The Testimony of Sheriff McCloud

My right hand won't stop shaking since the Marshal arrived. I tell myself it's age - sixty-two years will do that to a man - but I know it's a lie. Angus McCloud never lied to himself, until today.

The young man sits across from me, little notebook open, pen poised like a loaded gun. Thomas Hartwell. Pretty name for a boy who's got the eyes of an old wolf. Came in this morning on the nine o'clock train, asking about James Morrison and asking questions a regular Marshal shouldn't know how to ask.

"Sheriff McCloud," his voice cuts through the stifling office air, "tell me exactly what you saw at the mine that morning."

The smell of sour sweat mixed with old leather fills the room. My leather. My sweat. I clear my throat and the sound echoes like a gunshot in the small room.

"Twelve days ago. I was checking the abandoned properties - routine I've kept for fifteen years as sheriff of this town." The lie slides out smooth as snake oil. "Sarah Jenkins found me running, hysterical. Said she'd seen something terrible at the White Crow Mine."

Hartwell writes without looking up. "What time?"

"Sun coming up. Seven-thirty, maybe eight." I rub my beard, feeling the coarse whiskers between my fingers. "When I got there, I found a dead man. Merchant, according to what he'd said at the hotel. James Morrison."

"Merchant of what, exactly?"

The question has a sharp edge I don't like. "Cattle, he said. Came from back east looking for herds to buy."

"But there's no cattle for sale around here this time of year, is there?"

Damn. "Well, not right now, but he said he was planning for next season..."

"Continue with what you found at the mine."

I take a deep breath, feeling the hot air enter my lungs like sand. "Morrison was face down, shot in the chest. Blood already clotted, so it had happened during the night. There were signs of a struggle."

"What kind of signs?"

"Churned up dirt. Some rocks displaced near the entrance." I close my eyes, pretending to concentrate. Truth is, I'm reliving the moment I dragged the body into the mine, staging the scene. "And tracks. Big boots, different from Morrison's."

"Did you follow those tracks?"

"They got lost in the rocks. Whoever did it knew the terrain well."

Hartwell stops writing. The silence stretches like a hangman's rope. I can hear my own heart beating.

"Sheriff, you said Morrison was a cattle merchant. But an honest merchant doesn't usually go around armed like he was, does he?"

I feel sweat trickling down my neck. "When I examined the body, I found a Colt .45 with a mother-of-pearl grip. Expensive piece. And a wallet with plenty of money."

"Where are the money and the gun now?"

"The gun's in my safe, as evidence. The money..." I hesitate, "wasn't found."

"But you just said you saw the wallet with plenty of money."

My mouth goes dry as dust. "I mean... there were signs he had money. The wallet was empty when I found it."

"I see." Hartwell makes a long note. "Sheriff, has there been any unusual activity in the area lately? Strange people moving around, perhaps?"

My stomach clenches. Why is he asking this?

"There have been some outsiders, yes. Armed men passing through town in the dead of night. Some folks reported horses heading toward the mine during the night."

"Interesting. And did you investigate this activity?"

"I tried, but they're dangerous men. I saw one of them - tall, lean, scar on the left side of his face. Black hat, bay horse. He was at the saloon the night before the murder."

"Murphy confirmed this?"

The air suddenly seems thicker. "I didn't ask directly. Didn't want to spread panic."

"But you didn't think it necessary to investigate strange armed men transporting... merchandise... through your jurisdiction?"

The word "merchandise" hangs in the air like gunpowder smoke. He knows. Somehow, he knows.

"Marshal, with all due respect, I'm just one man. This town has few resources to deal with well-armed outlaws."

Hartwell stands and walks to the window. His boots make a dry sound on the wooden floor. "Sheriff, how many times a week do you visit the White Crow Mine?"

The question catches me off guard. "I... it's part of my rounds. Maybe two, three times a week."

"Why? If it's been abandoned for years, why check it so frequently?"

"You never know when someone might be using the place for illegal activities."

"What kind of activities?"

"Smuggling. Gambling. Improper... meetings."

Hartwell turns, and his eyes seem to pierce my soul. "Smuggling what, specifically?"

"I... anything. Untaxed whiskey, stolen goods..."

"Guns?"

The word hits like lightning. I feel the blood drain from my face.

"Guns? I... why do you ask that?"

