LETTER OF THE LAW

by

C. K. CRIGGER

Amber Quill Press, LLC
http://www.amberquill.com

Letter Of The Law
An Amber Quill Press Book

This book is a work of fiction. All names, characters, locations, and incidents are products of the author's imagination, or have been used fictitiously.
Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, locales, or events is entirely coincidental.

Amber Quill Press, LLC

http://www.AmberQuill.com

http://www.AmberHeat.com

http://www.AmberAllure.com

All rights reserved.

No portion of this book may be transmitted or reproduced in any form, or by any means, without permission in writing from the publisher, with the exception of brief excerpts used for the purposes of review.

Copyright © 2010 by C. K. Crigger
ISBN 978-1-60272-755-7
Cover Art © 2010 Trace Edward Zaber
Layout and Formatting
Provided by: Elemental Alchemy
Published in the United States of America

Also by C. K. Crigger

Black Crossing
Liar's Trail
The Prince's Cousin

The Gunsmith Series
Book I: In The Service Of The Queen
Book II: Shadow Soldier
Book III: Crossroad
Book IV: Six Shot

Dedication

This book is dedicated, as so many of my Westerns are, to my parents. When they passed, the tack room at home was filled with boxes of the old-time pulp Westerns. Those made up much of my first reading material, and stuck the Western as a genre in my head forever. What could I do but write some for myself? Thanks, Mom and Dad!

As an historical aside, a sheriff's wife was often called upon to provide meals and other amenities for prisoners in her husband's jail. In return, depending on the prisoner's character and his crime, he might chop wood for the stove or do other chores. Neither the sheriff nor his wife received extra pay for prisoner provisions or for her work.

Chapter 1

As was his custom after supper, Sheriff Pelham Birdsall gave his wife a kiss before setting out on his evening patrol through town.
"Seeing it's Friday night, I'll probably be late getting home," he warned her, running his big, calloused hand through her silken brown hair. It had slipped from its knot at the nape of her neck and flowed over her shoulders like a child's.
"I know," she said.
He nabbed a second kiss while he was at it. "Don't wait up for me--and don't worry."
"I won't."
He knew she would do both, although, having learned stoicism at her mother's knee, his wife never let on she worried as she sent him about his duties. He could tell, though, by the way she feigned sleep when he came in after rounds and only relaxed when he lay down beside her.
His belly full of his wife's good fried chicken and mashed potatoes, Pelham gave a quiet burp as he reached the bottom of the stairway leading from the sheriff's quarters over the jail. From here he could hear whoops and hollers coming from the Bucket of Sudz down the street. The carousing was just getting started. Somebody was pounding out a tune on the saloon's rickety old piano, while a deep female voice tried to sing along. He listened a moment, smiling. She had the words wrong.
Pel stooped to pick the tray holding the prisoner's dirty supper dishes off the floor as he passed through the jail on his way outside. The plate was empty. Scraped clean.
"Hear that noise? You're apt to have company before the night is over," he told the prisoner sitting quiet in his cell.
Tucker Moon's head lifted. "Hope nobody goes to puking on the floor."
"Don't bet on it."
"It'd be a gamble, all right. Tell your missus thanks for the fine vittles," Moon said, same as he did after every meal.
"I'll do that," Pelham replied. And he would, as he had every other day of Moon's incarceration. It had been six days now, and Moon had four more days to serve.
Pelham set the dishes on his desk to collect later and went on through the office. Stepping onto the boardwalk out front, he found Duncan Herschel, his deputy, leaning against the wall waiting for him. A big man, heavy-set rather than tall, Herschel stood picking his crooked teeth free of what looked like Mrs. Birdsall's fried chicken.
"Herschel," Pel said, "have you been eating the prisoner's food again?"
The deputy's gaping stare was answer enough.
"Damn it, man," Pel said, "my wife's job is to feed the fellers in the lockup, not you. Get your meals over at the café."
Herschel, known far and wide as Boomer because of his loud, carrying voice, plastered an innocent look that wouldn't have fooled a kitten onto his red, round face. "Aw, that Moon feller, he don't need much. All he's doing is sitting on his ass in a cell with his head hangin' like a whupped dog. You wouldn't want your wife's cookin' goin' to waste on the likes of him, would you?"
Pel shook his head. Talking to Herschel was like talking to a bush. Both waved whichever way the wind blew. "It ain't up to you however much food that man needs," he said. "Don't do it again unless you plan on paying my missus for her time and effort." He forced down irritation over Herschel's uncouth ways--it wasn't as if Moon would starve--and checked his silver-backed pocket watch. "Time for rounds. You take the north side of the street; I'll take the south. And here's hoping for a quiet night."
"Yeah." Boomer Herschel cocked his head toward the sound of revelry. "You can hope. Ain't likely, though, what with all the strangers in town."
"Have a care," Pelham warned the deputy. "This is a rough bunch. I've had several complaints since they showed up. O'Hanlon had to run a couple out of his place earlier. Said he heard somebody mention being wanted over in Montana. I'll have to read through this new batch of dodgers in the morning."
"Anybody strikes me wrong," Herschel said, "I'll sic them onto you." He ambled off at a pace somewhat slower than a slug's.
He will, too, Pelham thought. Biting back renewed aggravation, he headed in the direction of the Bucket of Sudz. If trouble was brewing, that's where he'd find it. For once, Herschel's estimation was right on target. The strangers showing up in Endurance were not the type Pel welcomed to his town.
A line of horses stood hip-shot at the hitch rail in front of the saloon, dozing as sundown shaded to full dark. Piles of manure, reeking after the heat of the day, indicated they'd been there a while. Some of the horses were rigged out with typical cowboy gear--worn saddles; frayed ropes tied on with saddle strings; stirrups scratched and caked with dirt. He saw most of these same animals here every Friday or Saturday night. For example, the good sorrel with two white feet belonged to one of Ned Sorenson's hands.
But this evening there were several horses he didn't recognize, and that worried him a mite. A tall bay caught his eye. The horse looked to be at least half-Thoroughbred, and it was wearing a Mexican saddle decorated with fancy silver work. The silver, Pel noticed, could've stood some polishing. Something about the get-up rang his bell, and not in a comfortable way.
Sliding his hand over the bay's rump, Pel shoved in between horses, feeling for the raised surface of a brand. Behind him, on the boardwalk, he heard footsteps clump toward him, then stop.
"Looking for something, mister?" a voice asked.
"Admiring this horse. Wonder if he's for sale." Pel's fingertips found a mark. Quarter Circle 6W. Not from around here.
A chuckle rumbled in the other man's throat. "Doubt it. That's Diggett Monroe's horse, mister, and Monroe don't like anybody foolin' with anything of his. You'd best come out from there afore he sees you."
Pel's gut tightened. Hellfire! Now he knew where he'd heard about the trappings. A paper had come through on Monroe about a month ago. He was wanted in California for train robbery, murder, and various lesser charges--among them horse stealing. More specifically, this particular horse and rig. There'd been mention he was riding with a gang, every one of whom was guilty of something and considered dangerous. What were they doing in this neck of the woods?
Reaching down while he was still hidden behind the horse, Pel loosened the .45 Colt Peacemaker in his holster. His finger touched his badge, symbol of the trust people of this county put in him, before he stepped away from the horse and into the light pouring through the open saloon doors.
"You a friend of this Monroe?" He'd figured this might be the man himself, but one look proved him wrong. The description didn't match. Unlike Monroe, who was held to be a fair-looking man, this feller was short and ugly, with hair reaching to his shoulders. Big ears held up a battered bowler. Relief touched Pel for a second.
"Friend?" The feller scowled at sight of the badge, his eyes shifting from side-to-side like a nervous rat. "I wouldn't go so far as to say friend. Monroe is partial to his family. He don't associate much with anybody else, but, mister, when he says jump, most know to ask how high." He stared at Pelham, the corner of his mouth twitching. "You stick around, you'll find out."
"Stick around?" Taken aback, Pel fingered the butt of his pistol. "Don't reckon I'll be going anywhere. In case it escaped your notice, I'm the sheriff here. But if you have problems with the law, I'd suggest moving on. You don't want to see the inside of my jail."
"Aw, that won't happen. Monroe takes care of us, Sheriff. He'll take care of you, too, if you rile him, but in a different kind of way. I'll give you a word of warning. Another thing the boss don't like is bein' interrupted when he's drinkin'. He gets a tad twitchy, and just between us, he's mighty good with them pistolas of his."
Now that was plain speaking. Pel didn't find much favor with it. "Is he? Good to know. 'Course there's always somebody better."
The ugly little man let forth with his chuckle again. "Who? You? You look like mighty small spuds to me, Sheriff. Tangle with Diggett Monroe, and I expect you'll find out a thing or two. That's if he don't send you straight to hell." With that, he turned away and swaggered down the street toward Millie's sporting house, where a lantern hung on a peg outside glowed red through a colored globe.
A bit rattled, Pelham stared after him. Rumors were going around on what Monroe was doing here in Endurance, and every one caused a degree more tension. How many men did he have with him? Looked like there was only one way to find out.
Judging by the number of outsiders' horses hitched to the rail, Pel was in the minority if it came to a confrontation. Sighing softly, he wondered why, just this once, his deputy wasn't standing at his elbow, ready to back his play. When Pel'd worked for Sheriff Tom Regal over in Colorado, they'd stood shoulder to shoulder. Been a good team. So far, Boomer Herschel had yet to prove himself good for anything but eating the prisoners' food and cadging drinks at O'Hanlon's or the Bucket of Sudz. Worse, as a holdover from Garnet County's previous sheriff, his loyalty to Pel was questionable. He wouldn't keep him on, but so far, he hadn't found anyone else willing to take over.
Didn't matter. Rounding up Monroe was a job Pelham couldn't shirk, and he wouldn't wait for Herschel to show up, either. He'd best act before word spread and put Monroe on guard. Shaking the kinks out of his right hand, Pelham raised his left, preparing to push through into the saloon. Shots echoing along the street--first the snap of a six-shooter, then the boom of a shotgun--stopped him in mid-stride. The shots were followed by yells and a scream of pain.
"What the..."
The caterwauling came from the mercantile across the street. Monroe would have to wait his turn. Pel hustled toward the sound, grabbing his pistol out of its holster on the way. When he was about halfway there, the yelling died away, although the screeching continued.
Pelham pounded up to the mercantile where he stopped, removed his hat in order to make a smaller target, and poked his bare head around the corner far enough to see into the store. At first this wasn't much, as the room was dark as a cave, but as his eyes adjusted, a loud clatter punctuated by some meaty thuds drew his attention. Turning sideways, he slipped inside. Two bodies were rolling around on the floor amid some tin plates, a storm of loose powder he decided was flour, and what appeared to be a dozen broken chamber pots. Just beyond the wrestling men, he made out the storekeeper's missus lying still as a board, a spreading puddle of dark liquid leaking around her fat arm. Worse, a smell of spilled kerosene reached his nose, and, even as he strode forward with the intention of breaking up the fight, a yellow flicker caught at a wet stain on the floor and suddenly leapt higher. Somebody'd kicked over the lamp.
Pelham ran forward then, and started stomping the flames, coming close to being upended once by the wrestlers as they spun back and forth. The fire was gaining on him. Spying the pickle barrel, Pel flipped off the hinged top and with a grunt, turned it onto its side where the flood of brine overwhelmed the fire.
His attention returned to the oblivious fighters. "Whoa up," he yelled, dragging at the first body he reached. It happened to be Schmidt, the storekeeper, who had his arm clamped around the other man's neck. The feller's eyes looked ready to pop out of his head. The screeching, Pel discovered, was coming from Schmidt, and it sounded all the worse because it was in a combination of English and German.
"What's going on here?" Pel hollered over the din. "Mr. Schmidt, take it easy. Appears your wife is hurt. You'd best see to her."
At this reminder, the storekeeper left off the business of choking and dropped to his knees beside his wife. Perhaps it was the reviving odor of vinegar, but Pel was relieved to see her stirring. He guessed she wasn't dead after all.
"How is she?" he asked, holding the half-strangled feller in an arm lock. His prisoner gasped like a fish out of water.
"She iss bleeding. This one, he iss shoot her." Schmidt bent over the woman and patted her cheek. "Ilse, Ilse, wake, wake."
"What happened?" Pel asked. He gave his prisoner a shake. "You first. Speak up. How'd Mrs. Schmidt get shot?"
The man tried to pull away, but Pelham had a grip on both his shirt collar and the arm twisted behind his back. He cranked the arm higher, forcing a yelp out of his prisoner. Pel fumbled in his back pocket, found a set of steel handcuffs and snapped them shut over the man's wrists.
"He iss robbink mein store," Schmidt looked up to say. "He points gun at mein frau. 'Give me money,' he says. 'Give me whiskey.'" Two big tears ran down his face.
The tears might've been from sorrow over his wife, Pel thought, but just as likely came from the strong vinegar odor. His own eyes were smarting something fierce. "Did she?" he asked.
Schmidt looked at him in disbelief. "Nein! She..." He fluttered his arms as if batting flies. "She says, 'Get out or I vill call sheriff,' and he says, 'I vill shoot you.' So she yells, and he shoots. Verfluchter kerl."
"I suspected," Pel said.
By now, heads were peering into the store and a few hardy souls, seeing their sheriff with a prisoner in tow, sidled in for news of the ruckus.
"You," Pel told one, "get the doc."
"Miller?" the man in question asked.
"He's the only doc in town. I expect you'll find him at O'Hanlon's."
The man sped off, and Pel turned back to his captive. "You got anything to add to that?"
"Lyin' old bitch. I didn't do nuthin' until she started yowling. Scared me so bad my gun went off by accident."
"You are liar." Schmidt's round face turned crimson. His eyes bulged. "You are thief and voman killer. You vill hang from high tree."
"Hold on now, Mr. Schmidt." Pel became aware of sweat trickling down the side of his face and wiped it away with his sleeve. "Don't you be stirring up more trouble. Your wife isn't dead. In fact, look. She's waking up."
He spoke the truth. As Mrs. Schmidt's color returned, her eyelids flapped a few times and opened, whereupon she raised up on her elbow. Pel saw a long scratch along her forearm. It was bleeding profusely, but didn't look too deep. Didn't seem to hinder her any, either.
"You," she said to the prisoner, and there was nothing weak about her voice. "Robber. Shame on you."
Relieved, Pel yanked the would-be thief around and pointed him toward to door. "C'mon. I'm placing you under arrest. Time you got a look at the inside of my hoosegow."
"Fine with me," the prisoner said. "Get me away from these crazy furriners. Besides, the boss'll have me out in no time."
Who, Pelham wondered, was his boss? He had a good--or make that a bad--suspicion.
Getting the man past the six or seven people hovering around Mrs. Schmidt took a little doing. Doc's arrival cut a path for them to get through. Folks were rightfully upset, talking loud and mean. Wasn't every day they had an attempted robbery to stir them up. Endurance was more prone to drunks shooting each other over imagined slights or the favors of their preferred soiled dove than thieves thinking they could just help themselves to anything not nailed down. A couple fellers had tried to knock over the bank once, but that was after hours and no one got hurt. Except the robbers. It had been during Pel's first week on the job and he'd shot them both on their way out of town. With the cash recovered, he'd been something of a hero.
"What's your name?" he asked his prisoner once they were in the clear. He kept the man marching along at a good pace as they started across the street.
Ignoring Pel, the man had his gaze fixed on the Bucket of Sudz and he was grinning.
Pel gave him a shake. "Name?"
"It ain't gonna matter any to you, Sheriff. Once Diggett takes over this town, you won't be nothing but a grave marker in the cemetery." His grin widened. "But since you asked, my name is--"
The ball of fire exploding in Sheriff Pelham Birdsall's chest drowned out whatever else the man might have said.

Chapter 2

"Here now, Sheriff, you just stop wallering around and let Doc tend you. You're bleeding like a porker at hog-killin' time."
The deep, hearty voice rattled in Sheriff Pelham Birdsall's chest, bringing a powerful hurt along with it. Pel recognized the voice. It belonged to Boomer Herschel. Pel placed the noise all right, but he couldn't figure what the words meant.
Hands held him immobile when he writhed, trying to escape the pain. He tasted the blood flooding up in his throat, cutting off his wind. Unable to swallow, what didn't run down his chin made him choke. At least Boomer was thoughtful enough to hold his head up during the resultant spasm of coughing. Unable to draw in enough air, he panted like a hard-run dog.
"S'good, s'good," a slurred voice said when the spasm subsided. "That's just fine. He's a strong lad. He'll be fine as frog's hair in a couple days."
Was that him they were talking about? Pel forced his eyelids apart and saw heads bobbing above him, highlighted against the night sky. Unaccountably weak, it dawned on him he was lying in the middle of the road slowly suffocating. He struggled to rise until, unable to stop himself, he coughed again. This time agony burned deep in his chest like someone had stuck a red hot branding iron straight through his ribs. It was a blessing when darkness overtook him and he lost all sensation.

* * * *

Pel awakened sometime later, lying in his own bed with no memory of how he'd gotten there. Sweat drenched him, soaking the sheets tucked around him. The last thing he remembered was the hard-pounded dirt of Endurance's main street beneath his groping fingers and the stench of a nearby pile of horse manure in his nose. Doc had tromped through it, then kneeled beside Pel, the odor clinging to his shoes.
Oh, yes. And, as though in a bad dream, he recalled the shot coming out of the dark; the bright wink of a muzzle flash not twenty feet away; the slam of the bullet striking his chest, and him dropping like a pole-axed steer. By rights, he should be dead.
But the familiar patchwork cover was pulled taut to his chin and he smelled lemon verbena, so he knew he wasn't dead. He opened his eyes and his fingers twitched, an involuntary movement. In immediate response, a stunning universe of hurt fogged his vision and set his innards to quivering. No matter how he tried, he couldn't seem to draw in enough air. Like a man sinking into quicksand, panic clouded his mind. His arms thrashed, as though to claw a way to the surface.
"Easy. Calm down, Birdsall. Take it slow," someone said from behind him. Doc Miller, still with him. Pel didn't figure the old sot knew what he was talking about. How could a man slow down and take it easy when a rock-solid knot filled the place where his lungs ought to be?
His arm swung out, connecting with yet another person standing at his other side. The person yielded. There was a pained cry, quickly muted.
"Look out, Mrs. Birdsall," Doc said. "He don't know what he's doing. You'd best stand aside."
Ignoring Doc's advice, a hand touched his face, the palm cupping his chin. He heard his wife, her voice quiet and soft. She was hard to make out over his pounding heartbeat.
"Pelham," she said, "please lie still. You're only making matters worse."
"Can't...breathe," he managed.
"I know." She sounded near tears. "I know it's difficult, but Doctor Miller is going to help you. And so am I."
He couldn't see her, couldn't make his eyes open, but he felt as she lay her soft cheek against his. Her breath touched his ear, light as an angel's pat.
"Listen to me," she said.
But he missed what she wanted him to hear, the roar of blood rushing through his veins drowning out her words. He couldn't breathe. He couldn't breathe!
Her hands gripped his shoulders, strong for such a small woman.
"Pel, wake up," she commanded, loud enough and firm enough it carried over the noises inside his body. "Pay attention. You've lost the rhythm, but you're going to get it back. Do you hear me?"
He groaned a response.
"I want you to try and relax, Pel." Her face touched his again. "You can do it. Doc has an idea that'll fix you right up."
In the background, the doctor muttered something. "Probably a waste of time," is what Pel thought he said, which made him angry. What made the doc, soaking in a constant state of inebriation, think he knew any better than Mrs. Birdsall?
At first Pel was too dazed and hurt to understand what his wife was telling him. Concentrating all his might on staying conscious, he sobbed with the difficulty of following her orders. She made believe Doc would save him--and she made him believe it, too.
Gasping, he panted, little inhalations that kept him going. His panic faded as she crooned to him. His wife. His Delight. Then there was another stab to his chest, and he thought he must be dying.

