The hinges on the cell squawked. Fowler marched out, dwarfing the men in their fancy clothes as he passed. Officer Harrison could’ve let Scott walk into the other cell on his own, but maybe dragging him by the arm made him feel big. Whatever the reason, Joel’s teeth ground as the cell clanged shut.
Keeping the lawmen in the corner of his gaze, Fowler spoke. “What exactly is the boy accused of? Shooting a Bald Knobber?”
Detective Cleveland sat in Joel’s chair and rummaged through his desk until he produced a sheet of writing paper. “The boy burned down Newton Hopkins’s house. When Sheriff Taney caught him doing further mischief, Murphy shot him rather than confess his involvement with the arson.”
Unfortunately, Scott had been out hunting the night Hopkins’s house burned. Calbert Huckabee had dearly regretted not being able to provide an alibi for the boy.
The jailhouse door swung open, and the gray-headed postmaster stepped inside. “Telegram for the deputy.”
Joel had seen more life in the eyes of a stone-dead lizard. “Is this about Bullard?”
“I hope you’re satisfied with the answer.” Finley threw the telegram on the desk and slammed the door behind him as he left.
“That’s right,” Fowler said. “You’uns are blaming the boy and neglecting the fact that we have a killer prowling about.”
“Not anymore.” Joel lowered the paper. “It’s from Hot Springs. Bullard was shot there two weeks ago in a robbery attempt. His Arkansas kin identified him.”
“Two weeks? Then he didn’t set fire to the doctor’s house, either?” Fowler wiped his mouth as he cut a nervous look at Scott.
Joel blinked twice, then focused on the message again, making sure there was no mistake. But the words were clear.
Could it be that Scott had shot the sheriff? But why would Taney put a knife to Scott’s throat? Or was that a lie, too?
Sissy’s tears had finally come, and they’d lasted all night. Hearing that her stepson had been arrested and accused of masquerading as a Bald Knobber only justified every fear she’d ever harbored against the gang. No matter how Uncle Fred pleaded with her, he could not convince her that Scott hadn’t been involved with Fowler’s men. She cried, she mourned, but she was convinced that the poor boy had been led astray by the troublemakers, and now he would pay for all their iniquities.
“Keep her away from the detective,” Betsy warned Uncle Fred over the latest innocuous edition of the Hart County Herald. “Tell everyone she has scarlet fever or something, because you can’t let her talk to people in this condition.”
“She’s just upset.” He cranked down the bar, pressing the platen against the inked type blocks. “She loves Scott, and that’s why she’s taking it so hard. She’s afraid for him. If only the district attorney would let us know whether he’ll stand trial or not. Then we could breathe again.”
Well, Betsy was even more afraid of what would happen if her aunt didn’t stop blaming Fowler for dragging the boy into delinquency. Sissy had let the fears fester for so long, they were blown-up out of all reasonability now. Didn’t she understand that accusations against Fowler only made Scott look guiltier?
Betsy had just bent over the third page of type she was setting for that week’s edition when Joel blew in. The combination of the frigid air and his general presence made her shiver. He doffed his cowboy hat, displaying a knit skullcap that made him look less like a hardened lawman and more like a mischievous schoolboy. Betsy bit her lip. He allowed a trace of amusement to cross his face.
“It’s from Mrs. Sanders. She noticed my clothes weren’t stout enough for winter here. Got me some fleece-lined gloves, too.” He held up his hand and wiggled his fingers.
“I should’ve thought of that,” Betsy said. “There’s been so much going on.”
“I wanted you to know that Scott’s doing fine this morning,” Joel said. Then with a weighty look toward Fred, he asked, “How’s the family?”
“We’re holding on,” Fred said, never breaking his rhythm at the press. Getting the paper out was his livelihood, even if nothing printed in its pages mattered a jot to him. “My mind keeps going over the same questions, trying to figure out how I can help him. It would’ve been much simpler if we could’ve proven that Bullard did this.”
“We’re missing something,” Joel said. “In fact, I came to see if Betsy would ride with me. I want to examine that ravine again, and where we found Taney.”
“You want me to come?” Betsy asked.
Joel nodded, then looked to Uncle Fred.
“If it could help Scott,” he said.
Betsy held up a finger, requesting a moment, and then dug through the hooks on the wall to find a complementary set of outerwear rather than just grabbing something. She covered her mouth and nose with a scarf she’d knitted herself one summer before she’d left home, the last bit of clothing she’d ever made with her mother, although frequent packages came from home to keep her in clothes.