Chapter Eight

Mort sat at his desk, lips drawn in a hard line as he toyed with the pen in the inkwell. "As you can see, McLaughlin, I'm busy."

"Finishing the Slim Sherman and Jess Harper case, are you?"

Wanting to avoid the dark eyes above him, Mort merely nodded. "There's a lot of paperwork in this business. A lot."

McLaughlin's hand spreading out on the top sheet, he gave it a slight scrunch, pulling the page away from the pen's tip. "I know. I'm in the business myself."

Anger fueling him to his feet, Mort finally gave the man across from him an eye-to-eye stare. "Then you should know not to interfere with a lawman doing his duty."

"I'm not," he said just as smartly as his attire was put together. "I'm just trying to prove to you that the case hasn't been completed. Not yet, anyway."

Still spitting angry darts, Mort narrowed his gaze. "What do you mean? Trial's over, sentence has been given. What's left?"

"The sentencing hasn't been carried out, and it won't, not until Sherman pays for his contempt, anyway. He has to sit still for three days, plus the fifteen dollar fine, remember?"

"I was there," Mort snapped. "I know what was said, and I know what has to be done. Now if you'll let me get back to my work."

"Very well," he said, smoothing the sheet as he slid it back Mort's way. "I'll oblige."

The linger too long for his comfort, Mort motioned with his hand. "Do I need to walk you to the door?"

McLaughlin smirked. "No. I'll find my way. I was just trying to word my goodbye properly."

"How about just let the door swing shut behind you?"

He smiled, rather mischievously for someone supposed to make his living by enforcing the law. "But remember what I said."

"If I didn't know better, I'd swear you were threatening me. Or maybe I don't know better at all."

"No threat, Cory. Just reiterating the advice I've already given." The door coming open, McLaughlin appeared to raise his hand in a parting wave, but only three fingers would pop out of his palm. "You still have time, Sheriff. Three days of it. So use it wisely."

Kerchief out of his pocket, Mort gave his neck a thorough wipe. "Whew. Take me to the woodshed if I ever get a disposition like that."

Wiley winced. "He really a lawman?"

"Not the same as you and I," Mort answered, watching out the window to make sure the special hire wasn't making a return. "But yes, he carries a badge, just not where anyone can get a full-on look at it. Detectives have to be sneaky, you know."

"What sours a lawman up like that, Mort?"

"Not sure. A wife that can't cook, maybe?" The joke going flat, Mort shook his head. "I guess I better go talk to Slim and Jess. Keep my seat warm, will you?"

"Sure, Mort."

There was no point trying to smile as Mort opened the jail room door. That would have only come if he had the keys to the cell door in hand and he was giving the two men their freedom. But he couldn't do that. He was sworn to this job, to this duty, and for the first time in his entire career, it made him feel sick. And before this job, this duty that he was sworn to would be over, likely Mort would feel even sicker.

No point bush beating, Mort stepped up to the barred door. "The Overland detective was just here."

"And we didn't get the pleasure of meeting him," Jess said, sarcasm thick, "that's too dadgummed bad."

"That's because he'd rather jump on me instead."

Crutch in place to aid his walk, Slim hobbled to the bars. "How so, Mort?"

"I guess I made quite the impression on him in court today. Us being friends, you know. He thinks, or maybe I should say, the Overland company thinks that because of us being friends, I'll get you to talk."

Jess' laugh and snort came so close together, the sound could have been a unison retort. "Talk? What's left to talk over? Everything's been said and done. We're guilty. The only reason we haven't been tossed to the vultures yet is on account of Slim's contempt. When that's up, dadgum."

"You'd still be sitting here even if Slim wasn't given three days and fifteen dollars."

Slim shook his head. "I don't understand, Mort."

"They're hoping I can get you to confess where the money's hidden before your sentence is carried out."

Jess' hands leaping high, the explosion in his voice rose even higher. "But we didn't take it!"

"I know, Jess. They want the money, though, and they'd do just about anything to get it back. And that includes putting pressure on a good friend. And Judge Shaffer."

"Ain't bribing a judge some kinda crime?"

"It would be if it wasn't done correctly. Remember, Jess, this is coming from a detective. He knows every angle that's ever been drawn. Besides, if I can believe what he told me, he didn't bribe the judge. He merely leaned a little against his shoulder."

"Ain't that the same thing?"

"When you're on the wrong side of the bars it is," Mort answered as he gave a certain measurement with his fingers. "But when you're holding a badge of his size, you can get away with more than most."

"So how did this detective influence the judge?"

Mort looked at Slim, but he couldn't keep the other set of blue out of his gaze for long. "I've listened to enough verdicts to know that you boys should have been given the rope. And from Judge Shaffer, even more so. He's strong on justice, necktie style."

"But he didn't."

"I know. Judge Shaffer didn't sentence you to hang because they figure there's still a chance of you confessing about the money while sitting on the rock pile. They'd rather it come in the next three days, though, hence my visitor just now. But they're willing to wait."

