Sidewinders (10 page)

Barney Dunn shrugged.

“I don't know what to tell you, Mr. Morton. Remember, it wasn't me who said your friend was the killer. Other people did that. I just told what I saw and let somebody else figure it out.”

“Yeah, that's where we stand, all right,” Scratch said with a sigh. “I know Bo's innocent, but there's no way to prove it right now.”

Lauralee said, “And meanwhile you've got Danny Fontaine stirring up the town against him even more. I worry that this isn't going to end well, Scratch.”

“So do I, but we'll do everything we can to get to the bottom of it.”

Dunn said, “If there's nothin' else I can do to help you, I oughta get back to work.”

Lauralee looked at Scratch, who shook his head. She told the bartender, “Thanks, Barney.”

“Anything for you, ma'am, you know that.”

Scratch wasn't surprised by that sentiment. Lauralee inspired a lot of loyalty among her employees.

“What are you going to do now?” she asked Scratch when Dunn had gone back behind the bar.

“Keep an eye on the jail, I reckon, just to make sure nobody tries anything.”

“You'll have to sleep sometime.”

“Not for a while yet.” He smiled. “One good thing about gettin' older is that you don't need as much sleep. Fact of the matter is, I spend a lot of nights tossin' and turnin' anyway.”

“Not everybody in Bear Creek has turned on Bo. I can put the word out and find some men who'd be willing to help guard the jail. Marshal Haltom won't like that when he finds out about it, but I don't care. Let him be stubborn. He can't keep Bo safe alone.”

Scratch nodded and said, “That sure might help. But you be mighty careful about what you say and do, Lauralee. There's one thing we got to remember about this.”

“What's that?”

“As long as Bo's in jail,” Scratch said, “nobody but us is lookin' for the real killer. He's safe for now.”

“Unless we can prove that Bo isn't guilty.”

“Yep. Which means the varmint's got a powerful strong reason for makin' sure Bo stays behind bars . . . even if it means gettin' rid of the folks who are tryin' to help him.”

Scratch talked to Lauralee for a while longer, turning to the things that had gone on in her life in the years since he had last seen her. They caught up like two old friends will, and under normal circumstances Scratch would have enjoyed the conversation a great deal.

There was nothing normal about the circumstances, though, and he was too distracted by worrying about Bo to really concentrate on what Lauralee was saying.

Finally she told him, “Go on back to the jail, Scratch. That's where your mind is, already.”

He shook his head and said, “Never thought I'd have so much trouble payin' attention to what a beautiful blonde was tellin' me. That just goes to show you how shook up this dang business has got me.”

“I appreciate the compliment, but I understand why you're distracted. Go on, now. I'll see if I can find somebody to spell you later.” She gave an unladylike snort. “Shoot, if it comes to that,
I'll
help you guard the jail. I can handle a gun, you know.”

“Bo wouldn't stand for that, and you know it.”

Lauralee grinned.

“Bo's in jail. He wouldn't know about it, now would he?”

Scratch chuckled and shrugged. He got to his feet and said, “I'll see you later.”

“Be careful. If you're right about the real killer wanting to put a stop to any investigation, then you're in danger, too.”

“Let him come after me,” Scratch said. “That'd be plumb welcome as far as I'm concerned. That's one way of skinnin' the varmint's hide.”

“Or getting your own hide skinned.”

Scratch inclined his head in acknowledgment of that point and left the Southern Belle. As he walked back toward the bridge, leading his horse, he wondered in which of the other saloons Fontaine and the rest of the Rafter F punchers were drinking and raising hell.

Music drifted to Scratch's ears as he crossed the bridge, but it wasn't coming from the saloons behind him, he realized. It sounded like an accordion. Whoever was playing the squeezebox was doing so with both talent and enthusiasm.

The medicine show, Scratch thought. That had to be the source of the music.

A turn to the right when he reached the foot of the bridge would take him toward the jail. The public well was the other way, and that was where he had seen Professor Sarlat's wagon parked earlier.

He was tempted to walk down and check out the show. He figured the professor was playing the accordion, which meant Veronique was probably dancing. Scratch had a feeling that would be a sight well worth seeing.

But Bo was counting on him, and Scratch knew good and well he couldn't ignore what he needed to do just so he could go see a pretty redhead dancing around, possibly in some sort of skimpy getup. He didn't hesitate for a second when he reached the end of the bridge.

He turned toward the jail.

But he hadn't gone more than a few steps when the music at the other end of the street suddenly stopped and a woman's scream ripped through the night.