* * * *

When Pel next awoke, he was alone with the clean scent of freshly laundered cotton in his nose. A pair of feather pillows propped his head, while another kept his chest at a slant. Twisting his eyes down, he saw what seemed to be a straw poking out of the hole in his chest. His arms lay outside the covers, straight down at his sides.
His thumb caressed the one blue velvet patch in the quilt. It had always intrigued him with its soft, moleskin feel. Delight said the piece had come from her grandmother's winter coat, a long time ago. He reckoned his own grandma had never owned a coat as fine as that. Never in her entire life.
The room was peaceful, full of warmth and quiet, except for the community of barn swallows chattering in the eaves outside. He didn't mind. In fact, he liked their cheerful sound. Wasn't often his duty gave him a chance to listen to birds. Usually he was still asleep at this time of day, like as not with the pillow over his head after being up late patrolling the town. He believed it must be early in the morning, since the sun was just climbing high enough to shine through the white eyelet curtains covering the upstairs window.
I should get up, he told himself. There was a prisoner downstairs in the jail waiting for his morning meal, his overnight slops dumped, a basin of wash water brought.
And somewhere out there the man who'd attempted to murder him needed to be brought to justice. His job. He had no doubt about what had happened to him, and that his job now was to clean Diggett Monroe's clan out of Endurance before they got too strong a foothold.
Pain battered him as he swung his legs over the side of the bed. It made his head swim and his chest go into a paroxysm, a queer sound hissing in the straw. His vision turned opaque and, unable to help himself, he fell sideways, missing the pillow entirely and sprawling half on, half off the mattress. His heart was going fast as a train and his lungs heaved fit to break out of his chest.
Easy, he reminded himself, forcing back the dread rising in him. The sound of his laboring lungs grew louder. He struggled to call out, the noise turning into a mewling little squeak. But he was Pelham Birdsall, sheriff of Garnet County, Idaho, and he was not a man to give up trying.
Pure stubborn will forced his ragged breathing gradually to ebb. Once he thought he could stand it, Pel slowly let down his legs and put his feet flat on the floor for another attempt at standing.
The laudanum Doc had forced between his lips earlier wasn't doing him much good. Mostly it made him dizzy and light-headed. Enough so he wasn't sure but what he needed to puke.
Pel swayed where he sat. A blanket of black dropped over his brain.

* * * *

Delight Birdsall eyed the prisoner sitting on the cot with his head in his hands, thinking he could've been posing for a sad picture depicting a man who'd lost his last friend. A sunbeam, splintered into several parts by the bars over the foot-square window above him, centered on the hem of his left pant leg, grown ragged with hard wear. He wore an out-at-the-elbows shirt, and she saw his sand-brown hair was in need of cutting. All in all, he didn't look awfully dangerous. She had to remind herself he was in jail for good reason.
She stood outside his cell, more than a little nervous about serving the prisoner his breakfast. Although she'd been cooking and washing up after this man for six days already, today was the first time she'd laid eyes on him. It wasn't part of her duty to know or to care what he looked like, or even learn his name. Her task was to provide him with meals three times a day. Pel, showing a consideration sometimes lacking in his attitude toward his prisoners, had told her to fix plenty.
"Don't think this boy's been feeding too high on the hog of late," he'd said by way of explanation.
"Why is that?" she'd asked, not really interested.
"Looks half-starved. I reckon he's just down on his luck and made some bad decisions, got in with the wrong bunch. Given the chance, I think he'll straighten out."
To Delight's amusement, Pel had sounded almost embarrassed at being sympathetic.
But then, it wasn't Pel's job to second guess Judge Fuller, or so he told her. The prisoner had ten days to serve in the Garnet County jail, and that was that. While a guest of the county, the prisoner's victuals would be the same as Pel and Delight ate, only, apparently, more of it.
Delight realized she should have paid more attention when Pel talked about caring for the prisoners. Oh, not the food. She knew that was all right. But now her hands were taken up with a tray laden with fried eggs, spuds, bacon and toasted day-old bread, even after she'd set the hot coffee pot on Pel's desk. The cell's barred door was locked, and the key was in her apron pocket. How was she to get the meal inside the cell without giving the man a chance to jump her and escape?
Presently, the scent of bacon teased the prisoner into lifting his head.
"Ma'am." His face wore an expression that made a gravedigger look like a man anticipating a party. "Is Sheriff Birdsall dead? He looked pretty bad when they carried him through here last night."
The question jolted Delight. Put into words, the observation hit hard, although she answered stoutly enough. "Of course he's not dead. Takes more than a sneaking bushwhacker to kill the sheriff."
Even to herself she sounded like a small child shouting defiance. Pel had looked bad when Herschel and O'Hanlon and some of the other townsmen carried him in last night. She shuddered, remembering the blood and Pel's white, white face. He wasn't the picture of health right now either, but he was going to live. She'd make sure of that.
"He'll be fine," she said.
The prisoner stood up and walked the three steps over to the cell door. "He looked bad," he repeated. "Like he'd lost a lot of blood. I figured... Well, ma'am, you're here and he ain't."
And wasn't that the truth? Here and pondering what she should do next.
"Is that my breakfast?" he asked, after a pause where she could think of no reply.
"It certainly isn't mine," she retorted, stiffly adding, "You stand back from the door, mister. Sit on the bed. I'm going to unlock your cell and scoot the tray in, but I'm warning you, I'm armed. Make one move and I'll blow your head off."
An empty threat. As empty as the little derringer she'd forgotten to load, but which she habitually carried in her pocket according to Pel's instructions. Perhaps the prisoner would see the outline of it and take warning.
"Yes, ma'am," he replied, too meek to be true. "Whatever you say."
He backed to the cot and reseated himself, while she set the tray on the floor and fished for the key.
"Tuck," he said.
She looked up. "I beg your pardon?"
"Name's Tuck Moon. Not used to being called mister. Just Tuck, like that friar feller in the Robin Hood story, only I ain't no priest."
From what Delight had heard, he wasn't any Robin Hood either. More the blundering villager, himself in need of rescue.
He watched her fumble putting the key in the lock, his face serious. "Think it goes in with the ragged part down," he said.
Delight felt a flush bring heat to her cheeks. "Thank you."
With the benefit of his advice, the door opened. She jammed her hand into her apron pocket, drawing his attention to the derringer, as she scooted the tray inside with her foot. "Stay where you are. I'll get the coffee."
Keeping her eye on him, she retreated to Pel's desk where the pot anchored a stack of papers. She'd have to look at those, she supposed. See if there was anything in need of immediate attention. One document started off in Pel's neat, thick hand. Another thing to put on her list to complete while Pelham was laid up. If she could, she'd do it right after the prisoner had eaten his breakfast and she'd made certain Pel was still asleep. Doc said plenty of sleep and rest was the best thing for him and this once, she allowed Doc, drunk or not, might be right. Right for the second time, actually. As grotesque as it looked, the straw the old coot had stuck in the wound seemed to ease Pelham's breathing.
The prisoner looked everywhere except at her as she warily approached him, carrying the steaming coffee pot.
"Hold out the cup," she said.
"Yes, ma'am." He breathed in the steaming fragrance of the freshly brewed Arbuckles Finest, an appreciative expression on his plain face. "You cook good coffee, Mrs. Birdsall."
Something heavy enough to make the ceiling creak struck the floor above their heads. They both jumped. Delight, in the act of tilting the coffee pot, didn't notice the stream flowing over the prisoner's hand. He jerked back, shaking off the scalding flood.
Delight's cry of "Pelham!" overrode Moon's imprecation. Heedless of spilled coffee, she dropped the pot on the floor and whirled, dashing from the cell and through the office to the stairway leading up to the family living quarters. Heart pounding in tempo with her feet, she took the steps two at a time, her full gingham skirt lifted high around her knees.
She'd left the door to their rooms ajar when she went downstairs, the better to hear Pel if he called. She was doubly glad of the precaution as she flew across the front room and banged through the half-open door into the tiny bedchamber.
At first she couldn't see Pelham, only the tumbled bedding and bloodstained sheets. Then, just beyond the foot of the bed, she caught sight of an out-flung hand.
"Pel!"
She rushed forward, only to stumble over his body in her haste.

Chapter 3

Pel regained his senses almost as soon as he lost them, but after falling, he was too weak to rise. He lay on the floor with his face buried in the braided rag rug his wife had put down to take the chill off the cold floor of a morning. Small comfort. He heard Delight thumping up the stairs, feet landing only on every other tread. Hinges squealed on the bedroom door, thrown wide until the knob rebounded from the wall. His wife stood panting in the opening.
Not that Pel could see her, exactly, but he recognized those little brown boots of hers, so narrow it hardly seemed a human foot could fit inside. They were on a level with his eyes.
"Pel," she cried, hastening over, "what do you think you're doing?"
Dropping to her knees beside him, she didn't wait for an answer. Just as well, seeing as he'd lost the ability to speak. Now if only he'd lose the ability to feel. The wound in his chest had broken loose, the straw yanked free with hot blood soaking through the bandages Doc had wrapped around him earlier. A wonder there was any liquid left in his body, the way it had been leaking out.
With some difficulty, Delight rolled him onto his back. Whatever she saw must have been ugly because of the way she sucked in air and hissed it right back out.
"If I lift, do you think you can get into bed?" she asked.
Since he was looking up at her, he saw the dismay written across her heart-shaped face. She was a bit of a woman; he a good-sized man. Though it galled him, he managed a shake of his head, aware the way his breath wheezed and faltered frightened her, but there wasn't anything he could do about it. He plain didn't have the strength.
"I was afraid of that." Blindly, she reached onto the bed until she found a pillow, lifted his head and slipped it underneath. Her hands darted, tugging and pulling, adjusting the bandage and putting pressure on his chest until he came near fainting. At last she stopped.
"Better?"
He let his eyes answer for him.
"I didn't think so." She lunged to her feet, her hands red with his blood. "Stay here. I'll get help."
He tried to smile at her, although he was it afraid it turned his face into a death's head grimace. But it was funny, what she'd said. He knew he wasn't going anywhere. So did she.
Delight fled the room like her skirt was on fire. Pelham settled down to wait for her return while pain washed over him.
It was too bad, he thought, the silence a fizzy white in his ears, but he couldn't hear the birds anymore.

* * * *

Tuck Moon's scalded hand turned bright red and stung like blazes. He blew on it, then righted the coffee pot before all the liquid could seep through the cracks in the cement floor. Although the cell door stood wide, he fetched his breakfast and took the plate back to his cot, where he sat and ate his eggs and fried spuds fast as he could swallow. No sense in wasting Mrs. Birdsall's good cooking.
Before long, he heard her light footsteps galloping down the stairs. Forewarned, he crammed the last piece of toast in his mouth, swallowed a gulp of coffee and gathered the handful of bacon.
He put the plate aside just as Mrs. Birdsall stopped outside his cell.
"I forgot to lock up," she said, guilt in her swift glance around. "But I see you're still here."
"Yes, ma'am. Didn't want to miss my breakfast." He bit a bacon slice in half. "Is the--"
"I need your help." Her words were abrupt, shrill.
Something in the way she stood caught Tuck's attention. She held her hands stuck straight down at her sides like they were foreign to her body. As her skirt swung aside, he saw blood coated her fingers.
Dropping his unfinished bacon on the plate, he rose to his feet. "Sheriff Birdsall bad off?"
"Yes. He's fallen out of bed, and I can't lift him. He's bleeding again."
He heard a sob catch in the back of her throat, and her hand went there as though to hold the sound in. Scared, he thought.
"Just tell me what you want done," he said, "and I'll do 'er."
She whipped around. "Come with me."
For a little woman, she covered ground in a hurry. Tuck took long strides, and he still couldn't keep up with her. Almost before Tuck could set foot in the room, she was already on her knees beside the sheriff where he lay sprawled on the floor.
Blood seeped out from under Birdsall's body, staining the smooth pine boards. A lot of blood.
"Quick," Mrs. Birdsall said. "You take his shoulders, and I'll get his feet. Be gentle now. Don't jostle him."
Tuck was surprised when she bore her share of the sheriff's weight like a trooper. He guessed there must be truth in that old tale about fear lending strength. Once they had the sheriff on the bed where he lay limp as a new-killed deer, they stood gazing down at him. But for all the way she'd taken command a moment ago, she now seemed paralyzed. She clasped her stained hands beneath her chin, her face nearly as white as her husband's.
"Best get the doc," Tuck suggested, gentle as he knew how. Should've mentioned a priest, he thought, or the pastor, in case there was one in town.
"Yes." Clearly she was reluctant to leave the wounded man's bedside. "Could you..."
Tuck wasn't plumb crazy. "Not me, ma'am. Anybody sees me loose, they'll figure I'm out to escape and shoot me down. Might even ask for a reward." He'd heard the Garnet County commissioners were bent on running the outlaw element out of the county. Meanwhile, the outlaws were just as determined to stay. He suspected this was why Birdsall had been shot.
Her dark blue eyes raised to his. "Then will you keep an eye on him while I go?"
"Me? You trust me? Aren't you scared I might run off?"
She spared a faint smile. "I guess if you'd wanted to run, you already missed your best chance."
Feeling foolish, Tuck replied, "Yes, ma'am. I reckon I did. Hadn't et my breakfast yet. 'Sides, I got no money and nowhere to go. Jail ain't so bad."
He guessed it was agreement of sorts. She must've thought so because she said, "Thank you. I'll be right back." She spun around and dashed out of the room, fast as a trout can take a bug.
Left alone with the sheriff, Tuck leaned over the bed and peered down. Birdsall's lips were as pale as his face, a sure sign he'd lost more blood than was safe. Looked like the pad his missus had bound over the wound was slowing the flow some, although Tuck thought it might be a case of too little, too late.
Not knowing what else to do, he dragged a low rocking chair from along the wall to the bedside and sat down, hands dangling between his knees. He saw the sheriff's colorless lips moving and bent closer to hear the faint, slow voice.
"Look after my wife," Birdsall whispered.
Tuck reared back. "Your wife? Me?"
"Until I'm up." The sheriff spoke slowly, halting for breath after each word. "See she doesn't get hurt."
"Why me?"
"You don't fool me, Moon." A tremor shook Birdsall from head to toe. "Boomer can't help her. You can." At that, his eyes rolled back in his head and he passed out.
Tuck about had a conniption for a minute, thinking the sheriff had cashed in his chips, but then he saw the minuscule, shuddering rise and fall of Birdsall's chest under the sodden bandage. Although Tuck was sweating, he dragged the blanket bunched at the end of the bed up and drew it over the unconscious man. He'd lost blood a time or two himself and knew how it made a body grow cold.
Now why'd the sheriff go and say a thing like that? Tuck wondered, seating himself in the rocking chair again. Why tell him to look after Mrs. Sheriff? He noticed he'd been told, not asked. But why not the deputy? On the other hand, he guessed he knew why Birdsall hadn't appointed Herschel. Still, he'd druther the sheriff picked somebody else. Most anyone would be better than miserable Tuck Moon.
Muscles flickered in Tuck's face. There wasn't anybody lower than a gunfighter without a gun--unless it was a man who'd lost his self-respect. The shooting of a beardless sixteen-year-old boy, even with the boy shooting at him point-blank, haunted him. There was no redemption possible for a man like him.
Too late. The words echoed through his mind.
Sighing, he crossed his arms over his chest and leaned back in the chair to wait for Mrs. Birdsall's return with the doc.
Now what should he do? Dad gummit! The sheriff's request was enough to make a man think again about scuttling off to the hills.

* * * *

Delight ran flat out along the street, disregarding the way Arnold Bower at the bank shook his head upon spying her bloodstained dress and hands.
"Have you seen Doc?" she stopped to ask.
"Not this morning." Bower's expression grew anxious. "Has the sheriff taken a turn for the worse?"
Delight sped on without answering, only to stop outside the drugstore and call through the open door to the druggist inside. "Have you seen Doc?"
She could hardly miss the meaningful glance the druggist exchanged with his customer, a vacant-eyed woman clutching a new bottle of Lydia Pinkhams.
"I'm afraid not. If I were you, I'd check O'Hanlon's place," he said, taking the woman's money. "That's his usual hangout."
From what she knew of Doc, his advice made good sense. She hurried on, her gaze darting here and there, as though to cut through the walls of the wooden buildings until she found her prey.
Delight spied a young swamper a few doors beyond the drugstore, where he desultorily swept dirt off the step leading to O'Hanlon's Saloon. She smelled the thin layer of clean sawdust he'd already spread over the tobacco-stained floor as he cleared the mess left from last night. The boy cocked a thumb toward the bar's interior at her repeated inquiry about Doc Miller.
"He's in there," he announced. "Drunk as a hoot owl. Like always. Been here all night, I guess. He ain't no good to anyone, shape he's in."
Peering over the kid's shoulder into the dark and dreary barroom, Delight spied the figure of a man slumped at a table littered with shot glasses and a brown bottle turned on its side. He'd buried his face against his folded arms, and he was snoring loudly enough to rile the horses in the livery corral next door. She recognized the clothes Doc had been wearing last night, right down to the stain on his left trouser leg. Pelham's blood. He must have come here directly from Pel's bedside.
"Doctor Miller." Her call drew no response. Knowing Pel wanted to protect her from the more sordid aspects of town life, she'd damped her curiosity about such places. She'd always refrained from casting so much as a sideways glance into any of the several drinking establishments lining the streets of Endurance, especially the Bucket of Sudz, a joint of ill-repute if she'd ever heard of one. But that was before. Needs must.
Pushing through the batwing doors of O'Hanlon's, she entered, wrinkling her nose against the odor of stale booze, stale tobacco, and even staler men. The fresh sawdust smell gave bare competition. Marching across the room, she went over and grabbed Doc's arm, giving it a hearty shake. "Doctor Miller, wake up. Sheriff Birdsall needs you."
Doc's head thumped from his arm onto the table. His eyelids never flickered, his snores never ceased. An almost tangible haze of alcohol hung over him.
Drunk, indeed. Anger flared along her nerves. Old sot. Why'd he have to go on a toot now?
A bucket of cold gray water stood on the bar, a cleaning rag hanging half in, half out. Delight stomped over and, snatching the bucket up, brought it back to Doc and dumped the contents over his head, rag and all.
"Hey," the swamper, having followed her in, protested. "That was the lye soap water I use for washing off the tables."
"You can draw more," Delight said, watching Doc snuffle watery bubbles out of his nose. Then he gave a giant snort and leapt up, eyes weeping from the sting of the soap. He stumbled against Delight.
"What the--" he croaked, scrubbing at his eyelids with the backs of his hands.
"Wake up, Doc. This is an emergency. My husband--Sheriff Birdsall--needs you."
"Birdsall?" Doc shook his head and groaned. Propping himself against the table, he swayed, trembling like a birch in a breeze. "Figured he'd be dead by now."
"Well, he isn't." Delight felt the tendons along her clenched jaw knot and strain. "And he won't be if I have anything to say about it. Come with me. Where's your medical bag?"
Doc stared at her, his gaze vague and unfocused, and waved a hand toward the chair he'd been sitting in. She saw his bag beneath it, stuffed between the rungs.
"I suspect he could use a dose of laudanum if he isn't dead," he said. He picked the brown bottle from the table and shook it. "And I need a drink."
"I hardly think..." Delight began, but Doc, with manners more appropriate to a hog rooting for its dinner than an educated physician, pushed past her toward the bar.
"No, ma'am. I need the drink," he said. He sighed and looked down at his hands, head bobbing. "Hair of the dog. Helps the shakes."
Hair of the dog? Delight wondered if that mean he was so drunk he wouldn't be able to function. His eyes were as red as the fresh blood on her dress, and she knew it wasn't all caused by the lye soap. Her heart sank. Damn him! Pelham needed his help so badly.
Doc reached behind the scarred old mahogany bar, found another of the brown bottles, and poured a convenient glass half full of clear amber fluid. Teeth clamped, he sieved the raw whiskey through them, shuddering as he swallowed. Tossing two-bits on the bar, he turned to find Delight, her lips compressed into an angry line and tapping her toe, waiting for him, his bag in one hand.
"I'm ready," he said, and just as though he were sober and fit as a circuit-riding Methodist preacher, he led the way outside, squinting and blinking in the bright sunlight.
Delight caught hold of his coat tail. "This way," she said, when he would have gone opposite. Disgusting, incompetent, dissolute--but he was all there was. In a voice as hard as ice and just as frigid, she said, "Watch what you're about, Doctor Miller. If my husband dies, I'll hold you responsible."

