Letter Of The Law

by C. J. Crigger

  "You think you can take Diggett? Reckon he'll be tickled." Happy raised his rifle. "But I'll give you a warning in return, Tuck Moon. You, Birdsall, or whoever--if Diggett wants something, he goes right after it. Don't matter who tries to stop him."

  "What does Diggett want?" Now we're getting somewhere, Tuck thought. Now maybe he'd find out why Birdsall had been gunned down, if not exactly who done it, and why Filmore and his partner had shot up the jail.

  "Don't tell me you ain't heard," Happy said. "But just so there's no misunderstandin', I'll tell you plain out. My brother has taken a liking to Endurance. Simple as that. He's decided to take it over--the whole shebang. Make it his town. You don't think my brother is gonna stay in a hole like Garnet City, do you? That ain't his style. So, first Endurance, then who knows?"

  Tuck's breath sucked in. "Sounds like a politician," he said.

  The only reason Happy had told him all this, Tuck realized, was because he wanted Tuck Moon, and therefore Birdsall, to know. And that must mean the Monroe gang didn't think there was anything he or Birdsall could do to stop them. One more thing. Happy had already known Tuck'd been hired on as deputy. Who had told him? What little bird?

  Happy chortled. "Moon," he said, "I gotta give you credit. You're smarter than you let on." Then he sighed and looked about as woebegone as possible for a man with his attributes. "It's too bad--"

  There must have been a signal, although Tuck was too slow to see it. Before he could yank Ripper's head out of the grass and set him in motion, a paralyzing blow struck his elbow on the arm he'd been sneaking toward the shotgun. And then they came at him from all sides.

  Turned out there'd been three or four more of them lurking back there in the woods. Happy and Milt he could've handled, or so Tuck told himself in the second before they jerked him off Ripper's back and threw him to the ground. But this many were like a swarm of bees and he didn't stand a chance. Somebody swatted Ripper on the rump, startling the horse beyond reach of the saddle gun, and then they started in on him in earnest.

  Best he could tell, and he jerked his head out of the way before a fist took out some of his teeth, Happy stood back and let the boys have at him. Scooting on his rear with two of them clutching at his legs, Tuck made it as far as the big boulder, using the rock to brace his back as he regained his feet--almost. He didn't quite make it. A kick to his knee took him down, the sharp agony of the blow paralyzing. A ham-sized fist came at him from the side, thudded into his gut and stole his breath.

  Picking up a handful of loose dirt and pine needles from the ground, Tuck flung it into the face of the nearest man. Short satisfaction when the man backed off, yelling and scrubbing at his eyes. One less man made it easier for the others to reach him, but it gave him a little arm room, too. No time for finesse. Tuck swung a haymaker at the nearest body, pain shooting through his hand all the way to the shoulder as bone landed on bone. Somebody's nose gave way under his fist, and he was sure another man would soon have a bruise the size of his foot under his heart. Tuck recognized Luke Filmore as the man rushed at him. He got one good kick into the outlaw's groin, which took him out of the fight.

  For the most part, except for the man with dirt in his eyes, and Filmore gagging up his breakfast, the fight was silent. Grunts and the thud of fists were lost in the greater silence of the woods. A blow to his ear made Tuck's eyes cross and his head ring. After that, all sound washed out, becoming a roar that ran together.

  Though almost deafened and dizzy with it, he lashed out with boots, fists, and more than once with a head butt. Tuck fought hard, fought dirty, but panic made him wild and careless. With Filmore out of the scuffle, except for Milt Wheatley, the men were an unrecognizable blur. Eventually, they hurt him enough he had to stop. His leaden limbs no longer functioned. What breath he had screamed in his windpipe. He tasted blood and stared out through a red haze.

  To his surprise, they stopped short of killing him.

  Finally, Happy Monroe stepped in, catching Milt by the arm and spinning him away an instant before Milt's toe hooked Tuck under the chin and broke his neck.

  "Enough," Happy said, his voice a faraway buzz in only one side of Tuck's head. "Diggett said warn him off, not kill him. Townsfolk get a look at Moon's face, won't none of them want to risk the same. They'll roll over like pussycats, the whole bunch of them."

