Showdown at Gun Hill (2 page)

“What trick?” Sam said quietly, stepping closer as he spoke, getting arm's length from Stone before the drunken sheriff seemed to realize it.

“That trick!” Stone said, incensed, knowing he'd just been had, knowing he'd even asked for it. His face reddened with humiliation.

“Turn the gun away from me and uncock it, Sheriff,”
Sam said with more authority in his voice. “You've taken this as far as it's going.” He'd moved in, the situation turning better for him.

“Why, you—” Stone's words stopped short as Sam's big Colt swung around in a flash, his thumb clamping down in front of the cocked hammer for safety. The long barrel made the hard, sharp sound of steel on bone and sent the sheriff backward to the floor, knocked out cold. Stone's own cocked pistol flew from his hand and went off as it slid away across the plank floor.

The Ranger stepped over and picked up the smoking Colt and laid it on the sheriff's battered oak desk.

“Everything all right in there?” a voice called out from the street.

“Yep, we've worked it out,” Sam called back in reply. He looked into the cell and saw the frightened prisoner spring from the shadowed corner with a cry of relief.

“My God, Ranger! Let me
out of here
!” the prisoner shrieked, grabbing the bars with both hands as if to pull them down. Sam noted his ragged work clothes and mining boots. A week's worth of dark beard stubble shone on his face.

Sam picked up the key to the cell from atop the sheriff's desk. “What's your name? What are you in for?” he asked quietly as he walked over to the cell door, staring at the disheveled hair and the terrified eyes.

“Caywood Bratcher . . . in for drunk and rowdy,” the prisoner said hastily. “I might have also been a little disrespectful to some passing townsfolk.”

Sam started to stick the key in the door lock. But he
hesitated. “You don't want me finding out you're lying,” he warned.

“I'm not! I'm not! I swear I'm not,” the miner said rapidly. “I was drunk and rowdy, is all. I'll pay my fine, whatever you say. Please let me out!” As the Ranger pushed the key in the lock and turned it, the prisoner glanced fearfully toward the knocked-out sheriff. “Although three days locked in here with that lunatic ought to be punishment enough. I might never drink again.”

Sam glanced all around the small office, seeing bullet holes in the walls, ricochet dings on the iron bars.

“I'm letting you go, Caywood Bratcher,” he said. “Get on back to your mining.”

“I'm gone,” the prisoner said over his shoulder, already headed for the door. “No disrespect for the law, Ranger, but that crazy sumbitch turns himself into a wolf, a bear, a bat . . . all kinds of things—gave me the willies just hearing about it.”

“Get on out of here, Caywood,” Sam said.

“No offense, Ranger, there's plenty of crazy drunks in Big Silver without the sheriff being one,” the miner said on his way out the door. “Something ought to be done.”

“That's why I'm here,” Sam said quietly as the miner's boots stomped hurriedly across the boardwalk.

Sheriff Stone awakened inside the cell, sprawled on one of the four cots set up along the walls. Outside the cell, the Ranger stood holding two steaming mugs of coffee in his hands. He watched as the waking sheriff moaned and raised a hand to the dark bruise reaching up along his left jawline. Early sunlight streamed through the front window and partially open door.

“Morning, Sheriff,” Sam said, moving forward to the cell.

Stone pushed himself up onto the side of the cot with shaky hands and stared out at him with a puzzled expression. He looked over at the sunlight; he rubbed a hand on his sore beard-stubbled jaw. Then he looked back at the Ranger.

“Ranger Burrack . . . ?” he said with uncertainty. “Is that . . .
you
?”

“It's me, Sheriff,” Sam said. “Can you use some hot coffee?”

“Oh yes,” the sheriff said without hesitation. He made a failed attempt to rise from the cot, then sank
back down, looking as if the room had started to tilt around him.

“Easy does it, Sheriff,” Sam cautioned. “You've been in and out for a while. Careful getting your legs back.”

“In and out for
a while
?” said Stone, confused, looking all around the cell, seeing early sunlight shine through a small barred window. “The sun's still coming up.”

“Yep, but you haven't seen it do that the past two days,” Sam replied. “Get up slow and easy.”

“Two days?”
the sheriff said, this time making it to his feet unsteadily when he pushed himself up and swayed forward.

“Two days,” Sam repeated. He stepped over and set the sheriff's coffee mug on the battered desk and picked up the key to the cell.

The sheriff managed to stagger forward and grab the bars to steady himself.

“I've been out for
two days
. . . .” He pondered it for a moment, trying to pull up any memory of the time he'd lost. He looked up and all around. “Why am I locked in my own jail?” he asked. “Who hit me in the jaw?”

“I locked you up for your own good,” Sam said. “I hit you in the jaw because I didn't want to shoot you. Sound fair?” he asked in a quiet tone.

