“Want me to disperse them?” Destiny asked.
“No. They’re harmless. At least this is a case where we won’t have to worry about lynch mobs. Mainwaring’s one of the most respected men in town.”
“He was,” Destiny corrected with bitter irony. Glancing past the crowd’s heads, he saw a man hurrying down the opposite sidewalk—Fred Maye. Maye disappeared into the telegraph office like a man with important business on his mind. It struck Destiny as curious that Maye wouldn’t postpone his business long enough to come over and inquire about his close friend Mainwaring.
Suddenly disgusted with himself, Destiny said, “You need me for a while?”
“No.”
“Then I think I’ll snoop around some,” he said, and left. Six watched him pry through the crowd, using elbows and bony shoulders with more savagery than was required; Six frowned and went back to his chair and sat down, very slowly, favoring his wound.
A little while later he heard a woman’s voice outside, delivering a tongue-lashing. Shamefacedly, the group of people on the walk broke up and drifted away; and Clarissa Vane came into the office.
“Ghouls,” she said. “Haven’t they got anything better to do?”
“It’s hotter than hell and summer’s always dull,” he answered equably. “When something unusual happens, it’s enough to draw the curious. They meant no harm.”
Lisa Mainwaring came through the back door from the cell block, nodded coolly to Clarissa, and said to Six, “He’s as comfortable as possible back there, I suppose, under the circumstances. But it’s beastly hot.”
“I know. I’m sorry,” Six said.
“Can’t he be released until the trial? He won’t run away. We can post a bond or something, can’t we?”
“I’m afraid not. It’s a capital case.”
“You won’t give him an inch, will you?” Lisa said bitterly.
Six said gently, “I don’t make the rules, Lisa. I just live by them. I’d suggest you get over to the telegraph office and start sending wires out to get your father the best lawyer he can find.”
Lisa’s pretty lip curled. “The insinuation being that he’s guilty and needs a good lawyer.”
“Every accused man needs the best lawyer he can get,” Six answered. “Make no mistake about it, Lisa. Your father’s in danger: innocent or guilty, the evidence against him is damned strong. If it wasn’t, I wouldn’t have had to arrest him.”
She said in a low voice, “You’re a pious hypocrite, Jeremy Six. How many times have you had dinner in our house? How many times have you smoked my father’s cigars? You’re a son of a bitch.”
Six said evenly, “Do you really think I like this any more than you do?”
It made her look directly at him. Then, brimming with tears and shaking her head violently, she rushed out the door.
Clarissa went as far as the door, pushed it shut, and said softly, “That poor kid.” It struck Six, if it had not struck Clarissa, that Lisa’s only acknowledgement of Clarissa’s presence had been a curt nod—the proper greeting when Proper People met the Other Kind on the no-mans-land of the main street. It was geography and occupation, not personality, that made for those artificial rules. If Clarissa had run a boarding house on the right side of town, instead of a saloon in Cat Town, it would all be different. It had taken Six himself a little time to learn that much; it was with a quiet warmth of admiration that he saw the way Clarissa allowed the slur to slide off her without leaving a mark, without making her too bitter to pity Lisa Mainwaring.
Clarissa said again, “That poor kid,” and turned to look at him. “And you. You’ve got no business spending the whole day down here.”
“Tm fine, damn it.”
“You ought to be stretched out flat on your back.” She grinned at him. “But you won’t, and I won’t fight it any more. Can I bring you a meal from the cafe?”
“I’d be obliged.”
“All right. Stay put,” she said, and went out.
Spanish Flat buried Amos Krausmeier that afternoon, just before sundown. Krausmeier had a lot of friends, but no discoverable relatives. He was buried expensively, and with dignity, but what grief there was, was expressed in the form of indignation and righteous anger against the suspicious nature of his death. Krausmeier had been liked, but he had been one of those who never got close enough to anyone to inspire love. At bottom, he had always been lonely.