"Wait!" The explosives making another blast, Jess' entire being began to throw flames. "For what? Slim's teeth to fall out and my hair to go white?"

"I know it's hard, Jess, but the company purposely didn't want your neck in a noose and the judge went along. That's something, isn't it?"

"Twenty years for Slim. Sixty years for me. Yeah, that's something, all right."

Amid a lengthy silence, Mort heard his stomach growl from something other than anxiety and then sniffed for whatever was floating from the diner's front door. Must be pot roast. And knowing how large the scoop of mashed potatoes that went alongside the slices of beef would be, Mort could almost see the gravy getting poured on.

Certain he could hear a similar rumble from inside both of his friends, Mort gave his belly a rub. "It's that time of day. Can I get you boys anything?"

"No grub, but how about a hacksaw, a gun and a bomb?"

He knew it was only a tease, but Mort couldn't create even the smallest smile to answer him with. "You wouldn't want to be on the run, Jess."

"Wanna bet?"

Now Mort's mouth took on a gaping drop. Wasn't it a tease? "Then I'd have to hunt you down, with posse, rifles and everything."

Slim's hand going to his partner's shoulder, he shook his head. "We won't run, Mort."

"Don't speak for me. You can't, Slim, what with that ankle of yours. But me? Dadgum, gimme a hacksaw, a gun and a bomb and see how far I'll go!"

Finally seeing the glint inside each blue, Mort's breath eased out of his mouth. He really was just looking at the wily side of Jess Harper. Considering the tension in the room, he might as well give a little back. "All right. No grub, but I'll bring you both a full plate of hacksaws, guns and bombs."

Although during the second afternoon of sitting through Slim's contempt sentence, Mort wished he could have served up the kind a dinner that would have sent his best friends on the straight route to freedom. Their next route was about to go down. Very far down south.

"Yuma!" Mort knew his mouth was hanging open, but even if the fly that had been pestering him all day took that moment to examine the back of his throat, he wouldn't be quick to close it. "Yuma?"

"That's what I asked and this was the answer given," said Tom Stephens, Laramie's resident judge. "Granville is falling to pieces and the territorial prison in Colorado is being reformed by a group of church ladies."

"That doesn't sound so bad. Sometimes church women've got their hatpins in too tight, but they sure do cook good."

The judge patted his stomach. "I know. I'm married to one of them. But because of the reforming, no new prisoners are being accepted down there. That leaves Yuma. You should be thankful that Garden City wasn't on the list, or it'd be that prison. It's closer."

His brows jumped. Last he heard, Garden City was described as a rat hole with more rattlesnakes and Gila monsters than prisoners. But was Yuma described any better? To those that served there, they would call it worse.

His defense rising, so did Mort as he left his chair. "But Tom, you know what Yuma's like. If any place needs reforming, it's Yuma."

"I know. But I don't think even a church woman would step in those doors."

"And I have to send two of my closest friends there?"

"I'm afraid so."

He sighed, so long that it felt like a large portion of Slim and Jess' sentences had already passed. "When?"

"Once the territorial marshal arrives."

"Branch McGary?" Mort asked, eyes closed with hope.

"No. Arizona's territorial marshal. Dirk Holloway."

"Because he hauls men away," Mort said slowly, quietly, as he thought about the reputation from the marshal that roamed throughout the southern territory, taking prisoners to their death sentences or jail, which in most cases, turned out to be the same.

"I'm sorry, Sheriff. I really am." Tom stood and with hand outstretched, he felt the weakness in the sheriff's shake. "If you'd like, I'll tell Slim and Jess for you. I feel like I owe you something, what with me not being in town for their trial."

"No," Mort answered, shaking his lowered head. "That's my duty. But thanks, Tom. And thanks for delivering the news. It does come easier from a friend than if Shaffer or one of the company crowns brought it over."

The office door closing softly behind him, Mort headed for the interior door that stood between him and the cells. He couldn't go straight through, and at his pause, Mort gave an inward cry, the same as he had already uttered before, now, anguished even further. Yuma! Every prison had its stench, its sordid stories, even Granville. But Yuma? Some of the worst cases ever written in the history of western prisons came out of Yuma. And he had to send Slim and Jess there. Without him.

That had been the original plan. Mort had already squared away with his deputy the time that he would need to take the boys to Granville. It would go easier that way. Three friends, riding together, even if it was for the last time, but it wouldn't be this kind of ride to Yuma. Slim and Jess were going to be hauled away, literally, by a man named Holloway.

The inevitable unable to be put off any longer, Mort took a deep breath and walked in.

"Heard you talking out there, Mort," Slim said, nodding toward the office. "You sounded a little strong at times. Everything all right?"

"Not exactly." Afraid that it was the beginning drops of his tears, Mort rapidly wiped at the sweat on his cheeks. "I just received your prison papers. Once I sign them, you'll be out of my hands."