"Because," Hartwell returns to the chair but doesn't sit, "we've received reports that large quantities of weapons are being smuggled through this region. Winchester rifles, mainly. Destined for outlaw groups in Arizona territory."

My shirt is soaked with sweat. "I... I didn't know anything about this."

"You didn't know? But you just mentioned that you investigate smuggling at the mine regularly."

"Yes, but I never found anything..."

"Never found anything in a mine you visit three times a week, but where armed men are seen regularly at night?"

I'm sinking in quicksand. "They must use other locations..."

"Sheriff," Hartwell leans over the table, "I need to tell you something about James Morrison."

My heart stops.

"He wasn't a cattle merchant."

I feel like the ground is disappearing beneath my feet.

"James Morrison was a U.S. Marshal. He was here investigating the reports of gun smuggling."

The world spins around me. "I... I didn't know... he said he was a merchant..."

"Of course he did. It was an undercover operation. Morrison was posing as a merchant so as not to raise suspicion while investigating."

"Marshal Hartwell, I swear I didn't know..."

"Sheriff, an experienced federal Marshal was executed at the only mine within a hundred miles that would be perfect for hiding smuggled weapons. A mine that the local sheriff visits regularly."

I stand abruptly, the chair creaking. "That's... that's a terrible coincidence..."

"Is it?" Hartwell pulls a paper from his pocket. "Because I have here a preliminary report that Morrison sent before he died. He mentioned 'suspicious activity involving local authorities'."

I feel like I'm being strangled. "Local authorities? That... that could be anyone..."

"Could be. But Morrison also mentioned that he planned to investigate the mine the next morning. The same morning he was found dead."

"He... he never told me that..."

"Of course he didn't tell you, Sheriff. Why would an undercover Marshal tell his plans to the local sheriff he suspected was involved in the smuggling?"

The walls seem to be closing in around me. "Marshal, this is a terrible misunderstanding..."

"Then you won't mind accompanying me to the mine. Now. For a complete inspection."

I look out the window. The sun is setting, and I know Jake and the others must be unloading the weekly shipment of Winchester rifles. If Hartwell sees that...

"It's getting dark, Marshal. Wouldn't it be safer to go in the morning?"

"Sheriff," Hartwell puts on his hat, "an innocent man isn't afraid of the dark."

I grab my hat with hands that shake like leaves in the wind. As we walk toward the door, my mind works frantically. Did Morrison discover the guns before I shot him? Or did he die just for asking the wrong questions at the wrong time?

But when we reach the porch, Hartwell stops and turns to me.

"Oh, Sheriff. I forgot to mention a few things."

"What?"

"First: Sarah Jenkins. I talked to her yesterday." His eyes gleam in the golden sunset light. "She was never at the mine that morning. In fact, she said you approached her and asked her to tell that story about finding the body."

The world spins around me. My legs go weak.

"Second: there's no tall stranger with a scar on his face. Murphy never saw anyone like that at the saloon. Neither did anyone else in town."

I lean against the wall, feeling the rough wood against my back.

"Third: you described Morrison's wounds perfectly. Angle of the bullet, distance of the shot, even the powder burn on his clothes. Details that only someone who was very, very close could know."

"And fourth," Hartwell descends the steps slowly, like a predator circling its prey, "we have an informant inside your smuggling operation. Someone who told us about the weekly shipments, about the depot in the mine, and about how the local sheriff coordinates everything."

I close my eyes. It's over. Completely over.

"Sheriff Angus McCloud," Hartwell's voice echoes in the empty street, "you're under arrest for the murder of U.S. Marshal James Morrison and for running a federal weapons smuggling operation."

The wind blows between the buildings, raising dust that dances in the dying light. Somewhere in the distance, I hear the sound of horses galloping - Jake and the others fleeing with the guns, leaving me behind. Or maybe it's just my imagination. Maybe they've already been arrested too.

Ironic. I killed Morrison because I thought he'd discovered the guns. Truth is, he was just starting to investigate. If I'd kept my cool, maybe he never would have found enough evidence.

But I gave myself away. First with the murder, then with the smuggling. Word by word, lie by lie, contradiction by contradiction.

An experienced Marshal died for nothing. And I destroyed fifteen years as a respected sheriff out of pure paranoia.

Worst of all? Hartwell didn't even need to trick me. I did all his work for him.