Letter Of The Law

by C. J. Crigger

  * * *

  LETTER OF THE LAW

  by

  C. K. CRIGGER

  Amber Quill Press, LLC

  http://www.amberquill.com

  * * *

  Letter Of The Law

  An Amber Quill Press Book

  This book is a work of fiction. All names, characters, locations, and incidents are products of the author's imagination, or have been used fictitiously.

  Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, locales, or events is entirely coincidental.

  Amber Quill Press, LLC

  http://www.AmberQuill.com

  http://www.AmberHeat.com

  http://www.AmberAllure.com

  All rights reserved.

  No portion of this book may be transmitted or reproduced in any form, or by any means, without permission in writing from the publisher, with the exception of brief excerpts used for the purposes of review.

  Copyright © 2010 by C. K. Crigger

  ISBN 978-1-60272-755-7

  Cover Art © 2010 Trace Edward Zaber

  Layout and Formatting

  Provided by: Elemental Alchemy

  Published in the United States of America

  Also by C. K. Crigger

  Black Crossing

  Liar's Trail

  The Prince's Cousin

  The Gunsmith Series

  Book I: In The Service Of The Queen

  Book II: Shadow Soldier

  Book III: Crossroad

  Book IV: Six Shot

  Dedication

  This book is dedicated, as so many of my Westerns are, to my parents. When they passed, the tack room at home was filled with boxes of the old-time pulp Westerns. Those made up much of my first reading material, and stuck the Western as a genre in my head forever. What could I do but write some for myself? Thanks, Mom and Dad!

  As an historical aside, a sheriff's wife was often called upon to provide meals and other amenities for prisoners in her husband's jail. In return, depending on the prisoner's character and his crime, he might chop wood for the stove or do other chores. Neither the sheriff nor his wife received extra pay for prisoner provisions or for her work.

  Chapter 1

  * * *

  As was his custom after supper, Sheriff Pelham Birdsall gave his wife a kiss before setting out on his evening patrol through town.

  "Seeing it's Friday night, I'll probably be late getting home," he warned her, running his big, calloused hand through her silken brown hair. It had slipped from its knot at the nape of her neck and flowed over her shoulders like a child's.

  "I know," she said.

  He nabbed a second kiss while he was at it. "Don't wait up for me--and don't worry."

  "I won't."

  He knew she would do both, although, having learned stoicism at her mother's knee, his wife never let on she worried as she sent him about his duties. He could tell, though, by the way she feigned sleep when he came in after rounds and only relaxed when he lay down beside her.

  His belly full of his wife's good fried chicken and mashed potatoes, Pelham gave a quiet burp as he reached the bottom of the stairway leading from the sheriff's quarters over the jail. From here he could hear whoops and hollers coming from the Bucket of Sudz down the street. The carousing was just getting started. Somebody was pounding out a tune on the saloon's rickety old piano, while a deep female voice tried to sing along. He listened a moment, smiling. She had the words wrong.

  Pel stooped to pick the tray holding the prisoner's dirty supper dishes off the floor as he passed through the jail on his way outside. The plate was empty. Scraped clean.

  "Hear that noise? You're apt to have company before the night is over," he told the prisoner sitting quiet in his cell.

  Tucker Moon's head lifted. "Hope nobody goes to puking on the floor."

  "Don't bet on it."

  "It'd be a gamble, all right. Tell your missus thanks for the fine vittles," Moon said, same as he did after every meal.

  "I'll do that," Pelham replied. And he would, as he had every other day of Moon's incarceration. It had been six days now, and Moon had four more days to serve.

  Pelham set the dishes on his desk to collect later and went on through the office. Stepping onto the boardwalk out front, he found Duncan Herschel, his deputy, leaning against the wall waiting for him. A big man, heavy-set rather than tall, Herschel stood picking his crooked teeth free of what looked like Mrs. Birdsall's fried chicken.

  "Herschel," Pel said, "have you been eating the prisoner's food again?"

  The deputy's gaping stare was answer enough.

  "Damn it, man," Pel said, "my wife's job is to feed the fellers in the lockup, not you. Get your meals over at the café."

