There was only the faintest “click” as I raised the old latch, and the creak of the door drowned in the buzz of talk inside. I stepped over the high board sill and found myself in the rear rank of a circle of masked men drawn up around an up-ended feedbox with a couple of lanterns on it.
For a second the reek of the place — moldy feed, manure, strong tobacco smoke, whiskey, and sweat — filled my throat and stung my eyes. I won’t pretend my legs weren’t behaving in a cowardly manner, because they were. They were straining to take me out of there, and I had a tough time making them stay.
A heavy man with black hair was climbing on the feedbox. It was Tom Hogan. He stood up and swept the circle, eyes gleaming behind his white cloth mask. Sweat plastered his black hair down on his forehead and his dirty white shirt was damp in great patches. He’d been drinking.
I took a look around the circle myself, and what I saw I didn’t care for. A good two-thirds of this mob was farmers, I guessed from their clothes; the rest, village riff-raff. I could have blown that riff-raff — yes, Tom Hogan included — back into its hole with one good, loud “Boo!” But farmers are kind of inevitable. They don’t bluff easy, and they’re slow to start, but when they start they’re hell to stop.
Tom began, very impressive: “I suppose you men seen what was on the floor of that there kitchen at the Welch place tonight.”
The few that hadn’t seen it had heard about it from somebody else, and in a village, like in the city, a story don’t lose anything in the telling. The buzz of talk dropped to a deep growl.
“We don’t wanta take any chances on losin’ the guy that done that thing to Johanna Welch,” went on Tom. The growl died away. They were listening close now.
Tom shook his fist in the air. “Ackerman Smith tried to bum down this here town,” he bellowed. “Ed McKay caught him. And what happened? Between Ed and that fancy-pants, highbrow doctor friend o’ his Ackerman got in the state hospital, where he’s livin’ easy, instead o’ bein’ on the rock pile where he belongs.
“I seen that doctor friend o’ Ed’s at the Welch place tonight. I suppose if Ed finds he can’t get outa jailin’ that big nephew o’ his, him and that doctor’ll dope out some hocus-pocus. Why d’you suppose Ed thrown us off the place tonight, unless he was fixin’ to pull somethin’ phoney?”
His fist smacked into his palm and it touched off a louder growl. Hogan’s got just enough animal cunning to make him dangerous. I figured the time was getting near. If this thing went much further, nothing I could do would stop it.
“You seen Johanna Welch’s awful, bleedin’ body,” roared Tom. “The guy that done it oughta hang. Any fool in this town — except maybe Ed McKay and Dave Tyson — knows dam’ well Dan Garner done it. Essexville wants justice” — it was a regular Fourth of July oration now, and it was getting them — “and we ain’t gonna get justice for Johanna Welch until we string that Dan Garner.” He pointed up to the rafters and drew breath.
“Aw, shut up, Tom,” I said, loud. “You make me sick.”
Every head in that half-dark, stinking stable turned my way. Tom’s jowls dropped. I pushed through to the open space by the feedbox. The talk started with a rush: “It’s Ed McKay!”... “McKay’s been here spyin’ on us!”... “Sheriff’s here, all alone.”
“Get down off that soapbox,” I told Tom, still loud enough for everybody to hear.
He pushed his chin out. “Make me.”
My knees weren’t shaking any more. Something hot was pounding in my veins now, something hotter than the hot, stale air of that stable. “Hold on,” I told myself. “You’re taking it too fast.”
“Make me,” said Tom again, when he saw I didn’t move. “You ain’t God around here, Ed McKay.” He laughed.
The laugh did it. I jerked him off that feedbox in a hurry. The men on the inside of the ring surged forward a foot or two, but they weren’t quite ready to jump the law yet. But that throbbing inside me had knocked loose my self-control, and the shame of the whole business had me dizzy.
“It’s a fine crew,” I said, “that can’t get movin’ without a stump speech to make it move. It’s a fine bunch that can’t find anything better to lead it than Tom Hogan. And it’s a black shame on this town—”
“What about what happened to Johanna Welch?” This was a long, deep drawl from the back rank. “What’s blacker shame than that?”
Like an idiot I tried to argue. “We’re making the most thorough investigation possible,” I called.
“Investigation hell,” came the drawl. “We don’t want no more investigatin’. We want justice, and we want it quick.”
“You’ll get jus—” I began.
Tom Hogan caught his cue. He jumped back on the feedbox.
“What are we waitin’ for?” he screeched. “Ed McKay’s just stallin’ us till he gets that murderin’ nephew o’ his outa the county.”
And I went for him, a red blur in my eyes. We crashed down on the far side of the feedbox. His heels drummed on my ribs as we went over, and for a black minute the whole stable and the crowd spun away from me. Sick at the stomach from the pain, I felt a dozen hands fasten on me.
“Get some o’ them harness straps,” Tom was yelling as my brain cleared. I struggled. I wanted only one thing now: to smash my fist into that sweating face.
“Easy, Sheriff — we don’t wanta have to hurt you.” It was one of the gang that had pulled me off Tom. I heard the jingle of harness buckles, and a dusty tangle of cinch straps was handed over to the men holding me. Two of them turned loose and went to unsnarling the straps.
Through the clatter came that long drawl from near the door: “Better git some more straps, boys. Here’s two more of ’em.” Then another voice: “Lay off the Doc — he’s crippled up anyhow.” Then, rocking the old stable, Dave’s roar: “Where’s Ed McKay?” And then: “Take your dirty hands off me!”
It flabbergasted them for a second. I saw men falling back as Dave put his bull shoulders through the crowd. For an instant, at the far end of the little alley Dave was making, I caught a glimpse of Doc Rennie, pale as a ghost by the door. And in that instant he saw me and raised his hand, and hope came back.
“You guys crazy?” demanded Dave. He crossed the puddles of lamplight. “Come on, Ed, the Doc and I got something hot.”
It wasn’t acting, either. That was what made it convincing. The men holding me let go.
Tom Hogan started. “Come on, boys, get—”
From the group that had just let me go I recognized the voice of Bill Dorset, one of the older farmers. He said: “Shut up, Tom. Let’s hear what Dave’s got on his mind.”
“We know who the man that jumped off the porch was,” blurted Dave.
Chapter Four
Death of a Suspect
“We know him too!” came that drawling voice from the back, and things tightened up again.
“Like hell you do,” shouted Dave, glaring into the dark. “It wasn’t Dan Garner.”
“You able to prove that, Dave?” asked old Dorset. The place was still as death.
Dave hesitated. Instinctively I glanced at Tom Hogan. Under the edge of the mask I saw the spread of an evil grin. He waited just long enough for Dave’s silence to sink in, then started to say something.
From the back of the room a cool voice cut him off. “With the sheriff’s assistance it can be proved very quickly.”
I picked up Doc Rennie’s lead. “That’s what I was trying to tell the lot of you when you—”
Tom Hogan pleaded: “Can’t you see he’s just—”
Old Bill Dorset poked Tom in the chest with a forefinger like an oak knot. “I think we had about enough o’ you, Tom,” he said.