Letter Of The Law

by C. J. Crigger

  Tuck sheltered best he could against the saloon wall and put his head down until the fusillade was over. Then the silence, when the gunfire stopped, almost hurt. He could see Lisenbee was all right. The outlaw was lying in the same spot he'd been when the shooting started, almost like he'd been frozen to the ground. His mouth hung open, and Tuck could see the whites of his eyes where they bugged wide.

  Tuck went over to the man he'd trussed and dragged out of the way. Keeping his voice low, he asked, "You hit?"

  He decided the return words through the bound man's gag meant no. At least he took it as such.

  Tuck turned and pointed his shotgun at Lisenbee's gut. "If I was you, I'd climb on my horse and get out of town. Better yet, get out of Idaho Territory before Sheriff Birdsall is back to his regular self. He ain't in what you'd call a forgiving mood right now."

  "I'm shot." Lisenbee's voice sounded pallid, if such a thing could be.

  "Yup. I noticed. You done pretty good, shooting yourself." Tuck didn't bother to keep his amusement from showing, but Lisenbee must've been too wrought up to take offense.

  "You gotta get the doc for me," Lisenbee whined.

  Tuck grunted. "Walk out onto the street where that feller sitting on the roof can shoot me? I guess I ain't so careless."

  The outlaw talked fast. "He won't shoot. I'll tell him to hold fire."

  "Like he held fire just now? My ma didn't raise me for a fool."

  Before Lisenbee could argue further, a flurry of gunshots broke out down the street by the sheriff's office. The noise continued for what seemed like a powerful long time. Then it stopped. Except for two or three dogs trading yelps about the noise, a deep silence ruled.

  Tuck didn't much like it.

  * * * *

  Waiting for the war to begin tore at Pel's nerves. Being stuck inside the sheriff's office, when every instinct he possessed urged him not to wait on anyone's timetable but his own, got his hackles up. Almost as high as the hair rising along the dog's back. The animal's dark eyes fixed on the side window, a low growl purling from its throat as it belly-crawled across the floor to Delight's side.

  Delight reached down, stilling the animal with her hand.

  "Pel," she called to him, her voice low and worried, "someone is standing awfully close to this window. He's only about ten feet away."

  "Don't get in front of it," he warned her, almost snapping. "Stay low and to the side."

  "I know."

  The boards nailed across the openings helped, but weren't foolproof. They wouldn't prevent flying glass or a bullet shot through one of the spaces. Pel wished for solid steel shutters. He wished for an army at his back. Most of all, he wished his wife away from here and somewhere safe.

  "I'm glad we lighted a lamp, Pel, even one this dim." She glanced toward him, seeming to take comfort by having him in sight. "This way we won't trip over each other or the dog."

  He would've preferred total darkness and vision attuned to the night, but he heard the tremor in her voice, and knew how brave she was and what it cost her to stand beside him.

  "Yes. I'd hate like the dickens to trip over anything. Might not make back onto my feet." After a quick smile at her, he stared into the street through a slit between boards, holding onto his night vision.

  Useless chatter because, except for the desk and couple of chairs stacked in the middle, the room was clear. Tuck Moon's doing, he supposed. Or maybe Delight's. She was a whole lot sharper about this kind of thing than he'd ever given her credit for.

  Movement caught his eye. A tall, thick-set man clomped down the street opposite the office, his form almost lost in the gloom.

  Diggett Monroe, unless he missed his guess, come to take charge of the doings. Breath hissed between his teeth.

  Delight turned at the slight sound. "What is it?"

  "Monroe. The head snake has showed up in person."

  As he watched, another gent ran up and the two of them conferred. Monroe's arm waved. A few seconds later, gunfire erupted from the roof on top the boarding house a couple blocks down the street. The noise echoed through town.

  Delight cried out, and Pel couldn't stop the way he ducked before he found, to his surprise, the shots weren't aimed at the jail. But Monroe had only one other reason to shoot wild like that and its name was Deputy Tuck Moon. Somewhere over there, Moon must be pinned down--or shot dead.

  Sensing his arrested attention, Delight came to stand next to him. "Which one is he?" she asked, just above a whisper. Pel knew who she meant.

