The Sheriff's Sweetheart (19 page)

“We'll just have to wait and see, won't we,” Sam said with a tight smile that didn't quite reach his eyes.

 

I won't let the sun go down today without telling Prissy the whole truth about what happened in Houston,
Sam
resolved that morning.
Everything Raney had done—and what he had done, as well. Before things go any further.

Judge Everson and the prosecutor, Gabriel Bryant, arrived promptly at noon, as promised, but the judge announced they would be staying at the hotel rather than Gilmore House—to avoid any appearance of bias, as he put it, though he and Bryant accepted an invitation to supper with the mayor, Sam and Prissy. And he stated they would begin the trial the next day, whether the defense was ready or not.

“No use in dillydallying,” he announced in his dry, no-nonsense way over supper at Gilmore House. “I have trials waiting to start in Chappel and Sloan, then back in Harkeyville again. And I understand you two have an upcoming wedding to plan, as well, so there's no use wasting time,” he said to Prissy and Sam across the table. He had a way of smiling without the smile ever reaching his hound-dog-sorrowful eyes.

“The accused man's lawyer visited him this morning,” Sam informed the judge, picturing Lamar Hammond, the attorney who had shown up without warning to speak with Tolliver. If Pennington reminded Sam of a fox, this fellow was a javelina, with his small, mean eyes and coarse, bristly hair. All he needed was a pair of protruding tusks. “He's got a room at the hotel. I can stop by on my way back to the jail and tell him to be ready to start tomorrow morning.”

He hoped Everson would offer to inform Hammond himself, since he was going to the hotel, too, but the judge apparently wanted to keep a sense of separation between himself and the defense attorney, for he said, “Good, good. Tell him nine o'clock sharp. I won't abide lateness. A delicious dinner, Miss Gilmore. I'll bid you good night now.”

“I'll tell our cook,” Prissy said, smiling as she rose also.

“Prissy, may I speak to you for a few minutes before I leave?” Sam asked, knowing that the conversation he'd put off for so long couldn't be postponed any longer.

“Of course, I'll walk you out.” Her smile was so innocent. She was unaware he was about to shatter her belief in him. When he was done talking, she would know him as a liar and a thief. Would she still love him after that? Would he still be the sheriff, after she had told her father?

The judge put up a hand. “Sheriff Bishop, I think you and Mr. Bryant should discuss the case, since you're the chief witness.”

“You gentlemen can use my office,” James Gilmore said, rising.

Sam stifled a groan. He wished he could refuse. He didn't want to wait another minute to get his confession to Prissy over and done with. But hopefully he could steal a few moments alone with her when the attorney was done with him.

He had to tell Prissy what Raney knew about him before Raney exposed his character flaws in front of everyone. He'd heard nothing further from Raney, and he hoped his own silence had served as his answer to the man. But he had little hope that Raney wouldn't carry out his threat to expose Sam, and he couldn't risk embarrassing Prissy by not confessing to her first.

He saw Prissy looking at him, and when their gazes met, she gave him an encouraging smile.
This will all turn out all right,
her eyes seemed to say.
You can do this.

Sweet Prissy, you don't know what “this” is.

D
arkness had fallen by the time Gabe Bryant was done going over the facts of the case and let Sam go. He agreed Tolliver's possession of the watch might not be enough to convict him, but he hoped by skillful questioning to trip Tolliver up while he was on the witness stand and get the man to convict himself with his own words.

Flora came out of the kitchen when Sam left the study. “Señorita Prissy has gone to bed, Sheriff. She knew you had a lot to do and needed to get back to the jail, so she said she'd see you at the trial.”

Sam sighed in frustration as he bid the servant good night. Prissy couldn't have guessed how deep his need was to speak to her. As he stepped out into the night, he looked back up at Prissy's window, but no light shone through the curtains there.