  "Already warned 'em with the sheriff," Milt grumbled. "How many chances they gonna get?"

  "Until Diggett says different." Happy's tone sharpened. "Filmore, cut your caterwauling and mount up. Walk if you ain't able to ride. Flett, have somebody wash your eyes out with water from a canteen. Call yourselves tough? You boys sound more like a ladies aid society meeting gone bad."

  Somebody--Milt, Tuck suspected--landed a final blow, a kick above the kidneys. He passed out then, for how many minutes he didn't know, regaining consciousness only with the stirring of horses around him. Unmoving--he wasn't about to swear that he could move--he lay on the ground, agony pulsing through every nerve, watching through one slitted eye as the men mounted up and left.

  He reckoned that as an object lesson, his appearance would work a treat.

  Chapter 9

  * * *

  The sun blazed down hot enough to cook a steak. Tuck regained consciousness with the light wavering beyond his closed eyelids. He moved cautiously, an inch at a time, feeling dazed and as if he'd been crushed under a steam locomotive.

  His arms moved at his command, bringing a swollen hand to his face. A cautious touch told him blood from a cut on his forehead had dried and crusted his lashes shut. The eye beneath was, he decided, intact, though puffed up like a mushroom. His left ear felt stuffed with cotton and ached with every heartbeat. The pounding he'd taken seemed to have happened a long time ago, but he wasn't sure. Today? Yesterday? He lay on his back in the dirt, and every muscle, bone, joint and blood vessel cried aloud at the abuse.

  Well, he thought a little later--or maybe a lot later--I'm not doing myself any good just a-laying here in the middle of the road. Groaning, he gathered himself, intending to sit up. The effort was too much. At the first spasm of his tortured muscles, he passed out again. After a while, a whuffle of wind in his hair penetrated his stupor. Velvet touched his cheek, soft at first, then more insistent.

  "Ripper," he croaked, recognizing the sensation. "You still here?"

  The horse snorted, slobbers splattering Tuck's face.

  Reaching out, Tuck grasped the horse around the leg and pulled himself up, each movement driving new agonies through him. How long it took to climb to his knees was beyond his reckoning, but he knew the cost to his body. If the horse had shied even once, Tuck would've been smack dab on his face again without the will to rise.

  But Ripper stood firm, and once Tuck had made it that far, he forced his arm through the stirrup and, using the saddle strings, dragged himself hand over hand until he stood more or less vertical. His gut was sore, his back worse where someone had used his boot, and he stayed bent over like an old, old man. He supposed he could blame Milt. It occurred to him now why nobody ribbed Milt too much when he missed those nineteen out of twenty shots. It was because Milt was a bruiser, valued for his fists and his feet if not his guns.

  Once upright, though sick as a poisoned pup and shaking fit to break his bones, Tuck found his canteen, the strap still draped over the saddle horn. The water, warm and tasting of tin, ran down his throat, cutting through a foul thickness. It settled in his stomach with only a slight upset. Encouraging. His innards, though sore as open wounds, apparently still worked. The real test would be his kidneys, when he felt up to testing them. But not yet.

  Tuck dumped water into his hand and scrubbed it over his face, freeing up the crusts gluing his eyelids together. Although his eye was badly swollen, which caused the trees and trail to blur around him, the water helped show he wasn't blind. Relief made him shake again. After sloshing the rest of the water over his head, he felt ready to mount Ripper.

  "Whoa there, ol
d nag." His voice croaked as he attempted to lift his foot into the stirrup. The effort was a fool's endeavor. After a few minutes he gave up and found a stump leftover from the rudimentary road-building to use as a mounting block. Eventually, he got a leg over Ripper's back, although the struggle wasn't pretty.

  He pointed the horse toward Endurance, the reins soon falling from his nerveless fingers, as he lost consciousness again. But by that time the horse's instinct had taken over and it headed back to the barn that had been its home for the past ten days. The good feed of timothy hay and a bait of oats every evening had trained Ripper well.

  * * * *

  Delight presumed she was the only one who recognized how much energy Pel expended simply sitting erect in the rocking chair. More, he put a grin on his sweating face and poured his strength into the handshakes with which he greeted Mayor Green, Herr Schmidt, and each of the three county commissioners who'd come to visit him.

