by Ralph Cotton
“I apologize for being here disturbing the sheriff, Dr. Meadows,” said Woods. “But I’m going to have a problem keeping my doors open for business if I can’t get in the bank and get some money. I’ve got goods being delivered. It has to be paid for.”
“Yes,” Heintz put in, “and I’ve got to make change for my customers.”
“None of which the sheriff has anything to do with, gentlemen,” said the young doctor. He held the glass to Goss’ lips. “Drink this, Sheriff. It’s three parts water, one part laudanum, just enough opium to make you sleep good.”
“Careful, Doc, I don’t want to sleep forever,” the sheriff said.
“Nor do I want you to.” The doctor smiled. “That’s why even this small amount is three parts water. Any more than that would be lethal.”
“There’s nobody else to turn to,” Woods continued, replying to the doctor as the sheriff drank the small amount of potent medication. “We’ve telegraphed Circuit Judge Louder, but so far we’ve received no reply.”
“Be that as it may,” said the doctor, “I won’t allow you to kill my patient.” He set the empty glass down on a stand beside the bed and looked closely at Goss, placing a hand on the sheriff’s clammy forehead.
“Kill him?” Heintz said, giving Woods a concerned look, his hat hanging in his hand, chest level.
“A figure of speech,” the sheriff replied, sounding tired.
Over his shoulder the doctor said in the same firm tone of voice, “Out of here, the three of you. I’ll let you know when Sheriff Goss is well enough to be hounded by all your confounded questions.”
“Please, Dr. Meadows,” said Woods, “it’s not only the two of us. Every merchant and business owner in town is growing concerned—”
“You heard the good doctor, gentlemen,” said Deputy Stiles, stepping inside the room from the hallway, his rifle hanging in his hand. “Our sheriff needs bed rest.”
“Deputy! Thank heavens you’re back,” said Woods, turning from the bed toward him.
Holt scribbled frantically on his notepad.
Heintz turned too, saying, “Yes, thank goodness! What did Jack Warren have to say? Where is Bob Harper? What the blazes is going on?”
“Listen to me,” said Stiles. He spread his hands in a gesture of patience. “As soon as I talk with my boss here, I’ll be around to answer whatever I can for you.”
“But what about the bank?” said Heintz. “When is it going to open?”
“Right now I’m afraid Jack Warren has more on his mind than the bank,” said Stiles. “He’s so grief-stricken over Jackie’s death, I don’t think he realizes the bank is even closed.”
“Where is Harper, then?” Woods asked, repeating Heintz’s question.
“Now, that does have me curious,” Stiles said, looking around as if the banker might suddenly appear. “He arrived at and left the Warren spread a full hour ahead of me. He should be here.”
“But he’s not here!” Woods said a little louder, starting to sound a little testy with the deputy.
Stiles gave him a strong look, took a step forward toward him and said, “I see that, Woods.”
“Forgive me, Deputy,” Woods said, taking a step back, picturing what Philbert Clancy looked like after his encounter with the deputy’s rifle butt.
Sheriff Goss gave a half smile at the way his new deputy handled things.
“Everybody settle down,” he said. “Let’s not get overwrought. Deputy Stiles is doing a good job. Let him do it, until I get back on my feet.”
“Obliged, Sheriff Goss,” said Stiles. To all three he said, “I’m a little concerned about Harper myself. I saw a couple of Indians along the trail coming back from Warren’s. If Harper’s not back before long, I’ll ride out and see if anything is wrong.”
“Indians…?” Holt asked, gazing up from his pad, looking both concerned and hopeful.
“It’s probably nothing to worry about,” said Stiles. “But it won’t hurt to check.” He wiggled his rifle barrel toward the door. “Now go on back to your stores. I’ll be coming by there in a few minutes. We’ll get this town settled and back to running the way it should, whatever it takes.”
Sheriff Goss and Stiles both watched as the two merchant townsmen left the room. When they heard the front door of the doctor’s office close, Stiles let out a breath of relief. Goss looked him up and down from his pillows.
