When I opened the block door, Mateo was standing there with a wide, toothy grin holding paper and pencil in hand. “Thought I told you to take a walk,” I barked.
If possible, his grin got bigger and he replied, “I did. I walked over to the desk to find some paper, figuring that you might want it.”
“You mind standing by the cell watchin’ him? I’m goin’ outside for a breather. I need to think some things through.”
He nodded then followed me inside the cell area. “Barstow, write! I mean write everything! If I have to come back in here to remind you of something you left out…” I stopped there, and slightly lifted the Greener.
“Just give me the paper,” he growled.
“Now, don’t you be gettin’ feisty with me, or I’ll open the door and let Mateo have a go at you,” I said smiling, then paused for a moment. “He’s worse than a cougar when he gets riled.”
Barstow’s lip curled in a snarl, as he started to speak.
“That wouldn’t be wise,” I informed him, then added, “Just write.”
I walked out leaving Mateo at the block door and went outside. The air was cool, much fresher than inside that cell room. I sat down on the bench in front of the office. My inclination was to go grab Martin and beat the tar out of him, but that wouldn’t settle anything except make me feel some better. I could take Father Cisneros and Parson Chapman with me, but they’d already been through too much.
As I was sitting there, I saw Doc Jones limping up the road. I never really noticed that limp before. He had told me that he was in the war and had been shot in the leg. Wonder if the years weren’t taking a toll and it was bothering him some.
He didn’t bother to ask, just plunked himself down on the bench beside me. “Miles, you have a problem,” he muttered.
“Looks to me like you’re the one with the problem. What’s the matter with your leg?”
He gave a wave of his hand and a look of disgust at me. “Lester Feakes is dead.”
My eyes widened at the news, “What happened?”
“A fever. There must have been an infection inside the leg. I couldn’t see anything, but I did notice that his leg was swelling. He was just too weak to fight it off; lost too much blood,” he informed me, then paused before adding. “There goes your witness.”
“You can write down what he said, and we can both sign it.”
He grunted, “Second-hand information, it won’t stand up in court.”
“It’ll still weigh on the mind of the jurors when they hear it,” I said, then continued, “But I think I’ve got the clincher. Mark Barstow is right at this moment writing a full confession.”
Doc’s eyes got wide, he scratched at his ear, then questioned me, “You didn’t thump him, did you? That’s called coercion, you know.”
It was my turn to smile. “No, I didn’t thump him. Wanted to, didn’t even threaten him. In fact, I didn’t hardly talk to him at all. I just asked Mateo for the keys when he blurted it was Amos Martin behind it all. After I get the confession, I plan on goin’ up to have a talk with Martin, and then provide him a comfortable cell.”
He was shaking his head. “Miles, I just don’t understand the evil that gets in a man’s heart. I can work on the outside body, cut out a tumor, remove a bullet, but I can’t remove the cancer that gets in the soul.”
“No one can, Doc. That’s up to the Great Physician,” I paused. “Trouble is folks have to accept Him and many, because of that evil reject the grace and healin’ that He has to offer.”
We sat there quiet for several seconds, when the door to the office opened. There was Mateo who reached out handing me two pages of written paper. “Read it over Miles…”