Stone only stared, rubbing his sore jaw.

“Where's Caywood, my prisoner?” he asked.

“I let him go,” said Sam, unlocking the cell door. “I needed the room.”

Stone sniffed the air.

“It smells something awful in here,” he said.

“Yep, it does,” Sam agreed.

Stone looked around at the bullet holes and ricochet nicks all over his office, a pile of empty whiskey bottles in a garbage crate.

“Jesus, I did all this?” he said.

“Yep,” Sam said again. He swung the cell door open and stepped back for the sheriff to walk out of the cell. Stone made his way around behind his desk and hung on to its edge. He reached a shaky hand down and pulled open a bottom drawer.

“I—I don't remember much,” he said. His trembling fingers searched all around in the open drawer. “I've got to pull myself together . . . get to work.”

“I threw it out, Sheriff,” Sam said. “The drinking's over.”

“I always have a little bracer this time of morning,” Stone said. “It steadies my hand the whole day.”

“Not this morning, Sheriff,” Sam said. “We've got a long ride ahead of us.”

The sheriff looked at him through bloodshot eyes, his mood turning ugly at the prospect of not having a drink to calm his shakes and tremors.

“The hell you say,” he replied, straightening. “Who do you think you are, Ranger, coming in here, giving orders, making me look like a fool in my own town—”

“You've been telling townsfolk that you turn into a wolf, Sheriff,” Sam said, cutting him off. “It's time to get off the whiskey.”

“A
wolf
?” Stone said. That stopped him. “Jesus . . .” He squinted and dug deep for any remembrance of the
past few days. Things were starting to come back to him, but his mind was working slowly, still under the effects of alcohol. He straightened again and ran his trembling fingers back through his graying hair. “So what? Lakota medicine men claim to do that all the time.”

“You're not a medicine man,” Sam said flatly. “You're a lawman. A lawman who's been drunk a long time. Now it's time to get sober.”

“Don't preach,” the sheriff said in a warning tone. He glanced down into the empty drawer again, and an angry look appeared on his face when he still couldn't find his hidden bottle.

Sam just watched.

“You've no right coming here sounding off to me, sticking me in a cell, shaming me,” Stone said, needing a drink more and more with every passing minute.

“You shame yourself, Sheriff,” Sam said. “If I wanted to make you look bad, I'd lead you out of here in handcuffs.”

“Lead me out of here?” Stone said. “Lead me where?”

Sam let out a patient breath. “You're riding with me to Yuma, to Judge Long's ranch, remember? We talked about it.” He wasn't going to mention that when they'd talked about it, Stone had refused to go.

Stone tried hard to remember. He only managed to pull up parts of the conversation they'd had.

“Yeah, sort of,” he said. As he spoke he reached down and felt his Colt in its holster. He looked back up at the Ranger.

“I holstered it for you,” Sam said. “I didn't want you
seen leaving here unarmed either. That would have been as bad as handcuffed.”

Stone took a deep breath, realizing how tough the Ranger could have played this if he'd had a mind to.

“Obliged, Ranger,” he said, trying to calm his shaking hands. “I didn't mean to get mouthy with you. It was the whiskey talking. It's been doing my thinking for me lately.”

“I know it,” Sam said. “As long you say you've been drunk, it's going to try to keep doing your thinking for you. You've got to leave it in the bottle.”

“I'll get sober,” Stone said. “Only, it would help to have just one drink—just a shot, enough to get myself untangled—”

“No drink,” Sam said. “I told you we've got a long ride ahead. You're going to make it there sober.”

Anger flared again on Stone's brow. His hand dropped over his gun butt.

“I need a drink bad, Ranger, damn it! You do not want to cross me on this.”

“It's not loaded,” Sam said calmly, nodding at the holstered Colt standing beneath the sheriff's trembling palm. “I didn't want them seeing you unarmed, but there's no way I'd trust you with a loaded gun.”

The sheriff stared at him, his hands and face trembling like those of a man with a bad fever. Finally he managed to get himself back under control. He eased down into his desk chair and gripped his shaky hands around the hot coffee mug. Then he raised his hands and swabbed them over his sweaty face. “I don't know how I ever got in this shape, Ranger,” he said.

“Think about it later,” Sam said. “First thing to do is get yourself out of it.”

“You're right,” Stone said humbly. “I've got to get myself sobered and cleaned up.” He raised the coffee mug to his lips with both hands and sipped it down carefully. “First thing I'm going to get is a hot bath.”

Sam only watched and listened, the sheriff sounding a little inauthentic to him.

“It's going to take me a while,” Stone continued. “I'll tell you what, Ranger, why don't you ride on ahead? I'll just get cleaned up some and join you along—”

“We're ready to ride, Sheriff,” Sam said, cutting him off.

