Clint was sure that Henry Fitch had recognized the woman. For some reason that changed the man’s mind about helping. But he couldn’t heed the advice about staying away from Winslow. What else was he supposed to do with the body? Put it back? Just bury it and move on? He wished he was that kind of man. It probably would have been easier.
Fitch had said the walk was a few miles. It seemed longer than that, and Clint took a break for some water. Eclipse didn’t need the rest, not considering the slow pace and the fact that he was carrying less weight than he usually did.
He looked to the sky and saw that some of the buzzards had decided to follow them. They were going to have a long wait if he had anything to say about it.
Picking up the reins he started walking again. It was no surprise that he once again ran into some people on the road. This time there were two riders, coming from behind him. He stopped, waited to see if they’d stop, or ride past.
It was two men—ranch hands from the look of them. They wore guns, but just for show. They weren’t weapons that were well cared for, or often used. He could tell that at first glance.
The two men stopped alongside him.
“Who ya got there?” one of them asked.
“A woman,” Clint said. “I found her hanging from a tree. Would you know anything about that?”
“Hey,” the other man said, “we stopped to see if you needed help and you’re accusin’ us of lynchin’ a woman?”
“Not accusing,” Clint said. “Sorry if it came out that way. I just thought maybe, if you were from around here, you might’ve heard something about it.”
“I’ll tell ya what we heard, friend,” the first man said. “We heard nobody better cut that tramp down and bring her body back to town. That’s what we stopped to tell you.”
“That’s what you call stopping to help me?”
“It’s the best we can do,” the second man said. ”Nobody in town is gonna like you bringin’ her in.”
“Does the whole town know she was lynched? Naked?”
“We told you all we can tell you without gettin’ into trouble ourselves,” the first man said. “We gotta move on.”
“Wait, wait,” Clint said, as they started to ride away. “Who was behind the lynching? Who are you gonna get into trouble with?”
“Talk to the sheriff,” the first man shouted back. “He’ll set ya straight.”
“Wait,” Clint said, “the sheriff knew about this?” But the men had ridden out of earshot.
So, taking this body into town was going to cause a lot of people some discomfort, and was probably going to cause him trouble. Great. Stop to do the right thing, and this was what happened.
He looked up at the buzzards again. Leave her for them, or take her into town? He started walking.
~*~
Winslow was a decent sized town, as Henry Fitch had told him. He passed a couple of streets lined with homes before he reached the main street, where the day’s business was underway. There was a lot of foot traffic, as well as horses, wagons and buckboards. As he walked with the body over his saddle, he started to attract attention. Along the way he passed several saloons that had been closed and boarded up. Odd. Saloons were usually the going concerns in any town.
There was a man with a white apron in front of the mercantile, sweeping the boardwalk. As Clint got closer he saw that it was more a boy than a man, who stopped and leaned on his broom.
“I’m looking for the sheriff’s office,” Clint said. “Can you direct me?”
“Sure thing, mister,” the boy said, pointing. “It’s down the street about two blocks, on the right. It ain’t one of the newer buildings in town.”
“Okay, thanks.”
“What ya got there, mister? A body?”
“That’s right,” Clint said. “A body.”
As Clint walked away the boy yelled, “You kill ‘im?”
Clint ignored the question and kept walking.
As the boy said, after two blocks he came within sight of the sheriff’s office, located in an old, faded looking building. Around it, newer structures had been raised, probably within the past year or two.
Still under the gaze of the citizens he passed, he walked the horse to the front of the office and stopped. For the sake of the people watching, he looped the reins, although loosely, around the hitching rail. He then mounted the boardwalk and entered the sheriff’s office without knocking first.
Two men were in the middle of an argument, and stopped talking as Clint entered. He did not catch any of their words, didn’t know what the argument was about. But from their demeanor, and the expressions on their faces, it was an intense one.
One man was in his forties, with sandy-hair sticking up in all directions, as if he had been running his hands through it. There was a badge on his chest that read SHERIFF. His clothes were frayed, and dusty.
The other man was in his fifties, was dressed better, with a close haircut. Clint was sure he would turn out to be a man of influence in Winslow.
“What do you want?” the older man demanded.
“Hey!” the sheriff snapped. “This is my office. We don’t treat people who need help that way, here.”
The men put the hat he had been holding in his hand on his head, pointed at the sheriff and said, “We’re not done.”
“I’m sure of that, Deacon.”
The man stormed past Clint and out the door, slamming it behind him.
“The Deacon?” Clint asked.
“Not the Deacon,” the lawman said. “That’s actually his name. Todd Deacon. He’s a rancher around here—owns a big spread.”
“How big?” Clint asked.
“Not as big as he wants it to be,” the sheriff said. He ran his hands over his hair, trying to smooth it down, but it wasn’t cooperating. Then he looked at Clint.
“I’m Sheriff Gaines. What can I do for you, mister?”
“You can tell me who in this town would want to lynch a young woman,” Clint said. “Naked.”
The sheriff stared at him, then said, “Oh, boy.”