Servant of the Law

by Dusty Richards

  “Where in the hell—?” The threat of the pistol silenced Neal.

  “Shut up. The keys, damnit! Where’s the leg iron keys?”

  His face white, Neal woodenly handed over the cell keys. “Sheriff Rogers has the ones to the leg irons in his pocket.”

  “Shit,” the Kid swore and rose to insert the key into the lock. It clicked with a sound that thrilled him. But Neal, who was still seated, made a move. A fatal one for his holstered gun. It pained the Kid to pull the trigger. He hadn’t wanted it this way.

  The gun barked in the Kid’s hand, and Neal pitched over on his back. Outside the cell, the Kid looked at Gar’s shocked face.

  “Get me out, Kid. I’ll help you,” the big man begged.

  It was good to hear .the bastard whine, the Kid noted with satisfaction. The chains restricted his steps as he hurried to the door and unlocked Gar’s cell.

  Gar held his own leg chain in his hands and looked at Bobby. “What now?”

  “Whipple’s out of the office. Get Neal’s gun. We’ve got to find a blacksmith,” the Kid said as he shuffled down the hall. “There’s no keys here for these leg irons.”

  “Oh, hell,” Gar swore in disgust.

  No one in the office. “Grab a shotgun,” the Kid ordered. “Whipple and the whole damn town will be here after hearing that shot.”

  “Yeah. Hey, Kid, here comes he now!” Gar shouted. He picked up a shotgun and dragged his chains to the door. There was one blast from the shotgun. The Kid glanced up in time to see Whipple bowing over from the shot and crumpling to the street.

  Frantically, the Kid searched through the sheriff’s desk, but could not find the keys. “Is there a blacksmith’s shop here?” he asked as he loaded a Colt .45 from Rogers’s desk. He jammed the revolver in his waistband, and quickly drew down a Winchester rifle from a rack. The chamber was loaded.

  “No, I don’t think there’s a smithy close. Seems he’s at the edge of town,” Gar said. “Hey, what are you doing?”

  “Trying to open the safe,” the Kid said, his hand on the set handle under the combination. “It’s got my guns and money. The damned thing’s locked.”

  “Come on, Kid. Let’s just get some horses and ride.”

  “You know what your problem is, Gar?” The Kid ducked down to see out the window and examine the street. No one was in sight. The notion filled him with confidence. A smile formed on his lips. “You’re in too much of a hurry. Ain’t there a saloon next door?”

  “Yeah, but what are you up to now, Kid?” Gar sounded edgy.

  “We’ll go over there, and get us a drink. I’ll sign for the drinks and Sheriff Rogers can pay them back when he returns. It’ll be credit.”

  “You’re crazy. I want out of this town now!” Gar shouted in wide-eyed disbelief.

  The Kid picked up the leg iron chain in his left hand, and the Winchester in his right one, then he shuffled past Gar. To hell with that grisly lunatic; he was having himself a drink.

  Gar tagged along. “This is crazy, Kid.”

  “Wait, Gar. We need to get these damn chains off. We can’t ride a horse like this. There ain’t one damn horse out there in the street to ride anyway. And if you call me crazy one more time,” the Kid threatened, “I’ll blow your brains out.”

  Gar shook his head. “I want to get the hell out of here.”

  “We will, we will. Just stay calm,” the Kid assured him as they entered the saloon.

  “Hey!” he shouted at the bartender. “Get those hands on the bar. And you!” The Kid turned toward a swamper. “Old man, go get us an axe and find us two saddled horses. Wait a minute.” He turned back to the shaking barkeeper. “Pour him a drink first. He needs it.”

  “And drink it fast,” Gar said sourly. He had positioned himself by the door so that he could watch the street.

  “Bring an axe first, before you get those horses,” the Kid ordered the swamper, who was spilling whiskey as he lifted the glass with his trembling hands. “And tell them at the livery that no one will get hurt. We’ve got money in the sheriff’s safe to pay them. We ain’t crooks.”

  “Bullshit!” Gar swore. “You just hurry, old man, or I’ll blast your ass off.”

  “Gar!” the Kid shouted. “We ain’t killing innocent people. Give him time to go get it. He’s working for me.”

