Millie And The Fugitive

“No, but if’n I did, and if they was gonna hang him, then I’d do just what Sam did, and try to hide him.”

“Sure you would. I would, too,” Ed said. “But what I was just sayin’ was that I wouldn’t be laughin’ when the judge threw me in the clink for aidin’ a criminal.”

“I know that, Ed,” Toby said with irritation. “Wasn’t you listening? I was only sayin’ I’d do the same thing. Except for the sense-of-humor part,” he clarified. “Like you, I wouldn’t have no sense of humor about it, neither, like Sam here has.”

“No?” Ed asked, a wry smile on his tobacco stained lips. “Maybe that’s ’cause you never had one to begin with!”

The two threw back their heads in riotous, whooping laughter.

It was going to be an even longer ride than he’d imagined, Sam thought dismally. Yet the annoying duo steeled his determination to make a break for it.

“Anyway, it’s a shame we have to poke along like turtles on account of me,” Sam said, lifting his shoulders in a shrug after the two had tamped down their guffaws.

Ed’s face was sober for a blessed moment. “Sorry it has to be this way, Sam.”

“Me, too,” Toby said.

“Stupid rules. Me and Toby both know you wouldn’t swat a fly. You only did what you did — which wasn’t much, really—’cause Jesse was your brother.”

“Same as we would have done.”

Sam held his breath, dreading a repeat of their prior interchange, but the two seemed lost in thought. Serious thought, if the way Ed’s yellowed teeth sawed on his lower lip was any indication.

“You know, Toby,” Ed asked after a moment, “how is it that Sam’s all trussed up like so? It’s not like he was a murderer.”

“But he’s a prisoner, just the same.”

Ed nodded, as if he had forgotten this minor point. “That’s right, Sam. You are a prisoner. Much as I hate to say it.”

“Me, too,” Toby agreed.

“You sure play a hell of a game of poker, though,” Ed added as an afterthought.

Toby shook his head wistfully. During Sam’s weeks in Chariton’s tiny jail, the three of them had whiled away many a tedious hour over a worn deck.

Sometimes they’d even convinced Jesse to join in on a hand, but he’d never taken any pleasure in the game. Jesse was in mourning for Salina, his wife, the woman he’d been convicted of killing. For weeks, nothing had been able to keep him from brooding over his loss, not even his flight from the law, or his capture at Sam’s farm, or the hurried, hopeless trial that followed.

Sheriff McMillan, fueled by resentment toward Jesse after he’d testified against the sheriff’s son in a trial a year earlier, had seized on just enough evidence to convict Jesse. And he hadn’t been interested in any information that might contradict his desire to get his revenge, either. As for the rest of the town, most folks considered the crime so heinous, so shocking, they were eager for especially swift justice.

Sam frowned. Now Jesse was all alone in that cell, with no one to even attempt to take his mind off his troubles. He was sure Jesse didn’t even care that he faced the gallows in two weeks’ time. Jesse didn’t think he had much to live for, now that Salina was gone. But Sam wasn’t giving up so easily. In his pocket he had possible evidence of another man’s guilt—scant evidence that Tom McMillan, who only wanted a man to hang, wasn’t interested in pursuing.

Meanwhile, he waited patiently for Ed and Toby’s reasoning to progress to the next step.

“‘Course, it’s not like Sam’s a violent criminal, Ed,” Toby said. “Hidin’ somebody isn’t the same as killin’ somebody.”

Ed shook his head. “Nope. Fact, it’s practically the exact opposite.”

“Practically,” Toby agreed. “Sam here ain’t never even said a word against anybody. Not that I’ve heard.”

“Me neither.”

“He just done what anybody would have done.”

On this much, at least, the two seemed clear. Sam decided to give them a little mental shove. God knew, they needed it.

“Well, I suppose that’s just the way with the law,” he said nonchalantly. “If you start making exceptions...”

“Where would it end?” Toby finished for him.

“Why, sure.” Sam was silent a moment, then mused absently, “I wonder whether counterfeiters have to wear handcuffs”

Toby and Ed suddenly looked at each other, their eyes wide and almost alarmed, as if the unexpected question had mentally flummoxed them.

“I don’t know,” Toby said, his voice filled with wonder. “Do you know, Ed?”

“No, I sure don’t.”

“Counterfeiter. I ain’t never run across one of those.” Toby bit his lip and squinted in thought as he stared across the horizon. It was morning still, and the sun was just now beginning to beat down upon them. “I bet they do.”

“Bet so.” Ed frowned. “But then again, maybe they don’t.”

“Funny thing is,” Toby said, “Sam here is even less dangerous than a counterfeiter, when you think about it.”

“He’s not even a thief or anything like that.”

“Hell no. He’s just a brother-hider.”

“I mean, who’s he hurt?”

“Nobody I know of.”

The two looked at each other again, communicating silently over Sam’s shoulders.

“And if somebody like a counterfeiter doesn’t have to be tied up, then why should Sam?”

“You got me stumped,” Ed declared.

“Whoa there, boys,” Sam said graciously, hoping the triumphant surge he felt didn’t show in his face. They weren’t even three miles out of town yet. This was too easy. “I don’t want to get you in trouble with your boss man.”

“With Sheriff Tom?” Ed asked incredulously.

“Why, Tom trusts us!” Toby protested, as if the idea itself were plumb crazy.

“Would he have let us take you all the way to Huntsville by our lonesome if he didn’t trust us to use our, you know...”

“Discretion?” Sam prompted.

“Sure, that’s it,” Toby said. “We’d just be using our discretion. It’s not like you would try to escape.”