Micah dropped Brad Collins’s star on the counter at the hardware store and told Reginald Barker, the store’s owner and chairman of the board of county commissioners, that the county no longer had a sheriff.
“He handed over his badge and told me he was finished,” Micah said.
Barker’s head was as round as a ball. Micah figured a fella could probably play ten pins with Reginald Barker’s head.
“What’s the county to do for a sheriff, then?” Barker asked.
“The commissioners’ll have to appoint someone to serve until the election next year.”
“How ’bout you, Micah? We’ll appoint you. I heard you brought in Sonny Pratt—gonna charge him with the murder of Hank Jones.”
News could travel fast in Probity. The town’s gossip line was quick if not always accurate.
“I’ll not be your sheriff, Mr. Barker. As a matter of fact, as of right now, I’m resigning my position as deputy. I was deputized for about five hours, and that is plenty long enough for me.” Micah headed for the door. “I’ll check in on the prisoner from time to time and see that he’s fed, at least until you appoint someone new.” He stopped when he got to the door and turned back to face the man behind the counter. “Don’t you be too long about doing it, though. I do not plan to make this my career.” He smiled, gave a quick tip of his hat, said, “Afternoon,” and left.
Chester and Micah had split up when they first got to town. Micah left to deposit Sonny in the jail—a pleasant experience despite Sonny’s threats—and Chester took the two bodies to the undertaker’s. Micah and Chester were to meet afterward at Buck’s for a beer, and Micah headed over there now.
The bar was busy for a weekday afternoon, but Buck always did a thriving business. The saloon business seemed to be about as profitable as any business around. About ninety percent of the matters to come before the court down in Cheyenne when Micah was studying the law had the use of alcoholic beverages mixed up in them in one way or another. As much as he enjoyed a beer—or even better, a glass of Chester’s fine Scotch whisky—Micah sometimes thought the temperance people had the right idea. They described strong drink as a blight upon society. They wanted to ban its use in every state in the union. But even if the temperance folks got their way, Micah wondered if people would ever stop drinking.
Chester was at a table in the far corner away from the door. He was smoking a cigar and had a half-empty glass in front of him. Micah made his way to the bar, ordered two beers, and crossed to Chester’s table.
“Thank you, sir,” Chester said, accepting the beer Micah set before him. “Did you get your chores all done?”
“I did,” Micah said. “And you?”
“Yes, the bodies are delivered to the undertaker. It was interesting too,” Chester said, taking a long puff on the fat cigar he held between his teeth.
Micah lit a cigarette. Every time he did, he felt guilty. The trial was over, and he still hadn’t stopped smoking. “What was interesting?” he asked.
“When John Summerhayes saw that one of the bodies was Emmett, he actually sat down and cried.”
“Summerhayes cried? I didn’t think it was possible.”
“Not cried so much as wept. It was all I could do to console him.”
“That’s not only interesting,” Micah said, “it’s unbelievable.”
“I must know of a couple of hundred bodies that man has worked on over the years,” said Chester, “and not once have I seen him show the first sign of emotion.”
“Why with Emmett Pratt?” Micah wondered.
“I asked him the same question. Seems they grew up together back in Illinois. They were the best of friends. Even came west together.”
“I didn’t know that. I guess I wasn’t even aware they knew each other.”
“No one was aware of it,” Chester said.
“What’s the story?”
“They made the mistake of falling in love with the same woman, and Emmett won her hand.”
“You mean Alice, Pratt’s first wife?”
“That’s the one. I guess Summerhayes wasn’t a very good loser, and for twenty years he’s refused to speak to Emmett. He told me today he wouldn’t even acknowledge the man when they passed on the street.”
“But,” Micah asked, “he broke down and cried when Emmett was killed?”
“The nature of friendship is a strange thing indeed,” Chester pointed out.
Micah nodded and sipped his beer. “I’m glad this week is about over.”
“It has been eventful,” Chester allowed. “Even exciting.”
“Exciting, yes,” Micah said. “Too exciting. I for one am finished with excitement for a while.”
Chester smacked him on the shoulder. “Oh, hell,” he said, “stop being such a baby. Excitement’s good for the soul.”
“I suppose I’ve always liked excitement as much as the next fella.” Micah felt he needed to defend himself. “But right now my soul could do with some boredom.”
“Well,” Chester said, “it’s not going to happen.”
“Oh, and why do you say that?”
“Because tomorrow morning, I’m going to teach you how to ride the moto-cycle.”
“Not a chance,” Micah said. “I’d rather be shot out of a cannon than ride that machine of yours.”
Chester leaned forward and rested his big forearms on the table. “Look,” he asked, “how well do you know me?” His large face hovered over Micah’s.
“Too damned well,” Micah said.
“Then you know that I will hound you, berate you, and mock you in front of pretty girls until you agree to my demands, right?”
Micah didn’t answer.
“Right?” Chester repeated.
Micah still didn’t answer, but he knew what he’d be doing tomorrow morning.