“I may be strong, but I don’t know if I can lift him by myself like that.”
Miller scowled impatiently and said, “All right. Cobb, give him a hand. Don’t worry, I’ll keep the varmint covered.”
John Henry wasn’t really worried about Farnham. The blacksmith was too worried about his son to try anything. John Henry holstered his gun and went over to Farnham. He got hold of Nate’s right leg, Farnham took the left, and together they hauled Nate over to the horse trough Miller had mentioned.
Once they got him there, they lifted him with much grunting and straining and draped his upper half on the edge of the trough. Then John Henry held Nate in position while Farnham lifted his son’s legs and let gravity do the rest. Nate rolled into the trough and hit the water with a great splash.
The splashing got even worse as Nate floundered back up, kicking his legs and waving his arms. The water had revived him. John Henry was glad to see that. Like Farnham, he had worried that the pistol-whipping might have done some real damage to Nate.
He appeared to be all right, though, now that he had been shocked back to consciousness. Farnham leaned over and grabbed Nate by the shoulders to stop him from flailing around.
“Take it easy, boy, take it easy,” Farnham said. “It’s all right, Nate. Just stop fighting, lad, and settle down.”
After a moment Nate ceased struggling and just sat there in the horse trough, water streaming off his head and shoulders as he breathed heavily. He gulped down some air and said, “I . . . I thought I was drowning, Pa.”
“I know you did,” Farnham said gently. “But it’s all right now.”
Miller said, “If you consider bein’ locked up in jail all right. Get him up now, Farnham. He can walk the rest of the way.”
John Henry stepped back and drew his gun again. He didn’t know how Nate was going to react to being ordered to jail again. If there was another violent outbreak from the young man, John Henry intended to do what he could to keep Miller from killing him.
All the fight seemed to have gone out of Nate, though. When Farnham grasped his arm and said, “Come on, now,” Nate stood up, stepped out of the trough, and walked docilely enough toward the two-story stone building that housed the sheriff’s office and jail. His head hung low and he shuffled along, reminding John Henry of a bear.
Sheriff Dav still wasn’t there when the little group reached the office. Miller gestured with the gun and ordered the prisoners, “Get up those stairs now.”
Nate whimpered a little and asked, “Do I have to, Pa?”
“Just for a little while,” Farnham said. “It won’t be too bad.” He gave Miller and John Henry a glance filled with rage and went on, “Don’t worry, son, I’ll be with you.”
“All right, Pa,” Nate said, but he still didn’t sound happy about it.
Miller took a ring of keys from a peg and tossed them to John Henry.
“Get up there and unlock the cell block door.”
John Henry went up the stairs in front of the Farnhams. He had to try a couple of the keys before he found the one that worked on the cell block door, but he had it open by the time they got there. He backed into the cell block in front of them. There were ten cells, he saw at a glance, five on either side. All of them were empty at the moment.
He nodded toward the first one on the right. Farnham led Nate into the cell.
“You reckon we ought to split them up?” Miller said.
“I don’t see why,” John Henry replied. “They’ll probably be easier to handle if they’re together.”
“Yeah, you’re right.” Miller slammed the door on the cell that now held the blacksmith and his son. The sound had a grim finality to it.
Nate whimpered again. John Henry’s jaw tightened. He still had the keys. Doubtless one of them would unlock that cell. He could get the drop on Miller and turn the Farnhams loose.
That would put him in open opposition to the sheriff’s gang, though, and right now that would be the same thing as signing his own death warrant. Farnham and Nate would just have to put up with their captivity for a while, until John Henry figured out a way to break Samuel Dav’s iron grip on this town.
Maybe it wouldn’t be too long.
“What’s going to happen to them?” John Henry asked Miller when they were downstairs in the sheriff’s office again.
“What’s it matter to you?”
“It doesn’t,” John Henry said with a shrug. “It’s just that locking up that boy seems a little like putting a wild animal in a cage. It’s liable to break him, make him go loco.”