  "Tall one with the big hat." Pelham thrust the barrel of his pistol through the slit and gave the window glass, one of the few not already broken, a sharp tap. The pane shattered, most of the shards falling onto the sidewalk outside.

  The sound of falling glass had Schoefield stirring restlessly in his cell. "Is the boss here?" he called. "Is Diggett coming?"

  "He's here," Pel said. "You fellers better get ready to duck."

  Delight clutched his arm, then just as quickly, let go and stepped back.

  "We'll be fighting soon," she said, resignation in her voice.

  "I will. You stay low."

  Behind them, Schoefield was dragging the thin straw mattress off his bunk onto the hard, rough floor. "Get down, Wheatley, Purdee," he said to the other men. "It's time we hit the dirt."

  With Purdee hovering like he was thinking about helping, Wheatley groaned and slid from his bunk, his stiff leg making any movement difficult. Not that Pel gave a button. But he didn't want any prisoner killed inside his jail, while under his care, and applauded Schoefield's advice.

  The dog drew everyone's attention by emitting a queer sound somewhere between a whine and a growl. He rose on his three good legs, lunging in sharp protest toward the side window Delight had abandoned a minute before. The lunge became an attack against the wall, toenails gouging at the wooden planks as though he would dig through to the other side. His growl became a full-fledged snarl that grew in volume, his lips drawn back over his teeth in a vicious smile.

  Pel caught Delight's arm as she started toward her assigned post. "Don't get near him," he said, worried now as much by the dog as by the men outside.

  That attitude changed as a cluster of shots banged outside of where the frenzied dog leapt. The window shattered just above the animal's head, the boards stopping part of the glass--and most of the bullets. One went through the firing slits, straight past Delight's nose where it thudded into the opposite wall. She shrank back and, even in the uncertain light, Pel saw she'd gone dead white. She didn't need to be touching him for Pel to feel her trembling.

  As abruptly as it started, the barrage stopped, leaving the dog untouched but barking louder than ever.

  Above the noise, Pel heard someone hollering. He peered through slits in the boards and spotted Monroe partially concealed behind a cord of wood stacked outside Schmidt's store, waving his big hat over his head.

  "Missus Birdsall," he called again, "you alive in there, ma'am?"

  If there was one thing Pel knew, it was that he wasn't up to a prolonged discussion with a lot of back and forth yelling. In plain fact, he wasn't up to any yelling at all. He exchanged a look with Delight. "It's Diggett Monroe."

  "Do you want me to answer him?" she asked.

  "Not yet. Let him talk."

  "If he shows himself, maybe you can shoot him," she said. "That should solve the whole problem."

  Pel smothered a laugh. He didn't know what to think of Delight taking such a bloodthirsty attitude. She'd always been such a proper little lady--until now.

  Her blue eyes found his. They were dark, the pupils dilated, and just a little too wild. "He's a wanted man, isn't he? Wanted dead or alive? Cut off the snake's head and you cut away its ability to strike."

  Pel remembered her dad saying that, slow and ponderous in his deep voice. "Delight--" he began, only to have Monroe interrupt. The outlaw was easier to hear, this time, because a second glance showed he'd moved closer.

  "We got him
," Monroe said. "Moon, I mean."

  Pel heard Delight's indrawn breath from all the way across the room. "Oh, no," she whispered, as if to herself.

  He opened his mouth to tell her not to believe Monroe, but the outlaw was speaking again.

  "Now there's just you, Birdsall. Due to your recent...accident...I'm giving you a chance to run. You can walk off and leave the town to me. I'll take care of folks. Count on it."

  Although the outlaw was difficult to see clearly through the gathering dusk, Pel sensed him grinning. His skin burned with the rage that swept over him. Accident? Accident he'd lived through the attack, Monroe meant. And any man who thought Pelham Birdsall a man who would abandon his town, his home, to the likes of Diggett Monroe, had another think coming.

  "What do you say, Birdsall? I'll even let you take your wife with you, although I've got to say a few of my men would druther she stayed. They tell me she'd make a pretty playmate--for as long as she lasted."

  Pel still made no reply, although Delight's outraged gasp cut him through.

  "Pel," she said, but he held up his hand, a plea for her to remain silent.

