Spirit of the Wolf (38 page)

One down and one to go,
Chance
thought, frowning. His relief at providing Mamie with a caring owner waned as he headed for the sheriff's office. On the other side of that weathered door, his deadly fate awaited.

Stepping onto the porch, he paused beside the worn rocker. How many times had he seen the sheriff, sitting right there, chewing a toothpick and staring through narrowed eyes at the comings and goings in the street? Carter had held a tight rein on this town. From all outward appearances, that hadn't changed, either.

Chance
wondered if Carter and his deputies would string him up at sundown, or make him wait until morning, so a proper crowd could be gathered to watch him die? Would they let him go to his Maker with a shred of dignity, or would they use fists and boots to take out ten years' worth of frustrations on him first?

Well,
he thought as his hand wrapped around the doorknob,
you'll soon find out....

Chance
shoved the door open and stepped inside, and squinted to hurry his eyes into adjusting to the dim light.

"Well, I'll be," said a deep, gravelly voice from the shadows, "if it ain't W.C. Atwood."

He closed the door behind him and unholstered his six-shooter. "One and the same," he said, laying the revolver on the sheriff's desk.

"Well, I'll be," the man repeated, stepping into the light.

Chance
chuckled quietly and shook his head as he recognized the man. "Joe Purdy, you sure are a sight for sore eyes."

Purdy snickered. "Well, you sure ain't. You look like somethin' the dog drug in."

Shoving his hat to the back of his head,
Chance
smiled.

"Didn't you get my telegram?" Purdy asked.

"Yeah. I got it. You saved my bacon again. Don't know how I'll ever repay you for warnin' me that Carter and Yonker were
headin’ my way.
"

Purdy held up a gnarled, arthritic hand. "Not
that
telegram, boy...the last one. The one the Widow Pickett paid for
.
I sent it more'n a year ago."

Frowning,
Chance
said, "The Widow Pickett? Why would she send me a telegram?"

The old man stood there, silently studying
Chance
's face for a long moment. In place of an answer, Joe said, "You been on the run all this time? Since leavin' Baltimore, I mean?"

"Yep." There wasn't much point in telling him what evils he'd seen, what tragedies he'd survived in the year since leaving Foggy Bottom.
His troubles would be over soon, if
not this evening, then
in the morning.
It would be a blessed relief, once they slipped that noose around his neck and released the gallows' trap door....
Chance
stood taller. "But I'm all through running. I'm here to turn myse
—“

"Set yourself down, W.C.," Purdy interrupted, pointing at the chair behind the sheriff's desk, "and take a load off. I got some news might just take you some gettin' used to...."

His frown deepened. "I don't have time for one of your stories, Joe. Now tell me, where's the sheriff? We've got business to discu
ss.
"

Purdy rolled the chair into the center of the room. "Set down, I tell you, and shut yer yap." He leaned his broom against the wall and pointed at the empty seat. "
I mean it now, s
et!"

"I don't reckon it'll hurt to humor you,"
Chance
said on a sigh, "'cause after tomorrow
….
"

"Lot of things have changed around here." He pointed at his bony chest. "This, for starters."

Chance
grinned at the five-pointed star. "You're...you're a
deputy
?"

Purdy nodded. "
A
in't had a drop to drink in over a year." He smiled and thrust out his chest. "
T
ook me a wife, too."

Shaking his head,
Chance
chuckled. "Well, don't that just beat all." One brow high on his forehead, he added, "I was wonderin' why you're all spruced up...no whiskers, clean duds, and
—“

"And you're a free man, W.C."

The smile faded as
Chance
's mouth went dry. Heart pounding and pulse racing, he narrowed his eyes. "What
?
"

"You heard me. You're a free man. Horace Pickett's real killer confessed." Purdy shrugged. "He's locked up good 'n' tight in the new jail out on the edge of town."

Chance
screwed up his face, shook his head in disbelief. "Joe, I declare, you always did have the strangest dreams when you were drinkin'. You sure you haven't touched a drop
?
"

"I told you some stories, but I never told you a lie. I said I don't drink no more, and
it’s the plain honest truth
."

Eyebrows rising in disbelief,
Chance
grinned. "Well, I'm glad to hear it, but the fact is, true or not, you're spewin' nonsense. I'm not free yet, but I will be soon as I turn myself in and
they drape the noose around my neck.
"

"Will you
hush,
boy; I'm tellin' you true! You ain't a wanted man
anymore
." He paused, squinted one eye, and grinned. "Tell me...when was the last time you saw your face on a wanted poster?"

Chance
removed his hat and ran a hand through his hair. "Now that you mention it, I don't rightly recall." He met Purdy's eyes. "But that doesn't mean
I’m not—“

"It sure as shootin'
does
!"

He described what happened that night out behind the saloon. When he finished,
Chance
took up where Purdy left off, boots thudding across the board floor. "I'm not a wanted man," he repeated, more to himself than to Purdy. "I'm not a wanted man...." He could go home now, home to Foggy Bottom, and if Bess was free
…

"Ain't you the least bit curious to know who killed Pickett?"

