour ago.

  5

  On their first day Reese and Jen crossed the Plunkets’ Circle P range and the Bashears’ Chain Link range, keeping to the water courses from which cattle never strayed far. That night they put up at the Prescotts’ where Jen, after a pleasant evening visiting, took the spare bed while Reese slept in the bunkhouse. They had seen no R-Cross cattle, but the day had put them closer against the Wheelers, so that half an hour from Prescotts’ this morning they were climbing in deep timber. By that night they had crossed the summer range of Bill Macey, Tim Macey’s brother, and the summer range of Orville Hoad’s ranch and again had seen no R-Cross cattle.