Letter Of The Law

by C. J. Crigger

  The debt was growing bigger and somebody had to pay.

  Pel took a steadying breath as fury roiled his guts. Stay calm. Don't do anything stupid. Hadn't anybody seen him yet. The prisoner couldn't spot him from the cell, and the other two stood sideways to him. No use barging in and getting himself caught in the middle. He couldn't help Delight that way, and they'd kill her sure. And him.

  At considerable cost, he put a damper on his wrath, taking time to scout his alternatives. He needn't bother about Schoefield just yet. Nobody had thought to give him a gun, and as long as Pel stayed out of his reach, he could ignore him, except for the way he was urging his partners to torment Delight.

  It was the other two that worried Pel. The big feller could break his wife's slender neck with a twist of one meaty hand. But it was Filmore who had a bowie knife a foot long in his hand, waving it beneath her nose, the point within a hair's breadth of shaving off the tip.

  "Hold 'er still, Milt," he said. "I'm goin' to carve her up good."

  Him first, then. Pel sucked in his gut.

  He wasn't looking for any help, but when it came, he didn't turn it down. The dog, crawling across the floor unnoticed until he was almost within striking range, gathered himself to leap.

  From the cell, Schoefield spied the animal first. "Watch that dog. It's vicious."

  It was a short distraction. The blade of Filmore's knife tilted past Delight's face as he turned to look. It was Pel's signal. He poked the Colt around the corner and shot Filmore square in the head. With his partner toppling toward him in a spurt of blood, the big feller was surprised into loosening his hold on Delight. Looking bewildered, he reached out to catch the man. Quick as a ferret, Delight dropped to the floor and rolled away, leaving Pel a clear shot.

  Hand trembling, Pel pulled the trigger again, shooting the big man through the thigh. Milt toppled like a felled tree, grabbing his leg. Delight reached over and snagged his pistol from the holster before crawling on hands and knees to the side of the room, safe at last.

  Too bad about the leg, Pel thought. He'd been trying for another head shot. There was going to be a terrible mess to clean up, a lot of blood having leaked onto the jail's plank floor.

  Inside the jail cell, Schoefield mouthed a never-ending stream of obscenity in a high pitch like a hysterical woman.

  Delight turned to the prisoner. "Shut up," she said. "Shut up, right now."

  Pel felt like laughing. Funny, because the prisoner, evidently hearing the same thing in her voice that Pel did, closed his trap. Exhaustion claimed Pel then, and all at once, his legs gave out and he sank onto the bottom step. His ears roared with the beat of his heart. Only one real thought filled his mind. Delight was safe. He'd managed that, at least, and through wavering vision he saw her running toward him with her hands outstretched. Didn't seem right, though, the way his eyes were playing tricks. He saw her--and then he didn't. She kept fading in and out like a dream. And the strange part was, now her ordeal was over, he could've sworn she was crying. Why was she doing that?

  * * * *

  Delight wished the lot of men crowded into the small office to perdition. They only wanted to help, those who were more than ghouls come to see the blood, and there were more than a few of them. She, of course, could've gone for a lot less talk and a little more action. She didn't appreciate their behind-a-hand comments on her battered face either.

  "Wonder what..." she heard one say without learning what it was he wondered. Nothing good, she supposed.

  Meanwhile, she ached to speak with her husband in private. She wanted to throw her arms around him, kiss him with a passion new to them both, and tell him how much she loved him. It wasn't every man who would've put himself on the line to save his wife like he had. Just her man. Mr. O'Hanlon and Mr. Sheridan had shown up too soon after the shots. All she could do was hold his hand under cover of her spread skirt.

  But at least some of the men were considerate enough to lift Pel into a chair out of the way and send someone for Doc. Lord knows there was plenty of work for the doctor here, between Pel and the two men he'd shot.

  Doc'd had a big rush of business of late, the men agreed, guffawing over the fact.

  "Poor ol' feller. He'll be too busy to take a drink," one said, to which another replied he'd never known Doc to drink less than his daily quota. "More, maybe. But never less."

  It turned out Wheatley was the wounded outlaw's name--Milt Wheatley. They'd pried that much information out of the big man in between his yowling.