  Gar swore under his breath. “Bartender, bring me a bottle of whiskey.”

  The Kid nodded assent, and the saloonkeeper hurried to comply. Casually, the Kid lifted the bottle that remained on the counter. He drank his first draught, then sighed in satisfaction. It was good whiskey. Real good.

  “The swamper’s coming back with the axe,” Gar said.

  “Good. He can chop off these chains, and we’ll worry about getting the cuffs off our legs later.”

  It required several whacks by the nervous man to separate the chains. Gar was growling impatiently, but soon his leg irons were separated.

  The Kid stood nearby, the bottle of whiskey in his hand “Now, Gar, you cut mine.” He turned toward the swamper. “Now go get us two good horses and saddles, old man: Tell the livery man we’ve got the money to pay for them.”

  “Holy shit, Kid. Just tell him to go get some damn horses. We’re wasting time. Besides, it’s clouding up like it’s going to rain.”

  The Kid shrugged. “A little rain ain’t going to hurt.” He laughed aloud. The rain would aid them in their escape by erasing their tracks. The Kid stood with his feet wide apart so that Gar could chop his leg iron chain in two. The third whack brought a rattle of separated chains—it was sweet music. Soon he would be free. There would be plenty of time to shoot Gar later. For the moment he still needed him.

  “What do you figure, Kid?” Haggard-looking, Gar tossed the axe aside. “There ain’t no one in the street. Where’s that old man?”

  The Kid shook his free legs. The chains on the cuff rattled, but he was free at last. “He’ll be back, if you didn’t scare him out of his wits.”

  “I see him. He’s coming with our horses.”

  “Gar, get all the bartender’s money, but count it out. We ain’t common thieves. Let me know how much there is so I can give him an IOU against my money in the sheriff’s safe.”

  Gar frowned in disgust. “The hell with you and your goddamn ideas.” He stood by, watching impatiently as the bartender counted out the money.

  The Kid scowled at Gar’s barely restrained impatience. He was not Leo, although he was as good at worrying as Leo.

  “S-seventy bucks,” the bartender stuttered.

  “I’ll make a chit on paper.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Are you coming?” Gar asked, as he stuffed some of the money in his pocket.

  “Sure, Gar.” The Kid signed the paper that the bartender laid on the bar. “You collect your money from Sheriff Rogers, savvy?”

  “Yes, sir, Mister Kid.”

  “Put another bottle of whiskey on my bill. You want one, Gar?”

  “Hell, no. I can drink later. Let’s go.”

  “Oh yes,” the Kid said as an afterthought. “Give the old man a bottle on me.”

  Outside in the sunshine between the clouds, they mounted the horses. When he reined his around, he noted how Whipple lay on his back in the street. Dead. The shotgun blast had made a great black-red hole in his chest. Frantically, Gar rushed off lashing his poor horse in a frenzy and the Kid booted his horse after him A final look around, and he tipped his hat, smiling. Goodbye, Snowflake.

  It had begun to rain. A grumble of thunder complained, giant clouds boiled in the sky. Dolly had covered the pack supplies and pulled on an oil slicker over her own clothing in preparation for the storm.

  John had built the fire up to burn through the approaching summer shower. “It’s going to be really raining in a bit,” he prophesied.

  “Yes, I can smell it already.” Dolly smiled, welcoming the rain.

  He sat down on a log in his slicker. “Wish I had a tent for you.”

&n
bsp; “That would have been nice. I might even have let you sit in it.” She poured coffee in an enamel cup and handed it to him. “I would have called it Dolly’s Tent, and you would have had to call it that or sit out in the rain.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  She drew a deep breath and poured herself a cup of coffee. He called her “ma’am” just to aggravate her. Who did he think he was?

  As the rain began to increase, a man on horseback rode up the creek toward their camp.

  “It’s Doc,” John said. “Something must be wrong in Snowflake.”

  “What could be wrong now?” she asked.

  He shook his head, then rose and moved forward to greet the man. “Hello, Doc. Get down and have a cup of coffee.”

