Clifford Simak - The Thing in the Stone - And Other Stories

“And yet,” said Ann, “your little ranchers hate my father just like they do Hart and Danielson.”

“That’s only because he’s one of the big owners, Ann. They don’t quite trust him yet.”

“So you’re going to run for another term?”

Parker nodded. “Looks like I have to. That job up north was tempting because, as your dad told me, there’s very little future in this sheriffing.”

“Maybe they’ll all get together and give you a gold watch with a nice inscription on it when you’re through,” Ann told him, bitterly. “Or they’ll all turn out to your funeral and give you a big sendoff.”

Parker said softly, “You want me to take that job awful much, don’t you, Ann?”

Her eyes were bright again and she drew her hand away. “It’s for you to decide, Clint,” she said.

He followed her to the door and she paused for a moment looking at him intently.

“Who found that cartridge?” she asked. “The one that killed Campbell.”

“Why, it was Kennedy. Betz and Egan went out to look for Campbell when he didn’t show up and they stopped at Kennedy’s place and took him along. Betz found the body and they looked around for sign. It was Kennedy who found it.”

“And Kennedy’s one of your little ranchers.”

Parker nodded glumly.

Her voice sank to a whisper. “Dad says he wouldn’t blame you if there was a jailbreak. Says he don’t think anyone else would, either.”

Parker shook his head. “Couldn’t do that, Ann. That would put the owlhoot mark on Luke and I’m sure he didn’t do it. He’ll just have to take his chances with the jury.”

He watched her cross the sidewalk and swing into the saddle.

He raised a hand to her and she waved back, then galloped down the street.

Back in the office, Clint sat down at the desk, rolled a cigarette and blew smoke at the lamp, watching it coil above the chimney.

It would be nice to take the job Ann had spoken of. Paid a good deal more than sheriffing and had a future to it. Would mean that he and Ann could get married right off. Old Hank Horton, last time he had seen him, had been downright insistent that he take it, but Parker remembered that he had put the old man off with a feeling that the job may have been engineered as a means of getting him out of office. Getting him out and getting Gibbs in.

There was no one but himself, he knew, that the small ranchers could put up who would have a chance at the polls. And that meant the Hashknife and Bar C and Turkey Track, maybe even Horton’s Bent Arrow would start crowding, pushing in their cattle on land that wasn’t theirs, building up to a gunfight or an ambush or just a few hot words that would be an excuse for range war to flare across the land.

And once that happened, the little men were finished. The Atkins ranch, the Kennedy outfit, George Lane, old Jim O’Neill and all the rest of them would be snowed under the thunder of hoofs, the bark of guns, the smoke of flaming buildings.

As long as Clint Parker was sheriff they wouldn’t try it, but the minute he was out….

Feet crunched outside the door and Parker looked up. His deputy, Bob Sawyer, was coming into the room, a plate piled high with food in each hand.

“I’m mighty hungry,” Parker told him. “What you got? Better be good, took you plenty long to bring it.”

Sawyer belched good naturedly, set the plates down on the desk.

“Chicken,” he said. “Stopped to get a drink.”

Parker reached for one of the plates. “I’ll take Luke’s in to him.”

Sawyer sat down in a chair, tilted it against the wall, started to roll a smoke.

In the cell block back of the office, Parker unlocked a cell and walked inside.

“Something to eat, Luke,” he said.

Luke stirred in the darkness. “Plumb forgot to light the lamp you left me,” he said. “Just sitting here pondering.”

A match snarled across the seat of his trousers and flared into flame. Luke bent and removed the lamp’s chimney, touched the match to the wick, replaced the chimney. Parker put the plate on the table.

“You get someone to go out and take care of the place?” asked Luke.

“I’ll get someone in the morning,” Parker said. “Ernie Jackson may be the best I can do, but he can do the chores.”

Luke reached out for the plate, dragged it in front of him.

“Hope it won’t be for long,” he said. “I ain’t got too much money to be paying hired hands.”

“Don’t worry about that, Luke,” said Parker. “I’ll take care of it. Figure I sort of owe you something for hauling you in here. Safest place in the world for you right now. If you wasn’t here, the Turkey Track would be out gunning for you.”

“I can take care of myself,” Luke told him, suddenly sullen.

“I’ll see the county attorney in the morning,” Parker said, “and get him to set an early hearing. Maybe the judge will make your bail reasonable …”

Luke snorted. “Fat chance,” he said. “Both of them polecats are owned by Turkey Track.”

Parker tried to soothe him. “We’ll see what we can do. If you want anything, extra blanket or something, just sing out. I’ll be in the next room.”

Luke swallowed a piece of chicken, stared up at Parker.

“Honest, Clint,” he said, “you don’t think I done it.”

“You know damn well I don’t.”

“Sure thought about it plenty often,” Luke admitted. “Figured that if I ever had the chance maybe I would. But I never went hunting for that chance.”

“If you had,” said Parker, “you’d shot him face to face. You’d never hid to do it.”

Luke went back to his chicken and Parker fidgeted for a moment, embarrassed, then turned to leave.

“Remember,” he admonished. “Sing out if there’s anything you want.”

He closed the door, heard the lock snap into place and went back to the office.

Sawyer was tilted in a chair against the wall, smoking, staring at the ceiling.

“Any news in town?” he asked the deputy.

“Not much,” Sawyer told him. “Everybody stirred up about this shooting. Folks talking some about passing the hat for Luke. Kennedy feels right bad about finding that cartridge. Seems to think it’s his fault Luke was dragged into it. Says Luke was his friend and neighbor and if he’d never found the cartridge or if he’d had brains enough to keep still about it once he did find it, Luke wouldn’t be in a tight.”

“Kennedy in town?”

“Over at the Silver Dollar. Getting all oiled up.”

Parker considered. “Maybe I ought to go over and sort of steer him home.”

“Ah, hell,” said Sawyer, disgusted. “He’s a grown man. He can take care of himself. Another hour and they’ll roll him out in the alley to sleep it off.”

He thumped forward in the chair, pitched the cigarette butt into the cuspidor.

“How about a game of checkers?” he inquired.

“O.K.,” agreed Parker. “You get the board set …”

He paused, stiffening at the sound that came from the street—the muffled, slow sound of many horses’ feet pounding through the dust.

Sawyer was listening, too, head canted to one side.

“Powerful lot of folks must have decided to ride into town,” he said.

The hoofs came on. No other sound. No voices. No shouts. Just the steady sound of plopping hoofs.

Parker strode toward the door, stepped out on the sidewalk.

Coming down the street were the horses, moving at a slow walk, bunched together and the men who rode them were sedate and solemn, with rifles balanced on their thighs.

Business-like, the cavalcade swung around and bunched in front of the jail, the men sitting their horses silently, staring at Parker.

Parker’s eyes switched from face to face and a cold ball grew and turned to ice in his stomach’s pit. Red-faced Betz and black-bearded Egan and behind them Fred Taylor and Del Vickers, Pete Wheeler and Spike Hubbard. There were others, too—all men from the Turkey Track.