"My hunters supply the café with meat," Green said, frowning. "There isn't a thing wrong with it. Been eating it myself, and so has my family."
"Oh," said Boomer. "Well, something made me sick."
"What nonsense." Mrs. Birdsall pointed her finger at him. "You aren't sick, Mr. Herschel. You're drunk. I can smell you all the way across the room."
Green's nose wrinkled and he nodded. "Pretty potent, Boomer," he said. "I never knew as anybody could do their job right in that condition."
Tuck looked down at the toes of his boots. Score a hand for Mrs. Birdsall.
"What's more," she continued, "Mr. Herschel abandoned Mr. Moon in his cell. Left a prisoner alone and unprotected where any stray bullet could've killed him. Since his time is up this evening," she explained to Mayor Green, "Pel thought I should let him out an hour or so early. He volunteered to sweep up this glass before someone gets cut."
Tuck figured this was a hint he should hunt up a broom, but she stayed him. Her eyes rolled upward where a faint, indeterminate noise was nearly drowned by Boomer's roar of denial, he, at last, having caught up with events.
"I wish you'd start on the upstairs first, Mr. Moon," she said, ignoring Herschel's noise, "while I discuss matters with the mayor. There's a lot of breakage up there, too. I'm sure my husband will be relieved to see you safe and unhurt. He was worried."
She put an emphasis on the "worried" part that told Tuck he wasn't the one anybody was fussing about. Slick, that maneuver, getting him out of Herschel's sight and sending help to her husband.
"Yes, ma'am," he said. There was another moan overhead, a little louder this time, although he and she seemed to be the only ones heard it. Herschel was making too much of a racket himself, and Green was, fortunately, busy talking. Tuck thought maybe he always did plenty of that.
Tilting his head, Tuck listened harder, deciding Sheriff Birdsall was saying his wife's name over and over as if he wasn't quite aware what was going on. Spying a broom standing in a corner, Tuck snatched it up and hustled toward the stairs.
* * * *
Delight's biggest fear was Mayor Green guessing Pel was too sick to have spoken at all, let alone told her to fire Herschel and alter Moon's sentence. She supposed it depended in part on what Doc Miller had been saying around town. Fact is, the mayor was a little slow-witted if he didn't guess Pel's true condition, but for the moment he seemed content to take her story at face value. Perhaps because he plain wanted to believe her. Which made her answer to his next question, which was a little too pointed for her liking, all the more important.
"When is Pel gonna be up and around?" he asked. "Be some mighty unhappy residents if those hooligans of Diggett Monroe's come into town every day or so and shoot the place up. They're bound to kill somebody sooner or later, aside from the property damage they've already caused these last few days. The sheriff's office isn't the only place had the windows shot out. Schmidt's been closing his store right after noon what with his missus laid up. Most everybody keeps their doors shut unless they know who's there. People want to know what's being done about it."
Him most of all, she deduced. It was the query she'd been dreading.
"The sheriff is improving every day." She forced a smile. "He's already champing at the bit to get back at work. My, you should've seen him, Mayor Green. He was so angry about this shooting he reared up out of bed as though to take them on by himself."
And would've, she considered, if he hadn't passed out the moment he tried to stand.
Green nodded. "Sounds like Pel, all right. Hard to keep a man like him down long enough to heal. He has a strong sense of duty and likes a quiet town, I'll give him that. Which is the reason he got elected. But, ma'am, we can't do without an able-bodied sheriff. If Pel isn't able to do the job, we'll have to find someone who can."
Delight nodded her head as though agreeing. Some loyalty, she thought. Let a man be hurt on the job and then kick him when he's down.
"You needn't be concerned," she said. "Pelham is an excellent supervisor."
"I know he is," the mayor agreed. "But who has he got to supervise? Without Herschel, who's going to handle the job until Pel is fit? What are we going to do if Monroe and his yahoos come back in the next few days to finish tearing the town to pieces?"
"You folks need me," Herschel said. "I been arresting troublemakers 'most every night, and keeping the peace fine and dandy."