He went on to the hotel and found Tolliver's lawyer in his room, curled around a bottle and holding a losing poker hand. At the table sat Pennington, Byrd and the last man Sam wanted to encounter, Kendall Raney.

“Just the man I wanted to see,” Raney said, rising. “Deal me out, fellows.”

Sam shook his head. “I have to get back to the jail. I only came to tell Mr. Hammond the trial begins at nine tomorrow. The judge said not to be late.”

Hammond nodded, his eyes bleary. “I'll be there.”

“I'll walk with you, Sheriff. I know you're a busy man,” Raney said smoothly, and gestured Sam out of the room. There was no way he could gracefully refuse.

They walked down the shadowy boardwalk, their way illuminated only by the half-full moon.

“Is this what you were after?” Sam asked without preamble, reaching into his shirt pocket and holding out the ruby ring he'd retrieved from his mattress.

“Among other things,” Raney murmured, reaching out for it, his teeth gleaming in the dimness like a wolf's. “Tell me this, Bishop. Why did you take my ring, of all things? You don't seem a man of expensive tastes,” he said, with a meaningful look at Sam's simple trousers, shirt and vest.

“I'm not,” Sam agreed. “But at the time it seemed important to make sure you couldn't ever lay open some poor fellow's cheek with it again.”

Raney's lips curved upward. “I did leave a bit of a scar, didn't I?” Then his face hardened. “But I didn't come along with you to discuss your looks, Bishop. You know I want an answer.”

“I would have thought you'd have guessed, a clever fellow like you,” Sam said. “The answer is no.”

Raney blinked. “
No?
Have you found some loco weed to chew on, Bishop? Do you know what you're giving up?”

“I'm not giving up anything I want,” Sam said. “My good name's become more important to me than what you're offering, Raney.”

Raney shook his head and smiled as if he was trying to explain philosophy to a lunatic. “I don't think you
understand, Sheriff. When I get done with you, you won't have that, either. Think the mayor's daughter's going to stand by you when you're a disgraced
ex
-sheriff? Not on your tintype! Want to change your answer? This is your final chance,” he warned.

Sam shook his head.

Raney stared at him. “You're a fool, Sheriff. You're going to wish you'd given me a different answer.”

 

The trial would take place in the Simpson Creek Saloon, since the town lacked a courthouse and the church had been burned. Prissy's father had offered the ballroom of Gilmore House, but the judge deemed the saloon a better choice as it was neutral ground. The saloon was the only other building with enough space to seat everyone who would want to attend, and as it was, George Detwiler had had to borrow every chair and bench Gilmore House and the hotel could spare.

Since she had only to walk down the street to reach the saloon, Prissy had taken her time with her toilette, wanting to look suitably dignified and a credit to her father and to Sam. As a result, it was five minutes to nine o'clock when she left the house in her sedate but pretty skirt and waist of navy trimmed with white piping and its short matching jacket. She suspected the day's heat would soon cause her to shed the jacket and rue the long sleeves of the blouse, but for now she felt her ensemble would strike just the right note.

The chairs had been set into two sections with a narrow aisle in between, with the bar serving as the judge's bench. Her father's big chair from his study had been pressed into service, and was raised slightly above the level of the bar on a hastily built platform.

It appeared half of Texas sat in that room. Every chair was occupied and people were crammed together on the benches. Prissy knew that if she hadn't been the mayor's daughter, she might have had to stand in the back, but her father had motioned her to an open seat in the second row. She saw Pennington, Byrd and Raney sitting in the first row on the other side. The room buzzed with speculation about Tolliver and the murder.

As she started to make her way toward the front, Sam appeared at her side. Apparently she'd missed him standing at the back.

“Oh, there you are, Sam,” she began with a smile. She peered at him more closely. His gaze was tense, his eyes haunted. “What's wrong?”

He bent and spoke in a low tone into her ear, “Prissy, I only have a minute before the judge will come down from upstairs, so please listen.”