  Herschel, known far and wide as Boomer because of his loud, carrying voice, plastered an innocent look that wouldn't have fooled a kitten onto his red, round face. "Aw, that Moon feller, he don't need much. All he's doing is sitting on his ass in a cell with his head hangin' like a whupped dog. You wouldn't want your wife's cookin' goin' to waste on the likes of him, would you?"

  Pel shook his head. Talking to Herschel was like talking to a bush. Both waved whichever way the wind blew. "It ain't up to you however much food that man needs," he said. "Don't do it again unless you plan on paying my missus for her time and effort." He forced down irritation over Herschel's uncouth ways--it wasn't as if Moon would starve--and checked his silver-backed pocket watch. "Time for rounds. You take the north side of the street; I'll take the south. And here's hoping for a quiet night."

  "Yeah." Boomer Herschel cocked his head toward the sound of revelry. "You can hope. Ain't likely, though, what with all the strangers in town."

  "Have a care," Pelham warned the deputy. "This is a rough bunch. I've had several complaints since they showed up. O'Hanlon had to run a couple out of his place earlier. Said he heard somebody mention being wanted over in Montana. I'll have to read through this new batch of dodgers in the morning."

  "Anybody strikes me wrong," Herschel said, "I'll sic them onto you." He ambled off at a pace somewhat slower than a slug's.

  He will, too, Pelham thought. Biting back renewed aggravation, he headed in the direction of the Bucket of Sudz. If trouble was brewing, that's where he'd find it. For once, Herschel's estimation was right on target. The strangers showing up in Endurance were not the type Pel welcomed to his town.

  A line of horses stood hip-shot at the hitch rail in front of the saloon, dozing as sundown shaded to full dark. Piles of manure, reeking after the heat of the day, indicated they'd been there a while. Some of the horses were rigged out with typical cowboy gear--worn saddles; frayed ropes tied on with saddle strings; stirrups scratched and caked with dirt. He saw most of these same animals here every Friday or Saturday night. For example, the good sorrel with two white feet belonged to one of Ned Sorenson's hands.

  But this evening there were several horses he didn't recognize, and that worried him a mite. A tall bay caught his eye. The horse looked to be at least half-Thoroughbred, and it was wearing a Mexican saddle decorated with fancy silver work. The silver, Pel noticed, could've stood some polishing. Something about the get-up rang his bell, and not in a comfortable way.

  Sliding his hand over the bay's rump, Pel shoved in between horses, feeling for the raised surface of a brand. Behind him, on the boardwalk, he heard footsteps clump toward him, then stop.

  "Looking for something, mister?" a voice asked.

  "Admiring this horse. Wonder if he's for sale." Pel's fingertips found a mark. Quarter Circle 6W. Not from around here.

  A chuckle rumbled in the other man's throat. "Doubt it. That's Diggett Monroe's horse, mister, and Monroe don't like anybody foolin' with anything of his. You'd best come out from the
re afore he sees you."

  Pel's gut tightened. Hellfire! Now he knew where he'd heard about the trappings. A paper had come through on Monroe about a month ago. He was wanted in California for train robbery, murder, and various lesser charges--among them horse stealing. More specifically, this particular horse and rig. There'd been mention he was riding with a gang, every one of whom was guilty of something and considered dangerous. What were they doing in this neck of the woods?

  Reaching down while he was still hidden behind the horse, Pel loosened the .45 Colt Peacemaker in his holster. His finger touched his badge, symbol of the trust people of this county put in him, before he stepped away from the horse and into the light pouring through the open saloon doors.

  "You a friend of this Monroe?" He'd figured this might be the man himself, but one look proved him wrong. The description didn't match. Unlike Monroe, who was held to be a fair-looking man, this feller was short and ugly, with hair reaching to his shoulders. Big ears held up a battered bowler. Relief touched Pel for a second.

  "Friend?" The feller scowled at sight of the badge, his eyes shifting from side-to-side like a nervous rat. "I wouldn't go so far as to say friend. Monroe is partial to his family. He don't associate much with anybody else, but, mister, when he says jump, most know to ask how high." He stared at Pelham, the corner of his mouth twitching. "You stick around, you'll find out."