Scratch stopped short and swiveled around, unable to ignore the sounds of trouble. Lanterns hung from the corners of Professor Sarlat's wagon and created an oasis of light at the far end of the street. The glow revealed a crowd of people around the wagon, mostly men although a few women were in attendance, too.

The wagon's tailgate had been lowered. Veronique Ballantine stood on it, cringing away from hands that reached up and tried to grab her. She wore a short, spangled dress that was cut low enough to expose the upper swells of her breasts.

“Leave her alone!” Sarlat shouted. Scratch saw the professor's top hat bobbing around as he struggled in the grip of the two men who were holding him. Scratch was too far away to get a good look at the men wrestling with Sarlat, but it didn't take much guesswork to figure out who they were, or who the man grabbing at Veronique was.

Those three cowboys from the Rafter F had come back looking for more trouble.

It didn't appear that any of the townspeople in the crowd around the wagon were going to try to help Sarlat and Veronique. They were probably afraid of the Fontaine punchers, who had struck Scratch as ruffians from way back.

That left it up to him again. He knew he needed to get back to the jail, but he also knew what Bo would want him to do in a situation like this.

Scratch started jogging toward the wagon, hanging on to his horse's reins and leading the animal behind him.

Veronique wasn't able to avoid the pawing hand of the cowboy who clutched at her. He got hold of her ankle and gave it a jerk that stole her balance from her. She cried out again and waved her arms in frantic circles, but she was unable to recover. She toppled off the tailgate.

The cowboy was there to catch her. He laughed raucously as he wrapped his arms around her.

“Got you this time!” he crowed triumphantly.

“Put her down and let her go!” Scratch shouted as he reached the edge of the crowd and dropped his horse's reins. He knew the animal was well-trained enough not to run off.

People got out of his way as he strode forward. He didn't reach for his Remingtons, because he didn't want this to turn into a gunfight. There were too many innocent folks around who might get in the way of any flying lead.

“It's that old geezer!” one of the men holding the professor exclaimed.

“Teach him a lesson!” ordered the puncher holding Veronique. “I'll hang on to the girl.”

The other two men slammed Sarlat back against the side of the wagon. As the professor fell to his knees, stunned, they charged Scratch.

The two burly cowhands were a lot younger than Scratch, but he had the experience of decades when it came to brawling. As a punch came at his head, he stepped nimbly aside and let the man's fist whip past his ear. That made the cowboy stumble forward, momentarily blocking the other man.

Scratch bored in, hooking a right into the cowboy's belly and then a left to the jaw as the first punch made the man gasp and lean forward. The second blow landed just as cleanly as the first and jerked the man's head to the side. Scratch kicked his feet out from under him, and as the cowboy fell Scratch shoved him into his companion. Their legs tangled and both men went down.

He knew they wouldn't stay down long, though. Neither man was out of the fight by any means. As one of them started to get up, Scratch kicked him in the chest and knocked him sprawling. Kicking a man while he was down went against the grain, but when a fella was outnumbered by younger opponents, some of the niceties had to go by the wayside.

The second cowboy made it to his feet while Scratch was dealing with the first one. He tackled Scratch and drove the silver-haired Texan against the wagon. Scratch's hat flew off as the impact jarred through him. He lifted an uppercut that caught the man he was battling under the chin.

The punch jacked the man's head back and gave Scratch a little room. Unfortunately, as he tried to move to a better position he stumbled over Professor Sarlat, who was still lying on the ground where he had fallen next to the wagon. A fist hammered against Scratch's head while he was off balance from that and sent him to the ground.

The first cowboy was back on his feet and rushed at Scratch alongside the second one. Both of them looked ready to stomp him into the ground. Scratch rolled aside desperately as a boot came at his face. He grunted in pain as the other man kicked him in the shoulder. Scratch tried to ignore that as he grabbed the man's leg and heaved, upending him.

The next second, a boot toe slammed into Scratch's ribs and sent him rolling again. The man who had just kicked him rushed after him. Scratch recovered just in time to avoid another swinging kick. He brought his own leg up and sank the heel of his boot in the man's groin.

That brought a high-pitched scream of agony from the hombre. He staggered, clutched at himself, and collapsed. That was one varmint down who wouldn't be getting back up again anytime soon, Scratch thought as he slapped a hand on the ground and pushed himself up.

He sensed as much as saw the fist rocketing toward his head and ducked under it. His right fist shot out in a counterpunch that landed on the man's chest. Scratch followed with a left that clipped the man on the ear, probably painfully but without doing much real damage. A flurry of punches from his opponent forced Scratch backward as he tried to block the blows.

