Letter Of The Law

by C. J. Crigger

  "They're expendable," Pel said. "That's the word you're looking for."

  "Precisely. Thank you."

  "What's that mean?" Schoefield asked, standing up and clasping the bars on the cell door.

  Pel laughed. "Means Monroe doesn't give a hoot who he kills. Me, that dog, you. It's all the same to him."

  "That ain't so," Schoefield said. But the outlaw fell silent, and Pel saw how the man's hands gripped the iron bars hard enough to turn his knuckles white. The sheepherder's dog gave notice of more trouble on the way by letting out an awful howl, then lunging against the wall over near the side window.

  * * * *

  Delight expected the dog would take a leg off whoever was scrabbling around outside, if only he could claw an opening through the thick wood clapboards. And if that happened, she wouldn't try to stop him, either.

  She'd gravitated to her husband's side during the lull, wanted to cling to him, but now she hurried back to her position. She was nerving herself to shoot, if it came to that, and held the .44 Pel had found for her--a twin to the one Tuck Moon now carried--in both shaking hands, aiming the wavering barrel at the window. Somebody started hammering the boards from beyond the wall. The barrier jiggled, but didn't give way. Not yet.

  "Look sharp," Pel said. "If one those boards breaks loose, shoot. Don't wait for a still target. You probably won't get one." He lifted the rifle to his shoulder, tracked movement outside in the dark, and let off a shot. He grunted satisfaction as an anguished cry signaled a hit.

  She winced. "What if someone out there needs our help?" A horrifying question occurred to her. "What if an ally is in trouble, Pel? What if it's Mr. Moon?"

  "It's not Moon, and the locals are all tucked up inside their houses."

  "Maybe not," she said uneasily. "Some of the men said they'd fight to protect their own property. What if--"

  "Nothing we can do about them now." He turned to look at her. "Aim for their middle, Delight, if they break through."

  He believed they were going to be killed. The shocking realization hit her, but before it had a chance sink into her brain, a new volley of bullets thudded into the building. The office boiled over with the thunderous roar of gunfire as Pel opened up with his rifle. Her ears rang with the clamor in the enclosed room. An acrid odor of exploded gunpowder stung in her nose, residue burned her eyes, and the frantic dog howled his fear and anger.

  From the corner of one tearing eye, she saw Schoefield huddle into the corner of his cell, while Wheatley turned his cot on edge and lay down behind it as if he thought the thin mattress provided some protection. Purdee merely sat on the floor, almost as if daring a bullet to reach him.

  Time ran out then. She had no more chance for observation as a wave of gunshots resounded from the side alley. Bullets thumped into the board barrier.

  She and Pel were caught in a crossfire, with Diggett Monroe determined they find no way out.

  One of the boards she'd nailed up earlier crashed to the floor, and through the gap, she saw the shape of a man. His torso, mostly, since he was near enough to fill the whole opening. He was hammering at a second board with the butt of his pistol, and it was within an ace of falling, too. Worse, though, the dog was intent on reaching the man, bouncing against the wall as though to rip a way through the window. He blocked her vision and she had no clear shot.

  "Come away," she cried to the dog. "Come away!" Maybe, she thought, she should let him go, but then the animal hesitated, his head turning toward her.

  "Here," she said. "To me. Good fellow. Come away."

  He dropped to the floor a fraction of a second before the ruffian outside reversed his weapon and fired blindly into the room. For a wonder, he missed. The bullet passed above the animal's head, then tore past Delight's face close enough to clip a lock of her hair before it slammed into the desk. It still had enough force to topple the chairs piled on top. One tumbled to the floor with a clatter.

  Delight's wrists trembled as she lifted the .44, but she refused to let the sudden failing stop her from pulling the trigger. The pistol roared once, twice. The man dropped away from the window, though not before she caught sight of the bright stain spreading across the middle of his blue calico shirt.

  He screamed, and her stomach turned within her belly. With the sound still ringing in her ears, another figure reared up to take the first man's place, and without thinking, she fired the .44 again. And then she fired it again, and yet again, until he went down. Pelham's shouts from across the room finally sank into her brain.

