There was nothing to do but ride the train and sleep. When I finally woke up the sky was still overcast but it was no longer raining. Something was different but I wasn't sure just what until I finally realized the train wasn't moving. I opened the boxcar door and peered out cautiously. We were definitely stopped and I could barely see the back of a train station in the dim light, but couldn't make out the name on the depot. Not that it mattered where I was; I wasn't home and I wasn't in Louisville.
I gathered my wits about me and jumped down from the boxcar. I have to admit to being a little shaky at first. I was still in pain from the crack on the head and disoriented from being in a place I'd never laid eyes on before. Now that the rain had let up the smell of liquor on the clothes I had on was stronger than ever, and I knew I had to find somethin' else to wear and fast. Then the next order of business would be to find the local law.
There was a lot of scrub brush and vegetation around the south side of the depot and that's where I headed, hoping to lay low until I could get my wits about me. I almost made it, too, until somebody came out of the depot and spotted me. When I was younger and playing poker for a living I might not have been the fastest with a six-gun, but I could run pretty fast. Especially when there was an angry poker-player or my brother chasin' me. Add another item to the list of things that don't work as well once you're older. I was within three steps of escape when I felt arms wrap around my ankles and I went face-down in the dirt.
"Get up," a deep, gravelly voice ordered. There was nothing friendly about the words or the timbre of them, and I tried to twist my neck around to get a look at the person that came attached to both. Bad move. I'd almost forgotten about the previous night's head-bashing, but not quite. I winced as a wave of nausea swept over me and I guess I didn't act fast enough to comply with the order. "G-e-t u-p," was repeated in an even less friendly voice. I did my best to comply – I actually made it as far as my knees before my stomach gave out and I left what little I'd had to eat in the dirt. "A damn drunk," I heard and was grabbed by the scruff of the neck and dragged to my feet.
I tried my best to protest that I wasn't a drunk and was a respected businessman, to no avail. Before I could get more than three words out I was shoved forward by a gun barrel and a rough hand. I may be slow but I know when I'm beaten, and that's exactly what I was. I stumbled forward in the direction the gun was shoving me and as we rounded the corner of the depot I could see all the way down Main Street. That wasn't far and it reminded me of the Little Bend of my youth.
Remember that awful pair of boots I'd found myself in last night? As we stepped onto the boardwalk they caught on something and I pitched forward, landing once more on my face. "Get up and stay up, ya drunken bum," the mouth full of gravel behind me demanded.
I'd finally had enough of the treatment I'd gotten so far in this town and, as I struggled to my feet, twisted my head around sufficiently to catch a glimpse of a shiny, pointed object worn on the man's chest. Just my luck, the local law didn't want to wait for me to find it. It found me.
"I'm not a drunk," I protested angrily, "and these aren't my boots. That's why I keep stumblin' in 'em."
"Yeah, yeah, yeah. And these ain't your foul-smellin' clothes either. I've heard it all before. See if you can make it to the jail, where you can sleep off whatever got you into this mess to begin with."
"Where am I?" I demanded.
"Welcome to beautiful Jerome," came the sarcastic sounding answer.
"What state is this?" I persisted.
"State? It ain't a state, it's the Idaho Territory. Halfway down the street on the left is where the town jail is, and that's where you're goin' for at least twenty-four hours."
I started to say something else and decided silence was the better way to go. The jail was no doubt warm, there'd be a cot with a blanket and they'd have to feed me. And I could sleep this headache away. Then when I was better able to wrap my mind around what had happened in the past twelve hours I would at least sound rational. I put my head down and walked, watching where my feet in the ugly boots were taking me.
It only took five minutes to get to the jail, but at least once inside it wasn't as bone-chilling cold. I'd been so preoccupied outside that I was halfway down the street before I noticed how frozen my fingers and face felt. The tin star took cell door keys down from a hook on the wall and unlocked cell number one. There were only two, and as I entered mine, I briefly thought about that cell in Silver Creek all those years ago. This one wasn't much bigger but right now I welcomed it and the cot inside it.
It was too late for breakfast and seemed too early for anything else, so the only thing I could do was remain hungry. "You got a name?" Gravel voice asked.
"It's Maverick. Bart Maverick."
The tin star locked the cell door and hung the keys back up on the hook. Then he picked up the stack of papers on his desk and shuffled through them for a few minutes, looking for a wanted poster on me, no doubt. "How about you? You got a name besides sheriff?"
He ignored me for at least five minutes until he'd satisfied himself that I wasn't wanted for anything. "Del Gado. Sheriff Ray Del Gado."
I collapsed on the cot with as much dignity as I could muster. "Sheriff Del Gado. Sounds like you're from Texas. Ever hear of Little Bend?"
"Nope."
"It's north of San Antone. That's where my home is. I was on my way . . . "
"Go to sleep and shut up, or I'll keep you in there until you do. Got it?"
I didn't utter a sound, just nodded my head and turned my face to the wall. I assumed the most straightforward way to get the sheriff to listen to me was to keep quiet until he was willing to say something besides, "Shut up."
Almost thirty minutes later I finally heard, "You were on your way where?"
"To Orell, Kentucky."
"What's in Kentucky?" Del Gado asked almost immediately.
"The Independent Horse Breeders of America annual meeting."
Another few agonizing minutes passed while he decided on his next question. "If I was inclined to wanna know . . . why were you headed there?"
I sat up and tried to sound professional. "To speak at the convention."
"You some big fancy horse breeder?" The questions were sounding more and more interested.
I shook my head. It had quit hurting, at last. "Not big and not fancy. I cross-breed horses."
That was the end of the questions. Silence reigned for almost an hour before he stood up and said, "Goin' to get some food. I'll bring yours back." He grabbed the keys and slammed the door behind him. I was left to ponder if he would investigate any further. It would be easy enough to verify, if he was so inclined.
When Del Gado came back with food I didn't much care what it was; I would have eaten anything he brought me. I never did care much for jail food, if you could call it that. Some of it was halfway decent but some of it was fit only for hogs.
We passed the afternoon in silence . . . Del Gado preferred it that way, and since I was the one in the jail cell I wasn't going to try and force the issue. Somewhere during that time a young, attractive brunette came to see him, and it was obvious he'd spoken to her when he was gone for lunch. She brought with her a clean shirt, pants and jacket. I'd have given almost anything for a different pair of boots, but that was not to be. She and the sheriff spoke quietly and I couldn't hear what they said.
After she left the clothes were shoved through the cell bars. "Here. Change so I can get rid of that liquor smell." He wasn't the only one that wanted to get rid of the smell; I was walking around in it. Once I had on the clean clothes I felt better and I'm sure I looked better. I guarantee you I smelled better.
Come supper time the lunch routine was repeated. Del Gado disappeared for an hour and brought me food when he returned. I was just about to ask him if he'd sent a wire to the IHA to ask about me when a kid of about ten or twelve came in with what I hoped was their answer in his hands. Del Gado actually smiled at the kid and read the telegram several times over. Either that or he was an incredibly slow reader. When he looked up his face resembled a cat that had just caught a mouse.
"According to this wire, Bart Maverick arrived at the IHA convention as expected. Whoever you are, you ain't him."