thumbnail, lit the wick. Using his hat to shield the light of the candle from unwanted view, he checked the time on his pocket watch.
It was four minutes after eleven.
Inside the jail cell, Bobby Lee wondered what was going on. He had heard nothing from Smoke since the quick meeting he’d had with him earlier today.
That made him feel a bit uneasy. He wished he would have heard from him again, at least one more time, just to reassure him that everything was still in place. But as his cell had no rear window, there was no easy way Smoke could have made contact with him. He just had to assume that Smoke would keep his word, and from what he remembered of the man who had once been married to his sister, Smoke Jensen was a man of his word.
Bobby Lee checked the clock on the wall for at least the tenth time in the last four minutes. When it reached four minutes after eleven, he pulled the mattress from his bunk, then moved to the front of the cell and lay as close to the cell bars as he could. Smoke had told him only to be here at five after, but Bobby Lee was taking no chances on the clock having lost time during the day.
Holding the mattress over him securely, he waited.
The clock was ticking loudly, but not as loudly as the snores of Deputy Jackson, who had the night duty, and who was sleeping in his chair in the front office.
He wanted to look at the clock again, but he couldn’t do so without raising his head up from under the mattress, and he was afraid to do that. Smoke had said specifically, “If it doesn’t kill us both.” Bobby Lee was sure he intended to blast out the back wall, and he didn’t want to take a chance on sticking his head out at the exact moment of the blast.
How long should he stay here?
What if Smoke was five minutes late? An hour late? What if he didn’t show up at all?
He would show up. Bobby Lee was sure he would show up and if he had to, he would lay right here, on the floor, until daylight tomorrow morning.
The steady ticking of the clock and the loud, ripping snores of the deputy continued.
Chapter Eighteen
The Gold Strike normally did a very brisk business between ten p.m. and midnight, and it being nearly five after eleven, the saloon was filled with customers. Arnie Sage was grinding away at the piano, a couple of the girls were dancing with the customers, and the other three were moving around the room smiling and serving drinks.
Doc Baker was playing a game of chess with Byron Hughes, the pharmacist. Paul, the bartender, was busier than he had been all night, and Nabors, who, for much of the night had been helping out behind the bar, had just walked away to take a break. He saw Minnie sitting alone and he crossed over to join her.
“What’s wrong with all the men in here that not one of them will sit with a pretty girl?” Nabors asked. “I can’t believe you are all alone.”
“Several have come over, but I’ve sent them away. I’m sorry, Nate, I know I should be more friendly, I mean it’s your business and all,” Minnie said, “but I’m just too nervous right now.”
“I know you are nervous, and I don’t blame you. But don’t worry about it,” Nabors said with a dismissive wave of his hand. “There’s nobody in town who didn’t know about you and Bobby Lee, and they know he’s going to be hung on Friday, so nobody is going to hold it against you.”
“You mean he is scheduled to be hanged on Friday,” Minnie said.
“Yes, scheduled.”
“I’m hoping that Mr. Jensen will be able to change that,” Minnie said.
“Well, don’t get your hopes up too high,” Nabors warned. “I’m sure he means well, but to be honest, I don’t have any idea of what he could possibly do to get Bobby Lee out.”
“I know it seems impossible, but I have a feeling about this man Smoke Jensen. I have a very good feeling about him,” Minnie said.
“How is Janet doing?” Nabors asked, turning in his chair to look at the young woman who had been special friends with Andy Emerson. “It looks like she is doing all right.”
Janet was laughing and flirting with all the men.
“Not really,” Minnie said. “If you ask me, it looks like she’s trying just a little too hard.”
“Yeah, you may be right,” Nabors said. He nodded toward a group of cowboys who were standing at the end of the bar. “Those boys all rode with Andy, and they seem to be taking it all right,” he said. “They’ve been telling ‘remember when’ stories about him all night.”
Minnie smiled. “From what I knew of Andy Emerson, there are probably quite a few stories to be told.”
She and Nabors grew quiet so they could listen in to the latest story.
“Remember when Mr. Poindexter was going to sell that horse that Andy always rode?” one of the cowboys said. “Andy asked him not to do it, but Mr. Poindexter said he’d been offered a good deal by Mr. Norton, so he was going to do it. He asked Andy to take the horse over to Mr. Norton’s ranch and Andy did, but what he done was —”
“What he done was, he fed the horse soap so’s it would commence foamin’ at the mouth,” one of the other riders said, interrupting the first storyteller.
“And Mr. Norton said he didn’t want no horse with the hoof and mouth,” the third one said.
By now, all were laughing.
“And ole Andy, he had the horse all cleaned out when he come back. He told Mr. Poindexter that Mr. Norton accused him of tryin’ to sell off a sick horse,” the fourth said, concluding the story.