Chapter 4

Tucker Moon, on the watch at Pelham Birdsall's bedside, perked his ears as footsteps sounded downstairs in the office. The clatter of heels on the puncheon floor was audible all the way to the bedroom. He wondered how the Birdsalls ever slept on nights the sheriff hauled in three or four cantankerous drunks who like as not cursed, puked, and sang themselves to sleep with ribald songs.
Shrugging, Tuck rose from the rocker, relieved his watch was over. Mrs. Birdsall must've had a hard time finding the doc, she'd been gone so long.
But then, though he listened, there was no sound of anyone talking or mounting the stairs. He light-footed it out of the bedroom and down the hall to the landing. From there he had a view of the desk in the jailhouse's front room, enough to see a pair of large, dirty boots propped across the paper-littered top. The boots were worn by feet crossed at the ankles, and they in turn were attached to brown-trousered legs. Tuck had seen the britches before on the hefty form of Deputy Boomer Herschel.
Apparently Herschel, as unobservant as ever, hadn't thought to check on the prisoner because there'd been no hullabaloo about the empty cell. A good thing. He could imagine what the deputy's reaction would be. Herschel wouldn't turn a hair at gunning old Tuck Moon down with that pistol the deputy wore slung around his hips, no explanation asked. He'd try, anyway, Tuck thought with grim humor. He reckoned he'd have a little something to say about it.
Herschel wasn't showing much concern for the sheriff, either, come to think on it. Not even enough to climb the stairs and inquire if the sheriff had made it through the night, let alone see if he could help the missus with anything. Tuck grimaced. He guessed that was why Birdsall had said what he did to Tuck about taking care of his missus. Hadn't made much sense then, but it seemed a little clearer now.
Tuck went back to watching the sheriff. Inside a scant minute or two, the noise of Herschel's snoring drifted up the stairwell. Tuck might've felt inclined to join him, given the peace of the quiet bedroom, if it hadn't been for the distressed whisper of Birdsall's breathing. Made him right nervous, that did. He looked around, noticing the way the sun sparkled through a spotless window, and how the scent of lemon and lavender, fragrances he remembered from his ma's flower garden many years in the past, permeated the room. He reckoned if he was to get up real close to Mrs. Birdsall, he'd discover that was her scent, too. Soft and flowery, yet sharp with a little acid bite.
Tuck like to shot out of his boots when something landed smack dab in the middle of his lap. Something that made him chuckle when he got a good look at it, even though a set of razor sharp hooks latched into his thighs made him wince.
"Where'd you come from?" he asked the little white-and-gray cat. The creature squeaked a reply, disengaged its set of claws, and turned in a circle before curling in a ball and settling down. He placed his hand on its soft fur, stroking lightly. When he looked up from the cat, the sheriff had awakened again. Birdsall's eyes were open, but hazy and confused looking.
"My wife?" Birdsall whispered.
Tuck leaned forward. "Gone for the doc. Oughta be back any minute."
"Hurts," Birdsall said. His eyes closed again. He didn't stir as, right on top of Tuck's assurance, a door slammed in the room below.
"Get your feet off that desk," Tuck heard Mrs. Birdsall say. "You're getting dirt on Pelham's paperwork."
Tuck was gladdened by the sound her voice. A second later, a double thud told of feet landing on the floor. He grinned a little. That would be the lemon part, the acid bite, coming out in Mrs. Birdsall. He figured this wasn't a good day to cross her. Guaranteed, he didn't intend to.
"Hurry, doctor," she said. "Pelham was bleeding again when I left, and I've been gone a long time."
Doc mumbled something, and there was a clunk as a man knocked against the wall hard enough to rattle the handrail. A pithy curse resounded in the closed space.
"Be careful," Mrs. Birdsall said. "I don't want you falling down these stairs." And a few seconds later as they drew closer, Tuck heard, "Here we are."
She pushed into the bedroom past the doc, rushing forward and dropping to her knees beside the bed. She touched her husband's cheek, felt his forehead--and frowned. Doc, panting and sweating and looking sick as a poisoned coyote, dropped his bag on the floor and swayed unsteadily as he bent over the patient. A few seconds later, Herschel appeared, clumping along at the rear.
"How is he?" Mrs. Birdsall asked, looking up at Tuck. "Has he been awake at all?"
The question went by the wayside as a pistol barrel was shoved up against Tuck's ribs. Shoved hard, too. Herschel! Tuck might've known. He jumped and grunted, then several things happened more-or-less all at once.
The cat leapt off his lap and disappeared under the bed as Tuck flung up his hands. But, at the same time, he rocked the chair violently backward, feeling a crunch as Herschel's toe got caught under the runner. Tuck's raised hand slapped the pistol aside and then, as if by accident, he grabbed the barrel, forcing it down. The gun fired, the bullet burning a crease in the chair seat right next to Tuck's thigh. It went on to create a hole in the bedroom floor, but missed any of the room's occupants.
Sheriff Birdsall groaned, twitched, and tried to rise.
"Get off. Get off my toe," Herschel yowled, trying to yank his foot free and damn near upsetting the rocker with Tuck still in it. "Son of a bitch!"
He about deafened Tuck, whose ear was too close for comfort.
Herschel trying to be a gunman was downright laughable--except Tuck wasn't laughing. He stood up and took the pistol away from the deputy.
"Mr. Herschel," Mrs. Birdsall said, all prissy-like, "I'll thank you to watch your language. And please keep the noise down. My husband is too ill to be disturbed by your foolishness. The idea...shooting off a gun inside a sickroom!"
"My foolishness?" Boomer yelled in reply. "What the hell're you yammering about? Ma'am, this here desperado has escaped from the jail downstairs. Looked like he was getting ready to shoot Sheriff Birdsall."
A day late and a dollar short, that was the deputy, all right.
"Don't be ridiculous." Mrs. Birdsall wagged a forefinger at Herschel. "You're the only one brandishing a gun. See that it doesn't go off again." She turned to the doctor, who stood there looking like his head ached something fierce. "Well?" she told him. "Get busy."
Her blue gaze returned to Tuck. "Did Pel wake up?" she asked again.
Tuck, not knowing what else to do, handed Boomer Herschel the pistol. "Yes, ma'am," he told Mrs. Birdsall. "For just a minute."
"Did he say anything?"
Tuck nodded. "Said he hurt. Asked where you was."
"Oh." Her generous mouth turned down. "And I wasn't here."
"He wasn't awake for more 'n half a minute," he said. With the deputy standing right here, he didn't think he'd let on about the sheriff being wakeful twice, enough so to tell him to look after her. Birdsall had probably been out of his head when he said it. That's all Tuck could figure. Most likely, he wouldn't even remember. 'Sides, Tuck wasn't real good at taking care of himself, let alone a woman like Mrs. Birdsall. He didn't know anything about women of her kind--or any other kind, for that matter.
Mute, he pushed the chair up close to the bed so Mrs. Birdsall could sit down. She ignored the gesture, keeping a sharp watch on the doctor, muscles visibly tensed, as if to leap forward in case the old drunk started to fall over on his patient. Meanwhile, the doc wasn't paying anyone but the sheriff any mind.
"Hand me another one of those straws," Doc muttered. "Crazy galoot ruined this one. Wonder he didn't run it right through his lung."
Mrs. Birdsall hastened to rummage through his bag for the straw.
Herschel had the wit to shove his.36 in the holster and muffle his complaints about his sore toe, although the hard stare he aimed at Tuck said plenty. The deputy's crushed appendage couldn't be any sorer than Tuck's ribs anyhow, and he didn't believe those were worth mentioning in the same breath with the sheriff's injuries.
"Ma'am?" Tuck's weight shifting from one foot to the other made the floor squeak and drew Mrs. Birdsall's gaze to him. "If you're through with me, I reckon I better go back down to my cell. Don't want Herschel here having apoplexy. Doc's got his hands full already."
A faint smile quirked the corner of her lips. "No. We don't want that. Thank you, Mr. Moon. I appreciate your help with my husband."
"You have any more trouble," Boomer Herschel burst out, "you come see me, ma'am. I'm in charge here, what with the sheriff laid up and all."
Mrs. Birdsall had her husband's hand between both of hers, rubbing it as though sheer willpower would bring warmth and life to her man.
"Then where were you this morning, Mr. Herschel?" she asked, her eyes fixed on the sheriff's drawn face. "Not here, I can vouch for that. I wasn't about to wait on your convenience, and the sheriff couldn't. I'll always do what is best for Pelham. You can count on that. Now, if you don't mind, my husband needs rest and quiet."
It was easy to see her dismissal riled the deputy. He grabbed Tuck by the arm as if hoping for resistance, but Tuck knew better than to oblige. He left willingly enough, figuring the best thing for him was to do whatever Herschel said. He even hoped these folks would forget he was around--except at mealtime. Mrs. Sheriff was a good and generous cook. But for his part, he figured he'd be better off if he never laid eyes on her again.

* * * *

At noon, Boomer Herschel ambled down the street toward Rose's café where an outdoor menu board announced elk stew as the daily special. Elk stew was, in plain fact, the special nearly every day, which appeared to be fine by Herschel since he smacked his lips in a disgusting manner every time it was mentioned.
As soon as Delight saw him leave, she brought Tucker Moon's dinner down to him. She found the prisoner sitting on the cot, looking glum as glum could be with his head hanging low. Unlocking the cell and leaving it open behind her, she handed him the tray, getting a good view of his face when he looked up to thank her. A burgundy-colored shiner was developing around his right eye, and there was an open cut on his forehead.
"Oh, Lordy me." She rocked back on her heels and breathed out hard through her nose. "That man...that despicable... How badly are you hurt, Mr. Moon?"
"Reckon I'll live, ma'am. Thank you." He took the tray from her shaking hands and settled it on his lap.
"I'm so sorry." She felt like the bottom had just dropped out from under her. How in the world was she to contend with a...a...peckerwood like Duncan Herschel along with everything else? "This is my fault. I saw the way he was acting and should've known he'd do something rotten. I'll fetch a bandage and some witch hazel for that bruise. And I'll speak to Mr. Herschel when he returns."
Moon shook his head. "Best pretend you didn't notice anything, Mrs. Sheriff."
"How could I not notice?"
"Don't know. Just best if you don't." He held up his empty cup. "Do I smell coffee?"
"Yes, sorry. I set it down over there." She hurried to fetch the big coffeepot from the office desk where she'd left it, which gave her a moment to think. Was Moon right? Should she ignore Herschel's behavior? God knows she, Pel, and the whole town really were going to have to depend on him until Pel was on his feet again. But, glory, it went against the grain.
"Don't worry yourself, ma'am," Moon said as she filled his cup. He studied the plate of fried chicken, garden tomatoes and soft brown bread. Leftovers, but there was plenty of it. "Looks mighty fine."
"You could sit at the desk, if you like. Be more like a table."
He shook his head. "Best not. Wouldn't want the deputy coming back unexpected and getting down on me for being out of my cell again. He wouldn't like it." He rubbed a spot above his kidneys that made him wince. "Guess I wouldn't like all that much, either. I don't want to cause any trouble. 'Sides, it wouldn't look right if somebody was to come along and see me sitting there bold as brass."
"Oh." She frowned. "I didn't think. I suppose you're right. Will you be all right with Mr. Herschel after this? Is there anything I can do?"
"Naw. Herschel, he carries on some, but he ain't so tough."
She'd seen his wince. "Are you sure?" At his nod, she sighed. "At least you have only a few more days to serve. I wouldn't want to upset that."
He took hold of a chicken leg and started gnawing. "No, ma'am. Me neither."
Their conversation ended when a commotion out front sent Delight hurrying to see what was happening. She found Mr. Schmidt, owner of the mercantile across the street, pushing into the sheriff's office looking cocky and belligerent. His wife, red of face and outweighing her husband by a good fifty pounds, accompanied him. They were followed by Mr. Sheridan from the blacksmith's shop and Mr. O'Hanlon, who owned the saloon in which she'd found Doc Miller earlier.
O'Hanlon had a sawed-off shotgun in his hands and was using it to prod yet another man--a stranger--between the shoulder blades. The stranger appeared quite unhappy, perhaps with reason judging by a velvety black shiner--worse even than the one Tuck Moon was sporting--surrounding his left eye. And considering the 10-gauge aimed at his back, of course.
"Good day." Delight cast an all encompassing look over her visitors and chose one fact to comment upon. "Mrs. Schmidt, what has happened to your arm?" The woman wore it cocked up in a sling made of two bright blue handkerchiefs tied together.
At her question, Mrs. Schmidt's face grew even redder. "Dis one," she said, tapping the stranger's shoulder and nearly knocking him over. "Voman killer!"
Mr. Schmidt pushed forward. "Hush, Mutter. I vill the talking do. This one"--he also pummeled the bound man--"he vas running avay last nacht. I am bringink him back."
"Pardon me?" Delight asked.
"The sheriff, this iss his prisoner."
"It is?"
"He iss shoot me," Mrs. Schmidt chimed in.
"He did?" Delight blinked, for a moment thinking the woman meant Pel before the light dawned. "Oh, I see. This man... Your poor arm. Will you be all right?"
Mrs. Schmidt scowled. "Nein. I cannot cook. I cannot vater carry. I cannot the customers help. Schwein hund." She glared at the prisoner who, like a nervous horse dodging a spur, sidled to safety behind Sheridan, a man large enough to provide some cover.
O'Hanlon gestured with his shotgun. "I was just stepping out of my saloon when I saw the sheriff shot down last night," he said. "Looked like he'd arrested this feller and was bringing him over to the lockup. Quick as could be, Honest Abe here decided to beat it, even wearing handcuffs, so when I saw Sheriff Birdsall had help on the way, I followed the prisoner and recaptured him. Takes a man braver than this one is to argue with a shotgun. Anyhow, I saw you folks were a little busy, so I locked him in my back room overnight."
Mr. O'Hanlon, with his high color, appeared quite pleased with himself, barely suppressing his excitement.
"Well done," Delight said. "Mr. O'Hanlon, I truly appreciate your service. But I'm certain you'd rather hand him over to the sheriff's custody now." Her next question was for Mrs. Schmidt. "Do I understand this gentleman was attempting an armed robbery and that is when he shot you?"
Mrs. Schmidt shook her head, but at a nudge from her husband said, "Yah. Voman killer."
"And I witnessed the whole shebang," Mr. Sheridan said, "more or less. Seen the thief go into the store. Heard the shots and the yellin', seen Sheriff Birdsall go runnin' up and make his arrest."
"I see." Delight fumbled with the key, still in her apron pocket. "I'll book him into jail on charges of attempted armed robbery and assault then." Her eyes narrowed on the blacksmith. "And did you see who shot my husband, Mr. Sheridan?"
"No, ma'am," he mumbled, avoiding her gaze. "I didn't see that."
"How's the sheriff doing?" O'Hanlon asked, as Delight indicated he should escort the prisoner into the lockup. She opened the door to the cell next to the one where Tuck Moon sat chewing bread and a chicken thigh.
The question made Delight hesitate. "I'm sure he'll be back on his feet soon," she said, her attention on the key as O'Hanlon pushed the protesting stranger into the cell. She locked the door.
The prisoner gripped the cell's bars with his cuffed hands and shook them. "Sheriff's a dead man. Now or two days from now. He's a dead man."
Delight sucked in air, her hands curling into knots, although she managed to ignore him as she shooed the saloonkeeper back into the outer office. From behind her, Tucker Moon said, "You shut up." His voice was low and soft, and she didn't think the others heard.
Meanwhile, O'Hanlon busied himself by breaking open his shotgun and checking the loads. "Lordy, I hope Pel's up and around soon," he said. "We need him on the job. Now worse 'n ever."
Sheridan rubbed a large hand over his beard as Mr. Schmidt nodded solemn agreement. "Seen more riffraff in town like the prisoner we brought in today. A few're already drunk and causing trouble, insulting the ladies and running off legitimate business. Somebody's gotta get out there and run them off."
He sounded accusatory, as if he thought Pel should rise from his sickbed and do it. The blacksmith looked around. "Where is Herschel, if I might ask?"
"I believe he's over at the café," Delight said.
O'Hanlon snorted. "Yeah. Feedin' his face, as usual. Herschel don't get too far from the trough, and that's a fact. Pel better let him know there's work to be done. If the two of 'em can't handle this bunch, we've got to find somebody who can. Quick, too. Maybe I'd better talk to the mayor. Bucket of Sudz is the only place in town making any money right now."
Anger flared behind Delight's placid demeanor. There'd been little concern shown for Pel's condition. Profit seemed to be the only thing these people cared about.
"I'll remind the sheriff to speak to Deputy Herschel," she said.
The group showed signs of leaving then. Relieved, she escorted them to the door. The Schmidts were still giving a blow-by-blow account of the attempted robbery in their stilted English, Sheridan was worrying about economics, and O'Hanlon was puffing on about his heroism in capturing the prisoner as they went their separate ways.
A search through the desk drawer revealed Pel's arrest book, where she wrote down the date, circumstances, charges, and the witness's names in her beautiful handwriting. One thing was lacking. Dreading another confrontation with the disagreeable man, she took a sustaining breath and, carrying writing implements, headed back to the cells.
"How about taking these cuffs off me?" The new prisoner stood pressed against the bars thrusting his hands toward her, causing her to flinch. Although his grin looked evil, what with his lip catching on a crooked tooth, she felt a little sympathy. He was a large-boned man, and the cuffs had rubbed his wrists raw.
She flourished her pencil. "Of course. As soon as I take down a few particulars. Your name, please, and then your home address." Her pencil poised over the paper.
"Cain't talk," he whined. "The pain. I'm hurtin' powerful bad."
Her eyes met his, flinched and dropped. "Is that so?"
"Yes, ma'am." The grin was back.
Delight sucked in her stomach and starched her spine. "Yet you just now used more words than it would take to answer my questions." Her voice crisped. "From which behavior I can only assume you're trying to play on my sympathies--if I had any. I'd guess you're a wanted man, sir. Own up to it, and I'll remove the cuffs. Otherwise, wear them. It's up to you."
Tucker Moon ambled over to the front of his cell and pushed his empty plate under the door. "Might as well tell her who you are," he said. "You'll find she's a mighty stubborn lady. Hard."
He winked with his left eye, visible only to her.
"We'll see who's hard." The outlaw shook the door, the metal cuffs rattling on the iron. "That saloon keeper paraded me right through town. Soon's the boss hears about this, he'll get me outta here. It'll be quick." He pressed his face against the bars. "You better hope you're someplace else along about then, missus. The boss ain't got no patience with women like you."
His threat about curdled Delight's blood. Feeling more than a little chilled by his confidence, she picked Moon's plate up from the floor. Fighting to keep her voice level, she said, "We'll see about that. But I thank you for the warning." With that, she swept out, closing the door between the jail's two rooms. Let the man suffer bound hands; she didn't care.

