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Cobb thought it best he talk to Gus Trautmann, Katarina’s father, alone. Ernest agreed and returned home to comfort his wife and to await the sheriff.

Trautmann was their friend and lived above his general store close to the town square. He welcomed Cobb inside and poured him a cup of coffee.

“Ern wanted to be here too but thought it best he give you some space.”

Gus’s eyes darkened at the mention of their friend’s name. Cobb saw the look and thought it meant trouble.

“He said something about a letter?” Cobb prompted.

“We did find a letter, yes. It was from … that boy. It said to meet Katarina at their special spot last night. Down by the river.”

Cobb didn’t say anything. It wasn’t proper for a young lady to go out without a chaperone. If the letter was from Teddy, it was brazen.

“I do not have the letter. Charlie took it for evidence,” he added.

“Gus, I hate to ask you, but do you know of anyone who would want to hurt Katarina? Anyone angry at you because of the store?”

Gustav Trautmann grew tense in his grief, coiling like a rattler. He shot a dark look at Ezekiel.

“Now listen, Gus. You don’t honestly think that boy did it, do you?”

The snake inside struck out. “Of course he did! We found the note! If not him, then who? Would you defend a murderer?”

“Gus, there has to be an explanation for it that doesn’t involve Teddy Brauer murdering your girl. I know you’re hurting and damn it I know I wouldn’t handle it any better if it was one of mine, but you know that boy. You know his family. Ain’t no way it was Teddy.”

But in his anger and because of his raking sobs, Gus didn’t hear any of it.

Cobb left the house dispirited. Out on the edge of civilization, one has to keep the few friends he can make. This rift seemed irreparable, but what was worse, was that Cobb started to have doubts after talking to Gus Trautmann. He shook his head to dismiss the thoughts.

The walk to the jail from Trautmann’s store was short, but Cobb’s mind churned. The letter Gus mentioned didn’t sit right with him. He stepped up to the wooden decking in front of the stone jailhouse and opened the wooden door. Wenger sat at his desk, head in his hands, with papers strewn across his desk. A pot of tar that used to be coffee sat smoking on a wood stove in the corner. A gun rack of rifles and shotguns sat against the wall behind the marshal. A hall leading to the jail cells was to his right.

Wenger looked up as Cobb entered, and he narrowed his eyes. “Now look here, if you came to give me more scheisse about Ernest then you can forget it. He vas interfering with an arrest.”

“It was his son, Charlie. What the hell would you do?”

The marshal thought for a moment, chewing on his bottom lip. “Trust in justice.”

“And if you hang a boy who didn’t do it, how would that be justice?”

“You don’t know he didn’t.”

“Yes, I do. You do too. And you can’t prove that he did.”

“Ve have evidence to the contrary.”

Cobb nodded. “Gus said you found a note from Teddy asking Katarina to visit him last night at a special spot. I want to read it.”

“It is not the policy of the marshal’s office to let civilians handle evidence, nor do they investigate crimes for that matter. Stay out of it, Zeke.”

“Mr. Cobb!” a voice shouted from down the hall past the marshal’s desk. “Mr. Cobb it’s me, Teddy. You got to believe me! I didn’t do it!”

Cobb looked at Wenger who shook his head no, but he ignored the lawman and walked past his desk and down the hall to the cells.

“Now vait a minute, Cobb,” came the marshal’s voice from behind him. Cobb ignored him and found the cell with Teddy in it. He stood leaning against the door with his hands on the bars. 

“Son, I do believe you. At least, I want to. Tell me what you were doing last night.”

The boy leaned his head against the iron bars, miserable. “I wasn’t at the river last night. I was … I was somewhere else,” he said.

“Where?” Cobb asked.

The marshal had caught up and stood behind him, but he was curious and didn’t try to deter Cobb. “He vouldn’t tell me either,” he said.

Cobb ignored him and leaned his head against the bars too, so his face was close to the boy’s. This boy who was the same age as his own son, his best friend. This boy whom he had known since he was just a cub. “Where, son?”

