Sidewinders (12 page)

“It's a
terrible
idea!” Scratch exclaimed.

“Who else is on my side?” Bo asked.

“Lauralee Parker, for one.”

“You saw Lauralee?”

“Yeah.” Scratch didn't explain that she had helped him stand guard all night. “She told me to tell you that she's comin' by to visit you later today.”

Bo smiled and said, “It'll be good to see her again. Has she changed much?”

“Not a hair, except maybe she's a little prettier now than she was the last time we were here.”

“Hard to believe that's possible.”

“You'll see for yourself after a while. In the meantime . . .”

“What is it, Scratch?” Bo asked when his friend's voice trailed off.

“I've done some pokin' around about this case . . . and nothin' I've found out is any good.”

Scratch spent a few minutes telling his old friend about his conversation with Barney Dunn at the Southern Belle.

“He spins a convincin' yarn,” Scratch admitted, “and it's hard to get around that picture he drew lookin' so much like you, Bo.”

“Maybe we crossed trails with him somewhere else,” Bo suggested. “You said he came to Texas from back East somewhere, but there's no telling where he might have gone in between here and there. We could have met him in Kansas or Missouri or just about anywhere.”

Scratch scraped a thumbnail along his jaw and frowned in thought as he considered that possibility.

“Yeah, I reckon so,” he said dubiously. “The problem is, I don't recall ever meetin' him before, and I've got a pretty good memory for faces.”

“Someone could have pointed us out to him and told him who we are.” Bo shook his head and raised an objection to his own theory. “But even if that were the case, how in blazes could he have known that he would need to draw a picture of me someday, so he could frame me for a murder?”

“Yeah, that ain't very likely, is it?”

“The only answer that makes sense,” Bo said, “is that Dunn really saw someone who looks just like me killing that poor girl.”

“To do that, the varmint would have to be your twin brother!” Scratch said. “You don't have a twin, do you?”

“You've met all my brothers. There's some family resemblance, sure, but no one would ever mistake one of us for any of the others.” Bo sighed. “This is almost enough to make me believe in the old stories about doppelgangers.”

“Double what?” Scratch asked with a frown.

“Doppelgangers. It's a German word, means ‘double walker.' Comes from the idea that everybody has an identical double they don't know about somewhere in the world.”

“You mean somewhere there's a fella who looks the same as me?” Scratch asked. “In New York or Europe or some such?”

“That's the idea,” Bo said.

Scratch shook his head.

“Nope, can't be true,” he declared. “I'm a Texan, and the notion that there could be another me somewheres else just ain't possible.”

“You weren't born in Texas and neither was I,” Bo pointed out.

“That don't matter. This is where I was destined to end up.”

“Maybe the same thing is true of my doppelganger.”

Scratch frowned and said, “Well, yeah, if you look at it like that . . . but the whole thing still seems pretty far-fetched to me.”

“The old stories say that it's bad luck to see your own doppelganger,” Bo mused. “Some of them even claim that if you see your double, it means you're going to die.”

Those words made a chill go through Scratch. The way he saw it, if they
weren't
able to turn up Bo's double, he was liable to die . . . swinging from a gallows or a hanging tree for the murders of those two saloon girls.

 

 

Bo's breakfast arrived shortly after that, along with a meal for Marshal Haltom. Bo didn't have much appetite, but he forced himself to eat because he knew he needed to keep his strength up. With the situation like it was, there was no telling when trouble might erupt.

Bo found himself feeling sorry for Scratch. He could tell that his old friend was struggling with this. Scratch was plenty smart and had good instincts, but he wasn't built for pondering and working out puzzles. He was more the sort who just bulled ahead until he was past whatever obstacle had popped up in his path.

Unfortunately, such dogged determination might not be enough in this case. There was a mystery to be solved, and until it was, Bo was going to be in trouble.

After breakfast, Marshal Haltom came into the cell block carrying his shotgun.

“All right, Morton, clear out,” he ordered. “It's time to take Creel over to the town hall for that hearing.”

“Whether it's official or not, you might as well consider me a deputy,” Scratch said, “because I'm goin' with you to make sure Bo stays safe.”