* * * *

"Looks to me like you about cooked your own goose," Tuck told his fellow prisoner when Mrs. Sheriff had gone. "Them steel bracelets are apt to get kind of uncomfortable after a while."
"Well, hell, I kept that barkeep buffaloed all night. Couldn't let no female get the better of me, could I?"
Tuck shrugged. "A matter of opinion, I guess." He laid down on his cot and put his arms behind his head. "You're Schoefield, aren't you? Seen you over to Garnet City when I stopped over."
The other man peeked at Tuck out of his good eye. "That's me, all right. Who're you? What they got you locked up for?"
"Tuck Moon's the name. Seems I drank a little too much red-eye one night a week or so ago. Took a pistol away from some young swell waving it around in the Bucket of Sudz. He was even drunker than me, and I was scared he'd shoot somebody--like me."
Schoefield perked up. "Did he?"
"Nah. One way or another, the Sudz got its ceiling decorated, though. Six shots placed so they look just like a flower." Tuck grinned. "If you sight in at 'em just right."
"So what happened to the other feller?"
"Aw, I didn't hurt him much. Judge gave him half my sentence. He sailed outta here a couple days ago." Tuck yawned. "Best if you don't rile Mrs. Sheriff, though, if you wanta eat. Food's been real good here."
"Yeah," Schoefield said. "I heard about the food."
Tuck thought about that. "Funny thing to be talking about. Who told you?"
Schoefield laughed right out loud. "That fat deputy. He cadged a drink off me yesterday before I ran outta cash. He said that made us friends. A real cozy kind of feller, ain't he?"
Fingering his bruised eye, Tuck didn't disagree. "Real cozy." But what he actually wondered was how good of a friend one drink bought?

Chapter 5

Hazy with pain and drugs, Pelham Birdsall's sense of time blurred. An endless parade of light and dark passed over him. He suffered agony, then the temporary relief of agony. In a vague way, he remembered Doc patching him up a second time, sticking another of those straws into his chest, then dosing him with enough laudanum to down a horse. After that, Pel wasn't any too sure but what he wasn't floating on a blanket of cloud--the cloud sometimes buffeted by storms. Didn't figure he was anywhere near heaven, though. No, sir. He wasn't ready to leave this world just yet and he knew the good Lord wasn't ready to take him in.
Besides, Delight wouldn't let him go.
How many times had Pel come to himself and found Delight glued to that old rocking chair beside the bed, keeping watch over him? She'd told him not to talk when he tried to tell her what to do if he died. Sell their land. Go live in a civilized city somewhere.
"You won't die, Pel. I promise." She'd sounded fierce.
"If..." he'd wheezed out.
"No ifs," she'd said. "You're not dying."
Her hand on his kept him tethered to life, the hold tenuous. He was pretty sure night had come and gone twice before she even changed out of the dress she wore the evening he was shot, his blood stiffening one side of it. Must've caused her a share of discomfort, too, clothed in such unsavory garb and her being so fastidious. But she never complained. Only set to and did her duty by him like any good wife who cared for her husband.
Cared for her husband. The idea poured strength into him until he almost believed it might be true. He hadn't always thought so.
Her concern brought a weak smile to his lips and lifted his battered spirits, but shame pushed at him, too. Shame at being caught off guard and letting some low-down bushwhacker gun him down on the streets of his own town. Ashamed of putting a load like this on his wife when all he wanted was to protect her. When her pa had been on his deathbed, Pel'd promised faithfully he'd keep her safe. Strange how life got twisted around. Now it was him on a deathbed--or near to--and Delight taking care of him. What would Sheriff Tom Regal, his father-in-law, have thought?

* * * *

With Pelham asleep, Delight hurried in preparing the prisoners' noon meal. She piled two plates with beef steak, spuds and corn on the cob, and added a side-dish of simple custard pudding with berries on top. All told, the men in the Garnet County jail would have no reason to complain about the eating arrangements. Although the man O'Hanlon and Schmidt had brought in would no doubt find something scathing or lewd or both to say to her. And Herschel, the ass, would no doubt stand behind her laughing, just like he had when she'd delivered breakfast this morning. She'd noticed the prisoner had shed his handcuffs, which now hung out of Herschel's back pocket.
But the office was empty when she toted the heavy tray down the stairs. Which was fine with her, since it meant Herschel wouldn't be stealing the other men's meals. Resting the tray on her hip, she struggled with fitting the key in the newcomer's cell door, and it wasn't until the door swung open at her touch that she realized anything was wrong.
"Oh, dear heaven!" she gasped out, dishes rattling as she stepped back. "He's escaped."
She didn't mean Tucker Moon. He was still there, sitting on his cot. Seeing her consternation, he rose and came forward.
"I remember locking that man up after breakfast," she said. "I know I did. How can he have escaped?"
"He didn't escape, ma'am. The deputy turned him loose."
"What?" Delight's voice cracked.
"Deputy turned him loose," Moon repeated.
"Why? On whose authority?"
"Guess you'd have to ask the deputy." Moon swung open his cell door, proof Herschel hadn't been overly concerned about either of his charges. "That my dinner? Smells good."
Her mind on Herschel's treachery, Delight thrust the tray into his willing hands. "Did Mr. Herschel escort the prisoner over to Judge Elke's court for arraignment by any chance? Or did the judge drop by?"
Moon already had his mouth full and had to chew before he could answer. "No, ma'am."
"No to which?"
"Both." He took another bite of corn. "This from your garden?"
"What? Oh, yes." Delight's toe began an unconscious tapping. She whirled, setting her skirts aflutter, and strode over to the desk. The prisoner's holster and pistol, along with a small packet of personal items, all of which had been stowed in the bottom desk drawer, were gone. The entry in the charge book where she'd written down his offenses--the space for his name remaining blank--had been crossed out with several lines of black pencil. She recognized Herschel's heavy hand in making the book's entry look like an error.
How dare he? What did the deputy think he was doing, turning Pelham's prisoner loose without a by-your-leave? Well, he'd find she had something to say about that! Herschel was a man ripe for getting his ears pinned back, and she just the woman who could do it.

* * * *

Pel was mightily relieved when he awoke late in the afternoon with his mind clear. He found Delight's little gray-and-white tabby curled on the bed next to him, although of Delight herself there was no sign. Just him and the cat. And he could breathe without bubbling. He'd reached a turning point and he realized he might just live.
"Delight," he whispered, then rattled some phlegm around in his throat and tried again. "Delight? You here?"
But the silence was complete, except for the rustle of the bed clothes as he stirred. Pel's hand, shaking like a feeble old man's, moved and touched the cat's soft fur. The cat gurgled and commenced purring, a deep rumble odd in such a small creature. The cat was never far from Delight, he remembered. His anxiety relieved, Pel felt sleep trying to claim him again, almost before he came fully awake. Weak, he thought in that brief instant of betwixt and between. Weak as my grandmother's coffee.

* * * *

Delight, hiding an uneasy churning in her stomach, cornered the deputy when, an hour or more after noon, he wandered back to the sheriff's office. His body was rank with the odor of alcohol and old sweat, and his eyes were red as an outhouse rat's. She wrinkled her nose against the raw stink of his breath.
"Mr. Herschel, what have you done with the sheriff's prisoner?" Her hands, folded to still their anxious shaking, were hidden under a fold of the apron tied snug around her waist. The delay in confronting him had only made her anger grow.
"If you mean Farley Schoefield what you had locked up, I turned him loose."
Farley Schoefield. At least now she had a name to put on the would-be robber.
"On whose authority?" Delight's fingernails bit into the palms of her hands. "He hadn't, as yet, been arraigned."
Herschel shrugged. "Hell," he said, "nobody even wrote his name in the book. Can't lock a man up without writin' down his name."
"I can't imagine where you got that idea. He refused to give his name, but he was still the man who shot Mrs. Schmidt and tried to rob the mercantile. There are plenty of witnesses. Besides, he was Pelham's prisoner. You had no right."
Herschel's face turned a vivid red. "Like hell! I'm the one in charge here. What I say goes. Sure ain't nothing Pel can do about it." His tone turned smarmy as a snake-oil salesman's. "My thought is turning that feller loose saved us all some trouble. He said he learnt his lesson. Said he wouldn't get drunk and go trying to rob the store anymore."
"And I suppose you believed him." Delight became aware her mouth was hanging open in disbelief and closed it hard enough her teeth clicked together.
"Yeah. Sure I did. Why wouldn't I? He's a nice enough feller. Bought me a drink the other day just as kind as you please. I axed him when he'd be leaving town and he told me he'd be leaving directly. Sounds to me like I saved us a whole lot of bother. Folks been complaining about all the strangers, and I fixed it so there's one less."
Belching loud enough to rattle the stove lid, he ambled over and sat down in Pel's swivel chair. "Go away, little woman, and leave me be. You got no business butting in where you don't belong. Womenfolk gotta let men handle the important stuff. And don't you go bothering Pel with this, either. Or the commissioners. Not but what they're a bunch of pewling old men."
Delight, eyes snapping, forced down the temptation to snatch him bald-headed. She didn't want her hands dirtied. And there was just a touch of something about Boomer Herschel today that made her leery. If only she dared discuss his behavior with Pel. But the deputy was right. She couldn't. Not until Pel was better.

* * * *

"Anything wrong, sweetheart?" Pel asked his wife as she helped him with his supper of vegetable-rich soup. She was spooning it into his mouth a sip at a time and she had to be patient because he gasped for air after every bite. Worse, they had to let the food settle each time to prevent it coming right back up. She let on like she didn't notice his struggles by smoothing his bedcovers and stirring the soup until he was ready for more.
One thing he paid attention to, aside from his own misery, was that she'd been extra quiet this evening, the usual news of the town and her small doings lacking. He had an uncomfortable hunch this did not bode well for the peace of the community. Earlier he'd heard gunshots out in the street, but Delight refused comment on them--not a word. She just sat there beside him in her rocker, petting the tabby in her lap.
And now she appeared not to hear this question either.
"Delight? Anything wrong?" he asked again. "You're not worried about me, are you? I'm coming along fine. I'll be on my feet in no time." It would have sounded more convincing if he hadn't had to pause for breath after every few words.
A smile twitched the corners of her lips upward a fraction. "I know you will." Her mouth opened like she was about to say something else, but she closed it again.
Pel's brain wasn't working too well, but he hadn't forgotten those gunshots. He couldn't help thinking of all the strangers in town Friday night, or about the attempt at robbing the mercantile, or of the way he'd been gunned down. He also wondered what'd happened to his prisoner and his good steel handcuffs. "Those shots I heard earlier--is Boomer keeping order in town all right?"
"Mr. Herschel..." she started, then clamped her lips together. They looked funny, in a straight line like that, but Pel didn't think humor was part of the equation.
"Herschel what?" he asked.
She shrugged. "You know him. Always hungry and more than a little lazy."
Pel grunted. "Send him up to see me in the morning. I'll get after him."
Spoon clattering, she dropped the utensil into the empty bowl and got to her feet. "You're not well enough, Pel. Herschel will have to manage for himself." She rushed away, bearing the dirty dishes off to the kitchen.
He lay back on the pillow, dripping with sweat from even so little exertion as opening his mouth and swallowing the broth his wife deposited there. Well enough? Maybe not, he conceded, closing his eyes against vertigo born of weakness. It was hard to make himself care. He was drifting off to sleep when it occurred to him she hadn't actually said anything about the situation in town.

Chapter 6

Delight Birdsall set her pen on the blotter and shook her hand, fingers numb from a solid hour of writing. She hadn't realized Pelham's duties included so much paperwork. When had he found time? Whenever she'd needed him to open a stuck window or haul a box of groceries up the stairs, he'd always seemed to be out somewhere, watching over his town and the county. But it had taken only a few days for his desk to become littered with letters sent by lawmen from other areas, notes on bookkeeping duties, and even the paying out of rewards. For all Deputy Herschel's fine words, he'd done nothing about running the office. She'd soon concluded it was up to her to see the work got done and make sure Pel's job was protected.
For instance, Mr. Sorenson, a rancher from the lower end of the county, had brought in a notorious horse thief this very morning. Brought him in dead because he'd been caught in the act of stealing Sorenson's stock. Delight got the collywobbles just thinking about it.
"The paper on him said dead or alive," Sorenson had said, grinning. "And dead is a whole lot easier."
An example of swift Idaho justice, and one she couldn't quite fault.
"Just doing my duty," Sorenson had added with a little too much satisfaction for Delight's liking. "Commissioners said they want this county cleaned up, and this is a good start."
"Yes," she'd agreed, trying to ignore her queasy stomach after a too-close encounter with the dead man, who was growing rank in the heat. "I remember Mr. Sheridan's speech."
She shuddered again, remembering the sight of the bloody, bullet-riddled corpse lying face down over his saddle. And that horrible stench, new to her experience. Gritting her teeth and quashing her revulsion, she'd paid up. She'd written out a requisition for the reward money and presented it to the gleeful rancher to collect from the county. The commissioners required a written report on the outlay, which was what she was working on now.
According to the letter of the law, she suspected this was no part of her duties, but what else could she do? Deputy Herschel, she thought on a note of exasperation, is worthless at any task requiring literacy. And worthless at most other tasks, too, when you got right down to it. In fact, Boomer was plain lazy and didn't like a woman telling him what to do, even when the orders supposedly came from the sheriff. The clashes between the deputy and herself were growing more heated and she was frankly at something of a loss.
Delight sighed, emptied her cup of the last gulp of cold coffee and decided the commissioners would have to wait. It was almost time to change Pel's dressing.
She got up and stretched, starting when a soft voice called from behind her, "Ma'am?"
"Yes, Mr. Moon?"
Tucker Moon had been so silent she'd almost forgotten him back there in the cells. This was the last day of his incarceration. She'd be turning him loose in the morning.
"Herschel's coming through the back alley, ma'am. Look's like he's plumb pie-eyed and mean as a mangy coyote with it. Doubt you want to meet up with him, shape he's in. Might be best if you left that paperwork for tomorrow."
Moon looked out over the side alley from his small cell windows. A better view than afforded anyone seated at the desk. And Tuck Moon, whom Delight imagined must've been bored witless having already read the five books in the jail's library at least twice, had caught first sight of the deputy. Avoiding Herschel had become a habit for him--and for her.
"I shouldn't let him run me off," Delight said. Even so, her feet moved of their own accord toward the inner stairway where the door stood open so she could hear in case Pel called. She carried the letter she'd been working on with her lest she come back to find coffee stains ruining her neat work.
But Tuck said, "Skedaddle, ma'am," with some urgency, so she did. He knew what Herschel was capable of better than she did. His eye, though faded now to pale green and yellow, was still discolored from their run in the day after Pel was shot. And that was just the first of Herschel's many transgressions. His orneriness became more apparent every day as he grew emboldened by his new authority. He required a boss strong enough to keep him in check. It had been easy for Pel. Not so for her.
Hating herself for running, yet too weary to face the deputy, Delight gained the landing at the top of the staircase just as he entered the office, his footsteps loud and confident.
The door closed behind her with a dull thud, the heavy pine planks silencing sound from below. She leaned against it for a moment, settling her ruffled feelings before facing Pel. If he was awake, she didn't want him learning how out of whack the county had become in so few days. Or the kind of man he had for a deputy--two-faced as someone out of a Roman myth. Pelham could do nothing except fret anyway, which might delay his recovery. He was better today than he'd been yesterday. She wouldn't put that progress in jeopardy for anything.
A smile curved upwards, forced there by sheer will as she bustled into the bedroom where Pel lay.

* * * *

In Tuck's view, Herschel had learned his lesson, and he didn't mean that in any good way. Ever since the deputy had come upon Tuck sitting big as life and free as a chipmunk when Mrs. Birdsall neglected to lock his door, ever so often Herschel walked over to the cells and rattled Tuck's cage--after first making certain it was locked. Today was no exception. Tuck looked up as Herschel bounced the big cell key along the bars, the clang of metal on metal raucous in the afternoon quiet.
"Gotta make sure you don't escape," the deputy said, self-righteous as some old dog watching his soup bone when he shoulda been hunting rats.
"If escape had been my intention, I'd have been long gone." Tuck didn't move from his seat on the cot. "Although them school-boy tricks of yours are about enough to cause a second thought. Think you're gettin' on my nerves."
"Come on." Boomer flexed corded arm muscles. "I'll show you nerves. Wouldn't want that eye of yours losin' all its pretty color."
Speaking of colorful, it would take something to match Herschel's bloodshot eyes. Tuck almost laughed. "Tomorrow morning," he promised. "Out front where the whole town can see what's happening." His wide grin was derisive, and as expected, Herschel bristled in arrogant response.
A powerful smell of pop-skull whiskey gusted into the cell, driven from the deputy's sweating pores. "Why wait?" he said. "How about I come in there and drag you out right now? Show you what's what, by gum."
Tuck shrugged. "Suit yourself. You might try, but you ain't in any condition to whup me, and you know it." He could see this bit of advice struck home no matter how much the big man blustered, and so he added, "That's another thing. What you gonna do when Sheriff Birdsall finds out you've been coming in late, drinking on the job, and beating up on the prisoners."
Tuck hadn't been the only incarcerated man sporting fresh, raw bruises these past few days.
Herschel snorted. "Who's to tell him? You?"
"I'll take care of my own business when the time is right, but Mrs. Birdsall ain't blind to what's been going on. I reckon she knows how to tell time and field complaints. And a feller'd have to be dead not to smell the booze on you a mile off. She'll tell him when he's ready." The minute he said it, Tuck wished he hadn't gotten Mrs. Sheriff involved.
"She does, she's apt to be sorry." The deputy grinned, a taunting exposure of big, yellowed teeth, and ran the key back and forth across the bars again. "Might be a long wait, too. There's talk going around town that Birdsall is finished in Endurance. On one hand we got the county commissioners complaining about paying a man who's layin' flat on his back until who knows when, and on the other hand, a bunch of fellers saying they'll shoot him down again quick as he gets up." His hearty, booming laugh rang out. "Two sides going after him at once. Nope. Don't reckon Birdsall worries me."
Tuck didn't think much of Herschel's gossip. He got up and walked over close to the deputy, although not close enough for Herschel to grab him through the bars. "Shoot him down again? Who's doing the talking? Are Monroe's men back in town?"
"Ain't never left. Now they stand out like brass doorknobs and don't give a hoot who sees 'um." Herschel winked. "Guess they ain't takin' out an ad in the newspaper, but whispers are floatin' around."
"Is that right? Who whispers Diggett Monroe's plans to you?"
"Folks tell me stuff. Nothin' wrong with that." Herschel's voice blustered.
"What're you going to do about them outlaws?" Tuck figured he knew the answer to this one, and sure enough, Herschel didn't disappoint him.
The deputy pursed his lips like some flighty girl trying to get on the right side of the preacher. "Don't reckon I'm doing anything long as they're just talking. What's that old saying? Burden of proof? Yeah. That's it. Can't run a man in just for flappin' his mouth."
Tuck stared at Herschel. If he read the signs right, somebody had already bought and paid for the deputy, and it wasn't anyone meaning Birdsall, this town, or this county any good. Well, his little talk with Schoefield had warned him.
First thing tomorrow, Tuck planned on lighting out--on foot, if he had to--and putting some miles between him and Endurance. If there was one thing he didn't need, it was being caught between a rag tag band of banditos ramrodded by Diggett Monroe, and a town fighting for its life.

