Authors: Joan Johnston
He checked his gun and headed up the stairs on
tiptoe, not wanting to alert his quarry. He paused when the stairs creaked loudly, but when there was no sound from upstairs, continued his climb.
Room 4 was at the top of the stairs. Ethan checked the knob to see if the door was locked. It wasn’t. He held his gun in one hand and shoved the door open with the other.
The room was empty.
Ethan felt a flood of disappointment. Had Chester somehow been alerted and fled? He turned and ran back down the stairs. To his surprise the lady in the rocker turned and asked, “Who’s it you’re lookin’ for?”
“Chester Felber.”
“Poor boy fretted somethin’ fierce stayin’ in that room day and night. He’s down to the livery, helpin’ Rufus Finney.”
Ethan tipped his hat. “Thanks, ma’am.”
“You ain’t gonna shoot that boy, are you, Mister? Chester don’t have a mean bone in his body.”
Ethan didn’t know what to say. “I won’t kill him unless he gives me no other choice.” He left the boardinghouse before the old lady could say more.
Ethan tried to remember what Chester Felber had looked like when they were boys. He had always been bigger than everyone else, his neck thick, his chest broad, his legs like tree trunks. His hands and feet had been too big even for his big body, making him awkward and ungainly. His hair was brown like tobacco, his nose had a slight hook in it, his chin had a deep cleft, and his eyes—Ethan couldn’t remember his eyes, because he had never much looked Chester Felber in the face.
Nobody wanted to be Chester’s friend, because he was slow-witted and clumsy. He was too dumb even to recognize when he wasn’t wanted, because he stood around on the fringes of whatever game the other boys were playing, waiting for his turn—which never came. Ethan was ashamed to remember the incident that finally drove Chester away once and for all.
A bunch of boys from town had been playing baseball. Boyd was pitching, Ethan was catching, and Frank was playing in the outfield. Chester was standing in the outfield not too far from Frank, as though he were fielding balls as well. The batter hit a high pop fly ball that went over Frank’s head, close to where Chester was standing.
Chester had watched the ball land and headed in that direction at a lumbering run. Even though Frank had farther to go, he beat Chester to the ball because Chester tripped over his own feet and fell. While Chester was facedown on the ground, Frank threw the ball back to third base and the runner was tagged out. The third baseman then threw the ball back to Boyd, who concealed it in his glove.
Ethan wondered later what would have happened if they had continued play immediately, so Chester would have known the ball had been recovered. It didn’t happen that way. Chester had rumbled to his feet and shouted, “I’ll get it! I’ll get it!” and started toward where the ball had landed.
Of course, when he got there, the ball wasn’t to be found. The boys had sniggered behind their hands and snorted their ridicule and finally laughed out loud at Chester’s confusion. Finally
Boyd had shouted, “We can’t play anymore until you find that ball, Chester. You let us know when we can come back.”
Then Boyd and Frank and Ethan and every other boy on both teams had left the field, giggling like girls, chortling through their fingers at how that stupid idiot Chester would probably spend the next hour hunting for a ball that wasn’t there.
It was almost midnight that night when Ethan was awakened from sleep by someone pounding on the front door of his home. He ran to see who it was along with his father and mother. Horace Felber stood there, his eyes red-rimmed, his face haggard.
“Have you seen Chester?” he asked. “Lilian and I have searched everywhere. No one’s seen him.” He had looked at Ethan, his eyes pleading, “Do you know where he might have gone?”
Ethan didn’t like Horace, but he was alarmed that Chester wasn’t home. He couldn’t believe that some other boy closer to town hadn’t told about the trick they had played. He must have looked guilty because his mother said, “If you know anything about this, Ethan, speak up.”
The whole sordid story spilled out. How the boys had fooled Chester and sent him off on a wild-goose chase after a ball that wasn’t there.
“Where was this?” Horace asked.
“We were playing in the pasture behind the Silver Buckle after school today,” Ethan said.
Ethan’s father had insisted on going with Horace and had brought Ethan along to show them
the exact spot where Chester had begun his search for the missing ball.
Amazingly, Chester wasn’t ten feet from the spot where the boys had left him that afternoon. He had apparently become convinced that the ball must be lost in a patch of thorny mesquite nearby. He was covered with bloody scratches when they found him. And he was crying, blubbering like a baby.
