Folding the paper up and sticking it in his pocket, Smoke left the depot, stepping out onto Fremont Street. Seeing the gallows at the far end of the street, Smoke decided to walk down for a closer inspection.
“You here for the hangin'?” someone asked as he passed one of the business establishments.
Looking toward the sound of the voice, Smoke saw an old, white-haired man sitting on a chair that was tipped back against the front of the apothecary. The man was whittling on a stick.
“Maybe,” Smoke said.
“It’s goin’ to be quite a show,” the white-haired man said. He turned his head and expertly spit a stream of tobacco over the boardwalk and into the dirt between the two buildings. “It’s a shame they’re hangin’ the wrong fella, though.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Hell, it was Frank Dodd that done the actual shootin'. They was two or three folks that was on the train that night that seen ever’thing. This here fella they’re about to hang wasn’t doin’ nothin’ but sort of standin’ back. But the judge said that don’t matter. He was there so that makes him as guilty as Dodd.”
“Do you know the man they are going to hang?” Smoke asked.
“I seen him around a few times,” the white-haired man replied. “Always seemed like a decent sort to me. Don’t seem to me like he would be the kind to get hisself mixed up with someone like Dodd. Course, you never can tell about some folks. What you see in ‘em ain’t always what they really are.”
“I have to agree with you,” Smoke said.
“He tried to say in his trial that he wasn’t really ridin’ with Dodd, that he was hooked up with him only so he could set a trap for him for the law.”
“Do you believe that?” Smoke asked.
The old man spit again. “Don’t reckon it makes no never mind what I believe,” he said. “I wasn’t on the jury, and the jury didn’t believe none of it.”
“I’d be interested in whether or not you believed him,” Smoke said.
“Why? What difference does it make to you?”
“No difference. I was just curious, is all.”
“Well, I know what it’s like to be curious, so I’ll tell you.” The old man pulled out a pouch of tobacco and stuck a handful in his mouth. He chewed it a bit to get it to where he wanted it before he spoke again. “I believe him.”
“Why?”
“If for no other reason, it’s because I don’t believe the sheriff,” the old man said. “If you ask me, the sheriff is about as crooked as they come. And seein’ as Cabot said he was s’posed to be workin’ with the sheriff, and the sheriff is sayin’ something directly opposite, why, in my book, there ain’t no question as to which one of ‘em I believe.”
As Smoke continued down toward the gallows, he thought of the old man’s condemnation of the sheriff. That mirrored the doubt that Sheriff Jacobs had expressed about Sheriff Wallace. And, of course, Smoke’s own interaction with Wallace tended to support that idea. From what Smoke could determine about the killing of the young cowboy, it would seem that the sheriff had little justification to shoot.
When Smoke reached the gallows, he saw several people standing around, their attention drawn not only to the gallows, but to a huge, crudely painted sign. The sign had not been nailed to the gallows, but was on the ground leaning up against the platform.
COME ONE COME ALL
WATCH BOBBY LEE FALL
ON FRIDAY THE HANGING WILL BE
WE WELCOME ALL TO COME AND SEE
The reaction to the sign was mixed. There were a few standing around who thought the doggerel funny, and they laughed about it, and pointed it out to others. But there were just as many who thought that writing such bad poetry about someone being hanged was insensitive.
Smoke looked over toward the jail and considered going inside to see Bobby Lee, but decided not to do so yet. He had to figure out some way to help him, so that when he did see him, he would have a plan in place.
A few doors down from the jail, Smoke saw a barbershop and bathhouse, so he decided to stop there before going to the hotel. A little bell attached to the door jingled as he pushed it open. Inside the barbershop, there was a man already in the chair.
“Yes, sir, I’ll be right with you,” the barber said. “Shave and a haircut?”
“No, I’d like a bath.”
“You’ve come to the right place,” the barber responded. “I’ve got a big tub in the back, lots of hot water, soap, and towels.”
He turned his head toward the back of the shop. “Lee!” he shouted, and a Chinese man stuck his head through the curtain that covered a door at the rear.
“Yes, sir?”
“This gentleman wants a bath. Get a tub ready for him.”
Lee looked at Smoke, then holding his hand out palm-down, made a couple of downward moves with it. “You come,” he said.
Smoke gathered up his saddlebags, then followed the man into the back. Lee pointed to the tub, which, at the moment, was empty. “I fill with warm water,” he said.
“Thanks.”
