VIII.
"Crown! Marshal, I wanna talk to you! Right now, you hear me?"
Sid Conroy was as angry today as he had been at his trial four days ago. Crown supposed he'd held off the robber long enough. That Kansas train was coming tomorrow and he'd send the man on his way to Territorial Prison. Might as well hear what was on the man's mind and be done with it. Not that it would make any difference at this point. But it might shut the fellow up.
"Now Crown! You've dallied long enough!" shouted Conroy.
Crown threw his pencil down, crossed the room in two strides, shoved aside Dulcey's privacy curtains and ambled down the short corridor to the cells. Woodrow Carter, the only other cell occupant, glanced inquiringly at him but didn't say anything. Sid Conroy was standing at his cell door, his round face anxious, dark eyes snapping with fury. Crown made sure the other man saw him remove the loop holding his .44 as he pulled to a stop in the doorway, far enough from the reach of both men.
"All right, spit out what's been eating your liver," he stated.
Conroy glanced at Carter and the skinny man turned away and picked up the newspaper Crown had given him to read. "I didn't shoot that boy," Conroy said in a lowered voice.
Crown let out a short sigh. "So you said. Is that it?"
"Listen," Conroy's thick fingers tightened around the bars. "I was in Hardesty that day the freight office was robbed. But it wasn't me that done it. I don't know who-all done it. That witness of yours is lying. He might've seen me, but it wasn't me busting out of that building. He's confused…or he's lying."
"He saw you clear," Crown reminded him. "He said…"
"I know what he said. But it wasn't me, I'm telling you!"
"We caught you halfway into the Outlet," Crown barked back. "You were running like there were a dozen Comanches after you."
Conroy made a frustrated sound and paced a little. "Of course I was running! Me in town when the safe gets robbed, and then the law chasing my tail? I might've been thinking of pulling that job, but someone got to it before me. And that boy witness of yours got his story wrong! I ran and I didn't shoot! You want to charge me with robbing grocery stores and sod busters in wagons, fine. But not this – I didn't do this!" He stepped back up to the cell door. "You didn't find any of that money on me."
"The boy saw you drop a bag," Crown scoffed. "You had time to bury the rest."
"Marshal, I'd show you where it was if I did bury it." The robber's voice took on a measure of earnestness that Crown felt was at least half-truthful. "But I didn't. You ask that kid again. You ask him why he ain't telling it straight. I sure as hell don't know him, and I never saw him before. But he sure…"
His lips twitched but he didn't say it. He didn't have to – Crown knew what he wanted to say, because it'd been on his own mind ever since he'd met the boy. But he sure reminds me of someone I know...
There was just something about young Hastings that seemed familiar somehow, but Crown was damned to know what it was. Even after three more restless nights of thinking on it he still came up short. But something about the boy would not let him dismiss it from his mind.
And now Conroy had said just as much the same thing.
"Where you from – originally?" Crown asked the robber now, trying to make some kind of connection. He was a minor outlaw, Crown knew, had worked mostly in Indian Territory. A nuisance sort of robber that was bound to get his sooner or later. Younger than Crown, but older than Hastings.
"Texas way," Conroy blurted, caught off guard by the question. "Heard of you in El Paso…"
El Paso – after the army but before Abilene, in terms of his own history.
"Spend any time in Kansas?" Crown asked. "Ellsworth, Dodge – Abilene?"
"No, never that far," Conroy shook his head.
Texas…El Paso. Crown frowned in consideration. He'd jailed many a drunk, robber and grifter there; more in Abilene. Ran with more than his share of those who stayed on the wrong side of Texas law before that. It was possible he and Conroy knew relatives of Hastings, though he wasn't familiar with the name. Might know a cousin, though.
Or maybe Hastings was using an alias…
Crown straightened, realized he'd let his mind drift into dust blown regions, looking for connections to a guilty outlaw's pleas. Time to end this maligned conversation. But at least Conroy might be over his cholera now.
"I'm sorry, Conroy," he shook his head, "but the trial is over. The jury found you guilty on that boy's evidence. It can't be undone."
"Damn you, Crown!" Conroy seethed.
"I need something besides your say-so," Crown replied matter-of-factly. "If I relied on that then I'd've been chased out of this business a long time ago. A man can change his tune once he's corralled behind bars. I know – I did a little singing myself years back."
Conroy growled something, smacked his fist into his palm, turned about the cell a few times. Anger stiffened the set of his thick shoulders. Finally he halted. "Ask that kid again, Marshal," he urged. "Ask him hard. Keep asking. See if he changes his story. Find out about him – I hear you're good at digging. Could be he has some reason to lie to you."
Crown shrugged. "I don't have any legal reason to question him."
"A lawman like you don't need a reason. 'Sides, he's still hanging around town. What's he want?"
More of Dulcey's attention, for one thing, Crown thought sourly. Hastings and the girl had become quick friends. And the boy was nothing but polite, through and through. No swearing, no drinking, no gun on his hip. Doffed his hat, said please and thank you at all the right times. And he was still here. Four days after the trial. Started out doing a little work for Gibson repairing wheels and table legs and such. Knew his way around a saw and a hammer, the old carpenter reported. Now he'd lined up a job repairing the old sheriff's office, had wrangled a deal with Jack Kilgallen to do all the wood repair for the whole block. And Kilgallen, knowing a deal when it floated by, had eagerly taken the boy up on his offer, no doubt saving some money by shorting him on wages in the process.
Still…
Still it kept prodding Crown, despite all of Hastings' polite talk and ways. Like an itch he couldn't reach to scratch. He knew that kid – somehow…
He leveled a look on the robber. "I've listened, Conroy. Can't do much more."
He moved away.
"Think about it, Crown!" Conroy shouted after him. "Think on it – you'll see!"
Crown shut the door and made his way back to his office, turned about the space, thinking, feeling, knowing he had to decide what to do. That inner part of him, the piece that he had learned not to ignore, told him that one of those men was wrong. But which one – Conroy or young Matthew Hastings?
He knew enough about Conroy…
He grabbed his hat, took a Winchester from the rack, plucked his coat from the tree stand, swung out into the empty dining room. His nose took a moment to appreciate the aroma of a good chicken stew that was going to be tonight's dinner – and one he was going to miss.
"Mac," he called to his chief deputy huddled with Dulcey at a table overflowing with paperwork. "You're in charge," he told the Scotsman. "I'm heading to Hardesty."
"Now, man?" Mac protested. "What the devil for?" Beside him Dulcey gave him a frown. "It'll be nightfall before you get back."
"Then I'll stay over."
"Marshal…" Francis edged past the batwing doors and jerked a thumb behind him. "Ezra Jacobs says someone's been stealing from his place. Found out when he did his inventory."
"That place has been locked up tight every night," MacGregor complained back. "I know – I've checked it."
"I told him," Francis shrugged. "But he says he can't account for some things… matches, rope, kerosene, stuff like that. Wants to know what we're going to do about it."
"Maybe he should watch his customers more closely," Crown offered. And spend less time standing out front watching Dulcey. "Check around with the other merchants – see if anyone else is missing things," he advised. "I'll follow up when I get back. Put Conroy on that train in the morning for me," he directed MacGregor.
He gave them a wave and strode out, but not before he saw Dulcey's "be careful" warning in her eyes.
Careful, yes, like always – and thorough.