Letter Of The Law

by C. J. Crigger

  "Those bast...buggers ain't going to get past me again, ma'am," he said, "and you can tell the sheriff I said so. He needs help, tell him to just start bangin' away with his guns, and I'll do what I can to watch his back."

  "Thank you, Mr. Sheridan." Delight felt a small piece in her tension relax. "Working together, we can put Mr. Monroe where he belongs."

  "Hope you're talkin' six feet under, ma'am."

  She hadn't been exactly, but she nodded as if agreeing and continued on her way, next stopping on the stoop outside O'Hanlon's saloon. A fellow lazing about on the bench beside the batwings went in to fetch the saloon keeper to her.

  As soon as she broached the subject, O'Hanlon turned, showing her the revolver nestled in the waist of his britches. "I don't go anywhere without it. And I got a shotgun and a box of shells under the bar at both ends. I'll be ready to back Pel's play. But if I were you, Mrs. Birdsall, I'd tell the sheriff not to count any on Buford at the Bucket of Sudz. He's mighty cozy with Monroe's bunch."

  "I will." Delight forced a smile. "It's good to know he can rely on a few men like you."

  Passing the drug store, closed for the funeral--and who was going to supply Endurance with medical needs now?--Delight approached the bank. It was nearly closing time, and one of the tellers went back in to ask Mr. Hunt to speak with her.

  "Come on in." Hunt gestured to her. "Although I take it you're not here to make a deposit."

  She smiled. "I'm afraid not."

  Hunt remained attentive as she repeated a speech growing more comfortable to her with practice. About how he owed it to himself to help protect his bank and the depositors who trusted him. About how this was his town and she believed he felt his neighbors, the ones who couldn't do for themselves, like Lillian down at the Elk Café, were worth defending.

  He listened until she ran out of steam. "Very eloquent, Mrs. Birdsall. The sheriff has an excellent advocate in you. You may tell him I will stay downtown tonight, and every other night until this is finished. My head teller, Henry Delgerson, is with me. We're armed and prepared to shoot if necessary."

  Delight, put off by his alarming dignity, refrained from hugging him in her relief, and went on to her next target. Only one turned her away, the elderly harness maker who told her he'd only get in the way of the fighting men. She secretly thought he was hedging his bets.

  Hills to the west of town cast shadows over the street as the sun sank behind them. Delight hurried back to the office, taking long steps as she sped past O'Hanlon's. Coarse talk and shrill whistles followed her. Her stomach lurched and she was almost running as she escaped to the comparative safety of the sheriff's office.

  Tuck Moon was still working, nailing reinforcements to protect the cells as she slipped inside. He looked up, relief on his sweating face at seeing her safe.

  "Anybody agree to help?"

  Her smile lit up the darkened room. "They did, Mr. Moon. Thank goodness for that. Several agreed to help out from their own businesses."

  "Spreads us out a mite," Moon said doubtfully.

  "All the more reason for you being mobile and able to go quickly where you're most needed."

  Tuck grinned. "Think you're one of them strategists you was telling me about, ma'am." His grin faded. "Now I don't mean to rain on your campfire, but that still leaves the sheriff by himself.

  "Pel won't be alone. I'll be here."

  This brought his eyes up to meet hers directly. "Sheriff said he was sending you somewhere tonight. Somewhere safe."

  "He tried." She shrugged away his concern and forced briskness into her voice. Briskness and a cheerful bravado. "But I convinced him otherwise. He hasn't rescinded my authority, either, which means he's still relying on me to make wise decisions. My decision is for you to walk out of here right now and do what you said. Go after those outlaws and beat them to the punch."

  "Gotta finish getting this place fortified first," Tuck said, shaking his head.

  She reached out, taking the hammer out of his slackened grip, and selected a six-penny nail from the canvas bag he'd set on the windowsill. "I'm a dab hand with a hammer, Mr. Moon. At home, my mother was forced into handyman duties because Dad's job took him away so often, and she didn't want the house falling down around our ears. She taught me. I can make as good a job of nailing up a few boards as you can." To prove her words, she set a length of two-by-six in place over the window, braced it with a knee and, under Tuck's watchful eye, tapped in the first nail. She'd lost none of her skill. "Which leaves you free to do the other," she added pointedly.