  "Reload," he yelled at her above the din from his own gun. "You're out of bullets. Delight, reload."

  And somehow, before any other of Monroe's gang worked up the nerve to face her fire, she did, only to empty it once more against another man brave enough, or stupid enough, to come at her. Whether she hit him or anyone else, she preferred not to know.

  * * * *

  Monroe's men kept a respectful distance after Delight shot two of them at nearly point blank range. Under different circumstances, Pel might've laughed at their surprise. No weak link was to be found at Delight's window. No, sir. The only weak thing was Pel's heart, which about failed him trying to watch her while keeping up a steady fire of his own.

  The feller who'd taken cover behind the watering trough outside the mercantile now sprawled in plain sight. From the way the body lay, Pel knew he was dead. A lantern inside the store spread enough light on the area for him to see that much. Another man lay squashed up against the boardwalk not five feet from the dead one. He thought maybe Schmidt would be claiming bragging rights when all this was over--if he was still alive to do so.

  As the minutes wore on, the wounded man's caterwauling weakened, and Pel figured he'd soon be joining his partner in hell. There'd be plenty of crosses erected on boot hill when all this was over.

  If Endurance had a boot hill. Pel sighted on a shadowy target and squeezed off a shot that made the feller duck. He disremembered ever hearing mention of one, but it looked like there'd be a demand when the gun battle was over.

  After his last shot, everything went still, the street silent and empty, the wounded man quiet at last. Over the ringing in his ears, Pel heard dogs barking in the distance, and what sounded like the hoof beats of several horses. Coming or going? He hoped they were going. Opening a new box of shells, he reloaded.

  Behind him, Wheatley gasped as he sat up. "Schoefield, you alive?" he called over to his cellmate.

  "Guess so," the other prisoner muttered. "Purdee?"

  Purdee groaned.

  "Pel?" Delight whispered, hope in her voice. "Pel, are they leaving?

  * * * *

  Tuck Moon curled his bare toes around the last rung on the ladder and, taking in a short breath and holding it, poked the top four inches of his head above the roof edge. To his surprise, nothing happened--except he became aware of his feet hurting to beat thunder from being arched over the thin side of a one-by-two. He felt like a fool, too, walking around without his boots on. But better a live fool than a dead one. One slip and the sniper would hear him and shoot. Then, if that didn't kill him, likely the fall would.

  At first he believed his precautions may have been for naught, until he caught sight of the sniper crouched in a corner where he had a good view of the street. He'd propped his rifle beside him and was involved in rolling a smoke and listening to the gunfire down the street. From his attitude, he must suppose he had the world by the tail.

  Tuck grinned. Let him think so. Let him light his match. That'd be the time to shift the shotgun Tuck wore strapped across his back and get the drop on the bugger. The feller's eyesight would be dimmed by the light and his hands too busy to make a fast reach for his weapon. Tuck believed in taking every advantage offered.

  But, although he tensed in anticipation, the match didn't flare and Tuck's toes kept right on hurting. He almost fell from his perch when the man on the roof spoke. "Hey, yourself," he said.

  Took him a couple slow thumps of his hear
t before he concluded the feller wasn't talking to him, but to someone standing in the street below.

  "Yeah, it's quiet here," the sniper said. "Think I got him. You're welcome to go see if you can find his body."

  The reply, from Tuck's position, was unintelligible.

  "No, siree." The sniper sounded amused. "Your brother said for me to get up here, stay put, and guard his back. Reckon I'll do just like he says."

  From that, Tuck determined the sniper must be talking to Happy Monroe. Tuck's heart speeded up. He had a score to settle with Happy, and the sooner the better. Too bad the man on the roof stood between them. Now, he thought with fierce anger held in too long, right now would be a good time.

  He never knew what alerted the sniper. Maybe the brush of his clothing as he swarmed over the edge onto the flat roof; maybe he grunted as a bare toe stubbed against the final rung of the ladder. Could even have been a sixth sense that caused the man to whirl around, his rifle ready.