“He’s already loco, in case you didn’t notice. And why do you care about the big dummy? He tried to kill you, too.”
“Yeah, you’re right,” John Henry forced himself to say. “Let ’em rot up there.”
“Anyway, it’s not up to us,” Miller went on. “The sheriff will decide what to do with them as soon as he gets back.”
Chapter Sixteen
“What do you want, Sheriff?” Wellman asked. He tried not to sound too unfriendly, but at the same time, having Samuel Dav in his room was sort of like looking down to see a rattlesnake coiled at your feet.
Dav smiled that thin, cold, reptilian smile of his and said, “Don’t you mean to say, what can I do for you, Sheriff? That’s the way a good citizen would greet a visit by an officer of the law, don’t you think?”
Wellman tried not to sigh. He said, “What can I do for you, Sheriff?”
“That’s better,” Dav replied with a laugh. “For a second there, you almost sounded like you meant it.”
A flash of anger went through Wellman. The sheriff was mocking him. He hadn’t done anything to deserve that. He had been helpful to Dav’s campaign, after all, and he had folded easily enough after his feeble attempt to make up for that later.
Dav waved a hand and went on, “Never mind. I don’t care whether you cooperate with me because you believe in what I’m doing, or because your bowels get loose when I walk by, as long as you do what you’re supposed to do. What I want from you today, Edgar, is for you to tell me something.”
“What’s that, Sheriff?”
“How’s the Widow Hammond doing?”
Surprise went through Wellman at the question. He couldn’t even speak for a moment. When he could, he said, “What . . . what do you mean?”
“I want to know how Lucinda Hammond is doing these days.” A trace of impatience came into Dav’s voice as he went on, “I saw you up there at her house a while ago. You were standing in the doorway with her, watching while Miller and those other deputies brought in that prisoner. I figured that since you’ve been visiting her, you’d know how she’s getting along these days.”
“How do you think she’s getting along?” Wellman asked. The question came out sharper than he’d intended, but he couldn’t help it. “She’s in mourning. She’s deeply grieving the loss of her husband.”
The husband that you murdered, he thought, but at least he had enough sense not to say it.
“I suppose you’re disappointed by that.”
Dav’s comment made Wellman frown.
“What do you mean?” he asked again.
“Well, you’ve got your eye on her, don’t you? You think that as soon as she gets over that well-meaning boob she was married to, you’ll move in and scoop her up for yourself.”
Wellman’s mouth opened and closed a couple of times before he was able to say, “I . . . I won’t dignify that with a response.”
Dav threw his head back and laughed.
“The way you go around with your tail tucked between your legs, like everybody else in this town, I don’t reckon you’ll dignify much of anything ever again, Edgar. But to get back to Lucinda . . . She’s eating enough? She’s taking care of herself?”
“Why would you care?”
“She’s a citizen of this town. As sheriff, I’m charged with seeing to her welfare, just like I am that of everybody else.”
Wellman wanted to laugh th
is time. Dav didn’t give a damn about anybody’s welfare but his own, and that was obvious to anyone with a pair of eyes.
But instead he told the truth, saying, “I’m a bit worried about her. She’s taken Milton’s death very hard. The way she’s withdrawing into herself, I wouldn’t be too surprised if she never sets foot outside that house again.”
“We can’t have that,” Dav said with a shake of his head. “I have plans for Mrs. Hammond.”
Good Lord, thought Wellman. He wants her for himself.
“But that’s my business, not yours,” the sheriff went on. “There’s something else you can do for me, Edgar.”
“What’s that?” Wellman asked, although he didn’t really want to know.
“I want you to start printing the Star again.”
Wellman’s eyes widened in surprise. He had lost track of how many times that had happened during this unexpected conversation.
“I closed it down because you were upset with what I was printing,” he reminded Dav.
“No, I gave you the choice of either closing down or printing the things I wanted you to print. The right things.” Dav shook his head. “I’m not giving you that choice anymore.”
