The following day, late in the afternoon, a young man rode into Sunset on a tired horse. The horse was a bay hired from the Crewsville livery. The man was a slim fellow of about twenty five or six years of age. He wore a city suit and he looked as if the ride had taken the stuffing out of him.
He asked the way of the town drunk to Charles Doolittle’s freight-yard. The drunk told him and then went off with meandering steps to inform Sheriff Wayne Gaylor at the American House where he boarded. The sheriff received the information with some interest and gave the drunk the price of a drink.
The young man rode on to Doolittle’s place, went through Mex Town and found the freight-yard without difficulty. Doo-little was in the yard supervising the hitching of four yoke of oxen. They would start the pull into Crewsville in the cool of the evening. Such travel at this time of the year was kindest to men and beasts.
‘Mr, Doolittle?’ the young man asked.
‘The same.’
‘I’m Hansard Morley, attorney. I received your letter.’
‘Light, Mr. Hansard and come in out of the heat.’
The young man stepped down from the saddle and a man came and led away his horse. The two men shook and Doolittle led the way into his house. In a pleasant room, Doolittle sat Morley down and poured him a drink.
‘I know little of why you sent for me, Mr. Doolittle, beyond the fact that a man has been arrested for murder and you’re interested in him.’
Doolittle was cautious.
‘I’m not so much interested in him as in justice, Mr. Morley,’ Doolittle told him. ‘I don’t know whether this man killed the victim or not. I’m not too much concerned. All I know is the local sheriff is a sonovabitch and he’s trying to keep Spur incommunicado.’
The young man looked startled.
‘Spur did you say, sir? Not Sam Spur for God’s sake.’
‘That’s the one.’
‘He’s a Federal Marshal.’
‘I know it. A man could ask himself why a man in his position should shoot a prospector in the back of the head. Particularly as that miner was a friend of his.’
‘Maybe you’d best tell me the story from the beginning.’
Doolittle did so. They went in to dinner, served by Doolittle’s Mexican housekeeper Serafina Rodriguez. It was an excellent meal and during it, they discussed the case. Morley didn’t like what he heard. On the face of it a jury could think the man was guilty.
‘I take it, Mr. Doolittle,’ the attorney said, ‘that you believe this man is innocent.’
‘I don’t believe anything,’ Doolittle retorted. ‘It is merely that I hate to see a man not being allowed to make a legal defense. Added to that I don’t much care for the sheriff. You have only to see what kind of men he uses for deputies to judge what kind of a man he is himself.’
‘I’ll see what I can do,’ the younger man said. This was a chance for him. He was new to the west and had come into the country hoping that he could find rapid advancement for himself. ‘I’ll demand to see the prisoner in the morning. Meanwhile, I must see if I can find lodgings in town.’
‘You’ll do no such thing,’ Doolittle said. ‘You stay here in my house. That way everybody’ll know you’re under my protection. That could be useful to you. The sheriff carries weight around here.’
‘That’s very kind of you. Might I inquire – who ... that is, there is the matter of remuneration.’
‘Don’t you worry about a thing,’ Doolittle told him. ‘I imagine Spur has the means himself. If he doesn’t, why I’ll guarantee it.’
Doolittle went to bed that night wondering what the hell he had let himself in for. The trouble with him was that he had been born a quixotic fool. Besides, he had liked old Rube Daley. And what, he asked himself, had that to do with his wanting to help his possible murderer? Logic had never been his strong point. If you used logic in human relationships, you never got anywhere.
He slept.
His last thought was not of Sam Spur chained in Carson’s store-room. It was of Carson’s daughter, Lydia. She had never given him much more than a glance, but he’d sure looked at her. He had worked up a nice line in freighting, he had money in the bank in Crewsville. But none of it amounted to much if he didn’t possess Lydia Carson as well.
He arose in the morning to breakfast on a cup of black coffee and a stogie much to the disapproval of Serafina who maintained that a man should break his fast in a proper Christian manner. That is he should eat at least a pound of steak. She was gratified that their guest, young Morley, who had been on short rations for some months now owing to lack of business, proved to be capable of consuming over his allotted amount of steak and washing it down with several cups of her excellent coffee. With the inner man fortified, he accompanied his host through Mex Town and to the store of Mangan Carson.
Here young Morley came face to face with Lydia Carson and became at once helplessly in love. Doolittle saw the reaction, didn’t like what he saw and hauled the confused attorney to the rear of the store where they came face to face with Stace, grim-faced, short-tempered because he was ready for his breakfast and hadn’t had it, and armed to the teeth.
Doolittle halted and said: ‘We want to see the prisoner, Stace.’
The deputy said: ‘You know nobody sees the prisoner, Doolittle. Sheriff’s holding him incommunicado.’
‘Come off it, Stace,’ Doolittle said, ‘you know me. All I want is a few words with him. Won’t take more’n a minute. You can stand there an’ hear every word said.’
‘More’n my job’s worth,’ maintained the deputy.
‘I asked nicely,’ Doolittle said.
There were several people in the store. They, Carson and Lydia came to listen to what was going on.
Stace said: ‘Git outa here, Doolittle.’
Doolittle said: ‘You know perfectly well that in law you don’t have a leg to stand on. If the judge hears about this he ain’t goin’ to like it one little bit.’
