Letter Of The Law

by C. J. Crigger

  The ball of fire exploding in Sheriff Pelham Birdsall's chest drowned out whatever else the man might have said.

  Chapter 2

  * * *

  "Here now, Sheriff, you just stop wallering around and let Doc tend you. You're bleeding like a porker at hog-killin' time."

  The deep, hearty voice rattled in Sheriff Pelham Birdsall's chest, bringing a powerful hurt along with it. Pel recognized the voice. It belonged to Boomer Herschel. Pel placed the noise all right, but he couldn't figure what the words meant.

  Hands held him immobile when he writhed, trying to escape the pain. He tasted the blood flooding up in his throat, cutting off his wind. Unable to swallow, what didn't run down his chin made him choke. At least Boomer was thoughtful enough to hold his head up during the resultant spasm of coughing. Unable to draw in enough air, he panted like a hard-run dog.

  "S'good, s'good," a slurred voice said when the spasm subsided. "That's just fine. He's a strong lad. He'll be fine as frog's hair in a couple days."

  Was that him they were talking about? Pel forced his eyelids apart and saw heads bobbing above him, highlighted against the night sky. Unaccountably weak, it dawned on him he was lying in the middle of the road slowly suffocating. He struggled to rise until, unable to stop himself, he coughed again. This time agony burned deep in his chest like someone had stuck a red hot branding iron straight through his ribs. It was a blessing when darkness overtook him and he lost all sensation.

  * * * *

  Pel awakened sometime later, lying in his own bed with no memory of how he'd gotten there. Sweat drenched him, soaking the sheets tucked around him. The last thing he remembered was the hard-pounded dirt of Endurance's main street beneath his groping fingers and the stench of a nearby pile of horse manure in his nose. Doc had tromped through it, then kneeled beside Pel, the odor clinging to his shoes.

  Oh, yes. And, as though in a bad dream, he recalled the shot coming out of the dark; the bright wink of a muzzle flash not twenty feet away; the slam of the bullet striking his chest, and him dropping like a pole-axed steer. By rights, he should be dead.

  But the familiar patchwork cover was pulled taut to his chin and he smelled lemon verbena, so he knew he wasn't dead. He opened his eyes and his fingers twitched, an involuntary movement. In immediate response, a stunning universe of hurt fogged his vision and set his innards to quivering. No matter how he tried, he couldn't seem to draw in enough air. Like a man sinking into quicksand, panic clouded his mind. His arms thrashed, as though to claw a way to the surface.

  "Easy. Calm down, Birdsall. Take it slow," someone said from behind him. Doc Miller, still with him. Pel didn't figure the old sot knew what he was talking about. How could a man slow down and take it easy when a rock-solid knot filled the place where his lungs ought to be?

  His arm swung out, connecting with yet another person standing at his other side. The person yielded. There was a pained cry, quickly muted.

  "Look out, Mrs. Birdsall," Doc said. "He don't know what he's doing. You'd best stand aside."

  Ignoring Doc's advice, a hand touched his face, the palm cupping his chin. He heard his wife, her voice quiet and soft. She was hard to make out over his pounding heartbeat.

  "Pelham," she said, "please lie still. You're only making matters worse."

  "Can't...breathe," he managed.

  "I know." She sounded near tears. "I know it's difficult, but Doctor Miller is going to help you. And so am I."

  He couldn't see her, couldn't make his eyes open, but he felt as she lay her soft cheek against his. Her breath touched his ear, light as an angel's pat.

  "Listen to me," she said.

  But he missed what she wanted him to hear, the roar of blood rushing through his veins drowning out her words. He couldn't breathe. He couldn't breathe!

  Her hands gripped his shoulders, strong for such a small woman.

  "Pel, wake up," she commanded, loud enough and firm enough it carried over the noises inside his body. "Pay attention. You've lost the rhythm, but you're going to get it back. Do you hear me?"

  He groaned a response.

  "I want you to try and relax, Pel." Her face touched his again. "You can do it. Doc has an idea that'll fix you right up."