  Was this a conference among friends? she wondered. Or were the commissioners deciding whether to override the election and fire Pel? Anger and dismay surged through her. Would they be that unfair?

  Before the visitors arrived, she'd buttoned Pel's shirt over his bandages and spread a blanket over his lap to conceal his lack of britches. Even between the two of them, they hadn't been able to manage getting his pants over his hips.

  "Tomorrow," he'd said, swearing. "I'm getting dressed tomorrow."

  But not today. In honor of these important guests, he limited himself to wearing only the shirt and his boots, toes sticking out beneath the blanket. Pray God he didn't fall out of the chair or his reputation would never recover.

  If it hadn't been for the sweat and his white, white face, he would've looked almost normal, if a bit thinner than usual. As it was, Delight stood behind him with her hands on his shoulders, trying to act as if she wasn't helping hold him in the chair. She didn't think any of the men noticed. They were too used to ignoring another man's wife, especially if she wasn't saying anything. And Delight had her lips locked tight as the tumblers on a cell door.

  "Explain this Moon fellow to me again." Commissioner DeWitt, a good man and a prominent citizen--he owned the bakery down the street, although it was his wife who did all the cooking--was not the brightest candle in the holder.

  For this meeting, Delight had placed kitchen chairs in a semi-circle around the rocker where Pel sat. Mayor Green, who'd chosen earlier to stand, sat down.

  "Met him right after those hooligans shot up the town," he said. "And then again this morning on his way out of town. Me and Schmidt. He's a quiet feller, didn't say much. You sure he's the man for the job, Pel? He didn't come across as real forceful like."

  Schmidt nodded. "To me, nothing he said."

  "Let's put it this way, Green," Pel said, "he's the only man I know of with the grit to be deputized. Can't be easy, what with everybody knowing I was ambushed. Scared most men off."

  "Herschel," Schmidt said. "Always I thought a good man he vas, experienced, pleasant. Laughs at jokes."

  "I won't tolerate any man who's disrespectful to my wife." Pelham put ice in his words. "As well as being lazy and a drunk."

  "Yes, but, Sheriff Birdsall, isn't it true this Moon had been in your jail? Also for drunkenness?" DeWitt asked.

  "Got a little wild when he first came in from the country." Pel wiped a trickle of sweat from the side of his face under the guise of brushing away a fly. "Not habitual with him. Herschel started drinking on the job and was, in fact, incapacitated when Monroe's bunch rode in. I won't stand for that."

  "He's an obnoxious son-of-a-gun, too," Green added, with a guilty glance at Delight. "Sorry, ma'am. Fellers, from what I saw, Birdsall did the right thing in firing him."

  Mayor Green seemed to have forgotten who had done the actual firing of Boomer Herschel, Delight noted, her hands tightening on Pel's shoulders. Which she and Pel had cause to appreciate. Bless his heart.

  Richard Hunt, Endurance's banker and leader of the commissioners, waved away the talk of hiring and firing. "What's done is done. It's you I'm concerned about, Birdsall. Are you able to do your job? If not, when will you be? You've been off a week and look what's happened already."

  It was like Hunt took a perverse pleasure in enumerating the problems. "Trouble with the deputy, town shot up, the episode over at Sheridan's stable. Then there's that deal with the rancher killing an outlaw--not but what he was justified--but it points out there's a bad element around wanting to prey on the citizens of Garnet County. We've got to know if you're fit enough to handle the situation."

  "Getting better every day," Pel said, which didn't quite answer the implied question.

  "Where is this Moon character?" DeWitt asked. "I'd like to meet him and see who we're dealing with. His name seems familiar to me, although I can't place him at the moment." Puffing out his chest, he added, "I prefer to judge a man for myself, face-to-face."

  "Moon'll be around." Pel nodded to DeWitt. "His purpose this morning is to get a line on those outlaws. We want to keep them from coming to town, you see. Moon and I, we'd like to settle this outside the city limits."

  Clearly, Pel's little speech is what the commissioners wanted to hear. Ambitious, optimistic, and unlikely to happen, in Delight's view, but she said nothing and schooled her expression to appear serene.

