Deputy Corbin Hale Wade had known him not well and not kindly. They they had argued on Saturday in front of the feed store. Loud public. Wade had said something. He would have given a year of his life to take back.
I'll see you dead before I sign. He remembered the faces on the boardwalk. The ladies, the clerk, half a dozen witnesses, every one of them nodding along like a choir. Wade knelt beside the body, touched the ground. Dry.
No blood in the dirt. Not a drop. A man shot through the heart. should have bled out. Dead before he got here, said Da quietly. He had come up behind Wade without a sound.
Somewhere else carried here. Yes. By men with heavy boots. Yes. Wade rose slowly, looked at the arrow in the door, at the body in the weeds.
At the three strangers standing in the gray light, and the picture finally came together, like a hand closing around his throat. They were never hunting you, he said. Nobody answered. They were hunting me. Tea's eyes drop to the ground.
Voss wants my land. I won't sell. So he finds a way to take it. A dead deputy. A public quarrel.
An arrow in my door. So everybody thinks the Apache did it. And I'm standing right next to them looking like the man who invited them in. Yes, said Dakaya. They'll hang me.
Yes. And then they'll go to Cedar Wash. Yes. Wade rubbed his face hard. He felt old.
He felt tired. Uh he felt God help him a little bit like laughing because it was ridiculous. all of it. He had given away a canteen, one lousy canteen, and the universe had sent the bill. "Well," he said, "I'm not hanging. What are you going to do?
" Guan asked. "Prove it. " "How? I've got a dead man, a tied up rider in my cellar, and one lawman I trust. " "Which lawman?
" Sheriff Rudd. Guan's mouth went flat. She did not say a word. But the silence said plenty. "He pulled me out of the river when I was 19.
" It said, "He bought my father's coffin. He is the only man in this county who ever treated me like a person. Then I hope you are right. I usually am. Usually 80%.
That is not very comforting. It's the best I have. He loaded Hale's body across the dead man's own horse, fetched the tied up rider from the cellar, threw him over his own saddle, told the three Apache to stay hidden, stay quiet, to touch nothing. He took the notebook, left the rifle above the fireplace. Guan watched him walk out and as he rode away, Wade could have sworn he heard Dakaya say something.
Low, soft, like a prayer. Forgive us. Wade did not turn around. The town of Red Bluff sat in the crook of the river like a tooth in a bad jaw. Wade rode in at noon through the back trail, the old wash road no one else ever used.
He tied the horses outside the sheriff's office, dragged the rider down, hefted Hale's body onto his shoulder, and walked through the door with every eye on the street, boring a hole in his back. Sheriff Amos Rudd sat behind his desk. Gray mustache, kind eyes. A man who looked like somebody's favorite uncle. Wade, Rudd said, figured you'd come in the back way.
Wade stopped just for a half second, a blink, a breath. But the words hung in the air like smoke. figured you'd come in the back way. Nobody used that road. Nobody even knew it existed except Wade and his father and whoever his father had shown. Amos, Wade said carefully.
I've got a dead man. So I see he was killed somewhere else, dumped by my fence with an arrow that was never made by any Apache. And I've got one of the men who did it. Rudd stood slowly walked around the desk, looked down at the tiedup rider. Is that so?
He works for Voss. Does he? Ask him. Rudd crouched, looked into the man's face. For three long seconds, nobody breathed.
Then Rudd patted the rider on the shoulder gently, almost fondly. Take him to the back room, Dobs. Give him some coffee. Wade blinked. Coffee?
The man's been tied up all night. Amos, he tried to burn me out and I'll ask him all about it when? When he's had his coffee. Wade watched the rider walk out on his own feet, rubbing his wrists, and the rider glanced back over his shoulder. Just once, just for a second, with the faintest ghost of a smile.
Wade's hand tightened on his rifle. Wade, Rudd said softly. Give me the rifle. Why procedure? Since when?
Since a man turned up at my door with a dead deputy. I brought him here to help you. I know that, and it's a fine thing to do, but I have to be careful. You understand the way he did? That was the terrible part.
He understood perfectly. He understood that the man who bought his father's coffin was reaching for his gun and smiling while he did it. The rifle left Wade's hands and the cell door closed behind him with the sound of a coffin lid. Hours passed. The light through the barred window went gold, then red, then gone.
Wade sat on the cot with his back against the wall. The thinking about the arrow, about the rider, about a man in the next room drinking coffee, about how stupid he had been. 80%. He had said 80%. Apparently, he was a liar.
Footsteps. A key in the lock. The door at the end of the corridor swung open. And Sheriff Rudd walked in carrying a tin cup alone. Thirsty?
Rudd asked. Funny. I thought so. Rudd stopped in front of the bars, held out the cup. Drink up, son.