Over the long head table in the Blue Room of the Holiday Inn, west in Dallas, Texas, hung a huge Banner. WELCOME MEMBERS OF THE S.S.S.C. it blared in brilliant red, white, and blue. The Southern States Sheriff's Conference was in its second day and some boring little twit from Memphis, Tennessee was blabbing something about the latest Techniques in firearm identification.
That is, Deputy Sheriff William Taylor would have been bored, had he been listening. But Bill was not listening. He was busily trying to suppress a broad grin from spreading across his face. He was pleased with himself at the foolproof plan he had engineered for later this evening. For three, long four-year terms he had waited for this night. Waited hoped and secretly worked for the defeat of Sheriff Mosley Jackson. But the stupid lazy people of Crawford County voted for Brown over and over, despite the riches the fat slob raked in from the graft and corruption that infected his office. Well, this would be the end of that!
How fine the golden letters would look on the Sheriff's door when it was his name emblazoned there. Emblazoned! He loved that word. He had read it in a Max Brand novel and had immediately created a mental picture of that door.
Soon it would all be his. His clever plan was coming to pass. Sure, of course, at first he would be 'acting' sheriff, but he was a shoo-in to be elected after the 'temporary' period. Everyone knew, everyone accepted that he was the right man for the job. And tonight would be the night. Tonight, Sheriff Samuel Mosley Jackson would die!
Mose Jackson had lobster and Porterhouse for lunch. Bill grabbed a burger at the local "Stop and Chaw". In the beginning The fat pig had tried to prevent him from attending the conference, but he had gone over the sheriff's head and gotten permission from he county board. Provided, of course, that he pay his own expenses. And lately, because of the plan, he had been more broke than usual. Though it had cost him most of his retirement money, he considered it an investment. After it was over, HE would be the one making all the great deals, raking in the cash.
Immediately after lunch, Bill made his way to the room next to his, where the sheriff was, most likely, having his afternoon snooze. It brought him a small twinge of pleasure to knock louder than necessary. "Sheriff Jackson," he yelled loudly.
Finally the door opened a crack. "Yeah Billy Boy, what is it?"
"Sorry to . . . uh . . . disturb you sir, but I have to talk to you. It's very important."
"Well Billy boy, come in. You come right on in. I allays got time ta talk ta one a ma depitys."
Mose Jackson stretched out on the king sized bed, pudgy hands linked over his enormous belly. His colorful red-and blue cowboy boots with the silver caps on the toes made a deep impression on the cheap chenille bed spread. "Now. What kin I do fer ya"
"It's about the Crawford case, sir," Bill said.
"Er you still thumpin' that ole mule? Why thet case's so cold the best coon dog in the county couldn't sniff it out."
"Well, sir, I've got a theory about the case and some evidence. I thought you might listen to it and tell me what you think."
"Well, git to it then. Reckon it caint hurt none ta talk."
"I think that old man Crawford was offed by his son. He sure as hell has motive enough, all that money laying around. And everybody knew they didn't get along."
"Now you lookee here, Billy boy. Ya jus caint go pokin' no finger at a man like thet. Ain't ya got a bit a sense? He'd have yer hide nailed ta the courthouse door inside a two minutes if ya came at him with acoosations like thet."
"But, but sir, I know he did it. I have even found the murder weapon. It's registered to the Cawford kid and it was thrown in Thompson creek."
"Now look, kid, smarten up! No jury in Crawford county is gonna jail a Crawford no matter what you think he did."
The sheriff's voice had lost that phoney "down home" quality he used to disarm everyone. "You will never get to be sheriff of anything if you insist on doing stupid things like accusing a Crawford of anything."