  The doctor waved the offer away. “Kid’s broken out of jail. He killed Neal and Whipple, the new deputy. Him and Gar hightailed it out of here a while ago. I sent word with a boy to notify Sheriff Rogers. Then I rode up here myself to get you.”

  News of the escape and the dead lawmen was a slap in the face for John. Raindrops drilled the rubber-coated slicker and blurred his vision.

  “I’ll be ready to go in a few minutes,” he said. “Doc, I’m sure sorry about all this. Did they have outside help?”

  The physician wearily shook his dripping hat. “Danged if I know.”

  “Good enough,” he said and grabbed up his saddle.

  “I’m going with you,” Dolly said and raced off to capture their horses. Raindrops ran down her face as she hurried down the grassy slope. The Kid was loose and had killed some more innocent people. Would he ever be stopped?

  She returned with the animals. He saddled hers without an argument.

  “I’ll cinch it,” she said, “saddle yours.”

  “Fine. Get some jerky; we may be gone a while.”

  She nodded in response to his request. Her wet fingers fumbled as she threaded the latigo through the rings. That deputy Neal was the best one of the bunch; his death caused a pain in her heart.

  “I was afraid of something like this,” he said grimly. “I would bet he got help from an outsider.”

  She looked at the doctor, who had dismounted and stood huddled in her canvas coat waiting for them. “Did he?”

  “I don’t know much about it. When I got back from seeing Mrs. Murphy, the bartender came and got me. Said there was nothing I could do for the two dead men, and wondered what they should do with all the officials out of town. We sent the boy to get word to Rogers and I rode up here. Things are a mess.”

  Lightning blazed across the sky and more thunder boomed over their head. Involuntarily, Dolly ducked, clutching the reins to the startled mare in her fist. A cold chill ran down her spine. A real fear of what lay ahead for them filled her thoughts as she climbed in the saddle to ride to town.

  They rode into Snowflake in a light drizzle. A dozen riders wearing slickers sat on horseback in front of the jail. Sheriff Rogers turned his horse and came over to meet with John.

  “Did Doc tell you what happened here?”

  “Only that the Kid and Gar escaped. How did they do it?”

  “I ain’t sure. Neal was shot in the cell block. Whipple was gunned down in the street. We can’t find out if they had any help.” Rogers glanced at Dolly, his eyes narrowing with displeasure. “This posse ain’t no place for a woman.”

  “Dolly’s coming along,” John stated, his voice brooking no refusal. She felt warmed by the tone and his casual use of her given name. Although she felt clammy cold under her slicker, her goose bumps magically disappeared. John Wesley had actually defended her right to be there.

  Ella Devereaux opened the front door and smiled at the man standing in the lamplight. “Major Bowen, so nice of you to drop by.” She stepped back to admit the straight-backed man in the brown business suit. He removed his hat and came inside.

  The piano music and voices from the parlor drifted into the entry hall. She graciously pointed to the adjoining room where they could talk in private. He nodded and took her bidding.

  “Have a seat. Will you have something to drink?” she asked, going to the decanters on the buffet.

  “Whiskey’s fine.” He set his hat aside and took a seat on a stuffed chair with rosewood arms.

  “You want your whiskey straight?” She held up the fine crystal tumbler.

  “That would be okay, Mrs. Devereaux.”

  “Ella, call me Ella,” she said, her back to him as she fixed the drink.

  “Yes, Ella. Regarding this Ash Waddle?”

  “You did find the counterfeit money on him and arrest him?” Her heart stopped. She turned with his drink in her hand.

  “U.S. Deputy Marshal Burke did and has him in custody.”

  “Good,” she said, looking up toward the ceiling squares in gratitude. At last, Ash Waddle was out of her life. She handed Bowen the glass. He was nice-looking, handsome for a man past fifty. But shorter than she had imagined him when she had watched him from her apartment window trek up and down the hill.

  “I also discovered there is a murder warrant for his arrest back East as you suggested. So I doubt you will see him again. Why did you contact me and not Sheriff Strope?”

  She swept her dress under her and took a chair opposite him. “Major, we—you and I have been at odds in the past. But the word is out about your marshals—that they get the job done.”

