“I still don’t understand how it is that Strong here was able to come strolling into the Wild Hog this afternoon, demanding to talk to me. If this Texas Ranger friend of yours already had him in custody, he should already be back there in the hoosegow.” Hands on his hips, Taft glared at Emmett now. “Can I assume that, from now until the trial, I won’t be seeing Mr. Strong out on the streets anymore?”
That was the question Emmett had been hoping Marshal Perry could avoid having to answer.
“Warren,” the marshal said. “Take Mr. Strong on back and lock him up. Seems Mr. Taft won’t be content with anything less.”
Blazes.
“But Marshal…” the deputy said.
“Just do it, Deputy.”
Emmett stood, nodded at the deputy, and started for the door leading to the cells.
“I see Mr. Strong’s holster is empty,” the marshal said to Taft. “You have any idea where his six-gun is?”
“He himself left it on a table in the Wild Hog,” Taft said.
“Doesn’t sound like something a man would do if he was out for blood, does it now, Mr. Taft?”
Just before passing the deputy on the way to his cell, Emmett glanced back. Taft was scowling.
“I’ve no idea what this renegade lawman is up to,” Taft said, gesturing toward Emmett. “All kinds of guilty folk claim innocence.”
“Just bring your witnesses tomorrow.” The marshal at last stood, walked around his desk, and guided Taft by the shoulder to the front door. “Noon. At the Rio Grande Hotel. We’ll have more room there. I’m afraid my office would be a mite overcrowded.”
Emmett headed into the dim hallway between the four jail cells. The deputy motioned toward the first cell on the right. But before he could close the door on Emmett, Marshal Perry appeared in the passageway, boots clomping on the rough wood floors. “Warren, you can leave that cell door open.”
“Much obliged, Marshal,” Emmett said, somewhat relieved.
The deputy pulled the door all the way open once again and propped himself against the bars of the cell across the way.
The marshal leaned against Emmett’s cell. “What the deuce were you doin’ over at the Wild Hog this afternoon, Strong?”
“Wanted to find out whether Franklin Taft was behind the murder of my friend Granville Sikes.”
“The Englishman.”
“That’s right.”
“You get any answers?” The marshal produced an already-rolled cigarette from his vest pocket.
“He claims he had nothing to do with it.”
“You believe him?”
Emmett took a seat on the flimsy excuse for a mattress. “I think so.”
The marshal struck a match on one of the iron bars and touched it to the end of his cigarette. After taking a deep draw, he said, “Where’s your pardner—Mr. Galvez?”
“Round about town, I reckon.” Emmett didn’t want Juanito behind bars any more than he cared to stay there himself.
“Jack VanDorn showed me the hotel ledger. Told me about your witnesses over in San Elizario.”
“Yep. What’d you think?
“I believe you. Don’t know whether it’ll be enough for Judge Wilcox, though.”
Emmett was trying to decide whether to ask Alonzo Perry straight up to let him slip out of the hoosegow on the promise as a lawman that he’d be back for the trial. The marshal had the authority to let him go. Nonetheless, such a move could put him in an uncomfortable position with Taft, maybe with the town council, too.
“You pokin’ around like you did this afternoon,” Perry said, “might not be in your best interests come the day of the trial.”
“It was a gamble, marshal. A calculated risk.”
“Court may rule that you intimidated the plaintiff and his witnesses.”
“In your opinion, did Taft look intimidated?”
Perry shrugged. “I’m not the judge or the jury.” He stared off into nowhere and exhaled a stream of cigarette smoke.
It seemed to Emmett as if the marshal was deliberating letting him go. Seemed as though he was looking for some kind of assurance that Emmett wouldn’t run off and do anything that would make him regret the decision.
“So who do you think did rob Taft?” Perry finally asked.
“Had to be somebody that knew Taft would be heading over to the bank that very morning.”
“A so-called friend of his, then.”
“I don’t know. A customer might’ve overheard something.”
