The Sporting House Killing by G. Powell (free ebook reader for pc .TXT) 📗

“Too long.”

They’d made a point of getting together often right after the war, riding a hundred miles to meet at a convenient stagecoach inn and eat and drink and smoke cigars into the morning. They remembered comrades and retold stories of good times and bad. There are no such friends as comrades-in-arms, and those who hadn’t gone through a war couldn’t understand. But as Catfish and Henry began new lives, their visits grew fewer and the years between them greater, eventually becoming decades. Reconnecting was never hard, though, because the bond forged by shared peril held fast.

It had been almost ten years since they’d last been together. Now they were both in their sixties. Henry couldn’t really be as old as he looked; Catfish mostly just felt old inside. There were some advantages to age, to be sure, starting with the obvious one: A long life was preferable to a short one by a country mile. But of the things most satisfying about old age, chief among them was old friends. A long life made lifelong friendships, and Henry Sweet, God bless him, was such a friend.

“And this must be Houston,” Henry said, facing Harley.

Catfish glanced away. He should have written him about Houston long ago.

Harley smiled easily. “No, sir, Houston was my brother. I’m Harley.”

They shook hands.

“Happy to meet you, Harley. Your father wrote me about you. You’re practicing together, aren’t you?”

“Yes, sir.” He took Henry’s bag.

Harley had always been perceptive, Catfish thought approvingly. He put his arm around his dear friend and led him through the terminal.

“Come with us. I know you want to see your own boy as soon as you can.”

“I do.”

They loaded his bag onto the surrey and headed for the county jail, down Bridge Street directly for the bridge across the Brazos to west Waco. Harley took the reins while he and Henry sat in the back talking. The colonel nestled beside Catfish.

“How’s Cicero holding up?” Henry asked.

Catfish squeezed Henry’s arm. “As well as anybody could in the county jail. He hasn’t been charged with anything yet. While you visit with him, Harley and I’ll see about posting bond. The judge wasn’t in when we were there before.”

“I’m good for whatever amount is needed.” Henry locked eyes with him. “He didn’t shoot the girl, did he?”

“I don’t believe he did, but the state will have a strong case if they charge him.”

“Any eyewitnesses?”

“That’s their weakness.”

“I see.” Henry pondered that a moment. “How’s he feeling?”

“They’re treating him fine. He’s a confident boy, but I know he’s worried. Problem is, he can’t remember much about that night.”

Catfish leaned close to Harley’s ear. “Pull over when we get halfway across.”

Harley nodded.

The horse clopped onto the suspension bridge, rattling the timber deck and making it hard to talk. The long wire rope cables of the bridge hung from one tower, dipped gracefully toward the center point, and sloped up again to the opposite tower. This was a busy thoroughfare, with carriages, pedestrians, and beasts going both ways. Young Toby Topper was doffing his tattered old top hat to folks as he rode his bicycle.

When they reached the middle of the bridge, Harley pulled over to the side. Thirty feet below, the Brazos ran high from recent rains.

Catfish pointed across the river, up Washington Avenue. “You see that two-story brick building on the right side of the street?”

Henry strained to follow his direction. “I do. Is that where it happened?”

“Yes, sir. That’s Miss Jessie’s sporting house.” He tapped Harley on the back. “Let’s go.”

“And did Cicero actually know it was a whorehouse when he went there?” Henry asked.

“He did. He admits it. He remembers dancing with a girl—the one that got killed—but he can’t remember anything else. He said he was drinking beer.”

“Will his roommate back him up?”

Catfish nodded. “But Jasper took off when Cicero went upstairs with the girl. He fell asleep outside and was woken by screaming from the building. He turned tail and ran all the way back to the dorm. Miss Jessie called the police, and they found Cicero passed out at the foot of her bed. He was stark naked, and a derringer was in arm’s reach.”

“He doesn’t own a derringer.”

“It was the girl’s.”

Henry shook his head. “It does look bad.”

“They might not prosecute him at all. Some folks feel like things just happen in the Reservation. There’s some feeling that sporting girls know what they’re getting into when they enter the trade.”

“And Cicero’s not a killer.”

“Of course not.”

Henry turned to him. “If he’s charged, you’ll represent him, won’t you?”

He well understood Henry’s concern, but his friend had had no way of understanding his reluctance. “I’ll see to it he gets the best defense possible.”

“But you’ll defend him yourself, right?”

He made a show of waving at Toby Topper as they caught up and passed him again. “We’ll see what happens. But I promise you I’ll make sure he’s in good hands.”

A strong hand came down on his knee.

“No, Catfish. I don’t trust anybody but you. Promise me.”

He patted his friend’s hand. “Let’s just wait and see what happens. It may never get to that.”

Henry didn’t look satisfied, but Catfish changed the subject anyway. “I got you a room at the McLelland Hotel right above our office. We’ll take you to see Cicero, and when you’re done we can go to the hotel.”

Henry smiled grimly. “I’m grateful you’re here for us.”

“I know. You’d do the same if it was Harley.”

“Of course.” Henry squeezed his arm. “I feel bad that I haven’t seen you since Martha’s funeral. I’m sorry I’m a little out of touch. Does Houston live here too?”

He shook his head and abruptly leaned forward, looking ahead, so that Henry couldn’t see his face. They should worry about Henry’s son, not his own. Thankfully, they pulled up at the jail moments later. Back to more immediate matters for now.

***

“I didn’t do it, Father,” Cicero said. “I swear I didn’t.”

“I believe you, son,” Henry said, extending his hand across the