“What about Mr. Brandon?”
“He has been shot!”
“Show me!”
Johnny started running back toward the newspaper office, and despite his age and relative girth, Doc ran alongside, his boots making loud clumps on the boardwalk as kept pace with the boy.
“Where is he?” Doc asked the boy when they reached the newspaper office.
“He’s inside,” the boy replied. “I was comin’ to collect my pay for the newspapers I delivered last night and I heard the gunshot. When I ran inside, I seen Mr. Brandon lyin’ on the floor over by the press. I was too scared to go over any closer.”
Doc went inside and looked around, but because the drapes were pulled shut, it was too dark to see. By now a few others had come in as well.
“Open the curtains!” Doc ordered.
When the curtains were drawn, the morning sun spilled in through the windows, lighting up the room. That was when Doc saw Brandon lying facedown on the floor.
“Elmer!” Doc shouted. Kneeling beside him, he put his hand on Brandon’s neck to check for a pulse.
There was none.
“Johnny, when you came down here, did you see anyone else?” Doc asked.
“No sir, I didn’t see no one else,” Johnny replied. “Is—is Mr. Brandon dead?”
Doc nodded. “I’m afraid so.”
“I don’t reckon I’ve ever been this close to a dead man before,” Johnny said. “Well, I’ve seen ’em laid out in funerals and all, but I ain’t never seen one what has just been kilt.” Johnny came closer to look down in young but macabre curiosity.
Looking toward the back of the shop, Doc saw that the back door was standing wide open. Moving quickly toward it, he looked outside, glancing up and down the alley. He saw no one.
“What is it? What’s going on here?” a voice asked.
Stepping back inside the newspaper office, Doc saw Marshal Dawson just coming in off the street.
“Mr. Brandon’s been shot,” the newspaper boy said.
“Is he dead?”
Doc nodded. “Yeah,” he said in a choked voice. “He’s dead.”
“Did you do this, Patterson? Did you kill Brandon?” Dawson asked, snapping his words out in accusation.
“For crying out loud, Dawson, you know better than that,” Doc said. “Elmer Brandon was my best friend.”
“Friends has been known to get into arguments before,” Marshal Dawson said.
“Doc Patterson couldn’t of done it, Marshal,” Johnny said.
“How do you know he couldn’t have done it?”
“’Cause when I heard the gunshot, I run into the shop just long enough to see Mr. Brandon lyin’ there. Then I run back down the street where I seen Doc Patterson standin’ in front of his office. He couldn’t of got there that fast.”
“I suppose you are right,” Dawson replied. He walked over to look down at Brandon’s body. “Maybe it was a suicide, or an accident or something,” he suggested.
“Do you see a pistol anywhere, Marshal?”
Dawson looked around the room. “No.”
“Then that should prove that it was no suicide or accident,” Doc said. “He was murdered.”
“Well, if he was, it was his own fault.”
“What? His own fault? How can you say something like that?”
“Come on, Doc, you read his article, I’m sure,” Dawson said.
“I’ll be damned,” Doc said. “You’re right, I think Quentin killed him, but I never thought I’d hear you say that.”
“What? Who said anything about Quentin killin’ him?”
“You did. You said it was because of his article.”
Marshal Dawson shook his head. “I didn’t say nothin’ about Quentin doin’ the killin’. There’s no doubt in my mind but that the article made a lot of people in this town very mad. More than likely it was one of them, I just don’t know who.”
“I don’t see how it could make anyone but Quentin mad,” Doc said.
“Are you accusing Quentin?”
“Yes.”
“Then you are a fool. I was out at the Tumbling Q this morning, and Quentin was there. He probably has twenty witnesses who will say he was there all morning. Quentin didn’t do it.”