“You think I can't deliver a prisoner to a hearing?” Clearly, the lawman was offended by the suggestion.

“Reckon you probably can. I'm just not takin' any chances, that's all.”

“I don't guess I can stop you from walking in that direction,” Haltom admitted. “I'm warning you, though, stay out of my way and don't try anything.” He gestured with the shotgun. “Go on out in the office.”

Scratch left the cell block. Haltom unlocked Bo's cell and backed off, leveling the scattergun at the prisoner.

“Come on out of there now,” the marshal said.

“I hope you're being careful with that Greener, Marshal,” Bo said as he swung the door open. “And I sure hope it doesn't have a hair trigger.”

“As long as you behave yourself, you won't have any reason to find out.”

Bo left the cell, moving deliberately and keeping his hands in plain sight. As he turned toward the office, Haltom fell in behind him. Bo could almost feel the shotgun's twin barrels prodding him in the back, even though the lawman didn't actually touch him with them. The threat of that double load of buckshot so close behind him was impossible to ignore, though.

When he stepped into the office, he saw that Scratch had already buckled on the Remington revolvers and had a Winchester tucked under his arm. The door was still unbarred from the visit of the waitress from the café who had brought breakfast for Bo and the marshal.

A pair of handcuffs lay on the desk. Haltom nodded toward them and said, “Put those on yourself, Creel.”

“That's not necessary, Marshal. I respect the law. I'm not going to try to escape.”

“I don't care. Anybody charged with crimes as serious as you are isn't going into court without wearing the cuffs. Now put 'em on.”

Bo sighed and snapped the steel cuffs around his wrists. It was a little awkward, but he managed. At least his hands were in front of him, he thought, so it wasn't too uncomfortable.

Haltom said to Scratch, “You might as well make yourself useful, Morton. Open the door.”

Scratch nodded. He opened the door and stepped out onto the boardwalk, rifle held at the ready now as he turned his head and scanned the street in both directions for any signs of trouble. Bo saw Scratch's head swivel back and forth and knew what his old friend was doing.

“Looks all right, Marshal,” Scratch reported.

“Blast it, you're not my deputy,” Haltom snapped. “If I want any information from you, I'll ask for it.”

“You make it mighty hard to cut you any slack, Marshal.”

“Yeah, I'll lose sleep over that opinion, too,” Haltom said with a mocking sneer. “Keep moving, Creel. You know where the town hall is.”

“If it hasn't moved in the past ten years, I do,” Bo said.

“It's still in the same place. You take a step in any other direction and I'll blow a hole in you.”

Word must have gotten around town about the hearing, Bo thought as he started walking up the street toward the town hall. The boardwalks were crowded, and more people stared out the windows of the buildings as the little procession passed. He spotted a few friendly faces, but most of the expressions were either hostile or blankly curious.

Scratch walked in front, still watchful, with Bo behind him and Marshal Haltom bringing up the rear.

The town hall was a large frame building that stood by itself. Instead of the boardwalk that fronted the businesses along the street, it had a separate front porch, and attached to the awning over that porch was a sign that read B
EAR
C
REEK
T
OWN
H
ALL
& C
OMMUNITY
C
ENTER.
Covered dish suppers were held there several times a year, as were socials and dances. It was also the site of town meetings whenever the council wanted to discuss an issue with the citizens, and Judge Buchanan's justice of the peace court met there regularly.

That was the use it was being put to today. Bo expected the place would be packed as people came to see what the judge was going to do with him. He looked over his shoulder and saw that a crowd was already following him and Scratch and Marshal Haltom.

That crowd parted suddenly as the sound of hoofbeats filled the air. People moved aside hurriedly, some with angry shouts.

“Move on up there, Creel,” Haltom ordered with a note of urgency in his voice. “Get inside, damn it!”

Hearing the commotion, Scratch swung around to see what was happening.

“Hold your fire, Morton!” Haltom said. He took one hand off the shotgun and used it to give Bo a shove. “Inside!”

Bo wished his hands were free. He didn't like the thought of trouble bearing down on him while he wasn't able to defend himself properly. But Scratch was here, and he knew he could depend on his old friend.

