The Sheriff's Sweetheart (22 page)

She stared at the empty cot in the next cell, where a board nailed over the high, narrow window shut out most of the light and air. Then her gaze flew back to Sam.

“I'm all right,” he said again, as if she hadn't heard him before. “You can go home now, Prissy. There's no use in you being here. You need to start over, forget me.” His eyes drank her in, though, like a dying man drinks his last cup of water.

Before she knew what she was doing, she'd joined him at the bars and taken hold of his hands. “I'm not leaving until you tell me why you've given up, why you're not willing to stand up for yourself, Sam Bishop!”

He smiled sadly at her. “It's no use, can't you see that? I didn't take the money from that bank. Yet Raney managed to plant those double eagles in my mattress, and that judge isn't going to believe I'm innocent. I did take that ring, but only after Raney had practically sliced open my face with it when I called him a cheater…never mind, Prissy. I'll be convicted, and I don't want you in the courtroom when it happens, do you understand?”

“No, I don't understand,” she retorted. “You have to try, Sam!” She struggled against the fear and panic that threatened to swamp her.

Someone came into the jail then, and Prissy heard Nolan uttering a greeting, but she paid no attention. She had to convince Sam to fight before he insisted she leave. “I'll be there, and I'll tell that judge what a good man you
are, how you raised your sisters and didn't let your family be broken up and parceled out to others…”

He squeezed her hands before letting them go. “That's not going to be enough to convince a judge that I'm innocent now, sweetheart.”

“No, but what this man has to say might,” said a voice behind her.

Prissy turned to see Reverend Chadwick, his gnarled old hand resting on the shoulder of Delbert Perry.

M
r. Gregory Timkin, president of the First National Bank of Houston, arrived in a hired carriage late the next day, accompanied by his head teller, Marcus Howell. The two were immediately escorted by a very smug-looking Kendall Raney to Gilmore House, where the judge was once again dining. Prissy, who'd answered the door, was gently waved aside by her father.

“These gentlemen can come in, but you're not welcome here, Raney,” Prissy's father said, intercepting Raney on his doorstep. “You can go back to whatever rock you crawled out from under.”

Still hovering in the hall, Prissy heard Raney chuckle. “That's fine,
Mayor,
” he said with a voice that dripped with mock humility. “I understand completely. I'm sure I'll see you in court.”

Her father ignored him and gestured for the other men to enter. “Mr. Timkin, Mr. Howell, you are welcome, of course. Judge Everson will be glad to know you've arrived. You're just in time to have supper with us, gentlemen.”

Both men's clothes were rumpled and travel-stained. Over Flora's excellent roast beef, they recalled how they'd
been drenched to the bone yesterday when the carriage became mired in a muddy creek bed. Then a wall of water had come roaring at them, and they'd been fortunate to escape with their lives. They'd been forced to take shelter at a nearby ranch until this morning.

Mr. Timkin said he'd be very glad if Sam Bishop's trial could proceed tomorrow, so he could regain the money Bishop had stolen and go on with the business of running his bank. And did Mayor Gilmore think he would be able to hire reliable men in Simpson Creek to guard him and the money on the way home?

Her father assured him all that could be arranged when the time came.

Prissy wanted to question the man herself, to know just why Timkin thought Sam had ever even entered his bank, let alone stole two thousand dollars, but like her father, she held her peace. Timkin didn't need to know she was engaged to marry the very man he was here to help convict. There would be time for all that tomorrow.

Judge Everson said starting Bishop's trial tomorrow suited him just fine, too, then suggested that to be ethical, they should not discuss the particulars of the case outside the courtroom.

 

The next morning, the saloon-turned-courtroom was even more packed than it had been previously, if that was possible. She got some odd looks as she carried Houston into the courtroom, but if anyone thought it odd that the mayor's daughter was bringing her dog into such crowded surroundings, they were too polite to say so. She'd already assured the judge she had a good reason.

The prosecutor started the morning by questioning the bank president.

“And just how did Mr. Bishop come to be employed by you, Mr. Timkin?”

“When I'm in need of a new employee, Kendall Raney, a longtime associate and friend, often suggests a likely prospect from among his acquaintances. Mr. Bishop must have been one of those.”

“‘Must have been one of those?'” Mr. Bryant echoed. “You don't recognize the accused man, Samuel Bishop?”

Gregory Timkin harrumphed importantly. “I have many employees, First National Bank being the largest in the Houston area—much larger than, say, the one in Simpson Creek.” His voice, as he gazed over the assembled multitude in their closely packed seats, dripped with condescension. “I only became aware that a large sum was missing when Mr. Howell, the bank's head teller, informed me of it, and said that one of the employees had failed to show up that morning. I was told the employee's name was Samuel Bishop.”

