The sheriff’s questions were straightforward. Following his advice, Thatcher stuck to the facts and didn’t expand on any of his statements.
Bernie Croft didn’t pose any questions, but expressed his skepticism of Thatcher’s truthfulness with snorts and harrumphs and dry coughs covered by his fist.
Thatcher finished with, “I went to bed, fell asleep, woke up with a shotgun in my face and y’all surrounding my bed.”
The sheriff waited a beat, then looked over at Croft, who had remained in his spot by the window, but was now rocking back and forth on his heels like a man trying to keep his temper under control.
Bill said, “We don’t have one iota of evidence implicating him, Bernie.”
“Except that he was with Mrs. Driscoll earlier that day.”
The sheriff dismissed that with a shake of his head. “Circumstantial. The D.A. has declined to indict him based on that alone.”
“Something could still turn up.”
“Mrs. Driscoll could still turn up.”
“Dead.”
“Let’s pray that’s not the case. But if, after further investigation, we discover something that does implicate Mr. Hutton in any wrongdoing, I’ll be on him like a duck on a June bug.”
The mayor scoffed. “He’ll be long gone.”
“He doesn’t plan to leave town immediately.”
“So he says.”
Thatcher said, “Mr. Barker and I shook on me training that stallion before I leave.”
“That’s hardly a binding contract.”
“It is to me.”
Thatcher’s words fell like four bricks into the room. Croft’s face turned red, but he didn’t respond. No one said anything. Then Sheriff Amos broke the taut silence.
“I’ve got to release him, Bernie. But I’ll do so with the provision that he doesn’t leave town. If not a suspect, he’s still a material witness.”
“Fine. But you’re gambling with your reelection.”
“Every damn day I’m in this office.”
Because his warning didn’t have the desired cowing effect on the sheriff, Croft strode across to the door, yanked his hat off the coat tree, and stormed out, pulling the door closed so hard, it rattled windowpanes.
Amos signaled to Harold. “Uncuff him.”
With obvious disgust, the deputy lumbered over and removed the handcuffs.
Sheriff Amos said, “Mr. Hutton, you heard the condition of me letting you go. Don’t run off.”
“What if Mrs. Driscoll never turns up? I can’t stick around here forever. I want to get home. No word from Amarillo?”
“Not yet, but it’s early. It’ll be a round trip for whoever drives out to the ranch, and you said it was a far piece from the city.”
Thatcher acknowledged that, then said, “As much as anybody, I want to know what happened to Mrs. Driscoll. Not just for my sake. I hate to think.”
“Me too,” the sheriff said. “I’ve moved past hoping she’ll turn up unharmed and with a logical explanation for her absence.” Giving Thatcher a keen look, he said, “I’m letting you go. Don’t betray my trust.” Then he glanced over his shoulder at Harold. “You have his bag ready?”
The deputy carried over Thatcher’s duffel and dropped it at his feet. “Everything’s there, including the nudie pictures.”
Thatcher gave him a sardonic grin. “Good. They’re souvenirs I’m taking to the other hands at the ranch.” He shouldered the strap of the bag and walked out.
* * *
Bill went home for lunch. He was halfway into his meal when the telephone rang. He left the table, went into the hall, and answered.
A deputy identified himself. “Wally Johnson’s been found dead. Two bullet wounds through his head.”
That was more than enough to spoil Bill’s appetite. He pulled his napkin from his shirt collar and blotted his mouth. “Who found him?”
“A cousin.”
“Where?”
The deputy described the scene. “The still was intact, there was a stockpile of product, barrels of mash were fermenting. Only thing spoiled was Wally.”
“What’s the cousin’s name? Besides Johnson.”
“Elray.”
“He owned up to moonshining?”
“Kid’s only fourteen. He was scared shitless that whoever did in Wally was going to come after him, too. Said he’d rather be in jail as in Wally’s shoes.”
“How do I get there?”
The deputy gave him directions. “I’ll wait for you at the turnoff. Otherwise you might miss it.”
“Has the J.P. been notified?”
“He’s on his way. Not that we need an official pronouncement. Wally’s deader’n a doornail. Shot through one of his ears.”
Sighing over the ill-concealed mirth in the deputy’s voice, Bill hung up. But no sooner had he turned away from the telephone than it rang a second time. He picked it up again. “This is Sheriff Amos.”
* * *
Gabe Driscoll sat at the dining table, force feeding himself from the plate of food Mila’s aunt had insisted he eat.