“Hmm. You said you went to talk to Taft about Mr. Sikes—Sorry ’bout your loss, by the way. Who do you think gunned him down?”
Emmett ran through his disjointed thoughts on the matter of Sikes. “I’ve got a hunch—just a hunch—that when I finally figure that one out, I may find myself facing somebody a great deal more dangerous than Taft and his people.”
“Why is that?”
“Can’t rightly say. Just a notion.”
The marshal turned to his deputy. “Warren, I expect we can let Mr. Strong go for now.”
“What about Mr. Taft?” the deputy said.
Rather than answer his deputy, the marshal said to Emmett, “Stay away from the Wild Hog Saloon, you hear? And keep in touch with Jack VanDorn. I’ll communicate with you through him.”
Emmett got to his feet. “I thought we were supposed to meet with you tonight at the Cantina Las Flores.”
“I wasn’t countin’ on you showin’ up. One way or the other, you stay outta trouble, if’n you can.”
Emmett tugged on the brim of his Stetson. “I’ll try. But trouble seems to stay hot on my heels these days.”
The marshal and his deputy followed Emmett out to the front door.
“Keep up the good work, Deputy,” Emmett said with a half smile.
When he turned to walk out, he found the doorway blocked by a now furious-looking, out-of-breath Franklin Taft and a cowhand type wearing a dusty black shirt.
“Where’s he going?” Taft growled and thrust a finger toward Emmett.
The marshal frowned. “What’s troublin’ you now, Mr. Taft?”
The fellow in the black shirt spoke up. “Some folks just found Clive Mackey. Shot in the head.” He pointed. “In an alley a few blocks over thataway.”
Eyebrows raised, the marshal asked Taft, “Your lookout man, right?”
“One and the same,” Taft said. “And I’d stake my hide on it—Strong’s Mexican amigo is the one that pulled the trigger.”
Turning to his deputy, Alonzo Perry said, “Lock up the prisoner, Deputy. I’m goin’ with Mr. Taft to take a look into the Mackey shooting.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Across Santa Fe Street from the El Paso marshal’s office stood a simple, unpainted wooden building with a crudely lettered A-frame sign out front that read Macetas de Barro. Hundreds of clay pots and jars of all sizes and for all purposes were stacked in a small yard alongside the shop. From behind a row of these wares, Li and Juanito kept vigil.
“He’s just inside the doorway,” Li whispered, her hopes rising.
Juanito shifted to peer between two huge terracotta urns. “I don’t see him.”
“He’s still in the shadows inside. It looks like he’s talking to the marshal or the deputy.”
“Ah, I see him now. I’ll wave him over if he comes out alone.”
“Wait. Stay down.”
As quickly as Li’s hopes had risen, they once again plummeted. There was Taft again, taking brisk strides toward the marshal’s door. A young man in a dusty black shirt was with him.
“What does Taft want now?” Juanito muttered.
Li listened hard to try to pick up what Taft was saying to the marshal over in the jailhouse doorway. Although the saloon owner was obviously very excited about something and was speaking in
a raised voice, the street was wide, and Li couldn’t make out his words.
Then the marshal set out with Taft and the other fellow, retracing the saloon owner’s steps. Emmett was no longer visible from Li’s vantage point. “Shall we follow the marshal and Taft—wherever they may be going—or should we wait here to find out whether Emmett is going to be able to leave after all?”
“How would you feel about staying here and watching the jailhouse by yourself while I follow the marshal and Taft?” Juanito asked.
She felt butterflies in her stomach for a moment. “As long as you don’t go and get yourself caught, I think I’ll be OK here.”
Juanito squeezed her shoulder. “I’ll be careful. If Emmett comes out by himself, feel free to follow him. One way or the other, we can meet up at the Cantina Las Flores at sunset. Will that be all right?”
She nodded. “Thank you for everything, Juanito.”
“Sí, angelita.” He hardly made a sound as he dashed to the back of the pottery shop’s side yard.
