III.
Adam bites down so hard on the matchstick he's been chewing that it breaks. There are splinters on his tongue now, and that gives him an excuse to walk over to the spittoon and get rid of them, and to not react to what the sheriff just said.
"You know I've got a lot of respect for your judgement, Adam," he hears Roy say into his back. "But believe me, you're wrong about this here thing."
Adam heaves a deep breath, takes his time turning around and going back to his seat. "Roy, Iisten, I've got—"
Roy raises two appeasing hands. "No, you listen to me, young man."
Adam wishes people would stop calling him this. He may be younger than Roy, but this has nothing to do with years anyway—which is exactly why it annoys him so. He fumbles for another matchstick, bites down on it, hard, but not so hard that it'll break, too. This conversation is far from over, and Adam's matchbox is almost empty. "I'm listening," he says then with more calm than there actually is in him.
"The judge will be in town in three days' time, and I expect him to set court immediately, since this is a clear case. If you have any objections to the case, you can have your say in court. And that's it."
"If you wait for the judge you're only wasting time. I tell you Will Kettler is innocent. The real culprit is still out there." He snorts. "You should be out there, too, trying to find him."
"Are you trying to tell me how to do my job, boy?"
Now he's done it and made Roy mad. Not many people are able to rile the sheriff, and most certainly not as fast as that. It's not a feat to be proud of, but then again, Roy has made Adam mad, too. Boy.
The matchstick cracks. A clean break this time.
Breathe out. Long.
In. Out.
Good.
"I'm sorry," Adam says through clenched teeth. "I'm not trying to suggest I know your job better than you. But there's a killer running free, and—"
"I don't get why you're thinking Kettler ain't done it. I've never seen a clearer case: He'd said he was going to get back at Joe," Roy lists, ticking it off his fingers, "he was caught at the scene, and he had the smoking gun in his hand."
"I know all that. But he wasn't seen shooting, was he? And I've never seen him with a gun anyway. Why would he suddenly have one?"
Now Roy looks positively smug. "He stole it. In the mercantile; it was reported stolen the day before the crime." He raises a hand again. "And before you ask: it was identified. And I, personally, saw it in his hand. Still hot from the shot. I don't know what more evidence you need."
"He was out cold when you got to him, right? Someone else could have stolen the gun and put it into his hand after he lost consciousness."
Roy leans forward. He narrows his eyes—suddenly he looks every inch the professional lawman that he is. "Now you've gotta be very careful what you're saying here, Adam. Suppose you're right, then the only one who could have put the gun in Kettler's hand is the man who clubbed him on his head and then yelled for help and stayed with him all the while till I came."
It is the only way things could have happened—but only if you grant that what must not be. Adam purses his lips. He steeples his fingers, leans his chin on them. The ticking of the clock on the wall above Roy's head is the only sound in the stuffy sheriff's office, and its hand the only thing that moves. Slowly, steadily, almost undetectably, it creeps from one dot to the next. And the next.
He looks up at Roy. Lifts an eyebrow.
"You can't really mean that," the sheriff says. "Horace Miller is one of our most honorable citizens. He's a member of the schoolboard, a church elder; a respected businessman, well thought of around town. Adam, your family is in business with him, ain't you? Your father and him are practically friends. Do you really think he put the gun in Kettler's hand? Why would he do that?"
"I don't know." That is, of course, not even half-true. Adam has an idea why, but it's vague—and without any positive evidence it's no more sustainable than blaming Will Kettler.
"Adam, quit bothering me with that nonsense. Go back to Dr. Martin's, sit with Joe, speak to your father. And let me do my work."
Adam opens his mouth—and closes it. There's obviously nothing more he can say. And anyway, the sheriff already has his nose buried in some letters he's randomly hauled out of a stack on his desk. For him, this case is closed.
It's not the first time Roy has deployed this tactic with him, but it's the first time Adam actually welcomes it. He needs to go collect evidence.
Adam is on his way to the Bucket of Blood saloon when Hoss catches up with him. He isn't surprised about his brother's arrival—as a matter of fact, he'd half expected him at the sheriff's office. Adam acknowledges Hoss with a short nod and an even shorter smile, which he knows is enough to tell his brother his presence is appreciated. Hoss pats Adam's back once, then falls into step with him. Not a single word is spoken until they reach the saloon.
There are just a few patrons in, the usual suspects, which, actually, is good—for they are mostly the ones who had been present during Will Kettler's drunken monologue. They confirm that Will had ranted on for long after Hoss and Adam had left the saloon, and then staggered back to his wagon shortly after the midnight bell had chimed.
"Ainnit funny," one says. "That he didn't rent hisself a room with all the good money he made?"
"Or that no one invited him in, like they did his uncle back then?" Sam, the barkeep, adds. "Not even your father, Adam."
It evokes a lot of nodding and murmuring. Things like "not trustworthy," and, "He was a loner, that one. Proud of his little wagon, too," and "Thought hisself better than us."
Well, actually Pa had offered Will a place, but the tinker preferred to sleep in his wagon. He said he liked to be independent, and that he didn't need help.