  "I'm waiting for your answer, Birdsall," Monroe said, then, when Pel remained silent: "Birdsall? You alive? Come out--now! Meet me out front and we'll settle this, just you and me."

  Pel glance locked with Delight's anguished gaze.

  Seconds passed before Monroe shouted again. "Wheatley? Schoefield? Is everybody dead in there?"

  Pel turned, his pistol aimed at the prisoners. "Anyone of you opens your yap, I'll shoot you in the knee cap."

  "I ain't saying nothin'," Wheatley said.

  Purdee shook his head, while Schoefield glared.

  Pel nodded approval. "Smart." He wanted Monroe to come closer. Let this be between him and the outlaw--an end to the shooting. Yep. Cut off the snake's head and eliminate its ability to strike. Tom Regal's daughter had it right.

  His steely glare fixed on Schoefield, who stared at him, mouth open. Slowly, the prisoner's mouth closed.

  * * * *

  Look at him, Delight thought, watching her husband with a glum eye. His skin was gray as ashes and his jaw knotted in that stubborn way he had. His limbs might shake with weakness, but with him, none of that counted. He was going to do it. Walk right out, meet Monroe, and expose himself to another sniper's shot. His pride would let him do no less. He made an oath when he took this job. He'd vowed to defend Garnet County and everyone in it, and he'd do so, no matter the cost to himself.

  But what he did would cost her, too, and she refused to pay.

  "Pelham Birdsall," she said, "don't you dare leave this room. We'll hole up here until help comes, but we will not give in to that man. Mr. Moon will not have died for nothing."

  "Don't bet your life on Sorenson, honey. He may not make it here in time. If he comes at all."

  "Hmph," Delight said. "Only a week ago I paid him a handsome reward when he brought in a dead horse thief. Going by his reaction then, he won't be averse to earning a few dollars more. I had the impression he's quick with his gun, as well as being a bit on the greedy side."

  "I think he's only a step above the thieves," Pel said, sounding amused.

  "The thought had occurred to me. But I, for one, don't care what he's like as long as he minds his manners and does what's needful in this crisis."

  "I won't have any vigilantism. Not in my town."

  "Of course not. But we have to get through this first. Then, if necessary, you can persuade him to mend his ways."

  "I'm not saying anything different." Pel smiled at her, his old slow smile, the one that had always made her heart go pitty-pat, even when she'd been thirteen years old and too young for him to notice.

  "I'll deputize Sorenson, if he comes," he said. "May not be the letter of the law, but the chance for some reward money should buy his loyalty. Let's hope he'll be content to go back to his ranching after the excitement is over."

  Problems for the future, too inconsequential to think of now. But only, she couldn't help reflecting, if the rancher came soon. An overwhelming sense of regret swept over her. "I wish he and his men had gotten here in time to save Mr. Moon. It's my fault. I shouldn't have agreed when he said he wanted to meet them outside. I said you and I could protect the office, so he went." Unshed tears clogged her throat.

  Pel, as he turned back to the window to keep Diggett Monroe in view, seemed strangely cheerful in view of her sadness. "I seem to recall you saying it was his idea. Don't start beating on yourself, Delight. Monroe's a terrible liar, and we have only his say so that Moon is dead."

  "Oh. But..."

  "I don't believe him. All we heard is one rifle."

  "Yes?" She knew she sounded unconvinced.

  "We didn't hear any return fire. No shotgun blast. I doubt any of Monroe's men are good enough to take him without a fight. We haven't seen anybody parading Moon's body down the street either, like I'd expect Monroe to do. Don't be so quick in writing him off."

  Chapter 18

  * * *

  Was Delight--Mrs. Birdsall, that is--trying to defend the sheriff's office by herself? Deputy Tuck Moon near had a conniption, worrying about her. Guilt settled in, curdling his last meal, which lay lumpish in his stomach. Feisty and strong as she might be, no female was prepared or able to take on Diggett Monroe and his gang of rowdies.

  Tuck cursed his luck for about the tenth time since he'd heard shots coming from the sheriff's office. Having taken three prisoners, he now found himself as much a prisoner as any of them. The feller on the rooftop over yonder kept him pinned down like a bird stuck under a net.

  Tuck didn't care for the direction this standoff was heading.