  "That's the man who almost pulverized poor Tuck Moon." Delight leaned over to whisper in Pel's ear. "Mr. Moon told me about him. Said he likes to beat people with his fists."

  Wheatley hadn't been bashful about urging Filmore to cut her either. Delight couldn't find it in her heart to feel sorry for him, even when it seemed likely he'd lose his leg.

  "Serves him right," she said, with a new toughness in her tone that she could see shocked Pelham. "As ye sow, so shall ye reap."

  As for Schoefield, he was dead quiet behind the locked cell door. Almost as quiet as the man Pel had killed. And who, Delight wondered with a queasy feeling, was going to clean the jail?

  If a couple of these men who seemed so eager to hear every detail about the shootout cooperated, she'd have them keep watch over Schoefield while he did the cleaning. If they all weren't too afraid of the outlaw.

  Pel tugged at her hand, and she bent to hear what he was saying. He was pale as a whitewashed fence, but a grin lifted a corner of his mouth.

  "Don't know how I'm going to get back upstairs," he said. "Looks like I'm gonna have to sit here a spell. Embarrassing, without my britches on."

  She squeezed his shoulder. "I'll see what I can do."

  Lifting her skirt off the floor to keep it from dragging in the blood, she went over to where Doc was cinching a tourniquet tighter around Wheatley's leg. As she watched, the flow of blood slowed to a seep.

  "Is he ready to move to your surgery?" she asked.

  Doctor Miller looked up. "Thought I'd do it right here."

  "No!" Delight felt faint at the thought. "No. Have some of these men carry him over to your surgery. I don't want him here. You stay behind. You and I will need to see Sheriff Birdsall makes it back to bed. He's overdone it."

  "Somebody'll have to take care of Wheatley after I operate. Figured you'd want to keep him here at the jail." Doc was trying to insist.

  Delight's glare could've peeled paint off a barn. "Certainly not. Hire a nurse to help you. I believe the county gives you a stipend for cases just like this. They don't give me one."

  Doc muttered, but Delight didn't have that stubborn set to her jaw for nothing. Under her direction, men whisked the back door off its hinges and pressed it into use as a stretcher. Wheatley, being a mountain of a man, needed every one willing to help carry him across the street and down to the doctor's office, a small, shabby dwelling convenient to O'Hanlon's saloon. Doc, making a show of repacking equipment in his black bag, waved them away without him.

  "You trying to kill yourself, Birdsall?" Doc growled as soon as they'd cleared out. "Thought I told you to lay in bed and stay still until that hole in your chest is well."

  "Guess somebody should've told those two," Pelham said.

  Doctor Miller sweated through his shirt under the unaccustomed physical effort combined with an excess of alcohol remaining in his bloodstream from the previous night's excesses. He wobbled as he took Pel's weight on his shoulder. "Damn fool," he said.

  "They were threatening my wife," Pel gasped in between efforts to go easy on Doc. "You don't think I'd lay safe in my bed and listen to them cut her to pieces, do you? Look at her face, Doc."

  Pel sounded almost amused at the idea, and Delight's heart swelled with thankfulness. Another minute and he would've been too late. Filmore had come within a gnat's ear of slashing her across the face. She'd seen the excitement, the desire, in his expression. She had a good imagination, and could see in her mind's eye what she wo
uld have become if it weren't for Pelham. The vision filled her with horror. She could almost see the children fleeing from her on the street.

  "I am looking." Miller squinted at her as though studying a portrait from a distance. "Didn't want to say anything that called attention to it around the others. Shame about that pretty face of yours, missus." That shocked her so much she almost missed his medical advice, which was to, "Slather some witch hazel on the bruises. Better wash those cuts out, too. Got a nasty one on your cheekbone, but I think you can get by without stitches."

  Delight was well aware of the "nasty one on her cheekbone." Even so, the situation could've turned out worse. At least Pel had been in time to stop Filmore. Delight, following Doc and Pel up the stairs, shivered and gave her husband an extra boost from behind. He jerked and hopped along a little faster.

  Yes. Pel would do whatever it took to protect her, no matter if it killed him. He'd promised her father. And she--she would return the favor.