  "Stick around?" Taken aback, Pel fingered the butt of his pistol. "Don't reckon I'll be going anywhere. In case it escaped your notice, I'm the sheriff here. But if you have problems with the law, I'd suggest moving on. You don't want to see the inside of my jail."

  "Aw, that won't happen. Monroe takes care of us, Sheriff. He'll take care of you, too, if you rile him, but in a different kind of way. I'll give you a word of warning. Another thing the boss don't like is bein' interrupted when he's drinkin'. He gets a tad twitchy, and just between us, he's mighty good with them pistolas of his."

  Now that was plain speaking. Pel didn't find much favor with it. "Is he? Good to know. 'Course there's always somebody better."

  The ugly little man let forth with his chuckle again. "Who? You? You look like mighty small spuds to me, Sheriff. Tangle with Diggett Monroe, and I expect you'll find out a thing or two. That's if he don't send you straight to hell." With that, he turned away and swaggered down the street toward Millie's sporting house, where a lantern hung on a peg outside glowed red through a colored globe.

  A bit rattled, Pelham stared after him. Rumors were going around on what Monroe was doing here in Endurance, and every one caused a degree more tension. How many men did he have with him? Looked like there was only one way to find out.

  Judging by the number of outsiders' horses hitched to the rail, Pel was in the minority if it came to a confrontation. Sighing softly, he wondered why, just this once, his deputy wasn't standing at his elbow, ready to back his play. When Pel'd worked for Sheriff Tom Regal over in Colorado, they'd stood shoulder to shoulder. Been a good team. So far, Boomer Herschel had yet to prove himself good for anything but eating the prisoners' food and cadging drinks at O'Hanlon's or the Bucket of Sudz. Worse, as a holdover from Garnet County's previous sheriff, his loyalty to Pel was questionable. He wouldn't keep him on, but so far, he hadn't found anyone else willing to take over.

  Didn't matter. Rounding up Monroe was a job Pelham couldn't shirk, and he wouldn't wait for Herschel to show up, either. He'd best act before word spread and put Monroe on guard. Shaking the kinks out of his right hand, Pelham raised his left, preparing to push through into the saloon. Shots echoing along the street--first the snap of a six-shooter, then the boom of a shotgun--stopped him in mid-stride. The shots were followed by yells and a scream of pain.

  "What the..."

  The caterwauling came from the mercantile across the street. Monroe would have to wait his turn. Pel hustled toward the sound, grabbing his pistol out of its holster on the way. When he was about halfway there, the yelling died away, although the screeching continued.

  Pelham pounded up to the mercantile where he stopped, removed his hat in order to make a smaller target, and poked his bare head around the corner far enough to see into the store. At first this wasn't much, as the room was dark as a cave, but as his eyes adjusted, a loud clatter punctuated by some meaty thuds drew his attention. Turning sideways, he slipped inside. Two bodies were rolling around on the floor amid some tin plates, a storm of loose powder he decided was flour, and what appeared to be a dozen broken chamber pots. Just beyond the wrestling men, he made out the storekeeper's missus lying still as a board, a spreading puddle of dark liquid leaking around her fat arm. Worse, a smell of spilled kerosene reached his nose, and, even as he strode forward with the intention of breaking up the fight, a yellow flicker caught at a wet stain on the floor and suddenly leapt higher. Somebody'd kicked over the lamp.

  Pelham ran forward then, and started stomping the flames, coming close to being upended once by the wrestlers as they spun back and forth. The fire was gaining on him. Spying the pickle barrel, Pel flipped off the hinged top and with a grunt, turned it onto its side where the flood of brine overwhelmed the fire.

  His attention returned to the oblivious fighters. "Whoa up," he yelled, dragging at the first body he reached. It happened to be Schmidt, the storekeeper, who had his arm clamped around the other man's neck. The feller's eyes looked ready to pop out of his head. The screeching, Pel discovered, was coming from Schmidt, and it sounded all the worse because it was in a combination of English and German.

  "What's going on here?" Pel hollered over the din. "Mr. Schmidt, take it easy. Appears your wife is hurt. You'd best see to her."

