“I hope so,” Brandon replied. “And I know that I’m looking forward to being a witness for you. Do we need to talk about it before I testify?”
Murchison shook his head. “That won’t be necessary,” he said. “As I understand it, your testimony is going to tell how the trouble began, but you have no knowledge of the actual shooting. Is that right?”
“That’s right.”
“That will be a big help. Court convenes at one o’clock this afternoon. Just make certain you are there in time.”
“I’ll be there bright-eyed and bushy-tailed,” Brandon teased.
Saying good-bye to the others in the restaurant, Brandon stepped outside. He was feeling particularly good about himself today. He had gotten into the newspaper business to do good, but somewhere along the line it had become much easier just to go along without making any waves.
“Emma,” he said. “I hope you are looking down on me now. And I hope I have made you proud.”
Emma, his wife of nineteen years, had died two years earlier.
“Hello there, Elmer,” Donovan called, as Brandon walked by Donovan’s Leather Goods Shop. “That was a great article you wrote. It’s about time someone said something like that.”
“I was just doing my duty,” Brandon replied.
Poindexter, who managed Quentin’s General Store, was less than complimentary. He was out sweeping the front porch when Brandon walked by, and he made an effort to sweep the dirt onto the editor.
“Here! What are you doing?” Brandon asked, stepping lively to get out of the way.
“You had no right to say the things you said about Mr. Quentin,” Poindexter said. “He’s done a lot of good for this town.”
“You mean he’s done a lot of good for you,” Brandon replied. “Most of us remember when Mr. Collins owned this store. This used to be a very nice store. But that was before Quentin ran him out of business, then hired you to run it for him. I don’t know how you could have done that, Poindexter. You used to work for Collins. So much for loyalty.”
“A man has to make a living,” Poindexter said.
“Yes, but not everyone has to betray their friends,” Brandon replied, walking away without engaging the Quentin man in any further conversation.
As was his daily custom, Brandon stopped in the vet’s office for a moment or two before going back to the print shop, where he not only published the newspaper, but did custom printing.
Doc Patterson was looking at a small dog.
“What’s wrong with the puppy?” Brandon asked.
“Nothing really,” Doc said. “Mrs. Peabody thought maybe it had the mange, but he just had a flea bite and the dog scraped away some its fur getting to it.”
“Did you read my extra?” Brandon asked.
“Yeah, I read it. Is that the only reason you stopped by this morning, to get my comment on your article?”
Brandon chuckled. “Yeah, it is,” he said. “Every other morning, I just stop by to make a pest of myself. But this morning I stopped by because I wanted to see what you thought of my editorial.”
Doc smiled, then nodded. “Well, you do make a pest of yourself most of the time,” he said. “But to answer your question, I thought your editorial was brilliant. But—”
He let the word “but” hang.
“But what?” Brandon asked.
“Aren’t you taking a big risk? We both know what kind of a person Quentin is.”
“Sir, I will have you know that I am a member of the most noble, honest, and trustworthy profession in America. I am a newspaperman, and I will not let someone like Pogue Quentin frighten me away from doing my duty.”
“You are to be praised, sir,” Doc said. Walking over to the coffeepot, he poured a cup, then held it out toward Brandon.
Brandon declined. “No, thanks, I had a second cup down at Kathleen’s this morning.”
“No doubt milking as many accolades as you could from the other diners who read your article,” Doc suggested.
“Alas, Doctor, you know me too well,” Brandon replied with a little chuckle.
“It was a good article, Elmer, perhaps the best I have ever seen you write. But I am afraid it is all for nothing,” Doc said as he took the first swallow of his coffee.
“All for nothing? Why do you say that?”
“Because you are not going to get enough men with the courage and honor who will serve fairly on the jury.”
“What about you, Doc?”
“What about me?”
“You are one of the most likely to be selected for jury duty. Will you serve honorably?”
“I very much hope that I am not selected for jury duty,” Doc said.
“That’s not an answer, Doc. The question is, if you are selected, will you serve honorably?”
“Like I said,” he repeated. “I very much hope that I am not selected for jury duty.”
“Doc, I am disappointed in you. I can understand your reluctance to be a witness, but not your reluctance to be a juror. If not for the fact that I am going to be a witness, I would very much want to serve on the jury.”
“For crying out loud, Elmer, why would anyone actually want to serve on a jury?” Doc asked.
“Civic duty perhaps?” Brandon replied. “And just to see that for once, in this town, justice is done.”
“I guess that’s reason enough.”
“Also, I very much would like to irritate the hell out of Pogue Quentin,” Brandon added.
Doc laughed out loud. “Now that,” he said, “I can believe.”
Brandon started toward the door. “I would love to stay long enough for you to continue to heap praise on me for my brilliant article, but, alas, I must get to work. I have some posters to print for Milo’s Emporium,” he said. “I need to get them out of the way so I can go to the trial this afternoon to give testimony. Are you going to be there?”
“We’ve already been through all this, Elmer,” Doc said. “I’m not going to be a witness.”
“I’m not talking about you being a witness. I’m just talking about you being there to give me some moral support.”
Doc chuckled, quietly. “Moral support?” he said. He nodded. “Yes, moral support I can do. I’ll be there.”
“I’ll see you then.”
With a final wave to his friend, Brandon walked on down to the street another block and a half until he reached the newspaper office. Unlocking the doors, he stepped inside, shut the door, and walked over to open the curtains.
“Leave them closed,” a voice said. The voice was low and had a snakelike hissing quality to it.
Brandon felt the hairs stand up on the back of his neck, a hollowness in the pit of his stomach, and a weakness in his knees. Turning, he searched the shadows of his office for the origin of the voice. But because the curtains blocked the morning sunlight, the office was so dimly lit that he saw no one.
“Who is there?” he asked. “Who are you? What do you want?”
He saw something move deep within the shadows. Whoever it was, he was very short, so short that Brandon thought it might be a young boy. The quick fear he had felt was now replaced by a sense of irritation.
“What are you doing in my office, boy?” he asked angrily. “Does your mama know you are here? Get out—get on home with you.”
The figure stepped out of the shadows. He was small, but he was no boy. He was dressed all in black and was wearing a pistol belt that bristled with filled bullet loops. He wore a mustache, and even though his eyes were as dark as coal, they somehow seemed to catch the ambient light so that they were shining in the darkness. Brandon had seen this person only once before in his life, but he recognized him immediately.
“Cates!” Brandon gasped. “You are the one they call Snake Cates.” The fear returned. This time it was much more than a hollow stomach, weak knees, and raised hair on the back of his neck. This time it was a numbing paralysis that made it difficult for Brandon to stand, and even harder to breathe. He could feel his heart pounding