  "Yes, ma'am," Tuck said, but refrained from moving out of her way. "The sheriff know about this?"

  "He knows I'm staying here with him." Her hammer banged, another nail pounded in. "Your plan is good. Why wouldn't he agree with it? He's approved everything else you've done."

  Delight could see this argument told with Deputy Moon. He'd had a few days of taking orders passed from Pelham to her and on to him. Why should he question this one? But she knew he did. It was his own sense of taking the right action that convinced him to leave off carpentering and take up his shotgun.

  "Pel said he has more shells that'll fit this." There was a new eagerness in his tone.

  "Yes. The ammunition is in the bottom desk drawer. Take all you need. Filmore--the man Pel killed--his pistol is in there, too. Take that as well, if you like. A gift." Her lips twisted. "Filmore won't be needing it anymore."

  Tuck sucked in a breath, then let it go with an audible sigh. "Filmore's .44?" He reached into the drawer and drew out the pistol, handling it with an odd reverence. "I guess I'll take you up on the offer, ma'am."

  He strapped the gun belt around his middle. Delight watched him cinch the buckle to the next to last hole, already worn to that size by a previous owner--but not Filmore, who'd been a heavier man. The leather fit the deputy's slim hips like it had been made for him, which, with stinging shock, she thought maybe it had. She called to mind Herschel saying Tuck had sold his pistol to one of Monroe's gang. But had he sold it? Or was he now only reclaiming what was his before going out to set Pelham and her up for disaster?

  She hated the sudden attack of doubt that assailed her. It was not the best moment to begin wondering if she could trust him. Yet what if he planned to bring calamity down on them?

  * * * *

  Tuck suspected Missus Birdsall didn't know how clearly her open face mirrored the thoughts in her head. He felt bad, seeing the misgivings she had about him now. The pistol is what had done it, he knew. He might as well shouted from the ridge peaks that he was back to wearing a gunslinger's gear. His own old rig.

  Probably wouldn't do any good to tell her he'd been a poor excuse for an outlaw. The life hadn't suited him at all. Turns out he didn't enjoy pointing a gun and stealing the fruits of another man's hard work. And he didn't like the reputation wearing a gun gave him, or the way it led youngsters to challenge him. Farmer kids, like the one lying dead in a pool of bright blood.

  Forcing the memory away, he ventured a smile meant to reassure her. "Make sure you drop the bar across the door as soon as I leave, ma'am. It's a stout plank, hard for anyone to break through. Be a sad thing to board up the windows and let 'em in the front. If any shooting starts, stay low and away from the glass. You know what to do." He must've said the right thing for she looked a little easier.

  "Yes. I learned from our last experience. But what about our prisoners?"

  "Yeah." Wheatley, recovered enough to be returned to the jail cell, propped himself on an elbow. Although Doc had managed at the last minute to save his leg, he wasn't up to standing. "What about us?"

  Tuck turned to look at the three prisoners. "These here leftover boards oughta help. Could be you better hope your boss cares enough about your miserable hides to avoid shooting blind. If he don't..." He shrugged.

  Most of Schoefield's brag and bluster had been wiped out--but not all. "Turn us loose, Moon. Diggitt'll break us out anyway. Save yourself some trouble."

 
; "You're a murderer. The only place you're going is the state penitentiary," Delight said.

  Tuck agreed. "My advice is to belly down on the floor and pray--if you're so inclined."

  Delight frowned. "Are there any other fortifications we can make, Mr. Moon? I'd hate for--"

  He cut her off. "Whatever happens, it's none of your doing." His gaze softened as it shifted to her. "Don't fret over them. You don't see them worrying about you or the sheriff, do you?"

  "No. I don't." Firming her mouth, she went over to the stack of lumber Tuck had piled at the side of the room, selected another length and, setting it up on the front window sill, began nailing it to the wall.

  A wise lady, he noted, with her resolve firmly in place.