  * * * *

  Two nights and two days in the solitude of the Birdsall ranch was plenty for Tuck Moon. The first twenty-four hours he'd spent more or less unconscious, sleeping like he'd never awaken. The second twenty-four he spent all too conscious, feeling every twinge of abused muscles and tendons. By the third morning, his eye opened of its own accord, his vision restored. That the white was not white, but blood red he knew from seeing himself in a sliver of looking glass stuck to the wall above the washbasin. The skin around both eyes was purple-black from his broken nose, and his hearing still came and went. He hadn't lost any teeth, he discovered, probing with his tongue. Nobody would call him pretty, but, his dander up, he was ready to resume the fray.

  According to what Jake Liston had told him, Monroe and his men wouldn't wait much longer before they moved to take over Endurance. If they hadn't already done so. The time was ripe because who was there to stop them? Not Birdsall, for certain. Not Herschel. That was twice as certain. And from what Tuck'd seen and heard, the voting public would turn tail at the first rattle of gunfire.

  The sun shone down and the day boded hot as he closed the cabin door and toted his gear over to the corral. Ole Ripper snorted at sight of the saddle and came to him without fuss. Ripper needed work. Tuck guessed the horse had gotten bored with nothing to do but graze the small pen. There'd been a lot of days like that of late.

  Tuck pulled himself into the saddle like he was a decrepit old man, but once aboard, his muscles settled into an accustomed pattern and he felt better. Alive, anyway. There'd been a spell when he'd wondered if he'd survive the beating.

  The trail back to town didn't seem half as long as it had on the way out. A couple of hours found him riding up to the barn behind the sheriff's office, having approached from the back so as to remain out of sight. He wasn't ready for folks to know he'd returned just yet. Not until he'd talked with the sheriff.

  Easing himself to the ground, he stumbled on the uneven terrain. Apparently, his legs still lacked their usual starch. When certain of his balance, he led Ripper inside to a stall, unsaddled and brushed the horse down.

  At the rear entrance to the sheriff's office, Tuck stuck his least battered ear against the door. He didn't hear anybody speaking, although that might not mean much. It was the quiet time of day and the door was thick. Best not to give anyone a big surprise when he barged in, though. He didn't want to get shot by accident. He guessed Birdsall might be a little jumpy, waiting for the hammer to fall. And it would fall. The only question was when.

  Pushing the door open in small increments, Tuck listened closely until he was certain Herschel or somebody else wasn't lying in wait. However, the office was neither silent nor empty. He heard the rustle of paper being turned, a sound like a heavy sigh, and the familiar clatter of a spoon scraping food off a tin plate. Everything appeared peaceful enough. He opened the door a little wider and slipped inside.

  The heavy, intermittent sighing sound turned into a low growl. Tuck stopped with his back to the door, transfixed as a large cream-colored, long-haired dog poked his snout around the corner and snarled a warning.

  "Who is there?"

  It was Delight asking; Tuck recognized her voice, although its harsh timber was new.

  "Me," he said, keeping an eye on the dog. "Tuck Moon."

  "Tuck!" A chair scraped along the floor and her skirt rustled as she came to call off the beast. "Mr. Moon, I'm glad you're here. Are you well? We've desperately needed you."

  At her urging, the dog moved aside far enough for Tuck to step into the office. The animal dragged a useless back leg like a boat rudder, he saw, with the fur on its hindquarters patchy where it'd been cut away from a deep wound. But its eyes were clear and glared at him from amber depths.

  "Bet there's a story on where this feller came from," Tuck said, noticing the way it kept between him and Mrs. Birdsall. Hadn't taken her long to win its loyalty, he thought, since it had been nowhere in evidence before he left. A silent chuckle rumbled through him. He guessed there wasn't much difference between him and the dog. Hadn't taken her long with him either.

  "There is indeed," she said. "Make friends with him. He may save your life like he did mine."

  Her words drew his direct gaze, which gave him his first good look at her. He almost strangled on his own spit, sucked in hard enough to set him coughing. "What's been going on here? Who did that to your face?" His fingers clenched as though reaching for the non-existent pistol at his side.