Ethan was embarrassed that such a large person could act like such a tomfool. It wasn’t until Chester spoke that he felt ashamed, as well.
“I’m sorry I lost the ball, Ethan. I looked and looked. But I couldn’t find it. Now nobody can play ball ’cause of me. I’m sorry. So sorry. Don’t tell them I couldn’t find it. Please don’t tell. Please.”
Horace Felber had pulled his distraught son into his arms and held him tight. It looked funny because Chester was so much bigger than Horace. Somehow Ethan didn’t feel like laughing. He felt his nose pinch and his eyes sting.
His father’s hand tightened on his shoulder—in rebuke, in reprimand. He was afraid of what his father might say to him, but his continued silence was worse than any scolding. At last he said, “Come on, son, let’s go home.”
Chester hadn’t come to school after that, and he stopped hanging around the other boys when they played games. Most everybody was grateful that he wasn’t bothering them anymore. Ethan felt guilty about his part in driving Chester away. He made slight amends by keeping Chester’s secret.
He never told the other boys about finding Chester late that night, still hunting for the ball.
Ethan wondered if Chester had the ability to remember back that far. The day and night were still vivid in his mind, giving him more sympathy for Chester than he wanted to feel at the moment. He knew how easy it was to manipulate the slow-witted man. Could Chester really be held responsible for what he had done?
Ethan was surprised at how easy it was to find Chester when he knew where to look. The big man was wielding a pitchfork, cleaning out the stalls of the stage livery.
“Hello, Chester.”
Whatever Ethan had been expecting, it wasn’t the smile of genuine pleasure on Chester’s face at the sight of him.
“I know you,” he said. “Your name is Ethan. You were in prison. Did you come to see me? I had to go away from Oakville, because …” Chester’s lips pursed, and he scratched his chin. “Ma said I did something bad. I don’t know what it was. She didn’t tell me that.”
Ethan wondered just how much the big man would be able to tell him if he couldn’t even recognize the difference between right and wrong. Ethan would just as soon do his questioning without the pitchfork in Chester’s hand. “Can you stop for a little while and talk to me?”
“Mr. Finley said I could get a drink if I got thirsty.” Chester grinned. “I’m thirsty now.”
“Let’s go to that eatery across the street.”
“All right, Ethan. Whatever you say.”
Ethan was having trouble working up any desire for revenge against Chester Felber. How could he blame a gullible lack-wit for his father’s death or his mother’s illness? There had to be intent in order for there to be guilt. He could find nothing in Chester’s behavior that presented him as a monster capable of murder.
Furthermore, Ethan couldn’t see that locking Chester up would resolve anything. Chester would have to be watched more closely if he was left free, but Ethan felt certain Mr. and Mrs. Felber would be willing to do that. All Ethan wanted from Chester, he realized, was the name of the person who
could
be held accountable.
Once they were sitting across from each other in the Three Rivers Café, Ethan pulled out the bag of arsenic Boyd had found in the barn and set it on the table between them.
“Do you know what this is?” Ethan asked.
“Hey! That’s mine!”
Ethan didn’t try wrestling the bag away from Chester. He simply said, “I found it in your father’s barn. Do you know what’s in the bag, Chester?”
Chester nodded. “It’s medicine. I put it in the milk to make your ma get better.”
Ethan felt his stomach roll. What devious mind had come up with that ruse? “Who gave you the medicine, Chester?”
Chester frowned and hugged the bag close to his chest. “It’s a secret. I’m not supposed to tell.”
Ethan tried pleading, but Chester remained surprisingly firm. He tried threats and Chester
clammed up completely. Finally, in desperation he said, “If your mother said it was all right, would you tell me then?”
“If Ma said I could, I guess it would be all right.”
Ethan wasn’t sure what Mrs. Felber would do when he showed up with Chester, but at least she would be capable of listening to reason. Especially since he was more interested in prosecuting the real guilty party than Chester Felber.
“Let’s go get your things so we can ride back to Oakville,” Ethan said.
Chester shook his head. “Ma said I can’t go home until she comes for me.”
