Starbuck framed himself in the opening. Several men were moving toward the jail, among them Dolan, the Reverend York, and Pete Whitcomb of the Wagonwheel. As they drew abreast the hotel they were joined by others who were standing on the porch.
Two members of the impromptu delegation broke clear and were hurrying toward Rufus Lingo’s office, anxious no doubt to be the first bringing news to him of his son’s whereabouts. Glancing to the broker’s quarters, Shawn could see him, flanked by Red Davis and Billy Joe Spicer, behind the window, looking out. As the couriers trotted up, Lingo jerked open the door. There was a moment’s hasty discourse, after which all of the men came streaming across the street to the jail.
“I want Yancey—”
Rufus Lingo voiced his peremptory demand almost before he had halted. The others closed in around him, Davis and Billy Joe at either elbow, the townspeople and curious bystanders to the sides.
“Not till I’ve had my say,” Starbuck replied coolly, conscious of the building tension.
“That’s something you ain’t got around here no more,” Dolan stated, pushing forward a step. “Council took that away from you.”
“Could be,” Shawn countered, “but that won’t change the fact that the man I’ve got locked up inside is guilty of murder.”
“You can’t prove it,” the merchant said.
“Heard him admit it, and Spicer there was ready to talk about it. Had him and Davis trussed up for witnesses, but Lingo and his men turned them loose. Yancey was hiding up in a shack on a mesa. They were with him.”
“Weren’t hiding,” Rufus Lingo declared. “They went up there to do a little drinking—you know why. Man you killed was their friend.”
“Expect you sent them there—same as I figure you know he shot down Sam Culver. You lied about the time that Yancey and the others left town. You had a reason for that.”
The crowd in the street had grown larger. Starbuck let his glance run over it, touch the face of each person present. Except for Nella, standing a bit apart from the rest, he read nothing but hostility and threat.
“I know Yancey murdered the sheriff. Admitted it to me. So did Spicer. All I’m asking is that you let things stand until the U.S. Marshal gets here from Prescott. I’ll leave it up to him—if he thinks there’s proof enough to hold Yancey for trial, well and good. If not, I’ll step aside and he can go free.”
“Supposing we don’t want to wait?” a voice, belligerent and pressing, asked from the front of the group.
“Now, no need to talk about force,” Rufus Lingo said, raising his hands to still the sudden hubbub. “I can clear this up right now.” Turning to Spicer, he said, “Billy Joe, did you tell the deputy that Yancey shot the sheriff?”
“No, sir, I purely didn’t.”
“You ever hear Yancey admit it to him?”
“Sure didn’t, Mr. Lingo. The deputy’s lying.”
The land broker faced Davis. “How about you?”
The redhead shrugged. “I didn’t hear nothing.”
Lingo made a gesture of conclusion. “There, I expect that will lay to rest any doubt some of you might have. These boys and Yancey had nothing to do with the murder. I imagine it’s just the way we figured at first; Starbuck is simply trying to cover his own tracks ... To my way of thinking, if you want Sam Culver’s killer, you ought to be locking him up.”
There was a sudden shifting in the crowd, a quick mutter of voices. From the fringe a tall, sparsely built man in a trim business suit moved into the clear. Sharp-faced, with dark, close-set eyes, clipped mustache, and pointed goatee, he walked with the short, mincing steps of a man more accustomed to the saddle than the sidewalk.
Reaching the front of the jail, he paused on the stoop, turned to the gathering. “The name’s Spain,” he said, drawing back the front of his coat to reveal the badge pinned to his shirt pocket. “I’m the U.S. Marshal.” A fresh wave of murmurs rolled through the group. Shawn stared at the man. “How long’ve you been here?” he asked in a low voice.
“Last night—late.”
Anger flooded Starbuck. “Would’ve appreciated knowing that,” he said stiffly. “We could have talked this over a bit.”
“Two pretty good reasons why we didn’t,” Spain replied quietly. “Didn’t know where you were. Jail was empty when I got here—and I wanted to hear the other side of the story. You got anything to add to what you put in your letter—proof of some kind?”
“Only what you heard me say about Spicer and Davis.”
The lawman shook his head. “Won’t help ... Far as I’m concerned you’re telling the truth about it. Can expect them to lie.” The people in the street were silent as they looked on, undoubtedly wondering at the low conversation that was taking place between the two men. Rufus Lingo’s patience finally came to an end.
“I’m the boy’s father,” he said, making it sound almost as if Yancey was a youngster caught in a crime no greater than stealing apples. “Since you are in authority here now, I insist you turn him loose at once.”
Tom Spain’s dark eyes flickered. “Insist is a strong word, mister—and I’m not in charge unless I decide to take over. Starbuck is the law here.”
“We fired him!” Dolan shouted angrily.
“You can’t,” the marshal answered in his quiet, unperturbed way. “Before riding over I talked about this with the officials in Prescott, showed them the letter I’d received from him—”
“You got a letter from him—from Starbuck?” Lingo said in a surprised tone.