Li wondered what Taft had said to the marshal that seemingly made him change his mind about letting Emmett go. Perhaps they weren’t holding Emmett against his will at all. He could be simply sitting in the office, talking over the situation with the deputy.
No, Taft marched Emmett down to the jail with a gun in his back. Taft didn’t want Emmett to go free.
She shooed a buzzing fly away from her ear and, in the same moment, caught the smell of horse manure on the breeze, both of which drew her attention to the steady clanging of the blacksmith’s hammer on the anvil a few doors down. For some folks life today was routine. Too bad it couldn’t be that way for her and Emmett.
When a good two or three minutes had elapsed without anyone passing in either direction along the street, she dared to rise cautiously from her hiding place to get a better look up and down the avenue.
What if she were to march across the street—duster buttoned up tight, hat pulled low over her eyes—and draw on the deputy? Could she catch him by surprise and demand that he let Emmett go? Or would that only make matters worse? Maybe it would just get one of them shot.
She never had been good at waiting.
If she were to manage to take the deputy by surprise, would there be other men in other jail cells inside who might identify her later?
The sun edged downward ever so slowly. Soon it would be glaring directly into her eyes. She snatched a glimpse behind her, looking around for any sign of Juanito.
Blocks away from the marshal’s office, Juanito did what he could—without being discovered—to get a better view of what the marshal, Taft, and the fellow in the black shirt were looking at. From the front porch of a men’s clothing store across the street, he watched the marshal elbow his way through a small gathering of townspeople. Taft and the black-shirted fellow followed.
At first the marshal just stood there, hands on his hips. Then Taft spoke loudly with exaggerated gestures. Juanito couldn’t make out everything he said, but he got the gist of it. Somebody had shot and killed the saloon owner’s lookout man, Mackey. And “damned Mexican” was something Taft spouted more than once.
The marshal squatted on his heels and shifted his weight side to side. Once he rose again, a few of the men gathered closer and stepped down into the alley. A few seconds later, they turned and lay Mackey’s body on the boardwalk.
Juanito figured he’d better duck into the clothing store lest he be spotted.
“Evenin’,” the trim-bearded shopkeeper said from behind the counter in the back. “Help you?”
Juanito turned and peered through the window. “No, gracias. Just looking.”
“Looking inside, or taking in the hubbub out there in the street?”
“This kind of thing happen often here in El Paso?” Juanito asked.
“Not from around here, are you?” The shopkeeper put a pasteboard lid on a box he had been packing.
Juanito turned back to the window. “San Antonio.”
“A growin’ town is good for business,” the fellow said, “but I swannee, sometimes I wonder. Seems like there’s more shootin’ by the week out here.”
“Who was it?”
“Didn’t see. I was in the back gathering some goods for a customer. Customer ran out as soon as the shootin’ stopped. Thought I’d just box it all up for him in case he comes back. Becomin’ so common, I hardly pay attention anymore. Say, in case you’re interested, we’ve got a special on ready-made shirts today.”
Juanito took a casual step back from the window. The marshal and Taft were passing directly in front of the store. He got a brief but clear peek at Clive Mackey’s lifeless body as four volunteers—one holding onto each limb—carried the corpse along.
As the haberdasher crossed the room toward him, Juanito picked up a pair of gloves.
“Those are doeskin. Soft as butter, eh?” the shopkeeper said.
Juanito set the gloves back on the display table. “Through the window they looked a little more durable,” he said. “I’m afraid they wouldn’t stand up to the hell I’d put them through.”
He glanced out the door and observed the crowd of men moving away from him down the street.
“Well, if it’s durable you want, I’ve got—”
“Thank you very much,” Juanito said. “I’m going to have to come back when I have a little more time.”
He headed for the door.
“Suit yourself,” the store clerk said. “We’re open till six daily. Except Sundays, of course.”
That’s all Juanito heard as he hurried out. Shame when a shooting no longer troubles a man.
