Turner, the stagecoach driver (From Miracle at Santa Marta)
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After his brief conversation with Kid and Heyes in the Cantina, Turner ordered a drink and stood at the bar contemplating his next move. A nervous, wiry sort of man, Turner garnered his courage with three shots of whiskey. It was obvious to him just who had killed Rolf Hanley, but the fact that Jones was walking around freely when he should be in jail, did not bother Turner nearly as much as the fact that he himself was already out two week's wages. Mr. Hanley had died before paying Turner and the longer Turner remained in Santa Marta, the longer he'd have to go without adding to the few remaining dollars he had in his pocket.
He downed the third shot of whiskey in one gulp and waited for the burn to fade from his throat. Then he set the glass down with a thud and pushed himself away from the bar...
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"I wanna see the Alcalde. Now!" Turner demanded after storming into the jail. "Where is he!"
Alcalde Cordoba could hear the ruckus from his office and immediately headed to the outer office. "Seno...Mr. Turner, what can I do for you," the Alcalde asked.
"You can let me go back to the States! That's what you can do for me!"
Alcalde Cordoba glanced at the officer behind the desk who merely offered a subtle shrug of his shoulders.
"Please, let's take this conversation into my office," the Alcalde suggested.
Despite the alcohol in his system, Turner was able to temper his frustration enough to comply. He handed his gun to the attending officer and followed the Alcalde into his office.
"I understand your frustration, sir," the Alcalde began, carefully addressing the man in a calm but authoritative manner. "But until I have enough evidence to make an arrest, I cannot permit you to leave Santa Marta."
"Enough evidence! How much evidence do you need!". Same caliber gun that Jones wears. Only me and Jones even knew Mr. Henley. That horse, Hyperia is worth twenty thousand dollars. It's obvious Jones is a drifter sort and ain't got no money. He figures Hyperia is his ticket to fortune."
"Not meaning to be rude Mr. Turner, but how much money do you have," the Alcalde asked.
"I got a job! Or at least I did till Mr. Henley was murdered," Turner replied, the alcohol obviously diminishing his reasoning.
"So did Mr. Jones."
"Look, I didn't kill Mr. Henley and you've got no right keeping me here!"
The Alcalde walked slowly behind his desk, but remained standing. "I've done some checking, Mr. Turner. You served time in prison. Why," he asked, forcing Turner to admit to something the Alcalde already knew .
"That was ten years ago. I done my time."
"Your time for what," the Alcalde asked.
"That murder charged was stacked against me. If Sam Becker had seen me before I seen him, I'd of been the one dead in the street. But the Judge, the lawyers, the jury didn't hear none of that cause the Judge wouldn't permit it to be revealed in the trial."
"Permit what to be revealed," the Alcalde asked, still keeping his voice low key and nonthreatening.
"The fact that Sam Becker held a grudge against me. That's what."
"I see. So you admit that you served time in prison for murder."
Realizing the admission he had made, Turner's attitude softened slightly. "Like I said, I done my time. I haven't been in trouble since I got out, and the important thing here is that I didn't kill Rolf Henley."
"I will admit Mr. Turner, that you have not been high on my list of suspects, but I cannot let you leave Santa Marta until I have all the facts in this case."
"How long will that be," Turner asked.
"A few more days, I'm afraid."
"What if I just up and go, cause you've got no grounds to hold me here."
"Mr. Turner, I am not familiar with the law in the United States, but here in Mexico, I have every right to hold you here. Now, I will tell you the same thing I told Mr. Jones. If you attempt to leave Santa Marta, you will get approximately fifty kilometers, at which time you will be caught and arrested, and can then wait out your stay in one of these cells."
"You would do that to an innocent man," Turner asked.
"I would do that to anyone interfering with my investigation," the Alcalde replied.
"Never thought I'd be saying this, but American justice seems a lot more fair."
The statement amused the Alcalde and he smiled slightly.
"I have not asked you before now, but I would like the names of some references, past employers, perhaps."
Turner sighed knowing he had lost the argument. "Butterfield. It's a private stagecoach company."
The Alcalde's eyebrows raised with some surprise. "You worked for a private stagecoach company," he asked.
"Briefly," Turner admitted. "We didn't see eye to eye about how a driver should dress and act."
Any other references," the Alcalde prodded.
Turner thought long and hard. The truth was, he could not think on one man he trusted to give him a glowing reference. Suddenly he remembered a man he had known many years ago. Long before his murder arrest, Turner had briefly ridden with an outlaw gang. He hadn't stayed long enough to commit a crime and hadn't really even gotten along with anyone in the gang. But one of those gang members had later gone straight and was now a sheriff.
"Lom Trevers in Porterville, Wyoming," Turner replied, hoping Trevers would remember him.
The Alcalde sighed heavily and sat down at his desk. "Yes, I am familiar with the name. I believe this sheriff in Porterville must be a very busy man."