  In the background, the doctor muttered something. "Probably a waste of time," is what Pel thought he said, which made him angry. What made the doc, soaking in a constant state of inebriation, think he knew any better than Mrs. Birdsall?

  At first Pel was too dazed and hurt to understand what his wife was telling him. Concentrating all his might on staying conscious, he sobbed with the difficulty of following her orders. She made believe Doc would save him--and she made him believe it, too.

  Gasping, he panted, little inhalations that kept him going. His panic faded as she crooned to him. His wife. His Delight. Then there was another stab to his chest, and he thought he must be dying.

  * * * *

  When Pel next awoke, he was alone with the clean scent of freshly laundered cotton in his nose. A pair of feather pillows propped his head, while another kept his chest at a slant. Twisting his eyes down, he saw what seemed to be a straw poking out of the hole in his chest. His arms lay outside the covers, straight down at his sides.

  His thumb caressed the one blue velvet patch in the quilt. It had always intrigued him with its soft, moleskin feel. Delight said the piece had come from her grandmother's winter coat, a long time ago. He reckoned his own grandma had never owned a coat as fine as that. Never in her entire life.

  The room was peaceful, full of warmth and quiet, except for the community of barn swallows chattering in the eaves outside. He didn't mind. In fact, he liked their cheerful sound. Wasn't often his duty gave him a chance to listen to birds. Usually he was still asleep at this time of day, like as not with the pillow over his head after being up late patrolling the town. He believed it must be early in the morning, since the sun was just climbing high enough to shine through the white eyelet curtains covering the upstairs window.

  I should get up, he told himself. There was a prisoner downstairs in the jail waiting for his morning meal, his overnight slops dumped, a basin of wash water brought.

  And somewhere out there the man who'd attempted to murder him needed to be brought to justice. His job. He had no doubt about what had happened to him, and that his job now was to clean Diggett Monroe's clan out of Endurance before they got too strong a foothold.

  Pain battered him as he swung his legs over the side of the bed. It made his head swim and his chest go into a paroxysm, a queer sound hissing in the straw. His vision turned opaque and, unable to help himself, he fell sideways, missing the pillow entirely and sprawling half on, half off the mattress. His heart was going fast as a train and his lungs heaved fit to break out of his chest.

  Easy, he reminded himself, forcing back the dread rising in him. The sound of his laboring lungs grew louder. He struggled to call out, the noise turning into a mewling little squeak. But he was Pelham Birdsall, sheriff of Garnet County, Idaho, and he was not a man to give up trying.

  Pure stubborn will forced his ragged breathing gradually to ebb. Once he thought he could stand it, Pel slowly let down his legs and put his feet flat on the floor for another attempt at standing.

  The laudanum Doc had forced between his lips earlier wasn't doing him much good. Mostly it made him dizzy and light-headed. Enough so he wasn't sure but what he needed to puke.

  Pel swayed where he sat. A blanket of black dropped over his brain.

  * * * *

  Delight Birdsall eyed the prisoner sitting on the cot with his head in his hands, thinking he could've been posing for a sad picture depicting a man who'd lost his last friend. A sunbeam, splintered into several parts by the bars over the foot-square window above him, centered on the hem of his left pant leg, grown ragged with hard wear. He wore an out-at-the-elbows shirt, and she saw his sand-brown hair was in need of cutting. All in all, he didn't look awfully dangerous. She had to remind herself he
was in jail for good reason.

  She stood outside his cell, more than a little nervous about serving the prisoner his breakfast. Although she'd been cooking and washing up after this man for six days already, today was the first time she'd laid eyes on him. It wasn't part of her duty to know or to care what he looked like, or even learn his name. Her task was to provide him with meals three times a day. Pel, showing a consideration sometimes lacking in his attitude toward his prisoners, had told her to fix plenty.

  "Don't think this boy's been feeding too high on the hog of late," he'd said by way of explanation.

  "Why is that?" she'd asked, not really interested.

  "Looks half-starved. I reckon he's just down on his luck and made some bad decisions, got in with the wrong bunch. Given the chance, I think he'll straighten out."

  To Delight's amusement, Pel had sounded almost embarrassed at being sympathetic.

