“Bobby Lee, when it happens—uh, I mean, when they hang you—I ain’t goin’ to be there watchin'. I hope you understand. I’ve always figured you for a friend, and I don’t think I want to watch a friend get his neck stretched. That don’t mean I’m not goin’ to be thinkin’ about you. It’s just that I don’t want to be here when it’s happenin'.”
“I understand,” Bobby Lee replied.
“Bye, Bobby Lee.”
“You goin’ to hang around jabberin’ with him, or are you goin’ to get out of here?” Deputy Beard asked. “'Cause if you’re just goin’ to hang around, I can put you back in jail and you two folks can just visit all you want.”
“I’m goin',” Andy said.
Beard waited until Andy left before he turned to Bobby Lee’s cell.
“Cabot, you got a visitor,” Deputy Beard said.
“Who is it?”
“Who is it? It’s the whore. Who else would waste their time comin’ to see you?”
“Good, please send her in.”
Beard disappeared into the front of the building, but Bobby Lee could still hear him talking.
“Better let me search you, to make sure you ain’t takin’ him no weapons.” There was a decided leering tone in the sound of his voice.
“Watch your hands.” There was irritation in the woman’s voice.
“Ha! Like you haven’t had hands there before,” Beard said. “All right, you can go in.”
Standing at the front of his cell, Bobby Lee watched as Minnie Smith came into the back. Minnie was a pretty girl, and would have been prettier, Bobby Lee believed, if she would just let nature take its course. But, defying nature, she had dyed her hair, which was naturally auburn, a henna-tinted red. Her eyes were shaded, her cheeks were rouged, and her lips were painted.
The dye and makeup was because of Minnie’s occupation, which technically was saloon hostess, though other sobriquets were used, such as hurdy-gurdy girl, parlor girl, and soiled dove. In truth, she was a prostitute, but Bobby Lee saw more than that in her. Minnie had been present all during his trial, and had cried bitter tears when Bobby Lee was sentenced.
“Oh, Bobby Lee,” she said. “I can’t stand it. I know you sent that letter to Sheriff Wallace, you told me about it. But I can’t get anyone to believe me. I’m so sorry.”
“Don’t worry about it,” Bobby Lee said.
“How can I not worry about it?” She pointed toward the front of the building. “Do you know they are building a gallows right now in front of this very building?”
“Yes, I’ve heard them at work. Minnie, I need you to do something for me.”
“What? What do you want?” Minnie asked. “I’ll do anything you ask.”
“I want you to send a telegram for me.”
“A telegram? To the governor?” She shook her head. “It won’t do any good, Bobby Lee. I’ve already sent a telegram to the governor.”
“No, not to the governor,” Bobby Lee said. “I want you to send this to a friend of mine. If there is anybody in the world who can do anything for me, it will be him.”
“All right, give me the name of the person, tell me what you want to say and where you want it to go,” Minnie said. “I’ll send it.”
After Minnie received her instructions and left, Bobby Lee lay back down on his bunk again to resume staring at the ceiling above. Outside, he could hear the sounds of the men as they continued to work on the gallows.
“All right, boys, lift up the cross tree,” one of the carpenters shouted. “There you go. Hold it in position while I get it nailed down.”
The carpenter’s vocal instructions were followed by the banging of the hammer.
Realistically, Bobby Lee knew the chances were only about one in one hundred that the telegram would reach its destination. According to the sentence of the judge, he was to hang on the thirty-first. That was only one week away.
Bobby Lee was sure that Minnie would send the telegram—he had that much faith in her—but he really had no sense of confidence that the telegram would actually get through. He had asked her to send it to Buck West, rather than Smoke Jensen, believing that by so doing it would get Smoke’s attention more quickly. Now he wondered if perhaps he had been too smart by half. What if the telegram didn’t reach Smoke? For that matter, what if the telegram did reach Smoke, but because it was addressed to Buck West, he chose to do nothing about it?
One thousand miles east from the Cloverdale Jail, in the town of Big Rock, Colorado, a rather sizable crowd was watching a spirited horseshoe pitch. A tossed horseshoe hit the peg, made a loud clang, spun around the peg, then settled down.
“Ringer!” Jason Whitman shouted. “Looks like Smoke beat you, Floyd.”
“Damn,” Floyd said. “Smoke, is there anything you can’t do? ‘Cause if there is, I sure want to give you a go on it.”
“Sally says I can’t knit worth a damn,” Smoke said.
“Is that a fact? Well, I’ll tell you what,” Floyd said. “I believe I’ll just take up knittin’ so’s I can find somethin’ I can beat you at.”
The others laughed at the barber’s lament. Floyd Carr had been the champion horseshoe thrower for Big Rock