Again the whiskey flared in Stone's head. “Damn it, Ranger, I can't just haul up at the last minute and ride off to Yuma with you! I've got to get my horse ready, load my saddlebags—”

“I've had two days to prepare,” Sam said. “I boarded my spare horse at the livery. Your horse and mine are ready, standing at the hitch rail. Your saddlebags are packed. The blacksmith is going to serve as deputy while you're gone.”

“Elmore Frazer can't handle my job,” Stone said. “Law work ain't like shoeing a horse. A man has to be ready for anything, at all times.”

Sam gave him a look; Stone's face reddened in shame.

“There's a water hole seven miles out,” Sam said, letting the matter drop. “You can get cleaned up there.”

The sheriff wrung his shaking hands together, all out of excuses.

“I see you've thought of every damn thing, Burrack,”
he said with sarcasm. “You going to crack me in the head again if I say I ain't going?”

Sam didn't reply; he only stared, leaving the sheriff's question hanging between them.

“Damn this all to hell,” Stone growled, pushing himself up from his chair. “I don't even remember saying I'd go to Yuma with you.”

“There must be a lot you don't remember, Sheriff,” Sam said, stepping over and opening the front door for them. “Maybe some of it will come back to you along the trail.”

Stone reached over and took down his hat and riding duster from a wall peg and put them on. He started toward the door. Then he stopped.

“I need to tell you, Ranger, there might be some saddle tramps wanting to kill me,” he said.

“Might be?” Sam said.

“Yeah, there will be. I'm sure of it,” said Stone. “They work for a rancher named Edsel Centrila. Ever heard of him?”

“I've heard of him,” Sam said. “Why does he want you killed?”

“He claims I owe him money,” Stone said.

“Do you?” Sam asked.

“Yeah, sort of,” said Stone, getting edgy again just talking about it.

“Nobody
sort of
owes somebody money,” Sam said. “Either you do or you don't.”

“I
do
, then, if you put it that way,” said Stone. “Anyway, we could run into them out there. They could be waiting anywhere along the trail to Yuma.”

The Ranger gestured him toward the open door.

“I'm glad you told me before we got under way,” he said wryly.

“It just came back to me. I figured you ought to know,” said Stone. “These gunmen are the Cady brothers, Lyle and Ignacio. They're dangerous hombres—especially Ignacio.” He walked out the door, across the boardwalk and down to the waiting horses.

“Obliged for you telling me,” Sam said in the same tone as they unhitched their mounts and swung up into their saddles. “If anything else comes back to you, be sure to let me know.”

“I will,” Stone said flatly, his hands trembling on the reins as they both turned their animals to the street.

*   *   *

At the water hole seven miles outside Big Silver, Sam sat with a telescope to his eye. He watched the trail snake south along the hill lines and desert flats. Behind him, Sheriff Stone walked up barefoot, wearing his frayed long johns, carrying his boots and wet clothes under his arm. His graying hair dripped water under the edge of his hat brim. His gun belt hung over his shoulder, carrying his unloaded Colt.

“I have to admit, I feel a little better after that,” he said. He wiped a hand over his wet face. “What are you watching out there?”

Without turning, Sam held the telescope up to him.

“Are they the Cady brothers?” he asked.

Stone took the telescope and dropped his boots and clothes in a pile. He raised the lens to his eye and searched out through the glaring sunlight until he
spotted rising streams of trail dust following two riders toward the water hole.

“That's them all right,” he said. “They had to be watching the town, to show up this quick.”

Sam just looked at him.

“They're coming from the opposite direction,” he said.

“You're right. They are,” said Stone, getting defensive, lowering the lens. “So I should have caught that, so what? I would have caught it, had I gotten my eye-opener before we left.”

Sam wasn't going to waste time arguing the point.

“Get yourself dressed,” he said. “They'll be riding in here soon enough.”

“But maybe they're not looking for me,” Stone said, sounding shaky and cross all over again. “Maybe they're just riding to town for a drink, some faro. They both like faro.”

Sam stared at him.

“Even so,” he said. “Don't you think we ought to be ready for them, just in case?”

Stone rubbed a trembling hand across his forehead. He looked troubled, confused and agitated.

“Of course we should, Ranger. I know that. I'm just trying to get my thoughts collected.” He wiped his whole face as if clearing off cobwebs. “All right . . . first thing, I need some bullets.” He held a shaky hand out toward the Ranger.

Sam looked him up and down, judging his condition, seeing his trembling hands, his sweaty face.

“Huh-uh,” he said, “no bullets for you—not the shape
you're in. When they get here you stand back, let me handle them.”

“Ranger, nobody has to do my fighting for me,” Stone said in an anger-proud tone. “I was handling tramps like this, drunk or sober, when you was just a—”