But it appeared Tim had other ideas than to open fire. After slapping frantically about his waist, he skipped right past his pistol and went for his pockets, though he failed to furnish anything but air.
“I swear they’re around here,” he said, a little breathless.
Caleb began to realize that, hard as it was to believe, he might’ve found a man more nervous than he was.
The deputy’s eyes were bulging and a sheet of sweat had formed on his forehead.
“I’m begging you,” he said, and raised a trembling finger telling Caleb to pause.
Caleb looked toward Prentiss for some guidance, but confusion dominated his face as well.
“I think the sheriff took them,” Tim said, stepping forward. “Please!”
He was writhing, waving Caleb off in a show of defeat, bent over so far in supplication that he was nearly crouching.
“Do as you wish, but no guns,” he pleaded. “I can’t do guns no more. Please. No more. No more.”
Prentiss nodded at Caleb as though it were a directive and Caleb put his gun back in his waistband. He was far more rattled now by the deputy’s collapse than by the chance of meeting gunfire and could only pity the man.
“I think you might be in the wrong line of work,” Caleb said.
The deputy collected himself enough to stand.
“I loved it back when. I did. But I can’t do those guns. The doc said it would go back to normal. But it ain’t. It just ain’t.”
The two men were looking at each other. Tim was still shivering as he wiped his nose with his sleeve. They were about the same age, although Caleb guessed that whatever complications in life he had withstood paled in comparison to Tim’s. With the guns removed, the feeling in the room was difficult to decipher. A certain intensity remained. An almost inspired nakedness of emotion. Was he supposed to embrace the deputy now?
“The table,” Prentiss said, pointing. “The keys are on the table.”
Tim turned, grabbed the keys, and held them out to Caleb, who declined them, gesturing toward the cell.
“You get him,” he commanded.
Tim slunk over to the cell and guided the key into the lock. The door yawned under its own iron weight and slowly swung open, and out walked Prentiss.
“The sheriff is bringing Webler back this way at first light. They ain’t gonna be pleased when they see this cell empty.”
“You tell them I just about put a bullet through your skull,” Caleb said, retrieving his pistol from his waistband, “and I’m sure they’ll understand why you let him go.”
Tim shook his head solemnly, like he’d just heard the saddest of stories.
“Sheriff’s got a pony that can ride eight hours and still outpace a thoroughbred in the ninth. It ain’t me I’m worried about. It’s you.”
Prentiss was already at the front door, eager.
Caleb motioned toward the desk with his pistol.
“Go sit down now, Tim. You peek out that door, I promise it’s the last thing you’ll see in this life.”
He walked out, back first, facing the deputy, his gun trained on him once more, and when he closed the door he couldn’t help smirking with satisfaction at having delivered such an effortless performance.
“You put the fear of God in that boy,” Prentiss said.
“Hopefully it’s enough to keep him at that desk.”
Caleb stopped at the mare. He looked Prentiss over and took the rifle off his shoulder and put it in his hands. The man had not held one before, that much was clear. He handled it like an ancient scroll, as if a careless touch might crumble it to dust.
“Put that strap on your shoulder,” Caleb told him. “I know damn well the last thing either of us wants to do is shoot these things. But if you must, you pull that trigger.”
“I know how they work,” Prentiss muttered.
Caleb mounted the mare and extended a hand down to pull Prentiss aboard.
“You been on a horse?” he said.
“No,” Prentiss said, situating himself on the pillion behind Caleb. “And it’d be just my luck to get out of jail and go and break my neck falling off the thing.”
“You can trust me,” Caleb said, taking the reins. He meant it as much as he could, enough to turn back and repeat it. “You can, Prentiss. Just hold on to me and don’t let go.”
Prentiss looked skeptical, but he placed his hands around Caleb’s waist and squeezed. They set off fast enough that their voices were silenced by the wind and they were quiet for a spell. In time they adjusted to it, and Prentiss’s grip on Caleb loosened as he gave himself over to the cadence of the horse’s gait, the rhythm of the gallop.