Letter Of The Law
Page 12
What, Delight wondered, dazed by the suddenness of it all, would Pel do?
The dog and the man continued their wild scuffle on the ground. Somewhere along the line, the pistol fell from Schoefield's grip and got shunted aside. Delight darted in and kicked it aside where someone, she didn't see who, picked it up.
That summed up the forthcoming help. Apparently it was up to her to put a stop to the ruckus by herself, and before anyone else got hurt. Both the dog and its master needed medical attention and, she supposed, someone would feel bound to kill the dog if it hurt the man. She was inclined to think the animal deserved a medal.
"Enough." She wasn't foolish enough to put a hand on the dog when it was in this state. Instead, she whistled shrilly between her teeth, a herding signal an old Basque sheepherder once taught her. The whistle may have been universal because it caught the dog's attention.
"Back up," she said.
The dog hesitated, its teeth a fraction of an inch from Schoefield's throat.
"Back up."
The dog trembled--weakness? Or eagerness to take the enemy on again, wound or no wound? One thing she knew, it didn't like the command.
"Good dog," she said. "Come."
Schoefield squirmed, trying to bat the dog loose.
"Be still, Mr. Schoefield. I won't destroy this dog on your account." Delight kept her voice calm. "Come," she told the dog again, and this time, it crawled toward her, one of its legs dragging.
Schoefield staggered to his feet and, searching for his hat, found it and jammed it over the bald spot on his pate. "Somebody hand me my gun. I'm gonna kill that son of a--"
Delight cut him off. "No guns, sir. And no killing. I'm placing you under arrest."
"You?" He snickered. "What're you talking about? You can't arrest me. You're a woman." He reached for the derringer in Delight's fist. "Give me that," he said.
She was quick, giving his hand a tap with the barrel sharply enough for him to shake tingles from his fingers.
"Come quietly, if you please, Mr. Schoefield." She retreated one safe step. "My husband is sheriff here. My authority comes from him."
He laughed--at first. Then he didn't laugh. He had no friends here. At least none unwise enough to place a gun in his hand. Not that it stopped him from trying to bull his way out of the situation.
"Ain't nobody gonna blame me for shooting a card cheat," he blustered. "Nor a mad dog."
"That remains to be seen." Delight heard herself, prissy as an old maid. "I warn you, those are only part of the charges. Until this is sorted out, I'll start with disturbing the peace." She turned to the saloonkeeper, who, along with the swamper she'd met the other day peering from behind him, watched events with his hands hidden beneath his apron. The men stared at her with their mouths open.
A laugh flickered inside her. What's the matter? she wondered. Hadn't any of them ever seen a virago before? Put together, they all looked like a school of bewildered fish.
"Mr. O'Hanlon," she said, "since the trouble started in your establishment, perhaps you would be good enough to help escort Mr. Schoefield over to the jail."
Schoefield started backing away, his hands in the air. "Do it, O'Hanlon, and you'll be sorry. The boss'll hear about this."
"I won't be sorry if you try to get away." O'Hanlon flipped his apron aside to reveal a shotgun with a sawed-off barrel. "Wish you would. Ain't illegal to shoot a runaway prisoner."
There were, Delight saw, two separate contingents of saloon customers. Town men, local loggers and a few farmers or ranchers were on one side. They nodded and muttered agreement with O'Hanlon. On the other side, three or four of Schoefield's kind, all strangers wearing pistols at their hips, rough clothes, and big hats, looked on with narrowed eyes. Outnumbered, the strangers remained tight-lipped and silent as the local men moved to help O'Hanlon.
Delight pretended not to see the saloonkeeper's shotgun. "Is Doctor Miller in the saloon?"
O'Hanlon grimaced. "Yeah, but he's plumb ossified."
"When is he not?" Delight's anger burned. "Get him out here. The dog's master looks seriously hurt. Throw a bucket of cold water over Doc. That works well enough to awaken him."
O'Hanlon jerked his thumb and the swamper, having the experience of seeing Delight in action previously, grinned and headed back into the saloon, moving fast.