Wellman struggled to grasp what the sheriff was saying.
“You want me to . . .”
“I’ll tell you what to print, and you’ll print it,” Dav said. “Simple as that.”
“A newspaper doesn’t work that way.”
“Of course it does. Every newspaper in this country is in the pocket of one politician or another. How do you think so many crooked, incompetent men keep getting elected? Because the newspapers tell people to vote for them, and people are too stupid to know any better. From now on the Star is going to be my newspaper.”
Wellman shook his head and muttered, “I won’t . . . I won’t—”
Striking swiftly like the snake he reminded Wellman of, Dav stepped closer to the publisher and grabbed the front of his coat. Wellman let out a frightened croak as Dav jerked him up onto his toes.
“Listen to me, you little weasel,” Dav said in a low, dangerous voice. “I need a newspaper on my side. I’ve got plans that go far beyond this town, and in order to make them work, I have to have a voice on my side, trumpeting my accomplishments and letting the world know that I’m on my way to bigger things. Do you understand that?”
“But why . . . why me?” Wellman gasped.
“Because you’re here.” Dav gave Wellman a shove that sent him staggering back a couple of steps. “You know how to put out a paper already, and people seem to trust you for some reason. I’m not sure why. I can see right through you, Wellman. You’re yellow, and you’re as corrupt as you like to accuse other people of being. But as long as you do what you’re told, I’m willing to work with you. I can bring in my own man to publish the paper if I have to, but it’d be easier if you’d just cooperate.”
Wellman realized that he was trapped. If he refused, Dav would just have him killed. He would go down as another of the mysterious disappearances that had plagued Chico ever since Dav took over.
But if he cooperated—or at least pretended to cooperate—maybe he could find out what those mysterious plans that Dav had alluded to really were.
That might turn out to be the sort of story that an actual journalist would want to go after.
He swallowed, straightened his coat where Dav had crumpled it, and said, “What do you want me to print?”
A grin of triumph spread across Dav’s lean face.
“That’s more like it, Edgar,” he said. He reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out a folded piece of paper. “I’ve taken the liberty of writing a little editorial that ought to go on the front page of the first edition the Star publishes after its temporary hiatus. You can put it into your own words, of course. In fact, I wish you would. You’re a good writer, you know.”
Dav held out the paper.
Wellman hesitated. If he took it . . . if he published Dav’s lies, whatever they were . . . he might be taking a step from which he could never retreat. Ultimately, he might wind up being partially responsible for whatever damage the man did. The blood of innocents might be on his hands.
But if he refused, his own blood might be on the floor of this room, right here and now. Dav’s agate-like eyes revealed that in the end, he didn’t really care what Wellman’s decision was. He would get what he wanted, one way or the other.
Wellman reached out and took the folded sheet of paper.
“That’s being smart, Edgar,” Dav said. “When can you have the next edition of the paper ready?”
“When do you want it to be ready?” Wellman asked hollowly.
“The sooner the better. We have a lot of work to do, to make this territory over into what it needs to be.”
Wellman nodded and said, “All right. Give me a few days.”
“Sure. I’m looking forward to seeing what you’ll do with that editorial.” Dav started to turn toward the door, but he paused. “There’s one more thing.”
“What’s that?” Wellman’s voice was dull and dispirited in defeat as he asked the question.
“The next time you talk to the Widow Hammond, I’d take it kindly if you’d mention my name.”
Wellman’s head came up as he was surprised yet again.
“Tell her I’m sorry about what happened to her husband. Tell her that you’ve gotten to know me, and you’ve realized what a fine man I am after all. Tell her that there are going to be some big changes around here, changes for the better, and that they’re not going to be confined just to Chico, either. Tell her that pretty soon I’m going to be the most powerful man in this territory.”
“You’re insane,” Wellman whispered.
“Maybe you’d better not print that opinion,” Dav said with a smile. “Not unless you want the new editor of the Star to put your obituary on the front page.”
