The question of money had arisen by accident.
A month or so back, a politician was apprehended in Four Corners. John Blackwell had been touring the region convincing people to remain a free territory. He was spending his own money in order to charm the wealthy ranchers into supporting him, but the money was running out faster than he was making it back.
Mr Blackwell now had two choices. One was surrendering to corruption and promising the ranchers everything they wanted to hear in return for wealthy sums. Until he broke one promise too many, that is and was disposed with the summer's compost. It was a path most free territory politicians succumbed to sooner or later. But Mr Blackwell believed he had the upper hand in that game. He preferred the idea of big scale ranchers eating out of his and than vice versa.
His pride and arrogance made only one path possible. In the year that had unfolded, his wife – due to several family tragedies – became a lucrative money making scheme. If she died, he would inherit her family's wealth. Blackwell hired a local gun to end his wife's life and the man in question kidnapped the woman as agreed. However, before executing the plan, he went into the saloon for some Dutch courage and by the time he came back to the cellar where he had left Mrs Blackwell, seven lawmen were waiting for him to fall into the trap.
The young man gave the game away eagerly and desperately. Unfortunately, the jury wasn't kind on him. In a desperate attempt at a pardon, he claimed that he had been hired only to guard the woman and that another man was paid to end her life.
It was a simple, although tragic case of greed over integrity.
Had it not involved a free territory politician, the Pinkertons wouldn't have been instructed to comb through every lead possible by the pro-state party. The pro-staters wanted any mud they could get on their competition.
It was just a bad twist of fate that Ezra received a $1000 lodgement transfer entitled 'dowry' into his bank account a week before the incident. It was an elegant amount that popped out like a sore thumb in between numerous uneven amounts he truthfully labelled 'poker winnings'.
Judge Travis wouldn't have jumped to such far-fetched conclusions himself, but the Pinkertons efficiency lay in their relentless determination. They were happy to disregard the money as pure chance only if they had proof that they could do so. If not they were going to put the suspect on trial and let innocence be established there. Actually, they were going to put a suspect on trial and make sure of the opposite.
When the suspicion was first roused, the peacekeepers were affronted on Ezra's behalf. The Pinkerton's insisted that Ezra was free to go as soon as he provided acceptable explanation for the money. However, in the moments when it benefited him the least Ezra found the urge to exhibit the qualities people so often accused him of lacking. So with his life on the line he was determined to keep a promise.
"The money has been given to me for safekeeping. I am bound by my given word not to divulge the identity of the proper owner of the sum."
"What?" JD often had problems with following Ezra's meandering sentences.
"He promised not to say whose money it is," Buck snapped. "You fool!"
The usually cheerful lawman could control his temper as much as he could control his libido. Meaning, hardly if at all.
"We wait for somebody to come forward."
"And if no one does?"
The judge's gaze got lost in the distance.
"Make sure that somebody does."
Chris observed the judge closely. Was the judge saying what Chris thought he was saying?
If they can't prove where the money came from Ezra will be charged with kidnapping and attempted murder? He cursed the hired gunmen inwardly. He couldn't do that one simple thing right and leave his fellow man out of it? It was obvious like the sky was blue that Ezra was just at the wrong place at the wrong time.
A look from the judge stopped Chris' from sharing his thoughts. Words of protest were in vain now. Chris tipped his hat to show he understood.
"Good evening," judge Travis said and walked in the direction of the hotel.
Vin was sitting in the chair in front of the jail cleaning his harmonica. He stopped when Chris turned to him and the two exchanged glances. Vin had overheard the conversation so the two didn't need to speak which was what they both preferred. They toyed with their own thoughts for a while. A torrent of curses and complaints broke their silence.
"WHAT has that fool done now?" Buck was moving towards the jail.
"Is it true he's locked up?" JD was following suit.
"Calm down both of you," Chris stopped the gangly man before he could open the door. And don't go in there either, his tone of voice communicated. The younger man stood behind Buck in obedience. He didn't have Buck's boisterousness when it came to challenging their de facto leader.
"That sweet talking snake has something to say about every grain of sand under the sun, but when it's to save his own hide, he dries up faster than a desert. Explain this to me, Chris."
Buck couldn't understand why everyone else seemed to care more about Ezra's life than he did himself.
"There's no use getting worked up over it," Vin interjected. "You know he always goes and does the opposite of what you want him to."
"Maybe then we should all leave him to hang. Maybe then he'd show some interest in that slippery life of his."
"The judge is coming back with the prosecution in two weeks. We better have an answer until then," Chris said
The two men reluctantly protested their way back into the saloon.
"If he doesn't come up with an explanation by then, I'll give him a whooping he'll never forget," Buck offered in their direction before disappearing behind the saloon door.
Vin grinned at the burning energy Buck displayed for everything. But his smile was strained by worry.