Howell, his head teller, was sworn in and confirmed the story. “That's the man,” he said, pointing at Sam. “He came well recommended by Mr. Raney, but it was after he came that the money disappeared.”

Howell must be the one in league with Raney, Prissy thought, seeing the way the narrow-faced man's gaze slid over Sam. If only she were a man, she thought, her fists clenching on her lap.

The prosecutor cleared his throat. “I have another question or two for you, Mr. Timkin,” he said. “Consider yourself still under oath.”

Timkin nodded, clearly somewhat surprised, and took the stand again.

“Would you say your associate Mr. Raney is a man with many business interests?” Gabe Bryant asked.

“I would, sir. That helped form the basis for our friendship, as we are both…men of varied interests, shall we say?”

“And were you aware that your business associate owned a gambling parlor in an unsavory part of Houston, known as The Painted Lady?”

Timkin shrugged. “As I said, Mr. Raney is a man of many interests and concerns,” he said. “Hotels, restaurants, properties…he may have mentioned such a place, but I do not recall him mentioning it by name.”

Prissy guessed Raney had never mentioned owning such a notorious business.

The prosecutor next called Sam to the stand. Sam testified that he had never been a bank employee at any bank, let alone the First National Bank of Houston.

“And how did you earn your living while you were in Houston, Mr. Bishop?”

Sam shot an apologetic glance in Prissy's direction. “I was a gambler, Your Honor.”

The residents of Simpson Creek gasped and exchanged glances with each other.

“Were you good at it, Mr. Bishop?”

“Not particularly.”

Prissy heard several chuckles.

“Please tell us what took place on your last night in Houston, Mr. Bishop.”

Sam recited the events he'd told Prissy about only yesterday, events which brought her to the verge of tears again now—how he'd suspected Kendall Raney of cheating in his own establishment at the table where Sam was playing poker; how Sam had accused him, only to be set upon by
Raney's toughs who beat him within an inch of his life before Raney landed the final cheek-lacerating blow to his face and knocked him unconscious. He'd awakened trussed up like a Thanksgiving turkey as he was thrown to the floor in Raney's back room, and overheard Raney tell his ruffians he wanted them to return after supper and throw Bishop, along with the little dog that was caged in the room, into the bayou for the alligators.

“And what happened to you and the dog?” the judge asked, not waiting for the prosecutor. “I see that you weren't fed to the alligators, at least.”

Again, there were chuckles.

Sam pointed to where Houston sat on Prissy's lap. “After I managed to untie myself and escape with the dog to Simpson Creek, I gave him to Miss Prissy Gilmore.”

Several turned to smile at Prissy and Houston, and Houston obligingly wagged his tail as if he loved being the center of attention.

“You're accused of taking a vast sum of money, Mr. Raney,” Bryant said. “You've already testified that you took no money from Mr. Timkin's bank, but did you take anything else from that room before you escaped?'

“Yes,” Sam said and looked the judge in the eye. “I broke into Mr. Raney's safe and took back the money he'd cheated from me, and the ring he'd been wearing when he cut open my face,” he added, pointing to the jagged white scar.

“Would this be the same ring?” Gabe Bryant inquired, holding up Raney's ring.

“It would.”

“And have you ever been a lawman, Mr. Bishop?”

“No,” Sam admitted.

“So you lied about the experience you claimed to have as a deputy in Tennessee and Louisiana.”

“Yes. But I took the oath with every intention of serving Simpson Creek well, and I believe I've done so.”

Bryant pulled a skeptical face. “And just how did you end up in Simpson Creek, Mr. Bishop?”

“I read an advertisement in an old newspaper about the Simpson Creek Society for the Promotion of Marriage, Your Honor. I decided I wanted to meet a nice lady and get married. So I came here.”

Raney stood up at that point, much to everyone's surprise. “Your Honor, may I speak?”

Judge Everson's brows rose most of the way to his hairline, but he nodded.

“Your Honor, it all boils down to Bishop's word against that of an esteemed bank president and his chief employee, the word of an admitted liar and a thief. Who is more worthy of being believed?”

“I have another witness who might be able to help us on that issue,” Gabe Bryant said, and gestured to the back of the room.

Prissy caught Sam's eye and gave him an encouraging smile.

 

Two men stood near one of the back rows of seats—Reverend Chadwick and Delbert Perry. As Sam watched, the old preacher put an encouraging hand on Perry's shoulder and whispered a few words in his ear, and then Perry walked toward the witness chair, head held high, as if he was clothed in an immaculate frock coat, trousers and shirt like Kendall Raney instead of the worn and much-repaired shirt, trousers and sack coat he wore.

