Letter Of The Law

by C. J. Crigger

  "Ma'am?" Tuck's weight shifting from one foot to the other made the floor squeak and drew Mrs. Birdsall's gaze to him. "If you're through with me, I reckon I better go back down to my cell. Don't want Herschel here having apoplexy. Doc's got his hands full already."

  A faint smile quirked the corner of her lips. "No. We don't want that. Thank you, Mr. Moon. I appreciate your help with my husband."

  "You have any more trouble," Boomer Herschel burst out, "you come see me, ma'am. I'm in charge here, what with the sheriff laid up and all."

  Mrs. Birdsall had her husband's hand between both of hers, rubbing it as though sheer willpower would bring warmth and life to her man.

  "Then where were you this morning, Mr. Herschel?" she asked, her eyes fixed on the sheriff's drawn face. "Not here, I can vouch for that. I wasn't about to wait on your convenience, and the sheriff couldn't. I'll always do what is best for Pelham. You can count on that. Now, if you don't mind, my husband needs rest and quiet."

  It was easy to see her dismissal riled the deputy. He grabbed Tuck by the arm as if hoping for resistance, but Tuck knew better than to oblige. He left willingly enough, figuring the best thing for him was to do whatever Herschel said. He even hoped these folks would forget he was around--except at mealtime. Mrs. Sheriff was a good and generous cook. But for his part, he figured he'd be better off if he never laid eyes on her again.

  * * * *

  At noon, Boomer Herschel ambled down the street toward Rose's café where an outdoor menu board announced elk stew as the daily special. Elk stew was, in plain fact, the special nearly every day, which appeared to be fine by Herschel since he smacked his lips in a disgusting manner every time it was mentioned.

  As soon as Delight saw him leave, she brought Tucker Moon's dinner down to him. She found the prisoner sitting on the cot, looking glum as glum could be with his head hanging low. Unlocking the cell and leaving it open behind her, she handed him the tray, getting a good view of his face when he looked up to thank her. A burgundy-colored shiner was developing around his right eye, and there was an open cut on his forehead.

  "Oh, Lordy me." She rocked back on her heels and breathed out hard through her nose. "That man...that despicable... How badly are you hurt, Mr. Moon?"

  "Reckon I'll live, ma'am. Thank you." He took the tray from her shaking hands and settled it on his lap.

  "I'm so sorry." She felt like the bottom had just dropped out from under her. How in the world was she to contend with a...a...peckerwood like Duncan Herschel along with everything else? "This is my fault. I saw the way he was acting and should've known he'd do something rotten. I'll fetch a bandage and some witch hazel for that bruise. And I'll speak to Mr. Herschel when he returns."

  Moon shook his head. "Best pretend you didn't notice anything, Mrs. Sheriff."

  "How could I not notice?"

  "Don't know. Just best if you don't." He held up his empty cup. "Do I smell coffee?"

  "Yes, sorry. I set it down over there." She hurried to fetch the big coffeepot from the office desk where she'd left it, which gave her a moment to think. Was Moon right? Should she ignore Herschel's behavior? God knows she, Pel, and the whole town really were going to have to depend on him until Pel was on his feet again. But, glory, it went against the grain.

  "Don't worry yourself, ma'am," Moon said as she filled his cup. He studied the plate of fried chicken, garden tomatoes and soft brown bread. Leftovers, but there was plenty of it. "Looks mighty fine."

  "You could sit at the desk, if you like. Be more like a table."

  He shook his head. "Best not. Wouldn't want the deputy coming back unexpected and getting down on me for being out of my cell again. He wouldn't like it." He rubbed a spot above his kidneys that made him wince. "Guess I wouldn't like all that much, either. I don't want to cause any trouble. 'Sides, it wouldn't look right if somebody was to come along and see me sitting there bold as brass."

  "Oh." She frowned. "I didn't think. I suppose you're right. Will you be all right with Mr. Herschel after this? Is there anything I can do?"

  "Naw. Herschel, he carries on some, but he ain't so tough."

  She'd seen his wince. "Are you sure?" At his nod, she sighed. "At least you have only a few more days to serve. I wouldn't want to upset that."

  He took hold of a chicken leg and started gnawing. "No, ma'am. Me neither."