Chapter Seventeen
Sheriff Dav seemed pleased with himself when he came into the office a short time after John Henry and Miller had locked up the Farnhams. He was even whistling a little tune. John Henry had been around Dav only a very short period of time, but that seemed incongruous even to him. Whatever Dav’s business had been, it must have gone well.
Miller pointed to the ceiling with a thumb and said, “Got a couple of prisoners up in the cell block, Sheriff.”
“Prisoners?” Dav repeated. “Who’d you lock up?”
“Peabody Farnham and that simpleminded son of his.”
“The blacksmith and his boy?”
“You told me to have a word with ’em about how the boy refused to fix that shoe on Ralston’s horse yesterday,” Miller reminded the sheriff.
Dav looked annoyed, as if such matters were beneath his concern.
“I figured you’d just put the fear of God into them, Carl,” he said. “Maybe lock up the boy for a night. Not both of them, though. What’s the town going to do for a blacksmith if they’re both behind bars?”
Miller frowned and said, “Reckon I didn’t think about that. But the kid went loco and tried to kill me and Cobb, and Peabody was set to bash my head in with his hammer when Cobb shot it out of his hand. That’s attempted murder of a peace officer for both of ’em.”
Dav didn’t seem all that concerned about the attempted murder of two of his deputies. Instead he looked at John Henry and said, “You shot the hammer out of Farnham’s hand?”
“I got lucky,” John Henry said with a shrug. “Or unlucky, depending on how you want to look at it. I was trying to put the bullet through his head.”
That was a lie, of course, but just the sort of thing that a callous, cold-blooded killer like John Cobb might have said and done.
John Henry went on, “Now that I think about it, I suppose it’s a good thing I didn’t blow his brains out. Like you said, Sheriff, what would folks around here do for a blacksmith? I don’t think the boy’s smart enough to handle the job full-time on his own.”
“You’
re right about that,” Dav agreed. He stroked his chin as he frowned in thought. After a moment he said, “All right, leave them up there for now. Judge Curwood can sentence them to a week in jail for disturbing the peace. I’ll talk to the judge tomorrow.”
“What about the way they tried to kill us?” Miller asked, clearly not satisfied with Dav’s decision.
“I think we can dispense with that because of extenuating circumstances.”
“Exit . . . extent . . . what?”
“Chico still needs a good blacksmith,” Dav explained. “But I already have plenty of deputies. One thing trumps the other.”
“Fine,” Miller grumbled. “Whatever you say, boss.”
“That’s right, and you’d do well to remember it.” Dav hung up his hat and sat down at the desk. He leaned back and clasped his hands over his belly as he looked at John Henry. “You’ve had a full day today, Cobb. First you tangle with Harry Price and Ben Hoffman, and then you mix it up with that monster of a blacksmith’s son.”
Miller said, “Nate picked up Cobb and threw him clear across the shop like a kid with a rag doll.”
“It wasn’t quite that bad,” John Henry said, but the aches and pains he already felt from the pair of ruckuses testified to a different story. He knew his muscles would be plenty stiff and sore in the morning.
“Well, you can take it easy for the rest of the day,” Dav said. “It’s almost suppertime. Consider yourself off duty, Cobb. Go on back down to the boardinghouse. You don’t want to miss supper on your first day there.” The sheriff chuckled. “That pretty little redhead who runs the place wouldn’t be happy, and it’s never smart to make a good-looking woman mad at you. They hold grudges longer than the homely ones do.”
“I wouldn’t know about that,” John Henry said. “A gentleman considers all women good-looking, doesn’t he?”
Dav looked at him for a second, then laughed.
“Go on, get out of here,” he said. Then his tone sharpened as he added, “Not you, Carl. You and I still have business to talk about.”
John Henry would have preferred to stay and find out what sort of “business” Dav wanted to discuss with Miller, but to do so would be pushing his luck. He said, “I’ll be back in the morning, Sheriff. If you need me between now and then, you know where to find me.”
Eight Hours to Die Page 9