“I'm listening—”

“Prissy, I—”

“All rise.” Her father's voice rose above the hum of the crowd, and Prissy and Sam turned to see Judge Everson making his way down the steps from the upper floor.

Next to her, Sam closed his eyes for a second. Under the rustle of clothing and the creaking of chairs, he whispered into her ear, “Prissy, no matter what you might hear, I love you. Believe that, will you?”

“Sheriff Bishop, is the prisoner present and ready to stand trial?” the judge called out as he reached the bottom.

Sam turned away from her and faced the judge. “He is, Judge Everson. I'll escort him from the back room now.”

Prissy was left to make her way quickly to her seat, aware of the judge's eyes on her, wondering what was
troubling Sam. As she settled herself in her seat, murmuring a greeting to Nick and Nolan in the front row, Sam brought the prisoner, followed by his lawyer, out of the back room.

Tolliver wore come-alongs on his wrists, which Sam now bent and unfastened before taking his own seat in the front row across from the three men of the Alliance. If he realized he was on trial for his life, it didn't seem to bother Tolliver. He smirked at the crowd as her father directed him to place his right hand on the Bible and swear to tell the truth. He winked at Pennington, Byrd and Raney as he sat down, and Prissy saw them grin back at him.

The judge pounded his gavel. “The prisoner will remember he is in a court of law,” Everson snapped, evidently irritated by Tolliver's cocky expression. “Mr. Bryant, you may call your first witness.”

“Sheriff Samuel Bishop.”

Prissy watched, her heart full of pride as Sam raised his hand and took the oath. But something was wrong—very wrong. She could see it in his eyes. She'd heard it in the words that still rang in her ears. What could it be?

Sam's voice was strong and sure as the lawyer led him into a recital of the facts—how William Waters III, the nephew of the late William Waters, who had owned a ranch southeast of Simpson Creek, had come to town to take possession of his inheritance, how Sam had ridden out with him to inspect the property and had first seen him consult the big gold pocket watch that would later be the critical piece of evidence.

“Is this the watch in question, Sheriff?” Bryant asked, dangling the object in front of Sam so that he and the crowd could see it.

“It is.”

“And when did you become aware that Mr. Waters felt threatened?”

Sam told how Waters had come to him and said he was being pressured to sell the property to the men who headed the Ranchers' Alliance, who had lately been buying up property in San Saba and neighboring counties, and how he had ridden out to their large ranch, La Alianza, and told Pennington and Byrd to order their men to cease harassing the easterner.

“And are these men present in the court today, Sheriff?”

“They are.”

“Will you indicate them to the court, Sheriff Bishop?”

Sam pointed. “That's Garth Pennington there, and Francis Byrd, next to him.”

“And is it your understanding that there is a third man who also heads the Ranchers' Alliance?” Bryant inquired.

“Mr. Kendall Raney, sitting next to Mr. Pennington, is also part of the Ranchers' Alliance, but he had not come to town as yet,” Sam answered.

Prissy saw Raney smile as Sam pointed at him. She thought the devil himself could have no more sinister a smile.

“Please tell the court about the day William Waters III was found murdered.”

Sam recounted how he and the ladies of the Society for the Promotion of Marriage had gone to the neighboring ranch of Nick and Milly Brookfield to celebrate the birth of their new son, and how he and Nick had heard shots, seen smoke, and had ridden over to investigate, finding Waters dead in front of his burning ranch house.

“And did you suspect the employees of this so-called Ranchers' Alliance of being guilty of his murder?”

Sam said he did. “But I had no proof—until Leroy Tolliver was witnessed by several people to have the watch in his possession.”

“Tell us about that event, Sheriff.”

Prissy listened as Sam painted a picture of the intrusion of Tolliver and the other hired guns at the wedding reception, of the struggle that had ensued and the pocket watch that had fallen out of the accused man's pants.

“And how did you know the watch did not belong to Leroy Tolliver, Sheriff Bishop?” Bryant asked.