  "Very wise--if they leave you the choice." Hunt got to his feet, a move that drew the others up with him, Schmidt a little slower than the rest. "Well, Birdsall, I'm glad to see you up and around. I imagine you could ride with the best of them if you had to, but if you'll excuse me saying so, looks like you'd be better off not to ride anywhere for a while yet."

  "A couple of days," Pel said. "No longer."

  Pel's exhibition hadn't much fooled either Hunt or Mayor Green, Delight thought. But at least these two were giving him some time and warning.

  "Thanks for coming," Pel told each man, his assurance overly hearty. "I'll be here if you need me."

  "I'll let us out," Mayor Green said, leading the way as the men filed from the sheriff's living quarters and clomped down the stairs.

  Delight didn't relinquish her hold on Pel's shoulders until the commissioners and the mayor were out of hearing. Presently, when the office door slammed downstairs and she was sure they were truly gone, she sighed with relief and released him. With a groan muffled deep in his throat, Pel clutched at his chest and slumped forward, catching himself by grabbing one of the chair arms.

  Delight dropped to her knees beside him, unable to pretend she hadn't heard that pathetic groan or noticed how much paler he was. "I thought they'd never leave. Let me get your boots off so you can get back to bed."

  Pel grunted assent as Delight dragged his boots from his bare feet and tossed them in a corner out of the way. His toes wiggled. "Thanks."

  "Lean on me." She tilted the rocker forward so Pel could spill out and crawl onto the bed, using her shoulder for a brace. The quilt was taut over the mattress, looking as though no one ever used it, let alone that it had been tidied up bare minutes before the commissioners' arrival. Even with so short a time in the chair, Pel was worn out, exhaustion dragging at him.

  "The meeting went well, don't you think?" she said, hoping she didn't sound as falsely cheerful to him as she did to herself.

  "For today." He stretched out on the bed, breath hissing between his teeth. "Don't know about tomorrow. Can't say I liked all those questions about Tuck Moon."

  "Oh, drat! Did I do wrong, Pel, in selecting Mr. Moon to help us?" Anxiety stretched her voice thin. "He seems like good people to me. Always respectful. Always minds his manners. I don't know..." She trailed off.

  "If I hadn't agreed with you, Delight, I would've put a stop to it. There is one thing." His voice faded like he'd forgotten what he wanted to say.

  "What's that?" Delight spread the quilt over him, and he sighed.

  "What Hunt said, about the name being familiar. It is to me, too, but maybe not in any way illegal. Just not anything...go
od. I'll remember later. Meanwhile, don't you worry about Moon. That's my job."

  Delight wasn't so sure, but she let it drop when Pel changed the subject.

  "I'm going to rest a minute, honey," he said. "Then you can help me into the chair again. And tonight, I'm going to walk over to the window. Be good to see what's happening outside." Pel pressed a hand to the bullet hole in his chest. "I've got to get back to work."

  Plainly the wound was hurting him again, and she knew from his short gasps that he was having trouble breathing.

  "Don't rush things, Pel. It's too soon. You almost died. They can't expect you to--"

  Shaking his head wearily, Pel interrupted. "You heard them. They do expect."

  Delight abandoned the pointless conversation. If she could rely on only one thing in life, it was that there was no quit in Pelham Birdsall. He'd press forward to his last breath. Literally. As for her, she had a job to do as well. Support him through his every trial, no matter how much it galled her, and no matter how much it tested her own strength.

  With this in mind, as soon as Pel closed his eyes and his breathing became regular, she took herself downstairs to the office, there to deal with more of the interminable paperwork associated with the position. Requisitions, a telegram here, a telegram there, a reply to the warden of the prison over at Walla Walla regarding a man asking for parole. Her daddy and Pel together had put him away. She remembered the details of the case, and she was able to answer the letter without asking Pel's advice.

  There were no prisoners in the cells, and the main room was warm and quiet. The windows and walls had been repaired at the direction of Mr. Hunt. The ticking of the clock and the occasional sound of people in the street outside kept her company. Dinnertime came and went, while Pel slept. She wanted him to rest as much as possible--more important in her view than eating--so she went about her work as quietly as corn growing. Therefore, when she came to the end of her chores, it was late afternoon and, recollecting herself, she frowned. Was her faith in the bashful, almost silent deputy misplaced?