  "Who is that?" the man yelped.

  "It's me," Tuck said, and he brought his scattergun up into firing position.

  Good thing he did, too, because the sniper hollered, "Moon! How'd you..." Then he yanked his rifle to hip level and started shooting.

  The bullet sang over Tuck's head like a hummingbird drubbing its wings. Tuck let go with his first barrel at a far greater distance than the shotgun was effective, but he sprinted forward at the same time. The sniper, pinked by a few lead pellets, brought his rifle to bear as Tuck bore down on him, rushing him enough his next shot went off kilter to Tuck's right. Another followed, but by then Tuck had gotten the distance he needed. The heavy buckshot in the scattergun's last load brought the sniper down like he'd melted. He groaned a time or two, his heels drummed, then went silent.

  Tuck ran over and kicked the rifle away from the man's outstretched hand--just in case--only to see, when he looked down from his rooftop perch, the back side of Happy Monroe hightailing it up the street towards the commotion at the sheriff's office.

  "Gutless son of a lowlife pig farmer," Tuck muttered. Happy must've heard the sniper identify him and run rather than meet him man-to-man. First time he'd ever considered Monroe a coward.

  He was still shaking his head over the outlaw's treachery when a fresh outpouring of shots erupted down at the sheriff's office. Tuck picked up the sniper's rifle and peered through the sights, boring down on Happy's light-colored shirt. Finger light on the trigger, he squeezed off a shot at the same instant the outlaw ducked into the alley leading to the back of the jail.

  "Worthless piece of junk." The rifle had shot high. Frustrated, he threw it over the edge of the roof where it bounced a couple times on the ground below.

  As though in response, the noise of the fight going on between the sheriff and Diggett grew in intensity and, over that, he heard the sound of several horses galloping along the road into town.

  Was it more of Monroe's men pouring in to tear Endurance apart? Or was it Sorenson's men from up valley coming to help at last? Hope quickened. Tuck didn't figure to take any chances. He hunkered down beside the dead sniper on the roof top and waited for the riders to come into sight.

  * * * *

  Sheriff Birdsall swiped at the sweat running from his forehead into his eyes and drew air into his laboring lungs. This present outbreak of gunfire had to be the outlaws' last hurrah. Had to be. How many men had he killed so far? Four? Four that he knew of. How many had Delight? Two for sure.

  And what about Moon?

  The office was in shambles. Several of the barriers protecting the windows had fallen to the office floor, the boards shot to smithereens by the lead Diggett Monroe's gang had expended in the last few minutes. It was a wonder either of them had any ammunition left. He knew his supply was about gone. When Monroe came at them again, it would be their last opportunity to win this fight.

  Glass from broken windows crunched underfoot every time someone moved. Meanwhile, Delight crouched close to the floor, as if she wished to become a part of it. Her face, what Pel could see, was as white as milk, almost ghostly in the room's murk.

  The barrel of his own rifle hot from rapid fire, Pel glanced at her every few seconds, his heart tripping over the fear the next bullet would have her name on it.

  Just like one of the gang's bullets had found Wheatley a minute ago. Unsurprisingly, the straw mattress failed to protect him and now he sprawled on his back on the cell floor with a hole between the eyes, blood that looked black in the dim light seeping down his face just like the sweat from Pel's brow.

  Purdee sat immobile, back against the wall with his eyes closed, hands gripped in front of him. So far he was untouched, although the wall around him was pockmarked from the hail of lead. Schoefield lay on the floor next to him, his arms wrapped around his head and cursing a steady string of obscenities unintelligible over the din.

  Then, as if by a prearranged signal, the shooting from outside stopped. Pel's ears thundered in the sudden quiet. From across the room, he saw Delight rise up and shake out her skirt, her wide eyes full of questions.

  "Wait," he said, motioning her back down.

  "What's happening? Is it over?" Her voice wobbled.

  Wobbled, but she was holding firm. Pel was proud of her. Another woman would've been screaming her head off, if not fainted dead away.

