Justice by Larry Watson Read Free Book Online Page A

now. In my jurisdiction. Waving guns around. Drinking whiskey. Bothering the gals here in town. Indian or not. What do you suppose the boys here think about you coming around after their gals?
They’d like to chase you down, I bet. You’re lucky I got you here where they can’t get to you.”
    Lester spoke for the first time since they had entered the jail, and his voice had a pace and sonority that Wesley hadn’t heard before. “We ain’t scared.”
    â€œCourse you’re not. No. You wouldn’t be here if you were. But I’m thinking about another matter right now. Trying to figure out what I’m going to do.”
    â€œYou could just let us go,” suggested Tommy.
    Wesley stared at the floor. He wished Tommy would keep quiet.
    â€œCould. I could.” He leaned back in his chair and stared at the ceiling as if he were deep in thought.
    Frank was staring at Wesley, and Wesley raised his eyebrows to question what his brother wanted. Frank did not move, speak, or change his grave expression. Wesley mouthed the word, “What?” Frank looked away.
    Sheriff Cooke carefully placed his palms on his desk and pushed himself up. “Tell you what. You boys go back there.” He pointed toward the jail area. “Wait on me back there. Just shut the door behind you. That’s right. Right through there.”
    The door they closed behind them was thick wood, so dark it looked fire blackened, and its heavy brass latch clicked shut like the lock on a gate. Each of the three open cells had an iron bunk and an overhead light socket in a wire cage, but there were no bulbs in any of the fixtures. The only light came from a corner in the back where a floor lamp stood. With its crenellated pedestal and opaque glass shade it looked like something that belonged in a parlor.

    â€œShit,” Lester said. “Now what?”
    Wesley’s father’s jail usually smelled of disinfectant, but this area stank of urine and mold. The cement walls had large dark spots, permanent sweat stains from seeping moisture. “Feels like we’re underground,” said Wesley.
    â€œWhy didn’t you tell him who your old man is?” Tommy asked.
    â€œWhat for?” Frank replied.
    â€œJesus. Maybe Sheriff Cooke might let us go, that’s what for.”
    â€œI don’t think that would cut it with Mr. Cooke.”
    â€œYou don’t think. You could tell him and see what happens.”
    Lester wandered into one of the cells. “Fucking Indian bitches. What do you suppose they did? Hightail it over here first thing?”
    â€œWhat would your old man do to us?” Tommy asked Wesley and Frank. “If we was in his county.”
    Frank turned to his brother. “What do you think? Just shoot us and bury us, don’t you reckon?”
    â€œProbably wouldn’t even bother with the burying.”
    â€œI bet it was the boyfriend,” said Lester from the cell. “Couldn’t fight his own battles so he runs to the sheriff.”
    â€œCan you imagine,” Tommy said, “what your dad would do if we came to him to take care of our problems?”
    Lester found a slop bucket, an enameled pot that he dragged out into the middle of the cell. He lifted the lid, spread his legs and urinated, the stream hissing and ringing off the metal. “But if he heard someone was waving a gun around
in Roller’s Cafe he’d sure as hell come running.”
    â€œThat he would,” agreed Frank.
    Lester covered the pot and slid it back under the bunk. He kept staring down at his fly, as if he weren’t quite convinced he had buttoned it correctly. “Maybe you should’ve told him who your pa is though.”
    Frank nodded at Tommy. “Maybe he should’ve kept that gun in his goddamn pocket.”
    Wesley weighed in on his brother’s side. “Maybe he should’ve left it in the goddamn room.”
    Tommy aimed a listless