Trouble by Any Name

by A. T. Butler

  Chapter Three

  All the shutters of the San Adrian jail were closed, blocking out the world. No light shone inside; no hint of movement. Jacob hadn’t seen anyone so much as walk by this part of the street. Since he’d first arrived, the afternoon sun had sunk from high in the sky to halfway down to the horizon, softly warming his weather-worn face.

  For nearly three hours the bounty hunter stood across the street and watched the building. He was used to waiting. Many times, on a tracking, he would have to sit for days waiting for a target to show themselves. This time, though, he had a full belly and a shady spot to wait. It felt almost too easy.

  For the last few hours, Jacob saw no movement nor even a hint that the building was occupied. Finally, he started to consider the possibility that it wasn’t. Maybe he had been waiting outside an empty building this whole time. Maybe he was wrong and this so-called sheriff was out there doing good, making an arrest or saving a child from a well.

  Then Jacob reminded himself of Jeremiah Blanchard’s crimes. A man who would murder a woman in cold blood wouldn’t be taking his time to help any child. A man on the run all the way from Virginia wouldn’t waste his time serving San Adrian’s citizens. Jacob just needed to lay eyes on Sheriff Horne, confirm it was the same man going by a different name, and make his arrest.

  The bounty hunter hoped it would be as easy as that. He always tried to take his targets alive when possible, but if a man pointed a gun at him it was either kill or be killed.

  And Jacob wasn’t aiming to be killed.

  Just as he was beginning to think he had wasted his afternoon and should give up to try somewhere else, the front door of the jail opened. Three men walked out onto the wooden boardwalk.

  At this distance, Jacob couldn’t hear what they were saying but could read their gestures sure enough. The shortest one seemed to be the man in charge. He was bearded with long, dark hair showing streaks of gray. He didn’t even bother to pull his hat down to hide his face. Jacob saw immediately that this was Jeremiah Blanchard. The other two men seemed to be listening to Blanchard give them instructions, leaning their heads in deference to him.

  None of the three noticed the bounty hunter watching them from just across the street. It wasn’t until a fourth and fifth man exited the building that any of the group noticed Jacob. The tallest of the men looked both ways up and down the street. Since nearly all the other citizens of the town were avoiding being seen outside, Jacob was impossible to miss, casually leaning against the wooden side of the building opposite the jail.

  The tall man pointed at Jacob and yelled. “You! What do you want? Don’t you have anywhere else to be?”

  Jacob stepped away from the building and pushed his coat back so Jeremiah and the deputies could see his weapon. He took a few steps forward until he stood in the middle of the dusty street. The men remained on the boardwalk in front of the jail.

  “Afternoon, gentlemen. I’m hoping you can help me. I’m looking for Jeremiah Blanchard.”

  The sheriff’s expression got hard, his eyes like coal, his teeth all but bared. Now that he was close, Jacob was even more sure this was the man he sought. There was the scar trailing the left side of his face, clear as day.

  One of the deputies, the oldest one wearing an all-white beard, similarly tried to stare Jacob down. He slowly drew his weapon from its holster—not yet pointing it at Jacob, but ready. That gun made Jacob think twice about capturing Jeremiah then and there. As he’d expected, Blanchard wouldn’t make this easy.

  The other three deputies seemed plainly confused by this stranger in the street.

  “Don’t know anyone by that name,” one said. “What’s your business with him?”

  “What about you, boys? Deputy Barnes, Deputy Conroy?” the sheriff asked the older man who had drawn his gun and the tall, barrel-chested man. “Does that name sound familiar to you? You ever heard of a Jeremiah Blanchard?”

  They shook their heads but kept their eyes on Jacob.

  “He’s wanted for murder in Virginia,” the bounty hunter said, “and I got a tip he might’ve made it all the way out here.”

  “Murder?” asked the young, lanky deputy.

  Jacob nodded and turned his attention to the alleged sheriff. “Murdered his wife and her elderly parents.”

  Deputy Conroy spit and shook his head. “What’s this man look like?”

  Jacob paused, acting like he had to think about it. Best not show all his cards. Not yet. “Short. Dark hair with gray in it. You have his wanted poster? It’d be a lot easier than me trying to describe him.”

