Read A Time for Hanging for Free Online

was doing.
    "She's at the doc's, like I said," Vincent said finally, but Randall ignored him, and his wife did not hear.
    Nothing changed for a full five minutes, so Vincent walked to the front door and let himself out.
    There was another house he had to visit that night.
    #
    The home of Paco Morales was quite different from that of the Randalls.   There was no fence, and no flower garden, not even the pretense of one.   Even in the moonlight, Vincent could see that the roof needed repair and the paint was peeling.   The yard was hard dirt, and there were some chickens roosting in the lower limbs of a chinaberry tree near the house.
    There was a light in one of the front windows, and it occurred to Vincent for the first time that there was another mother who had most likely been up all night waiting for her child to come home.  
    He knocked on the door, and it was answered immediately by a short, round-faced woman with coal-black hair and anxious eyes.
    "Miz Morales?" Vincent said.   He knew very well who she was.   He had met her more than once when her husband had been killed.
    "Si, I am Rosa Morales, Sheriff."
    "It's, uh, about your son."
    "Paco.   Where is Paco?"   The voice came from a little girl about six years old who was standing beside Mrs. Morales.   Vincent hadn't noticed her earlier.
    "Go to the bedroom, Aurelia," Mrs. Morales said.   "It is time that you were asleep."
    "But where is Paco?"
    "Never mind about that.   Go to bed."   The woman's voice was firm, and the little girl turned reluctantly away.
    Her mother watched her go.   When the girl was gone, Mrs. Morales turned back to Vincent.   "And now, was my daughter asked, where is Paco.   Where is my son."
    "Well, ma'm, he's in the jail."
    The anxiety in Mrs. Morales's changed to something else.   "Why is he in the jail."
    "He killed -- " Vincent caught himself.   "He might have killed a girl tonight.   I ain't sure."
    Mrs. Morales seemed to shrink a little, somehow.   It was probably just that her shoulders sagged, but it seemed to Vincent that she actually grew smaller.
    "Killed a girl?   Paco would never kill anyone.   I sent him to the store for salt and sugar, and he has not returned.   But he would not kill anyone."
    Vincent felt immensely uncomfortable.   He had the feeling that he had heard all this before, three years ago, when her husband had been killed.   She couldn't believe he had cheated anyone, either.
    "Maybe he didn't kill anyone," Vincent said.   "But it looks bad for him.   He was caught pretty close to the body."
    "And who was this person Paco is supposed to have killed?"
    "Lizzie Randall.   The preacher's daughter."
    Mrs. Morales did it again, shrank up even smaller in the doorway.   "Miss Randall," she said.
    "You know her?" Vincent said, surprised.
    "No," Mrs. Morales said quickly, too quickly it seemed to the sheriff.   "I did not know her.   And Paco did not kill her."
    "Well, it'll be up to the judge and jury to decide that," Vincent said.  
    "Paco, he is all right?   He is safe in the jail?"
    Vincent decided to answer the second question.   "He's safe.   I won't let anything happen to him."
    "I can see him?   Now?"
    Vincent didn't think that would be a good idea.   "Better wait till mornin'.   You can come in then."
    Maybe Bigby would have looked the boy over by that time, cleaned him up.   Even if Paco was a killer, his mother shouldn't have to see him looking the way he did now.
    "I will be there in the morning, then.   Paco killed no one, Sheriff.   Whoever says he did is a liar."
    And with that she closed the door in Vincent's face.

8.

    The jail was hot and still, and Paco Morales lay sweating on the cot in one of the tiny cells.   Luckily, he was still not conscious.   Doc Bigby was cheerfully putting the boy's broken arm in a sling, having already bound his ribs.
    "What do you think, Doc?" Vincent asked.
    "He'll live," Bigby said.   "They must've beat the hell out of him,