sound of sobbing cut him off, this time from the cell. Emerald eyes shot daggers at him as Cally came to her feet and hurried to the bars. “Don’t cry, Pa,” she soothed.
Andrew retrieved the knife from the floor and tossed it in the drawer with the others. “You better go home, Miss DuBois.” His prisoner was huddled on his bunk, shaking and sobbing. The waif that came to see him every day clung to the bars.
“Miss DuBois.” She ignored his gentle touch on her shoulder. “You better go home. It’ll be dark soon.” He tugged her lightly. Her grip on the bars tightened. “Do you really want a test of strength, Miss DuBois?” He had intended for it to sound threatening, but it came out more a plea.
Cally turned and spit, hitting him squarely in the face, then marched out of his office, holding her head high. Royal growled at Haywood as she gave the office door an extra tug to be sure it slammed. She heard an answering thud and knew one of Sheriff Haywood’s precious pictures had hit the floor.
“Good,” she muttered as she stomped down the street. What kind of bloodthirsty killer framed the pictures of men he had killed and hung them where he could look at them all day? At least that was what she guessed they were. She hadn’t asked him about the four Wanted posters that decorated the office wall. She didn’t talk to him any more than she had to!
Royal ran beside her, head turned to watch her face, as she stormed down the street. The poor dog nearly fell over himself trying to keep up and watch her at the same time.
“Maybe he likes looking at ugly pictures of ugly men,” she suggested to Royal and Jewel as she untied the reins. Swinging onto her mule’s back, she realized she had let her anger at the sheriff get the better of her. Desperation settled heavily on her, and she hung her head. How was she going to get Pa out of jail? Sheriff Haywood ruined every plan. She couldn’t let her own father hang! She was running out of ideas, and Pa was running out of time.
Andrew wiped his face with the back of his hand as he watched the baggy clothes and hat flounce out of his office. He never saw that coming! Twice now, she had actually spit in his face! Why did his guard seem to slip a little when he was around Cally DuBois?
He cringed when the door slammed and the picture of Wade Terris hit the floor. He stood still for a moment, getting his temper under control before he retrieved the picture.
The joints of the frame had been loosened by the fall. He slipped the poster out, grateful at least that he hadn’t put glass in front of the pictures. He would be cussing little Cally DuBois for sure if he was forced to clean splintered glass off his floor.
He set the frame and poster on his desk and studied his prisoner. The sobbing had stopped with the slamming of the door. DuBois huddled on the bunk, asleep perhaps, but still shaking slightly. Trying to fix the frame would disturb the old man. He would leave it until later.
The cut on his arm stung like the devil. He probed it to be sure it wasn’t bleeding and sat down at his desk with a sigh. He would have liked a doctor to stitch it closed, but he couldn’t leave his prisoner unattended, not with his crazy daughter on the loose.
One of his deputies had quit and the other’s wife was down with the flu. That meant he was here for the night, and the little cut didn’t qualify as an emergency. It could wait until one of the volunteers checked with him in the morning.
He settled back in the chair. It still seemed like a foolish arrangement. Why couldn’t Bill have found volunteers to look after his wife while he did his job? Granted, the couple had only been married a few months, and if Bill had come to work, he would probably have spent all his time worrying about his wife. Andrew wasn’t entirely sure Bill wouldn’t have given in to the temptation to leave his post to check on her.
To Andrew, the situation reinforced a long-held belief that lawmen shouldn’t be married. It ruined their edge. And furthermore, he believed that most people, especially voters, agreed with him. They liked to know that nothing was more important than the job.
However, that hadn’t discouraged Bill. Andrew had never seriously considered firing him for getting married either, though the thought was appealing at the moment.
Andrew smiled to himself. Bill’s job was secure, at least for now. He was having enough trouble finding a replacement for one deputy. So far, no one he had interviewed had come close to being qualified. Bill had suggested he was too particular, but he hated to settle for mediocrity.
Andrew turned down the flame in the lamp and closed his eyes, determined to rest while he could. Settling back in his chair, he slept, but not for long. The vision of a butcher knife flying in his direction brought him instantly awake.
He shook the sleep from his head, got up and locked the door. The office was nearly dark now, and he lit the gaslight on the wall by the door, keeping the flame low.
DuBois sat up, rubbing his face as if he were trying to get feeling back into it. Andrew hadn’t meant to disturb DuBois, but since the old man was awake anyway, he decided to take a look at the damaged picture frame. He kept a hammer and other basic tools in his office. Turning up the wick in the lamp on his desk, he studied the joints of the frame.
“Why do you keep that dodger on the wall, son?” DuBois asked.
“I drew the picture,” Andrew answered, then laughed at the pride he heard in his own voice.
“Ugly cuss.”
“But a fair likeness.” Andrew made short work of the frame as he talked. “I was working for the federal marshal then. I was their unofficial artist, you might say. The drawing helped catch the man, I believe.” He returned the picture to the nail.
“Drew them other fellas too, did ya?”
Andrew nodded as he studied his prisoner. The man didn’t look well. His face was pale, and, though he tried to hide it, his hands shook.
“Sheriff?”
“Yes, Mr. DuBois?”
“Might I have…?” He ran his hand across his mouth and shook his head, withdrawing the request. “I ain’t been sober this long since the missus died. You remember her?”
DuBois looked up then, and Andrew saw the tears in the old man’s eyes. Not so old, he corrected himself. He had discovered during the trial that Francis DuBois was barely past forty. “I’m sorry. I don’t remember her.”
DuBois hung his head, his shaking hands dangling between his knees. “You wouldn’t,” he muttered. “Pretty Irish lass, she was. Deirdre Calloway. Still can’t believe she’d love me.”
Andrew returned to his chair behind his desk. He shouldn’t feel sorry for the man. DuBois had spent most of his time drunk, pulling crazy stunts during the worst of it. It had only been a matter of time before someone got hurt. True, the dead man wasn’t much better, but that wasn’t the point. The jury had found Francis DuBois guilty of manslaughter, and he would hang on Saturday.
Still, Andrew couldn’t help but wonder. If the incident had had the opposite outcome, if Louis DuBois had been the one to die, would the banker’s drunken brother-in-law have received equal justice?
“I like you, Haywood,” DuBois said abruptly. “Always have. Do you know my Cally?”
Andrew came to stand beside the cell, studying the broken man. “Cally comes to see you every day,” he said, absently rubbing the wound on his arm.
DuBois stared at the floor. “I remember the day she was born. I looked down at that red hair and turned-up nose, and I said to Deirdre, ‘She’s a Calloway.’ And that’s what we named her.” His haggard face rose slowly. “Will you look out for my Cally, Sheriff?”
Andrew stared a moment. That was most certainly not part of his job! “There’s got to be some family,” he suggested.
DuBois shook his head. “I got none. Deirdre’s…well, ya see, they never took to me. I’m afraid I lost track of them long ago.”