Sundown, p.12
Sundown, page 12
And Wyatt had a trial to prepare for and more secrets to uncover. He tossed a bill on the table for the waitress’s trouble and crossed the street, climbed into the buggy, and took the reins. He rode back to the ranch.
On the way, he thought of Wyatt’s confession, his tears over his fear of dying. By the time he arrived at the ranch, Wyatt had shed tears of his own.
At the ranch, he unhitched Ginger from the buggy and led her into the barn. He saddled Clementine and, like he’d promised Travis, rode to Amos’s house. He spent the afternoon helping Amos round up cattle and move them to a fresh pasture. While on horseback, Wyatt thought through the conflicting accounts of the night Thornton was murdered, from Travis, Sheriff Black and Preacher Taylor. What was he missing?
As they neared Amos’s ranch, Clementine reared up and Amos’s horse pawed the ground. Amos drew his pistol and aimed it at the shadows of a juniper bush. The gun thundered in his hand, and a snake flew into the air, its head a bloody stump. Amos holstered his weapon. “That’s why I wear a gun.”
Wyatt led Clementine past the dead snake and urged her toward the cattle. “How did you learn to ride and shoot so well?”
“In the war.”
Wyatt rode beside him. “You were in the war?”
“Sixth United States Colored Calvary. That’s how I met your brother.”
Neither man had mentioned they knew each other before the McCrea brothers moved to Sundown. “Why am I just learning about this?”
Amos laughed. “War ain’t easy to talk about for those who fought and saw the suffering we all did. Travis and I met before he was captured. He and I often talked about what we’d do after the war. He always wanted to move west. Ruby and I needed a fresh start, so we came west. After Ruby and I settled into a homestead outside of Sundown, I sent Travis a letter. Two months later, you two arrived.”
“I’ll be goldarned.”
“He was mighty grateful. After we got your place fixed up, he gave me a hundred acres, but you already know that.”
Gave Amos a hundred acres? Wyatt was glad his brother did; the news was just more evidence that Travis could lie and keep secrets when the need arose.
After they finished moving the cattle, they rode slowly to check on fences around Amos’s ranch and stopped beside a Cottonwood. On the other side of the fence was the Colfield Ranch. “The Colfields ever cause you trouble?” Wyatt asked.
“Only when I go to town.” They headed back toward Amos’s ranch. “I don’t mind being out here by myself, but I feel bad for Ruby and Miles. They need friends to socialize with. Now we don’t even have Travis.”
“I’ll go to town with you and your family. I’ll even strap on my pistol.”
“Thanks, but I need to make them feel safe myself.” Wyatt understood. They reached Amos’s ranch, and the two men shook hands.
He made his way back to Travis’s ranch. The afternoon rolled on, and he found himself engaged in the trusty art of sweeping out the horse stalls, his shirt soon clinging to his back like a well-meaning acquaintance who just won’t take the hint. The exertion and sweat, a veritable baptism by humidity, managed to wash away most of the sting from his recent failures- namely, that pesky inability to learn the identity of the woman Travis had entertained through the night. But as significant as that was, the work also helped him shove aside, at least for the moment, those most confounding feelings he harbored for Emma, which he could no longer deny had lately taken root in his heart like a weed in a respectable garden.
After supper, he gathered the notes he’d taken. He felt good about helping Amos and cleaning up around the ranch, but with barely a week until trial, he had to focus on the case. He spent several hours at the kitchen table concentrating on legal work by the light of a coal oil lamp. He prepared a list of witnesses he thought Hackett would call and what they could testify to. Then, he prepared a defense witness list, one without Travis and one with him.
With his differing accounts of his activities the night Thornton was murdered, a jury might not believe anything Travis would say. Wyatt’s only strategy would be to get the jury to focus on Thornton’s flaws and Travis’s good reputation with most town folks.
He would like to introduce the hanky, and the love note even if Travis objected, but he couldn’t do so without knowing the name of the woman whose first name started with E. Without her testimony, the items and her alibi she might offer were next to useless.
