Deputy Mayer's first name was Jesse, but nobody called him that because it had been his father's name. When he'd been a kid, people had called him Junior. As he got older and taller, it had eventually been shortened to June. His mother called him Juney, as had his brother when he was alive, but nobody else did. To everyone, he was either June or Deputy Mayer. Except for Sheriff Holt, who omitted the deputy part and just called him Mayer.
"'bout time you got in, Mayer," Sheriff Holt greeted him.
"'mornin', Sheriff," Mayer returned, taking off his hat and laying it on the desk all the deputies shared when they were employed, but which only Mayer occupied permanently, "Everything okay?"
"Hardly," Sheriff Holt said, "Them two have been jawin' most of the night. Never had two prisoners that were more chatty."
"Well," Mayer ventured, "They are brothers after all."
"What have brothers got to say to each other?" the sheriff grunted.
"Do you have a brother?" Mayer asked.
"Nope," Holt answered, "My folks had a bunch o' girls. Then they had me. An' then they had more girls. It's a wonder I wasn't born wearin' a dress."
Mayer nodded without comment. That explained a few things about Sheriff Holt's social habits. The man seemed to be comfortable in talking to women, but he never turned on any kind of charm, and seemed completely oblivious to any woman that happened to flirt with him. He treated Lacy Jane Weston like she was his sister, and Mayer supposed he now knew why. No wonder the man had never courted and married, he probably liked having a house that wasn't loaded up with womenfolk.
Poor Miss Weston, she'd probably never rope Sheriff Holt.
"So what were they talking about?" Mayer inquired, nodding towards the jail room.
"Don't know. Couldn't tell from here, and didn't feel like askin'," Sheriff Holt replied, "Now you're here, you can find out for yourself if you're so eager. Me, I'm goin' home to get some shuteye."
"You going to Lacy's first?" Mayer inquired, "In case somebody asks after you."
Sheriff Holt frowned out the window of his office, checking the time based on the light conditions outside, then he said, "I suppose she'd be up now. But it's a might early for brandy."
"I'm sure she makes coffee," Mayer told him.
"Sure, but who could drink it?"
Lacy's was the only place in town to eat, but it was well known that the only thing she had any business fixing was drinks. Nobody had the heart to tell her, she was such a sweet, thoughtful lady, and always brought food to the men at the sheriff's office when anything was going on that made them stay longer than usual hours. She'd be by later to bring food to them and their prisoners, so no deputy would have to be sent out for it. Of course, the only place to go was Lacy's. However, some of the deputies had wised up and started carrying jerky with them and eating that after Miss Weston had been and gone. They had several clever disposal methods, so she'd never find out they couldn't stand her cooking.
Mayer's politeness forbade him from rejecting her food. He also couldn't lie to her and pretend he'd eaten it when he hadn't. So he just ate it and suffered. His mother told him that he ought to let Miss Weston know, so she could try to do better. But Mayer couldn't imagine that anything in the world would fix what was wrong with Miss Weston's food, and it wasn't fair to ask the impossible of her.
"So you're going to Lacy's first," Mayer concluded.
"Probably. May stay in one of the rooms if Lacy'll let me. Easier than goin' all the way home."
Mayer didn't say so, but he knew Miss Weston would let Sheriff Holt stay. Heck, if the rooms were full (which they never were), she would probably kick out the occupants to make room for him. Either that or she would suggest he come and sleep on the couch in her living room.
Like many people in town, Miss Weston actually lived in her place of business. She had an apartment at the back of the building that she used. She also had a large dog and a shotgun she kept back there in case drifters got any big ideas, especially after they'd had a few too many of her drinks. Mayer had always suspected the dog was actually a wolf, and it came and went as it pleased through a back door, though it always seemed to be in whistling distance whenever any potential ruffians showed up. Mayer and Sheriff Holt had arrested more than one man that had to be treated for dog bites.
It occurred to Mayer after Sheriff Holt departed that the dog had been nowhere around when the Cartwright boys and Canaday had been at Lacy's. He knew, of course, that there was no legitimate reason for the boys to have been arrested, but the absence of the dog said something to him about their character. The dog always knew if a man might cause any fuss, and somehow knew whenever anyone rode into town. Heck, that dog could tell if one of the locals was about to celebrate a little too much and would make its presence felt before things got out of hand. But the dog had not been at all in evidence since before the Cartwrights and Canaday had ridden into town.
