Sweet Silken Bondage (43 page)

Macauley's hopes were guarded as he urged his
mount to the top of the low rise and reined in. He
knew he was taking a long shot in coming here, but
if a man's life was saved because of it, it would be
worth the time lost. Turning his gaze below to the
dilapidated cabin that stood there in the small clearing, the sheriff experienced a surge of satisfaction as
he recognized the hobbled horse contentedly cropping grass in front of the shack. It was Wily's

"Damn!" he muttered to himself as the pride he'd
felt about his hunch being right, faded. Irritation
and impatience with himself replaced the smugness.
He'd known that Wily owned some land up here in
the hills, and it annoyed him that he hadn't immediately figured out that this was where he'd gone.

Putting his heels to his horse, Macauley headed
down the narrow rocky path that led to the small
house. Never one to ride into possible trouble unarmed, he let one hand rest on his sidearm, just in
case. He'd seen too many men gunned down during
his years as a lawman to take any chances.

"Yo! Wily! You in there?" he shouted out as he
drew to a halt out front.

"Who's callin' me?" Wily asked drunkenly as he stumbled to the door and, leaning against the doorjamb, looked out. "Sheriff!" he gasped in stunned
recognition.

"Yeah, it's me, Wily. You alone?"

"Why? What d'ya want?" the old man demanded
suspiciously, stiffening as Macauley dismounted and
approached him.

"I just want to talk, that's all." The sheriff could
see that he was really jittery and upset, so he tried
to calm him. "I just need the answers to a few
questions, and then I'll be on my way."

Wily tilted his bottle of whiskey to his lips and
took a deep drink. Wiping his mouth on the back of
his arm, he eyed the lawman for a minute. "What
kinda questions?"

"Can I come in? We can sit and talk about it."

Cornered, he knew he had no choice. "I suppose."
He went back inside, moving unsteadily, and Macauley followed him.

The interior of the shack was in worse shape than
the outside. Dirt and dust were everywhere. One
window had been broken out and not replaced. The
fireplace looked like it hadn't been used for years,
and what furniture there was was in an advanced
state of disrepair-the single, narrow bed sagging
and dirty-looking, the table and two chairs looking
downright rickety.

"Come here often?" he asked conversationally.

"No" was his only reply.

"How come you decided to come up here now?"

Wily eyed him nervously as he slumped down in
one of the chairs. "I needed to get away for a while."

"Any particular reason?" he asked as he sat down
opposite him.

"Why're you askin' me all this? You didn't ride all
the way up here just to see how I was doin'."

"You're right, Wily. I need to talk to you. You're
the only one who can help me."

"What d'ya mean? Help you with what?"

Macauley decided to get straight to the point. "I
want to know why you left town so suddenly."

The old man puffed up with indignation, not
wanting him to know of his cowardice. "I didn't
leave suddenly. I just decided it was time to check
on the cabin, is all."

"Right after you'd paid Mrs. Johnson a month's
rent?"

Wily colored at having been caught, and he took
another big swig. He wished with all his heart the
sheriff would just go away. He had enough trouble
already. He didn't want to make it worse.

"What happened, Wily? What happened that
night at the saloon? Who started all the talk about
hanging O'Keefe?"

His eyes were shifty as he sought some way of
escaping telling him the truth.

"Wily," Macauley pressed urgently, "if you're worried something's going to happen to you, I promise,
I'll do everything I can to keep you safe. A man's
life is at stake here - an innocent man."

"Well, I ain't guilty of nothin' either!" he exploded.
"What if I end up dead?"

"You won't if you tell me everything, right now.
Let me help you. It's my job to handle this."

"It was Stevens! Charley Stevens! He's the one
who started it all that night. He's the one who
wanted to string up O'Keefe. He was rantin' and
ravin' real good, and the rest of 'em were just all
drunk and went along with his rabblerousin'."

"Go on."

Wily needed reinforcement and once again took a
slug of liquor. "He was mad later on that night back at the saloon. I don't know why he wanted O'Keefe
to hang so bad. Hell, I didn't even know that he
and Santana were that good friends."

