Free A Man for Temperance (Wagon Wheel) by Gilbert Morris Page A

fines, so instead of them working the judge’s road, I’ll bring them out and they can do Brennan’s work.”
    “That would be kind of you, Marshal.”
    Meek gathered his reins and stepped into the saddle. The horse groaned under his weight, and Meek reached out and slapped him on the neck. “You know, he ain’t a bad fellow—him.”
    “You mean Brennan?”
    “Yeah, he reminds me of myself when I was younger.”
    “I can’t believe you were ever like Brennan.”
    “I was a pretty bad cat. Like I said, I feel sorry for him.” He pulled his hat down over his forehead and shook his head. “He’s finished now though. The best he can hope for is ten years or maybe fifteen in a federal pen. That takes it out of a man. Myself, I’d rather die than go there. Well, I’ll bring them fellows out early tomorrow morning, Miss Temperance.”
    Temperance watched the marshal ride out, then turned to go back into the house. She moved slowly, for her mind was occupied with the news she had just received. It was bad news all the way around, but a sudden impulse came. “I’ve got to go see him,” she said aloud. Going into the house, she began to make preparations. It was not the same as when she was alone. All she had to do was put on her bonnet and hitch the team. Now she had three children to get ready. Rose was excited about getting to go into town, and with her help they were soon on their way.
    Rose was silent for a great part of the way, and finally she said, “I miss my mama and daddy.”
    Quickly Temperance cast a glance at the girl. It was the first time she had mentioned the parents she had lost. Temperance reached over, put her arm around the girl, and drew her close. “I know you do, honey. I miss mine too.”
    “Were you a little girl when they died?”
    “No, I was a grown woman.”
    “Sometimes,” Rose said in a small voice, “I cry when I’m in bed after it gets dark.”
    “It’s all right to cry, honey,” Temperance said and leaned over and kissed the girl’s forehead. “I do it myself sometime.”
    * * *
     
    BRENNAN WAS SITTING ON his cot with his head down in his hands, listening to Benny Watts, who had come into his cell to practice on his guitar. His excuse was that he needed an audience, but that was the last thing he needed according to Brennan’s thinking.
    “I’m going to Alabama with my banjo on my knee.” Benny attacked the guitar with all of his might, squeezing the neck and striking the strings with his callused thumb. He had a high-pitched voice and seldom managed to get through a song without butchering it. When he finished, he said, “How was that, Thaddeus?”
    “Well, Benny, I’d have to say you never missed a wrong note.”
    “Why, thank you, Thad! Mighty nice of you to say so. What would you like to hear now?”
    Actually Brennan wanted to hear nothing, but Benny’s company was better than none at all. He had spent the night thinking of the prison where he’d be spending the next ten or fifteen years. He had a vivid imagination and saw himself coming out of prison an old man, broken and sick, fit for nothing, with life all passed by him. “How about ‘Oh! Susanna’?”
    “Oh, yeah, I got that one down real good.” Benny launched into “Oh! Susanna” and finally Benny’s company was outweighed by his off-key singing.
    Brennan looked up and said, “I guess that’s enough serenading for awhile, Benny.”
    Benny grinned at him foolishly. “You know, you’ll be an old man when you get out of the slammer, Thaddeus.”
    “Nice of you to come in and cheer me up, Benny. You ever been in prison?”
    “Not a federal prison. I knowed some fellows that went there. It’ll drive some men crazy,” Benny said cheerfully. “Lots of them kill themselves before they serve their term. Why, I remember one fellow whose name was Roscoe Yates. He was—”
    Suddenly Benny lifted his head. “Hey, somebody’s coming.” He left the cell, locking the door, then moved down the