With Haltom prodding him from behind, Bo stumbled toward the porch steps. Scratch moved to the side so Bo could go past him.

“I'll cover you, pard,” the silver-haired Texan said.

Bo went up the steps and stopped on the porch to turn around and see what was happening. Quite a hubbub was still going on in the street as a dozen riders reined to a halt in front of the town hall. Scratch and Haltom planted themselves on the porch between the newcomers and Bo.

“Hold it right there!” Haltom yelled at the men on horseback. He leveled the shotgun at them. Bo had to give the marshal some credit: Haltom obviously didn't like him and believed he was guilty, but despite that, the lawman didn't hesitate to put himself potentially in harm's way to protect his prisoner.

Bo recognized Danny Fontaine. The young firebrand sat his horse between a somewhat older, dark-haired man, and an hombre in his fifties with a gray, bristling mustache. The resemblance between the three of them made Bo believe he was looking at Ned Fontaine, the owner of the Rafter F, and his two sons.

Bo spotted several familiar faces among the other riders, too, and knew they were some of the Fontaine crew.

The man Bo took to be Ned Fontaine said, “You don't need that shotgun, Marshal. We're not here looking for trouble. We're just come into town for the trial. We want to see that murderer get what's coming to him.”

“It's not a trial, blast it,” Haltom declared, echoing what Judge Buchanan had said earlier. “It's just a hearing to decide what's going to happen next.”

“I'll tell you what ought to happen,” the older of Fontaine's sons said. His name was Nick, Bo recalled. “That mad dog ought to be stretching rope.”

“Yeah!” Danny agreed.

“That's not gonna happen!” Haltom roared. “Creel, get inside like I told you.”

Scratch said, “Go ahead, Bo. These varmints ain't gonna bother you.”

Danny sneered at the men on the porch and said, “That's mighty big talk for an old geezer like you, mister.”

“I'm still spry enough to pull a trigger, boy,” Scratch said in a low, menacing tone.

“Hold your fire,” Haltom snapped. “Creel, go on.”

Bo backed through the open doors into the town hall. From the corner of his eye he saw Judge Buchanan standing at the side of the room, looking worried.

“Now you, Morton,” Haltom ordered.

With obvious reluctance, Scratch backed through the doorway. Bo could still see the Fontaines sitting on their horses. The patriarch started to dismount.

“What do you think you're doing?” Haltom said.

“We're going to attend the hearing,” Fontaine replied. “You can't stop us. This is a public proceeding. I know the law.”

“I'll just bet you do. But you and your men don't live in the town. Citizens ought to get first crack at the seats.”

Fontaine smiled thinly.

“I don't see or hear anybody objecting to us attending,” he said.

That was true enough, Bo thought. The Fontaines had the citizens of Bear Creek so thoroughly buffaloed that nobody was going to speak up and deny them anything they wanted.

“Leave your guns outside,” Haltom ordered.

For a second Bo thought Fontaine was going to argue with the marshal, but then the man let out a cold laugh and said, “Fine. You heard the man, boys. Hang your guns on your saddles.”

He started unbuckling his own gun belt to set an example.

Buchanan came over to Bo and said, “Take a seat at the table there in the front of the room, Creel. We'll get underway shortly.”

Bo did what the judge told him. Scratch stood at one end of the table while Haltom took up a position at the other. In a low voice, Haltom said to Scratch, “If anybody asks, I deputized you. That's why you've still got your guns.”

“I wouldn't have the job on a bet if it was official,” Scratch said, “but I'll play along.” He paused. “It must get under your skin, Marshal, havin' to defend somebody you think is guilty.”

“I go by the book,” Haltom said grimly. “And the book says nobody interferes with the legal process.”

Ned Fontaine, his sons, and the men of his crew he had brought with him all filed into the town hall and took seats on the rows of benches that were arranged for court proceedings. Some of the townspeople managed to get seats, too, and others stood along the walls. The room was full, just as Bo expected.

Judge Buchanan went behind another table in front of the one where Bo sat. He took a seat there, pulled a big, gold, turnip watch from his pocket, and opened it to check the time. It must have been ten o'clock, because Buchanan put the watch away, picked up a gavel, and banged it on the table.