Gathering up the reins of command, Delight addressed the wounded newspaperman. "How are you, Mr. Jones?"
"A graze, Mrs. Birdsall. Painful, but nothing to worry about." Jones peered at her, then made more marks with his pencil. He'd been skipping around with a small notebook in hand, writing furiously while the dog and man fought. "I'll be over to the jail to press charges later. I don't carry a gun, and I don't think the sheepherder had one either. This town will have to make an example out of Schoefield."
"That will be up to a judge and jury," Delight said, loud enough for every man there to hear in case anyone had a yen for vigilante justice. "Does anyone know what to do for this dog?"
"Sic Doc on it," someone said in a stage whisper. He won a few chuckles, but that was as far as it got.
Doctor Miller shambled out of the saloon, clutching his bag. Unsteady enough to put out a bracing hand to prevent a fall, he knelt beside the wounded sheepherder, now frozen in ominous stillness. Beside Delight, the dog whined, too hurt to object more.
"Easy." Delight laid her hand on the big dog's head. She'd seen pictures of some of the old European shepherding breeds and believed this animal was one of them. Inside, she flinched. Was this part of a lawman's duties, too, the taking care of hurt animals? Pelham had never said so, but then, it appeared there were a whole lot of things he'd never mentioned to her.
"One of you find a wheelbarrow," she said. "Bring it here and lift the dog into it. We'll take it over to the sheriff's office. I'll look after him myself. And be careful with him. That dog is braver than anybody."
Silent now, a couple men complied, remaining quiet even when the dog nipped one as they lifted it into the conveyance.
Schoefield didn't go with his escort of his own accord. Once he came near escaping, going so far as to knock two men down. O'Hanlon clouted him alongside the head with the shotgun's heavy walnut stock and, after that, the double threat of the scattergun and Delight's derringer kept him moving in the right direction. It wasn't until she locked the cell door on him and tucked the key away that she drew an easy breath. And even that juddered in her chest. All this commotion--had it awakened Pel? If so, he wasn't saying anything or drawing attention to his absence.
"You gonna be all right, Mrs. Birdsall?" O'Hanlon asked. "This here's a sturdy jail. I know--I helped build it. Wish we'd put a solider door in, is all. What I'm trying to say is, Schoefield won't get out as long as you keep it locked. Reckon your deputy'll be along in the morning to take care of him."
Delight sensed a question. "Deputy Moon is on assignment right now, but Pel is right upstairs and getting better every day. I'm not worried, Mr. O'Hanlon, although I am very grateful for your help tonight."
O'Hanlon, catching her careful implication that Pel was in charge, beamed. "This ought to put the run on those fellers for a while. We won't be seeing them in town again."
Schoefield stood at the cell door listening and wearing a sneer on his face.
"I hope you're right, sir," Delight said to O'Hanlon.
She couldn't tell him she thought he was mistaken. The men assigned to animal patrol showed up just then with a wheelbarrow borrowed from the livery, the big dog overlapping the sides. In the flurry of settling the animal on a rug in a corner of the room, she gratefully abandoned discussion of the other problem.
* * * *
The dog was still alive the next morning when Delight got downstairs. Its head lifted at sight of her, a good sign, although its interest may have been roused by the tray of ham and hotcakes she carried. The food had been intended as the prisoner's breakfast--until she saw the dog's nose working the scent.
The poor a
nimal had quit bleeding, she noted, although its light-colored coat was rusty with dried blood. It had also drunk all of the water from the bowl she'd filled last night. The water and a warm place to lie had been all she knew to do for it. Maybe it had been enough.
"'Bout time you got here," Schoefield said, his large nose twitching in imitation of the dog's. He stood clutching at the cell bars and scowling. "I'm hungry. Must be nigh onto seven A.M."
Although Delight could scarcely credit it, he seemed no worse the wear for all the liquor he'd drunk the night before. The scowl must be habitual, she thought, for it fell into lines already in evidence on his face.
