Letter Of The Law

by C. J. Crigger

  Because where, she wondered, was Tuck Moon? He should have reported in by now.

  * * * *

  The whole world rotated in, out, and around Deputy Tuck Moon's head until it was hard to tell if he'd been punched or bored. If he hadn't twisted Ripper's mane in his fingers, he'd have fallen to the road hours ago. As it was, he held on just long enough for the horse to reach its home and find the familiar stable before Tuck tumbled from the saddle. A dirt floor rose up to meet him with a thump that slammed him like an earthquake and raised such agony he couldn't think straight. One thing about it, he thought when he collected his wits again, although the ground smelled strongly of old horse droppings, it's cool, dark, and quiet. Not so bad. He settled in to stay.

  The thing to do, he decided, glad to let events take their course, was rest there until either his surroundings ceased spinning or he got some feeling back in his legs. Consequently, he was a mite aggravated when he felt a tug on his arm and somebody shaking him. Hollering at him, too, the words muffled by his sore ear. It was his name being said, over and over, like he didn't know who he was.

  He did know--he just didn't feel up to holding a long conversation with anybody, even if only two words. Something was wrong with his tongue, stuck to the roof of his mouth. He wasn't even sure if he had real legs attached down below there somewhere. Mostly, his awareness consisted of a solid wall of pain.

  "Go away," he muttered in self-defense, croaking like a toad frog and using the two words he allowed himself.

  "You're alive," said a woman, and he heard horror and perhaps, surprise in her voice.

  Well, yes. He guessed he was alive, more or less.

  "Scoot over, horse," the woman said, and there was a slap and then the stamping of hooves close to his head. He reckoned she--was it Mrs. Birdsall?--had taken charge of Ole Ripper and chased him into a stall. Too bad. Now sunshine bore right down on his battered face and swollen eyes, and the heat and light made everything that much worse. He was dry as an old skeleton and willing to shoot somebody for a drink.

  "Water," he begged, and to his surprise, it wasn't more than a few seconds before some was being dripped between his lips. Cold, too. He soaked in the wetness like a parched horse turd soaks up summer rain.

  He was sure now the woman was Mrs. Birdsall. From this close, he recognized her lemon and lavender scent as she propped his filthy head on her lap. Using a corner of her calico apron and water sopped up from the horse bucket, she took to washing old dried blood and dirt from his face. Her hands were gentle on his bruises, a feather-light touch as she swabbed around his eyes. After that, he was able to open the eye enough he could see a little bit after all. The relief gave him a new case of the shakes.

  "Don't touch that. You'll catch an infection," she snapped, pushing his hands down when he went to explore the damage to his face. "Who did this to you, Mr. Moon? What happened?"

  He gasped as she mopped grit from the cut above his eye. "Some of Monroe's men," he mumbled through battered lips. It hurt just as bad as he'd figured it would to talk. "They was waiting for me. Should've had somebody along to watch my back." Though who that someone would be, he couldn't rightly say.

  "Indeed," she said. Then, "This cut needs stitched. Do you think you can walk as far as the house?"

  He didn't expect he had much choice, seeing as she already was urging him to prop himself against the barn wall and work his way onto his feet. His head swam as she wedged her shoulder in his armpit and, little as she was, took on too much of his weight. Together, they staggered towards the sheriff's office rear entrance.

  Thanks be, Ripper hadn't carried him down main street for everybody to see. Tuck had a hunch they were in serious enough trouble as it was. It was gonna be tough, holding this town together long enough to rid it of Diggett Monroe and his men. If it could be done.

  * * * *

  "Hush, now. I don't want to wake Mr. Birdsall." Delight helped Tuck mount the two steps to the back door. Regrettably, his legs weren't any too steady beneath him. He looked rail thin, but was heavier than he appeared. It was all she could do to keep her own feet while supporting him. She grunted in soft puffs as she steered them into the building. "You need to lie down, Mr. Moon. A cot in the cell all right with you?"

  "Long as you don't lock the door on me."

  "I won't," she promised.

  Once inside, Tuck braced a hand on the wall and felt his way down the short hall, around the corner, and into his old cell, where Delight eased her shoulder from under him. She allowed him to sink onto the thin mattress. He stretched full length, groaning once out loud, and clutching at his gut and drawing his legs up.