More than once, Miss Weston had come and asked Mayer to remove someone from her hotel/saloon, and he'd learned to trust the absence of the dog to mean that they would cause no trouble, no matter how shady or dangerous they happened to look. Of course, the Cartwright boys were in jail now, and couldn't have done Miss Weston any harm from there if they'd wanted to, but the dog didn't trust jail cells to hold hoodlums, and would hang around until any potential danger had passed.
That dog should have been following Miss Weston every time she came in yesterday. If the Cartwrights hadn't wished her harm before, surely they must now, and -Mayer had to admit- with good reason.
He decided to take a chance and went into the jail room, where he found both Cartwrights awake.
"Breakfast's going to be a little late," Mayer informed them.
"If it's anything like it was yesterday, we're in no hurry," said the younger of the two, Joe.
"Knowing Miss Weston, it's exactly like it was yesterday," Mayer told him.
"I was afraid of that," Joe said.
The two brothers were sitting on the floor in the least drafty corner of the cell. Mayer had been trying to get Sheriff Holt to get that draft fixed, but the sheriff was adamant that it was more than he could afford. Mayer had offered to do the repairs himself for free, but the sheriff had told him in no uncertain terms that -if he ever got the urge to fix something- he should go home and see what his mother needed done around the place. Sheriff Holt was right, of course, Mayer had plenty to do to try and keep his mother's place in good working order. It had been set up with the idea of there being a healthy woman and three strong men to help run it, not just one man and his ailing mother.
Instead of standing over them, Mayer took a seat on the floor outside the cell and leaned against the wall that divided the main office from the jail room.
"I'll ask Miss Weston if she can bring over an extra blanket," Mayer said, trying to ease his guilt somewhat, "Tomorrow night's gonna be colder than last night."
"What do you care?" Joe asked sourly, "You're planning to kill us when this is over anyway, or had you forgotten that?"
"I haven't forgotten," Mayer said, "But I don't see any reason to make man or animal more miserable than necessary before they die. Mother says it's not in my blood to be cruel."
"Your ma know what you're doin' now?" asked the older brother, Hoss.
"Mother doesn't live in town," Mayer said, "She doesn't know anything about you."
"I bet she'd be real proud of you," Joe spat sarcastically, "Holding innocent people in a jail cell, making yourself into a kidnapper and murderer, and a thief while you're at it."
"I'm not doing this to make her proud," Mayer said, "I'm doing it to give her a better life."
"With blood money," Joe pointed out, "I dunno about your mother, but if mine were alive, she'd be angry and ashamed of me if I made money from hurting other people."
"And so would mine," Hoss said, "She'd tan my hide if she ever found out."
"I thought you were brothers?" Mayer asked.
"We are," Joe said neutrally, and neither brother seemed inclined to elaborate.
Mayer didn't really need them to. He supposed different mothers would account for the wildly different appearances and dispositions of the two. Mayer and his older brother could've passed for twins. These two would probably need extensive proof if they wanted to pass as distant relations. Frankly the younger one looked more like Canaday than he looked like his brother. Which led Mayer to wonder.
"You claimed Canaday was just a ranch hand. He's not some cousin of yours or anything, is he?"
"Why? You want to hold him hostage too?" Joe asked.
"We both know he's dead either way," Mayer said.
Joe sighed irritably, but it was Hoss that answered.
"He's no blood relation," Hoss said, "Fact is, he's only worked for us a couple of years."
"And yet the both of you were ready to give your lives for his when you helped him escape," Mayer remarked, "He must be some kind of ranch hand."
"I reckon he is at that," Hoss agreed after a moment's consideration, "But that ain't why we did it."
"I suppose you were hoping he'd go for help," Mayer said.
"There's no question about whether he'd go for help," Joe growled, "Of course he would. But the reason we did what we did was because we couldn't just stand by and watch a murder. Not when we could do something about it."
"Joe's right," Hoss admitted when Mayer looked at him questioningly, "I reckon we just couldn't help ourselves. We just sorta naturally want to right any wrongs we see goin' on."
"It seems a little ironic," Joe said, "that you're wearing the badge and we're in jail."
"And does Canaday also have this... this compulsion to do the right thing?" Mayer asked.