"They weren't. Not that I know of," Macauley said
tersely, angrily. Charley Stevens... it fit. He knew
the young man was no good, but he'd never caught
him at anything before. He'd arrest him for disturbing the peace as soon as he got back to town and
take him in, but he still didn't have any direct proof
of him being involved in Santana's murder. "Go on,
what happened next?" he asked, hoping that he
might know something more.

"Well, anyway, he was sittin' there and saw me at
the bar. I guess he figured out that I was the one
who warned you. He told me to get outta town, so I
did. He's a mean cuss, and I didn't want nothin' to
do with him."

"Why would he want you to get out of town?"

"I didn't ask." He gave him an incredulous look. "I
just left."

He nodded in understanding. "Do you want to
come back with me now?"

"Now?" The old man's eyes widened at the
thought. "No. I think I'll stay right here for a while."

"You can rest easy, Wily. I'm going to get to the
bottom of this."

"I hope so, Sheriff."

Macauley mounted up and started straight back
for Monterey. It was a long, tiring ride. He knew he
should probably spend the night and give his horse
time to rest, but he felt this was too important. He
wanted to get his hands on Stevens while he could.

All the way back to town, he pondered the pieces
of the puzzle that was Santana's death. The rancher
had been shot in the back and robbed. O'Keefe's
medallions had been found out there, and a large sum of money had been found in his belongings.
After weeks of having the bounty hunter in custody,
Stevens riles up a mob and tries to get him lynched.
Why? It couldn't have been out of moral outrage.
Stevens and Santana barely knew each other. There
was more to it, and he was determined to find that
last, missing piece that would answer all the questions that were plaguing him. When he picked him
up in town and brought him in, he was going to
make him sweat for a while. Then maybe, just
maybe, he'd get the answers he was looking for.

For a moment, the possibility that O'Keefe really
was guilty occurred to him. He wondered if he could
be wrong in his judgment of the man, but remembering Denton's escape attempt and how O'Keefe
hadn't tried to run even now, he knew he was right.
O'Keefe was innocent. He just had to find the man
who wasn't.

"Charley, ain't you getting nervous about it? I
mean the word's out that Sheriff Macauley's trying
to find the man who started all the trouble the other
night," Bucky asked a bit excitedly as he chugged
another beer.

"Hell no, I ain't nervous. Why should I be nervous? There wasn't no violence or bloodshed," Charley swore easily as he studied his cards with care.
The three of them had been drinking and playing
poker at the Golden Horseshoe for the better part of
the evening. Their general mood had been good up
until Bucky had started to talk about the ill-fated
lynch mob.

"But the sheriffs a stubborn man," Rex warned.
"He ain't gonna quit lookin'."

"Let him look," Charley said tersely.

"What if someone tells him it was you?"

"And just who's gonna talk? Wily was the only
stupid, weak one around. Everybody else is smart
enough to keep their mouths shut."

"Guess you're right" his companions agreed, relaxing a bit.

"Damn right, I am. There ain't nobody gonna tell
the sheriff, unless one of you is thinkin' about it."

"Hell, no!" they quickly denied.

"That's good, 'cause you two know what'll happen
if either one of you does, don't you?" He looked up
from his cards, his gaze cold and threatening.

Rex and Bucky nodded, thoroughly intimidated.
The day he'd bushwhacked Santana, they had been
along. He'd made it clear, then and there, that they
were just as guilty of murder as he was, even though
he did the shooting. If he was turned in, he'd vowed
that he would make sure they were arrested, too.
They believed him.

"We ain't about to talk, Charley. You know us
better than that. We're just afraid somebody else
might say somethin'."

"Well, if they were going to, they would have done
it by now, wouldn't they?" he asked sarcastically.
"Don't worry. Things'll be fine. All we gotta do is sit
tight."

It was midnight when Sheriff Macauley entered
the Golden Horseshoe. He was tired from riding all
day, but he didn't care. He was too intent on what
he had to do. His expression was as deadly serious
as the shotgun he carried.

"Evenin', Sheriff," Abel called out.