Still sitting in the defendant's seat near the judge, Sam
gazed at Prissy, still unable to believe that she was standing by him through all this. The moment of truth had arrived—what Perry was about to say was their only hope of proving Sam innocent. If the judge didn't believe Perry, Sam thought, all was lost.

I am with you always.

This time Sam believed the truth of that.

Raney pointed at the weathered man about to take the oath. “Why is
he
testifying?” he called out, scorn lacing his voice. “Someone told me he's the town drunk—and he's going to be a
witness?
To what? The view inside a whiskey bottle?”

Hammond, sitting next to him, snickered behind his hand.

Judge Everson rapped on his gavel. “That's enough out of you, sir. Any more outbursts like that will result in your removal from my courtroom.”

Raney looked pointedly around him at the rows of liquor bottles and glasses behind the bar and seemed about to argue, then shut his mouth.

Delbert Perry was sworn in, and Gabe Bryant stepped forward to question him.

“Mr. Perry, I'm going to start with the accusation Mr. Raney made. Can you tell us why you'd be a reliable witness? Isn't it true you've been known as the ‘town drunk,' just as he said?”

Sam saw Perry's lips spread into a smile. “Yessir. I was exactly that, until the last time I shot up th' saloon the day Mr. Bishop became the new sheriff. I nearly kilt Mr. Brookfield accidentally, an' that's a pure fact. An' Mr. Bishop arrested me, and Mr. Brookfield talked to me that evenin' while I was soberin' up in my cell.”

“He talked to you? About what?”

“About Jesus. He'd talked to me before 'bout Him, but this time…I dunno, it jes'
took
this time.”

Bryant's brow furrowed. “Took? Explain what you mean, Mr. Perry.”

Delbert Perry beamed. “He'd been tellin' me th' Lord wanted to forgive me a' my sins, 'cause He had better things for me t'do than stumble around drunk all the time. But I had to accept Him. This time I did, an' I ain't drinkin' no more.”

Sam saw Perry look out over the sea of townspeople's faces until he spotted the man he was looking for. “I ain't been in th' saloon to drink since, have I, George?”

George Detwiler half stood and called back, “He's tellin' the truth. I pay him to help me clean up after the saloon closes at night, but he doesn't drink. Not even from leftover bottles.”

Judge Everson rapped on his gavel again. “I'm going to allow that last remark, but anything further anyone has to say, you have to be sworn in.”

Gabe Bryant cleared his throat. “So what do you spend your leisure time doing, now that you're not drinking, Mr. Perry?”

“When I'm not doin' odd jobs, like I do for George at closin' time, I'm gen'rally out walkin', talkin' to th' Lord. 'Specially at night, when I cain't sleep. That's when I'm most tempted t'slide inta my old ways, y'see.”

Bryant nodded. “And do you encounter people when you're out walking?”

“Sometimes,” Perry said. “Early in the evenin', before I'm at the saloon cleanin', but once in a while late at night.”

“Do they speak to you, generally?”

“Folks I know do. Sometimes they just nod, friendly-like. But sometimes they don't even see me.”

Sam darted another glance at Raney. He and his two partners looked distinctly uneasy now, and he saw Byrd begin to whisper to Pennington behind a cupped hand. Kendall Raney looked over his shoulder at the batwing doors.

“And on the evening of August fifteenth, did you happen to encounter some people talking, whose conversation you overheard?”

“Well, I wouldn't 'zactly say I encountered them. I was jes' sittin' on the stoop out back a' the saloon, watchin' the heat lightnin' flashin' in the sky and talkin' t' th' Lord like I told you, when these two fellows stopped to talk at the side of the saloon buildin' near me. They didn't see me sittin' there in th' dark, and they seemed like they had somethin' important to discuss, so I jes' held my peace.”

“Who were they, and what was being said?”

“That feller there—” he pointed at Raney “—he was talkin' to another man, someone I hadn't seen before or since. He was rough-lookin'—a saddle tramp sort a' man.”

“Your Honor, I object!” roared Raney, on his feet now, his face beet-red.

“You can't object, you're not a lawyer in this case!” roared back the judge. “Now, keep your mouth shut, or I'll have you gagged. Is that clear?”

Raney sat down. Sam thought he looked more and more like a trapped animal that wanted to flee but hadn't found a way yet. Trapped animals could be dangerous. Sam wished he had his pistol in its holster on his hip.

Bryant turned back to Perry. “As I was asking you, what were Mr. Raney and the other man speaking about?

“Mr. Raney, he said he and his partners, Mr. Pennington and Mr. Byrd, wanted this fella—he called him ‘Jace'—t'go talk to Sheriff Bishop in th' jail, but quiet-like, after everyone else there was asleep. He was t' offer 'em a bribe—”