"At least it's not so far that we'll never see you," Slim said, looking at Jess' tight mouth before returning his gaze to Mort, whose face was just as pinched as the condemned. "You'll visit us, won't you, Mort?"

"I doubt I'll be down that way much, Slim."

"Down." Heart in a frantic pound, the tone even came through his lips as Slim rushed the next part out. "What do you mean, down? Granville is north of here."

"Yuma's not."

Their unison breaths should have produced a shout. It came out in a trembled whisper. "Yuma?"

Needing the time to clear the tightness in his throat, Mort nodded. "You've both been sentenced to Yuma prison."

Walking to the window, Jess searched for the southern sky and then smacked his fist into the wall, not even wincing as his knuckles cracked, shedding blood down both wall and wrist. "Yuma! The worst jail ever created!"

"Have you been there, Jess?"

He shook his head. "No, Mort, but I've met a coupla men that have. And I can tell you that all it takes is the mere mention of the name and it makes a man go crazy, not to mention actually being there."

His gulp so loud it should have been heard by both sets of ears, Slim still had to push down another before he could make his voice work. "Why all the way to Arizona when the crime was so close to home?"

The response wasn't far, as it had been spoken on the other side of the wall a few minutes before, yet Mort merely shrugged. "It's a long story."

"It's an even longer ride to get there."

"Ride?" Jess' tongue snapped like a whip, not caring that the lashes were meant for his partner. "Why're you worrying about how long the ride is when the sentence is even longer?"

"I'm sorry, Jess."

"Sorry!" He spun toward Mort. "Not many men get outta Yuma alive. You should know best. You hear the stories. Don't the graves stretch a full mile away from the outside walls?"

"That's just a rumor, Jess."

"I reckon we'll be finding out if it's true or not. Maybe we'll be the next ones to lay there."

"Jess, please, don't make it harder than it is."

"That's impossible, Mort. Prisons are worse than death. And Yuma's even worse than that."

"Jess, Mort's right. Try to calm down. At least while we're still here in Laramie's lockup."

"No, Slim. I can't. I've seen what it does to a real guilty man. What do you think it's gonna do to a coupla innocent men?"

"Try to think that it won't be forever."

"Maybe not for you. You've got the easier leg. Twenty years. Me, I've been saddled with sixty!"

"I didn't mean it that way, Jess. Try to have hope. We're innocent. That's got to come to light someday." He turned toward Mort, so eager for a taste of hope and the kind of light that made edges of clouds turn to gold that he leaned toward the man on the other side of the bars. "Won't it, Mort?"

"I've already said it before, but I'll repeat it from now until the end of time if I have to. I promise you boys I'll never stop digging into this until I find who's really responsible."

"How long, though? I know one thing's for sure. I ain't gonna make it those sixty years. Ten years'll be pushing my carcass to the limit."

"I haven't stopped working on it since you've been locked up. I'll go at it even harder when you're gone."

"Gone," Jess said flatly, although if either companion's ears were focused just right, they would have heard the fear there instead. "Kinda final, that. Reminds me of the night before this ever started when Slim said we were having our last meal at home. How right that turned out to be."

Mort tried not to let his sigh get too loud, but among their shock and fear, it sounded like a wind gust straight out of hell. Or straight out of Yuma, whichever was hotter. "I'll let you two be alone. Call if you need me."

"You gonna be able to hear us in Yuma?"

Door shut, one pair of blue also closed as their backsides found their bunks. For a lengthy time they sat in silence, their thoughts similar, but not quite the same.

There beneath Slim's eyelids he could see his land, his home, many years' worth of dreams. He had already talked with Ben and Jud. Neither of them would quit, vowing to hang onto the land, his home. But the many years' worth of dreams they could not hang on to. First belonging to his father, then passed along to Slim, those were gone. But then…

Ben's raspy voice brought the encouraging return. "Oh, you'll get out before long. You'll see."

Hope rose and fell like the breaths in and out of his lungs. One minute there was belief in the old-timer's words, in Mort's promise, the next it was as dark as a night sky without moon and stars.

Hearing the groan beside him, so deep that it might not have been meant for anyone's ears but the one that produced the sound, Slim opened his eyes to look at Jess. Elbows on each knee, his partners hands were folded, propping his chin up. That was the only part of his body that had any lift. The rest of him was a fading blossom, so abused by a thunderstorm's lash that it would never bend a petal toward light again.

"Jess."

He shook his head, as far as any answer could go. He could tell just by the way his name came from Slim's tongue what he was trying to do. Maybe it went further and it was what Slim needed to do. Again Jess shook his head.

Jess was a hard man. He had to be to have survived his life until now. But in the course of that survival, he also knew his limits. If they started talking about the good times, any kind of memory that would stir his insides, a tear might fall. If he couldn't control one, how could he contain them all? How could he contain them all the way to Yuma?