But by the time Wirt Sewell reached the Masonic Temple building, Elec had control of himself. He sat heavy and expressionless at his plank desk.
Five years hadn't done much to change Wirt Sewell. He was the same tight-wound little man that he had been since his late twenties. Today he was at peace with the world. Business was good at the tin shop and the town was booming. Of course there was the bawdy element of the town that was a curse to all respectable citizens, but Wirt allowed the town would tame down before long. He had seen it happen before. When all the ruffians were gone, or killed, Plainsville would still be standing, a thriving city.
A faint smile played at the corners of Wirt's mouth as he crossed the street. He'd had quite a surprise today; Sam Baxter and Frank Ludlow had asked him to throw in with them on the new hotel they were planning. And Baxter and Ludlow were just about the most important businessmen in Plainsville.
At first Wirt had been puzzled as to why they had come to him for help. “Why, Wirt,” Frank Ludlow had said, “you're one of the most successful men in this town, that's why we came to you. You started with a little hole-in-the-wall place here and made it into a big payin' tin shop. I guess you just don't realize how successful you really are!”
Wirt could still hear those words, and the flow of well-being warmed him. Maybe Frank hadn't been so wrong, at that, he thought. He and Beulah had put some money aside. They had raised Jeff as well as they knew how, seeing the boy through that hard year after his pa had stirred up so much trouble. No sir, the Sewell's didn't have much to be ashamed of. And the boy was a big help at the shop)—a good, steady worker, once he'd set his mind to it.
Wirt hadn't decided yet about the hotel. He'd have to talk it over with Beulah. But the fact that Frank and Sam had asked him put a new spring in his step, made him feel years younger.
For the first time in Wirt Sewell's plodding, unexciting life, he timidly began laying the shimmering foundation for a dream.
Now he made his way down the stone steps to the Masonic Temple basement. He walked into Elec Blasingame's office, only faintly curious as to why the marshal wanted to see him. He said pleasantly, “Hello, Elec. Jeff said you wanted to talk to me about something.”
The marshal said bluntly, “Sit down, Wirt.”
There was something about his tone that made Wirt blink; there was something in the steely cast of Elec's eyes that hinted trouble. Wirt realized that the marshal had not asked him here for just a friendly gab fest.
Without hesitation, Wirt cut himself away from the pleasantness of his dream. He pulled up a chair and sat down.
Blasingame leaned heavily on his elbows, his thick mouth drawn sharply down at the corners. “I'll come right out with it, Wirt. I've got some news you won't like to hear. I've got a letter here from the county sheriff in Landow —it didn't come from the sheriff, but from a deputy marshal up in the Choctaw Nation...”
Wirt frowned. He thought he knew what Elec was trying to say. “It's about Nate, isn't it?”
“Nate Blaine?” Something curious happened behind the marshal's eyes. “Yes, it has something to do with Nate, but not in the way you think, maybe. This deputy worked out of Fort Smith, but he was on the trail of a killer that had disappeared in the Nations. He found his man, finally, hiding out with the Choctaws, and had to kill him.”
Wirt broke in. “Does this have anything to do with me?”
“This is what it has to do with you, Wirt.” Elec's voice went harsh. “Before this hardcase died, he confessed to killing Jed Harper in that bank robbery five years back.”
The implication left Wirt numb.
“He still had some of the money with him,” Blasingame went on coldly. “A lone rider doesn't have much chance to spend twelve thousand dollars, I guess. Anyway, he had it, in those canvas bags that banks use.”
The chill of dread showed on Wirt's face.
“It's a lie!” he said tightly. “Nate Blaine killed Harper and took the money!”
Elec's voice cut like a winter wind. “It's no lie. A deathbed confession is the strongest evidence there is, and you know it, Wirt. Besides, those canvas bags I mentioned— they were stenciled with the name of Harper's bank.”
Wirt Sewell had ceased to be one of Plainsville's most successful businessmen; the flow of well-being no longer warmed him. He was now an old, bewildered man, his senses skating on the thin edge of panic.
“But Beulah saw him! It had to be Nate!”
“It wasn't Nate.” The marshal's voice was almost a snarl. “And your wife didn't see him. It was all cooked up inside her head. Out of spite, out of meanness... God only knows why a woman would do a thing like that!”
In sudden anger, Blasingame shoved himself away from the desk and paced wildly up and down the office floor. “Five years!” he said bitterly. “That's how long it's been. Five years of hiding, of being afraid to come back to his own country, even to see his boy. How Nathan must hate us, Wirt—all of us, for I was in it, too. I was the one who took Beulah's word for it and locked him up.”
Wirt's face was gray. His mouth moved, but no sound was made. The marshal turned on him and said harshly, “Well, that's what I wanted to tell you, Wirt. That's all there is to it.”
The marshal took his anger in a heavy hand. He breathed deeply, giving himself time to settle down. At last he said, “I shouldn't fly off the handle like that, it's bad for my blood pressure. Just forget what I said, Wirt.”
“Forget?” Wirt looked at him. “What am I going to do, Elec? How can Beulah stand up to a thing like this?”
“I don't figure that's the question. How is the boy going to stand up to it?”