Sam wipes the counter, but his eyes are fixed on Adam. "Why are you asking? You're not up to something, are you?"
Hoss tugs at Adam's sleeve, as discreetly as he's able to, which isn't much, and—as usual—doesn't stop him. He takes a short look around, then says, "Well, actually I am 'up to something.' I'm trying to find the man who shot my brother."
"He has been found." Sam frowns.
"I'm not so sure the sheriff has arrested the right man."
Hoss groans, and then there's a turmoil of voices in various stages of disgust. "Course he did it," and "Are ya daft?" and "can't be serious." Adam also hears "just a wretched tinker," and "I don't like strangers anyway," and then approving mumbling.
He almost launches into a speech, one of those pleas that never serve to buy him more friends but tend to make people find sudden interest in staring at their hands. But time is of essence, and Hoss is already tugging at his sleeve again and whispering, "Leave them be, Adam," and really, he should have realized that the answer to his questions will be found somewhere else before he even bothered to go to the saloon.
He nods to Hoss, "Let's go."
The drunkards' ranting doesn't die down as Adam and Hoss leave the saloon, as if their exit goes unnoticed. Outside, the air shimmers over the dusty street, no breeze is stirring, and yet, compared to the saloon it appears clear and fresh, and Adam gulps it in greedily while they head down C-Street.
It doesn't take them long to get to the Millers' house. They are warmly welcomed, offered a lemonade, which Adam declines but Hoss accepts gratefully (making Adam envy him for the rest of their stay).
Mr. Miller appears to understand Adam's wish for further information, for the details of what has happened to Joe. He readily answers Adam's questions; his account of the events is in agreement with Roy's, and reveals even more.
Miller had been secretly following Joe and Carole on their way to the theatre—he can't really say why, only that Carole is his only daughter, so much like her late mother, and that he is so used to looking after her, making sure nothing untoward happens to her, that he might have overdone it a bit by sneaking through the front gardens that line the street.
"I've raised her alone, you see," he says with a small smile. "My wife died shortly after Carole's birth. Perhaps I'm a little too protective sometimes."
It's nothing Adam can't relate to. Pa tends to be overly protective at times, too, and having a daughter instead of sons might enhance this trait.
"Then I heard a shot," Miller continues. "And I saw movement, behind a bush right in front of me. I heard Carole shout for help, but before I could get to her Kettler backed out of the bush, and I…he was unaware of me, so I was able to hit him on his head, knock him out with the handle of my revolver."
"You had a gun with you?"
"I…yes, of course. I was protecting my daughter, wasn't I?" There's less understanding in Horace Miller's tone now. He shakes his head, then picks up his narrative. "Well, anyway, the sheriff appeared then, someone must have alerted him, and I called him over and…handed him the culprit."
And then Horace Miller's understanding evaporates completely when Adam says, "I wonder why he did it. Kettler doesn't seem the type to settle things with violence. He doesn't even have a gun on him most of the time."
"Why he did it?" Miller snarls at that. "What do you expect from a vagabond like that? They cannot be trusted. No one knows why they do things. They are unsteady, have no bonds. They don't…belong to us. Travelling from town to town, seeking…amusement where it comes. They are not decent people. Kettler wanted Carole…my girl he wanted, for his atrocious— how he dared even thinking…. I would never…. He was jealous, that's why he shot Joe."
Hoss opens his mouth, but Adam silences him with a hand on his arm.
"Mr. Miller," Adam says, leaving his hand on Hoss's arm, just in case. "Do you know that Will Kettler claims he didn't have a gun at all? That he says someone put the gun in his hand?"
At that, Miller explodes. It's almost shocking to see the man fall apart like that. Nothing he says is coherent anymore. "Theatre and vagabonds," he cries. "Nothing good comes out of that. All lying, thieving, disgraceful folks…they take and take and take…want to corrupt and steal… our daughters…pull them down their detestable roads…"
His face is contorted; he hardly resembles their upright business associate of many years anymore. He grabs Adam's shirtfront and shakes him. A fine spray of spit hits Adam's face, as Miller hisses, "Carole should never have been exposed to that. Joe could've taken her somewhere else, couldn't he? I said no, didn't I? But you had to come and persuade me, giving me no chance to protect my child. You…you…"
Adam wrestles out of Miller's hold. "Now wait a minute," he starts. "Joe is in no way—"
"Get out of here, get out!" Miller roars now. "Haven't you done enough? Go to your baby brother and… Leave me alone!"
It's almost a relief to be told to go. As they leave, Adam catches a glimpse of Carole, who bolts in the room and after an irritated glance at Adam and Hoss darts to her father, gripping his shoulders.
Once on the street, Adam turns to Hoss. "Thrown out three times in less than two hours," he attempts a light tone. "I reckon I've just broken Joe's record."
Hoss ignores him. "You shouldn't have riled Mr. Miller that way," he says. "He's just scared. The bullet could have hit his little girl—no wonder he's outta his mind."
Adam purses his lips. "Yeah, perhaps," he says slowly.
But perhaps that's only half the truth. Again.
ooOoo