Let Val do his job.
By the time Scott turned the door knob of the Green River sheriff’s office he’d given some serious thought to Murdoch’s statement, which now led to a few mental scenarios of exactly what Val would be doing.
Pondering posters of wanted desperadoes?
Probable.
Polishing pistols and reboxing bullets?
Plausible.
Jostling jail cell snorers from last night’s bar brawl?
Possible.
Eating pie?
Nope. Never made the docket until Scott stepped through the doorway of Crawford’s authoritative domain.
Val sat at his desk with a sizable slice of apple pie in front of him. Perched on the end of his fork appeared to be the first bite of fruity sweet goodness, currently hovering between plate and mouth due to the interruption of a visitor. The delay proved brief as the fork completed its mission before being utilized as a pointer, a role usually reserved for the matchstick that no doubt harbored in Crawford’s vest pocket. Silently, the sheriff’s eating utensil jabbed the air in the direction of a vacant chair to indicate the guest should sit.
Scott had learned early on that there were times, in order to travel from A to B, one had to quietly deal with the man behind a desk - whether it be a grandfather deciding the rules, a father calling the tune or…
Scott sat.
… a sheriff eating pie.
Lack of conversation continued as Val opened his desk drawer and fished out a tin plate sporting a few minor dents but still maintaining its circular shape. Scrutinizing for cleanliness, the sheriff’s keen eye detected a spot of undetermined residue which the swipe of his sleeve-covered elbow rectified.
Scott crossed his arms.
Crawford’s hunting knife, displaying crumbs of pie pastry still stuck to the blade, was once again summoned to carve out a healthy wedge of dessert. A few apple slices broke free during the journey from pie dish to tin plate, landing with a syrupy plop on what appeared to be official papers. The belief of waste not, want not evidently inspired Val to lift the papers at an angle which allowed the rogue fruit to slide back onto its intended destination.
Scott sighed.
The host next snagged a fork, one tine slightly skewed from the other three, and presented it to his guest in the manner of a retiring ruler relinquishing the scepter to his legacy.
Scott raised an eyebrow.
“Son, if your hankerin’ leans towards fine china and polished silver you’ve wandered into the wrong establishment.” The offered fork held the high ground. “Now, are you goin’ to insult my generosity or join me?”
Scott uncrossed his arms, shifted in his seat and accepted the sheriff’s invitation. “Fact is, Val, I stopped in to see if you had any word on -”
“The weather lately? I do. Dry.” Crawford stabbed an apple slice. “Ya know, I got a way of thinkin’ on that… the weather and a man’s disposition.”
“Val.”
“Dry weather like this makes a man itchy, fidgety, impatient, demandin’ answers.” The sheriff’s fork poked over his right shoulder. “It’s why those two back there spent the night apprecitatin’ my accommodations. They were demandin’ answers from a third fella dealin’ cards.”
“Where’s the third fella?”
“I understand he’s enjoyin’ Doc Jenkins’ hospitality. Speakin’ of…” Val’s eyes drifted to Scott’s untouched piece of pie. “Take a samplin’ if you want our hospitable conversation to continue.”
Accepting he’d get nowhere with Crawford until doing so, Scott forked a bite and plopped it in his mouth. An arched brow expressed his surprise. The apple pie was amazingly good.
“Ahhhhh, see. Whadid I tell ya.” The sheriff borrowed his sly grin from a gambler revealing his secret for counting cards. “It’s the cinnamon.” Val winked. “Widow Patterson knows I like a little extra spice with my forbidden fruit.”
Scott’s chin dipped in a grin as his bent fork speared an apple slice. “So, when are you making the widow an honest woman and asking for her hand in marriage?”
“Whoa! Hold up there! What kind of question is that?”
“Well, we’ve already talked about the weather.”
“The point I’m tryin’ to make is first have yerself a little relaxin’ pleasure before takin’ on serious business. It’s a good rule of thumb, otherwise, mixin’ the two can get sticky.”
Scott’s fork took a turn as a guide by pointing out desk papers still bearing streaks of syrupy pie filling. “Agreed.”
“Ever been told your smart mouth travels down a bumpy path, at times?”
Spear. Chew. Swallow. “Occasionally.”
“Uh-huh. As occasionally as the sun settin’ at the end of each day. Look, I know you’re here to find out more news on Godfrey Mannheim and accordin’ to that tickin’ clock on the wall I’ll be providin’ it shortly, so finish your pie.”
As if on cue, Benjamin Hillard and his ever-present enthusiasm arrived. “Mornin’, sheriff. Hey, Mr. Lancer! Got mail at the post office for you. Should I bring it on over?”
“Yer early.” Val’s gruffness carried a dusting of teasing.
“Well, Sheriff Crawford, that I am, but Mr. Saunders has me deliverin’ a couple of packages before noon and well, he pays me better than you do.”
Talk about a smart mouth traveling down a bumpy path. Scott covered a snorted laugh with a cough. He truly admired Ben Hillard.
A grunt indicated Val preferred to ignore the truth and changed the conversation’s direction. “Has Mr. Mannheim sent any telegrams?”
“No, sir.”
“Has Mr. Mannheim received any telegrams?”
“No, sir.”
“Is Mr. Mannheim still keepin’ to himself at the boardin’ house?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Mr. Mannheim still takin’ those buggy rides after his evenin’ meal?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And returnin’ in about an hour, sometimes two?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good work.” Crawford snagged a coin from his pocket and flipped it through the air into Hillard’s waiting hand. “Stop back after your deliveries for a slice of apple pie. Let’s see if old man Saunders can match those wages.”
“Yes, sir!” Ben grinned. “Don’t forget your mail, Mr. Lancer.”
“Right.” First following the line of Benjamin’s exit, Scott’s slow turn of the head then allowed his silent stare to land firmly on Green River’s sheriff devouring his last morsel of dessert.