Earle Mainwaring, on the other hand, had been neither liked nor loved, except by his sister and his father. Still, loyalty to their employer made Mainwaring’s miners turn out in force for Earle’s funeral—and curiosity compelled a good many others to watch the procession and the graveside services.
The funeral took place in the morning. The diamond willow casket was borne in a black hearse, brass-railed, drawn by six black horses. The procession, swelled to a crowd, followed the hearse slowly through the main streets and out to the shaded burial ground. It was hot, but many of the men wore black suits, the women black dresses down to their ankles; those who had them carried black parasols against the blast of the sun.
Jeremy Six and Jim Destiny flanked the prisoner—Mainwaring, handcuffed, stood silent by the graveside while the preacher spoke his sermon. Hot winds sanded the spectators. After the preacher finished, the coffin was lowered into the grave; awkwardly in his handcuffs, Mainwaring sprinkled hot dry earth over the casket, and Earle was laid to rest.
The march back to town was neither dignified nor subdued. Curious onlookers crowded in to get a look at the steel cuffs on Mainwaring’s wrists, only half-concealed by the ends of his black coat sleeves. There was a good deal of talking, most of it argumentative, and few bothered to keep their voices down. It was plain, from the general drift of the talk, that the townspeople and miners were dividing into opposite camps: one group believed Mainwaring innocent, the other was convinced of his guilt. That was hardly unusual. Mainwaring had a great many loyal friends; on the other hand, there were always plenty of people ready to assume the worst about any man.
Lisa remained by her father’s side throughout the trying morning—from jail to church, thence with the slow procession to the graveyard, and then back to jail. It kept her in close proximity not only with her father, but with Jim Destiny, who was charged with guarding the prisoner. It did not escape Jeremy Six’s notice that Lisa and Destiny exchanged many glances, some of them long-held, all of them suitably grave; once Six saw Lisa’s hand brush Destiny’s, at which time they looked at each other in what could only be an intimate way. It gave him pause to recall Fred Maye’s remarks about the way Destiny had looked at Lisa. It seemed more likely than before that Destiny’s motive for insisting on Mainwaring’s innocence was more complex than a simple, single-minded hatred for Sid Stratton.
Stratton, in fact, had attended the funeral, which surprised Six, and evidently disgusted Destiny. When Destiny hadn’t been looking fondly at Lisa, he had been glaring narrow-lidded at Stratton, who had the decency at least to hang back in the crowd and not make a point of his presence. The slight, cold smile which was never far from Stratton’s countenance was with him again today, in spite of the somber occasion; Stratton seemed to find something cynically amusing in the outpouring of crowds of people who had had little good to say about Earle while he was alive.
Fred Maye had come up to speak softly, reassuringly, to Mainwaring; Maye had drifted away soon, not overstaying his welcome. Now, as they approached the Marshal’s Office, a growing number of men and women pushed forward to offer condolences and encouragement to Mainwaring. Tracy Chavis, Hal Craycroft, and a good many others came forward, spoke briefly—“If there’s anything we can do, Garrett …”—and made room for the next. So long as no one offered trouble, Six made no effort to hustle Mainwaring inside; but he kept an alert eye on the crowd for sign of danger, and observed that Destiny was doing the same. Destiny, he thought, had the makings of a good officer; but at the moment Destiny seemed preoccupied by some private quarrel inside himself,
uncertain of his real intentions, and still obsessed by the notion that he had to prosecute a one-man vendetta against Sid Stratton. Six thought, not for the first time, that it would be a good idea to find out exactly what Stratton was supposed to have done to Destiny’s brother Steve. Whatever it was, it had been strong enough to close Destiny’s mind against Stratton.
When they went inside at last, Six let Destiny take Mainwaring back to the cell; Six headed directly for the chair and lowered himself gently into it. The long morning had taxed him more than he wanted to admit; the scraped rib bothered him with a faint throb, and he could feel the tug of healing flesh over the scabbed wound. He watched Destiny, Lisa and Mainwaring go back into the cell block, and glanced without much interest through the window at the curious crowd outside. It seemed reluctant to break up and go away. Six pulled out a bandana and mopped his face; it was hotter than hell.