  "I met up with some of your former friends, Mr. Moon." Her voice was very dry. "Discovering, to my detriment, they're not particular who they pick on. They've gone through men, women, and dogs, so far. I expect children and babies are next on their list."

  "Sheriff Birdsall?"

  She read the question correctly. "Alive. Recovering from this latest contretemps."

  Tuck didn't know the word, but he caught the meaning. "That mean he's on his feet?"

  "He was yesterday, for just long enough. Today he's not. Come in, Deputy Moon. There's been a great deal happening you need to hear about."

  A harsh laugh came from one of the cells at the side of the room, which made Tuck spin around. The man standing at the bars, a sneer on his face, was watching him. Tuck recognized his former cellmate, Schoefield. Another of Diggett Monroe's hangers-on.

  "You ain't relying on this character, are you, Mrs. Sheriff?" Schoefield said with an air of false concern. "Why, look at him. Ain't even got a gun no more. Sold it to a feller so's he could buy a bottle of pop-skull. Was a good gun, too, from what I hear. Once upon a time."

  While Tuck was still figuring out how to reply--or deciding if he should--Delight glanced across at Schoefield.

  "If you're done with your dinner," she said, "shove the plate out under the door. I don't want food left in the cell. It'll draw more bugs and rats."

  Schoefield reddened. The plate was already on the floor. He reared back with a foot and gave it a sharp kick. The plate tipped coming under the bars; leftover gravy spilled, a bread crust rolled. It was the dog saved the day, by dragging itself over and licking up the spill. Delight retrieved the plate and spoon, handling them as though they might be contaminated.

  "At least someone has manners," she said, patting the dog on its shoulder. "Deputy, Sheriff Birdsall will want to speak with you. It's dinner time, so I expect you're ready for a bite to eat."

  The story of the past couple days, which Tuck figured she curtailed somewhat, poured from her as she led him up the stairs to the Birdsalls' apartment. Tuck let her soft voice wash over him, dismayed by the incident, while at the same time, a part of his mind fixed on other things. For instance, she hadn't reacted when Schoefield talked about him having sold his pistol for the price of a brown bottle. A sharp woman like her, she must've known--guessed, anyway--that he wasn't but one step up the ladder from Schoefield, or even Diggett Monroe. The sheriff had probably told her about him. Didn't it bother her, being in the same room with a no-good like Tuck Moon? Regret for his past deeds made hi
m feel a fool.

  But it was her face, the fresh white skin marred by a clear imprint of harsh fingers in the purple bruises that bothered him most. She'd been slapped, first from one side, then the other. There was a scabbed over cut on her swollen lower lip, another high on her cheek. Dark shadows, signs of worry and sleepless nights, lay stark beneath her blue eyes.

  Birdsall ought to get her away from here, Tuck thought. Send her to relatives or friends out of the danger zone. Because, unless he missed his guess, this-- What had she called it? Contretemps? Yeah. This contretemps was just getting started.

  "Who'd you say slapped you, ma'am?" He hardly realizing he'd interrupted something she was telling him about the dog and its owner. Its former owner.

  "I didn't say, Mr. Moon." She stopped on the stairs and flipped a careless hand. "But don't let the way I look worry you. Mr. Birdsall has already taken care of all that. There's a certain Mr. Luke Filmore lying in the cemetery right now as a consequence of his actions. I believe you recognize his name?"

  "I do," Tuck said. And right now, he couldn't decide whether he was glad Birdsall had taken care of that problem, or if he should be jealous because he wouldn't have minded doing it himself.

  Ah, well. He had no doubt his chance would come. Made sense the bone orchard would be greeting some new residents before long. And one of them might be poor old Tuck Moon.

  Chapter 13

  * * *

  Stubborn to his very core, Pelham Birdsall fought his way out of bed at his usual time the morning after he shot Luke Filmore. Contrary to his wife's wishes, he dressed in shirt and pants before hobbling out to the kitchen wearing hand-knit slippers instead of struggling with his boots. Five minutes after eating his breakfast, before Delight went downstairs to tend the prisoner, he'd had her help him to the couch where he'd lain ever since, his feet hanging over the end. He'd slept the morning away, he discovered, jerking awake at the sound of voices on the stairs. It was Delight and someone else, a man.