The Complete Western Stories of Elmore Leonard - Elmore Leonard [119]
“You better tell your boy what end’s up.”
He waited until Benedict looked up from the sheet of paper, then said, “I was having my dinner with Judge Essery at the Samas when my foreman was arrested. Essery’s waived trial and suspended sentence. It’s right there, black and white. And kind of lucky for you, John, the judge’s in a good mood today.” Remillard walked to the door, then turned back. “It isn’t in the note, but you better have my boy out in ten minutes.” That was all.
John Benedict read the note over again. He remembered the first time one like it was handed to him, five years before. He had read it over five times and had almost torn it up, before his sense returned. He wondered if he was using the right word, sense.
“Let him out and give him his gun back.”
Jimmy Robles smiled, because he thought the sheriff was kidding. He said, “Sure,” and the “John” almost slipped out with it. He propped his hip against the edge of his table-desk.
“What are you waiting for?”
Jimmy Robles came off the table now, and his face hung in surprise. “Are you serious?”
Benedict held out the note. “Read this five times and then let him go.”
“But I don’t understand,” with disbelief all over his face. “This man was endangering lives. You said we were to protect and …” His voice trailed off, trying to think of all the things John Benedict had told him.
Sitting in his swivel chair, John Benedict thought, Explain that one if you can. He remembered the words better than the boy did. Now he wondered how he had kept a straight face when he had told him about rights, and the law, and seeing how the one safeguarded the other. That was John Benedict the realist. The cynic. He told himself to shut up. He did believe in ideals. What he had been telling himself for years, though having to close his eyes occasionally because he liked his job.
Now he said to the boy, “Do you like your job?” And Jimmy Robles looked at him as if he did not understand.
He started to tell him how a man elected to a job naturally had a few obligations. And in a town like Arivaca, whose business depended on spreads like Remillard’s and a few others, maybe the obligations were a little heavier. It was a cowtown, so the cowman ought to be able to have what he wanted. But it was too long a story to go through. If Jimmy Robles couldn’t see the handwriting, let him find out the hard way. He was old enough to figure it out for himself. Suddenly, the boy’s open, wondering face made him mad.
“Well, what the hell are you waiting for!”
JIMMY ROBLES pushed Tio’s empty mescal bottle to the foot of the bed and sat down heavily. He eased back until he was resting on his spine with his head and shoulders against the adobe wall and sat like this for a long time while the thoughts went through his head. He wished Tio were here. Tio would offer no assistance, no explanation other than his biased own, but he would laugh and that would be better than nothing. Tio would say, “What did you expect would happen, you fool?” And add, “Let us have a drink to forget the mysterious ways of the American.” Then he would laugh. Jimmy Robles sat and smoked cigarettes and he thought.
Later on, he opened his eyes and felt the ache in his neck and back. It seemed like only a few moments before he had been awake, clouded with his worrying, but the room was filled with a dull gloom. He rose, rubbing the back of his neck, and, through the open doorway that faced west, saw the red streak in the gloom over the line of trees in the distance.
He felt hungry, and the incident of the afternoon was something that might have happened a hundred years ago. He had worn himself out thinking and that was enough of it. He passed between the buildings to the street and crossed it to the adobe with