Leaving Epitaph: The Sons of Daniel Shaye

17

Shaye knocked on the lawman’s door before he entered, out of courtesy. Ray Stover was seated behind his desk and watched nervously as Shaye closed the door behind him.

“Coffee?” Stover asked, holding up a mug of his own.

“No, thanks,” Shaye said. “I had enough over at the restaurant.” He sat in a chair opposite the local lawman. “Pretty nice place for a small town.”

“We’re growin’,” Stover said.

“I can see that.”

The two men studied each other for a few moments. Stover took a sip from his mug, and Shaye had a feeling the contents was not coffee.

“You’re Shaye Daniels, aren’t you?” Stover finally asked. “The Shaye Daniels?”

“I’m Sheriff Dan Shaye these days, Sheriff,” Shaye said. “What’s past is past.”

“I thought you was dead.”

“Not dead,” Shaye said. “Just living in South Texas.”

“And wearin’ a badge.”

“That’s right.”

“Well…who woulda thought it?”

“Not me,” Shaye said, “not fifteen years ago, anyway.”

“So what are you doin’ in Oklahoma?” he asked.

“We’re passing through, actually.”

“Not lookin’ for anyone in particular?”

“Like who?”

Stover shrugged. “I heard somethin’ about a bank robbery in South Texas, thought maybe that had somethin’ to do with you bein’ here.”

“Bank robbery,” Shaye said, frowning. “You think a bank robbery would bring me this far from home, Sheriff?”

“I don’t know,” Stover said. “I heard it was the Langer gang.”

“What else did you hear?’

“That they also hit a bank in South Dakota.”

“The Langers.”

“That’s right.”

“Ethan and Aaron, right?”

“Right.”

“You know either one of them, Ray?”

“Uh, no, not really.”

“What’s that mean, not really, Ray?”

“I mean, I may have met Ethan a time or two, but we ain’t, uh, friends, or anything.”

“Then what are you?”

“Well…” Stover moved his shoulders nervously. He looked into his cup, and apparently it was empty. He licked his lips.

“Go ahead, Ray,” Shaye said. “Have another drink. You don’t mind if I call you Ray, do you?”

“Uh, no, not at all,” the lawman said. He took a bottle of whiskey from the bottom drawer of his desk and poured a generous dollop into his mug. He put the bottle back, then sipped gingerly from the mug.

“Does Ethan call you Ray?”

“Huh? Uh, no.”

“What’s he call you?”

Stover shifted uncomfortably. “I ain’t seen Ethan Langer in years.”

“He hasn’t passed through here recently?”

“You’re after him, ain’tcha?”

“I told you, Sheriff,” Shaye said, “we’re just passing through. However, if I happened to run into the Langer gang, I’d count it my duty to bring them in. Wouldn’t you?”

“I sure would.”

“Then I guess they haven’t passed through here.”

“If they came this way,” Stover said, “they bypassed comin’ into town.”

“Well, lucky for them,” Shaye said, “or for you.” He stood up. “How long you been sheriff here?”

“A few years.”

“What’d you do before that?”

“Wore a badge some other places.”

“So you never rode with the Langers, or anything like that.”

“No,” Stover said, “I never did.”

“Yeah,” Shaye said, “I had you figured for a longtime lawman. You like it here?”

“I like it fine,” Stover said. “It’s a growin’ town. I wouldn’t wanna do anythin’ to mess up this job.”

“Well, I hope you don’t,” Shaye said. “I hope you hold onto this job for a long time to come.”

“Uh, thanks.”

“Enjoy your drink.”

Stover looked into his cup, then set it aside. “I reckon I had enough.”

“We’ll be moving on tomorrow, Sheriff,” Shaye said. “We just stopped overnight for some rest.”

“That’s fine,” Stover said. “That’s just fine.”

Shaye walked to the door and stepped outside without a word. Sheriff Ray Stover had recognized all of the names involved—his, Ethan and Aaron Langer’s—but Shaye doubted he knew more than that. The man was too comfortable in his job to want to mess it up, just like he said.

As he walked toward the hotel, he wondered just how much he was going to have to tell his sons.