  “What’s the matter, you deaf?” Deputy Barnes asked. “Ain’t we just told ya we ain’t heard that name?”

  “Huh,” Jacob said, deliberately casual. “And you’re sure you didn’t see that name on any of the wanted posters in there? That seems strange. Woulda thought at least news that the bastard’s wanted would get out to San Adrian, even if he didn’t.”

  “Look, Mister . . . ?” Sheriff Horne began.

  “Payne,” Jacob supplied. He strolled closer to his target, showing the man he wasn’t afraid.

  “Mr. Payne. We appreciate your concern. But as you might have heard, I’ve only recently taken over as sheriff of this town. What my predecessor might’ve done with that particular wanted poster I cannot say.”

  “You’re telling me you lost a wanted poster? What happens if someone comes in with his body? How will you identify him?”

  The man shrugged. “If that happens, we can figure it out then. I tell you, it’s a mess around here. Haven’t even had time to look over those posters myself. But I can look for you. Jonathan Blanch, you said?”

  “Jeremiah. Blanchard.” Jacob spoke with exaggerated diction. “From Virginia. Y’all ever been there?”

  Sheriff Horne smiled menacingly. “Can’t say I have.”

  Can’t say, or won’t say? thought Jacob.

  “Beautiful place, Virginia,” Jacob said, smiling back. “Man must’ve done a terrible thing to get over leaving that paradise and make it all the way out here to hide in this parched country.”

  “Well, of course, anyone could say the same thing about you or me, Mr. Payne. Tell me, what are you doing here in the Territory of Arizona?”

  Jacob shrugged. “This and that. I’ve my reasons for leaving back east. None of them are murder, though.”

  There was a heavy pause as the bounty hunter and sheriff exchanged threatening glares.

  “I think you’ve wasted enough of our time, Mr. Payne,” Sheriff Horne said finally. He rested his hand on the butt of his gun but didn’t draw it; the implication that he could was enough. He stayed on the boardwalk, which made a man of his height just tall enough to look Jacob in the eye. “I’d hate to have to run you out of town for being a menace to my citizens.”

  Jacob held the sheriff’s gaze as he backed away. He didn’t need to be told twice. He’d retreat for now so he could come up with a better plan for cornering his prey. As long as the man kept pretending to be Sheriff Horne, Jacob knew there would be another chance to take down Jeremiah Blanchard.

  Chapter Four

  Jacob was almost back to the hotel when someone came calling.

  “Wait—mister!” Jacob heard from behind him. “Mr. Payne? Wait, I want to talk to you.”

  He turned to see a tall, gangly blond kid running up the street. He couldn’t be any older than fifteen, but carried a Navy Revolver probably older than he was and had a shiny deputy’s badge pinned securely to his front.

  When Jacob saw it was the young deputy, he put his hands up, away from his holsters. “Look, I agreed to leave you fellas alone for now. You gotta do the same.”

  “No, you got it wrong.” The kid stopped before him, breathing hard. “I was deputy to Sheriff Winthrop before he died. Name’s Timothy Brady. I’m not with those guys. That’s what I want to talk to you about.”

  Jacob lowered his hands and looked over the kid carefully. He had a snub nose, and still a lot o
f the child about his face. But Jacob could also see the beginnings of worry lines forming between the youth’s eyebrows, as though every day was more stressful than the last for him. As though he’d been forced into adulthood before he was ready. Brady’s eyes looked worried yet hopeful. Jacob knew he should at least talk to the kid.

  “Well, in that case, let’s talk. Maybe we can help each other.”

  Inside the Wildflower Hotel, Mrs. Finch met Jacob at the desk again.

  “Oh, hello, Mr. Payne. Deputy Brady, what are you doing here?”

  “Is there any place around here we can talk in private?” Jacob asked.

  “Take my study in the back,” she said, gesturing them to a small room off the lobby. “Timothy, you know where the cookies are if you boys decide you need some.”

  Timothy blushed a deep red. “Back here,” he mumbled as he led Jacob to the room and closed the door behind them.