Destiny came into the office and tossed the cell keys on the desk. His expression was dark and smoldering. Six tried to sound casual: “Sometimes it helps to get it off your chest.”
“Get what off my chest?”
“Whatever’s eating you.”
“Good God,” Destiny grumbled. “What the hell do you think’s eating me?”
“I’m not talking about Mainwaring.”
“Oh? Then what’s on your mind?”
“The question is,” Six said, “what’s on yours? I’m talking about Sid Stratton.”
“What about him?”
“Your brother Steve was killed in Silver City. As I understand it, he got shot in a saloon quarrel, and the man who shot him was arrested and found guilty and sent to prison for second-degree murder. Was that man working for Stratton?”
“Not that I know of.”
“Then why do you blame your brother’s death on Stratton?”
Destiny regarded him bleakly. “I’d be obliged if you’d stay out of my private business.”
“It isn’t private any more. Not the way things have shaped up.”
“You want to fire me?” Destiny demanded. “You want this badge back? You can have it any time.”
Six said mildly, “You can turn it in any time. That’s a cheap kind of blackmail, Jim, and I won’t stand still for it. I need you, sure, to fill in for me until I’m healed, but I don’t need you so badly that you can use it as a weapon against me.”
“Then fire me. Nothing’s stopping you.”
“No. But I won’t play it that way, just to suit your convenience.”
“Then how do you figure to play it?”
“Not like a game,” Six said. “It’s too serious for that. Now I’d appreciate it if you’d quit beating around the bush. I want to know about your brother’s death, and I want to know what part Stratton played in it.”
“That’s not included in the price of your ticket,” Destiny said. “I told you that before.”
The argument was interrupted by Lisa, who came forward from the cells, pinning her veil back. She looked at both men with weary eyes. “Do you mind if I leave this corridor door open? It might help get a little air back there.”
“Good idea,” Six said. “Have you done anything about a lawyer?”
“My father told me to wire a lawyer he knows in Prescott. I did, and he’ll be here tomorrow on the train.”
“Good,” Six said.
“Marshal,” she said, and it made him give her his full attention; she usually called him by name, not by the formality of his title. “Do you honestly believe he’s guilty? Can you honestly believe that?”
Six said, “I’m not convinced, either way. The evidence stands against him. I’ve always regarded the witness as an honest man. But I’ve always had high regard for your father too, and I find it hard to believe he’d be capable of what he’s been accused of. So I stand right in the middle. I don’t know what happened out there, and I won’t jump to any conclusions except to say that personally I’m inclined to give your father the benefit of the doubt. But that doesn’t change the facts, and it doesn’t change the law. He’s got to go to trial.”
There was hardly a spark of animation in her face; she looked like a stranger. “I see,” she said. She went as far as the door before she said, “He’s innocent, Jeremy. I swear to God he’s innocent. And I wish to hell-you’d do something to find proof of his innocence, instead of sitting around here telling me what you don’t know.” With that, she wheeled outside.
Destiny went after her; from the door he said, “I’ll take you home,” and then left with her. Six stared at the door morosely for a while; then he got up and moved slowly back through the open corridor door into the cell block. It was, actually, no hotter back here than it was up front, but that was no real consolation; it was hot everywhere. The pressures of confinement behind iron bars could easily make it seem even hotter.
Mainwaring was stripped down to his shirtsleeves, lying back on the narrow cot. He had dragged it away from the window’s shaft of sunlight, into the shade. The window’s bars made blunt shadows on the floor.
Six said, “You make it hard, Garrett.”
“What?”
“Nobody would even raise an eyebrow if you said you’d had an argument with Earle and he’d fallen over the rail by accident. But when you say you don’t know a thing about it, then you’re running directly counter to what the witness claims he saw.”
“Then it’s my word against his, isn’t it?”
“There’s a lot of circumstantial evidence to pile on top of his testimony.”
