Blind Tiger

With obvious disgust, the deputy lumbered over and removed the handcuffs.

Sheriff Amos said, “Mr. Hutton, you heard the condition of me letting you go. Don’t run off.”

“What if Mrs. Driscoll never turns up? I can’t stick around here forever. I want to get home. No word from Amarillo?”

“Not yet, but it’s early. It’ll be a round trip for whoever drives out to the ranch, and you said it was a far piece from the city.”

Thatcher acknowledged that, then said, “As much as anybody, I want to know what happened to Mrs. Driscoll. Not just for my sake. I hate to think.”

“Me too,” the sheriff said. “I’ve moved past hoping she’ll turn up unharmed and with a logical explanation for her absence.” Giving Thatcher a keen look, he said, “I’m letting you go. Don’t betray my trust.” Then he glanced over his shoulder at Harold. “You have his bag ready?”

The deputy carried over Thatcher’s duffel and dropped it at his feet. “Everything’s there, including the nudie pictures.”

Thatcher gave him a sardonic grin. “Good. They’re souvenirs I’m taking to the other hands at the ranch.” He shouldered the strap of the bag and walked out.

* * *

Bill went home for lunch. He was halfway into his meal when the telephone rang. He left the table, went into the hall, and answered.

A deputy identified himself. “Wally Johnson’s been found dead. Two bullet wounds through his head.”

That was more than enough to spoil Bill’s appetite. He pulled his napkin from his shirt collar and blotted his mouth. “Who found him?”

“A cousin.”

“Where?”

The deputy described the scene. “The still was intact, there was a stockpile of product, barrels of mash were fermenting. Only thing spoiled was Wally.”

“What’s the cousin’s name? Besides Johnson.”

“Elray.”

“He owned up to moonshining?”

“Kid’s only fourteen. He was scared shitless that whoever did in Wally was going to come after him, too. Said he’d rather be in jail as in Wally’s shoes.”

“How do I get there?”

The deputy gave him directions. “I’ll wait for you at the turnoff. Otherwise you might miss it.”

“Has the J.P. been notified?”

“He’s on his way. Not that we need an official pronouncement. Wally’s deader’n a doornail. Shot through one of his ears.”

Sighing over the ill-concealed mirth in the deputy’s voice, Bill hung up. But no sooner had he turned away from the telephone than it rang a second time. He picked it up again. “This is Sheriff Amos.”

* * *

Gabe Driscoll sat at the dining table, force feeding himself from the plate of food Mila’s aunt had insisted he eat.

He had met these relatives of Mila’s only once before, and that had been on his wedding day. Whenever Mila had gotten homesick for her extended Teutonic family, with whom he had nothing in common, not even language, he would put her on a train and cite a heavy patient load as his excuse for not accompanying her.

Yesterday, these family ambassadors hadn’t so much arrived as descended. They had been beside themselves with worry over Mila’s fate. But it had come as an unwelcome surprise that they were equally worried about him and his fragile condition.

They’d smothered him with platitudes, advice, sympathy, and affection, which he didn’t want, and certainly hadn’t earned. His only means of escape had been to lock himself in his bedroom with a “sleeping draught,” which had been a bootlegged bottle of bourbon.

This morning, when he’d come downstairs looking even more haggard than he had yesterday, the older couple seemed intent on convincing him that whatever had become of Mila, her leaving hadn’t been voluntary.