* * * *

A gentle breeze stirred the curtains as it wafted in through the bedroom window, opened a few inches to help clear the room of its sickroom stink. Pel gratefully breathed in the fresh air, his gaze fixed on Delight's face. He was certain he'd learn more by watching her expression than by straining himself peering down at his chest as she changed his bandage. Her sweet mouth pursed in concentration as she untied the knot.
"How's it look?" he asked.
Delight peeled away the dressing, rewarding him with a smile as he lifted his torso high enough for her to draw the bandage's end from beneath him. He hadn't been able to do that yesterday, when Doc had pulled the straw out. Progress.
"Much better," she said, sniffing the pad she removed. "Not so angry." The used bandage was sticky with fluids still oozing from the wound. Her nostrils flared, but she nodded with satisfaction. "That means it's healing. Smells clean, too. I think you might try sitting up this evening if you feel strong enough."
A challenge. Pelham figured he'd sit up or know the reason why. "I'll be strong enough." Although he hesitated in mentioning such a delicate subject, he said, "Reckon you'll be glad enough not to hold the pot for me."
Color rose in her face even as she grinned. "Reckon you're right, if only because you hate it so much." She washed the wound, dabbing carbolic over the soft scab to prevent infection, then unwound a length of clean cotton bandaging from a roll made of one of her old petticoats. He did his best to endure her ministrations without whimpering like a baby.
She leaned across him. "Can you lift your chest again?"
"Sure." He managed, paying for the effort with twinges from ruined nerve endings. His face ran with cold sweat and he could feel his limbs shaking by the time she finished dressing the wound.
As though she hadn't noticed, Delight went out to the kitchen to dump the dirty water into the drain, and refill the basin with clean. Returning, she set about bathing his face, his arms, his neck. He felt like an infant. A puling infant sent to try her patience. He'd heard some men enjoyed being cosseted by a woman--he wasn't one of them. It was a man's job to take care of his wife, not the other way around.
As though reading his mind, Delight patted his face with a towel worn thin and soft with use, catching a dribble before it could run down and soak his hair and the pillow. "At the end of this week, I'll hold the mirror and you can shave yourself. I have no wish to sort amongst all those whiskers for a set of lips to kiss any longer than necessary."
Her words startled him. She'd never been so outspoken, so bold, with him before. Not in the two years they'd been married. He liked it in her, he decided, but would've liked it more if he hadn't thought it was her way of building him up when she knew he was low. That puling infant comparison again.
Playing to her consideration, Pelham said, "You could shave me yourself if you think it's worth your while."
"Let's see..." Her cool fingers brushed his scratchy whiskers aside. Her warm lips lowered, touching his mouth, soft and shy, all too brief before her head jerked up. She had a care for the difficulty he still had catching his breath, although he'd druther not had her bother. Pel could've gone without air far longer than the kiss lasted.
But then, over the sound of his heartbeat galloping in his ears, he heard what she had picked up before him. Gunshots popped in the street below their window. Three, four. He struggled to rise, even as Delight gripped his shoulders and forced him flat.
"Be still," she said. "Herschel's around. He'll take care of any trouble."
"Mmph." Pelham's wordless grunt spoke volumes.
"Stay still," Delight ordered again.
She scurried over to the half-open window and peered down from the side, not needing his sharp admonition to stay away from in front of the glass. Pelham saw her fingers clench into fists and, when she turned to him, anger snapped in her narrowed eyes.
"Hooligans," she said. "Two of them." The crisp sound of breaking glass carried up to them, the front windows of the sheriff's office apparently the gunman's prime target. Alarm spread across her features. "Pel," she admitted, "Deputy Herschel is drunk, and Mr. Moon is trapped down there. A bullet is apt to go right through the window into the cells."
"Drunk? Why didn't you tell me?" Pel snapped. He had to do something. Get the prisoner out of there before he was shot dead. He tried to swing his feet over the side of the bed, but the sudden motion made his head swirl and his vision fade. Pain ground through his chest.
She glanced at him and her breath caught. "Pel, don't you dare..."
Turning away from the hoopla below, she leapt toward him. At the same time, he heard a double thud of bullets punching through the wall. It was followed a second later by the bedroom window shattering, pointed shards flying every which way. The white curtains billowed. Delight cried out.
"Delight!" Fear soured inside his mouth. Tucker Moon fled his mind. Pelham lunged to his feet, his hands reaching for his wife, only to find he couldn't sustain the effort. In what was becoming something of a habit, he felt his knees dissolving, buckling beneath him as he collapsed onto the floor. His last coherent thought was of Delight crumbling with him. Of the pair of them going down together. Of despair.

* * * *

"Damn it to hell!" Delight's temper flared hot as a forest fire. She cradled Pel's head in her arms, holding his face out of the broken window glass. She took a certain satisfaction in swearing, as though the rough words could scrape clean the mess of anger and pain. "Damn it all to hell," she said for good measure.
Questions ran through her head like that aforementioned forest fire leaping from tree top to tree top. What was going on out there? Why were those ruffians shooting at the sheriff's office? The bullets fired into the apartment seemed deliberate and aimed, not accidental. Was this another attack on Pelham? And most importantly, where was Herschel? Drunk or not, wasn't there anything he could do to stop this harassment? His incompetence maddened her as much as the shooters' attack.
Outside, a swell of men's shouts, a woman's hysterical cry, and at least three different dogs barking their fool heads off kept the uproar at a high level. Then the thud of horses' hooves racing toward the outskirts of town marked the end of the assault. The screaming stopped, dwindling to shouts traveling up and down the street as folks called to one another.
At no time, Delight reflected, did she hear a whisper of Deputy Boomer Herschel out front taking charge. Had he, by wild chance, been shot in the first fusillade of shots? Had Mr. Moon? The silence below disturbed her almost more than the commotion just a minute ago.
She supposed it was up to her to go see.
Wrapping the bottom of her skirt over her bare hand, she swept the floor around Pelham clear of glass, grabbed a pillow from the bed and rested her husband's head on it. He was out like a blown candle, although she didn't see any fresh blood. The pulse in his neck was slow and strong. Still, for the second time she'd have to ask for help getting him back in bed.
Delight was far from being a foolhardy woman. Her father had been a lawman all her life, and between him and her husband, certain of their habits had become ingrained in her thinking. She didn't need Pelham, always mindful of his vow to protect her, to shake a finger over her and give advice now. Leery of ambush, before she set foot out of the bedroom, she grabbed his heavy Colt from the holster hanging over the bedpost. The situation seemed to call for more than her two-shot derringer, which she'd taken to carrying loaded.
Toting the pistol in her hand and leaving the door open behind her, Delight stood on the landing and listened to the leaden silence. Nothing stirred below. Nodding to herself, she eased her way down the steps, taking care to avoid the third riser from the bottom--the one that always squeaked. But she found her concern unnecessary. When she entered the office, it was empty. The floor glittered like a sparkling scab, and dust motes danced in the sunlight pouring through the broken window.
There was no sign of Herschel. No blood, no body, no nothing.
Nevertheless, she kept a firm grip on the revolver. "Deputy Herschel?" she called out. Her voice wasn't as firm as she liked. "Mr. Herschel? Where are you?" There was a storage shed attached to the rear wall. Was he sleeping off a drunken stupor there by any chance? He'd done so more than once since Pel's wounding.
A low chuckle came from the cells, startling her. It came from Tuck Moon, his soft drawl answering her question.
"Seems the deputy had a sudden urge to depart these here premises when the shooting started, ma'am," he said. "Reckon I would've gone myself, had I been in a different situation."
Relief flooded her system, bringing a queer weakness with it. Delight went past the cells and pushed open the door to the enclosed rear yard. There was no sign of Herschel out there, but along the way she saw fresh scars in the woodwork, and one nice, round hole in a door panel. Shutting and barring the door, she then turned to Moon. She found him sitting on the concrete floor of his cell, and despite the dry words and laugh, he appeared shaken as he looked up at her. No more shaken than she. She'd expected to find him dead.
"The shooter gone?" he asked.
"Shooters," Delight corrected. "Two of them. Yes, they're gone. Unless they come back for another try."
"I heard the window shatter upstairs." Tuck picked himself off the floor, unfolding a joint at a time until he rose to his lanky height. "You and the sheriff come through all right? Thought I heard a thud."
"We weren't hit. Sheriff Birdsall tried to stand up and fainted dead away." Her hands closed around the cold iron bars and gripped hard. "I need your help again," she said. "Please."
Tuck peered at her, the bruise left over from Herschel's attack a few days ago still coloring the skin around his eye. "Ma'am," he said, "my time is up at midnight. If I come out now, I ain't going back in this cell."
Delight didn't see she had any choice, not that it mattered a whit. "Agreed. Your time will be up and you'll be free to go."
"I ain't taking another beating from the deputy neither." His jaw set. "I won't start nothing, but this time, he tries anything fancy with me, I'm fighting back."
"I can understand that," she said. "I won't blame you. Is there anything else?"
A slow smile turned up the corner of Moon's mouth. "No, ma'am. I reckon not."
"Good. We're agreed then." Delight strode to the desk, searching through the disarray Herschel had so quickly made of her neat stack of papers and the tidy desk drawer. She finally found the cell key, not in the desk where it should have been, but thrown beneath the pot-bellied stove, which stood all the way across the room. If she were to make a guess, she would've said Herschel tossed it there on purpose, just to cause her grief. Its retrieval meant getting down on her hands and knees and reaching across the dirty, glass-littered floor.
However, competent after Tuck Moon's instruction the other day, she had no trouble inserting the key, whereupon the tumblers aligned and the lock clicked open. Even then Moon hung back.
"You sure Herschel ain't gonna make trouble over this?" he asked. "Trouble for you?"
Delight snorted and shook her head. Men. She was surrounded by stubborn, bullheaded, disagreeable men. "He's got nothing to say about it," she said. "Besides, it looks like he must've run off."
She was wrong, of course. Or partly, anyway. Because as though it were ordained, the moment Tuck Moon stepped out of his cell, Boomer Herschel slunk sideways in through the front as if afraid to be seen. He looked shame-faced, and at the same time, mean--a lot like a rabid dog that had once approached Delight. She even expected to see him foaming at the mouth as he growled out, "What's going on in here?"
Her father, Delight remembered, had ended up shooting the dog.

Chapter 7

Tucker Moon placed himself between Mrs. Birdsall and the enraged Herschel, an automatic reaction, even though he figured he was some kind of fool. Here he went again, letting a wayward chivalrous inclination put him on the spot. Serve him right if he ended up spending another week of his life in the Garnet County hoosegow.
It's my bad luck, he thought, that instead of being a bird-boned little thing, the sheriff's wife isn't some strapping Finnish farm girl able to put the roughest customer in his place. One good, hefty swat and old Herschel would run off like a whipped coyote.
Tuck's belly grabbed in anticipation of another set-to with Herschel, but then Mrs. Birdsall stuck a sharp elbow in his ribs, and he was so surprised he staggered aside.
"There you are, Mr. Herschel. Where have you been?" Delight demanded, and although her voice was low and firm, Tuck had a notion the air around her was quivering.
Herschel's bulldog face turned red. "That's my affair, missus. What I wanta know is why this yahoo is out of his cell again. Your doing? Second time, ain't it? Looks like maybe you got so much in common you belong in there with him. Or maybe you been in there with him already."
Delight gasped at the effrontery. Her ears, in front of her pulled back brown hair, looked like they were on fire.
Tuck's hands tightened into fists, but before he could move, Delight said, "That will be quite enough, Mr. Herschel. As of this moment, consider yourself fired. I'll take that badge you're wearing. You don't deserve it."
Herschel threw back his head and guffawed, the sound slowly fading under Delight's stony silence.
"Now," she said, her blue gaze steady.
"Says who?" Herschel blustered. "You can't fire me. You ain't got the authority."
"I am my husband's representative." Delight's shoulders squared. "Sheriff Birdsall has empowered me as his spokesman and as such, you are being dismissed for dereliction of duty and insubordination."
Tuck had never heard so many big words strung together before in his life, but he figured he knew what they meant. What's more, he came close to believing them, even though he'd been told the sheriff lay unconscious on the floor upstairs. He doubted there'd been much time for discussion between Birdsall and his missus. Tuck's admiration for her grew.
"And there's me," he said on a burst of zeal. "I'm gonna make sure what Mrs. Sheriff says happens, happens."
"You? Horse shit," Herschel said. "You ain't got the guts."
The insult passed right over Tuck because the deputy's earlier crudity infuriated him so much he reached out and ripped the badge right off Boomer's shirt. Tore the shirt, too, a big jagged tear. Made Tuck feel good, seeing Herschel's dirty gray union suit sticking out through the hole. Sort of made up for the bruised eye and sore ribs he himself still sported.
His action might've been a mistake, he decided as Herschel, far from lying down and taking this treatment, glared at him with eyes wild as a madman's.
Herschel fumbled for the pistol on his hip, and only the sight of Mrs. Birdsall drawing her husband's big Colt from the folds of her skirt, holding it in both hands, and cocking it with a jerk of her thumb changed his mind. He stared at her like a dumbfounded turkey gobbler.
Not bothering to hide his grin, Tuck showed Mrs. Birdsall the badge before he tossed it onto the desk where it spun and settled.
"Thank you," she told Tuck, then said to Herschel, "I want you out of here, right now. Your wages will be settled up at the end of the month. Be thankful I'm not arresting you for assault and defamation of character."
And that was that--only it wasn't.
Herschel, moving with an intent Tuck could scarcely credit, lashed out with a blow aimed at Delight Birdsall's midsection. 'Course a big, heavy man like him wasn't nearly as fast as a fairy dust woman like her. She jumped aside, and he ended up banging his fist on the pistol in her hand. Unwise, to slap a cocked weapon. Tuck'd found that out the other day when he almost got his leg shot off. Just as it had then, the pistol discharged, whereupon Boomer Herschel put all the might of his powerful voice into squealing like a stuck hog.
As well he might, Tuck thought, shaking his head over such stupidity. The fool was sure enough bleeding like one.
"I'm shot." With bugged out eyes, Herschel put a hand over his side where blood seeped through his soiled calico shirt. "Somebody get the doc."
But far from dying, which a feller might've imagined considering the noise he was making, it was just a scratch. Mighta stung, though. Tuck hoped it did. He snorted. "Quit your blubbering, Herschel," he said. "Shoot, I've knicked myself worse than that on barbed wire."
Delight stood with the Colt dangling at her side. Her expression shifted from shock to dismay and then disgust. "Tcha." A frown lined her forehead. "Now look what you've done."
A tap at the office door interrupted Herschel's hot denial of wrongdoing, which, to Tuck's amusement, Mrs. Sheriff ignored. Tuck stepped over and opened the door, although why he bothered was anybody's guess. The place was shot full of enough holes it was like an open sieve. The mayor, after a first wary glance, walked in. His feet crunched in the broken glass.
"Did I hear a shot just now?" he asked. "Is everybody all right? There've been so many bullets flying around, I was afraid all you folks might be dead." An apron wrapped his portly belly in blood-splotched white canvas, a sign he'd come directly from his butcher shop. Eyebrows as thick and heavy as earthworms wiggled up and down as he took in the damage. "Herschel, what happened? How bad are you hurt?"
Herschel hesitated, his eyes shifting from Mrs. Birdsall to the mayor.
Compressing lips that wanted to lift in a smile, Tuck cocked an eyebrow at Herschel. "Why don't you tell the mayor how you came to be wounded? He ought to appreciate the story."
Thaddeus Green, the recently elected mayor of Endurance, frowned at Tuck. "Who the dickens are you? Aren't you the feller Pel hauled in a week or so ago for drunk and disorderly?"
"That's me," Tuck admitted, not at all proud of this addition to his reputation.
"Mind telling what you're doing here?"
"My times up," Tuck said before Mrs. Sheriff was obliged to make excuses. Ole Herschel was so upset over the little graze over his ribs he didn't seem to notice the facts had been fudged a mite.
Green made a harrumphing noise. "Surprised you're still hanging around."
Tuck wasn't called on to explain further because the mayor, evidently more intrigued by the blood now running down Herschel's side, focused on the wound.
"Well?" Green prodded the deputy. "You were saying how you came by that scratch. Plenty of shooting going on for a while there, the good Lord knows. Suppose you got in the way, which would explain why you wasn't out in the street putting the kibosh on the ruckus like you should've been." Even so, he sounded a tad doubtful.
"Not quite," Mrs. Birdsall put in before Herschel could speak. "Not quite explains Mr. Herschel's whereabouts during the trouble, I mean. When I came downstairs after those hooligans finally rode off, I found the deputy--the former deputy--had deserted his post. I have since, by my husband's express directive, fired him."
Well now, Tuck thought, much astonished. Stretching the truth with Herschel was one thing, but what was a fine lady like Mrs. Birdsall doing telling her whoppers to the mayor? Her sharp blue glare warned him he'd best keep his mouth shut. He made the snap decision to do whatever she wanted.
"Is that right?" Green belonged to the school that demanded selfless adherence to the job. He eyeballed Herschel like maybe the deputy was lower than a bug and said, "So where were you when all this was going on, Herschel?"
Herschel's bloodshot eyes rolled. "Outhouse," he said, self-righteousness written all over him. "Nobody got any call to get after me--or go firing me, either. I ain't feeling too good, Mayor. Must've been something I et. Noticed the café's been using old meat. If I hadn't been sick, I'd've gone after those fellers right off."
"My hunters supply the café with meat," Green said, frowning. "There isn't a thing wrong with it. Been eating it myself, and so has my family."
"Oh," said Boomer. "Well, something made me sick."
"What nonsense." Mrs. Birdsall pointed her finger at him. "You aren't sick, Mr. Herschel. You're drunk. I can smell you all the way across the room."
Green's nose wrinkled and he nodded. "Pretty potent, Boomer," he said. "I never knew as anybody could do their job right in that condition."
Tuck looked down at the toes of his boots. Score a hand for Mrs. Birdsall.
"What's more," she continued, "Mr. Herschel abandoned Mr. Moon in his cell. Left a prisoner alone and unprotected where any stray bullet could've killed him. Since his time is up this evening," she explained to Mayor Green, "Pel thought I should let him out an hour or so early. He volunteered to sweep up this glass before someone gets cut."
Tuck figured this was a hint he should hunt up a broom, but she stayed him. Her eyes rolled upward where a faint, indeterminate noise was nearly drowned by Boomer's roar of denial, he, at last, having caught up with events.
"I wish you'd start on the upstairs first, Mr. Moon," she said, ignoring Herschel's noise, "while I discuss matters with the mayor. There's a lot of breakage up there, too. I'm sure my husband will be relieved to see you safe and unhurt. He was worried."
She put an emphasis on the "worried" part that told Tuck he wasn't the one anybody was fussing about. Slick, that maneuver, getting him out of Herschel's sight and sending help to her husband.
"Yes, ma'am," he said. There was another moan overhead, a little louder this time, although he and she seemed to be the only ones heard it. Herschel was making too much of a racket himself, and Green was, fortunately, busy talking. Tuck thought maybe he always did plenty of that.
Tilting his head, Tuck listened harder, deciding Sheriff Birdsall was saying his wife's name over and over as if he wasn't quite aware what was going on. Spying a broom standing in a corner, Tuck snatched it up and hustled toward the stairs.

