“What do you mean you don’t believe it? They caught him red-handed is what they done.”
Sheriff Wallace arrived then, pushing his way importantly through the crowd. “Open up here, let me through, make way,” he called repeatedly. Anyone looking down from an elevated position would have seen the crowd parting, then closing in behind him as he made his way to the platform alongside the express car where the two armed passengers were holding Bobby Lee prisoner.
“Here he is, Sheriff,” one of the two armed passengers said. “We caught this fella red-handed, right after the train was robbed and the messenger was kilt.”
“I want to thank you men for bringing him in,” Sheriff Wallace said. “This will save me the trouble, and the county the expense of having to go after him.”
Sheriff Wallace was a very big man, six feet six inches tall. He had a round, bald head that sat on his shoulders with very little visible neck. His ears were so small that they seemed mismatched for his head. He wasn’t just tall, he was big, weighing right at three hundred pounds.
“What do you mean, save you the trouble of going after me? What’s this about, Sheriff?” Bobby Lee asked, surprised by the sheriff’s reaction.
“This is about bringin’ you to trial, findin’ you guilty, and hangin’ you,” Sheriff Wallace said. “That’s what it’s about.”
“Sheriff, uh, maybe I ought to tell you something,” the man who had been watching over Bobby Lee said.
“What?”
The passenger cleared his throat and looked at the others. “Well, sir, I fell asleep while we was comin’ in this mornin', and when I come to, this here fella was free, and holdin’ my gun.”
“You should have been more careful,” Wallace said.
“Yes, sir, but my point is, he could have got away, only he didn’t. He give my gun back to me. It sort of makes you think, don’t it?”
“Think about what?” Sheriff Wallace said.
“Well, it makes you think about whether or not he’s guilty. I mean, if he was guilty, wouldn’t he have maybe kilt me, then got away?”
“Maybe,” the sheriff agreed. “Or maybe he just figured it would make him look innocent.”
The expression on the passenger’s face changed, from one of concern to one of anger over being used.
“Yeah,” he said, glaring at Bobby Lee. “Yeah, I wouldn’t be surprised if that wasn’t it.”
“Come along, Cabot,” Wallace said. “I’ve got a jail cell waitin’ for you.”
Bobby Lee was about to say something else, but he held his tongue when he decided that perhaps the sheriff was merely trying to protect his undercover status. He remained quiet until the sheriff took him down to his office.
“I have to confess that you had me worried there for a moment,” Bobby Lee said. “But I understand now what you are doing.”
“Do you?”
“Yes. You are protecting my identity. You are going to wait until they leave town before you let me out.”
“What do you mean I’m protecting your identity? You are Bobby Lee Cabot, and soon as we start the trial, the whole world is going to know who you are. And what makes you think I’m going to let you out?”
Again, Bobby Lee was surprised, and this time he was also worried. There was no one present but the two of them, so the sheriff had no reason to talk like this. “I expect you to let me out because of the arrangement we had.”
“What arrangement? What are you talking about?” Sheriff Wallace asked.
“Sheriff Wallace, you are beginning to make me uncomfortable. You know damn well what arrangement we had. We not only talked about it in some detail, I also sent you a letter, telling you about the robbery. I asked you to be in the car with deputies. If you had done what I asked, we could have stopped this,” Bobby Lee explained. “That messenger would still be alive, and you would have Frank Dodd and his entire gang in jail.”
“We never had any such conversation, and I did not receive a letter from you.”
“Of course you received it. You have to have received it. I sent it to you in plenty of time.”
“I don’t know what kind of trick you are trying to pull, Cabot, but you aren’t going to get away with it,” Sheriff Wallace said.
Chapter Three
In the parlor of the house Smoke had built for his wife at Sugarloaf, on the wall opposite the windows, there was a picture that Smoke particularly liked. Sally found it rather jarring, but tolerated it because of her love of Smoke. The picture, cut from a calendar, was a full-color Currier and Ives print of two night trains, racing out of Washington, D.C., sparks flying from the stacks and with every window in every car shining brightly. It was a dramatic, if unrealistic, representation. Just below the calendar was the stove, cool now as there was no need for it, but with the faint aroma of smoke from last year’s use still clinging to the black iron. Next to the stove was a large mahogany, coiled spring-driven, disc-operated music box. It was playing now, and the music it produced was full throated and vibrant, resonating throughout the room.
Sally was doing some crochet, while Smoke was looking at a new stack of stereopticon photographs. At the moment, he was looking at a picture of London’s Big Ben. They were equally involved in their pursuits when Pearlie knocked on the front door.
“Come in, Pearlie,” Sally called.