It would take
time
to align himself with the news. After so many years on the run, he wondered if he
could
adjust to life as a free man again. Curiosity raised its ugly head. "Yeah, I reckon I would."

"Then you'd better set your sorry self back down," Purdy  insisted.

Chance
smiled. "I believe I'll take the news just fine, standin' up."

"All right
,
then, but don't say I didn't warn you...."

"What did you do, Joe
,
trade whiskey for slow molasses? Spit it out, why don't you!"

"Was your uncle who done it," Purdy blurted.

"My...."
Chance
swallowed
, hard
. "Uncle Josh? But...but he
’s the one who….”

"
Admitted
it, straight out. It's what
said in the telegram
."

His uncle Josh? Who’d
lectured him that very day, after
Chance
warned Horace Pickett what might happen if he ever threatened a defenseless woman again
?
He remembered Josh on the witness stand, testifying that
yes, he believed his nephew capable of a hot-blooded crime. And as he'd headed
back to his seat, Josh
had stopped, apologized
—with t
ears in his eyes no less
!—for
what he'd been forced to say
under oath
.

"Where's this new jail?" he ground out.

"Just east of town. Remember where the old Connor place used to be?"

Nodding,
Chance
jammed the hat back onto his head. "I'll be back by sundown."

Purdy grabbed his hat. "It's a slow day," he said, winking mischievously. "I'll ride over with you. The warden is Naomi's brother and--"

"Naomi?"

A slight flush colored Purdy's cheeks as he grinned. "The new Mrs. Purdy."

"Do I know her?"

Winking mischievously, Purdy said, "Let's just say the Widow Pickett ain't a widow
anymore
."

More had changed around here than he realized. "You don't say...."

"Well, let's not stand here yammerin'," Purdy said. "Let's get on over to the jail."

Chance
nodded. "We have to stop over at the livery f
irst; I have to see a man about a
horse...."

Chance
stared out the iron-barred window of a small office beside the infirmary and watched the men outside trudge single-file across the hard-packed dirt, the stripes around their shoulders and the chains around their feet branding them prisoners of Lubbock Prison.

The blistering noonday sun beat down, glaring angrily from the whitewashed stone walls, deep
en
ing the bitter frowns of weariness on their hard-luck faces. Despite the heat,
Chance
shivered, for he knew that
only the grace of God had spared him a fate even worse than this
.
Nothing he’d experienced on the trail
could compare with the bitter ache
of knowing that
his uncle would spend another ten years in this cold, barren place....

According to the warden, Texas law had gone easy on Josh, taking into account his clean record
and all he'd done for the good folks of Lubbock. Instead of lynching him for Horace Pickett's death, they'd sentenced him to a decade behind bars.

I'd rather swing from the tallest tree than spend one day in this God-forsaken place,
Chance
thought as the last of the men disappeared through a double-wide iron gate. He guessed the wall at twenty feet high, perhaps higher, topped off by a tangle of barbed wire. From his vantage point,
Chance
could see over it, to field and farm and stream. To view so much as the sunlit, cloud-dotted blue sky, the men who called this place home had no choice but to look straight up...as if into the eyes of God, Himself. If the prisoners prayed, did they ask for freedom from this place? And when no answer came, did their hearts cry out to Him for mercy?

The
men had
paved the road leading to the prison, brick by back-breaking brick
, and t
he many-hued flowers lining the drive had been grown from seed and planted by those same calloused hands.
At first glance, a visitor might be fooled into thinking he'd mistakenly stopped at some wealthy rancher's mansion. But once beyond the bright-white entry doors, the tidiness and color stopped as abruptly as life within these walls. The place was gray and black, far as the eye could see.
He couldn't imagine what life here these past few months had been like for his uncle, who often slept outside under the stars,
claiming
that "sometimes, the confinement of the house smothers me!"

Chance
shoved the unpleasant thoughts aside and focused instead on the deal he'd struck with the liveryman: The gap-toothed fellow got the price of a new horse for the time he'd spent feeding and grooming Mamie
,
and
Chance
got his devoted friend back.

He'd gotten Joe back, too, and
Chance
was
in the midst of
acknowledging his gratitude about that when a pair beefy guards led a prisoner into the room. One elderly woman could have done the job
,
yet these two seemed to delight in dragging and shoving the convict.

Chance
stepped away from the window and rubbed his eyes. Surely the bright sunlight was playing tricks on him, for this frail, white-haired old man couldn't be his
robust
uncle. The Josh Atwood
Chance
remembered was dark-haired, tall and broad-shouldered, hale and hardy. Had they brought him the wrong man?

One guard pushed the prisoner onto the seat of a rickety wooden chair as the other fastened his prisoner's chains to an iron ring bolted to the stone floor. "Warden says take all the time you want," he said to
Chance
. "Just bang on the door when you're through, and we'll take the miserable
piece of scum
back to his cell."

The man lurched when the door slammed shut, winced at the metallic
clan
k
of the key in the big black lock.

Could this debilitated being possibly be the man who'd delivered countless brutal beatings and harsh tongue-lashings?
Nah,
Chance
corrected himself
, not this broken-spirited
—