* * * *

Delight's biggest fear was Mayor Green guessing Pel was too sick to have spoken at all, let alone told her to fire Herschel and alter Moon's sentence. She supposed it depended in part on what Doc Miller had been saying around town. Fact is, the mayor was a little slow-witted if he didn't guess Pel's true condition, but for the moment he seemed content to take her story at face value. Perhaps because he plain wanted to believe her. Which made her answer to his next question, which was a little too pointed for her liking, all the more important.
"When is Pel gonna be up and around?" he asked. "Be some mighty unhappy residents if those hooligans of Diggett Monroe's come into town every day or so and shoot the place up. They're bound to kill somebody sooner or later, aside from the property damage they've already caused these last few days. The sheriff's office isn't the only place had the windows shot out. Schmidt's been closing his store right after noon what with his missus laid up. Most everybody keeps their doors shut unless they know who's there. People want to know what's being done about it."
Him most of all, she deduced. It was the query she'd been dreading.
"The sheriff is improving every day." She forced a smile. "He's already champing at the bit to get back at work. My, you should've seen him, Mayor Green. He was so angry about this shooting he reared up out of bed as though to take them on by himself."
And would've, she considered, if he hadn't passed out the moment he tried to stand.
Green nodded. "Sounds like Pel, all right. Hard to keep a man like him down long enough to heal. He has a strong sense of duty and likes a quiet town, I'll give him that. Which is the reason he got elected. But, ma'am, we can't do without an able-bodied sheriff. If Pel isn't able to do the job, we'll have to find someone who can."
Delight nodded her head as though agreeing. Some loyalty, she thought. Let a man be hurt on the job and then kick him when he's down.
"You needn't be concerned," she said. "Pelham is an excellent supervisor."
"I know he is," the mayor agreed. "But who has he got to supervise? Without Herschel, who's going to handle the job until Pel is fit? What are we going to do if Monroe and his yahoos come back in the next few days to finish tearing the town to pieces?"
"You folks need me," Herschel said. "I been arresting troublemakers 'most every night, and keeping the peace fine and dandy."
Delight waved away this notion. "Troublemakers, indeed. Only the habitual drunkards that Pel usually sees home where they'll do no harm. There's no point in the county having to feed them." Or adding to her burden. She kept this reflection to herself.
Another notion struck the mayor and he glared at Herschel, his eyebrows wiggling. "If it wasn't Monroe's men shot you, who was it?"
Herschel's litany of woe dried like a plugged up drain.
Green waited, then said, "Well?"
"An accident," Herschel mumbled. His head hung until his chin rested on his chest, or would have but for the double roll of flesh preventing it. "Happened so fast I don't rightly remember how it came to be."
"I remember," Delight said. "You shot yourself while trying to strike me in retaliation for dismissing you for drinking on the job."
"What?" This time Green's eyebrows lifted almost into his hairline and crawled away. "Say again? Herschel hit you?"
"Mr. Herschel is a little quick with his fists. Oh, don't worry." Delight smiled at the mayor. "I dodged him. But unbeknownst to him, I was carrying Pel's Colt at the time, and his hand struck that instead of me. The gun went off. As Mr. Herschel says, accidentally, of course."
"Of course." Green was silent a moment before his eyebrows waggled again. "Wisht I'd been here to see it. Must've been right funny."
Delight didn't believe she viewed the situation in quite the same way, and it was certain Boomer Herschel didn't. He burst into a frenzy of low-voiced cursing, the upshot of which was that he was sorry he hadn't knocked Delight's pearly white teeth down her throat.
The mayor's eyes about popped out of his head and he sent a wary glance toward the stairs, as if expecting Pel to come charging down them, bloody vengeance in mind.
"Here! Hush that kind of talk, Herschel. You looking to get yourself killed?" The mayor shook his head. "Takes a crazy man to talk about Pelham Birdsall's wife that way."
Herschel scowled. "Yeah? What's he gonna do about it? He's weak as--"
"You can see for yourself, Mayor." Delight's voice rose over Herschel's. "Mr. Herschel is insubordinate. Another cause for dismissal. Pel is well able to give orders while he's laid up, but he needs someone he can trust to carry those instructions out. Obviously, Mr. Herschel is not the man."
Mayor Green scratched his head. "I see what you mean."
Herschel's face was vicious as he turned toward her. He had nothing more to say about his wound. "This town can't do without me. Birdsall dies, what're you gonna to do? Be out on your ear, maybe on the streets, looking for someone to take care of you, is what."
"Here," Mayor Green said. "Easy, man. I'm warning you. Watch your mouth in front of the lady."
"Lady? What lady?" Herschel said. "Ask her why she's so friendly with that no-account drifter been stuck in jail? She sure ain't treating him like no prisoner I ever saw."
"Mr. Herschel!" Delight's jaw dropped in incredulous wrath. Her shoulders trembled under the effort of not lifting Pel's Colt and shooting the deputy--former deputy--for real. A shot between the eyes sounded tempting right now, and no more gruesome than the way the morning had started off. She was becoming quite hardened.
Green grunted, then turned to the former deputy. "That's uncalled for, Herschel. I completely understand why Pel fired you. I just hope it's the liquor doing the talking and you'll think better of your words when you sober up."
"Fired? You're letting that woman fire me?"
The mayor shrugged. "I think you're lucky to be getting the news secondhand without it being Birdsall standing here. Best count your blessings."
"Blessings, my foot." Herschel shook with fury. "I ain't done here. You wait and see."
Delight, her anger cold, said, "That's enough, Mr. Herschel. I'll thank you to leave the premises."
She would've felt better, though, if she thought that, when Herschel finally shambled out the door, she'd really seen the last of him. Doubt filled her. Especially as his last words on leaving were, "You'll be sorry, missus. Count on it."
"'Fraid you've made an enemy of Herschel, Mrs. Birdsall," Green commented uneasily.
"Yes." And Green, she saw, a sinking sensation in the pit of her stomach, was planted in the middle of the office floor like he was putting down roots. The mayor, it seemed, wanted answers, even though his initial question held little to alarm her. Most of his attention appeared centered on inspecting the recent damage done to the sheriff's office. Shattered wood and broken glass. Holes shot into the wall. But no lives lost. That's what counted.
Delight sighed. The cost of damages had better not come out of Pelham's pocket.
"What did Pel have to say about paying that bounty money to Garrett Sorenson?" Green started the conversation offhandedly as he tromped around, inspecting the office and the cell block. He poked a thick forefinger into a bullet hole next to the cell that had been Tuck Moon's home for the past ten days and pried out a slug. "Probably .50-caliber," he muttered, as though to himself. "Loaded for bear, and a big silver-tip at that."
The mayor's preoccupation suited Delight. Even better was that she had described the grisly load Sorenson's packhorse had carried into town to Pel this morning while she changed his bandages. Her report helped take Pel's mind off what she was doing, and now she had an easy reply made up of Pel's opinion ready on her tongue.
"Pelham doesn't approve of these 'dead or alive' circulars," she said. Bending down, she pulled a spike of glass from the side of her shoe before it pierced all the way through the leather into her foot. "He says they create more problems than they solve. Who's to say the dead man Mr. Sorenson brought in wasn't simply murdered for the reward money.
"In this case, we're certain he was a bad man, but sometimes a dodger goes out on people who haven't yet been brought to trial. Innocent until proven guilty, or so the law says. Only some folks would rather not wait."
Green nodded. "Hard to be patient when it's your livelihood being stolen away. If Pel had been on the job, the shooting might not have happened. Sorenson might've thought twice about taking on an outlaw and done the prudent thing. Which is, called the sheriff. Boomer has a point, Mrs. Birdsall. With Monroe's men riding wild all over the country, we have need of someone who can look after the county as well as patrol the streets here in town. Under Pel's supervision, of course," he added as a kind of afterthought. "Who is there we can trust to take over until Pel heals--or if he doesn't? Who has experience?"
Delight gulped. She didn't much care for the mayor's phrasing. "I assure you Pelham will soon heal, Mayor. The town owes him a bit of patience." Too late, she realized the cold anger in her voice wouldn't do Pel's case any good. Fortunately, Green either didn't notice or he decided to overlook her ire.
"Patience is my middle name, Mrs. Birdsall." There was a slight flush in the mayor's cheeks and his eyebrows were wiggling again. "But it ain't just me. Folks are worried, ma'am, about their lives and their property. About what to do if Monroe goes on a rampage."
Anger washed through her. What about Pel's life, endangered because of them and their property? What about her life, if she should lose her husband?
Drat, Delight thought, and barely restrained herself from saying out loud the curse words she'd used before. Just hearing the words inside her head didn't have the same effect as when spoken aloud. She didn't feel one whit better.

Chapter 8

Pel guessed trouble of some kind had found them when he heard Delight climbing the stairs. Instead of her usual light tread, her footsteps dragged.
Trouble for sure, though not what he'd imagined when he'd roused to find himself alone and lying on the bedroom floor surrounded by broken glass.
He'd feared Delight had been killed by bullets penetrating the building's outer wall, and for a moment he cursed a construction of puny clapboard siding tacked to two-by-fours. He called out before it struck him the only blood in sight was his own old stains. And then he heard the murmur of her voice below, and the vibration of Boomer Herschel's bray followed by a single gunshot. Then more yelling. He wasn't reassured. Frustration clawed at him as he called out again, struggling to rise.
Tuck Moon had done that--the reassuring, he meant--when the rail-thin former prisoner showed up carrying a broom like it was a lance he meant to skewer somebody with. But not, evidently, Pelham.
"Looks like you could use a hand," Tuck said.
Pel nodded, disgusted with himself. "Reckon I could."
Tuck propped the broom against the doorjamb and approached Pel, who, by this time, was on his hands and knees, rocking to and fro trying to get enough momentum to push himself up. Tuck knelt beside the sheriff and got Pel's best arm over his shoulders, then stood up real slow, drawing Pel with him.
Moon was stronger than he looked, Pel realized, the man's long-sleeves hiding whipcord muscles under the faded fabric. He hefted Pel over to the bed easy as you please and let him down.
Pel shuddered. "Thanks." A minute ticked by until the pinwheels quit whirling in his head and the pain faded.
"What was that shot?" he asked finally. "My missus not hurt, is she?"
"No, sir." Moon's mouth crooked into a grin. "It's your deputy--former deputy, I should say--come up on the short end of the stick."
"Former deputy?"
"Yep. Your missus fired him, and he took offense. Howsomever, getting hurt is his own fault."
"My wife fired Boomer Herschel?" Pel had a hard time trying to keep up.
"Sure did. Missus Birdsall"--Moon shook his head admiringly--"she's something else. Herschel ought to have known better than to take her on."
"Explain," Pel ordered, and Moon complied.
Pel came near to groaning out loud when the story was done, though not from physical pain. What a burden he'd put on his young wife. And all because he hadn't moved fast enough when the shot came out of that dark alley. He should've been expecting something of the sort. He'd been warned about the strangers taking over the Bucket of Sudz, drinking and talking rough, even before meeting the man who'd spoken out.
He'd ignored the rumor of a feller messing with O'Hanlon's barmaid, who was a pretty tough cookie herself. He ought to have guessed trouble was on the way right then, before he ever saw that Thoroughbred horse, before the debacle at Schmidt's Mercantile. The warnings had been there.
His hands clenched. Now here he was flat on his back and couldn't even protect his own wife from an uncouth deputy.
"So I reckon it's a good thing for Herschel you ain't up to a round of chastising just yet," Moon concluded. "Else he'd have somethin' a whole lot worse than a bitty scratch across his ribs."
Pel snuffed in a furious breath. "Reckon you're right."
A few minutes later they heard the mayor leave and, after a short wait while Pel imagined the worst, Delight stepped into the bedroom, her smile deceptively brilliant. He could tell right off she was concealing something from him. He'd never seen her with an expression like the one on her face right then, and he wasn't any too sure he approved of it. Especially when she replaced his pistol in the holster draped over the bedpost and gave it a little pat.
"There now," she said, as if she'd just finished doing a week's worth of laundry.
From beside him, Pel heard Tuck make a low sound in his throat. Laughter? From Moon? "Mrs. Birdsall," Pelham said, "what have you done?"
If anything, her smile deepened and a bright spot on each of her cheeks glowed. Nerves. He recognized the symptoms.
"Done?" She acted as innocent as one of her tabby's kittens. The smile, which had begun to droop, lifted again. "Why, nothing, Pelham. Yet. I'm in the process of hiring a deputy is all--and with your permission, of course."
Pel's eyes narrowed. "A deputy?"
"Yes. I'm sure Mr. Moon has told you about Mr. Herschel. I'm also sure you agree we can't get along without a trustworthy deputy."
And then, before Tuck Moon could dodge, duck, or otherwise fend her off short of clubbing her, she stood on tiptoe and stabbed the pin of the deputy sheriff's badge through Tuck's shirt. Pel saw a tiny shred of cloth left from its previous owner still caught in the clasp. A shred that matched Boomer's old tan shirt.
Tuck's hand went up and covered the badge. "You mean me?" He looked as shaken as a churn full of buttermilk. "No, ma'am. Not me. You'd be making a big mistake. I ain't a good candidate for the job."
Pel could've told him he might as well save his breath. For the first time mirth bubbled up in him. That would teach Tucker Moon to admire his wife's bravado. Looked like Delight had her mind made up who the next deputy would be, and she wasn't giving the poor feller any say in the matter.
Or him either, come to think of it.

* * * *

If he'd been a man given to panic, Tuck might've run when Mrs. Birdsall reached for him the way she did. Fled the sheriff's office and the bonds he felt tightening around him. He ought to have hied his way over to the livery stable where he'd left his horse that night ten days ago--if they hadn't sold ole Ripper by now to pay the gelding's feed bill--and ridden off into the sunset.
And yet...and yet there was something about the weight of the nickel-plated badge pulling against the threadbare cloth of his shirt that called to him. A promise of what might be a change in his fortunes. A chance to have folks looking up at him for once, instead of down. A glimmer of hope for a future.
The feeling was cemented when Sheriff Birdsall winked at the astonished man standing open-mouthed in front of him and said, "Think you've made a wise choice, Mrs. Birdsall.

* * * *

As it happened, nobody had gotten around to selling Ripper yet. Fond of the sometimes intractable animal, a master at bloating up his belly when it came time to saddle up, Tuck owned up to the relief he felt. In fact, when pointed in the right direction, he found his Roman-nosed sorrel out back of the sheriff's office munching good timothy hay alongside Birdsall's black mare. The pair of them, he noted, were becoming fat as Christmas gooses on account of Mrs. Birdsall overfeeding them something awful.
"I had your horse moved over here to save stabling charges," she said to him a little anxiously. "I hope you don't mind."
"Mind? No, ma'am." Tuck suffered an inner flinch at adding yet another kindness onto the bill he owed her and Sheriff Birdsall. "'Preciate it. I'll take over cleaning out this barn, Mrs. Birdsall. Don't you worry about it no more."
Delight's smile of relief indicated he'd done the right thing. It was a start.
Later, using his thumb to polish the badge hanging heavy on his chest, Tuck determined to repay all his debt as soon as possible. Sheriff Birdsall had said he needed someone to uphold the law in Garnet County, and by gum, he'd picked Ole Tucker Moon as that man. Tuck admitted to knowing a little something about the subject of lawbreakers. He ought, having broken the rules often enough his own self. Had a notion working the other side might not be as simple as it sounded.
Evening found him downstairs seated behind the sheriff's desk cleaning his shotgun. He'd found it, along with three dollars and a couple dimes, the sale papers on Ole Ripper, and a couple bitty keepsakes tied up in his spare handkerchief stowed away in a cabinet in the office. In view of his new situation, he felt embarrassed by the paucity of his possessions. If this job held, he'd have to buy himself a new shirt or two.
That was for tomorrow. At eight o'clock, he set out on a circuit of Endurance's main street just as he'd seen Birdsall do every night before the shooting. For the most part, the town was quiet. The only businesses still showing lights were the saloons and one at the back of the blacksmith shop and livery stable, where shadowy figures moved. The horses Sheridan kept to rent out milled restlessly around the corral as if a cougar stalked among them.
Eyes narrowing, Tuck strode toward the stable to see what he could see.
Nothing good because, as he neared the back corner, he found the light, small, like from a lantern to begin with, was growing. Fire, the scourge of all wood-built towns and hay-filled barns. Holding his shotgun in both hands across his body at the ready, Tuck ran, his hoarse bellow riding the quiet night in hope of rousing a passerby. "Fire! Fire at the livery."
One thing, it sure enough spoiled a quiet approach.
Rounding the end of the barn, he took in several things all at once. First, the burly feller scrambling aboard what Tuck assumed was one of the livery horses, its saddle pulling halfway over its side as the heavy man stuck a foot in the stirrup. Second, a knocked-over barn lantern lying on its side, coal-oil spilled into a heap of straw bedding material. Flames licked at the bone dry straw, sparks already leaping into the sky. Third, the body of a man sprawled on the ground, stirring a little and groaning. Sheridan, the blacksmith, had been struck low by a man whose arm was raised to bash his head yet again.
"Halt," Tuck roared and, without waiting to see if his order was obeyed, charged forward lifting his shotgun as he went, pointing, and firing. The assailant stopped, falling back with a cry before whirling and running into the dark, bent over and limping. At the edge of his vision, Tuck saw the man on the horse stop, reach down, and pull the feller on foot up behind him.
No time to chase them, Tuck decided. Better they get away than the town burn. He figured Mrs. Sheriff would have something to say if that happened.
He raced past Sheridan and kicked the lantern out of the way. A pitch fork was stuck in the straw pile, so he exchanged his shotgun for the implement and started tossing straw out into the bare yard. Eyes and throat burning from the acrid smoke, he soon became aware of a bell clanging close by. None too soon, a couple other men joined him, plying scoop shovels.
In minutes the fire died, sparks winking out amongst wispy, blackened ash. Several breathless men leaned on their tools' handles, nodded at each other over the shared successful labor, and wiped sweat from their eyes. His shirt, Tuck noticed, was in ruins now, with bitty holes burned through where sparks had landed.
Sheridan, unsteady on his feet due, no doubt, to the goose egg dripping blood down his face, lurched over to shake Tuck's hand.
"Mister," he said, "you was just in time. If that feller'd whomped my noggin once more, he'd a done me in for certain. Thanks. Thanks for saving my barn and my life."
Tuck hoped they all thought his red face was due to the heat and his exertions. He sure didn't deserve Sheridan's thanks. "'Fraid they made off with one of your horses."
Sheridan gazed toward the corral like he was counting. "Least it wasn't two. And you pumped a little lead into one of 'em. Got a trail of blood over there."
Tuck shook his head. "Too far away to do much damage. Just peppered him a little. Don't suppose you know who these fellers was?"
Glumly, Sheridan frowned. "Some of Diggett Monroe's men. Seen 'em hanging around the Bucket of Sudz. Think they was drunk." He touched his goose egg. "Probably a good thing or they might've killed me." He brightened. "Maybe you can track 'em, come morning, and get my horse back.
Tuck had to agree. "Figured on it. Not much anybody can do tonight."
Sheridan peered at him more closely. "You're the new deputy Birdsall hired, ain't you?"
"Reckon so."
A new, heavily accented voice rose over the firefighter's low murmurs. "For them fire arsons, you vatch. Fire in Sheridan's barn, tonight. Fire in mein store last veek. Robbers, voman killers, fire starters. Catch them, hang them. Ja?"
"That's the thing, Schmidt," an unidentified man said. "Gotta catch 'em first."
"Vell, vere ist Sheriff Birdsall ven he ist needed? Vere is law and order?"
"Here now, don't go stirring folks up, Wilhelm." Tuck recognized Mayor Green's voice. "You all know the sheriff was shot in the line of duty. Give him a chance. Got a deputy hired, and I'd say he did a fine job here tonight. We'll get by until Birdsall's on his feet."
Tuck figured this is when he oughta step forward and say something to reassure the understandably nervous town folk but, damn, words failed him. He wasn't no speechmaker.
Sheridan pushed past him, ready now to regale the crowd with a chronicle of events. Tuck noticed a pencil pusher writing down the blacksmith's words. Be in the next issue of the newspaper, he expected.
"Vere ist Herr Herschel?" Schmidt was complaining. "Here he should be."
"You know Herschel always avoids anything looks like work," Sheridan said. "Got the new deputy to thank for saving my barn and running those fellers off. Schmidt, you..."
Relieved to escape the limelight, Tuck stepped into the dark and resumed his solitary patrol of Endurance's main street.