“You still won’t tell me who he is?”
“No. I’ll tell your lawyer, before the trial. That’s all I can do.”
“All right,” Mainwaring said listlessly. “It doesn’t matter much anyway.”
“What?”
“I heard this morning that this crazy, unbelievable thing has made every newspaper from here to the Coast. The San Francisco clubs are full of it. By market-closing time this afternoon, Jeremy, my stock will have tumbled to rock-bottom. That’s the way the market works. When an operator’s reputation gets smirched, public confidence in him goes down the drain, and his stock takes a drubbing. By tonight I’ll be hard put to stay out of bankruptcy.”
“Then that makes it all the more important that you get this thing cleared up. Clear your name, and your stock will go back up again.”
“It’s not that easy,” Mainwaring said. “Look, what do you want me to do—say I was there? Say I pushed Earle over that railing, or watched him fall?”
“It would make more sense.”
“I can’t help that, Jeremy. I wasn’t there. He was dead when I walked into the house.” Mainwaring held both hands out, palms up. His voice started to break. “I swear to God, Jeremy.”
Six made no answer. Mainwaring shook his head violently, with a self-derogatory snort of mock laughter; and Six went back up front to his office. When he reached the front door he felt a sharp twinge, more warning than pain, in his side; he opened the door and stepped out and swept the street in both directions with his gaze.
A cowboy was tooling a buckboard loaded with staples and ranch supplies down the street; Six lifted a hand in signal, and when the cowboy guided the buckboard over to the walk, Six said, “Morning, Arkansas. You happen to know if Tracy Chavis is still in town?”
“Saw him with Hal Craycroft a little while ago, up to the Drovers Rest.”
“I wonder if you’d do me the favor of asking him to drop by here.”
“Sure will,” said the cowboy. “How’s that bullet hole mendin’?”
“Coming along,” Six said. “Thanks for asking.”
The cowboy tooled the wagon up-street, and Six went back inside, chafing with impatient anger and a steady undercurrent of frustration and uncertainty.
Eight
Jim Destiny had planned to leave Lisa at the door, tip his hat, and ride back to town. But she asked him in, and it was an invitation he had no desire to refuse. He followed her into the parlor, unable to forget it was the sce
ne of Earle’s death, and removed his hat as she said, “Would you like a cup of coffee?”
“I could use a drink.”
If she was surprised by that, she didn’t show it. She went to the sideboard and said, “Sit down, Jim. Dad’s got all kinds of whiskey here.”
“I’m not particular,” he said. “Kentucky or rye, whatever’s handy.”
“I think,” she said slowly, “I’ll have one with you—maybe a glass of brandy.”
It was not yet noon. He gave her a glance that would have been curious if he had not been so preoccupied and disordered; she returned the glance with a wan smile and said, “We’re here with no chaperon, and I’m drinking brandy. What would the town ladies ever think?” Her voice ran up and down the scale of correct righteous shock, mocking the Victorian ladies of the town (and every other town); but the little joke was weak, her heart was not in lighthearted sarcasm, and the smile fled her cheeks as quickly as it had come.
He had taken a seat on the divan, which was the farthest piece of furniture from the place below the landing where Earle had fallen. From here he faced the front of the room with a side window at his right shoulder. To see the spot of floor where Earle’s body had lain, he would have had to crane his neck and look past the high Queen Anne arm of the divan. He picked the seat deliberately—and condemned himself the moment he sat down; his fear seemed transparent.
She put a small glass of rye in his hand, gathered her black skirt and sat down at the opposite end of the divan. She sat sidesaddle to face him, knees drawn up, ankles crossed. It was a dainty, almost flirtatious position, but it was completely unconscious, obviously; her mind was on other things. She said in a low, sour tone, “What will happen now?”
More than anything else, she needed reassurance. It struck Destiny as bitterly ironic that she thought he was the one who could provide it. But he felt obligated to try. He said, “I haven’t given up, Lisa.”
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