“I … I was at the Posey place,” he said slowly. His mouth had gone dry and he struggled with the words.

“What were you doing at the Posey place, Teddy?” Cobb asked softly. The marshal leaned in to hear.

The boy was in turmoil, but the only option was clear. He had to confess. “I was stealing us a steer,” the boy finally wept. Pa didn’t know. I took our horse and rode to the Posey ranch. I found a group of steers near where our property meets, and I roped it. Once on our side, I shot it.” He hung his head. “We needed the meat.”

“So, you didn’t do one crime, because you were doing another?” Cobb asked. He wanted to laugh, but the boy’s desperation hit him square in the gut. He’d done worse things during the war—things that kept him up at night—but this wasn’t about the past. It was about justice now.

“He did have blood on his hands when I come to get him,” the marshal said. “But that don’t prove it wasn’t Katarina’s.”

“No but if you find a carcass hanging up in Brauer’s barn then that would corroborate his story, wouldn’t it?”

The marshal began to agree but then turned suddenly back to the door. A shout came from outside the jail. Then more voices could be heard, muffled. Cobb and the marshal walked back to the front office and looked out the barred windows.

A mob had formed. Led by Jean Posey, a group of mostly his hired hands and town cronies friendly to Posey’s financial support of their businesses, was marching to the little jailhouse, shouting. Big Tom was in front, holding a rope in his hand, and several men brandished clubs.

“The hell is this?” Cobb wondered aloud. He and the marshal stepped outside just as the crowd approached.

“Marshal Wenger!” Jean Posey called out. “We demand the boy, that murderer Theodore Brauer.”

The marshal groaned and looked distressed. “For whatever for, Jean?”

Posey looked at the marshal. “You know why.”

Cobb stepped forward facing Posey, putting the marshal to his back. “Yes. But say it anyway you son of a bitch. I want you to say it out loud.”

The crowd grew angry and jeered at Cobb’s words, but Posey stayed silent and locked eyes with Cobb. He didn’t reply.

The marshal cleared his throat. “Now Cobb, vait a minute…”

Cobb didn’t acknowledge the pleas of the marshal. He repeated his challenge. “Why don’t you say it, Posey? Why don’t you say, out loud, that you want to take a 15-year-old boy, lynch him, and hang him? Why don’t you say, out loud, that you want to kill a school-aged boy.”

Posey’s face grew redder and redder as Cobb spoke, and it seemed like if he could will it, Cobb would be struck down dead that very instant. Cobb never looked away. But finally, Posey did.

“We have a right to execute the guilty!” a man said in the back. Others yelled their agreement.

“You don’t know he is guilty!” Cobb shouted, losing his temper. “You don’t get to decide if he is guilty before a trial. I sent for the sheriff. We will wait for him before we do anything with the boy.”

Some voices in the crowd, the ones most reluctant from the start, seemed to mutter some sort of agreement, while those allied to Posey called out in anger.

“What are you going to do about it?” Posey’s foreman, Big Tom asked, still holding the rope. Cobb saw a hangman’s noose had been tied with it.

Cobb’s answer was quiet but firm. “I’m going to stand here, and kill every damned mother’s son of you who tries to take him.”

The crowd murmured, no longer of one mind. Several more joined the doubters, while the dwindling naysayers grew louder. The marshal seemed to sway on his feet unsure of which direction to stand. The bloodthirsty contingent began to advance on the jail, and Cobb began to back towards the door. He bumped into Wenger behind him. Cobb turned and looked him in the eyes.

“Make a choice, Charlie. You got to stand here, or not at all.”

Charlie Wenger looked at the veteran and homesteader, then looked at the mob outside of his jail. He wasn’t sure what terrified him more. But then he saw Posey, who nodded, and he knew. His job was on the line.

“You should leave, Cobb,” the marshal said.

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This is part five of “Blood on the Medina.” Click here to read the next part. If you like these free stories, please subscribe. If you REALLY liked them, please consider leaving me a tip by purchasing it on Kindle for .99 (the cost for 1/3 of a cup of coffee).