* * * *

With the aim of speaking face-to-face with Diggett Monroe and discouraging his intentions if he could, Tuck rolled out of bed the next morning and donned his ragged shirt with the badge pinned to it. Next, tiptoeing from the empty jail so as not to awaken the Birdsalls, he retrieved Ripper from the barn behind the office and led the horse along the alley to the street. There, the first man he met was Mayor Green, evidently on his way to open the butcher shop since his white canvas apron was fresh and unstained. Green was deep in conversation with the loud-mouthed German from the fire last night. They stood outside the sheriff's office looking serious as gravediggers.
Tuck tipped his hat, meaning to be on his way to Garnet City, but Green flagged him down before he had a chance to mount.
"Good morning, Deputy Moon," Green said, his eyebrows waggling in a friendly seeming way. "I'm pleased to make your acquaintance under these calmer circumstances. This here gentleman is Wilhelm Schmidt. He runs the mercantile."
Just as if Tuck hadn't been in the mercantile buying carrots (Ole Ripper was mighty fond of carrots) two or three times since he'd hit town, Schmidt pumped his hand and said, "Pleased to meet you I am."
"Guess you're setting out after those horse thieves," Green said. "Glad to see you're Johnny-on-the-spot. Mrs. Birdsall went on and on about you yesterday. Extolling your virtues, so to speak. She says Birdsall gives you a high recommend, and that the reason you were in jail was a momentary trans...transgression." Stumbling a little over the word, Green batted at a horsefly. "Convinced me you're the man for the job. Says you'll know just how to talk to these yahoos that've been tearing up the town."
Tuck hoped she knew what she was talking about because it was the first he'd heard of these...what had Green called them...virtues? "Got some slight acquaintance with their kind," he replied. "Long as I'm out that way, figured I'd drop in and try to talk some sense into Monroe and the rest of those fellers. Don't want to arrest them..."
He saw Green scowl at this, and added quickly, "Takes too much to keep 'em until we figure out where they're wanted and somebody comes to fetch them. My intention is to talk 'em into leaving the county." More accurately, he figured convincing them better pickings lay down the road was his only chance of success.
Green nodded as though Tuck had just revealed the truth of the century. "Hadn't thought of that. Makes sense. Well, good luck, deputy. Keep a watchful eye out. Don't know how many of those fellers might be back-shooters, but the one that shot Birdsall is still on the loose. I figure that badge makes you a target, too."
Schmidt's head bobbed in agreement. "Und mein frau, too, iss shot. Owlhoots!"
Buoyed by their good wishes, Tuck tipped his hat again and swung aboard Ripper. "I'll keep my eye peeled."
Eight o'clock on a hot summer morning found them several miles outside of Endurance, clomping west along a trail cut through a timbered hillside toward the old town of Garnet City. The sun beat down from overhead, and birds warbled along the trail. Tuck was enjoying the ride, even if he didn't much care for the destination.
Garnet City was almost a ghost town--would've been already if it hadn't been for Diggett Monroe and his hooligans moving in and taking over Ma Brady's rooming house. Rooming house being a kind of loose translation for her place. Outlaws' den came closer to the truth. Brothel fit, as well.
Tuck had stayed a night there once. He didn't figure it'd be any loss when the place either closed or burned down. It was the last business left after folks gave up on finding gold in Garnet Gulch.
Tuck snorted to himself and shook his head. What possessed any of them folks to think they'd find gold in a place called Garnet Gulch, anyway? Garnets were those jewelry gewgaws ladies thought so highly of if he recollected right. But then, he'd always had trouble figuring what motivated folks, and this was one of those times. The gulch was the ass end of nowhere and always had been, but it had suited a man on the run like Diggett Monroe. Had for a while, anyway, out there where nobody bothered him. Now it looked like Diggett had changed his mind. Word was he intended on moving up in the world, his ambition focused on all of Garnet County, with Endurance as his headquarters.
When Tuck had ridden through Garnet City a few weeks ago, he hadn't been tempted to ever go back. Couple of nights there had been more than enough for him. Looked like Monroe didn't think much of the place either, since he planned on abandoning it. Yet here Tuck was, trying to think of an argument that would persuade Diggett Monroe to leave Endurance alone, and crossing his fingers he'd return to town alive.
Tuck clucked to Ripper as they ambled along, both, if the horse's pricked ears were anything to go by, enjoying the sun on their shoulders after days of confinement. The air smelled of earth and pine needles. Insects hummed contentedly in the brush nearby. He didn't know about the horse, but he was a little sleepy having gotten up with the sun.
A sound like the roll of a stone beneath a clumsy foot brought Tuck awake in a hurry, warning him he had company. The stumble was accompanied by the unmistakable snick of a cartridge being levered into the firing chamber of a rifle. Ole Ripper tossed his head and stopped dead of his own accord in the middle of the road. Fool horse.
Tuck's hand started toward his hip, then, as he remembered, stilled.
A man chuckled and stepped from behind an outhouse-sized boulder into the trail in front of Tuck. He recognized Happy Monroe, Diggett's brother and right-hand man. The rattle of brush told Tuck there was another in the woods behind him. Dang. He didn't like that there were two, but maybe he should be glad it was only two.
"Howdy there, Tuck Moon," Happy said, sounding more cheerful than Tuck had ever heard him. "How you be? Last I heard you was in jail."
Tuck nodded like they were friends well-met on the street. "Served my time, and they turned me loose."
Tuck thought Monroe grinned, although it was hard to tell. The man's face was set in a perpetual smile, courtesy of a scar drawing the right side of his face upward. A leftover from an old knife fight, or so Tuck had heard. One thing certain, the smile wasn't necessarily an indication of his mood. They called him Happy because he wasn't very often--happy, that is.
"You're just the feller I was hoping to see," Tuck said. Partway true, although if he had his druthers, Monroe would've been alone.
"Yeah? How's that?"
Tuck rested his hands on the saddle horn, wondering what to say and wishing Ole Ripper, like his name indicated, had a bit more spunk in him. A restive horse might've made it easier to see who was behind him. Let him know how worried he ought to be. Plenty worried, he figured. Nothing less. Meanwhile, Ripper settled down, lowering his head to bite the head off a wild flower like he'd found the perfect pasture.
"I had a first-class seat to all the lead flying at the jail the other day," Tuck said. "I thought you might tell me what all the fuss was about."
Happy's eyes narrowed, although he never quit smiling. "Shooting?" He glanced at the other man, the one still hidden in the trees. "You heard about any shooting lately, Milt?" he asked, raising his voice.
"Not me," Milt's deep rumble answered.
The tightness in Tuck's belly eased a smidgeon. Could've been a worse man pointing a gun at him. A first-class thug, Milt Wheatly talked big and walked with a swagger, but nineteen times out of twenty, he'd miss whatever he was shooting at.
Tuck chanced a peek over his shoulder.
"Funny," he said, his confidence growing as he turned back to Happy, "seeing I had a good view of the shooter from my cell. It ain't like Luke Filmore to hide his light under a basket."
"Luke Filmore, eh?" Happy pretended to be thinking, not that he was much of an actor. "Never heard of him."
Tuck's belly muscles tightened again. "Well, now, Happy, that's an odd thing seeing you're the one pointed Filmore out to me not three weeks ago at Ma Brady's place in Garnet City."
The rifle in Happy Monroe's arms shifted, the bore pointing more Tuck's way.
"Was I you," Happy said, "I'd forget all about who you met where. My big brother Diggett don't like folks poking around where they don't belong. For instance, that sheriff throwing some of the boys in the hoosegow when all they wanted is a little fun. Made him mad."
"They were drunk, stirring up trouble. Can't blame the sheriff for following the rules. That's his job."
"Yeah? Then he gets what he's got coming to him. Diggett won't let nobody stand in his way. He says anybody ain't for him is a-gin' him. Ain't anybody allowed to set on the sidelines."
"The sidelines of what? What does Diggett want with Endurance, anyhow? Ain't so very much there. Not a lot of money, far as I can tell. Why not head into Wallace or Coeur d'Alene? Spokane, maybe? One of those big towns where there's real money?"
Happy's scarred lip lifted higher. "Diggett does what he wants. Never know. One of them places might be next, but for now, Endurance has struck his fancy and if you take a hand on the wrong side, same thing as happens to them town people will happen to you."
Tuck figured that was plain enough, even if not what he wanted to hear. He'd best make himself just as clear.
"Well, the thing is, Happy, I ain't sitting on the sidelines. I've taken a job. With Sheriff Birdsall being laid up, somebody has got to keep the law in Endurance. I reckon that somebody is me."
Monroe's laughter roared out.
"A little bird flew by and said you was made deputy. Didn't believe it. Sounds to me like the folks in Endurance have gone pure crazy." Monroe chuckled again, while behind Tuck, Milt Wheatley tittered like a saloon-girl who'd been drinking more than tea. "Don't they know who you are? Hasn't anybody told them about you killing that farmer kid down in South Idaho?"
"I ain't lied about my name," he said.
"I see you ain't got a pistola." Happy made a tching sound. "A deputy, now. A deputy probably needs a six-shooter."
"I didn't come out here to shoot anybody," Tuck said, trying to ease the situation. "I came to talk."
Milt had moved up until he stood only a few feet away, just at the side of Tuck's vision. But if that was the case, Tucked wondered, what--who--was that stirring in the brush a dozen yards out? His belly tightened. Looked like he might have made an error in judgment in trying to discuss matters with Happy Monroe.
Happy shrugged. "Talk to who? What for? What's your aim?"
Tuck's hand crept an inch closer to the sawed-off scatter gun he kept in his saddle holster. "I came to give Diggett a friendly warning," he said. "Best to stop trouble before it gets a head start, I always say. Thought I'd tell him he should stay out of Endurance. He's got Garnet City. Far as I'm concerned, he's welcome to it. Keep his nose clean in Garnet County and he can stay around. Any of his men steps out of line in Endurance, they'll be taken in."
Happy smirked. "Who's gonna make him, eh? Folks in Endurance got an army I don't know about?"
"Won't take an army," Tuck said. "Diggett's the leader of this outfit. Cut him down to size and the whole bunch falls apart. Simple."
"You think you can take Diggett? Reckon he'll be tickled." Happy raised his rifle. "But I'll give you a warning in return, Tuck Moon. You, Birdsall, or whoever--if Diggett wants something, he goes right after it. Don't matter who tries to stop him."
"What does Diggett want?" Now we're getting somewhere, Tuck thought. Now maybe he'd find out why Birdsall had been gunned down, if not exactly who done it, and why Filmore and his partner had shot up the jail.
"Don't tell me you ain't heard," Happy said. "But just so there's no misunderstandin', I'll tell you plain out. My brother has taken a liking to Endurance. Simple as that. He's decided to take it over--the whole shebang. Make it his town. You don't think my brother is gonna stay in a hole like Garnet City, do you? That ain't his style. So, first Endurance, then who knows?"
Tuck's breath sucked in. "Sounds like a politician," he said.
The only reason Happy had told him all this, Tuck realized, was because he wanted Tuck Moon, and therefore Birdsall, to know. And that must mean the Monroe gang didn't think there was anything he or Birdsall could do to stop them. One more thing. Happy had already known Tuck'd been hired on as deputy. Who had told him? What little bird?
Happy chortled. "Moon," he said, "I gotta give you credit. You're smarter than you let on." Then he sighed and looked about as woebegone as possible for a man with his attributes. "It's too bad--"
There must have been a signal, although Tuck was too slow to see it. Before he could yank Ripper's head out of the grass and set him in motion, a paralyzing blow struck his elbow on the arm he'd been sneaking toward the shotgun. And then they came at him from all sides.
Turned out there'd been three or four more of them lurking back there in the woods. Happy and Milt he could've handled, or so Tuck told himself in the second before they jerked him off Ripper's back and threw him to the ground. But this many were like a swarm of bees and he didn't stand a chance. Somebody swatted Ripper on the rump, startling the horse beyond reach of the saddle gun, and then they started in on him in earnest.
Best he could tell, and he jerked his head out of the way before a fist took out some of his teeth, Happy stood back and let the boys have at him. Scooting on his rear with two of them clutching at his legs, Tuck made it as far as the big boulder, using the rock to brace his back as he regained his feet--almost. He didn't quite make it. A kick to his knee took him down, the sharp agony of the blow paralyzing. A ham-sized fist came at him from the side, thudded into his gut and stole his breath.
Picking up a handful of loose dirt and pine needles from the ground, Tuck flung it into the face of the nearest man. Short satisfaction when the man backed off, yelling and scrubbing at his eyes. One less man made it easier for the others to reach him, but it gave him a little arm room, too. No time for finesse. Tuck swung a haymaker at the nearest body, pain shooting through his hand all the way to the shoulder as bone landed on bone. Somebody's nose gave way under his fist, and he was sure another man would soon have a bruise the size of his foot under his heart. Tuck recognized Luke Filmore as the man rushed at him. He got one good kick into the outlaw's groin, which took him out of the fight.
For the most part, except for the man with dirt in his eyes, and Filmore gagging up his breakfast, the fight was silent. Grunts and the thud of fists were lost in the greater silence of the woods. A blow to his ear made Tuck's eyes cross and his head ring. After that, all sound washed out, becoming a roar that ran together.
Though almost deafened and dizzy with it, he lashed out with boots, fists, and more than once with a head butt. Tuck fought hard, fought dirty, but panic made him wild and careless. With Filmore out of the scuffle, except for Milt Wheatley, the men were an unrecognizable blur. Eventually, they hurt him enough he had to stop. His leaden limbs no longer functioned. What breath he had screamed in his windpipe. He tasted blood and stared out through a red haze.
To his surprise, they stopped short of killing him.
Finally, Happy Monroe stepped in, catching Milt by the arm and spinning him away an instant before Milt's toe hooked Tuck under the chin and broke his neck.
"Enough," Happy said, his voice a faraway buzz in only one side of Tuck's head. "Diggett said warn him off, not kill him. Townsfolk get a look at Moon's face, won't none of them want to risk the same. They'll roll over like pussycats, the whole bunch of them."
"Already warned 'em with the sheriff," Milt grumbled. "How many chances they gonna get?"
"Until Diggett says different." Happy's tone sharpened. "Filmore, cut your caterwauling and mount up. Walk if you ain't able to ride. Flett, have somebody wash your eyes out with water from a canteen. Call yourselves tough? You boys sound more like a ladies aid society meeting gone bad."
Somebody--Milt, Tuck suspected--landed a final blow, a kick above the kidneys. He passed out then, for how many minutes he didn't know, regaining consciousness only with the stirring of horses around him. Unmoving--he wasn't about to swear that he could move--he lay on the ground, agony pulsing through every nerve, watching through one slitted eye as the men mounted up and left.
He reckoned that as an object lesson, his appearance would work a treat.

Chapter 9

The sun blazed down hot enough to cook a steak. Tuck regained consciousness with the light wavering beyond his closed eyelids. He moved cautiously, an inch at a time, feeling dazed and as if he'd been crushed under a steam locomotive.
His arms moved at his command, bringing a swollen hand to his face. A cautious touch told him blood from a cut on his forehead had dried and crusted his lashes shut. The eye beneath was, he decided, intact, though puffed up like a mushroom. His left ear felt stuffed with cotton and ached with every heartbeat. The pounding he'd taken seemed to have happened a long time ago, but he wasn't sure. Today? Yesterday? He lay on his back in the dirt, and every muscle, bone, joint and blood vessel cried aloud at the abuse.
Well, he thought a little later--or maybe a lot later--I'm not doing myself any good just a-laying here in the middle of the road. Groaning, he gathered himself, intending to sit up. The effort was too much. At the first spasm of his tortured muscles, he passed out again. After a while, a whuffle of wind in his hair penetrated his stupor. Velvet touched his cheek, soft at first, then more insistent.
"Ripper," he croaked, recognizing the sensation. "You still here?"
The horse snorted, slobbers splattering Tuck's face.
Reaching out, Tuck grasped the horse around the leg and pulled himself up, each movement driving new agonies through him. How long it took to climb to his knees was beyond his reckoning, but he knew the cost to his body. If the horse had shied even once, Tuck would've been smack dab on his face again without the will to rise.
But Ripper stood firm, and once Tuck had made it that far, he forced his arm through the stirrup and, using the saddle strings, dragged himself hand over hand until he stood more or less vertical. His gut was sore, his back worse where someone had used his boot, and he stayed bent over like an old, old man. He supposed he could blame Milt. It occurred to him now why nobody ribbed Milt too much when he missed those nineteen out of twenty shots. It was because Milt was a bruiser, valued for his fists and his feet if not his guns.
Once upright, though sick as a poisoned pup and shaking fit to break his bones, Tuck found his canteen, the strap still draped over the saddle horn. The water, warm and tasting of tin, ran down his throat, cutting through a foul thickness. It settled in his stomach with only a slight upset. Encouraging. His innards, though sore as open wounds, apparently still worked. The real test would be his kidneys, when he felt up to testing them. But not yet.
Tuck dumped water into his hand and scrubbed it over his face, freeing up the crusts gluing his eyelids together. Although his eye was badly swollen, which caused the trees and trail to blur around him, the water helped show he wasn't blind. Relief made him shake again. After sloshing the rest of the water over his head, he felt ready to mount Ripper.
"Whoa there, old nag." His voice croaked as he attempted to lift his foot into the stirrup. The effort was a fool's endeavor. After a few minutes he gave up and found a stump leftover from the rudimentary road-building to use as a mounting block. Eventually, he got a leg over Ripper's back, although the struggle wasn't pretty.
He pointed the horse toward Endurance, the reins soon falling from his nerveless fingers, as he lost consciousness again. But by that time the horse's instinct had taken over and it headed back to the barn that had been its home for the past ten days. The good feed of timothy hay and a bait of oats every evening had trained Ripper well.