  "Shall I get Doctor Miller?" she asked doubtfully. In this light, his injuries dismayed her even more. They weren't like Pel's. Not life threatening, or at least she didn't think so, but bad enough. And what if he had internal damage?

  "I'm going to fetch Doc." Decision made, she started to her feet, but Tuck stuck out a hand and gripped a fold of her skirt.

  "No," he said. "Don't want anybody to see me like this. Don't want to scare 'em any worse than they already are. Doc'd spread word all over town. Get drunk and shoot his mouth off."

  "But you need that cut above your eye sewn," she protested. "You may have ruptured organs. I don't know how to tell or what to do."

  A faint grin touched his white lips. "You think Doc does?"

  "But--"

  "Bet you're a dab hand with a needle and thread. Better than Doc."

  Even ill and beat-up, he was a force to reckon with. Delight found herself wondering why she ever thought him mild and gentle because it was a cinch she wasn't able to gain his cooperation on a course of treatment. Sew him up, then leave him be.

  So that is what she did, the tug of her best and sharpest sewing needle through his flesh, the tying of her prettiest knots a harrowing experience for them both. And he? He just pinched his mouth and told her to hurry. "Please, ma'am."

  * * * *

  The moment Pel woke up, Delight's tabby curled peacefully beside him, he knew something else affecting Endurance must have happened. Furthermore, he knew it boded ill. His wife's smooth face, normally open as the birth and death page in a family bible, wore a pinchy kind of look as she bustled aimlessly around the bedroom. He'd seen its like often of late. Yeah. And whatever had given her the fidgets, she intended on keeping the cause from him.

  He coughed to show he was awake, which made her jump like a cornered grasshopper and drop the towel she'd been folding. His eyes narrowed.

  "Delight, come on over here and sit down," he said, patting the side of the bed. "You look tired."

  She shied away as though he'd made an improper suggestion. "Is that cat bothering you? Let me put her out." She snatched the tabby off the bed where it'd been keeping him company and shooed it toward the door. Pel wasn't quite fast enough to stop her, but, while she was thus occupied, he managed to pull himself up in the bed without her seeing the faces he made at the effort.

  "Looks like I slept most of the day," he said when he'd propped his back against the headboard and saw the way lengthening shadows darkened the room.

  She turned to face him again, her voice apologetic. "Those men wore you out. I shouldn't have let them all in at once."

  "Doubt you had much choice. I had to answer to them sooner or later."

  His gaze locked on her tell-tale face, he patted the bed again. Thus summoned, she came over and balanced on the edge, avoiding his eyes.

  "You might as well tell me what's happened, honey. What is it? Somebody get shot? Did the commissioners decide to fire me after all?"

  Her smile was so falsely bright it rivaled the sun. "Oh, no. Nothing like that."

  "Then what? Best you tell me, Delight, afore I get all irritated and upset. Now that isn't good for me."

  His wife, being a sensible woman when all was said and done, soon gave in to his judgment on what he could tolerate. Her explanation made it easier to see the whole picture. Aside from him be
ing on the verge of having his job terminated, his wife was worried sick, the town was about to come under siege, and his new deputy--whose past still eluded him--had been beaten to a pulp.

  Sounds like we're walking down a regular rose-strewn path, Pel thought with grim humor. If he hadn't already been ailing, this latest turn would've done the trick.

  "What are we going to do, Pel?" Delight asked, her face drawn, the color in her cheeks faded.

  He forced a grin. "Think we'd better run like the devil is after us."

  Blue eyes blazing, her head jerked from a dejected chin-on-chest slump. "You don't mean that."

  "I don't?"

  "No. I know you, Pelham Birdsall. We've bought land here. This fall we'll buy more cattle. Next year we'll move out of this place and build onto the cabin. Make a real home of our own. We're putting down roots, Pel. You'll never give up without a fight."

  "Won't I?" This time his grin was real.

  "You know you won't. Why else have you been breaking your neck, trying to rid the county of all the wild and rowdy hooligans trying to make trouble? Riding all over, urging the commissioners to post a bounty, keeping those men out of Endurance?"