  But then, it wasn't Pel's job to second guess Judge Fuller, or so he told her. The prisoner had ten days to serve in the Garnet County jail, and that was that. While a guest of the county, the prisoner's victuals would be the same as Pel and Delight ate, only, apparently, more of it.

  Delight realized she should have paid more attention when Pel talked about caring for the prisoners. Oh, not the food. She knew that was all right. But now her hands were taken up with a tray laden with fried eggs, spuds, bacon and toasted day-old bread, even after she'd set the hot coffee pot on Pel's desk. The cell's barred door was locked, and the key was in her apron pocket. How was she to get the meal inside the cell without giving the man a chance to jump her and escape?

  Presently, the scent of bacon teased the prisoner into lifting his head.

  "Ma'am." His face wore an expression that made a gravedigger look like a man anticipating a party. "Is Sheriff Birdsall dead? He looked pretty bad when they carried him through here last night."

  The question jolted Delight. Put into words, the observation hit hard, although she answered stoutly enough. "Of course he's not dead. Takes more than a sneaking bushwhacker to kill the sheriff."

  Even to herself she sounded like a small child shouting defiance. Pel had looked bad when Herschel and O'Hanlon and some of the other townsmen carried him in last night. She shuddered, remembering the blood and Pel's white, white face. He wasn't the picture of health right now either, but he was going to live. She'd make sure of that.

  "He'll be fine," she said.

  The prisoner stood up and walked the three steps over to the cell door. "He looked bad," he repeated. "Like he'd lost a lot of blood. I figured... Well, ma'am, you're here and he ain't."

  And wasn't that the truth? Here and pondering what she should do next.

  "Is that my breakfast?" he asked, after a pause where she could think of no reply.

  "It certainly isn't mine," she retorted, stiffly adding, "You stand back from the door, mister. Sit on the bed. I'm going to unlock your cell and scoot the tray in, but I'm warning you, I'm armed. Make one move and I'll blow your head off."

  An empty threat. As empty as the little derringer she'd forgotten to load, but which she habitually carried in her pocket according to Pel's instructions. Perhaps the prisoner would see the outline of it and take warning.

  "Yes, ma'am," he replied, too meek to be true. "Whatever you say."

  He backed to the cot and reseated himself, while she set the tray on the floor and fished for the key.

  "Tuck," he said.

  She looked up. "I beg your pardon?"

  "Name's Tuck Moon. Not used to being called mister. Just Tuck, like that friar feller in the Robin Hood story, only I ain't no priest."

  From what Delight had heard, he wasn't any Robin Hood either. More the blundering villager, himself in need of rescue.

  He watched her fumble putting the key in the lock, his face serious. "Think it goes in with the ragged part down," he said.

  Delight felt a flush bring heat to her cheeks. "Thank you."

  With the benefit of his advice, the door opened. She jammed her hand into her apron pocket, drawing his attention to the derringer, as she scooted the tray inside with her foot. "Stay where you are. I'll get the coffee."

  Keeping her eye on him, she retreated to Pel's desk where the pot anchored a stack of papers. She'd have to look at those, she supposed. See if there was anything in need of immediate attention. One document started off in Pel's neat, thick hand. Another thing to put on her list to complete while Pelham was laid up. If she could, she'd do it right after the prisoner had eaten his breakfast and she'd made certain Pel was still asleep. Doc said plenty of sleep and rest was the best thing for him and this once, she allowed Doc, drunk or not, might be right. Right for the second time, actually. As grotesque as it looked, the straw the old coot had stuck in the wound seemed to ease Pelham's breathing.

  The prisoner looked everywhere except at her as she warily approached him, carrying the steaming coffee pot.

  "Hold out the cup," she said.

  "Yes, ma'am." He breathed in the steaming fragrance of the freshly brewed Arbuckles Finest, an appreciative expression on his plain face. "You cook good coffee, Mrs. Birdsall."

  Something heavy enough to make the ceiling creak struck the floor above their heads. They both jumped. Delight, in the act of tilting the coffee pot, didn't notice the stream flowing over the prisoner's hand. He jerked back, shaking off the scalding flood.