She walked past the cell, set the food tray on the desk and took some of the ham and a hot cake from the prisoner's plate. Tearing the food into bite-size pieces, she put it on a square of newspaper, which she placed the floor in front of the dog. The animal looked up at her, its eyes moist.
"Eat," she said, and it did, sniffing experimentally first, then wolfing the food down and looking for more.
"Hey," Schoefield said, "what the hell are you doing? That's mine."
"When it comes to food, Mr. Schoefield, you get what I say you get. Nothing more. Now stand back. Sit on your cot and I'll slide this plate under the door."
His scowl grew darker, if possible, and he grumbled, trying to bully her into opening the door and giving the meal into his hands. Delight said nothing, just shook her head and let him wear himself out. When he ran down, she said again, "This food is growing colder the longer you argue. Step back. Sit on the cot. Unless you want me to feed the rest of your breakfast to the dog."
She took pride in sounding cool and unflustered, even though her insides were tense enough to hurt. It took him a while to see she meant what she said. Glaring, and acting as if compliance pained him, he perched on the cot edge, giving her room to push the plate and cup under the cell door. After she stepped back, he snatched the plate up, examining the ham like he thought she might've dusted it with sleeping powder. A good idea, if she'd only thought of it.
"What am I supposed to eat with?" he asked.
"There's a spoon." Delight pointed to the short-handled implement at the edge of the plate.
"That? That's for feeding mush to a brat."
"You may use your fingers if you prefer," Delight replied. "Although, you might wash them first. There's a basin of water on the shelf."
The retort didn't set well with Schoefield. "Watch your step, missus," he warned her. "I won't be in this puny hoosegow for long."
"We shall see," she replied.
Jailbreaks were not unheard of, that was certain. Delight remembered her dad telling Pel when Pel had been a young deputy to be extra careful around some of the worst desperadoes they hauled in. A fork stuck in an unsuspecting lawman's throat could be just as lethal as a gunshot wound, and silent to boot. A kitchen knife could be honed to a point. She hadn't slept well at night for a week after hearing that. A deserved punishment for eavesdropping, she supposed.
Tuck Moon had used the same eating utensils she and Pel did, a privilege not extended to this man. She didn't trust anyone who'd shoot down an unarmed sheepherder and a dog--let alone a woman like Ilse Schmidt. Which reminded her. She needed to check with Doc first thing. See if the charge against Schoefield was murder or something less.
Sighing, Delight pushed a lock of brown hair off her forehead, refilled the dog's water bowl, and then went outside to feed Pel's horse and clean the barn. Sometimes all this seemed more than she could handle. She wouldn't say it out loud for the world, but Pel was right. She was feeling a tad weary. And from the way he'd said it, apparently what meager looks she'd been able to claim were fast disappearing. Right along with her enthusiasm for doing his job.
Chapter 12
* * *
Along about noon of his second day at the cabin, a grouse squawking outside awakened Tuck. Its noise combined with the high-pitched squeal of a cricket camped under the window on the shady side of the house. At first he was annoyed by the racket, but his irritation soon faded as the recollection of the beating he'd taken returned. By gum, if he could hear all those pesky critters, it must mean his eardrum wasn't broke after all.
Twinges of pain shot through his body as he rolled over on the rope springs, surprising him into biting off a curse. Felt like every joint in his body was banded in hot iron; every muscle stretched almost to breaking, then pulverized with a sledge hammer. If he hadn't desperately needed to use the outhouse, he figured he'd be content just to lie there in one spot until he died. He didn't quite understand why Happy and the bunch had left him alive anyway. Maybe just to put him through this?
Once assured his legs would hold him, he staggered to the privy, lurching from bed, to chair, to table, to door until he left the cabin, caroming from one side to the other like a drunken sailor the rest of the way. Ole Ripper, busy eating down the grass in the corral, nickered a greeting as he went by. The sun warmed Tuck's battered face.
He walked a little straighter on his return to the cabin where he forced himself to fix and eat some of the food Delight--Mrs. Birdsall, he corrected himself--had sent along with him. After making certain Ripper had water, weariness overtook him and he crawled back into bed.
