Darkness had fallen and the hubbub in the office had died down before Sheriff Amos came through the door. Thatcher hadn’t seen him since their conversation that morning.

Apparent to Thatcher immediately was that the stressful day had taken a toll. Bill Amos probably had twenty-five years on Thatcher, but for a man of his age, he was fit. Tonight, however, he looked like he was under a lot of strain and weary to the bone.

Thatcher got up from the bunk and met him at the bars. “Any news?”

“We’ll get to it.” He hefted a lidded enamel pot by its wire handle. “Hungry?”

“I could do with something.”

“Chicken and dumplings.” He unlocked the cell and passed Thatcher the pot. “Take it by the handle. It’s hot.”

Thatcher took the pot, lifted the lid, and sniffed. “From the café?”

“One of Martin’s specialities.” He took a spoon and napkin from his shirt pocket and passed them through the bars. “Don’t dig an escape tunnel with the spoon.”

He said it with a smile that Thatcher returned. He carried the pot over to the bunk, where he set it down carefully so not to spill. The sheriff didn’t withdraw, but stood just beyond the bars, staring at nothing, thoughtfully smoothing his mustache. Thatcher went back over and waited him out until he was ready to reveal the cause of his furrowed brow.

He began by saying, “There’s news only about where Mrs. Driscoll isn’t. Nothing about where she is. None of her kin has seen or heard from her. Her uncle and aunt drove up from New Braunfels. They took over for Scotty, staying with Dr. Driscoll.”

“How’s he doing?”

“At wits’ end. Several times he tried to leave his house and join the search. Wrestled with Scotty and the uncle when they stopped him. Last I heard, they’d persuaded him to take a sleeping draught.”

“What about me? Are you going to charge me or let me go?”

“The district attorney has taken it under advisement.”

“What’s that mean?”

“It means that even though we don’t have a body or any sign of foul play, Mayor Croft is putting pressure on him.”

“What kind of man is the district attorney? Hard or soft?”

Amos snickered. “Flexible.”

“The mayor’s ready to hang me from the nearest tree. I can’t figure why.”

Amos took a long, pondering look at him. Thatcher sensed they had arrived at the reason for the sheriff’s frown. “Mr. Hutton, how familiar are you with the Anti-Saloon League?”

“Not familiar at all. Must’ve been formed while I was overseas. But the name sort of explains itself.”

“Quite aptly. It’s an organization of lobbyists, movers and shakers, zealots.”

“Teetotalers.”

“They don’t merely choose to abstain themselves. Their goal is to rid the earth of every drop of alcohol, along with the people who make it and sell it.”

“Then they must’ve got what they were after when Prohibition was made law.”

Bill Amos gave a wry grunt. “Backed by our fire-breathing governor, the League succeeded before that. Last year, Texas passed laws that are stricter than the federal ones. They’ve made even minor infractions felonies, which carry much stiffer punishments.”

“Did that curb consumption?”

Sheriff Amos gave a soft laugh. “Just the opposite. Since these laws went into effect, moonshining and bootlegging have become booming businesses.”

Men wanting a drink would find one. Thatcher thought back on the two men at the boardinghouse who’d left together in search of booze. Hell, he remembered soldiers in the trenches fermenting whatever they could, making undrinkable concoctions which they drank anyway.

The sheriff continued. “Some members of the Anti-Saloon League, the governor included, are of the opinion that we local law enforcement agencies and personnel are soft on transgressors, that a large number of us are corrupt, and that we’re doing a lousy job of helping them accomplish their goal of making Texas one hundred percent dry. So they’ve devised a way to ‘assist’ us in identifying, capturing, and prosecuting offenders.”

“How’s that?”

“By recruiting what the governor has termed ‘innocent bystanders.’”

Thatcher said, “What the hell?”

“In order to convict a bootlegger, state law requires a third party eyewitness to testify to the illegal sale. Since an innocent bystander of such a transaction is rarer than hen’s teeth, the League is—”

“Recruiting them.”

The sheriff nodded. “Men to work undercover. They infiltrate areas where moonshiners are thriving. They make friends with the culprits, pretend to be one of them, gain their trust—”

“Then rat on them.”

“In court and under oath.” The sheriff took a deep breath and met Thatcher’s gaze. “I think the reason our mayor took an immediate dislike to you is because he suspects you might be one of these official snitches.” He raised his eyebrows. “I suspect it, too.”

Thatcher gave a short laugh. “Me? I didn’t even know there was such a thing. Only undercover agents I’ve ever heard of were Pinkerton men.”

The sheriff stared at him, unfazed by his denial.

“Nobody sent me here,” Thatcher said. “When I jumped off that train, I didn’t even know where I was. It was dumb fate that I even wound up in this town.”

“You’re telling me the truth?”

“Damn straight.”

“Texas Rangers didn’t send you here to make sure I’m square and enforcing the law?”

“No.”

“I wouldn’t hold it against you.”

“Swear to you, sheriff. And I’ll tell you something else.” He held up his hand, palm out so the cut was visible. “I’ll defend myself against a guy wanting to knife me, but I wouldn’t tattle on somebody that I’d befriended. That would go against my grain.”

Amos assimilated that, then said, “All right, then. I’ll take your word for it, and if Bernie ever voices his suspicion again, I’ll tell him I already confronted you about it, and you flat out denied it.”

“If the mayor suspects I’ve been sent to rout out local moonshiners, wouldn’t he favor that? Why’s he hostile?”