“Otherwise, the three-story brick building, save for a single glow in the jailer's office on the second floor, was dark and loomed ghostly. Its white wooden cupola, dormer windowed, looked like it was floating above the square stack of bricks. Polkton itself was quiet except for the usual rowdiness down on Saloon Row, near the rail tracks. Not a soul moved on Decatur, the wide main street that at noontime was a turmoil of buggies and wagons. Sheriff Willis Monroe had his long legs propped on the... counter of his rolltop desk, hanging by the heels. Countless boot scuffs and cigarette scars along the edge of the desk hinted at the long line of previous sheriffs. Monroe's head was twisted toward old Sam Pine, his deputy. "You keep tellin' me in bits and pieces, Sam, that I'm in political trouble. Three months, you been hintin'. Now, why can't you just get it all out. Nobody's here but us. You won't hurt my feelin's." Balding, in galluses and a gray-striped shirt, elastic bands above his elbows, Sam was almost sixty and took care of paperwork and running the office.MoreLessRead More Read Less
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