As quickly as he dared, he made his way across the street to where the men had picked up Mackey’s body. Catching a glimpse of the still-retreating crowd, he ducked into the alleyway.
A fair-sized spot of deep-red mud remained where Taft’s lookout man had fallen. Juanito glanced around and spotted a few more spatters of blood…as well as a few small pieces of Mackey’s calabaza.
He took a quick assessment of the windows on either side of the alley. Nothing suggested he was being watched. So after snatching another peek over his shoulder, he hurried on down the narrow footpath, anxious to get back to Li.
Juanito had been gone perhaps half an hour, and Li found her patience at low ebb.
What would Emmett want her to do? She thought about those last moments before he had entered Taft’s Wild Hog Saloon. He had insisted that she not get involved in any shooting, other than in self-defense. She knew she should probably wait for Juanito, yet if she was going to get Emmett out of the jail before the marshal returned, she was wasting time.
Envisioning herself in the doorway to the marshal’s office, pistol drawn and pointed at the deputy, she tried to decide whether she’d be steady enough to see things through. What if the deputy drew on her? She couldn’t shoot a lawman—not an innocent one simply carrying out his duties, anyway.
Footfalls behind her snatched her out of her thoughts. It was Juanito.
“Somebody shot Taft’s lookout man,” he said as he knelt beside her.
“Is he dead?”
Juanito nodded. “Plenty dead.”
She wondered whether Mackey had been in on robbing his boss. Maybe he and the other thieves had had a falling out.
Juanito flicked a finger toward the marshal’s office. “I suppose Emmett’s still inside.”
“Yes. Nobody has come or gone since you left.”
While Juanito studied the jailhouse, Li pondered their options. Again, she couldn’t imagine pointing a gun at any respectable lawman. That would only be asking for trouble.
Juanito popped up and stole a look over the top of the stack of clay jars and then knelt in the dust beside Li again. “Let’s go get him before the marshal gets back.”
Li gripped his arm. “Not at gunpoint, Juanito.”
He hesitated. “I wouldn’t shoot.”
“Whoever is in there with him won’t know that.”
Again Juanito gazed up the street. “So you think we can persuade the deputy with words alone to let Emmett go?”
“Either that or turn ourselves in and all go through this together.”
Juanito scratched the back of his head. “With Mackey dead, Taft may double down on his accusations against us. Besides, you’re not among the accused. It wouldn’t do to have you in jail. Not a woman. Not a Ch—”
“A Chinese woman?”
Juanito’s gaze dropped. “It wouldn’t be good, Li.”
A freight wagon pulled by four mules clattered by, stirring up a low cloud of dust. The heavy-bearded driver, pipe clenched between his teeth was oblivious to their presence.
“You just said it, Juanito: I’m not one of the accused. I can walk in freely and ask the deputy to let me have Emmett. It can’t hurt.”
“It can. You don’t have any more legal rights here in Texas than you had in Nevada. Plus, your identity would be revealed. Up until now, only Emmett, VanDorn, and I know that you’re even here.”
“And if you go in and get yourself arrested,” she said, “what am I supposed to do out here all by myself?”
He turned to her. “Help Jack VanDorn find a way to get us out.”
She didn’t like this. And she knew Emmett wouldn’t either. “Maybe we both should talk to Jack VanDorn first. Maybe he can get the marshal to leave Emmett’s cell unlocked, step out for a moment during the night, and let Emmett escape, so to speak.”
“Talk to VanDorn together when? Tonight?”
“Yes. At the Cantina Las Flores, like we planned.”
“We’d be pinning an awful lot of hope to one far-fetched plan.”
She gazed at the marshal’s office. “No more than you walking into that office over there right now.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Almost back to the Wild Hog Saloon, Franklin Taft pulled himself out of his silent ponderings. “It’s Billy, isn’t it?” he asked the fellow in the black shirt, the one who’d brought him the news of Mackey’s death.
Strong Suspicions (Emmett Strong Westerns Book 2) Page 15