When the cell block door opened, the sheriff appeared carry a tray covered by a cloth napkin.
“Got your lunch,” he said to Clint.
“I’d rather have some answers.”
“I got those, too,” the sheriff said, “but you better eat first.”
There was a cut-out in the cell bars where the tray could be pushed through. Clint accepted it, mainly because he was hungry.
“Something to drink?”
“I’ll get you some water.”
“I’d rather have coffee.”
“Okay.”
While the sheriff went for the coffee, Clint uncovered the tray, found a plate with fried chicken and potatoes. He had a fork, but no knife. That was okay. He picked up the chicken with his hands, and speared the potatoes with the fork.
The sheriff came in, handed him a tin cup of coffee through the bars.
“Thanks. This is pretty good.”
“Yeah, comes from a good café down the street.” He turned to leave.
“Why not stay?” Clint asked. “We can talk while I eat.”
“Naw,” Moreland said. “A man should be left alone to eat in peace.”
He turned to leave, and Clint let him go without objection this time. The sheriff would tell him what this was all about, soon enough.
He decided to relax and enjoy his free lunch.
A couple of hours later, Clint was lying on his back on his cot when the cell block door slammed open and Moreland came walking in.
“Okay, Adams, stand up,” he said.
Clint sat up.
“What now?”
“Just stand up.”
Clint stood.
“Mrs. Nolan?” Moreland said, looking at someone outside the cell block.
A middle-aged woman came walking into the cell block timidly, flinching as if she was waiting to be hit.
“Now take your time, Meg,” Moreland said. “Take a good long look.”
The woman raised her eyes to look at Clint, then quickly looked away. Clint had a sudden inkling as to what was going on, and he felt that this woman was not here of her own free will.
“Is this him?” Moreland asked. “Is this the man you saw shoot your husband?”
Meg Nolan reluctantly lifted her eyes and looked at Clint again. He thought he saw apology in her eyes.
“Y-yes,” she said, “that’s him.”
“You have to say it, Meg,” the sheriff told her.
“T-that’s the man who shot my husband.”
“All right, then,” Moreland said. He put his arms around the woman and turned her. “That’s all, Meg.”
She walked out.
Moreland turned to face Clint.
“I get it now,” Clint said.
“Get what?”
“This is a frame,” he said. “A put-up job. You put her up to identifying me as the man who shot her husband. If he was even really shot. Is he dead? Or just wounded? Did you actually have someone shot in order to make it stick?”
“I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about, Adams,” Moreland said. “It’s not unusual for you to shoot a man, is it?”
“I don’t know what the game is, sheriff,” Clint said, “but I’m thinking you’ll let me know, sooner or later.” He sat down on his cot. “All I have to do is be patient and wait.”
Moreland stared at Clint for a moment, then turned and walked out, closing the cell block door behind him.
Moments later he was back in the Drinkwater Saloon, sitting across from Restin, again.
“Well?”
“She identified him.”
“And?”
“He knows something’s up,” Moreland said. “That it’s a put-up job.”
“He thinks it is,” Restin corrected him.
“Yes.”
“What did he say?”
“He’s gonna be patient,” the lawmen said, “and wait until I tell him what’s goin’ on.”
“He’s good,” Restin said. “I’m impressed. But he’ll have to go along. He won’t have a choice, will he?”
“What if he wants to see a body?” Moreland asked. “What if he wants to see the man he’s supposed to have shot?”
Vance Restin poured himself another drink – same bottle as before – and said, “Then we’ll give him one.”