“Being in charge is not the easiest job in the world, is it, Deputy?” he said with a bit of a slur in his speech.
Stiles could see the laudanum taking hold on the wounded sheriff.
“No, it’s not,” he said. “I’ll gladly give it back to you, once you’re on your feet.”
Goss gave him a slight nod and said dreamily though half-closed eyes, “Tell me about Big Jack Warren….”
“It’s like I said, Sheriff.” Stiles replied. “He’s so broken up over Little Jackie he doesn’t know either end from the middle.”
“That doesn’t sound…like Big Jack,” Goss said, drifting away on the strong medication.
“It’s him all right,” said Stiles. “I’ll be lucky to keep the prisoner alive until the circuit judge comes through here.”
Stiles stopped talking and looked at the sheriff, watching his eyes fall shut. He didn’t mention that Warren wasn’t going to reopen the bank right away. Let him sleep…. Goss wouldn’t remember if he’d mentioned it or not, he thought, smiling to himself.
“Well, you asked me. I told you, Sheriff,” he said quietly just in case Goss was still able to hear him. “Now why don’t you get some more rest and let me worry about how things are going here?” As he spoke, he reached down and picked up the empty water glass the doctor had used to administer the sheriff’s laudanum. Stiles inspected the empty glass, then set it back down on the nightstand.
Powerful stuff…, he told himself, looking at the unconscious sheriff. He snapped his fingers close to the wounded lawman’s ear; the sheriff didn’t so much as flinch.
After a moment Stiles turned and walked out of the room to where Dr. Meadows sat in an office at an oak rolltop desk.
“He’s asleep, Doctor,” Stiles said when the doctor looked up at him.
“Good,” said the young doctor. “Rest is what he needs most right now.”
“Did you check on my prisoner while I was gone?” Stiles asked.
“I did,” the doctor said, looking at Stiles above his reading spectacles. “He’s doing well. He’s afraid if something happens to Sheriff Goss, the townsmen will drag him out and hang him.”
“Let him think it,” Stiles said. As he spoke his eyes went to the tall blue bottle of laudanum standing on a shelf above the doctor’s cluttered desk. “Maybe it’ll give him pause to consider how he’s wasted his life.”
“Maybe,” the young doctor said, turning back to a stack of paperwork on his desk. “At any rate, feel free to check back on Sheriff Goss anytime. If he is asleep, I will simply tell him you were here.”
“Obliged, Doctor,” Stiles said, turning, walking to the front door to let himself out.
Chapter 10
When Deputy Stiles walked into Woods’ Mercantile Store, he found both Heintz and Woods eagerly awaiting him. Upon seeing him walk in, Holt, the newsman, jerked his pad and pencil from his inside coat pocket.
“Well, what about the bank?” Woods said, not even waiting until Stiles had crossed the plank floor to the counter where they stood.
Stiles took his time answering. He stopped, removed his hat and looked back and forth between the two of them.
“Sheriff Goss and I talked it over, gentlemen,” Stiles lied. “Although I can’t say I completely agree with him, he’s decided it’s best to keep the bank closed until Jack Warren gets to town and makes sure everything is on the up-and-up, moneywise.”
The two townsmen gave each other a worried look.
“The up-and-up?” said Woods. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
Stiles raised a cautionary finge
r toward him and gave him a strong gaze. “Before you make the mistake of using that kind of language with me again, I hope you’ll confer with Philbert Clancy and ask him if wishes he’d chosen his words more carefully, our last conversation.”
Holt stopped writing and stared, enthralled by the prospect of violence.
“I—I’m sorry, Deputy,” Woods stammered, taken aback by the sudden look of fury in the young lawman’s eyes. “It’s just that I’m upset. I need my cash to keep this store running.”
“I accept your apology this one time,” Stiles said, his finger still raised. “But don’t use that blackguarding language again,” he warned.
Holt sighed and looked disappointed as he let his writing hand relax. Stiles looked at him.
“Get out of here, newspaperman,” he said. “I want to talk to these two without your beak stuck in the pudding.”
Holt offered no protest; he shot out of the store, pencil and pad still in hand.