“Apart from the fact that I didn't believe a hired gun like Tolliver could have afforded to buy such a valuable object,” Sam said, glancing at Tolliver, who glared sullenly back at him, “the watch had the initials ‘W.W.III' engraved on the back.”

Prissy expected Tolliver's lawyer to object to Sam's disparagement of his client, but he remained still and untroubled, a bland expression on his face, seemingly content to be bide his time and wait for his turn.

“Your honor, I have nothing further,” Bryant said.

Apprehension gripped Prissy's mind like an icy glove. What was the lawyer up to?

Judge Everson had listened intently throughout Sam's testimony, and now he turned to Tolliver's lawyer. “Mr. Hammond, do you wish to cross-examine Sheriff Bishop?”

“No, Your Honor.”

“No?”
Judge Everson repeated, eyebrows beetling. “You don't wish to question the state's witness against your client, sir? Why ever not, may the court inquire?”

Prissy, staring at the lawyer along with the rest of the courtroom, saw Hammond's lips curve into a slick smile.

“Because, Your Honor, we accuse Sheriff Samuel Bishop of being an unreliable witness, and unfit for the office he holds.”

Prissy's jaw dropped. She stared, first at Hammond, then at the man she loved sitting in the chair to the left of the judge. The color had drained from Sam's face, leaving it white as bleached bones. The haunted look which Sam's eyes had held earlier had transformed itself into a hunted look, as if he was now cornered prey.

What on earth was Hammond saying?

The saloon-turned-courtroom had gone utterly silent. Not a bench creaked, not a petticoat rustled. Women who had been fanning themselves laid down their fans. Even the half-dozen flies which had been bedeviling those in attendance seemed to cease their infernal buzzing. Prissy could feel her heart thudding in her chest.

“Explain yourself, Mr. Hammond.” The judge ground out the words, leaning forward, his chin jutting pugnaciously out. “And I warn you, I won't allow my courtroom to be turned into a circus.”

Prissy shifted her gaze to Pennington, Byrd and Raney. Even from the side, she could see that they were grinning from ear to ear.

“Yes, Your Honor,” Hammond said with obsequious deference. “We do not make these charges lightly. Samuel Bishop is unfit to be the sheriff, upholder of the law in Simpson Creek, because he himself is a thief, having swindled the sum of two thousand dollars from the First Bank of Houston, Texas, as well as a ruby ring from Mr. Kendall Raney, here present.”

Sam jumped to his feet. “It's a lie! Your Honor—Judge Everson—he's lying!”

Prissy froze in her chair as everyone started talking at
once. The judge pounded his gavel repeatedly until the room was once more quiet. She saw everyone staring at Sam, and then some turned and fixed their gazes on
her.

Furious at their avid curiosity, she trained her eyes on Sam, but his eyes were fixed on the judge the way a drowning man's eyes would be fixed upon a man who might or might not throw him a rope.

Judge Everson cleared his throat, which had the effect of hushing those who had begun to whisper and point.

“Mr. Hammond, I warn you that I will not tolerate mischief, even from a so-called lawyer. Do you have any proof of these outrageous charges you're making?”

The lawyer's face was the epitome of smugness as he nodded. “Yes, Your Honor, you have but to send someone to search Sheriff Bishop's quarters. You'll find the money and the ring there, I'm sure.”

Everson stared at him for a long moment. “And just who do you suggest I send to do that, Mr. Hammond? I'm certain you had someone in mind.”

“I did, Your Honor,” Hammond answered. “I took the liberty of asking Sheriff Hantz of Colorado Bend to be present today as an impartial party capable of making such a search. Sheriff Hantz, will you stand, sir?”

Prissy turned in time to see a stocky man rise from a bench at the back of the room, a man wearing a tin star similar to the one on Sam's shirt. She gasped, remembering how Sam had told her how the sheriff of Colorado Bend had been unwilling to listen to his concerns about the Alliance.