  "Why did they quit shooting?" she asked. She put her fingers up to her ears and rubbed. "Do they think we're dead? Or have we won?"

  "Don't know. Might be a trick to make us come out." He eased his head around until he could peer over the window sill, expecting even so cautious a motion to draw a bullet. It didn't. To his surprise, he saw Diggett Monroe standing in front of the mercantile across the street, waving a white rag on the end of his rifle barrel.

  "Birdsall, let's talk," Monroe hollered. The sound carried clearly through the glassless windows.

  Pel thought the hoof beats he'd heard earlier must've been an illusion because he didn't hear them now.

  "Don't you go out there, Pel," Delight said.

  "I won't. He's testing the waters. Wants to see if he can get a rise out of me."

  Delight shuddered. "Shoot him."

  Pel's lips twitched a smile. "It's tempting." Tempting indeed. His body shook with weariness, his shoulder ached from the constant recoil of his rifle, his arms felt leaden, his revolver too heavy to lift. Yes. Shoot the man down under the white flag and end it all. He doubted anybody would blame him.

  But he was sheriff of Garnet County and weakness didn't count. Following the law did. He would blame himself.

  "You ready to turn yourself and your gang in?" he hollered back. His lungs burned with the effort and he coughed.

  Meanwhile, Monroe jerked as if maybe he had thought Pel dead, then his laughter rang out. "You're tough, Birdsall. I'll grant you that. Heard you was more dead than alive, but I guess my informant was wrong."

  His informant being--who? Pel thought he knew, and if pushed, he'd say Boomer Herschel.

  Monroe was speaking again. "You've shot up some of my men, sheriff, and my brother says that deputy of yours killed another before they got him. But now it's just you. You can't take us all. Give up. Walk away."

  "I figure you're joshing, Monroe. It'll be a cold day in hell when that happens. I repeat, turn yourself in. Make things easy on yourself." Pel choked on another bout of coughing.

  Pel heard the whisper of Delight's skirt dragging on the floor as she ignored his instructions to stay put and, bending low, slipped over to stand beside him. The .44 in her right hand was like an extension of her arm.

  "Shoot him," she whispered again. "He plans to kill you if he gets the chance."

  "I know he does. Look!"

  Diggett Monroe was dashing across the street toward them waving the white flag. As soon as he reached the corner, he hunkered down beside the raised boardwalk and started talking again.

  "Give up now, Birdsall, and I'll guarantee your woman's safety."

  Pel felt Delight cl
utch at his arm, but when he glanced at her, she didn't look frightened, only angry. He lifted her fingers and gave them a squeeze. "Stay here," he said.

  "You're not going out there!" Horror widened her eyes.

  Pel sighed. "I have to, honey. It's the only way." With an effort, he straightened, went over to the door and lifted the bar. Holding the rifle cradled across his arms, he stepped outside, pretending not to hear Delight's indrawn breath.

  He would've had to be blind to miss Monroe's surprise when he stepped out the door. "We meet at last, Birdsall," Monroe said. "I didn't think you'd have the nerve to meet me." He studied Pel a moment. "You're a smaller man than I thought you'd be."

  Pel shrugged. "You ready to give yourself up, Monroe?"

  "I'm ready for your capitulation and to take over this town. We can do it civil or we can...not do it civil."

  "That's not the way it works around here." Pel noted the man's feigned good humor and wondered at it. "Drop your weapons and tell your men to do the same. I'm placing you all under arrest." Talk big enough, maybe he'd surprise someone into giving up. One way or another, it was time to bring the situation to a close.

  Monroe's laughter rang loud and gloating. "All of us? Sure this little jail house is big enough?" His expression grew vicious. "Got to hand it to you, Birdsall, you killed more of my men than I thought you would, but you're done now. You should've stayed holed up."

  "And you should've stayed out of Endurance." Pel gestured. "Drop your guns."

  "Oh, I guess I won't." Monroe laughed again. "By the way, I changed my mind, Birdsall. Guess we'll take your woman after all."