“Deputy, please,” Heintz asked Stiles in a most mild and civil tone, “what about our money?”
“You’ll get your cash as soon as the bank reopens.”
“But we have no idea when that will be, Deputy,” Heintz persisted.
“That’s why I’m asking you two, and everybody else in Gunn Point, to be patient for a little while longer. The bank will open when Jack Warren comes in and declares it open.” He paused for a second, then said, “This is what Sheriff Goss said to tell you, and this is how it’s going to be.”
“Does this have anything to do with Harper being missing?” Woods asked.
“Nobody says he is missing,” said Stiles. “But if he is missing, if he’s run off with the bank money, I want you to know that Jack Warren and his partner, Leland Sutters, stand prepared to make good on your money.”
“Oh my,” said Woods. “Harper has taken off with the money.”
“Stop it,” said Stiles. “I won’t have you spreading fear talk. Before we blame Harper of anything, I want to look him in the eye and hear what he has to say.” He paused and looked back and forth between them again. “Meanwhile, before I go to search the trails for Bob Harper, I want both of you to give me your word that what I’m telling you will go no futher than this room.”
The two townsmen looked stunned. This was why he’d gotten rid of Eric Holt.
“Do I have your word on it, both of you?” Stiles’ hand rested on the butt of his Colt; his rifle hung from his other hand.
Both men nodded as one. “Yes, you have my word, Deputy,” said Woods.
“Mine too,” said Heintz. “What can we do to help?”
“Right now, nothing,” said Stiles, “other than keep quiet and work with me.”
“You’ve got it, Deputy,” said Heintz, feeling relieved that Stiles didn’t ask them to ride out and search the trails with him.
“Absolutely,” Woods put in. “You have our support. We’re behind you a hundred percent.”
“Good, I appreciate it,” said Stiles, knowing if these two showed support for him, the rest of the merchants and townsfolk would follow suit. “Now, if you’ll both excuse me, I need to check on my prisoner.” He gave them both a courteous nod, turned and left.
When he was out the door and out of sight, the two merchants looked at each other in bewilderment.
Finally Heintz shrugged and said, “You heard him, the bank will reopen soon.”
“Soon is wide open to speculation,” said Woods. “How the blazes are we supposed to run our businesses until the bank comes through with our money?”
“Credit,” Heintz said flatly.
“No business can run on credit,” Woods said, “at least not for very long.”
“Let’s hope we’re not talking about very long,” Heintz put in. “I’ll feel better about everything once Sheriff Goss is back on his feet.”
The two gazed toward the door with equally concerned looks on their faces.
“Anyway,” said Woods, “did you understand everything he said?”
“Sort of, I guess,” said Heintz, scratching his head.
Leaving the mercantile store, Stiles walked to the sheriff’s office, respectfully touching his hat brim to passing townsfolk along the way.
Inside the office, Jason Jones, the surveyor, stood up from behind the battered desk when Stiles stepped in from the street.
“I’m glad you’re back, Deputy,” Jones said. “I need to get back to work.”
“How’s the prisoner?” Stiles asked.
“Seems all right to me,” said Jones. He lowered his voice a little. “He appears less nervous since the doctor told him Sheriff Goss is going to pull through.” He looked at Stiles closely and asked, “How’d Big Jack take what happened?”
“He took it real hard, Jason,” Stiles said with a grim expression.
“Damn—I mean, dang, that’s terrible,” said Jones, correcting himself quickly, seeing the look on Stiles’ face turn severe. “Begging your pardon, Deputy,” Jones added sincerely.
Stiles nodded. Changing the subject, he looked at a young livery hostler, Danny Kindrick, who stood sweeping a spot of plank floor in the hallway leading back to the jail cells. “How is Danny working out, helping you?”
“He’s a good kid,” said Jones. “I even let him take the prisoner to the privy—no problem at all.”
“Good,” said Stiles, “then I’ll keep him here helping me for a couple of days.” He looked at Jones. “You’re free to go. Obliged for your help.”
“Anytime, Deputy,” Jones said. He picked his hat up off the desk, placed it atop his head and left.