One of the punches got through and tagged him on the jaw. Scratch fell back against the wagon again. He probably would have fallen all the way to the ground if the vehicle hadn't caught him. He twisted aside so that another punch narrowly missed him. The cowboy's fist crashed into the thick sideboard instead. He howled in pain. Scratch knew the man might have busted a knuckle or two because of the missed blow.

Seizing the advantage, Scratch waded in, swinging a left and then a right, both of which connected and sent the cowboy stumbling backward.

The crowd had backed off to give the combatants plenty of room, although no one had left. A knock-down, drag-out, bare-knuckles fight like this was just as entertaining as any medicine show.

Scratch went after his opponent, landing a left jab and then a roundhouse right. That finally did the trick and sent the cowboy to the ground. He rolled over once and came to a stop on his belly. He lay there limp and unmoving, obviously out cold.

That left the man who had dragged Veronique off the tailgate where she'd been dancing. As Scratch turned in that direction, the man shoved Veronique away and dragged his gun from its holster. Scratch still didn't want to slap leather, but it looked like he didn't have any choice.

Before the cowboy could raise his gun, though, Veronique moved like a striking snake. She plucked a small knife from a sheath strapped to her leg under the hem of the short dress and brought it up, driving the blade into the man's forearm. He bellowed as the cold steel penetrating his flesh forced his hand to open wide in reaction. His Colt thudded to the ground without being fired.

The cowboy didn't get a chance to do anything else. Professor Sarlat, who had managed to get back to his feet, had that heavy cane in his hands as he stepped up and swung it. The walking stick crashed into the back of the cowboy's head and knocked him forward. He took a single step before he pitched to the ground on his face and didn't move again.

“By God . . . that'll teach you . . . to manhandle a lady, you worm!” Sarlat told the cowboy breathlessly, although Scratch figured the hombre was unconscious and didn't hear the words.

Scratch was a little out of breath himself, the price of not being as young as he used to be. He rested a hand against the wagon to steady himself and drew in a couple of lungfuls of air. As the pulse hammering inside his head began to slow down a little, he asked, “Are you and Mademoiselle Ballantine all right, Professor?”

“A bit shaken up, but I'm sure we'll be fine,” Sarlat said. “Eh, Veronique?”

She leaned down, grasped the handle of the knife that was still lodged in the cowboy's arm, and pulled the blade free none too gently.

“
Oui
, fine,” she said, glaring at the unconscious man as if she wanted to do a little carving on him with that blade. “Now.” Her expression softened as she looked at Scratch and added, “Thanks to M'sieu Morton.”

“Seems to me that I've got you to thank for me not bein' shot, mademoiselle,” Scratch told her.

“No, I'm certain you would have killed this pig yourself had I not intervened.” She kicked the cowboy in the side, but with the soft slipper she wore for dancing, she probably didn't do much damage, Scratch thought. “But that would have caused more trouble for us, satisfying though it might have been.”

Sarlat said, “The law doesn't look kindly on it whenever there's violence connected with our performance. Somehow, peace officers always tend to believe that any trouble is our fault.”

“Well, I'm here to testify that you two ain't to blame for any of this, and I'm sure these other good folks will agree with that.” Scratch turned a hard gaze on the crowd. “Ain't that right?”

He got nods and murmurs of agreement from several of the men.

Anyway, since there hadn't been any shooting, this ruckus might not even attract any attention from the marshal. Jonas Haltom had more pressing matters to attend to, like the prisoner he had locked up in the jail.

As that thought went through Scratch's mind, he looked around for his hat. Spotting it on the ground, he picked it up and dusted it off before settling it back on his head.

“I got to be goin'—” he began.

“But you haven't seen any of the performance,” Sarlat protested. “Veronique was just about to dance.”

She smiled at Scratch, and he felt the power of it right down to his toes.

“As much as I'd like to stay and watch that, there are other things I have to do,” he said. “First, though . . .” Scratch looked at the crowd again. “Some of you fellas help me drag off these coyotes.”

He could tell that none of the men really wanted to get involved, but his flinty stare made several of them grudgingly volunteer. The cowboy Scratch had kicked in the groin had passed out, too, so all three of them were unconscious as Scratch and the townies he pressed into service hauled them up to the bridge and dumped them there.

“Their horses are probably still on the other side of the creek,” Scratch said. “When they come to, likely they'll stagger across there, mount up, and head for home.”

“You don't know what you've let yourself in for, Morton,” said one of the men who had helped Scratch. “That Fontaine crew is a rough bunch, each and every one of 'em. These three will have a man-sized grudge against you.”