  At this reminder, the storekeeper left off the business of choking and dropped to his knees beside his wife. Perhaps it was the reviving odor of vinegar, but Pel was relieved to see her stirring. He guessed she wasn't dead after all.

  "How is she?" he asked, holding the half-strangled feller in an arm lock. His prisoner gasped like a fish out of water.

  "She iss bleeding. This one, he iss shoot her." Schmidt bent over the woman and patted her cheek. "Ilse, Ilse, wake, wake."

  "What happened?" Pel asked. He gave his prisoner a shake. "You first. Speak up. How'd Mrs. Schmidt get shot?"

  The man tried to pull away, but Pelham had a grip on both his shirt collar and the arm twisted behind his back. He cranked the arm higher, forcing a yelp out of his prisoner. Pel fumbled in his back pocket, found a set of steel handcuffs and snapped them shut over the man's wrists.

  "He iss robbink mein store," Schmidt looked up to say. "He points gun at mein frau. 'Give me money,' he says. 'Give me whiskey.'" Two big tears ran down his face.

  The tears might've been from sorrow over his wife, Pel thought, but just as likely came from the strong vinegar odor. His own eyes were smarting something fierce. "Did she?" he asked.

  Schmidt looked at him in disbelief. "Nein! She..." He fluttered his arms as if batting flies. "She says, 'Get out or I vill call sheriff,' and he says, 'I vill shoot you.' So she yells, and he shoots. Verfluchter kerl."

  "I suspected," Pel said.

  By now, heads were peering into the store and a few hardy souls, seeing their sheriff with a prisoner in tow, sidled in for news of the ruckus.

  "You," Pel told one, "get the doc."

  "Miller?" the man in question asked.

  "He's the only doc in town. I expect you'll find him at O'Hanlon's."

  The man sped off, and Pel turned back to his captive. "You got anything to add to that?"

  "Lyin' old bitch. I didn't do nuthin' until she started yowling. Scared me so bad my gun went off by accident."

  "You are liar." Schmidt's round face turned crimson. His eyes bulged. "You are thief and voman killer. You vill hang from high tree."

  "Hold on now, Mr. Schmidt." Pel became aware of sweat trickling down the side of his face and wiped it away with his sleeve. "Don't you be stirring up more trouble. Your wife isn't dead. In fact, look. She's waking up."

/>   He spoke the truth. As Mrs. Schmidt's color returned, her eyelids flapped a few times and opened, whereupon she raised up on her elbow. Pel saw a long scratch along her forearm. It was bleeding profusely, but didn't look too deep. Didn't seem to hinder her any, either.

  "You," she said to the prisoner, and there was nothing weak about her voice. "Robber. Shame on you."

  Relieved, Pel yanked the would-be thief around and pointed him toward to door. "C'mon. I'm placing you under arrest. Time you got a look at the inside of my hoosegow."

  "Fine with me," the prisoner said. "Get me away from these crazy furriners. Besides, the boss'll have me out in no time."

  Who, Pelham wondered, was his boss? He had a good--or make that a bad--suspicion.

  Getting the man past the six or seven people hovering around Mrs. Schmidt took a little doing. Doc's arrival cut a path for them to get through. Folks were rightfully upset, talking loud and mean. Wasn't every day they had an attempted robbery to stir them up. Endurance was more prone to drunks shooting each other over imagined slights or the favors of their preferred soiled dove than thieves thinking they could just help themselves to anything not nailed down. A couple fellers had tried to knock over the bank once, but that was after hours and no one got hurt. Except the robbers. It had been during Pel's first week on the job and he'd shot them both on their way out of town. With the cash recovered, he'd been something of a hero.

  "What's your name?" he asked his prisoner once they were in the clear. He kept the man marching along at a good pace as they started across the street.

  Ignoring Pel, the man had his gaze fixed on the Bucket of Sudz and he was grinning.

  Pel gave him a shake. "Name?"

  "It ain't gonna matter any to you, Sheriff. Once Diggett takes over this town, you won't be nothing but a grave marker in the cemetery." His grin widened. "But since you asked, my name is--"