  His forefinger lifted. "Up until now. With Diggitt Monroe's gang, it looks like I haven't been all that successful."

  "But not for wont of trying." As if either of them would ever forget the one who'd gotten through his defenses. The one with the gun, shooting him down from ambush.

  But her arguments were something he needed to hear. All true, or had been a week ago, before he'd come within a quarter inch of being murdered.

  "And look where it's gotten me," he said.

  "Almost killed."

  Tears were in her voice, and Pel sighed. Best not to talk more about that. "How bad is Moon? He able to function?"

  "I'm sure he'll be raring to go by tomorrow. Or the day after."

  Or the day after that. Pel, watching as varied emotions flitted across her face, knew she wasn't sure of any such thing. He saw her fingers cross behind her back, not quite out of his view, although she thought they were. Remorse bit at him. He'd promised her dad he'd take care of her, a hard vow to fulfill from flat on his back in bed and no end in sight.

  "Tell Moon I want to see him," he said.

  "All right." Her mouth compressed. "First thing when he reports for work."

  "You got an estimate of when that'll be?"

  She hesitated, then met his eyes. "No."

  Chapter 10

  * * *

  Delight's yen to have seen the last of former deputy Boomer Herschel turned out to be beyond her control. She found him waiting on the doorstep the next morning when she unlocked the door, his appearance, coming so soon after Tuck Moon's beating, too odd to be a coincidence. Somehow he'd learned what had happened to Tucker Moon. Who, she wondered, had told him?

  "Have you come to apologize, Mr. Herschel?" she asked, her tone frosty.

  "Came to see the sheriff," he said. "I expect he's realized he needs me back."

  "You expect wrong. Pelham has hired a new deputy."

  "Yeah?" Herschel made a point of peering over her shoulder. "Where is this new deputy? I don't see him. Looks to me like you're all alone, Mrs. Birdsall."

  She meant to block him from entering, but shrank away as he bulled his way in, his body mass a threat to her. She'd always been uncomfortable around him, disliking his loud voice and uncouth habits, but now, to her disgust, she realized she was downright frightened of him. Her involuntary flinch gave him an opening. Once inside, he gawked around, hands on ample hips.

  "Pel not up and around yet, I see." He stepped toward the stairs leading to the Birdsall's living quarters as if he owned the place. "Beginning to look like he's a permanent invalid, ain't it?"

  Gathering her nerve, Delight darted in front of him, blocking the way. Anger lent substance to her bearing. "Mr. Herschel, stop where you are. If you have official business here, state it. If it's important, I'll pass it on to Pel.

  "Don't touch me," she added as his expression hardened and he reached toward her. She hadn't forgotten he'd tried to strike her. Yanking the two-shot derringer from her apron pocket, she leveled it at his chest.

  "Ma'am," he said, jerking back, "I'm trying to do you and Pel a favor. You don't want to point that popgun at me."

  "A popgun, to be sure. But I'm quite certain the hole it makes is painful nonetheless."

  She hardly knew where this standoff would end, short of her pulling the trigger, but Tuck Moon chose that moment to stir, the movement drawing a low, involuntary grunt from him and diverting Herschel's attention.

  Tuck couldn't, she reflected, have picked a worse--or a better--time to make his presence known.

  "Who's that? You arrest somebody?" Boomer's grin showed what he thought of this idea. Wisely abandoning his intention of confronting Pelham, he strode over to the cells where Moon's door hung open. What he saw startled another of those great booming laughs out of him.

  "Ho. This your new deputy? A has-been gunslinger without a gun?" His laugh broke out again. "Looks barely alive, if you ask me. Who do you suppose would do a thing like this to him?"

  Delight's eyes narrowed. "I don't know, Mr. Herschel. Do you?"

  "Me?" His innocent expression wouldn't have fooled a child. "Why, Mrs. Birdsall, you're in a regular pickle, ain't you? Comes to me, now I think on it, that instead of being deputized, maybe I'd as soon stand off and see what happens around this town during the next few days. Be interesting to hear what folks have to say when trouble breaks out and there's nobody can stop it."