CHAPTER 17
When the morning sun shone through the kitchen and onto the table, Travis leaned back in his chair. He’d come up with a plan to defend Travis by getting the jury to focus on the flaws of the victim. He knew little about Thornton; at least Emma discovered he’d served in the Confederate Navy.
Wyatt needed coffee before mapping out a timeline of events the night of Thornton’s murder. He set the pot on the stove and lit the burner. Through the kitchen window someone approached on horseback.
Wyatt stood on the porch as Sheriff Black climbed off his horse and tied him to a post on the front porch. “Everything okay, Sheriff?”
“Tolerable, Wyatt. Tolerable. Thought I’d take a ride in the country and do some target practicing. I have to hone my skills.”
“Can I get you some coffee?”
“You sure can.”
Minutes later, the two men sat on the porch drinking coffee as a cool breeze swept through the ranch. “What’s on your mind, Sawyer?”
“You ever find out who sent the telegram?”
He hadn’t, but Wyatt suspected it was the mysterious woman who owned the hanky, wrote the love note and might be Travis’s alibi. “I’m narrowing it down.”
The sheriff took a sip and sighed. “It should’ve been me. I should have sent it.”
He should have. “Did you ever question Jeb Colfield? He was in town the day of the murder.”
“Matter of fact, I did. Jeb said he left town just before sundown. According to the almanac, the sun set at 6:49.”
“You believed him?”
“Stone saw him leave about then, too.”
Wyatt rubbed his forehead. Could Jeb have doubled back and killed Thornton to frame Travis?”
Sawyer stared at the coffee in his cup. “I’m thinking of packing it in, getting a place like this. Giving up sheriffin’.”
“Are you thinking hard about quitting or just reflecting on it some?”
“I’m not as young as I used to be, Wyatt.
Sundown’s getting too... too cosmopolitan. Then there’s Mayor Hook, Judge Rawlings, the Colfield boys. And my best friend in my jail.”
He gazed across the ranch, but Wyatt could see his thoughts were a thousand miles away. “Had a place of my own in Dakota. When my wife died, I gave up and left it all behind.”
“I didn’t know you were married.”
“Hurts to talk about her. Even now, I find myself waking up sometimes and turning to tell her about what’s going on; then I realize she’s gone. It’s like she died all over again.”
Wyatt had never seen the man so miserable. He had to change the subject. “Never heard how you became sheriff of Sundown.”
“After Sarah died, I drifted some, then got a job with the railroad. They’d been having some holdups. I foiled one or two and got my name in the papers. After the rail opened through Sundown, the mayor met me at the depot one day. Over drinks at the Purple Sage, he explained how he’d assured Union Pacific bigshots that he’d get the town cleaned up if they put a stop in Sundown.”
“So, the mayor cleaned up Sundown?” Wyatt had a hard time imagining Mayor Hook leading the charge to bring law and order to the town.
“I cleaned up Sundown. He paid me to do it.” He finished his coffee and set the cup beside the chair. “Let’s do some shooting. You got any tin cans?”
The sheriff didn’t want to talk about his wife, or Dakota or why he never talked about either.
Wyatt went out back and collected a handful of tin cans. He set six on top of the wooden fence across from the house.
He walked back and stood beside the sheriff. “This about twenty paces?”
“I paced it off: exactly twenty paces.”
Sheriff Black drew his gun and squared himself up toward the cans, looking every bit like a rugged hombre on the cover of a dime novel. He fired off a shot with a loud crack and missed. “Gol durn it!”
He fired the gun again. Same result. “Might need my pistol aligned. You try.”
Wyatt took the gun, a relic from his past. He hadn’t handled one in years. He took his time, held his breath and squeezed the trigger. The sharp crack echoed toward the dusty yard as lead met tin. The can spun on the fence before tumbling off with a clatter, rolling lazily in the dirt. “I didn’t hit it square on.”
“But you hit it.”
He fired three more times, sending the remaining cans to the ground.
Wyatt handed the gun to the sheriff and set four more cans onto the fence.
The sheriff reloaded his gun, then took his time.
After four shots, he hit two. He sighed and jammed the pistol into his holster. “Thanks for the coffee.”
