Nervousness was not a condition that came upon Emmett Pratt any too often. He liked to think he was a man who made other people nervous, not the other way around. But nervous was how he felt when he came into Thomas Blythe’s office and Blythe explained the judge’s ruling that ended the trial so abruptly the previous day.
After listening to the lawyer’s rather long-winded explanation, Pratt nodded and acknowledged that the decision had been a fair one. It wasn’t the outcome of the trial that made Pratt uneasy—to the contrary. He was pleased that the case had been dismissed. That was what he had wanted all along. “I never wanted anything to happen to that young doctor,” Pratt said. “He’s a fine man. A little strange, I reckon, but a fine man all the same.”
Blythe smiled. “I never like to lose a case in court,” he said, “but I admit I wasn’t disappointed to hear the judge’s decision.” He waggled a finger at the ceiling to emphasize his point. “I think it was a blatant stretching of the law, but the truth is, I wasn’t surprised by what he did. In this case, it was the right thing to do. And McConners gave the judge enough to hang his hat on so that Walker could make his ruling without looking foolish.”
A box of cigars was on the corner of Blythe’s desk, and he offered Pratt one.
“No thanks,” Emmett said. He pulled the makings for a cigarette from his vest pocket and rolled one with a deftness borne from years of practice. When a man was used to rolling a smoke on horseback in the Wyoming wind, twisting one up sitting in a lawyer’s office was easy.
“There’s more, though, Emmett,” Blythe said.
“I figured there would be.” That flutter he’d come in with hit his insides again.
“The judge is demanding an investigation of Sonny. He’s ordered Micah McConners to oversee the whole thing.”
Emmett pulled a match from the holder on Blythe’s desk and lit his cigarette. He inhaled, filling his lungs, and let the smoke roll out slowly.
Emmett was no fool. He realized the law around here had been looking the other way every time Sonny rode by only because Sonny’s last name was Pratt. He realized that, and even though he knew Sonny was getting meaner and wilder all the time, Emmett had done nothing about it. He had never asked for any favors from any man, but if favors had come his way without asking, he’d never turned them down.
That, he knew, had been wrong.
He tapped the ash from the end of his cigarette, took another drag, and asked, “So, Thomas, do you think all the things they’re saying about my boy are true?” Blythe was both Emmett’s lawyer and his friend. But even with their friendship, asking that question was a hard thing for Emmett Pratt to do. By asking, he was allowing for the possibility that Sonny was what Polly and Cedra and all the others said.
For the first time Emmett could remember, Blythe had been posed a question without providing an answer. Instead, a look of compassion filled the lawyer’s eyes, and that look sunk into Emmett deeper than any words Blythe might have said.
“Damn,” said Emmett as he came to his feet. He was not a sitter. How these God-damned city people could sit in their stores and offices hour after hour, day after day, was beyond him. He walked to the window, turned, and came back to the desk. “I did the best I could by Sonny,” he said, “but somewhere along the line, he went sour. I could see it happening, but I didn’t know what to do about it.”
Blythe shook his head. “Emmett, I watched you raise that boy. You were a fine father to him. Alice was a fine mother, and so was Cedra when she came along.” Thomas’s cigar had gone out, but he didn’t make any effort to relight it. As he spoke, his voice sounded different to Emmett. It was soft, without the usual deep resonance. The words were simple, and they seemed to come from a different place than his usual lawyerly words. “Sometimes,” Thomas added, “people do turn sour. It’s nobody’s fault, but it happens, and there’s no way ever to figure out why.”
Emmett dropped back into the chair. “What does the sheriff and this McConners fellow have in mind for their investigation?” he asked.
“Oh, I don’t know. Nothing very complicated. I expect they’ll ask Sonny and Hank some questions—see what they have to say about all this. I heard Micah tell the sheriff yesterday when we left the judge that he wanted them to ride out to the Jones place this morning to talk to Hank and your place this afternoon.”
“Where is this McConners’s office?” Emmett asked.
“On the west side of Third, between Walnut and Main. Why do you ask?”
“Because,” Emmett said, snuffing out his cigarette, “I expect it’s high time I did the right thing.”