"I can't say what's in another man's heart," Hoss told him, "And Candy's jus' full o' surprises. But based on what he's done since we met him, I'd say he does."
"It's a little late to start worrying about what kind of man your friends are hunting down, isn't it?" Joe inquired sharply, and Mayer couldn't blame him for the anger that burned like fire in his dark eyes, "You sure didn't seem to care when your sheriff shot him in the back."
"He was trying to get away," Mayer said weakly.
"After your sheriff gave the order to have him killed. Any man would run, given that kind of a death sentence. Or weren't you listening at the time?" Joe challenged, but Mayer didn't answer him.
The fact was, he had been listening. He'd been listening when this plan was first proposed, and when Canaday was brought in by two of the others, and when Sheriff Holt had ordered him killed. He'd been listening when Sheriff Holt told Miss Weston that the Cartwright boys were doomed. He'd been listening, and he'd understood. But he'd been trying not to think about it. He'd avoided going in the jail room, avoided looking the prisoners in the eyes. But now he was in here and talking to them, it was hard not to think about what he was doing to them. Especially since the younger one seemed to have a barbed remark to make on just about anything.
"What you're planning is wrong, and you know it," Joe pressed him, "And if you go through with it, you know there's no coming back from that. You'll be a murderer, and your mother will be living off money belonging to the father of the men you killed. I could live with a lot of things, a lotta kinds of guilt. But if I did that... I don't think I could live with it. Can you?"
Before Mayer could think about answering, a loud neigh issued from Josh Jones' Livery, followed by the sound of a hoof banging against wood, and another neigh from the same horse.
"You want to do something for us?" Joe asked, but didn't wait for a response, "Get over to that stable and tend to those horses. They're hungry, and probably thirsty, and they need exercise."
"You're worried about horses right now?" Mayer couldn't believe what he'd heard.
"I trained the pinto myself, I've had him since I was a kid. He's been just about everywhere with me, a lot of tough situations. He's worth more than money, he means the world to me. It's my responsibility to take care of him, and I've had to listen to him carrying on like that since yesterday. Maybe I've got to die for your plan to work, but there's no reason my horse has to suffer too."
Mayer stared at Joe, who gazed back earnestly. Finally, he decided Joe really meant it. Slowly, Mayer got to his feet, and brushed imaginary dust off his pants.
"I'll see what I can do," Mayer promised.
When he left, Hoss turned to his brother and said, "What are you tryin' to do, Joe?"
Every word Joe had said was true, and Hoss knew it. But Joe didn't usually confess his affection for his horse to just anybody, least of all to somebody planning to kill him. Hoss knew it was possible for Joe to say just about anything when he was mouthing off, but he'd caught a gleam in Joe's eye about halfway through the conversation with the deputy. He'd seen that look before. Joe was scheming. He had a plan, an intent behind everything he'd said; it wasn't just the anger talking.
"That man's conscience is bothering him, Hoss," Joe said, "And he doesn't even realize it."
"I noticed," Hoss said, "Only reason to come talk to us, I reckon."
Joe nodded absently.
Hoss continued, "But I don't see what Cochise has got to do with it."
"Hoss, Pa's tanned your hide before," Joe said, "And he's tanned mine. But as I got older, he found a better way to get through to me when I knew I'd done something wrong but wasn't admitting it."
"Oh?" Hoss inquired.
"Yeah," Joe replied, "He'd send me out to take care of the horses, whether they needed it or not. Nothing gives you time to think like taking care of a horse, especially if he belongs to the man you wronged. I should know, I did it enough."
"Pa had you take care of Sport and Chub?"
"And Buck too," Joe confirmed with a slight nod.
"He never sent me out to the horse barn," Hoss said.
"Probably he never sent Adam either," Joe shrugged, "We all know I was a lot more trouble than I was worth sometimes. Anyhow, it's easy for your conscience to make itself heard when you're looking at the shine of a horse's coat coming out while you brush him."
"You think Cooch can get through to that fella when we couldn't make a dent in him?"
"I think Cooch can get through to even the most stubborn, pigheaded kind of idiot there ever was," Joe replied, "After all, he got through to me enough times, didn't he?" after a moment of silence, he added quietly, "If that man really has any conscience at all, Cochise will find a way to make him face it."