“Thank you,” Sam said. “Will you put our horses up for a few hours?”
“Ja, of course…but only for a few hours?”
“We want to talk to the sheriff here about our parents,” Evan said, “and then we’ll probably be riding out to their—our—ranch.”
“Well, your horses will be here,” Swede said. “That’s a coyote dun, isn’t it?”
“It is,” Sam said.
“And a claybank?”
“Yes,” Evan said.
“I’ll take good care of them, you can be sure,” Swede said, and then to Jubal he added, “Of course, that includes your sorrel.”
“Of course.”
“Who’s the sheriff here, Swede?” Sam asked.
“Fella named Tom Kelly.”
“Has he been sheriff long?”
“No, maybe three months.”
“What happened to Mel Champlin?” Jubal asked.
“Mel?” Sam said, surprised. “Was he still sheriff when you left?”
“Yes.”
“Jesus,” Evan said, “he was the law when I left.”
“And when I did,” Sam said.
“That was part of the problem,” Swede said, “the Town Council felt they needed a younger man.”
“What can you tell us about this Sheriff Kelly?” Jubal asked.
“Not much,” Swede said, “except that he has not impressed me yet.”
“Well,” Sam said, “I guess we’ll form our own opinions. We’ll be back in a few hours, Swede.”
“The horses will be ready,” Swede said, “Ja, you can count on it.”
“Thanks,” Jubal said, patting the big Swede on the shoulder.
The McCalls removed their rifles, war bags, and sugans—and, in Evan’s case, a carpetbag—from their saddles and allowed the Swede to lead their animals inside.
“Let’s go,” Sam said, and they started toward the sheriff’s office, assuming correctly that it would be in the same place.
As they entered the sheriff’s office they found it empty. There was a coffeepot on a pot-bellied stove and Sam went over to feel it.
“Still hot.” He opened it and sniffed it. “It’s fresh, and more than half full.”
“Good,” Evan said, “we might as well help ourselves while we wait.”
Evan McCall had more patience than his brother Sam. By nature they had different attitudes toward things like waiting.
“Come on,” Evan said, handing Sam a cup of coffee in a tin cup, “there’s nothing else we can do until we talk to the law.”
Evan looked around, found two more tin cups—swamped one out with his fingers—and then poured two more cups and handed one to Jubal.
They laid their belongings down on a chair and settled in to wait. Only fifteen minutes or so had gone by’the wink of an eye for Evan, a lifetime for Sam—before the door opened and a man entered. He was tall and dark-haired, in his thirties, with a sheriff’s star on his chest. He stopped short when he saw that his office was full.
“What do you people want?”
“Sheriff Kelly?” Evan asked.
“That’s right.” Kelly walked across the room to the coffee pot. “Did you leave me any?”
“There’s plenty,” Sam said. He drained his cup and said, “Here.”
Kelly looked at Sam, then took the cup, cleaned it out with a rag, and poured some coffee. That done, he carried it to his desk and sat down.
“What can I do for you gents?”
“We’re the sons of Joshua and Miriam McCall,” Evan said.
“The McCalls,” Kelly said, “Of course. A sad thing, that.”
The sheriff looked them over, then directed his attentionto Sam, looking him over, fastening his eyes for a moment on the .44 on Sam’s hip.
“That would make you Sam McCall.”
“Yes, it would.”
They matched stares for a few moments, and then the lawman looked at the younger McCall.
“And you?”
“Jubal.”
“Uh-huh. Well, I’m new here and I didn’t know your parents all that well.”
“Tell us what happened,” Sam said.
Kelly hesitated a moment, then said, “Well. It was a fairly simple conclusion to come to. You see…I’m sorry to have to tell you this, but apparently your father shot your mother, and then himself.”
There was a moment of stunned silence in the room. Kelly suddenly tensed and put his coffee cup down. He lowered his right hand so that it hovered near his gun, but he knew that if Sam McCall wanted to kill him, there wouldn’t be much that he could do to stop it.
“That’s crazy.”
“It can’t be,” Jubal said.
They both looked at Sam, who hadn’t said a word yet.
“Sam?” Evan said.
Sam’s eye flicked to Evan’s and held them.
“We’ll ask around,” Sam said, “talk to the doctor.” He looked at the sheriff and asked, “Who is the doctor hereabouts now?”
“Doc Leader,” Kelly said.
“Doc Leader?” Sam said, surprised. “He’s the sawbones who delivered us—all three of us. He must be close to eighty by now.”
“That may be,” Kelly said, “but he’s the only doctor we’ve got.”
“Then we’ll talk to him,” Sam said, picking up hisbelongings. “I assume he’s the one who looked at the bodies?”
“He is.”
“And signed the death certificates?”
“Like I said,” Kelly said, “he’s the only doctor we’ve got.”
“You could have brought another one in from somewhere else.”
“We didn’t.”
Sam looked at his brothers and said, “We’ll talk to Doc Leader.”
“But Sam,” Jubal said, “Pa wouldn’t—”
“Thanks for your help, Sheriff,” Sam said, cutting Jubal off. To his brothers he said, “Let’s go.”
He went to the door, opened it and walked out. Evan and Jubal exchanged a glance, then gathered their things and went outside. Sam was standing on the boardwalk, waiting for them.
“What was that all about?” Jubal demanded.
“Take it easy.”
“Take it easy? You heard the things he was saying about Pa.”
“I heard them.”
“So?”
“There’s no point in arguing with the sheriff, Jubal,” Sam said. “He didn’t have anything to do with it.”
“How do we know that?”
“I mean, he isn’t the one who came to the conclusion.”
“He’s a sheriff.”
“But,” Evan said, “the doctor is the one who would come to the conclusion about the manner of death—isn’t that what you’re getting at, Sam?”
“That’s it.”
“Then let’s talk to Doc Leader,” Evan said.
“And after that,” Sam added, “Dude Miller. After all, it was Dude who sent the telegram.”
They walked to where they all remembered Doc Leader’s office as being, above the general store—and it was still there.
They stopped at the stairway that went up the side of the building and Sam said, “Same damned stairway.”
“How does he get up and down it every day, if he’s as old as you figured?” Evan wondered.
“Well, maybe I overstated it,” Sam said, “but he’s gotta be at least in his sixties.”
“Why are we standing down here guessing?” Jubal asked.
“Good point, little brother,” Sam said.
“Don’t call me that!” Jubal said. “I don’t like the sound of it.”
“Sure, Jube,” Sam said, “whatever you say.”
Sam felt his brother’s anger. Jubal was still fuming at having been cut off in the sheriff’s office.
They ascended the steps, not enjoying the creaking sound they made.
“When we go back down,” Evan said, “I suggest we go one at a time.”
When they reached the door Sam knocked and waited. When the door opened there was a short man in his sixties standing there, squinting up at Sam and shading his eyes against the sun with hands stained from years of nicotine.