“Upstairs,” Granger said, herding him like he would a stray heifer. “Empty your pockets on the table so I can paw through them.”
Ike did as he was ordered, feeling uneasy when he dropped the two packs of papers, the leather wallet and the wad of greenbacks onto the table. As ordinary as it all looked, he saw every item there as a confession of his own wrongdoing. Killing the man in the roundhouse hadn’t been his doing, but a clever prosecutor examining the evidence would have no trouble building a case that he had been responsible for the other death.
The other death and robbery after the killing.
Granger poked through the pile using his grimy index finger, as if a snake hissed and rattled, ready to strike at him from hiding.
“You’re no vagrant. Not with this bankroll. It’s big enough to choke a cow.” Granger counted the coins and even found a ten-dollar gold piece in that stack. He raised his eyebrows in surprise but said nothing.
“What charges are you holding me on, Marshal?”
“That remains to be seen. Mopery with intent to lurk will do until I make a decision. Into the cell. The first one’s got the best view.”
Ike entered. He cringed when the cell door slammed behind him, and the metallic click told him he was now officially a prisoner in the San Antonio lockup.
“See what I mean? That’s a real good view of the sunset.”
He thought Granger goaded him like a mean child pulling the wings off a fly and delighting in how it tried to fly away. A look out the barred window changed his mind.
“A real pretty view of the sunset.”
“In the morning you can see the gallows erected at the end of the street running along the rear of the jailhouse. We haven’t used it in a spell.”
This brought Ike back to reality. The marshal wasn’t being friendly or polite. He wanted a confession.
“Let’s hope termites are all that mount the steps,” Ike said. This brought a hearty laugh from the marshal.
“I like you, boy. You’ve got a sense of humor. But you really need to work on gettin’ that there mustache all bushy. It looks like a starvin’ wooly worm.”
Ike caught his breath, remembering how full the dead man’s mustache had been.
“Don’t go takin’ my tonsorial opinions to heart. That’s another fine word I learnt. Tonsorial.” He smiled in self-congratulation.
With that Granger walked back to the table. A quick draw from his belt added the gun he’d taken from Ike to the pile, then he pulled out the sheaf of paper inside one envelope and scanned the page. Ike wished he were a lip-reader. The marshal’s lips moved as he read. The only reaction came as the lawman raised eyebrows when he reached the end of the document. The lawman tucked the paper back in and started to examine the contents of the leather wallet when heavy footsteps on the stairs stopped him.
A tall, handsome man with a thick black mustache, high cheekbones bookended by muttonchops and the most piercing dark eyes Ike ever had seen stood on the far side of the table where all of his ill-gotten gains lay spread out. The man took off a shiny black silk stovepipe hat and dropped it onto the table, then carefully removed linen gloves and dropped them into the hat. From the cut of his coat and the sharp crease in his trousers, he had spared no expense buying the outfit.
Ike hung on the bars. The newcomer’s shoes were shined to a mirror finish. As he moved, his coat opened to reveal a flashy vest shot through with silver threads. More than this, Ike caught a glimpse of a small gun resting under the man’s left arm in a shoulder rig. Everything about the man’s arrogant bearing warned that he wouldn’t hesitate to use the weapon—and not necessarily in self-defense.
“Marshal Granger,” the man said. His baritone voice rumbled and filled the upstairs cell block. Ike saw the man as a politician on a stump, delivering a fiery speech and holding a crowd mesmerized.
“Mr. Schofield,” the lawman said, drawing out the name. “What can I do for you?”
“Him. He killed Gregorio. Gregorio was my most skilled engine mechanic. No one tended the roundhouse better or kept my trains on schedule like Gregorio.”
“My prisoner’s guilt remains to be seen, unless there’s been a trial and I plumb missed it.”
“Judge Higgenbottom will hear the case tomorrow at noon.”
“You’ve already got your bought and paid for jurist in harness? This isn’t a train schedule you have to keep, and there’s no reason to hurry justice while I’m still doin’ my due diligence. You like that word?”
“Release him into my custody, Marshal. Now. Judicature awaits him.”
“That’s a mighty fine word, Mr. Schofield. Judicature. I’ll add it to my vocabulary. Thank you for educating me on it.” Granger’s tone was light, but his face was set like a stone statue.
“Granger. Don’t cross me on this.” Schofield’s eyes locked with the marshal’s in a battle of wills.
“What’s the all-fired rush to get his dirty neck into a noose?” Granger jerked his thumb over his shoulder in Ike’s direction. He never looked away from the railroad owner as he gestured.
“He did more than kill a valued employee. He killed one of my passengers. Such behavior is bad for the reputation of the South Texas Central line.”
“How’d a passenger end up under a freight car? And without a ticket stub on him?”
Granger glanced down at the table and its load of miscellaneous belongings. Ike held his breath and then released it slowly when the gist of the marshal’s words sunk in. For the first time, he was happy he and the dead man had been stowed away in a boxcar. If there had been a used ticket stub, that proved Schofield’s claim that a passenger had been killed. Without the ticket, the dead man might have strayed into the rail yard from town.
“Since you have become such a stickler for due process, I will expect you to have all the evidence against him ready to present to the judge tomorrow.”
“Him? The gent gracin’ my first cell?” Granger mocked the railroad tycoon with his tone.
“Him. Whatever his name is.” Schofield pointed directly at Ike. “One way or the other, someone’s going to pay for giving my depot a bad reputation. Murder. Murders!”
“I haven’t had time to do a decent investigation. Come on downstairs, Mr. Schofield, and let me round up a couple deputies to go back to the depot with you. They’ll look under every cinder and gather as much evidence as they can. How’s that sound?”
The men descended the stairs to the big lobby on the first floor. The last thing Ike saw was the mirrorlike top of Schofield’s tall silk hat. He sagged, supporting himself against the bars. Trusting the law to find only evidence to clear him was like believing in leprechauns and a pot of gold at the end of a rainbow.
The pair hadn’t been gone five minutes when a ruckus from outside drew Ike back to the window in the cell. The sun had set, and a humid breeze blew against his face. Then he shivered as if he stood in an arctic blast. A crowd of a dozen men milled about in the street below, a few carrying torches. He caught their chant and turned downright frozen with fear.
“Hang the killer! Hang the killer!”
Isaac Scott was the only one in the city jail, so there wasn’t any doubt as to who they meant.
CHAPTER FIVE
