CHAPTER 22
Normally, Hell’s Half Acre was a hotbed of rumor and false information. Lips loosed by whiskey told secrets they had vowed not to, and stories—like the ones Finis Jacob had printed in the Record—were so embellished from one telling to the next that they had scant resemblance to the first whispered version.
With none of the Shooting Star cowboys visiting the saloons to offer even a remotely accurate account of what had taken place, Sheriff Langston’s image grew. In one version, he and Colonel Abernathy had faced off against each other in a quick-draw confrontation. Cheered on by his workers, the Colonel got off the first shot, wounding the sheriff. Bleeding badly and in considerable pain, Langston steadied himself, took careful aim, and shot the ranch owner squarely between the eyes. In one account, he had used his Peacemaker; another had him firing a rifle one-handed.
Those who knew Otto Langston immediately recognized the absurdity of such a tale, many assuming that the sheriff himself had been the first to tell it. Others, however, took it as gospel and spread the story of Colonel Abernathy’s demise from one barroom and card table to another.
Editor Jacob had even considered publishing an article in the Record eulogizing the late Colonel but sobered and came to his senses just in time to salvage what little credibility he had remaining.
Among those who deemed the story ludicrous was Duke Keene. He’d heard it while having breakfast in the café and responded with his trademark chuckle. “I wish he was dead, with buzzards happily picking at what’s left,” he said.
Most shared his sentiment but remained skeptical. “Even if it is true he’s dead,” one customer suggested, “I’m guessing his evil ghost will still come around to haunt us, just out of pure meanness. I don’t figure this town will ever be rid of Raymond Abernathy.”
“I guess we’ll see,” Duke said as he walked out the door.
Though certain the worst was yet to come, Shelby Profer believed it was in the town’s best interest that life continue as normally as possible. “There’s nothing positive that will come from just sitting and waiting. Every day we hide our faces and refuse to carry out our civic duties is a day won by Abernathy.”
He was talking to John Rawlings, whom he had invited to his cluttered office.
After asking about the welfare of Mandy and little Alton, then how Rawlings was recovering from his nightmare time spent in jail, Profer turned to the purpose of the meeting.
“My frankness,” he began, “is well-intended when I suggest your career in the legal profession has taken a less than savory path. As you will recall, we’ve been associates much of your adult life and I’ve watched you far more closely than you’ve likely realized. Though I disapproved of many of the clients you’ve chosen and the manner in which you represented them, I never felt it my responsibility to scold or offer advice.
“In recent weeks, however, my attitude has taken a rather dramatic change, and I hope you will see the value in it.”
Rawlings shifted in his chair, uncertain where the conversation might be going.
“All of what I have to say is not negative. Far from it. You are a bright young man with a promising future, once you’ve stopped to look ahead to it. I’m not being overly optimistic when I say that a day might come in your life when you could sit on the bench as a fair-minded judge, even run for political office and do good for the people of the community.
“But none of that will be possible if you return to helping set guilty scalawags free and lining your pockets with their ill-gotten gains.”
John briefly considered getting to his feet and leaving. He raised a warning hand and said, “My business is none of your—”
Before he completed his thought, Profer slammed a hand against his desk. “Sir, I have given this speech considerable thought, and I’ll thank you to hear me out before storming to the door. Your arrogance and unwarranted pride are matters we can discuss at some later time.”
Rawlings silently returned his hat to the corner of the desk and settled back into his chair.
“My purpose today,” Profer continued, “is to make you a proposition. I am an old man, nearing my final days. From this disheveled office I have fashioned a good and honorable career, doing the best I could to see that people were treated justly and with every manner of fairness the law has to offer.”
He paused and took a deep breath. “I would like for you to assume my practice.”
Rawlings was speechless at first, then said, “My first thought is to say how overwhelmed I am by the offer. Second, I have to wonder what people might think about being represented by someone accused of murder.”
“I have taken the liberty of sending a letter to the governor, detailing the unfortunate circumstances of you being falsely accused. Attached to it is a letter from Sheriff Langston, admitting his part in the plot to cast blame on you. The same letter, along with his willingness to resign his badge, has been sent to our mayor.
“I will personally represent you until this matter is favorably resolved and publicly announced. Thereafter, it will be up to you to make yourself and your family proud.”
Extending his hand across the desk, Rawlings tried to offer his thanks, but Profer waved him away. “Go, discuss what I’ve suggested with your wife. And if she gives the idea her blessing—which I believe she will—ask if she might consider tidying up this office a bit before you move in.”
In the apartment, young Alton didn’t understand why his mother was crying. She hugged him, explained that hers were happy tears, and sent him to play with his toys. “This is such a wonderful opportunity, a fresh start,” she said. “I’m so happy for you and know you’ll do well.”
As she spoke, John watched his son hurry toward his room. “I will do my best to make you and Mr. Profer proud,” he said. “First, though, there is something that needs to be done.”
Mandy knew he was referring to the unsettled matter involving Colonel Abernathy. “There are people dealing with it,” she said. “It will all be over soon.”
“Not until the man who ordered my son kidnapped and mistreated is dead,” John said. “And I intend to see that happen.”
The warmth Mandy had been feeling just a moment earlier turned to a chill.