Spain nodded. “A full report on Sam Culver’s murder along with the details of your taking away his commission. Happens you didn’t have the authority. Culver was an elected official, paid by all of the people in this county, not just by you. He appointed Starbuck and that puts him in the same position. Was told the only man able to revoke his appointment under the circumstances is the governor.”
Dolan retreated into the crowd. Lingo, however, his habitual façade of genteelness cracking visibly, shook his head, swore.
“All right, so he’s still the deputy. Doesn’t change the fact that he’s got my son locked up in there for something you can’t prove he did!”
The lawman’s shoulders stirred faintly. “Have to admit you’re right, although, for my money, he probably is guilty but we can’t prove it. I’ve had word before, from Culver, about this son of yours, and in my opinion he should have been behind bars a long time ago. But the way the law works, it protects somebody like him while not meaning to.”
Lingo’s face was expressionless. “That mean you’re turning him loose?”
“No choice,” Spain said wearily, shaking his head at Shawn. “We know plenty—can’t prove anything—”
“I can give you the proof, Marshal—”
At the words, everyone wheeled to Ahab York. Tom Spain brushed his wide-brimmed hat to the back of his head, frowned. Starbuck came forward a step. Rufus Lingo, features dark and furious, only stared.
“Who’re you, mister?”
“Name’s York. I’m the minister of the Holy Writ Church.”
The federal lawman folded his arms across his chest. “You know something about this matter?”
York flung a despairing look at the land broker, brought his eyes back to Spain. “I know Yancey Lingo’s guilty. Heard him admit it last night.”
“Heard him—where?”
“In my church. The deputy brought him there to hide, then moved him here to the jail after everybody had quit searching for them. They were talking—didn’t know I was around.”
“You expect anybody to believe that?” Lingo shouted.
“I don’t lie, not about anything,” York said, his usually booming voice low and restrained. “Perhaps I’ve been a bit blind for what I thought was good reason, and I no doubt have other shortcomings, but I don’t lie.”
Rufus Lingo was suddenly trembling with anger. He whirled on the minister. “You—you’d do this to me after all I’ve done for your damned church!”
“A man has to stand up for right, no matter what it costs him—or his people,” York said, looking away. “I’m grateful for your favors, but God will not permit me to lie for the sake of them.”
The crowd was in shocked silence. From somewhere in its depths a man said: “Well, reckon that tears it.”
Tom Spain turned to Starbuck, smiled. “Seems we’ve got our proof—and a witness.”
Shawn nodded. “Glad it worked out. Don’t like to think of a murderer being turned loose. Like as not you won’t have any trouble now getting Spicer and Red Davis to talk.”
“Probably won’t, unless the lawyer the boy’s pa is sure to hire manages to get them out of the country. Won’t make too much difference. That preacher—he’s all we’ll need.” The lawman paused, extended his hand. “Owe you some thanks for what you did.” Shawn glanced out over the sullen, withdrawn crowd. It was beginning to break up and drift off. Only Nella had not stirred and showed a proud, congratulatory smile to him.
“Was my job,” he said. “Far as I was concerned I was still Sam Culver’s deputy.”
Riding slowly toward the parsonage that next morning, gear strapped to the sorrel and ready for the trail, Starbuck gave Kennesaw a thoughtful survey. The hostility toward him had not lessened, and he’d be glad to leave the place behind. The majority of the townspeople, as children deprived of something unwholesome and blaming the benefactor for its loss, resented him.
He viewed the paradox with resignation. He had simply done what he believed was necessary, and the law had been served. Yancey was already on the way to Prescott with Tom Spain, where he would stand trial. Rufus Lingo, finally admitting to the facts, was making a show of recovering his status by declaring that if his son were indeed guilty, he should be punished.
He came abreast the church, swung into the yard. Ahab York, apparently at the window of the small bungalow that served as home, came out at once, his elongated face solemn as he watched Shawn pull to a stop.
“Never got a chance to thank you for speaking up yesterday,” Starbuck said, resting an elbow on the saddlehorn. “I know how much that cost you.”
York’s wide shoulders twitched. “To have not would have been as great a sin as to falsely accuse. As for the cost, God will provide.”
“Expect so. Anyway, I’m obliged. Would’ve hated to see a murderer go free.” Shawn hesitated, then, “I saw Sarah leave. When she returns give her my regards and say I’ll see her again someday.”
Ahab York drew himself up stiffly. “I sent her away to keep her from you,” he said coldly. “She’s not your kind, Starbuck—you’ve got to understand that. She has been raised in the ways of the Lord. You are a man from a different world, a man who has killed, justly perhaps, but killed nevertheless, and thus there is blood on your hands ... Sarah is not for you.”
Shawn studied the tall man quietly for a moment, the faintest trace of a smile on his lips. “I suppose not,” he murmured, and wheeled the sorrel about.
Reaching the gate, he cut back into the street, looked again at the rows of weathered buildings, their dusty windows mirroring and flattening the sunlight. It was the past now; Sarah, the Lingos, Nella, Sam Culver, Ahab York—all were slowly becoming shadows and taking their places with others already in the background of memory ... Only finding Ben remained distinct and important.