“My pleasure.”
He tugged his hat onto his head. “Maybe I should turn the job over to a younger person.”
Wyatt chuckled. "Who'd want the job?”
He laughed then groaned as he climbed on his horse. “I might not quit today or tomorrow, but it’s coming. You get your brother off, and I might stay a bit longer.”
As if Wyatt needed more responsibility, Sheriff Black’s future rested on freeing Travis. “Nothing wrong with glasses, you know.”
Sheriff Black laughed, then spurred his horse and galloped off, kicking up dust that settled over the corral.
How would he cross-examine the sheriff, Travis’s best friend?
Wyatt spent the next few days at the kitchen table working on a plan to defend Travis like he knew Sam Hampton would do if he were here. By the end of the week, Wyatt felt more organized, but the trial drew closer, it only served to tighten the knot in his gut. If Travis had any chance at all, Wyatt had to point the jury toward someone other than Travis. If his brother hadn’t fired the shots that night, who had killed Silas Thornton, and why?
On Thursday, he rode into town and tied Clementine to a post at the sheriff’s office.
The staccato beat of horses’ hoofs raced down Main Street. The three Colfield brothers galloped past him, shouting and firing guns in the air on the way out of town.
When he opened the door to the Sheriff’s office, a man brushed past him and went inside, Mayor Hook. Wyatt followed, closed the door behind him, and hung his Stetson on the coat rack. He kept his face impassive as he leaned against the wall beside the sheriff’s desk.
The mayor’s face reddened, as he jabbed his finger in the sheriff’s direction. “You’ve got to do something about the Colfield brothers. They’re riding down Main Street firing their guns, scaring God-fearing folks minding their own business.”
The sheriff was cleaning his fingernails with his knife. “Sounded from the gunfire like they were headed out of town. Anytime the Colfield brothers leave town is a good day.”
“Coward and ruffians!” the mayor spat, his voice rising.
“I’m not going to lock them up, not now with Travis in there.”
The mayor threw up his hands and appeared to notice Wyatt for the first time. “Well, what do you have to say?”
He was right of course, but Sheriff Black was an easy target. “I agree with you. Those boys are trouble, but Sheriff Black is doing his best.”
“His best! If he did his best, I wouldn’t be here!” The mayor turned and left, slamming the door behind him.
Wyatt shook his head. “I don’t think he likes me.” “Welcome to the ranks.” The sheriff took the key from the wall and opened the door to the cells where guitar strumming came from Travis’s cell.
In his cell with the Bible beside him on the cot, Travis appeared lost in reflection as he strummed the guitar. When Wyatt entered, his brother looked up and propped the guitar next to the cot. “Clint Hackett came by. We had a chat.”
Hackett! “He's not supposed to talk to you. He’s supposed to talk to me.” Wyatt banged his fist on the cell bars. “He knows that!”
“He offered me a deal. Said if I pled guilty, I wouldn’t hang. The judge assured him since I’ve never been in significant trouble before and I’m supposedly a war hero, I’d only go to prison for three to five years.”
The offer required a lawyer’s calm reasoned evaluation. “But you didn’t do it.”
Travis shrugged. “It seems like I’m destined to be a prisoner most of my life. I told him I’d talk to you and think it over. It would solve a lot of problems.”
Wyatt could go back to Sacramento and consider what he wanted out of his life, but a decision like this couldn’t be decided on what’s best for one’s attorney. “You mean solve the problem of you and the woman who changed your life. You’d still have to keep your relationship secret.”
“Until I served my time.” Travis rose and clapped Wyatt on the shoulder. “Stop acting like my lawyer and try thinking of me as your brother.”
His brother was right. “Okay, let me give it some thought. We’ll talk tomorrow.”
Wyatt marched down Main Street to confront Hackett. He was tired of the man’s charming appeal and arrogance that implied rules weren’t meant for him.
He reached the lawyer’s office and entered without knocking.
Emma was inside, but Wyatt ignored her. “Hackett, if you wanted to turn this trial into a fight, you just found yourself one.”