Delight waved away this notion. "Troublemakers, indeed. Only the habitual drunkards that Pel usually sees home where they'll do no harm. There's no point in the county having to feed them." Or adding to her burden. She kept this reflection to herself.
Another notion struck the mayor and he glared at Herschel, his eyebrows wiggling. "If it wasn't Monroe's men shot you, who was it?"
Herschel's litany of woe dried like a plugged up drain.
Green waited, then said, "Well?"
"An accident," Herschel mumbled. His head hung until his chin rested on his chest, or would have but for the double roll of flesh preventing it. "Happened so fast I don't rightly remember how it came to be."
"I remember," Delight said. "You shot yourself while trying to strike me in retaliation for dismissing you for drinking on the job."
"What?" This time Green's eyebrows lifted almost into his hairline and crawled away. "Say again? Herschel hit you?"
"Mr. Herschel is a little quick with his fists. Oh, don't worry." Delight smiled at the mayor. "I dodged him. But unbeknownst to him, I was carrying Pel's Colt at the time, and his hand struck that instead of me. The gun went off. As Mr. Herschel says, accidentally, of course."
"Of course." Green was silent a moment before his eyebrows waggled again. "Wisht I'd been here to see it. Must've been right funny."
Delight didn't believe she viewed the situation in quite the same way, and it was certain Boomer Herschel didn't. He burst into a frenzy of low-voiced cursing, the upshot of which was that he was sorry he hadn't knocked Delight's pearly white teeth down her throat.
The mayor's eyes about popped out of his head and he sent a wary glance toward the stairs, as if expecting Pel to come charging down them, bloody vengeance in mind.
"Here! Hush that kind of talk, Herschel. You looking to get yourself killed?" The mayor shook his head. "Takes a crazy man to talk about Pelham Birdsall's wife that way."
Herschel scowled. "Yeah? What's he gonna do about it? He's weak as--"
"You can see for yourself, Mayor." Delight's voice rose over Herschel's. "Mr. Herschel is insubordinate. Another cause for dismissal. Pel is well able to give orders while he's laid up, but he needs someone he can trust to carry those instructions out. Obviously, Mr. Herschel is not the man."
Mayor Green scratched his head. "I see what you mean."
Herschel's face was vicious as he turned toward her. He had nothing more to say about his wound. "This town can't do without me. Birdsall dies, what're you gonna to do? Be out on your ear, maybe on the streets, looking for someone to take care of you, is what."
"Here," Mayor Green said. "Easy, man. I'm warning you. Watch your mouth in front of the lady."
"Lady? What lady?" Herschel said. "Ask her why she's so friendly with that no-account drifter been stuck in jail? She sure ain't treating him like no prisoner I ever saw."
"Mr. Herschel!" Delight's jaw dropped in incredulous wrath. Her shoulders trembled under the effort of not lifting Pel's Colt and shooting the deputy--former deputy--for real. A shot between the eyes sounded tempting right now, and no more gruesome than the way the morning had started off. She was becoming quite hardened.
Green grunted, then turned to the former deputy. "That's uncalled for, Herschel. I completely understand why Pel fired you. I just hope it's the liquor doing the talking and you'll think better of your words when you sober up."
"Fired? You're letting that woman fire me?"
The mayor shrugged. "I think you're lucky to be getting the news secondhand without it being Birdsall standing here. Best count
your blessings."
"Blessings, my foot." Herschel shook with fury. "I ain't done here. You wait and see."
Delight, her anger cold, said, "That's enough, Mr. Herschel. I'll thank you to leave the premises."
She would've felt better, though, if she thought that, when Herschel finally shambled out the door, she'd really seen the last of him. Doubt filled her. Especially as his last words on leaving were, "You'll be sorry, missus. Count on it."
"'Fraid you've made an enemy of Herschel, Mrs. Birdsall," Green commented uneasily.
"Yes." And Green, she saw, a sinking sensation in the pit of her stomach, was planted in the middle of the office floor like he was putting down roots. The mayor, it seemed, wanted answers, even though his initial question held little to alarm her. Most of his attention appeared centered on inspecting the recent damage done to the sheriff's office. Shattered wood and broken glass. Holes shot into the wall. But no lives lost. That's what counted.