  Tuck loaded his pockets with shotgun shells, gave the dog a pat on the head, and prepared to depart. He hated leaving her alone with all this on her narrow shoulders, but he wanted an early start. If he had his druthers, he'd stay here with Mrs. Birdsall--Delight, he named her to himself. And with her husband, of course, as fair a man as Tuck had ever known. Yeah, he'd druther fight beside them. But safety was an illusion, as he well knew. Monroe could burn the structure. Sheer numbers could overwhelm the sheriff and his wife. Bullets could come through a crack in the walls and cut down every living soul in the building.

  He peered through the last uncovered window for any observers, then let himself out onto the deserted street before he changed his mind. He knew he'd made the right decision. Get before you're got. Those words belonged in some kind of fighter's creed, or so he figured.

  Chapter 16

  * * *

  The street was empty, although Tuck knew somebody was watching him as soon as he stepped out the door. He could tell by the creeping itch that raised the hair on the back of his neck. That right there let him know Monroe was in town already and playing a waiting game. Tuck suspicioned the outlaw preferred the night for his doings.

  It was almost dark now, the twilight casting long shadows into the alleys and doorways of buildings. Tuck viewed them all as places of concealment. Mrs. Birdsall had returned to the office in the nick of time. Another quarter hour might've proved too long.

  What in hell has happened to Sorenson? He should've been here by now.

  Tuck turned right, toward O'Hanlon's saloon, trying not to let on he knew he was being watched. The crawly sensation on his neck showed no signs of abating and he shifted the sawed-off shotgun into the crook of his arm where a quick flip would bring it into firing position. If they thought to catch him unaware, they had a surprise coming.

  They. Who did that mean? Diggett and all his faction? Or maybe only Happy Monroe. He hoped it was Happy. Nothing in this world would suit him better than to meet Monroe one-on-one in an alley with his scattergun at hand and no one to interfere.

  A breeze kicked up dust and the strong scent of wood smoke through the streets. Coming from Bush's sawmill burner south of town, he supposed. The smell seemed stronger than usual, clear on air crisp enough to foretell of summer's end. Or maybe, he reflected with an inward wry grimace, he was savoring what might be his last few hours on earth.

  Ahead of him, a man came out of the newspaper office and bent to fix a stout padlock on the door. He recognized Jones, the man, according to Mrs. Birdsall, whose arm one of Schoefield's bullets had clipped the night the outlaw killed the sheepherder.

  "Good evening, Deputy." Jones caught sight of Tuck and stood up straight, pocketing the padlock key. "All is quiet so far. I heard--"

  Tuck stopped and put his back against the wall of the building. "What did you hear?"

  The newspaperman's eyes swiveled from side-to-side in a furtive kind of way. "There's a story going around that you'd left town and that Sheriff Birdsall is barricaded in the jail fearing for his life. Then I was told flat out that Endurance, which means me and every other resident of this town, had better take up a new allegiance." His stare into Tuck's face was apprehensive. "I'm hoping I heard wrong."

  Tuck blinked. "I hope you did, too. Now I'm wondering who told you all that." Of course, folks'd have to be deaf not to have heard the hammering going on in the sheriff's office this afternoon.

  "I have my sources," the newspaperman said.

  "I reckon you do. But, as you see, here I am, doing the job I'm paid to do." Tuck shifted, preparing to walk on.

  Jones frowned. "I've been writing an editorial about the situation here, Mr. Moon. With the sheriff out of commission and Duncan Herschel fired from his job--nobody is talking about why--you're a bit of a question mark. About the only thing we know about you is that you were serving time in jail."

  "Ain't much else to know," Tuck said. "I got drunk, acted stupid and Sheriff Birdsall made sure I paid my dues. Had it coming to me, Mr. Jones, and I knew it. Now I served my time and want to settle down. Clear this town of men like Monroe and it'll be a fine place to live." And if that didn't come near to being a real speech, he didn't know what did. Somebody ought to put him up as a politician.

  If Jones wanted more, he didn't get it, and after a pause in which he seemed to be waiting for Tuck to add something, Jones said, "I'm thinking, praise be, as quiet as it is now, Diggett Monroe may be having second thoughts. Perhaps he's decided to move on."