Ethan ground his teeth in frustration. It took a great deal of persuasion to convince Chester that his mother wouldn’t mind if he came back to Oakville with Ethan. “Otherwise,” Ethan explained, “there’s no way you can ask whether it’s okay to tell me who gave you the bag of medicine.”
“Oh. Yeah,” Chester said at last. “Okay. I’ll go.”
Ethan gave whoever had explained the use of the poison to Chester great marks for patience. It wasn’t easy dealing with the simple man. At last they were on their way.
“Do you think my cows missed me?” Chester asked.
“I’m sure they did,’ Ethan replied.
“I missed them, too. They like me, you know.”
They were halfway to Oakville when two shots rang out.
* * *
As far as Patch was concerned, the investigation of Merielle’s rape was moving much too slowly. But when she had broached the subject to Ethan early this morning, he had told her his work on the ranch had to take precedence over clearing his name.
“It’s been seventeen years,” he’d said. “The investigation can wait a few more days for my attention. My cattle can’t.”
Patch disagreed. So right after Ethan rode off to round up his cattle for branding, she harnessed up the buggy and headed for town to interrogate Careless Lachlan.
She dressed like a lady because she thought that might entitle her to more consideration when she started asking pointed questions. She considered taking a gun with her in deference to the danger Ethan had suggested lay waiting for her in town, but she wouldn’t have known how to fire it. Patch would have to trust to her wits—and her fists. She had considerable experience using both.
Patch visited Careless at lunchtime because she knew the sheriff ate at his desk.
“Don’t bother getting up,” she said as she closed the jail door behind her.
Careless bobbed up and sat back down, his fork still in his hand. “Afternoon, Miz Kendrick. What can I do for you?”
Patch emptied a ladderback chair of a stack of newspapers by shoving them onto the floor. She ignored the sheriff’s grunt of dismay and set the empty chair beside his desk.
“Make yourself comfortable,” Careless said sourly.
“Thank you, Sheriff Lachlan. I will. Now, where shall we start?”
“Mind if we start
after
I finish my lunch?”
“Feel free to continue. I just have a few questions.”
“Don’t know nothin’,” Careless said through a mouthful of sweet potato pie.
“You don’t even know what I’m going to ask!”
“Word’s all over town you’re hopin’ to clear Ethan of that rape. I’m tellin’ you, I don’t know nothin’.”
“Did Trahern order you not to talk to me?” Patch asked.
“Trahern don’t own me,” Careless said.
“Then why won’t you tell me what you know?”
“Because I—”
“—don’t know nothin’,” Patch finished. “What if I say I don’t believe you. You must have asked some questions, at least found out the details of—”
“I did go look at the place where it happened the next day.”
Patch inched forward to the edge of her chair. “And?”
“Lotta footprints there. More footprints than there shoulda been.”
“What does that mean?”
“Means maybe somebody else was there ’sides Ethan and the girl.”
Patch knew for sure that Frank had been there, but she wasn’t going to mention that to Careless.
“Who do you think it was?” she asked.
“Couldn’t say for sure. Big man, I think.”
“A big man? Like a
grown
man? Ethan was just a boy then! How could you not speak up about something that important?”
Careless put down his fork. “Listen, Miz Kendrick. When Jefferson Trahern tells me Ethan Hawk raped his girl, I ain’t gonna contradict him.”
“But that’s your job! You’re the sheriff! You owe your allegiance to the people who depend on you to be the law, not any one man.”
Careless wasn’t going to sit still while some strapped-down, starched-up lady gave him what-for. He jumped up, snatched the checked napkin from under his chin, and said, “Now lookee here, little lady. What gives you the right—”
Patch was out of her chair and nose to nose with the sheriff in two seconds flat. “Are you the sheriff, or aren’t you? That’s what I want to know!”
Careless let out a string of cuss words that would sizzle bacon. Nobody—except Trahern—had ever thrown in his face the fact that he had let himself be bought. It didn’t sit well on his stomach. Or maybe he had eaten too much sweet potato pie. “You’ve got a lot of nerve, lady,” he said to Patch. “Who says what I saw would’ve made any difference? Ethan was guilty, all right.”
“Thanks to you, we may never know the truth,” Patch accused. “And an innocent man has been robbed of a normal life! Think about
that
the next time you decide to abdicate your responsibility to this town.”