When he’d left, Stiles looked back into the hall at Danny, who stood with a dustpan in one hand, a broom in the other.
“Danny, come here. I want to talk to you,” he said.
The young man stepped lively to him and stood almost as if at attention.
“Yes, sir, Deputy,” he said. “Is—is everything all right?”
“Yes, it is, Danny. Relax,” Stiles said. “Jones was just telling me what a good, dependable hand you are.”
“Thank you, Deputy,” said the young man, looking a little relieved.
“How old are you now, Danny, fifteen, sixteen?”
“Sixteen, sir,” said Danny, standing like a soldier, the broom hugged close to his side.
“That’s old enough,” Stiles said. “How would you like to keep working for me the rest of the week—keeping the place clean, looking after the prisoner?”
The young man’s eyes lit up.
“I’d like that a lot, Deputy!” he said.
“Can you work here a few hours a day and still take care of the livery barn?” Stiles asked.
“Yes, sir, I sure can,” said Danny.
“How does fifty cents a day sound?” Stiles asked.
“It sounds great, sir,” said Danny. “I’d do it for free, you know…just to help you out.”
“Obliged, Danny,” said Stiles. “But a man needs to be paid for his efforts, wouldn’t you agree?”
“I sure do, sir, if you say so,” Danny said.
“All right, then, it’s settled,” Stiles said. “Go put your broom up. I want you to go to the restaurant and bring the prisoner back a dinner tray and some coffee—bring me some coffee too.” He paused and then said, “Do you drink coffee, Danny?”
“Been drinking it for years, sir,” Danny said eagerly. He gestured toward the wood stove where a battered coffeepot stood on a top burner plate. “I can fix some here, if you want.”
“Not this time, Danny,” said Stiles. “I’d like some coffee from the restaurant, wouldn’t you?”
“Yes, sir,” Danny said.
“Then get going,” Stiles said. “And, Danny, stop calling me sir.” He gave him a short smile. “Deputy Stiles will do just fine.”
“You got it, Deputy Stiles,” Danny said on his way out the door.
Avrial Rochenbach lay on his cot facing the wall, feigning sleep, listening for any scrap of information he might lear
n about the wounded sheriff’s condition. He knew if Sheriff Goss died, his own death would soon follow. Even though he had nothing to do with pulling the trigger, the action of the wild-eyed idiot Jackie Warren had sealed all their fates. He would die on the end of a lynch mob’s rope if the sheriff died. This was a tight spot, no doubt about it….
“Listen up, Rochenbach,” said Stiles from the other side of the barred cell door. “The doctor tells me you’re doing pretty good.”
Rochenbach rolled up onto the edge of the cot, his left arm in a sling. “I’m better,” he said. But he didn’t want to reveal how much better, not until he saw where this conversation with the lawman was headed.
“Good,” said Stiles. “Get up and walk over here where I can see your face while I talk to you.”
Rochenbach pushed himself up from the cot with his right hand and stepped out of the slanted barred shadows to the cell door. A length of shackle chain dragged the floor as he walked in short, halting steps in his stockinged feet.
“I’m not going to beat around the bush with you, Rochenbach,” Stiles said. “Men like you make me see red. You were an honest lawman, but you disgraced the badge and brought shame to all of us who wear it.”
Rochenbach stared at the floor.
“Look at me,” Stiles demanded. As Rochenbach raised his eyes and met the deputy’s fierce gaze, Stiles said, “If there’s anything you need to tell me that might save your life, now’s the time to do it.” He paused, then said in a lowered tone, “I’m talking about anything…anything at all.”
Rochenbach saw the strange knowing look on Stiles’ face. “You mean tell you about who the others were with me, that sort of thing?”
“I don’t care who was with you. I already know,” said Stiles. “I’m talking about who was behind the robbery. Who set it up.” He searched Rochenbach’s eyes for any sign that he knew the robbery had all been a setup. He saw nothing; Rochenbach only looked confused and shook his head as if trying to understand the deputy’s questioning. “Keep in mind that I might even already know,” Stiles added.