  Their conversation ended when a commotion out front sent Delight hurrying to see what was happening. She found Mr. Schmidt, owner of the mercantile across the street, pushing into the sheriff's office looking cocky and belligerent. His wife, red of face and outweighing her husband by a good fifty pounds, accompanied him. They were followed by Mr. Sheridan from the blacksmith's shop and Mr. O'Hanlon, who owned the saloon in which she'd found Doc Miller earlier.

  O'Hanlon had a sawed-off shotgun in his hands and was using it to prod yet another man--a stranger--between the shoulder blades. The stranger appeared quite unhappy, perhaps with reason judging by a velvety black shiner--worse even than the one Tuck Moon was sporting--surrounding his left eye. And considering the 10-gauge aimed at his back, of course.

  "Good day." Delight cast an all encompassing look over her visitors and chose one fact to comment upon. "Mrs. Schmidt, what has happened to your arm?" The woman wore it cocked up in a sling made of two bright blue handkerchiefs tied together.

  At her question, Mrs. Schmidt's face grew even redder. "Dis one," she said, tapping the stranger's shoulder and nearly knocking him over. "Voman killer!"

  Mr. Schmidt pushed forward. "Hush, Mutter. I vill the talking do. This one"--he also pummeled the bound man--"he vas running avay last nacht. I am bringink him back."

  "Pardon me?" Delight asked.

  "The sheriff, this iss his prisoner."

  "It is?"

  "He iss shoot me," Mrs. Schmidt chimed in.

  "He did?" Delight blinked, for a moment thinking the woman meant Pel before the light dawned. "Oh, I see. This man... Your poor arm. Will you be all right?"

  Mrs. Schmidt scowled. "Nein. I cannot cook. I cannot vater carry. I cannot the customers help. Schwein hund." She glared at the prisoner who, like a nervous horse dodging a spur, sidled to safety behind Sheridan, a man large enough to provide some cover.

  O'Hanlon gestured with his shotgun. "I was just stepping out of my saloon when I saw the sheriff shot down last night," he said. "Looked like he'd arrested this feller and was bringing him over to the lockup. Quick as could be, Honest Abe here decided to beat it, even wearing handcuffs, so when I saw Sheriff Birdsall had help on the way, I followed the prisoner and recaptured him. Takes a man braver than this one is to argue with a shotgun. Anyhow, I saw you folks were a little busy, so I locked him in my back room overnight."

  Mr. O'Hanlon, with his high color, appeared quite pleased with himself, barely suppressing his excitement.

  "Well done," Delight said. "Mr. O'Hanlon, I truly appreciate your service. But I'm certain you'd rather hand him over to the sheriff's custody now." Her next question was for Mrs. Schmidt. "Do I understand this gentleman was attempting an armed robbery and that is when he shot you?"

  Mrs. Schmidt shook her head, but at a nudge from her husband said, "Yah. Voman killer."

  "And I witnessed the whole shebang," Mr. Sheridan said, "more or less. Seen the thief go into the store. Heard the shots and the yellin', seen Sheriff Birdsall go runnin' up and make his arrest."

  "I see." Delight fumbled with the key, still in her apron pocket. "I'll book him into jail on charges of attempted armed robbery and assault then." Her eyes narrowed on the blacksmith. "And did you see who shot my husband, Mr. Sheridan?"

  "No, ma'am," he mumbled, avoiding her gaze. "I didn't see that."

  "How's the sheriff doing?" O'Hanlon asked, as Delight indicated he should escort the prisoner into the lockup. She opened the door to the cell next to the one where Tuck Moon sat chewing bread and a chicken thigh.

  The question made Delight hesitate. "I'm sure he'll be back on his feet soon,"
she said, her attention on the key as O'Hanlon pushed the protesting stranger into the cell. She locked the door.

  The prisoner gripped the cell's bars with his cuffed hands and shook them. "Sheriff's a dead man. Now or two days from now. He's a dead man."

  Delight sucked in air, her hands curling into knots, although she managed to ignore him as she shooed the saloonkeeper back into the outer office. From behind her, Tucker Moon said, "You shut up." His voice was low and soft, and she didn't think the others heard.

  Meanwhile, O'Hanlon busied himself by breaking open his shotgun and checking the loads. "Lordy, I hope Pel's up and around soon," he said. "We need him on the job. Now worse 'n ever."