Delight sighed. The cost of damages had better not come out of Pelham's pocket.
"What did Pel have to say about paying that bounty money to Garrett Sorenson?" Green started the conversation offhandedly as he tromped around, inspecting the office and the cell block. He poked a thick forefinger into a bullet hole next to the cell that had been Tuck Moon's home for the past ten days and pried out a slug. "Probably .50-caliber," he muttered, as though to himself. "Loaded for bear, and a big silver-tip at that."
The mayor's preoccupation suited Delight. Even better was that she had described the grisly load Sorenson's packhorse had carried into town to Pel this morning while she changed his bandages. Her report helped take Pel's mind off what she was doing, and now she had an easy reply made up of Pel's opinion ready on her tongue.
"Pelham doesn't approve of these 'dead or alive' circulars," she said. Bending down, she pulled a spike of glass from the side of her shoe before it pierced all the way through the leather into her foot. "He says they create more problems than they solve. Who's to say the dead man Mr. Sorenson brought in wasn't simply murdered for the reward money.
"In this case, we're certain he was a bad man, but sometimes a dodger goes out on people who haven't yet been brought to trial. Innocent until proven guilty, or so the law says. Only some folks would rather not wait."
Green nodded. "Hard to be patient when it's your livelihood being stolen away. If Pel had been on the job, the shooting might not have happened. Sorenson might've thought twice about taking on an outlaw and done the prudent thing. Which is, called the sheriff. Boomer has a point, Mrs. Birdsall. With Monroe's men riding wild all over the country, we have need of someone who can look after the county as well as patrol the streets here in town. Under Pel's supervision, of course," he added as a kind of afterthought. "Who is there we can trust to take over until Pel heals--or if he doesn't? Who has experience?"
Delight gulped. She didn't much care for the mayor's phrasing. "I assure you Pelham will soon heal, Mayor. The town owes him a bit of patience." Too late, she realized the cold anger in her voice wouldn't do Pel's case any good. Fortunately, Green either didn't notice or he decided to overlook her ire.
"Patience is my middle name, Mrs. Birdsall." There was a slight flush in the mayor's cheeks and his eyebrows were wiggling again. "But it ain't just me. Folks are worried, ma'am, about their lives and their property. About what to do if Monroe goes on a rampage."
Anger washed through her. What about Pel's life, endangered because of them and their property? What about her life, if she should lose her husband?
Drat, Delight thought, and barely restrained herself from saying out loud the curse words she'd used before. Just hearing the words inside her head didn't have the same effect as when spoken aloud. She didn't feel one whit better.
Chapter 8
* * *
Pel guessed trouble of some kind had found them when he heard Delight climbing the stairs. Instead of her usual light tread, her footsteps dragged.
Trouble for sure, though not what he'd imagined when he'd roused to find himself alone and lying on the bedroom floor surrounded by broken glass.
He'd feared Delight had been killed by bullets penetrating the building's outer wall, and for a moment he cursed a construction of puny clapboard siding tacked to two-by-fours. He called out before it struck him the only blood in sight was his own old stains. And then he heard the murmur of her voice below, and the vibration of Boomer Herschel's bray followed by a single gunshot. Then more yelling. He wasn't reassured. Frustration clawed at him as he called out again, struggling to rise.
Tuck Moon had done that--the reassuring, he meant--when the rail-thin former prisoner showed up carrying a broom like it was a lance he meant to skewer somebody with. But not, evidently, Pelham.
"Looks like you could use a hand," Tuck said.
Pel nodded, disgusted with himself. "Reckon I could."
Tuck propped the broom against the doorjamb and approached Pel, who, by this time, was on his hands and knees, rocking to and fro trying to get enough momentum to push himself up. Tuck knelt beside the sheriff and got Pel's best arm over his shoulders, then stood up real slow, drawing Pel with him.
Moon was stronger than he looked, Pel realized, the man's long-sleeves hiding whipcord muscles under the faded fabric. He hefted Pel over to the bed easy as you please and let him down.
