Bill heard Jason mutter, “Christ, no . . .” before he took off, running down the street after the older marshal.
Jason skidded to a halt next to Abe, just as he stopped beside the downed man. “Is he . . . is he still alive?” he asked hopefully, his voice shaking almost as hard as his knees. He’d shot men before, but never just for threatening a dog! What had he been thinking?
Abe didn’t answer him, at least, not yet. He had bent to the body, checked for a pulse, and was going through the pockets. He found a worn wallet, stood up, and started going through it.
After what seemed like hours (during which Jason imagined himself going through a trial, then being marched out to a scaffold and hanged, then being read over by the Reverend Milcher in a much less kindly tone than he’d used for Ward), Abe looked up and said, “Thought so.”
“What does that mean?”
“Thought he looked familiar. He was Ezra Welk, wanted for a string’a killin’s and robberies over the last ten, fifteen years or so.” He looked over toward Jason. “Wanted in the Arizona Territory, too. Reckon there’s a bunch’a folks who’ll be tickled pink to close the books on him.”
Jason felt his insides slowly begin to settle themselves again.
“C’mon, hero,” Abe said, thumping Jason’s arm. “Help me drag this dog turd over to the side’a the road.”
They went back to the office when it was over, and Abe pulled out a chair, lit himself a smoke, and said, “Well, I’d best be makin’ my way back up to Prescott.”
“What?” asked Jason. It was the last thing he had expected.
“Gotta file my report. Gotta turn in ol’ Ezra.” He tipped his head toward the door. “Gotta talk to my boss ’bout gettin’ hitched.” He grinned self-consciously. “Gotta arrange a change in duty, too.”
“Electa know about this?”
“Oh, yeah. We talked it all over yesterday. Sure gonna be nice to have her to come home to.”
Abe was fast fading into a waking dreamland, and Jason tried to engage him in conversation. “So, when’re you two tyin’ the knot?”
“What? Oh, next Saturday. I already talked to the reverend.”
“Milcher or Bean?”
“Milcher,” Abe said with a shrug. “He’s the only one what’s got a church. Electa says he used to be pretty pushy, but somethin’ must’a happened, cause he’s got a lot softer lately.”
Well, that was true. But Jason kept on talking. “You find a place to live yet?”
Abe blew out a long plume of smoke before he said, “Well, Electa said that her folks’d be tickled pink to have us move in with them for the time bein’, but I told her that I think I really oughta stick around town. You know, keep in touch.”
Jason nodded. He wholeheartedly agreed.
“So, I reckon we’ll stay at the roomin’ house. I’ve already got a room over there. And Mrs. Kendall says she can give the two of us a bigger one, iffen we want.” He stopped and smiled. “I reckon we’ll take her up on that. Till I can get us a house, that is. Why don’t this town have a telegraph?”
The question caught Jason a little off guard, but he said, “’Cause nobody’s strung the wires, I guess. Don’t know that we’ve got anybody here who knows how to use the damn thing, even if we had one.”
Abe snorted. “Oh, I reckon
“You’re leaving now?”
“Good a time as any,” Abe replied, already halfway out the door. Jason figured he must be in such a big toot on account of Electa and getting married and all. It was none of his nevermind, but he suddenly realized that in a very short span of time, he’d come to depend on Abe more than he’d wanted.
Well, stiff upper lip and all that, he supposed. He stood up and said, “You have a safe trip, now,” and watched the big man exit his office and head up the street, toward the livery. Then he went back to his desk and sat down with an audible thud—and a heavy sigh.
Hannibal, who was now ensconced in the first cell, echoed his sigh, then lay down on the cot.
Jason flicked a finger toward the cot. “Get down, Hannibal.”
No response.
“Off, Hannibal.”
Nothing.
“What the hell. Stay up there and shed.”
The dog immediately hopped down and stretched out on the floor, leaving Jason to shake his head.
The door opened and Rafe walked in. “That was sure somethin’, wasn’t it?” he asked, grabbing a chair and swinging it around backwards before he plopped down. “And who’s the dead guy on your sidewalk?” He reached for his fixings pouch.
“What was something?” Jason asked before the gears of his brain managed to engage. “Ezra Welk? Oh. You mean the funeral! Yeah, it sure was. I found Davis’s address in his pocket, so I gave it to Solomon. He’s gonna write to the family, let ’em know everything’s handled.”
“Good,” said Rafe, then held forward his tobacco pouch. “Smoke?”