  "Fortunately for Endurance, it's no longer your concern," she retorted. "But don't worry. If trouble starts, we'll stop it."

  "With him?" His thumb indicated Tuck, who, to all appearances, remained oblivious to everything around him. "Not a prayer. Don't look to me like he's able to put up much of a fight. But it'll be real entertainin' to watch."

  Upon this rather menacing observation, his grin grew wider and quite suddenly, Delight had had enough. "Get out, Mr. Herschel. And don't come around again. I will not abide your presence a moment longer. Go."

  Grin fading, his bloated face reddened. He made a move toward her, but halted when she pointed her little pistol at him again.

  "I'm going," he said. "And when I come back, I'll be the one in charge. You can count on it." He watched her as if making sure she understood, then strutted out like he'd won some sort of prize.

  As he had--king of nincompoops! Delight stared after him, questions racing through her mind. Why did Tuck's misfortune seem to please him so much? For that matter, why did Pel's? And why was he so bent on terrifying her, an act he managed very well? His character had turned more despicable these last few days, beyond anything she might have imagined in the days he'd been Pel's ineffective deputy. And she'd have to deal with the situation. Soon. Before it got entirely out of hand--or reached Pel's ears.

  * * * *

  Tuck couldn't explain even to himself why he played possum when Herschel showed up at the jail. Instinct probably. Or maybe because he sensed Mrs. Birdsall wanted his disability kept secret. So did he. Nothing there to crow about when a man's been beaten like a smashed plum. But enough was enough and his tolerance stopped when Mrs. Birdsall felt called upon to draw her bitty gun. Hence the noise, a ruse meant to distract Boomer--or so Tuck excused the pitiful sound to himself. Once begun, the manufactured schoolboy whimper became all too real. Worked though, drawing Herschel's attention to him like a magpie to a fresh kill.

  And although Herschel laughed and took note of his weakness, Tuck had a hunch information had played both ways in this situation, what with Herschel's loose tongue. In picking out the truth from the brag, Tuck predicted there'd be fresh trouble in town within the next few days.

  His groan was genuine as he rolled to face Mrs. Birdsall, his stiff back and sore kidneys a misery. The few days Herschel had mentioned didn't give enough time. Way he felt right now, a month would be better. He opened his
eyes--eye. The one that wasn't swollen shut. Mrs. Birdsall stood frowning down at him.

  "Don't worry about me." A grin, though he wished he could manage one, was impossible. "I ain't nearly so bad as I let on to Herschel."

  "You aren't?"

  "Nope."

  "Then why try to fool him, Mr. Moon?"

  Tuck fought his way up onto an elbow. "Can't say for sure, ma'am. Just seemed like a good idea before he got any more rambunctious."

  She smiled faintly.

  "That hombre is bad business," he added. "But I guess you know that. Don't know what he's up to, but it ain't anything good."

  She nodded agreement.

  "How'd he come to be deputy in the first place, if you don't mind me asking? Doesn't seem the kind of man Sheriff Birdsall would hire on." Making progress, Tuck swung one leg to the floor and fought the gravity that threatened to pull him back down when he tried to rise.

  "He was here when Pel came." Delight entered the cell and helped him sit up. "Some folks seem to like him, so Pelham thought he was working out all right. I've never trusted him. Never. I don't like the way he looks at me."

  Tuck didn't blame her.

  She stuffed a spare pillow between his back and the knobby rock wall, giving him something soft to lean on. His muscles trembled.

  "I think Mr. Herschel thought he'd be elected sheriff when the previous man left, but folks chose Pel instead." Mrs. Birdsall poked with a gentle finger at the stitches she'd put in his head the day before. "They'd heard Pel did well when he sheriffed down in Bledsoe County with my father. And Herschel--well, he doesn't fool everybody. But he's always resented that Pel won out over him. He never said anything, but his attitude spoke for him."

  Tuck grunted. Stood to reason. Just as the wish crossed his mind, Delight fetched a big mug of hot coffee from the desk where she'd set it when Herschel accosted her. A pottery mug, he saw, not one of the old tin cups from when he was a prisoner, so he guessed, jail cell or no, he'd been elevated a notch. And she'd had it ready for him, brought downstairs from her kitchen.