  Jacob looked around at one of the most opulent rooms he’d encountered since arriving in Arizona. Floral wallpaper, a full bookcase, two finely upholstered wingback chairs, and even a marble mantle above the hearth that must have cost a fortune to be shipped all the way out west. No wonder the Finches were treading lightly. Having to leave San Adrian would be disastrous for them.

  “How long have you been a deputy?” Jacob began as they settled into the chairs in Mrs. Finch’s study. He closed his eyes for a moment to better feel the comfort and luxury all around him. Since he spent most of his days tracking in the untamed wilderness, just a cushion under him when he sat made a world of difference.

  “I started about a year ago. A lot of the town don’t take me seriously yet. You heard Mrs. Finch offer us cookies.” He ducked his head, as though embarrassed. “Right after I turned fourteen, my uncle Alex—he was sheriff, before Horne, see—he deputized me. I was his only one. We don’t get much trouble around here. Or when we do, a U.S. Marshal comes. But I moved out here from Philadelphia with my aunt and uncle when I was just a kid, and he kept saying how much he was looking forward to working with me when I was old enough.”

  “What happened?”

  “He died. ’Bout a month ago. The new Sheriff Horne had recently moved to town and was trying to make friends. Or so he said. He and Uncle Alex went out hunting one day and I guess just had some bad luck. Uncle Alex got bit by a rattler, and they were too far from Doctor Pike to save him in time.”

  “That’s a shame, Deputy. I’m real sorry to hear that.”

  “You can call me Timothy. Everyone else does. I’m mostly sorry for my aunt Maggie. She didn’t want to come west and leave her family back in Pennsylvania, but she loved Uncle Alex. And now she’s widowed, with no one to take care of her but me.”

  “I’m sure you do a great job.”

  He shrugged and blushed again. “I think so. I don’t know what we’d do without my deputy pay, though. I’m not a ranch hand or miner or nothin’.”

  “I don’t think you need to worry about that. But, tell me, why did you want to talk to me?”

  “I thought maybe the description you gave of that outlaw sounded familiar, but I couldn’t remember. Maybe if you gave me more detail it could jog my memory.”

  Jacob smiled and leaned back in his chair. “You’re a good man, Deputy Brady. Timothy. The man we’re looking for is short. Dark and graying hair, like I mentioned. Dark eyes. And a deeply scarred face that he tries to hide under a beard.”

  Timothy paled, his eyes widening like saucers. “What kind of scar?”

  Jacob had hoped the boy could make the connection on his own. “It looks like a small knife—or maybe a woman’s fingernail—scratched him from his left eyebrow all the way down to his jaw.”

  “No,” Timothy whispered.

  “You think you might have an idea?”

  “What did you say this fella did?”

  “He killed his wife. Strangled her. Then, when her parents came visiting to see where she was, he killed them, too, and left his hometown to come hide in the wide open deserts of Arizona.”

  “Geez,” the boy said, leaning back in his chair.

  “You think you know this man, Timothy?”

  The boy nodded. “It’s Sheriff, ain’t it?”

  Jacob nodded grimly. “Has to be. No matter what name he calls himself, Sheriff Horne matches the description too perfectly to be anyone else. And he’s only heaping on the suspicion by mysteriously losing the wanted poster for Jeremiah Blanchard.”

  Timothy sat straight. “We have to do something.”

  Jacob hid a smile at the boy’s enthusiasm. “We will. I have some ideas. But I don’t know how this town will take it, seein’ as how they’ve got a man like that in charge.”

  “You should talk to my aunt,” Timothy said excitedly, almost bouncing in his chair now. “We’ve lived here for almost ten years. She knows San Adrian better than anyone. Come home to dinner with me.”

  “Aunt Maggie?” Timothy called as they walked in.

  The Winthrops’ home was a couple blocks off the main street of San Adrian, a modest, wooden house with just two rooms. The main, front room Jacob found himself in housed the kitchen and table, along with a couple chairs by the wide stone fireplace. A thin bedroll was tucked against the wall by the hearth—probably where Timothy slept.

  Out of the bedroom tacked on to the back of the main room came Aunt Maggie, and Jacob was stunned for a moment. This woman didn’t look old enough to be Timothy’s aunt. She was lovely; she had clear white skin with just a smattering of freckles on her nose, and red-blond hair that shone in the firelight. At the top of her high neckline, she wore a delicate brooch with what looked like a lock of hair.

