Free A Time For Hanging by Bill Crider

she had used.
    He told others, and they came to her for one thing or another -- minor illnesses, cuts that wouldn't heal, sprained ankles.   She did what she could, and she was successful often enough to achieve the reputation of someone who knew the secrets of healing.   Somehow that led to other things.
    Like the women.   The women came for two reasons, mainly.   They came because they were unable to have children or because they were about to have a child that they did not want.   She always refused to do anything for the latter cases; she believed along with her church that to kill the child in the womb was as great a sin as to kill anyone else.
    Still, they came, about one every year.   Elizabeth Randall had been only one among them.   They always hoped that Consuela might change her mind about helping them get rid of their child, and they seemed convinced that she knew some arcane secret that would relieve them of the burden they so unwillingly carried.
    She knew no such secret, but she tried to help them in other ways, telling them to treasure the life they were bringing into being and encouraging them to help it grow strong and straight.
    Most of them listened to her.   Most.
    Even Elizabeth Randall had seemed to listen, but there was a look in her eyes that seemed to indicate some defiance that still remained, a determination to look elsewhere for help.
    She had looked in the wrong place, Consuela thought.   Or maybe she had gone to the father of the child and demanded that he acknowledge her, that he do something to help.   Maybe she had demanded that he marry her, though he might have been in no position to do so.
    At any rate, all those things seemed to indicate to Consuela that her son was as innocent as she believed him to be.   There might have been men -- or one particular man -- who had a reason to kill Elizabeth Randall, but her son was not that man.
    She was going to make sure that everyone knew it, and she was going to begin by telling the Reverend Randall and his wife what she knew.   She had not told the sheriff, but it was not yet the sheriff's business.   And besides, she had no love for the sheriff.   She believed that he had let her husband's killer go free.   Nevertheless, she would tell him if she had to.
    But first, she would tell the girl's parents.
    She did not go to the preacher's front door.   She knew better than that.   The Randalls might be Christians, but they would never have received someone of her standing at their front door.
    Mrs. Randall answered her knock at the back and stood there looking blankly at her.   It was as if she were staring at something just over Conseula's left shoulder.   There was a bruise on her face as if someone had hit her there.
    "May I come in, please?" Consuela said at last.   "There is something that I must tell you."
    "Oh," Mrs. Randall said.   "What is it?"   She did not seem very interested.   It was obvious that her mind was on other things.
    "I must tell it to both you and your husband," Consuela said.
    Mrs. Randall absently opened the door and stepped aside.   Consuela went past her and into the house.
    "My husband is praying," Mrs. Randall said.   "I don't think he wants to be anybody to bother him."   She preceded Consuela into the living room, her bulk obstructing the other woman's view.
    When they got into the other room, Martha Randall stood aside and Consuela could see that the Reverend was indeed deep in prayer.   He was kneeling in front of the couch, his elbows resting on one of the cushions, his hands clasped and his head bowed.   His eyes were tightly closed.   His Bible was resting beside his right elbow.   He seemed to be entirely motionless, like a statue clothed in black, but now and then there was a tic in his cheek that revealed that he was a living person.
    Mrs. Randall said nothing.   She simply stood there and stared at her husband's back.
    Consuela wondered what to do.   She did not want to intrude on