“That young man is goin’ to make a fine detective. Maybe be employed by the Pinkerton Agency someday.” Crawford’s inflection was one of a proud mentor.
Disbelief raised Scott’s brow. “You have a 14-year-old boy doing your job?”
Finished with his pleasure of forbidden fruit, Val claimed his ever-present matchstick to be called upon, this time, as a toothpick. “Let me ask you this… ” Cleaning out bits of apple from Crawford’s chompers on the left, the fire splinter moved to the right. “Who do you think is gonna attract less attention hangin’ out at a telegraph office: the town sheriff or the lad who works there?” The sheriff’s arched eyebrow countered his guest’s while letting the query hang between them.
Seeing Val wasn’t going to keep teaching a lesson until receiving a response, Scott reluctantly answered. “The lad.”
“And who do you think would look less suspicious eyeballin’ the boardin’ house: the town sheriff or a dutiful son helping his ma who does the laundry at said establishment?”
“A dutiful son.” An eye roll ensued. It couldn’t be helped.
“And who wouldn’t look out of place sittin’ on a front porch every evenin’ watchin’ Mr. Mannheim’s buggy bouncin’ down the road that runs in front of the Hillard’s home: the town sheriff or the boy who lives there?”
“The boy who lives there.”
“Now finish your pie and quit bein’ a hangin’ judge.”
Scott felt impatience crawling up the back of his neck and the weather had nothing to do with it. “You know all of this and you haven’t arrested the man?”
“Well, quite frankly I’m torn on decidin’ what to charge him with.” Crawford stretched out his legs. “Not sending a telegram, not receivin’ a telegram or takin’ a buggy ride. Tell me, which one of those buckets ain’t got a leak?”
A solemn fork with the skewed tine pushed apple slices and pastry around on a dented tin plate. “Point taken.”
“So, he hasn’t sent out a telegram, he hasn’t received one either. What’s that tell us?”
“There’s no one in Melbourne to telegraph.” Scott eyed his half-eaten dessert without really seeing it. “And there’s no one in Melbourne demanding answers. He’s on his own.”
“Maybe.” Having served its purpose as a toothpick on the left, the matchstick slowly rolled back across Crawford’s lips as he pondered. “That road out of town past the Hillards - it eventually heads up north if I’m not mistaken. Finish your pie. It’ll help ya think.”
Scott took a bite but he didn’t need any help with thinking. Yes, that road did indeed head north to Stockton… and the Westcott vineyards.
“Crawford! ‘Bout time you unlock this cage and let me be on my way!”
The familiar voice from the back room caused Scott to halt mid-chew. Gus?
A directive acknowledged the jail’s unhappy overnight patron. “Shut yer yammer and ask me nice.” Val muttered under his breath. “Dumb sonofabitch.”
“Gus Chenoweth?” The apple pie was pushed aside.
“He’s one of your men?”
Scott rose with a nod. “Although far from my first choice as a hire.”
Casually leaning against jail cell bars, Lancer’s ranch hand sported a noticeable abrasion on his cheekbone. “Well now, hey, Scott. What brings you to town?” Not waiting for an answer, Chenoweth smiled and pointed to his face, his knuckle bruised. “You should see the other fella.”
“I hear Doc Jenkins got a good look at the other fella.” Scott placed his hands on hips and glanced at Chenoweth’s cellmate who was still passed out on a cot. Luckily, this fine example of the male species hadn’t had the honor of Lancer employment.
“Aaaah.” Gus waved off the implication. “I just gave him a poke in the nose.”
“Accordin’ to one of Henry’s gals who helped him get to Sam’s it’s broken. Along with a split lip, she said the man was bleedin’ like a stuck pig.” Val’s matchstick wagged in the corner of his mouth. “Why you and your compadre here are where you are.”
“Dirty dealin’ bastard. Tell ‘em Billy?” Chenoweth kicked the occupied cot and received a groggy grunt in return. “See? That bloody bloke deserved it.”
“Bloody bloke?” An internal alarm bell went off in Scott’s head.
“Ain’t it a sayin’ your cousin uses when she gets all fired up?” Laughing, Chenoweth flopped down on the second cot. “Whew-wee that little girl has a temper. Heard she can deliver a nasty kick too.” Gus’ grin slid across his face. “Guess you’d know all about that now wouldn’t ya, Sheriff?”
Val drew his own grin. “Guess you’d like to spend another night sleepin’ on a piss-stained mattress.”
“Hey. Just funnin’ with ya.” The jokester quickly stood and brushed himself off while seriousness washed over him. “Look. Scott. I was plannin’ on finding you last night but then I got de-tained.” Gus shot Crawford a disapproving side glance, suggesting this was all the sheriff’s fault. “Your pa told us boys to be lookin’ for anyone out of step with the usual. Well, this bastard last night fit the bill. He talked like your cousin. What’s Johnny call it?”
The beginnings of a headache knocked on Scott’s temples. “Dingo Lingo.”
“Yeah. Dingo Lingo. He didn’t talk much until the first punch landed then he had a whole lot to say. Even used words your little cousin hasn’t thought of.”
“His name - was it Mannheim?”
Gus slowly shook his head. “Not sure he ever said.”
“Think!” Scott’s frustration bubbled up. “Was it Manny the Mark?”
“Who’s that?” Val's expression reflected a man sucking on a lemon.
A muffled answer filtered through Billy's arm splayed over his face.
Picking up a nearby tin cup, Crawford banged it against the metal bars. “Sit up ya piece of dog crap so we can understand what the hell yer sayin’.”
The hungover man righted himself and swiped his hand across dry lips. Squinting up with bloodshot eyes, Billy’s reply was labored but audible. “Yarra.”
Comments