  Delight's cry of "Pelham!" overrode Moon's imprecation. Heedless of spilled coffee, she dropped the pot on the floor and whirled, dashing from the cell and through the office to the stairway leading up to the family living quarters. Heart pounding in tempo with her feet, she took the steps two at a time, her full gingham skirt lifted high around her knees.

  She'd left the door to their rooms ajar when she went downstairs, the better to hear Pel if he called. She was doubly glad of the precaution as she flew across the front room and banged through the half-open door into the tiny bedchamber.

  At first she couldn't see Pelham, only the tumbled bedding and bloodstained sheets. Then, just beyond the foot of the bed, she caught sight of an out-flung hand.

  "Pel!"

  She rushed forward, only to stumble over his body in her haste.

  Chapter 3

  * * *

  Pel regained his senses almost as soon as he lost them, but after falling, he was too weak to rise. He lay on the floor with his face buried in the braided rag rug his wife had put down to take the chill off the cold floor of a morning. Small comfort. He heard Delight thumping up the stairs, feet landing only on every other tread. Hinges squealed on the bedroom door, thrown wide until the knob rebounded from the wall. His wife stood panting in the opening.

  Not that Pel could see her, exactly, but he recognized those little brown boots of hers, so narrow it hardly seemed a human foot could fit inside. They were on a level with his eyes.

  "Pel," she cried, hastening over, "what do you think you're doing?"

  Dropping to her knees beside him, she didn't wait for an answer. Just as well, seeing as he'd lost the ability to speak. Now if only he'd lose the ability to feel. The wound in his chest had broken loose, the straw yanked free with hot blood soaking through the bandages Doc had wrapped around him earlier. A wonder there was any liquid left in his body, the way it had been leaking out.

  With some difficulty, Delight rolled him onto his back. Whatever she saw must have been ugly because of the way she sucked in air and hissed it right back out.

  "If I lift, do you think you can get into bed?" she asked.

  Since he was looking up at her, he saw the dismay written across her heart-shaped face. She was a bit of a woman; he a good-sized man. Though it galled him, he managed a shake of his head, aware the way his breath wheezed and faltered frightened her, but there wasn't anything he could do about it. He plain didn't have the strength.

  "I was afraid of that." Blindly, she reached onto the bed until she found a pillow, lifted his head and slipped it underneath. Her hands darted, tuggin
g and pulling, adjusting the bandage and putting pressure on his chest until he came near fainting. At last she stopped.

  "Better?"

  He let his eyes answer for him.

  "I didn't think so." She lunged to her feet, her hands red with his blood. "Stay here. I'll get help."

  He tried to smile at her, although he was it afraid it turned his face into a death's head grimace. But it was funny, what she'd said. He knew he wasn't going anywhere. So did she.

  Delight fled the room like her skirt was on fire. Pelham settled down to wait for her return while pain washed over him.

  It was too bad, he thought, the silence a fizzy white in his ears, but he couldn't hear the birds anymore.

  * * * *

  Tuck Moon's scalded hand turned bright red and stung like blazes. He blew on it, then righted the coffee pot before all the liquid could seep through the cracks in the cement floor. Although the cell door stood wide, he fetched his breakfast and took the plate back to his cot, where he sat and ate his eggs and fried spuds fast as he could swallow. No sense in wasting Mrs. Birdsall's good cooking.

  Before long, he heard her light footsteps galloping down the stairs. Forewarned, he crammed the last piece of toast in his mouth, swallowed a gulp of coffee and gathered the handful of bacon.

  He put the plate aside just as Mrs. Birdsall stopped outside his cell.

  "I forgot to lock up," she said, guilt in her swift glance around. "But I see you're still here."

  "Yes, ma'am. Didn't want to miss my breakfast." He bit a bacon slice in half. "Is the--"

  "I need your help." Her words were abrupt, shrill.

  Something in the way she stood caught Tuck's attention. She held her hands stuck straight down at her sides like they were foreign to her body. As her skirt swung aside, he saw blood coated her fingers.