“Makepeace is going to take him to court.”
“Ha,” said Vilate. “You heard that already, too?”
“Oh, no. I don't know if Makepeace Smith even knows his old prentice is back in town– though you can bet that if the word reached me that fast, it got to him in half the time! I just know that Makepeace has been bragging so much on how Alvin robbed him that if he don't serve papers on the boy, everybody's going to know it was just empty talk. So he's got to bring the boy to trial, don't you see?”
Vilate smiled a little smile to herself.
“Already planning what you're going to bring to him in jail?” asked her friend.
“Or something,” said Vilate.
Alvin woke from his nap to find Arthur Stuart gone and the room half-dark. The traveling must have taken more out of him than he thought, to make him sleep the afternoon away.
A knock on the door. “Open up, now, Alvin,” said Horace. “The sheriff's just doing his job, he tells me, but there's no way out of it.”
So it must have been a knock on the door that woke him in the first place. Alvin swung his legs off the bed and took the single step that got him to the door. “It wasn't barred,” he said as he opened it. “You only had to give it a push.”
Sheriff Po Doggly looked downright sheepish. “Oh, it's just Makepeace Smith, Alvin. Everybody knows he's talking through his hat, but he's gone and got a warrant on you, to charge you with stealing his treasure trove.”
“Treasure?” asked Alvin. “I never heard of no treasure.”
“Claims you dug up the gold digging a well for him, and moved the well so nobody'd know–”
“I moved the well cause I struck solid stone,” said Alvin. “If I found gold, why would that make me move the well? That don't even make sense.”
“And that's what you'll say in court, and the jury will believe you just fine,” said Sheriff Doggly. “Everybody knows Makepeace is just talking through his hat.”
Alvin sighed. He'd heard the rumors flying hither and yon about the golden plow and how it was stolen from a blacksmith that Alvin prenticed with, but he never thought Makepeace would have the face to take it to court, where he'd be proved a liar for sure. “I give you my word I won't leave town till this is settled,” said Alvin. “But I've got Arthur Stuart to look after, and it'd be right inconvenient if you locked me up.”
“Vell, now, that's fine,” said Doggly. “The warrant says you have a choice. Either you surrender the plow to me for safekeeping till the trial, or you sit in jail with the plow.”
“So the plow is the only bail I can pay, is that it?” asked Alvin.
“Reckon that's the long and short of it.”
“Horace, I reckon you'll have to look after the boy,” said Alvin to the innkeeper. “I didn't bring him here to put him back in your charge, but you can see I got small choice.”
“Well, you could put the plow in Po's keeping,” said Horace. “Not that I mind keeping the boy.”
“No offense, Sheriff, but you wouldn't keep the plow safe a single night,” said Alvin, smiling wanly.
“Reckon I could do just fine,” said Po, looking a mite offended. “I mean, even if I lock you up, you don't think I'd let you keep the plow in the cell with you, do you?”
“Reckon you will,” said Alvin mildly.
“Reckon not,” said Po.
“Reckon you think you could keep it safe,” said Alvin. “But what you don't know is how to keep folks safe from the plow.”
“So you admit you have it.”
“It was my journeypiece,” said Alvin. “There are witnesses of that. This whole charge is nonsense, and you and everybody else knows it. But what'll the charge be if I give you this plow and somebody opens the sack and gets struck blind? What's the charge then?”
“Blind?” asked Po Doggly, glancing at Horace, as if his old friend the innkeeper could tell him whether he was having his leg pulled.
“You think you can tell your boys not to look in the sack, and that's going to be enough?” said Alvin. “You think they won't just try to take a peek?”
“Blind, eh?” said Po.
Alvin picked up the sack from where it had lain beside him on the bed. “And who's going to carry the plow, Po?”
Sheriff Doggly reached out to take it, but no sooner had his hands closed around the sack than he felt the hard metal inside shift and dance under his hands, sliding away from him. “Stop doing that, Alvin!” he demanded.
“I'm just holding the top of the sack,” said Alvin. “What shelf you going to keep this on?”
“Oh, shut up, boy,” said Doggly. “I'll let you keep it in the cell. But if you plonk somebody over the head with that thing and make an escape, I'll find you and the charge won't be no silly tale from Makepeace Smith, I promise you.”
Alvin shook his head and smiled.
Horace laughed out loud. “Po, if Al wanted to escape from your jail, he wouldn't have to do no head plonking.”
“I'm just telling you, Al,” said the sheriff. “Don't push your luck with me. There's a outstanding extradition order from Appalachee about standing trial for the death of a certain dead Slave Finder.”
Suddenly Horace's genial manner changed, and in a quick movement he had the sheriff pressed into the doorjamb so tight it looked like it might make a permanent difference in his posture. “Po,” said Horace, “you been my dearest friend for many a year. We done in the dark of night what would get us kilt for doing in daylight, and trusted each other's life through it all. If you ever bring a charge or even try to extradite this boy for killing the Slave Finder who killed my Margaret in my own house, I will do a little justice on you with my own two hands.”
Po Doggly squinted and looked the innkeeper in the eye. “Is that a threat, Horace? You want me to break my oath of office for you?”
“How can it be a threat?” said Horace. “You know I meant it in the nicest possible way.”
“Just come along to jail, Alvin,” said Doggly. “I reckon if the town ladies don't have meals for you, Horace here will bring you roadhouse stew every night.”
“I keep the plow?” asked Alvin.
“I ain't coming near that thing,” said the sheriff. “If it's a plow. If it's gold.” Doggly gestured him to pass through the door and come into the hall. Alvin complied. The sheriff followed him down the narrow hall to the common room, where about two dozen people were standing around waiting to see what the sheriff had been after. “Alvin, nice to see you,” several of them greeted him. They looked kind of embarrassed, seeing how Alvin was in custody.
“Not much of a welcome, is it?” said Ruthie Baker, her face grim. “I swear, that Makepeace Smith has bit himself a tough piece of gristle with this mischief.”
“Just bring me some of them snickerdoodles in jail,” said Alvin. “I been hankering for them the whole way here.”
“You can bet the ladies'll be quarreling all day about who's to feed you,” said Ruth. “I just wish dear old Peg had been here to greet you.” And she burst into quick, sentimental tears. “Oh, I wish I didn't cry so easy!”
Alvin gave her a quick hug, then looked at the sheriff. “She ain't passing me no file to saw the bars with,” he said. “So is it all right if I…”
“Oh, shut up, Alvin,” said Sheriff Doggly. “Why the hell did you even come back here?”
At that moment the door swung open and Makepeace Smith himself strode in. “There he is! The thief has been apprehended at last! Sheriff, make him give me my plow!”
Po Doggly looked him in the eye. Makepeace was a big man, with massive arms and legs like tree trunks, but when the sheriff faced him Makepeace wilted like a flower. “Makepeace, you get out of my way right now.”
“I want my plow!” Makepeace insisted– but he backed out the door.
“It ain't your plow till the court says it's your plow, if it ever does,” said the sheriff.