‘I take my orders from the sheriff.’
Hansard Morley stepped forward.
‘My name,’ he said, ‘is Hansard Morley. I’m an attorney-at-law duly appointed by the court. I have been retained to look after Mr. Spur’s interests.’
‘Ain’t that nice for you?’ the deputy said.
‘I demand to see the prisoner.’
‘Go see the sheriff.’
‘We’ll do that,’ said Doolittle. ‘Let’s go, Morley.’ They walked out on to the street. There Doolittle said: ‘We’ll go dig the turd out of his blankets. He’s the laziest sonovabitch off a reservation.’
They walked to the hotel. In the lobby was a middle-aged man with a cow-lick, a bald head and a white face. When they demanded to see Gaylor, he said that the sheriff was not to be disturbed. When Doolittle marched up the stairs, he protested vigorously but to no effect. Doolittle found the sheriff’s room and marched in without knocking.
The sheriff was in a deep sleep.
Doolittle pulled the bedclothes off him and waited.
Gaylor opened his eyes and stared unbelievingly at the man who stood over him. He was wearing his longjohns and he looked ridiculous. When he sat on the edge of the bed, he said in outraged voice: ‘You better have a damn good reason for this, Doolittle.’
‘The best,’ Doolittle told him. ‘I have been to see Spur and your deputy had refused to let me.’
‘On my orders,’ Gaylor snarled. He was still no more than half-awake.
‘Give the order to let me in an’ you can go back to sleep again.’
‘Like hell I do.’
‘This gentleman here is Mr. Hansard Morley,’ Doolittle informed him. ‘He is Spur’s attorney. He wishes to interview his client.’
Gaylor glared at Morley who quailed under the terrible eyes.
‘You git that pip-squeak outa here an’ send him back where he came from. I ain’t toleratin’ no damn lawyers nosin’ into my business.’
‘Sheriff,’ Morley said bravely, ‘I demand to see my client. And I have every right to do so. My right will be upheld by every judge in the land.’
‘Izzatso?’ the sheriff said and reached for his pants. He dressed slowly. ‘You prove you’re what you say you are. You could be anybody. This could be a plot to break Spur outa jail. I know his kind. He’s a killer. He was a killer before they made him a federal lawman. Once a killer always a killer in my book.’
‘I have papers to prove my identity,’ Morley said, reaching into his coat pocket.
Gaylor told him what he could do with them. They could be faked. Nothing was easier. They weren’t dealing with a simple-minded cow-country sheriff. He knew all the tricks. He had Spur right where he wanted him. He had killed a much-beloved member of the community in cold blood and he was going to pay for it. Neither they nor anybody else was going to stop him.
Morley stood there speechless. He had never met a situation before this in his life. He didn’t know what to do next.
Neither did Doolittle apparently.
He said: ‘I’m gettin’ in to see Spur.’ He walked to the door. ‘I don’t know how I’m going’ to do it, but I’ll do it an’ you won’t stop me, Gaylor.’
‘You interfere with the course of justice,’ Gaylor told him, stamping his feet into his boots, ‘an’ you’ll find yourself alongside him. That clear?’
‘That’s clear. It’s also clear that it is Spur’s right to see a lawyer and to be medically examined. I shall write to the federal authorities.’
Gaylor laughed.
‘By the time they git around to it,’ he said. ‘Spur’ll have his neck stretched.’
They walked out.
On the street, Morley wailed: ‘I never met this kind of thing before in my life. Why, the man has no respect for the law at all. The whole situation is insufferable.’
They went back to Doolittle’s place and opened a bottle of whiskey. It was early in the day for that kind of exercise, but they didn’t care.
Gaylor went down to Carson’s place and told Stace to open up. The deputy opened the door and they found Spur lying on the shelf. They knocked him off it. Gaylor questioned the prisoner some more, but it didn’t get him anywhere. Shortly after that Juanita Morales brought some food for Spur. They drove her away. They locked Spur in again and Gaylor went back through the store. Here he was stopped by Mangan Carson who said that it wasn’t very satisfactory from his point of view having a man of Spur’s type chained up in his store-room. It was unsanitary for one thing. He had food stored in there. Gaylor said that it was every law-abiding citizen’s duty to aid the law. It should make Carson very happy. Carson didn’t look very happy. Smiling to himself, Gaylor went out on to the street and headed for the saloon.
An hour later, the Crewsville stage came in amid a cloud of dust. Among the mail was one for the sheriff. This informed him that Judge Hugh Maiden would be arriving at the beginning of the following week. That made Gaylor’s day. Maiden was a hanging judge. He would give Spur short-shift. In the same mail was a letter from Wilton Cantrell the public prosecutor in reply to one from Gaylor. He said that he would be coming to Sunset in two days to prepare his case against the notorious outlaw. He was a man who loved his work. In a postscript he added that he had always said that a leopard didn’t change his spots and that the governor had been a fool to think that you could pardon a killer and make him a lawman. Once a killer, always a killer.
Every man likes to have his opinion confirmed and this pleased Gaylor immensely. With Maiden and Cantrell lined up against him, Spur didn’t stand a snowball’s chance in hell.
He thought this called for another drink and he went back into the saloon and had it. He never paid for his drinks.