  Every so often after the first flurry of gunshots, he caught glimpses of the sniper moving from position to position. A little light had remained low on the horizon then, throwing the feller into relief, but now night blanketed the town. The shooter was no longer visible, therefore, it stood to reason Tuck himself was every bit as hard to spot. This is the moment he'd been waiting for.

  He hauled Ed closer to the downspout running from the saloon roof and, sacrificing his own sweat-damp kerchief, tied the man to the pipe, wrenching the knot tight.

  "Might be a good idea to keep your mouth shut, my friend. Looks as if that feller across the way ain't too particular where he aims his rifle. You make just as good of a target as I do."

  Ed, in pain and a whole lot more subdued than before he shot a hole through his own foot, nodded and slid the cuff around the drain low enough he could sit on the ground. He moaned deep in his throat.

  Tuck left him there, going back the way he'd come, following along behind the businesses until he came to the first cross street. He figured he was out of the rooftop shooter's line of sight here, and crouching low, he darted over to the other side. He reversed direction, bearing off toward the rooming house. Unless the sniper had forced the landlady, old Missus Doherty, to open up at gun point--thereby gaining access through the attic--he must've gotten up to the roof by climbing the fire escape at the rear. Tuck planned on doing the same. Should be simple.

  A minute later he'd tugged off his boots and stood in the dark with one foot on a simple ladder nailed handily to the wall of the house. While taking care not to knock over a trash barrel, second thoughts roiled through his mind. What if the sniper was sitting up there waiting for him? First peep over the roof edge and he'd be a goner, a big hole in his head where his brains used to be.

  If he had any brains to begin with, which he was beginning to doubt. How had he gotten to this place, straight out of jail, only to wind up working on the side of the law? Didn't make any sense. But neither did the scent of lavender wafting on the late summer night's breeze. A scent that reminded him of a lovely young woman who depended on him for her very life. A woman who belonged to another man and had offered Tuck Moon only her simple friendship and trust.

  He was a damn fool. Sighing, he began to climb.

  * * * *

&n
bsp; Stiff from standing in one place too long, Pelham shifted his weight onto his other foot, stifling a groan at the small motion. Old age setting in, he told himself. He didn't bounce back from hurts like he used to do.

  "What time is it?" he asked Delight. The clock on the desk was visible to her from the other side of the room.

  She stretched her neck to look. "Seven."

  "Sorenson and his men should've been here by now." He'd been on his feet a solid hour. Too long for a man just risen from his sick bed. Tremors shook his innards like he'd heard earthquakes in California shook the land.

  As though she'd read his mind, Delight said, "Let me get you a chair. You can sit and watch for trouble every bit as well as you can stand and watch."

  He was beyond protesting. "Thanks, honey," he said, receiving the chair she skated across the floor to him. He'd no sooner sat down than Schoefield broke his long silence. It had taken a while for the outlaw to regain his poise after dodging the hailstorm of bullets that had flown his way.

  "Feeling a mite weak, Sheriff?" Schoefield asked, mocking Pel. "You're feeble as an old man. Why don't you call Diggett in right now? Save a whole lot of trouble. He'll win anyway. Diggett always wins."

  Pel heard Delight sniff.

  "Not this time," he said.

  "You know Diggett's brother, Happy?" Schoefield went on. "See, it ain't just Diggett you got to fight. Right now Happy's taking orders, but it's easy to see he don't like it. If you get Diggett--which I'm guessing you won't--but even if you did, Happy is next in line. You won't get them both."

  "Shut up," Wheatley snapped out. "You talk too damn much."

  Wheatley had the right of it. Pel turned his head away and quit listening, wishing he could close Delight's ears at the same time. He couldn't.

  She shook her head as though disbelieving what she'd heard. "How can either of you have any loyalty to this man? Diggett Monroe is about as sorry of an excuse of a man as I've ever heard of. Has he asked if you lost your leg, Mr. Wheatley? Certainly not, although Doc says it is a miracle you haven't." She glared at the two men, though they may not have seen her. "Has he inquired after your welfare, Mr. Schoefield? Ha! Not one word. Have any of you realized he showed no regard for your welfare when he shot into the jail? You three are in every bit as much danger as the sheriff or I."