  “Evening, ma’am,” Jacob said, removing his hat.

  “Aunt Maggie, this is Jacob Payne,” Timothy said excitedly. “He’s going to help us get Sheriff Horne out of San Adrian.”

  Chapter Five

  After Timothy told his aunt a bit more about the stranger he had just let into their home, Maggie invited Jacob to stay for dinner. They would need to talk over what they could do to handle the new sheriff without putting themselves or anyone else in the town in danger, and Jacob was grateful for their help and insight. Intelligent conversation and two hot meals in one day? He was beginning to feel spoiled. He wanted to be sure to show her how grateful he was for her hospitality.

  When Timothy went out to chop wood and gather more water, Jacob offered his assistance to Maggie.

  “Is there anything round here that needs doing? Something your husband would have fixed or built, or a chore that’s been waiting for the last month?”

  Her eyes filled with tears.

  “I’m sorry, ma’am. I didn’t mean to—”

  “No, no. It’s fine. You’re right. I’m sure there are some chores that I’ve been neglecting. But for now . . .”

  She thought for a moment then smiled coyly and, to his surprise, actually laughed.

  “What?” asked Jacob, bewildered.

  “Well . . . there is one thing my husband used to do for me that I could use help with. But”—and here she laughed again, blushing furiously—“you won’t like it.”

  “Whatever you need, Mrs. Winthrop. Just tell me. I aim to make myself useful as long as I’m here.”

  “Well.” She took a deep breath as though steeling herself for something unpleasant. She ducked her chin, looking up at him through long eyelashes. “He used to peel the potatoes.”

  Jacob had expected something a lot worse. He grinned and nodded. “I can do that. I might not look it, but I have actually peeled potatoes before.”

  “Would you like an apron?” she offered, teasing him.

  He was tempted to accept, just to see if he could make her laugh again, but decided not to. She had only been a widow for a month, and it wouldn’t be proper for him to be monopolizing her attention that way.

  “No, ma’am. I think I can handle a few potato peels. Can’t do me any more harm than riding all morning has.”

  She laughe
d again and said, “Thank you for that. I haven’t laughed since my husband died.”

  Jacob grew serious. “I was real sorry to hear about that, Mrs. Winthrop. From what Timothy tells me, it sounds like he was a good, generous man. You should have had a long life together.”

  Tears welled up in the widow’s eyes, but she smiled and dabbed them away before they could fall. “He was . . . he was just that. And he would hate what has become of San Adrian now.”

  “Don’t you worry. We’ll fix it. Now, where are those potatoes you need peeled?”

  A short time later, after Jacob had peeled all the potatoes, Timothy had finished his chores, and Maggie had finished making dinner, the three sat down to the table together.

  “I’ll say grace, Aunt Maggie,” Timothy volunteered.

  Jacob bowed his head with the others. As the boy prayed, Jacob appreciated how both Maggie and Timothy could be grateful for what they had and not bitter about what they had lost. It made him all the more determined to help make it right and put Jeremiah behind bars.

  As the three dug into the stew Maggie had made, she commented slyly, “My, what wonderfully peeled potatoes we have here.”

  Jacob grinned. “My own secret recipe.”

  “I’m sure. Your mama teach you that? Or your wife?” She looked down into her bowl with this last question.

  “I did have a wife, ma’am. But she died in the war. Truth be told, that’s also where I learned to peel potatoes.”

  “Well, then.” She smiled at him. “I guess I’ll have to thank your sergeant.”

  Jacob couldn’t help but voice a nagging thought he had been having since he’d arrived.

  “Pardon me for saying so, Mrs. Winthrop, but I don’t see how you’re old enough to be this boy’s aunt.”

  Maggie smiled and fixed Jacob with a humorous look. “Well, Mr. Payne, you know a lady never reveals her age.”

  “Of course— I . . . I’m sorry—” he stammered.

  She laughed and quickly reassured him. “Timothy’s mother was my sister—my much older sister. When she and my brother-in-law died, there was no one else to take him in. Alex and I were not yet engaged, but he could see how badly I wanted to give this boy a home. So we got married right away and adopted the child.”