Pillsdale was standing with his shoulders hunched over. His hands rammed inside his front pants pockets. He glared at Royce when he entered the sheriff’s office. “I might have known,” the man simpered. “You have no right arresting me.”
“I have every right,” Royce replied.
“You! What have you got to do with anything,” Pillsdale challenged.
“You can stop the playacting,” Royce said. “You’re not good at it. I followed Ferguson and Turner here,” he motioned towards the jail cell holding Sam Turner, “And John Layfield the night you met them on the road. Instead of continuing to follow Ferguson I trailed you back to town. That was the night I was shot.” Pillsdale’s eyes bulged in their sockets his skin turning gray. “I thought you were the one that shot me. It was the only way it made sense.”
“I . . . I never,” Pillsdale protested.
“You can deny all you like. After talking with Doctor Thomas I’m convinced it was you that killed George Dean.” Royce thought Pillsdale was going to faint. He grabbed his chest with both hands while his knees buckled. Walden caught the man before he hit the floor.
“You can’t prove anything,” Pillsdale whispered. Some of his bluster returning he jerked his arm free from Walden’s hold.
“John Layfield didn’t know the rifle he traded Cobb was Dean’s,” Royce continued to build his case against the man. “You gave it to Layfield to pay off a gambling debt. I have witnesses to the transaction.”
“So I gave Layfield the rifle,” Pillsdale sneered. “That doesn’t prove I killed Dean.”
“In a Court of Law it would,” Tinsley interrupted. His words were harsh. He nodded his head towards Marshal Foster indicating the man was to lock Pillsdale behind bars.
“Miss Ferguson,” Sheriff Walden greeted.
Collingsworth closed the outside door and stood with his hands behind his back. His feet spaced widely apart. He was the youngest of Tinsley’s Marshals. Newly recruited he was interested in learning all he could from the proceedings. “Milton Ferguson has not returned home, Sir,” Collingsworth reported.
“Do you know where your brother is,” Tinsley asked.
Royce had not missed Miss Ferguson’s hostile glare when she entered the sheriff’s office. Her blue eyes accused him of a treasonous act. He walked across the floor behind Miss Ferguson and stopped in front of the window. Something was tickling the back of his mind. Was it important or just another one of those inconsistencies that had continually dogged this investigation.
He stood peering through the grease stained window at the road out front of the sheriff’s office. Wagon wheels had cut deep ruts in the roadbed. Ice formed on top of puddles. Cobb came out of his blacksmith shop and started across the road. The man stopped to let a wagon roll pass before he continued towards the sheriff’s office. “Cobb,” Sheriff Walden greeted when the man opened the front door. Marshal Tinsley nodded his head telling Collingsworth it was alright to let the man enter.
Royce walked back across the floor stopping to sniff Miss Ferguson’s flowery smelling toilet water. The same scent he had smelled on Milton Ferguson on occasion.
“Young man,” Miss Ferguson scolded giving Royce a haughty glare.
Royce took Walden’s chair behind the sheriff’s desk. He was feeling weak in the knees. His head throbbed. Doctor Thomas might be right in saying he needed to spend a few more days in bed. He felt bone weary.
“If you have nothing more to say,” Miss Ferguson stated. “I will be going home. A jail is no place for a lady. Riff raff like Mayor Pillsdale, Turner and Hardin. Well . . . what can one expect.” She shook her shoulders fussily and folded her hands in front of her ample bosoms.
Milton Ferguson was no halfwit Royce thought. His pretense was the perfect cover. No one had suspected. It took an accomplished actor to fool so many people for twelve years. Royce thought back to the first time he saw Milton Ferguson. It was the day Imogen had invited him to dinner. Ferguson had come out of the general store with his shoulders all hunched over and dragging one foot as he walked. He had asked Imogen if Milton was Miss Ferguson’s brother. She had replied by saying something very interesting. Imogen had said, “one and the same.”
Royce studied Miss Ferguson’s taut features. She would never be considered an attractive woman. Her face was too what, Royce considered for a moment before answering. Her features were too large. Too masculine. That was what was troubling him. Miss Ferguson’s features were more like those of a man.
A man!
Royce stood and crossed the space separating him and Miss Ferguson peering at her closely. The day he had gone hunting with Milton Ferguson, he had noticed the man’s meticulous shave. Yet Milton had been dressed in soiled jeans and a wrinkled shirt. Royce had wondered at the time about the inconsistency he saw. But what he was now thinking was preposterous! Yet it made sense!
The wide satin ribbon on Miss Ferguson’s bonnet slipped through Royce’s fingers. After untying the ribbon under Miss Ferguson’s chin he pulled the bonnet off the woman’s head.
“Young man,” Miss Ferguson said turning towards Royce. Her nasal voice high pitched. “What do you think you are doing.” She grabbed her bonnet out of Royce’s hand while lifting her shoulders up and down in agitation.
Royce scrutinized Miss Ferguson’s darkening features. “Cobb, have you or Sheriff Walden ever seen Milton and Miss Ferguson together.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. Of course, Sheriff Walden has seen me with my brother,” Miss Ferguson declared, openly hostile. She gave Royce a writhing stare as she tugged on the hem of her shirtwaist before dusting invisible dust off her shoulders.
“The day of the Junction City Fair Lydia said she had never seen brother and sister together,” Royce stated.
Cobb leaned heavily on his walking stick and stepped closer to Miss Ferguson. For the first time he was studying