Hackett slid his chair back and collided with the wall. He held up both hands. “Now, Wyatt, I looked all over for you. I stopped by the Sheriff's Office to see if you were there. You weren’t, so I met with your brother. We talked for two minutes.”
Wyatt leaned across the desk. “That’s two minutes too long.”
“Wyatt,” Emma said breathlessly, “I’m sure Clint meant no harm.”
Wyatt turned to Emma. Was she and Hackett more than neighbors? “I thought you had a newspaper to get out.”
“Guess you don’t want to know what I found out in Cheyanne.” Emma’s eyes blazed like a blacksmith’s furnace. She turned on her heel and left the two men alone.
Hackett pulled a flask from inside his suit coat with the deftness of a magician revealing a white rabbit and took a swallow. He ambled from behind his desk, making an effort to regain the sparkle of his charm. “Okay. I was wrong. I would be upset if another attorney met with my client. If you want, you can report me to Judge Rawlings.”
That’s exactly what Wyatt should have done. “That’s a coward’s way out. I’m no coward. But we can step outside and settle it like men did a few years ago.” “You want to fight?” Hackett took another swig of liquid courage.
Wyatt took off his hat and ran a hand through his hair. “No, I don’t want to fight.”
Relief swept over Hackett’s face like a great wave from the Pacific Ocean. “I’m glad to hear that. I owe you one. Have you thought about the offer?”
“We’ll… I’ll let you know.”
Wyatt turned to leave.
“Wait.” Hackett stood beside Wyatt. “The other night at the dance, I’ve never seen Emma happier. I took her to dinner a few times last year, but well, she wasn’t interested.”
Hackett didn’t owe him an explanation. Wyatt left the office and passed by the Sundown Gazette without so much as a glance inside. He took a few steps more, then turned back and went into the news‐ paper office.
Emma was at her desk writing on a pad. She didn’t even look up.
“So, what did you find out?”
Emma looked up with a gaze as sharp as a cat's claw. “Oh, so now you want to talk.”
“I was upset. I had to get Hackett’s interference off my chest.”
“I don’t tolerate men treating me the way you treated me in Clint’s office.”
Emma was right, of course. He turned and walked away. When he reached the door, she called out, “Wyatt, wait.”
“My trip to Cheyanne didn’t yield much. The Union general had never heard of Silas Thornton but he knew about the battle for New Orleans. He couldn’t offer anything you could use in court, but he mentioned the scuttlebutt during the war said a Yankee spy had stolen Confederate battle plans and turned them over to someone in the Union Army.”
“Thornton wasn’t a Yankee spy. He was a Confederate naval officer.”
Emma walked from behind the desk and smiled with a mix of mischief and delight. “What if Thornton was both?”
CHAPTER 18
Friday morning, dark ominous clouds loomed overhead as Wyatt rode from the ranch, but his thoughts weren’t on the weather, but on the trial that would start in three days.
Clementine grew agitated and anxious as lightning flashed in the direction of Sundown. The wind picked up, stirring dust and debris across the path. The first lazy raindrops splattered against the dry ground creating puffs of dust as they hit and giving off the fresh aroma of rain.
Wyatt pulled a jacket from the saddle bag and managed to slip into it as the rain intensified.
By the time they reached the train depot, the storm opened up with a torrential downpour. The once dry-as-a-bone Main Street had turned into a soupy mess. The town looked deserted except for a few hardy souls scurrying for cover, seeking shelter in the most dependable of havens, the saloon or the hotel café.
The lanterns hanging outside flickered and danced in the wind, casting eerie shadows on the waterlogged ground. With determination, Wyatt and Clementine made it to the livery stable. He took off her saddle and blanket and wiped the horse down, offering reassurance to the mare that, despite the storm, all was well in their dry little corner of the world.
With Clementine in a dry stall, Wyatt stood in the tall doorway, trying to decide whether he should set off slow and determined or make a break for it. Main Street had turned into a sea of mud and water, with overturned barrels and debris floating in the flooded gutters. The usually bustling town felt desolate and abandoned. The only sounds were the drumming of rain on the roofs and the rumble and occasional crack of thunder.
