The small figure took a deep, hissing breath. Then his tongue darted out just before he spoke, adding to his snakelike demeanor.
“Mr. Quentin is very upset with you,” the small man said. “He has sent me to let you know just how upset he is. He wants you to put out another edition.”
“Another edition?”
“He wants you to tell the people of Santa Clara that you have been thinking about what you wrote earlier, and now you have changed your mind. He wants you to apologize in print.”
“I—I couldn’t do anything like that,” he said. “Why, I would be discredited for the rest of my life. I may as well not be a newspaperman anymore.”
“That’s the other thing,” Cates said. “After you apologize, he wants you to leave town. Forever.”
“No, I can’t do that. My Emma is buried in this cemetery. I intend to lie alongside her.”
“If you don’t agree to Mr. Quentin’s terms, you will be lying alongside her sooner than you thought.”
At that moment, Brandon knew that, no matter what he did, he was about to die. And from somewhere, deep inside him, he found a courage he didn’t know he possessed.
“You tell Quentin I said to go to hell.”
Doc Patterson was making an entry in his ledger about the puppy he had just examined when he heard the gunshot. Gunshots were not all that unusual in Santa Clara. Sometimes someone would get a little drunk, then shoot his gun out in the street. But it was too early in the day for that kind of gunshot.
Suddenly, Doc had an overwhelming sense of foreboding, and he stepped out onto the porch in front of his office. He saw Donovan standing just outside his leather goods store.
“Donovan, what was that?” Doc asked.
“Sounded like a gunshot.”
“Yes, but from where? And who was it?”
“Help!” a young boy shouted, running up the street in full stride.
“Johnny, what is it?” Doc called to the boy.
The boy stopped running. “It’s Mr. Brandon, Dr. Patterson.”
“What about Mr. Brandon?”
“He has been shot!”
“Show me!”
Johnny started running back toward the newspaper office, and despite his age and relative girth, Doc ran alongside, his boots making loud clumps on the boardwalk as kept pace with the boy.
“Where is he?” Doc asked the boy when they reached the newspaper office.
“He’s inside,” the boy replied. “I was comin’ to collect my pay for the newspapers I delivered last night and I heard the gunshot. When I ran inside, I seen Mr. Brandon lyin’ on the floor over by the press. I was too scared to go over any closer.”
Doc went inside and looked around, but because the drapes were pulled shut, it was too dark to see. By now a few others had come in as well.
“Open the curtains!” Doc ordered.
When the curtains were drawn, the morning sun spilled in through the windows, lighting up the room. That was when Doc saw Brandon lying facedown on the floor.
“Elmer!” Doc shouted. Kneeling beside him, he put his hand on Brandon’s neck to check for a pulse.
There was none.
“Johnny, when you came down here, did you see anyone else?” Doc asked.
“No sir, I didn’t see no one else,” Johnny replied. “Is—is Mr. Brandon dead?”
Doc nodded. “I’m afraid so.”
“I don’t reckon I’ve ever been this close to a dead man before,” Johnny said. “Well, I’ve seen ’em laid out in funerals and all, but I ain’t never seen one what has just been kilt.” Johnny came closer to look down in young but macabre curiosity.
Looking toward the back of the shop, Doc saw that the back door was standing wide open. Moving quickly toward it, he looked outside, glancing up and down the alley. He saw no one.
“What is it? What’s going on here?” a voice asked.
Stepping back inside the newspaper office, Doc saw Marshal Dawson just coming in off the street.
“Mr. Brandon’s been shot,” the newspaper boy said.
“Is he dead?”
Doc nodded. “Yeah,” he said in a choked voice. “He’s dead.”
“Did you do this, Patterson? Did you kill Brandon?” Dawson asked, snapping his words out in accusation.
“For crying out loud, Dawson, you know better than that,” Doc said. “Elmer Brandon was my best friend.”
“Friends has been known to get into arguments before,” Marshal Dawson said.
“Doc Patterson couldn’t of done it, Marshal,” Johnny said.
“How do you know he couldn’t have done it?”
“’Cause when I heard the gunshot, I run into the shop just long enough to see Mr. Brandon lyin’ there. Then I run back down the street where I seen Doc Patterson standin’ in front of his office. He couldn’t of got there that fast.”
“I suppose you are right,” Dawson replied. He walked over to look down at Brandon’s body. “Maybe it was a suicide, or an accident or something,” he suggested.
“Do you see a pistol anywhere, Marshal?”
Dawson looked around the room. “No.”
“Then that should prove that it was no suicide or accident,” Doc said. “He was murdered.”
“Well, if he was, it was his own fault.”
“What? His own fault? How can you say something like that?”
“Come on, Doc, you read his article, I’m sure,” Dawson said.
“I’ll be damned,” Doc said. “You’re right, I think Quentin killed him, but I never thought I’d hear you say that.”
“What? Who said anything about Quentin killin’ him?”
“You did. You said it was because of his article.”
Marshal Dawson shook his head. “I didn’t say nothin’ about Quentin doin’ the killin’. There’s no doubt in my mind but that the article made a lot of people in this town very mad. More than likely it was one of them, I just don’t know who.”
“I don’t see how it could make anyone but Quentin mad,” Doc said.
“Are you accusing Quentin?”
“Yes.”
“Then you are a fool. I was out at the Tumbling Q this morning, and Quentin was there. He probably has twenty witnesses who will say he was there all morning. Quentin didn’t do it.”
“If Quentin didn’t do it, then who did?”
“I told you. I don’t know who did it. I just know who didn’t do it. But don’t worry, I’ll find out.”
“Yeah, I’m sure you will,” Doc said dryly.
By now there were at least twenty or more people who had gathered in and in front of the newspaper office, crowding in closer, trying to find out what was going on.
At the far end of the street, in Quentin’s General Store, Hoyt Poindexter saw someone looking at the display of bandannas he had just put out on a table this morning. The customer was so short that only his head and shoulders reached above the table.
“Yes, sir, can I help you?” Poindexter asked.
The little man’s tongue darted out a couple of times before he spoke. “I want the red one,” he said, his voice little more than a hiss.
“I’ll get it for you,” Poindexter said, reaching for the red bandanna. As he moved closer to the table, he could see out the window, and noticed that, down at the other end of the street, a crowd was beginning to gather around the newspaper office. He paused for a moment as he looked toward the gathering.
“That one,” the little man said again.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” Poindexter said, getting the bandanna and handing it to the little man. “That will be ten cents.”
The short man reached into his pocket.
“I wonder if he is putting out another extra,” Poindexter asked.
“Who?”
“Mr. Brandon, the newspaper editor. He put out an extra edition about the trial last night, first time he’s ever done anything like that. And now there seems to be something going on down there.”
“I wouldn’t know,” the little man said as he handed a dime to Poindexter.
“Thank you for your business, sir,” Poindexter said.
With the transaction completed, and no more customers in the store, Poindexter walked out onto his front porch and looked down toward the newspaper office, wondering just what was going on.