  “Thanks,” he said, uncomfortable at her praise. “Yes, but counterfeiting is a federal offense and the U.S. Marshal’s office handles such cases.”

  “Major, my daddy always said ‘Don’t get a boy when you need a man.’ I have a trunk upstairs full of those bills that is Waddle’s property.”

  “I’ll tell Burke and he’ll come relieve you of it.” He sat back in the chair as if finally appraising the room. “You said we had been at odds?”

  “Yes. Quite frankly, I spied on you.”

  “I like frankness, Ella. From now on, let’s be more frank with each other. I have an agency to run, you have a business that no doubt depends on the trade of many important men. There should be some middle ground we can attain here.”

  “There will be,” she promised, meeting his cold gaze.

  “Excellent.” He rose to his feet and handed her the empty glass.

  “Want another?”

  “No, but it was damn good whiskey.” A sly smile creased his thin lips.

  They both laughed and she showed him out. For a long moment she considered the man. The major and his marshals would be a force in the territory’s future. She had done the right thing by joining forces with him. When at last she closed the door after him, she wanted to shout. With a tug to pull up her dress front, she charged into the parlor and shouted, “Break out the free champagne. Drinks are on me!”

  Ella could see the luster in Strawberry’s green eyes. The “we did it” look on her face told all. Ella threw back her head and gave a yell: “Wahoo!”

  19

  The shower soon passed overhead and the thunder rumbled like some distant dragon as they left town. John Wesley and Dolly rode side by side at the rear of the posse. Two horse tracks, half melted by the rain, led them southward. Sheriff Rogers rode at the head of his assembled army.

  This was not John’s idea of how to capture an escaped prisoner. These men from town and farm were poor substitutes for experienced lawmen. Politically elected sheriffs drew great support from such moves, and they all used then system. John mused on what Rogers might say in the future. Probably something like, “Remember when you and I rode together after the Coyote Kid? I need your support again.” It was an old political trick that worked all too often for reelection. The criminals knew they were being pursued by a trigger-happy bunch. John felt there was one small consolation in this case—at least the posse members weren’t drunk.

  He knew how these kinds of posses worked. In a few hours the excitement of the chase would wear off.

  “Where do you think the Kid is headed?” Dolly asked quietly.

&n
bsp; “No telling. He’s no fool. He’ll be hard to capture, if he gets ahead of us a good distance. I suspect that his drinking problem, which enabled us to catch him last time, stemmed from the loss of his partner. He won’t repeat that mistake.”

  She sighed and opened her slicker. The rain had stopped again. “You don’t like posses, do you, John?”

  “No, but perhaps if this posse gives up, then you and I can catch the Kid.”

  Flattered by his inclusion of her in his plans, she watched Rogers rein his horse out and ride back toward them. Something about the man still grated on her.

  Sheriff Rogers nodded curtly at her, then spoke to John. “We can get some food at the Bar L, which is just a little ways up ahead. Then we can push on until dark.”

  “Good idea,” John agreed. He wondered how far ahead those two were at the moment. Instinct told him something wasn’t quite right. He had missed something or forgotten to take something into consideration, although he didn’t know what it could be. After Rogers rode back to the front of the posse, Dolly glanced at John’s frowning profile.

  “What’s wrong?” she asked softly.

  “I have a feeling that maybe we’re riding in the wrong direction, despite the tracks.”

  He shook his head as if deeply concerned about the matter. She did not question him further. Since Sheriff Rogers had now given the order to lope, she and John pushed their horses and fell in with the others.

  At the ranch, several dogs heralded their arrival. Everyone on the place turned out to greet them. A woman with some small children, a few ranch hands, and a man who was obviously the owner stood in the yard. John pushed closer to hear the sheriff’s conversation with the rancher.

  “You seen two riders?”

  “I seen one west of here. He was a big, bearded guy leading an empty saddled horse. He was headed toward Cannon Creek in a big hurry.

  Rogers turned to John. “That sounds like Gar. You reckon he’s shot the Kid?”

  “No,” John said grimly. “But I think we’ve been following one man and two horses. You all go after Gar. I’ll swing back and see if I can locate the Kid’s trail.”