“Damn straight.”
“Texas Rangers didn’t send you here to make sure I’m square and enforcing the law?”
“No.”
“I wouldn’t hold it against you.”
“Swear to you, sheriff. And I’ll tell you something else.” He held up his hand, palm out so the cut was visible. “I’ll defend myself against a guy wanting to knife me, but I wouldn’t tattle on somebody that I’d befriended. That would go against my grain.”
Amos assimilated that, then said, “All right, then. I’ll take your word for it, and if Bernie ever voices his suspicion again, I’ll tell him I already confronted you about it, and you flat out denied it.”
“If the mayor suspects I’ve been sent to rout out local moonshiners, wouldn’t he favor that? Why’s he hostile?”
“Because he ramrods the most prosperous bootlegging operation in the region.”
Thatcher took that news like a clip on the chin. “Son of a bitch,” he said under his breath. “Why don’t you arrest him?”
The sheriff grimaced. “That’d be messy.”
Thatcher didn’t press him to elaborate. He felt it possible that arresting the mayor would create a conflict of interest for the sheriff. The ethics of these men were no concern of his. Even if the sheriff dealt dirty on some matters, Thatcher felt that he was a basically good and conscientious man.
“Well, the mayor won’t have to worry about me for long,” Thatcher said. “I’ll be heading up to the Panhandle soon. Assuming you let me go. I thought you’d’ve heard something from Mr. Hobson by now.”
“Sheriff called me back. They had a hell of a sandstorm up there. The deputy dispatched to go out to the ranch got lost.”
“I’ve experienced storms like that,” Thatcher said. “You can’t see a foot in front of you.”
“Well, the fellow turned around and managed to make his way back to Amarillo without crashing into something. He’ll try again tomorrow.”
That was disappointing. Henry Hobson Jr. had been more than simply the man he’d cowboyed for. He’d been his mentor. Mr. Hobson was a man of his word. A character reference from him would go a long way toward clearing Thatcher of suspicion.
The sheriff was absently plucking at the corner of his mustache. Thatcher had come to recognize the signs. The sheriff wasn’t done with him yet. Eventually he said, “There’s something niggling me.”
Thatcher thought it best not to ask what.
“When we brought you in here and started questioning you, why didn’t you tell us you’d stopped at the Plummers’ place?”
Thatcher’s guard went up. “Didn’t seem worth mentioning.”
“Bullshit. It was damn worth mentioning because Laurel Plummer could have attested that you had the bruise, the cut, before you ever made it into town and met Mila Driscoll. You relied on Fred Barker to back you up. People in the boardinghouse. But you deliberately omitted mention of her. Why?”
Thatcher shifted his stance, knowing that it probably gave away his uneasiness. “I’d approached two women that day. They were strangers to me, and, best to my knowledge, alone. I thought if y’all knew about Mrs. Plummer, in addition to Mrs. Driscoll, it would look bad.”
“It does. It looks bad that you didn’t volunteer the information, and I don’t think you’re being completely honest with me now, are you? What happened out yonder at her place?”
“Not a thing. It was just like she said.” She’d left out what had happened out by the water pail. Obviously she was embarrassed by that, and didn’t want anybody knowing about it, so Thatcher wasn’t going to give it away. But he could tell the sheriff the truth about the rest of it.
“In the short time I was there, it was plain to me that Mrs. Plummer had reached the end of her rope. I got the sense that she’d had more than her fair share of hard knocks lately, and I didn’t want to heap on another problem for her.”
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“You felt compassion for her.”
“I guess you could put it like that.”
Amos took his measure, then exhaled heavily. “If you’re indicted, I advise you against putting it like that. The mayor, the D.A. would pounce on it.”
“I don’t follow.”