Do you think they’re the ones who have been doing all the terrorizing?” came the sincere question from Molly as we sat in the diner drinking coffee. The morning rush was over and I had been to the jail to check on the occupant and found him in a sour mood. In a few minutes I planned on going to see Doc Jones and his patient, hoping that he would be able to talk.
I took a long swallow of my coffee finishing the cup before answering Molly. “I’m almost positive. I’m hopin’ that this Lester Feakes will shed some light on it.” Pausing I stood to grab the coffepot from the stove to fill my cup again. Molly declined, putting her hand over the cup. Sitting back down, I continued, “They may be doin’ the threatenin’, but I want Martin. He’s the instigator.”
Molly was shaking her head. “Why is he so set against his daughter’s happiness?”
Taking a sip of the almost scorched coffee, I grimaced, then answered, “Because he’s a mean, bigoted man. He cares only ’bout himself.”
“This is terrible,” I muttered, taking another sip.
“You made it, and besides you don’t have to drink it,” laughed Molly looking at my expression.
I took one more deep swallow, finishing what I had poured, then said, “Didn’t want it to go to waste.”
There were two tables with customers and I watched as Lola went around filling their cups. I smiled, thinking of the coffee I had just tasted hoping that the big pot from the kitchen wasn’t as bad. Lola was working out well. Though young, she had a mind to work, and her smile was an aid to her work.
She came by as I stood to leave. “Senor Marshal, can I fill your cup?”
I hesitated for a moment before Molly jumped into the conversation. “Miles, don’t you have to go see Doc?”
Winking at Lola, I remarked, “Next time.”
“I will clean your pot so it’ll be ready for you when you come back,” she said in her soft tone.
Going out the door I almost bumped into Cecilia Baxter, one of the town’s widows. Excusing myself, I watched for a moment as she walked towards Molly, then went out and across the street.
Doc was in his office when I walked in. He didn’t look up from what he was doing; looked like he was counting pills. “How’s the patient?”
He put up a hand, continuing to count until the bottle was full. “He’s in bad shape, Miles. I don’t know if he’s going to make it or not.”
“Has he come to?”
Doc nodded, “He’s in and out of consciousness. You can go check.”
Feakes lay there, pale as the sheet that was covering him. Doc followed me in and went up by his head. “Mr. Feakes, this is Doc Jones.” I saw eyelids flutter, but they didn’t open.
I sighed in frustration. “Doc, if he comes to try to find out if Amos Martin is behind this.” I turned to walk from the room, “I already lost one witness to death, I’d like to keep this one alive.”
As I left the room I heard a feeble voice, “Is Bart dead?”