"Abel," Macauley nodded in his direction, his gaze
focused on his prey where he was playing cards near the back of the saloon.

"You expectin' trouble?"

"Not if I can help it," he answered, moving slowly
in Charley's direction.

Charley had seen Macauley enter the bar and
wondered what he was up to. He didn't start to
worry until the lawman looked to be making his way
deliberately toward him. He glanced around, judging his distance to the back door, but knew immediately that he had no hope of making it out. Deputy
Carter had just come in that way and was standing
sentinel there, watching him. Realizing there was
nothing he could do right now, he slumped back in
his chair as if he hadn't a care in the world and
picked up his drink.

"Charley Stevens, I'd like to talk to you over at
the jailhouse," Macauley stated in a friendly tone, as
he came to stand a few feet away from their table.

"Oh? What about?" He cast the lawman a sidelong glance as if his presence was unimportant.

"You tell me," the sheriff returned. "Come on.
Let's go. Put your gun up on the table real easylike." He had the scattergun pointed directly at his
chest.

"All right, Sheriff, but I don't know what this is
all about, or why you need all the guns," he pleaded
innocently. "Me and the boys here were just having
a friendly little game of chance."

"Don't try to humor me, boy, I'm dead serious
about this. Now, shut up and move, Stevens," he
ordered a little more brusquely. "And don't try anything funny or of Carter there might just have to
shoot you...that's if I miss."

Charley did as he was told, not wanting to irritate
the sheriff while he was holding the shotgun on him.
"Whatever you say, Sheriff. You're the boss."

"You're damned right I am," Macauley said angrily. "Now, move it."

Charley was forced to lead the way out of the
Golden Horseshoe with the sheriff following right
behind him. Carter paused only long enough to pick
up his gun from the table, and then he went after
them. When they reached the jail, they put Charley
directly in a cell and locked the door.

"I don't understand any of this, Sheriff Macauley.
Why did you arrest me? What have I done?"

"Right now the charges are disturbing the peace.
If I think of anything else, I'll let you know."

"What? When was I supposed to have done that?
I've been playing cards all night, ask anybody at the
saloon!" Charley was just barely keeping a hold on
his temper.

"How about the other night, Stevens, when you
tried to overrun my jail?" Macauley snarled.

"I don't know what you're talking about," he responded stubbornly.

"I know you're the one who fired them all up, and
I'm gonna see that you pay a nice price for that and
a few other things."

"Whoever told you that is lying, Sheriff!" he argued hotly.

"Well, now, we'll just see, won't we?" He walked
away without looking back, ignoring the man's howls
of indignation.

Meanwhile, back in the saloon, Bucky and Rex
were very worried.

"What are we gonna do?" Bucky asked worriedly.
"He arrested him!"

"There's nothing we can do."

"We have to do something!" he demanded. "Charley's been arrested, and you and I both know why!
That means they'll be coming after us, too!"

"You don't know that,"` Rex was trying not to get
frightened, but he had a feeling Bucky was right.
Hadn't Charley just warned them minutes before
what would happen to them if he was arrested?

"I do know that!" he insisted as he leaned across
the table toward his companion. "Look, he just told
us he wouldn't let us get away if he was taken in!
You know we're next!"

Rex was nervous. He didn't mind a little excitement now and then, but he had never really been in
trouble with the law before. The thought of spending years behind bars just because of Charley didn't
sit well with him.

"Well?" Bucky forced the issue.

"You're right," he finally admitted, scared and
shaking. "We didn't shoot Santana. Charley did. I
ain't takin' the blame for him."

"We gotta talk to the sheriff now, before Charley
does." Bucky was convinced that they had to come
clean to save themselves. He glanced at Rex, hoping
he would go along with him. Even if he didn't,
though, Bucky knew he would do it on his own.

"All right, let's go see him," he consented. "Charley ain't the forgivin' type. Even if he does get back
out, he ain't gonna believe it wasn't us who turned
him in."

"I know."

They fell silent, finishing off the last of their
drinks for courage, then got to their feet. They were
frightened and unsure as they left the saloon, but
they knew they had no other choice. They refused to
be dragged down with Charley.