of action. But in the meantime, people for whom she was responsible were more vulnerable than she. “Lord, I hope our stills aren’t cooking tonight. And you absolutely cannot make the trip to Ranger.”
Mike said, “We’re going.”
“I forbid it.”
“Our contact up there is waiting and watching for us,” Davy said.
“He’s not a patient man,” Mike said.
Davy added, “Neither are his thirsty customers.”
Laurel said, “Tonight they can get their whiskey from someone else.”
“One of Croft’s deliverymen would be waiting for just such an opportunity to wedge in. In which case, you’ll be handing Croft exactly what he’s after.”
Davy nodded in agreement with Mike. “That would be bad for our business.”
“So is being hijacked,” she said.
Mike placed a hand on her shoulder. “We’re making the delivery, as scheduled. Nothing to fret about. We’ve thought of a way to throw them off track.”
Davy winked.
Fifty-Two
Darkness had fallen by the time Thatcher returned to Barker’s from Pointer’s Gap. The auto garage was closed for the night. He needed to return Barker’s borrowed rifle, but he was relieved that he wouldn’t be delayed any longer than necessary.
He stabled the pinto and saw to it that he was well rewarded for his patience and endurance that afternoon. He stored the saddle and tack, went down the row of stalls to make sure that all the horses were content. Not all were. He calmed the restless ones with soft talk and stroking, then secured the stable with his own sixth sense of uneasiness.
Taking Barker’s rifle with him, he walked across the bridge into town. Martin’s Café was open, but there were few diners tonight. For the most part, downtown was closed and locked up, as though braced for a storm.
With reason. One was brewing. Distant lightning brightened the sky just above the horizon. Every surface, whether natural or manmade, radiated the heat it had absorbed during the day. The air felt charged by something more ominous than low atmospheric pressure.
Thatcher entered the boardinghouse and went upstairs unnoticed. By a stroke of luck the third-floor bathroom was available. He made quick work of bathing and exchanging his dusty work clothes for his black suit. He buckled on his gun belt, pinned the deputy badge to the lapel of his coat, and took Barker’s rifle with him.
In and out of the boardinghouse in under ten minutes, he set out on foot again. Only Bill’s car was parked in front of the sheriff’s department. Inside, he was alone but on the telephone.
Thatcher propped Barker’s rifle against the wall beneath the gun rack, took off his fedora, and slumped tiredly in a chair. Bill completed his call with a “Thank you very much,” and hung the earpiece in its cradle. “Dennis Kemp checks out,” he said to Thatcher. “Hasn’t missed a day of work since he began the job. He was there yesterday.”
“Mrs. Kemp told you you’d be barking up the wrong tree.” Thatcher looked toward the door that led into the cell block. “How is he?”
“Sullen when I took him his supper. The public defender hasn’t made it in yet.”
“Have you called him?”
“Considering all the arrests last night, I’m sure he had his hands full today with arraignment hearings. Driscoll can sulk till morning.”
“How’s Mrs. Amos doing?”
The sheriff’s forehead wrinkled with concern. “Still ailing. If she’s not better by tomorrow, I may take her to a doctor in Stephenville. Mrs. Cantor agreed to stay with her overnight if I can’t get home.”
“You’re expecting more trouble?”
He waved his hand to indicate the empty office. “I’ve got every full-timer plus a dozen reserves like you patrolling in pairs. I want to keep a lid on things if we can. Vain hope, probably.”
Thatcher drew his long legs in, leaned forward, and placed his elbows on his knees. “You’ve got plenty of trouble right in here, Bill.”
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a strip of cotton fabric roughly six inches in length and three inches wide. One side was flat, the other gathered. The weave was unraveling at both ends. The cloth had been weather-beaten, but under its coating of dust, the scarlet color was vibrant.
Thatcher set the piece of cloth on the edge of the sheriff’s desk. He spoke softly so not to be overheard by the man in the cell. “I went exploring this afternoon and found this. I recognized it right off. When I talked to Mrs. Driscoll, she was wearing an apron made out of material printed with red and yellow apples. It had a red ruffled border.”