Justice by Larry Watson Read Free Book Online

last arrow.’”
    The sheriff tapped the photograph in the vicinity of the table. “Yours truly.” He straightened up and Wesley felt the sheriff’s hand rest on his shoulder. “And do you recognize that old warrior?”
    Wesley and his friends leaned in, as though any face there could be known to them if they only stared hard enough. Every man and woman in the photograph stared impassively at the camera, their eyes as blank and dark as stones. Only because he had been told that Sheriff Cooke was in the picture could Wesley see any resemblance between the full-moon face in the picture and the man behind him.
    Frank was the first to turn away from the wall. “I don’t know anybody there.”
    The sheriff chuckled softly, a sound a little like footsteps
creaking on snow. “Well, you might say you do. Yessir. You do.”
    He tapped the photograph again. “Iron Hail is now George Tuttle. Took an American name when he became a citizen. Or they gave it to him. Whichever. Is there a date on there? This was in the Bismarck Tribune . Back in 1917. Of course they’re all citizens now, whether they want to be or not. You boys can go sit back down.”
    The sheriff returned to his chair and fell into another long pause. Wesley was most uneasy during these silences. He was afraid one of them would blurt out a confession. His father had often told them how, when some people were arrested, they would simply begin talking, even admitting to crimes with which they were not going to be charged. “They can’t carry all that guilt,” his father would say, “and first chance they get they dump the whole load.”
    Wesley understood. He felt that ache for release, and he had to clamp his jaw down hard. Talking was all he could do in this situation, and that was something he felt he could do tolerably well. Hadn’t he been told for years, by his mother, his teachers, his grandmother, that he was a good boy, bright, polite, and well spoken? If he simply started talking he could explain everything—with a half-truth, half-lie concoction the sheriff would surely swallow—how they had the whiskey, where they got the cigars, why Tommy had a pistol in the Buffalo Cafe, what they wanted with those girls. But his father’s words kept coming back. “If they’d keep their goddamn mouths shut, half these people would get off scot-free.”
    Those girls! Oh Jesus! Beverly Tuttle. George Tuttle.

    As if he were reading Wesley’s thoughts, Sheriff Cooke said, “Yessir. Mr. Tuttle. That’s the papa of the girl you knocked down over at the cafe.”
    Tommy was quick to defend himself. “She, fell!”
    â€œBloodied her up pretty good. Chipped a tooth. Cut her lip bad. Almost bit right through it.” Sheriff Cooke shuddered a little as though the thought of Beverly Tuttle’s injury chilled him.
    â€œHow’d she get the scar?” The question sprang out of Wesley before he even knew it was near his tongue.
    â€œShe didn’t need any more problems in that area, did she?” said the sheriff. “Poor gal. As I recall, she got that in a sledding accident. Went flying down a hill headed right toward a barbed wire fence. Tried laying back so she could squeak under it and a strand caught her by the lip.” He shuddered again. “Such a pretty gal.”
    Frank added quickly, as though, the door finally open, everyone could contribute an explanation or excuse. “We didn’t mean for her to get hurt.”
    â€œShe slipped,” Tommy repeated.
    Sheriff Cooke leaned forward and twined his fingers as if he were going to pray. “Course you didn’t mean for her to get hurt. Pretty gal like that. I’m sure you had other ideas.”
    Frank interrupted him. “We didn’t want that—”
    â€œâ€”and I believe you. I know where you’re from. Montana’s full of good people. But here you are