  Sheridan rubbed a large hand over his beard as Mr. Schmidt nodded solemn agreement. "Seen more riffraff in town like the prisoner we brought in today. A few're already drunk and causing trouble, insulting the ladies and running off legitimate business. Somebody's gotta get out there and run them off."

  He sounded accusatory, as if he thought Pel should rise from his sickbed and do it. The blacksmith looked around. "Where is Herschel, if I might ask?"

  "I believe he's over at the café," Delight said.

  O'Hanlon snorted. "Yeah. Feedin' his face, as usual. Herschel don't get too far from the trough, and that's a fact. Pel better let him know there's work to be done. If the two of 'em can't handle this bunch, we've got to find somebody who can. Quick, too. Maybe I'd better talk to the mayor. Bucket of Sudz is the only place in town making any money right now."

  Anger flared behind Delight's placid demeanor. There'd been little concern shown for Pel's condition. Profit seemed to be the only thing these people cared about.

  "I'll remind the sheriff to speak to Deputy Herschel," she said.

  The group showed signs of leaving then. Relieved, she escorted them to the door. The Schmidts were still giving a blow-by-blow account of the attempted robbery in their stilted English, Sheridan was worrying about economics, and O'Hanlon was puffing on about his heroism in capturing the prisoner as they went their separate ways.

  A search through the desk drawer revealed Pel's arrest book, where she wrote down the date, circumstances, charges, and the witness's names in her beautiful handwriting. One thing was lacking. Dreading another confrontation with the disagreeable man, she took a sustaining breath and, carrying writing implements, headed back to the cells.

  "How about taking these cuffs off me?" The new prisoner stood pressed against the bars thrusting his hands toward her, causing her to flinch. Although his grin looked evil, what with his lip catching on a crooked tooth, she felt a little sympathy. He was a large-boned man, and the cuffs had rubbed his wrists raw.

  She flourished her pencil. "Of course. As soon as I take down a few particulars. Your name, please, and then your home address." Her pencil poised over the paper.

  "Cain't talk," he whined. "The pain. I'm hurtin' powerful bad."

  Her eyes met his, flinched and dropped. "Is that so?"

  "Yes, ma'am." The grin was back.

  Delight sucked in her stomach and starched her spine. "Yet you just now used more words than it would take to answer my questions." Her voice crisped. "From which behavior I can only assume you're trying to play on my sympathies--if I had any. I'd guess you're a wanted man, sir. Own up to it, and I'll remove the cuffs. Otherwise, wear them. It's up to you."

  Tucker Moon ambled over to the front of his cell and pushed his empty plate under the door. "Might as well tell her who you are," he said. "You'll find she's a mighty stubborn lady. Hard."

  He winked with his left eye, visible only to her.

  "We'll see who's hard." The outlaw shook the door, the metal cuffs rattling on the iron. "That saloon keeper paraded me right through town. Soon's the boss hears about this, he'll get me outta here. It'll be quick." He pressed his face against the bars. "You better hope you're someplace else along about then, missus. The boss ain't got no patience with women like you."

  His threat about curdled Delight's blood. Feeling more than a little chilled by his confidence, she picked Moon's plate up from the floor. Fighting to keep her voice level, she said, "We'll see about that. But I thank you for the warning." With that, she swept out, closing the door between the jail's two rooms. Let the man suffer bound hands; she didn't care.

  * * * *

  "Looks to me like you about cooked your own goose," Tuck told his fellow prisoner when Mrs. Sheriff had gone. "Them steel bracelets are apt to get kind of uncomfortable after a while."

  "Well, hell, I kept that barkeep buffaloed all night. Couldn't let no female get the better of me, could I?"

  Tuck shrugged. "A matter of opinion, I guess." He laid down on his cot and put his arms behind his head. "You're Schoefield, aren't you? Seen you over to Garnet City when I stopped over."

  The other man peeked at Tuck out of his good eye. "That's me, all right. Who're you? What they got you locked up for?"

  "Tuck Moon's the name. Seems I drank a little too much red-eye one night a week or so ago. Took a pistol away from some young swell waving it around in the Bucket of Sudz. He was even drunker than me, and I was scared he'd shoot somebody--like me."

  Schoefield perked up. "Did he?"