Pel shuddered. "Thanks." A minute ticked by until the pinwheels quit whirling in his head and the pain faded.
"What was that shot?" he asked finally. "My missus not hurt, is she?"
"No, sir." Moon's mouth crooked into a grin. "It's your deputy--former deputy, I should say--come up on the short end of the stick."
"Former deputy?"
"Yep. Your missus fired him, and he took offense. Howsomever, getting hurt is his own fault."
"My wife fired Boomer Herschel?" Pel had a hard time trying to keep up.
"Sure did. Missus Birdsall"--Moon shook his head admiringly--"she's something else. Herschel ought to have known better than to take her on."
"Explain," Pel ordered, and Moon complied.
Pel came near to groaning out loud when the story was done, though not from physical pain. What a burden he'd put on his young wife. And all because he hadn't moved fast enough when the shot came out of that dark alley. He should've been expecting something of the sort. He'd been warned about the strangers taking over the Bucket of Sudz, drinking and talking rough, even before meeting the man who'd spoken out.
He'd ignored the rumor of a feller messing with O'Hanlon's barmaid, who was a pretty tough cookie herself. He ought to have guessed trouble was on the way right then, before he ever saw that Thoroughbred horse, before the debacle at Schmidt's Mercantile. The warnings had been there.
His hands clenched. Now here he was flat on his back and couldn't even protect his own wife from an uncouth deputy.
"So I reckon it's a good thing for Herschel you ain't up to a round of chastising just yet," Moon concluded. "Else he'd have somethin' a whole lot worse than a bitty scratch across his ribs."
Pel snuffed in a furious breath. "Reckon you're right."
A few minutes later they heard the mayor leave and, after a short wait while Pel imagined the worst, Delight stepped into the bedroom, her smile deceptively brilliant. He could tell right off she was concealing something from him. He'd never seen her with an expression like the one on her face right then, and he wasn't any too sure he approved of it. Especially when she replaced his pistol in the holster draped over the bedpost and gave it a little pat.
"There now," she said, as if she'd just finished doing a week's worth of laundry.
From beside him, Pel heard Tuck make a low sound in his throat. Laughter? From Moon? "Mrs. Birdsall," Pelham said, "what have you done?"
If anything, her smile deepened and a bright spot on each of her cheeks glowed. Nerves. He recognized the symptoms.
"Done?" She acted as innocent as one of her tabby's kittens. The smile, which had begun to droop, lifted again. "W
hy, nothing, Pelham. Yet. I'm in the process of hiring a deputy is all--and with your permission, of course."
Pel's eyes narrowed. "A deputy?"
"Yes. I'm sure Mr. Moon has told you about Mr. Herschel. I'm also sure you agree we can't get along without a trustworthy deputy."
And then, before Tuck Moon could dodge, duck, or otherwise fend her off short of clubbing her, she stood on tiptoe and stabbed the pin of the deputy sheriff's badge through Tuck's shirt. Pel saw a tiny shred of cloth left from its previous owner still caught in the clasp. A shred that matched Boomer's old tan shirt.
Tuck's hand went up and covered the badge. "You mean me?" He looked as shaken as a churn full of buttermilk. "No, ma'am. Not me. You'd be making a big mistake. I ain't a good candidate for the job."
Pel could've told him he might as well save his breath. For the first time mirth bubbled up in him. That would teach Tucker Moon to admire his wife's bravado. Looked like Delight had her mind made up who the next deputy would be, and she wasn't giving the poor feller any say in the matter.
Or him either, come to think of it.
* * * *
If he'd been a man given to panic, Tuck might've run when Mrs. Birdsall reached for him the way she did. Fled the sheriff's office and the bonds he felt tightening around him. He ought to have hied his way over to the livery stable where he'd left his horse that night ten days ago--if they hadn't sold ole Ripper by now to pay the gelding's feed bill--and ridden off into the sunset.
And yet...and yet there was something about the weight of the nickel-plated badge pulling against the threadbare cloth of his shirt that called to him. A promise of what might be a change in his fortunes. A chance to have folks looking up at him for once, instead of down. A glimmer of hope for a future.
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