  Tuck, concentrating on the outline of a man slipping into an alleyway down the street, allowed his attention to wander from Jones' chatter. There was another, he saw, ducking into a doorway in the store, closed now, next to O'Hanlon's saloon. They were sneaking too much to be honest shop owners on their way home. Looked like Monroe's men were getting into position. Keep going and he guessed he'd find out.

  "Well, Mr. Jones," he said, "if you noticed it's quiet on the street, it's because men of good sense have taken cover behind closed doors. I'd recommend you do the same."

  Funny, how a man's self-assurance could drain out all at once like Jones's did just then.

  "You mean...right now?" Anxiety thinned Jones's voice. "Why?"

  "I mean Monroe ain't moved on," Tuck said bluntly. "And a man stays too long on the street might get caught in something he don't want mixed up in. You got a gun, Mr. Jones?"

  "No, I-- Thanks for the warning, Deputy. I'll just get out of your way and let you proceed."

  Tuck chuckled as Jones scooted off, moving a little faster than was becoming in an intrepid newspaperman. Appeared he'd learned a painful lesson when Schoefield pinked him the night he interfered with the sheepherder.

  By the time he'd gotten as far as O'Hanlon's, Tuck spotted three men lurking in the shadows, not so hidden as they might've imagined. Or were they confident enough not to care? He passed the first one, his ears catching a sound as the man fell in behind him.

  Tuck caught a stir of movement from above. Another man leaned over the parapet of the boarding house across the way for an instant, silhouetting himself against the darker green of the trees hanging over the building. Four, maybe five of them then. Plenty for him to handle, but he knew Monroe had several more men loyal to him. Where were they? He had a feeling Pelham Birdsall might have an answer to that in short order.

  The Bucket of Sudz was extraordinarily quiet in the early evening. Tuck missed the tinkle of the saloon's badly tuned piano whose music generally spilled out the open door. Tonight the place was all closed up, which meant even Monroe's allies were playing it cagey. Lights showed yellow beyond the dirty windows, where only shadows moved.

  Tuck noticed conditions were much the same at O'Hanlon's as he approached, except there, lamps remained unlit against the dusk. Apparently O'Hanlon had taken Mrs. Birdsall's warning to heart. He hoped the saloon keeper was alert in there. And sharp enough not to shoot poor old Tuck Moon by accident.

  Certain of the man following him, Tuck ducked into the alley before he reached the saloon. From there, he followed the building's wall to the back. No remnants of daylight remained here, which suited his purpose just fine. In the murk, his presence faded to near invisibility.

  He'd barely had time to set himself befo
re he heard the crunch of heavy footsteps grinding through the pine needles, broken glass, and gravel littering the ground. Excitement built inside him. And fear. There was that, too.

  The man following him sped up, sure enough of himself to be careless, his breath hissing in and out, working hard. The sound told Tuck the man's name--Liston. Sure as day and night, it had to be Jake Liston, him being the only one of Monroe's men he knew was heavy enough to pant like a hardworking dog at the least exertion. Tuck reasoned Liston's warning about the attack had ended any allegiance Liston ever had for him.

  The man huffed around the corner, and Tuck stepped forth to meet him. "Hello, Jake," he said, soft-voiced, and smacked the scattergun's butt up under Liston's jaw. The heavy man sank to the ground, the whites of his rolled up eyes glinting. A pistol dropped from his hand, causing Tuck to wonder what kind of miracle had kept it from going off in his face.

  It took a second or two to figure out what that strange thrill was running along his spine. Besides the terror cramping his gut, that is. Then he got it. Pride, by gum. Pride in a job well done. Confidence built of getting in the first lick.

  Hurrying now, before any of the other men began wondering what was taking Liston so long, he took a set of handcuffs from the back pocket of his britches and clamped them around Liston's thick wrist. If the tight fit rubbed off some skin, he didn't much care. He used a dirty kerchief from around Liston's own neck to stuff into the unconscious man's mouth before heaving him into some bushes growing close to the saloon's rock foundation.

  In motion again, he stole through the alley until he got to the other side of the building. Beyond, horses whickered in the livery corral, more restless than drowsing horses ought to be. Someone moving among them, he thought, stirring them up. So be it.