  "Nah. One way or another, the Sudz got its ceiling decorated, though. Six shots placed so they look just like a flower." Tuck grinned. "If you sight in at 'em just right."

  "So what happened to the other feller?"

  "Aw, I didn't hurt him much. Judge gave him half my sentence. He sailed outta here a couple days ago." Tuck yawned. "Best if you don't rile Mrs. Sheriff, though, if you wanta eat. Food's been real good here."

  "Yeah," Schoefield said. "I heard about the food."

  Tuck thought about that. "Funny thing to be talking about. Who told you?"

  Schoefield laughed right out loud. "That fat deputy. He cadged a drink off me yesterday before I ran outta cash. He said that made us friends. A real cozy kind of feller, ain't he?"

  Fingering his bruised eye, Tuck didn't disagree. "Real cozy." But what he actually wondered was how good of a friend one drink bought?

  Chapter 5

  * * *

  Hazy with pain and drugs, Pelham Birdsall's sense of time blurred. An endless parade of light and dark passed over him. He suffered agony, then the temporary relief of agony. In a vague way, he remembered Doc patching him up a second time, sticking another of those straws into his chest, then dosing him with enough laudanum to down a horse. After that, Pel wasn't any too sure but what he wasn't floating on a blanket of cloud--the cloud sometimes buffeted by storms. Didn't figure he was anywhere near heaven, though. No, sir. He wasn't ready to leave this world just yet and he knew the good Lord wasn't ready to take him in.

  Besides, Delight wouldn't let him go.

  How many times had Pel come to himself and found Delight glued to that old rocking chair beside the bed, keeping watch over him? She'd told him not to talk when he tried to tell her what to do if he died. Sell their land. Go live in a civilized city somewhere.

  "You won't die, Pel. I promise." She'd sounded fierce.

  "If..." he'd wheezed out.

  "No ifs," she'd said. "You're not dying."

  Her hand on his kept him tethered to life, the hold tenuous. He was pretty sure night had come and gone twice before she even changed out of the dress she wore the evening he was shot, his blood stiffening one side of it. Must've caused her a share of discomfort, too, clothed in such unsavory garb and her being so fastidious. But she never complained. Only set to and did her duty by him like any good wife who cared for her husband.

  Cared for her husband. The idea poured strength into him until he almost believed it might be true. He hadn't always thought so.

  Her concern brought a weak smile to his lips and lifted his battered spirits, but shame pushed at him, too. Shame at being caught off guard and letting some low-down bushwhacker gun him down on the streets of his own town. Ashamed of putting a load like this on his wife when all he wanted was to protect her
. When her pa had been on his deathbed, Pel'd promised faithfully he'd keep her safe. Strange how life got twisted around. Now it was him on a deathbed--or near to--and Delight taking care of him. What would Sheriff Tom Regal, his father-in-law, have thought?

  * * * *

  With Pelham asleep, Delight hurried in preparing the prisoners' noon meal. She piled two plates with beef steak, spuds and corn on the cob, and added a side-dish of simple custard pudding with berries on top. All told, the men in the Garnet County jail would have no reason to complain about the eating arrangements. Although the man O'Hanlon and Schmidt had brought in would no doubt find something scathing or lewd or both to say to her. And Herschel, the ass, would no doubt stand behind her laughing, just like he had when she'd delivered breakfast this morning. She'd noticed the prisoner had shed his handcuffs, which now hung out of Herschel's back pocket.

  But the office was empty when she toted the heavy tray down the stairs. Which was fine with her, since it meant Herschel wouldn't be stealing the other men's meals. Resting the tray on her hip, she struggled with fitting the key in the newcomer's cell door, and it wasn't until the door swung open at her touch that she realized anything was wrong.

  "Oh, dear heaven!" she gasped out, dishes rattling as she stepped back. "He's escaped."

  She didn't mean Tucker Moon. He was still there, sitting on his cot. Seeing her consternation, he rose and came forward.

  "I remember locking that man up after breakfast," she said. "I know I did. How can he have escaped?"

  "He didn't escape, ma'am. The deputy turned him loose."

  "What?" Delight's voice cracked.

  "Deputy turned him loose," Moon repeated.

  "Why? On whose authority?"

  "Guess you'd have to ask the deputy." Moon swung open his cell door, proof Herschel hadn't been overly concerned about either of his charges. "That my dinner? Smells good."