“Because he ramrods the most prosperous bootlegging operation in the region.”

Thatcher took that news like a clip on the chin. “Son of a bitch,” he said under his breath. “Why don’t you arrest him?”

The sheriff grimaced. “That’d be messy.”

Thatcher didn’t press him to elaborate. He felt it possible that arresting the mayor would create a conflict of interest for the sheriff. The ethics of these men were no concern of his. Even if the sheriff dealt dirty on some matters, Thatcher felt that he was a basically good and conscientious man.

“Well, the mayor won’t have to worry about me for long,” Thatcher said. “I’ll be heading up to the Panhandle soon. Assuming you let me go. I thought you’d’ve heard something from Mr. Hobson by now.”

“Sheriff called me back. They had a hell of a sandstorm up there. The deputy dispatched to go out to the ranch got lost.”

“I’ve experienced storms like that,” Thatcher said. “You can’t see a foot in front of you.”

“Well, the fellow turned around and managed to make his way back to Amarillo without crashing into something. He’ll try again tomorrow.”

That was disappointing. Henry Hobson Jr. had been more than simply the man he’d cowboyed for. He’d been his mentor. Mr. Hobson was a man of his word. A character reference from him would go a long way toward clearing Thatcher of suspicion.

The sheriff was absently plucking at the corner of his mustache. Thatcher had come to recognize the signs. The sheriff wasn’t done with him yet. Eventually he said, “There’s something niggling me.”

Thatcher thought it best not to ask what.

“When we brought you in here and started questioning you, why didn’t you tell us you’d stopped at the Plummers’ place?”

Thatcher’s guard went up. “Didn’t seem worth mentioning.”

“Bullshit. It was damn worth mentioning because Laurel Plummer could have attested that you had the bruise, the cut, before you ever made it into town and met Mila Driscoll. You relied on Fred Barker to back you up. People in the boardinghouse. But you deliberately omitted mention of her. Why?”

Thatcher shifted his stance, knowing that it probably gave away his uneasiness. “I’d approached two women that day. They were strangers to me, and, best to my knowledge, alone. I thought if y’all knew about Mrs. Plummer, in addition to Mrs. Driscoll, it would look bad.”

“It does. It looks bad that you didn’t volunteer the information, and I don’t think you’re being completely honest with me now, are you? What happened out yonder at her place?”

“Not a thing. It was just like she said.” She’d left out what had happened out by the water pail. Obviously she was embarrassed by that, and didn’t want anybody knowing about it, so Thatcher wasn’t going to give it away. But he could tell the sheriff the truth about the rest of it.

“In the short time I was there, it was plain to me that Mrs. Plummer had reached the end of her rope. I got the sense that she’d had more than her fair share of hard knocks lately, and I didn’t want to heap on another problem for her.”

“You felt compassion for her.”

“I guess you could put it like that.”

Amos took his measure, then exhaled heavily. “If you’re indicted, I advise you against putting it like that. The mayor, the D.A. would pounce on it.”

“I don’t follow.”

“You felt sorry for Mrs. Plummer, so you got your drink of water, your directions into town, and left her alone. Then you met Mila Driscoll. It could be surmised that you felt no compassion for her.” He let the implication sink in, then nodded toward the bunk. “Don’t let your supper get cold.”

Fifteen

Wallace Johnson had been born with a pair of jug ears like none other. Not only did they exemplify the term, they sat low on his head and were pointy on top. This manifestation of a problematic gene pool had made him a target for torment by his passel of siblings, by his mother when she got on one of her infamous tears, and by his classmates during all six years of his schooling.

He dropped out at the age of twelve and went into the family business, for which limited literacy wasn’t a drawback.

By the time Wally had reached his late teens, the ridicule he’d suffered in his youth hadn’t made him timid and fainthearted as one might expect. Instead he was arrogant, aggressive, and meaner than hell.

Somewhere along the way, he had learned to wiggle his ears, making them even more notable. Nowadays, when teased, he used this talent to distract from his reaching for brass knuckles, which he then vigorously applied to the individual who’d insulted him.

One of Gert’s whores, who was relatively new to Lefty’s and didn’t hail from the area, was unaware of Wally Johnson’s reputation for a short temper and violent bent.

She was fully aware of it now.

Which was why Gert had left her husband to tend to a middling crowd and had taken back roads out into the countryside to where two clear-running, spring-fed creeks converged, making it an ideal spot for one of the Johnson family’s distilleries.

Wally was the family member assigned to operate and protect this particular still. Sometimes a kid cousin helped out with heavy lifting or needed repairs, but Wally preferred to work alone.

He lived in a lean-to tucked beneath a shelf of limestone, which helped shelter him from the elements. The geological configuration also hid the fire required to keep the sour mash cooking at a low boil, thus making the still unlikely to be detected. Wally’s great-granddaddy Hiram had chosen the location for just that reason. The still had been producing corn liquor uninterrupted for decades.

When she was still a distance away, Gert rolled her Model T to a halt and blinked her headlights twice, slowly, then three times in rapid succession, signaling that she was a customer and not a hostile competitor or the law.

Wally emerged from his lean-to, cradling a rifle in the crook of his elbow, but, having recognized Gert’s vehicle, motioned her forward. She drove up to within yards of where he stood, stopped, and climbed out.

She motioned toward the still. “Why ain’t you cookin’ tonight?”

“Didn’t have a mind to,” Wally replied. “You bring my money?”