One more night, he promised himself. He'd be ready to face Monroe after one more night. But first, he'd have to face Mrs. Birdsall and the sheriff.
* * * *
In the upstairs bedroom, Pel started awake, all senses alert. His heart pounded, hot blood rushed through his veins. There was a disturbance in the house, a faint sound he couldn't identify, though why this filled him with alarm he couldn't say.
All of a sudden, Delight's tabby streaked through the open bedroom door with its tail held high, hair stuck out sharp like the head of a thistle. It leapt onto the bed and set to washing its hind leg with quick, angry strokes of the tongue.
Something, Pel perceived, was wrong. Delight? She was alone down there with that prisoner she'd told him about. The one incarcerated by a means he still wasn't quite clear on. The one who'd shot an unarmed man and a dog and was now facing a murder charge. Pel'd about had a conniption when Delight first told him about it.
Grunting with effort, Pel swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood up, knees buckling beneath him. His night-shirt did little to hide the shaking. Groping for the holstered .45 hanging from the rocking chair, he drew the pistol, then, making heavy use of the wall to keep himself upright, he worked his way out into the hall. At the top of the stairs he stopped to listen.
What he heard sent a great rush of ice water through his veins.
Somebody had hold of his wife.
Another thought raced through his mind.
Somebody is about to die.
Bare feet silent, he stumbled down stairs, hanging onto the rail with one hand, his .45 with the other. Not that he need worry overmuch about noise. The men down there with Delight were making enough racket to cover any sound he made. Distinct in his ears--in his soul--was the smack of an open-handed blow on bare skin, followed by a low cry. It was his wife. He'd know the tones of her voice even if he was one breath away from death. She sounded as if she was either gagged or brave enough and tough enough to hold in the sound. The dog she'd told him about growled on a long, low note, like thunder rumbling in the distance.
The ice in his veins turned to red hot rage.
"Get the key," a man was saying, voice rising high with excitement. "Get the key."
"She did something with it," a different man said. "It ain't on the hook and it ain't in the desk."
"Hurry up and find it, Filmore," the first feller said. "Make her tell you where it is."
There was another slap, and another suppressed cry.
"C'mon, woman. Speak up." There was a laugh. "This hurts you more'n it does me."
Delight emitted an unintelligible squeak, and the dog rumbled again. Pel wondered why the damn thing didn't go after Delight's tormentors. Isn't that what it was bred to do?
So that was the prisoner talking. Schoefield. Delight had said his name was Schoefield.
Cursing his puny legs and watery knees, Pel hurried. Wouldn't do any good to topple down the stairs at their feet, though. Worse, it might startle someone into killing her. She's strong, he told himself. She can take a slap. Yet how did he know? She'd never been slapped in her life.
Time passed, feeling like an eternity before he made it to the last step. Sweat ran, dropping from his chin as, still holding himself up by the rail, he stuck his head around the corner until he could see into the office. The scene was every bit as bad as it had sounded, with Delight in every bit as much trouble as he'd feared.
A giant of a feller held her arms pinned to her sides. What with her being so tiny and him being so big, she dangled a few inches off the ground, which didn't seem to cause him any particular effort. She was fighting hard. Refusing to give up, she lashed out with her feet, doing her level best to land a good kick where it would do the most good.
At last, one of her kicks struck home, causing the big man to gasp and squeeze down even harder. That one lucky blow was the extent of her retaliation. Too bad, since she deserved some return for the red welts marring both sides of her otherwise ashen face.
The brute shook her like she was a rag doll. The second man, the one called Filmore, jumped around like an excited rabbit, grinning and taking obvious pleasure in dealing out another blow.
"Damn you," she said. "Let me go. You don't know what you're doing. My husband--"
"Your husband," Filmore mimicked in a high-pitched voice as he flicked her along the jaw. "Your husband has one foot in the grave."
Delight refused to cry out. Not even as another slap broke open her swollen lower lip and blood streamed down her chin. She just grunted a little and kicked all the harder.