Gone was the boy eager for excitement and vengeance. His desire to help people had cost him, but hopefully he’d be a stronger man for it.
“Which is exactly why your pa and Miss Sissy didn’t want you riding with the Bald Knobbers,” Joel said. “And why Fowler sent you home that night. Some burdens weren’t meant to be borne by one as young as you.”
Calbert raised his head. The light caught the silver streaks at his temple as he regarded Joel with sage-like gravity. “How old are you again?” he asked.
Feeling half his twenty-four years, Joel pushed the book toward Scott. “Write what happened in your own words. Consider yourself under oath, too, because should this go to court, it’ll be presented as evidence.”
“Will there be a court case?” Fred asked.
“If we keep everything out in the open at the beginning, we shouldn’t have any questions. Just tell the truth and everything will work out.”
But it hadn’t for him, had it? He’d told Sheriff Green the truth when he was accused, but the sheriff really hadn’t cared. The election was more important. He’d rather sacrifice Joel.
Thankfully, Joel was the one in charge here, and Scott wouldn’t face the same fate.
Chapter 37
Scott and his kinsfolk had left, headed back to Calbert’s place over the mountain. Fowler had promised to come in to face the accusations, and Sheriff Taney’s wounds had healed well enough for him to travel. Despite the obvious entertainment it’d provide, Joel couldn’t interview Fowler with Taney in a cell behind them. Thankfully, Mr. and Mrs. Sanders had volunteered to look after the sheriff, the mister going as far as bunking down with Taney until he was back on his feet.
Which he was struggling with at that moment. Groaning, Taney sat up, holding his shoulder, while Mrs. Sanders gathered the various poultices and bandages strewn around his area. Taney swayed, and Mr. Sanders rushed to his side. With the sheriff supported between the two of them, they made their way to the door.
“We’ll keep you posted, Deputy,” Mr. Sanders said. “Hopefully he’ll get his strength back soon.”
What Joel was really hoping for was that he’d get his memory back, and that the memory would include a better description of the man who’d shot him. Not Fowler.
As luck would have it, Detective Cleveland and Officer Harrison returned at the same time Fowler arrived, all three men eying each other suspiciously as they approached the jailhouse. Joel tossed the dirty water out of the basin onto the street, his last task in tidying up the cell that Sheriff Taney had evacuated. He greeted Fowler first. Fowler grunted in return and marched past him to take the biggest chair in front of his desk.
“Come on and ask me questions,” Fowler said. “We all know I didn’t burn down Hopkins’s house and then shoot Taney. Taney got his skull cracked. That’s all.”
And Joel was inclined to agree, but he had to investigate, especially with the oversight of the two men standing behind his desk.
“Are you saying that you were nowhere near that ravine that night?” Joel asked.
“You know where I was,” Fowler said. “I was tying you to a tree and then going to search through Parrow’s cave. I have plenty of witnesses.”
“Just a minute.” Officer Harrison walked around the desk to stand over Fowler. “Did you say you tied Deputy Puckett up?”
Detective Cleveland took a seat, pulled out a pad of paper, and starting taking notes.
Joel would like nothing so much as the freedom to cuff Fowler upside the head at that moment. “We’ll deal with that later. Right now I just want to see if the sheriff’s charge has any merit.”
“It doesn’t,” said Fowler. “I have thirty witnesses who were with me until late that night. I didn’t shoot him.”
“Give me a list of your alibis,” Joel said.
“I’m afeared that’s a problem,” Fowler admitted. “I’m not handing over the identities of my brothers-at-arms to the federals.”
Joel tapped his pencil against the desk. “Name one.”
Fowler leaned back and crossed his arms over his chest. “You’re fishing with no bait, Deputy. Let me help you with your investigation. Do you have any witnesses?”
“Just the sheriff, and he says you did it.”
“What about tracks?” Fowler asked. “Did you get any tracks on the shooter?”
“Only tracks we could identify belonged to the sheriff’s horse.”
“What caliber of gun was he shot with?”
“.38.”
Fowler waved a beefy hand like he was shooing a pesky fly. “Lots of people carry .38s.”
“Remove your shirt,” Joel said.
Fowler’s head drew back. “I don’t know how you conduct interviews in Texas, but we prefer to remain clothed.”
“I’m looking for an injury,” Joel said. “You got any unexplained wounds?”