* * * *

Delight presumed she was the only one who recognized how much energy Pel expended simply sitting erect in the rocking chair. More, he put a grin on his sweating face and poured his strength into the handshakes with which he greeted Mayor Green, Herr Schmidt, and each of the three county commissioners who'd come to visit him.
Was this a conference among friends? she wondered. Or were the commissioners deciding whether to override the election and fire Pel? Anger and dismay surged through her. Would they be that unfair?
Before the visitors arrived, she'd buttoned Pel's shirt over his bandages and spread a blanket over his lap to conceal his lack of britches. Even between the two of them, they hadn't been able to manage getting his pants over his hips.
"Tomorrow," he'd said, swearing. "I'm getting dressed tomorrow."
But not today. In honor of these important guests, he limited himself to wearing only the shirt and his boots, toes sticking out beneath the blanket. Pray God he didn't fall out of the chair or his reputation would never recover.
If it hadn't been for the sweat and his white, white face, he would've looked almost normal, if a bit thinner than usual. As it was, Delight stood behind him with her hands on his shoulders, trying to act as if she wasn't helping hold him in the chair. She didn't think any of the men noticed. They were too used to ignoring another man's wife, especially if she wasn't saying anything. And Delight had her lips locked tight as the tumblers on a cell door.
"Explain this Moon fellow to me again." Commissioner DeWitt, a good man and a prominent citizen--he owned the bakery down the street, although it was his wife who did all the cooking--was not the brightest candle in the holder.
For this meeting, Delight had placed kitchen chairs in a semi-circle around the rocker where Pel sat. Mayor Green, who'd chosen earlier to stand, sat down.
"Met him right after those hooligans shot up the town," he said. "And then again this morning on his way out of town. Me and Schmidt. He's a quiet feller, didn't say much. You sure he's the man for the job, Pel? He didn't come across as real forceful like."
Schmidt nodded. "To me, nothing he said."
"Let's put it this way, Green," Pel said, "he's the only man I know of with the grit to be deputized. Can't be easy, what with everybody knowing I was ambushed. Scared most men off."
"Herschel," Schmidt said. "Always I thought a good man he vas, experienced, pleasant. Laughs at jokes."
"I won't tolerate any man who's disrespectful to my wife." Pelham put ice in his words. "As well as being lazy and a drunk."
"Yes, but, Sheriff Birdsall, isn't it true this Moon had been in your jail? Also for drunkenness?" DeWitt asked.
"Got a little wild when he first came in from the country." Pel wiped a trickle of sweat from the side of his face under the guise of brushing away a fly. "Not habitual with him. Herschel started drinking on the job and was, in fact, incapacitated when Monroe's bunch rode in. I won't stand for that."
"He's an obnoxious son-of-a-gun, too," Green added, with a guilty glance at Delight. "Sorry, ma'am. Fellers, from what I saw, Birdsall did the right thing in firing him."
Mayor Green seemed to have forgotten who had done the actual firing of Boomer Herschel, Delight noted, her hands tightening on Pel's shoulders. Which she and Pel had cause to appreciate. Bless his heart.
Richard Hunt, Endurance's banker and leader of the commissioners, waved away the talk of hiring and firing. "What's done is done. It's you I'm concerned about, Birdsall. Are you able to do your job? If not, when will you be? You've been off a week and look what's happened already."
It was like Hunt took a perverse pleasure in enumerating the problems. "Trouble with the deputy, town shot up, the episode over at Sheridan's stable. Then there's that deal with the rancher killing an outlaw--not but what he was justified--but it points out there's a bad element around wanting to prey on the citizens of Garnet County. We've got to know if you're fit enough to handle the situation."
"Getting better every day," Pel said, which didn't quite answer the implied question.
"Where is this Moon character?" DeWitt asked. "I'd like to meet him and see who we're dealing with. His name seems familiar to me, although I can't place him at the moment." Puffing out his chest, he added, "I prefer to judge a man for myself, face-to-face."
"Moon'll be around." Pel nodded to DeWitt. "His purpose this morning is to get a line on those outlaws. We want to keep them from coming to town, you see. Moon and I, we'd like to settle this outside the city limits."
Clearly, Pel's little speech is what the commissioners wanted to hear. Ambitious, optimistic, and unlikely to happen, in Delight's view, but she said nothing and schooled her expression to appear serene.
"Very wise--if they leave you the choice." Hunt got to his feet, a move that drew the others up with him, Schmidt a little slower than the rest. "Well, Birdsall, I'm glad to see you up and around. I imagine you could ride with the best of them if you had to, but if you'll excuse me saying so, looks like you'd be better off not to ride anywhere for a while yet."
"A couple of days," Pel said. "No longer."
Pel's exhibition hadn't much fooled either Hunt or Mayor Green, Delight thought. But at least these two were giving him some time and warning.
"Thanks for coming," Pel told each man, his assurance overly hearty. "I'll be here if you need me."
"I'll let us out," Mayor Green said, leading the way as the men filed from the sheriff's living quarters and clomped down the stairs.
Delight didn't relinquish her hold on Pel's shoulders until the commissioners and the mayor were out of hearing. Presently, when the office door slammed downstairs and she was sure they were truly gone, she sighed with relief and released him. With a groan muffled deep in his throat, Pel clutched at his chest and slumped forward, catching himself by grabbing one of the chair arms.
Delight dropped to her knees beside him, unable to pretend she hadn't heard that pathetic groan or noticed how much paler he was. "I thought they'd never leave. Let me get your boots off so you can get back to bed."
Pel grunted assent as Delight dragged his boots from his bare feet and tossed them in a corner out of the way. His toes wiggled. "Thanks."
"Lean on me." She tilted the rocker forward so Pel could spill out and crawl onto the bed, using her shoulder for a brace. The quilt was taut over the mattress, looking as though no one ever used it, let alone that it had been tidied up bare minutes before the commissioners' arrival. Even with so short a time in the chair, Pel was worn out, exhaustion dragging at him.
"The meeting went well, don't you think?" she said, hoping she didn't sound as falsely cheerful to him as she did to herself.
"For today." He stretched out on the bed, breath hissing between his teeth. "Don't know about tomorrow. Can't say I liked all those questions about Tuck Moon."
"Oh, drat! Did I do wrong, Pel, in selecting Mr. Moon to help us?" Anxiety stretched her voice thin. "He seems like good people to me. Always respectful. Always minds his manners. I don't know..." She trailed off.
"If I hadn't agreed with you, Delight, I would've put a stop to it. There is one thing." His voice faded like he'd forgotten what he wanted to say.
"What's that?" Delight spread the quilt over him, and he sighed.
"What Hunt said, about the name being familiar. It is to me, too, but maybe not in any way illegal. Just not anything...good. I'll remember later. Meanwhile, don't you worry about Moon. That's my job."
Delight wasn't so sure, but she let it drop when Pel changed the subject.
"I'm going to rest a minute, honey," he said. "Then you can help me into the chair again. And tonight, I'm going to walk over to the window. Be good to see what's happening outside." Pel pressed a hand to the bullet hole in his chest. "I've got to get back to work."
Plainly the wound was hurting him again, and she knew from his short gasps that he was having trouble breathing.
"Don't rush things, Pel. It's too soon. You almost died. They can't expect you to--"
Shaking his head wearily, Pel interrupted. "You heard them. They do expect."
Delight abandoned the pointless conversation. If she could rely on only one thing in life, it was that there was no quit in Pelham Birdsall. He'd press forward to his last breath. Literally. As for her, she had a job to do as well. Support him through his every trial, no matter how much it galled her, and no matter how much it tested her own strength.
With this in mind, as soon as Pel closed his eyes and his breathing became regular, she took herself downstairs to the office, there to deal with more of the interminable paperwork associated with the position. Requisitions, a telegram here, a telegram there, a reply to the warden of the prison over at Walla Walla regarding a man asking for parole. Her daddy and Pel together had put him away. She remembered the details of the case, and she was able to answer the letter without asking Pel's advice.
There were no prisoners in the cells, and the main room was warm and quiet. The windows and walls had been repaired at the direction of Mr. Hunt. The ticking of the clock and the occasional sound of people in the street outside kept her company. Dinnertime came and went, while Pel slept. She wanted him to rest as much as possible--more important in her view than eating--so she went about her work as quietly as corn growing. Therefore, when she came to the end of her chores, it was late afternoon and, recollecting herself, she frowned. Was her faith in the bashful, almost silent deputy misplaced?
Because where, she wondered, was Tuck Moon? He should have reported in by now.

* * * *

The whole world rotated in, out, and around Deputy Tuck Moon's head until it was hard to tell if he'd been punched or bored. If he hadn't twisted Ripper's mane in his fingers, he'd have fallen to the road hours ago. As it was, he held on just long enough for the horse to reach its home and find the familiar stable before Tuck tumbled from the saddle. A dirt floor rose up to meet him with a thump that slammed him like an earthquake and raised such agony he couldn't think straight. One thing about it, he thought when he collected his wits again, although the ground smelled strongly of old horse droppings, it's cool, dark, and quiet. Not so bad. He settled in to stay.
The thing to do, he decided, glad to let events take their course, was rest there until either his surroundings ceased spinning or he got some feeling back in his legs. Consequently, he was a mite aggravated when he felt a tug on his arm and somebody shaking him. Hollering at him, too, the words muffled by his sore ear. It was his name being said, over and over, like he didn't know who he was.
He did know--he just didn't feel up to holding a long conversation with anybody, even if only two words. Something was wrong with his tongue, stuck to the roof of his mouth. He wasn't even sure if he had real legs attached down below there somewhere. Mostly, his awareness consisted of a solid wall of pain.
"Go away," he muttered in self-defense, croaking like a toad frog and using the two words he allowed himself.
"You're alive," said a woman, and he heard horror and perhaps, surprise in her voice.
Well, yes. He guessed he was alive, more or less.
"Scoot over, horse," the woman said, and there was a slap and then the stamping of hooves close to his head. He reckoned she--was it Mrs. Birdsall?--had taken charge of Ole Ripper and chased him into a stall. Too bad. Now sunshine bore right down on his battered face and swollen eyes, and the heat and light made everything that much worse. He was dry as an old skeleton and willing to shoot somebody for a drink.
"Water," he begged, and to his surprise, it wasn't more than a few seconds before some was being dripped between his lips. Cold, too. He soaked in the wetness like a parched horse turd soaks up summer rain.
He was sure now the woman was Mrs. Birdsall. From this close, he recognized her lemon and lavender scent as she propped his filthy head on her lap. Using a corner of her calico apron and water sopped up from the horse bucket, she took to washing old dried blood and dirt from his face. Her hands were gentle on his bruises, a feather-light touch as she swabbed around his eyes. After that, he was able to open the eye enough he could see a little bit after all. The relief gave him a new case of the shakes.
"Don't touch that. You'll catch an infection," she snapped, pushing his hands down when he went to explore the damage to his face. "Who did this to you, Mr. Moon? What happened?"
He gasped as she mopped grit from the cut above his eye. "Some of Monroe's men," he mumbled through battered lips. It hurt just as bad as he'd figured it would to talk. "They was waiting for me. Should've had somebody along to watch my back." Though who that someone would be, he couldn't rightly say.
"Indeed," she said. Then, "This cut needs stitched. Do you think you can walk as far as the house?"
He didn't expect he had much choice, seeing as she already was urging him to prop himself against the barn wall and work his way onto his feet. His head swam as she wedged her shoulder in his armpit and, little as she was, took on too much of his weight. Together, they staggered towards the sheriff's office rear entrance.
Thanks be, Ripper hadn't carried him down main street for everybody to see. Tuck had a hunch they were in serious enough trouble as it was. It was gonna be tough, holding this town together long enough to rid it of Diggett Monroe and his men. If it could be done.

* * * *

"Hush, now. I don't want to wake Mr. Birdsall." Delight helped Tuck mount the two steps to the back door. Regrettably, his legs weren't any too steady beneath him. He looked rail thin, but was heavier than he appeared. It was all she could do to keep her own feet while supporting him. She grunted in soft puffs as she steered them into the building. "You need to lie down, Mr. Moon. A cot in the cell all right with you?"
"Long as you don't lock the door on me."
"I won't," she promised.
Once inside, Tuck braced a hand on the wall and felt his way down the short hall, around the corner, and into his old cell, where Delight eased her shoulder from under him. She allowed him to sink onto the thin mattress. He stretched full length, groaning once out loud, and clutching at his gut and drawing his legs up.
"Shall I get Doctor Miller?" she asked doubtfully. In this light, his injuries dismayed her even more. They weren't like Pel's. Not life threatening, or at least she didn't think so, but bad enough. And what if he had internal damage?
"I'm going to fetch Doc." Decision made, she started to her feet, but Tuck stuck out a hand and gripped a fold of her skirt.
"No," he said. "Don't want anybody to see me like this. Don't want to scare 'em any worse than they already are. Doc'd spread word all over town. Get drunk and shoot his mouth off."
"But you need that cut above your eye sewn," she protested. "You may have ruptured organs. I don't know how to tell or what to do."
A faint grin touched his white lips. "You think Doc does?"
"But--"
"Bet you're a dab hand with a needle and thread. Better than Doc."
Even ill and beat-up, he was a force to reckon with. Delight found herself wondering why she ever thought him mild and gentle because it was a cinch she wasn't able to gain his cooperation on a course of treatment. Sew him up, then leave him be.
So that is what she did, the tug of her best and sharpest sewing needle through his flesh, the tying of her prettiest knots a harrowing experience for them both. And he? He just pinched his mouth and told her to hurry. "Please, ma'am."

* * * *

The moment Pel woke up, Delight's tabby curled peacefully beside him, he knew something else affecting Endurance must have happened. Furthermore, he knew it boded ill. His wife's smooth face, normally open as the birth and death page in a family bible, wore a pinchy kind of look as she bustled aimlessly around the bedroom. He'd seen its like often of late. Yeah. And whatever had given her the fidgets, she intended on keeping the cause from him.
He coughed to show he was awake, which made her jump like a cornered grasshopper and drop the towel she'd been folding. His eyes narrowed.
"Delight, come on over here and sit down," he said, patting the side of the bed. "You look tired."
She shied away as though he'd made an improper suggestion. "Is that cat bothering you? Let me put her out." She snatched the tabby off the bed where it'd been keeping him company and shooed it toward the door. Pel wasn't quite fast enough to stop her, but, while she was thus occupied, he managed to pull himself up in the bed without her seeing the faces he made at the effort.
"Looks like I slept most of the day," he said when he'd propped his back against the headboard and saw the way lengthening shadows darkened the room.
She turned to face him again, her voice apologetic. "Those men wore you out. I shouldn't have let them all in at once."
"Doubt you had much choice. I had to answer to them sooner or later."
His gaze locked on her tell-tale face, he patted the bed again. Thus summoned, she came over and balanced on the edge, avoiding his eyes.
"You might as well tell me what's happened, honey. What is it? Somebody get shot? Did the commissioners decide to fire me after all?"
Her smile was so falsely bright it rivaled the sun. "Oh, no. Nothing like that."
"Then what? Best you tell me, Delight, afore I get all irritated and upset. Now that isn't good for me."
His wife, being a sensible woman when all was said and done, soon gave in to his judgment on what he could tolerate. Her explanation made it easier to see the whole picture. Aside from him being on the verge of having his job terminated, his wife was worried sick, the town was about to come under siege, and his new deputy--whose past still eluded him--had been beaten to a pulp.
Sounds like we're walking down a regular rose-strewn path, Pel thought with grim humor. If he hadn't already been ailing, this latest turn would've done the trick.
"What are we going to do, Pel?" Delight asked, her face drawn, the color in her cheeks faded.
He forced a grin. "Think we'd better run like the devil is after us."
Blue eyes blazing, her head jerked from a dejected chin-on-chest slump. "You don't mean that."
"I don't?"
"No. I know you, Pelham Birdsall. We've bought land here. This fall we'll buy more cattle. Next year we'll move out of this place and build onto the cabin. Make a real home of our own. We're putting down roots, Pel. You'll never give up without a fight."
"Won't I?" This time his grin was real.
"You know you won't. Why else have you been breaking your neck, trying to rid the county of all the wild and rowdy hooligans trying to make trouble? Riding all over, urging the commissioners to post a bounty, keeping those men out of Endurance?"
His forefinger lifted. "Up until now. With Diggitt Monroe's gang, it looks like I haven't been all that successful."
"But not for wont of trying." As if either of them would ever forget the one who'd gotten through his defenses. The one with the gun, shooting him down from ambush.
But her arguments were something he needed to hear. All true, or had been a week ago, before he'd come within a quarter inch of being murdered.
"And look where it's gotten me," he said.
"Almost killed."
Tears were in her voice, and Pel sighed. Best not to talk more about that. "How bad is Moon? He able to function?"
"I'm sure he'll be raring to go by tomorrow. Or the day after."
Or the day after that. Pel, watching as varied emotions flitted across her face, knew she wasn't sure of any such thing. He saw her fingers cross behind her back, not quite out of his view, although she thought they were. Remorse bit at him. He'd promised her dad he'd take care of her, a hard vow to fulfill from flat on his back in bed and no end in sight.
"Tell Moon I want to see him," he said.
"All right." Her mouth compressed. "First thing when he reports for work."
"You got an estimate of when that'll be?"
She hesitated, then met his eyes. "No."

Chapter 10

Delight's yen to have seen the last of former deputy Boomer Herschel turned out to be beyond her control. She found him waiting on the doorstep the next morning when she unlocked the door, his appearance, coming so soon after Tuck Moon's beating, too odd to be a coincidence. Somehow he'd learned what had happened to Tucker Moon. Who, she wondered, had told him?
"Have you come to apologize, Mr. Herschel?" she asked, her tone frosty.
"Came to see the sheriff," he said. "I expect he's realized he needs me back."
"You expect wrong. Pelham has hired a new deputy."
"Yeah?" Herschel made a point of peering over her shoulder. "Where is this new deputy? I don't see him. Looks to me like you're all alone, Mrs. Birdsall."
She meant to block him from entering, but shrank away as he bulled his way in, his body mass a threat to her. She'd always been uncomfortable around him, disliking his loud voice and uncouth habits, but now, to her disgust, she realized she was downright frightened of him. Her involuntary flinch gave him an opening. Once inside, he gawked around, hands on ample hips.
"Pel not up and around yet, I see." He stepped toward the stairs leading to the Birdsall's living quarters as if he owned the place. "Beginning to look like he's a permanent invalid, ain't it?"
Gathering her nerve, Delight darted in front of him, blocking the way. Anger lent substance to her bearing. "Mr. Herschel, stop where you are. If you have official business here, state it. If it's important, I'll pass it on to Pel.
"Don't touch me," she added as his expression hardened and he reached toward her. She hadn't forgotten he'd tried to strike her. Yanking the two-shot derringer from her apron pocket, she leveled it at his chest.
"Ma'am," he said, jerking back, "I'm trying to do you and Pel a favor. You don't want to point that popgun at me."
"A popgun, to be sure. But I'm quite certain the hole it makes is painful nonetheless."
She hardly knew where this standoff would end, short of her pulling the trigger, but Tuck Moon chose that moment to stir, the movement drawing a low, involuntary grunt from him and diverting Herschel's attention.
Tuck couldn't, she reflected, have picked a worse--or a better--time to make his presence known.
"Who's that? You arrest somebody?" Boomer's grin showed what he thought of this idea. Wisely abandoning his intention of confronting Pelham, he strode over to the cells where Moon's door hung open. What he saw startled another of those great booming laughs out of him.
"Ho. This your new deputy? A has-been gunslinger without a gun?" His laugh broke out again. "Looks barely alive, if you ask me. Who do you suppose would do a thing like this to him?"
Delight's eyes narrowed. "I don't know, Mr. Herschel. Do you?"
"Me?" His innocent expression wouldn't have fooled a child. "Why, Mrs. Birdsall, you're in a regular pickle, ain't you? Comes to me, now I think on it, that instead of being deputized, maybe I'd as soon stand off and see what happens around this town during the next few days. Be interesting to hear what folks have to say when trouble breaks out and there's nobody can stop it."
"Fortunately for Endurance, it's no longer your concern," she retorted. "But don't worry. If trouble starts, we'll stop it."
"With him?" His thumb indicated Tuck, who, to all appearances, remained oblivious to everything around him. "Not a prayer. Don't look to me like he's able to put up much of a fight. But it'll be real entertainin' to watch."
Upon this rather menacing observation, his grin grew wider and quite suddenly, Delight had had enough. "Get out, Mr. Herschel. And don't come around again. I will not abide your presence a moment longer. Go."
Grin fading, his bloated face reddened. He made a move toward her, but halted when she pointed her little pistol at him again.
"I'm going," he said. "And when I come back, I'll be the one in charge. You can count on it." He watched her as if making sure she understood, then strutted out like he'd won some sort of prize.
As he had--king of nincompoops! Delight stared after him, questions racing through her mind. Why did Tuck's misfortune seem to please him so much? For that matter, why did Pel's? And why was he so bent on terrifying her, an act he managed very well? His character had turned more despicable these last few days, beyond anything she might have imagined in the days he'd been Pel's ineffective deputy. And she'd have to deal with the situation. Soon. Before it got entirely out of hand--or reached Pel's ears.

* * * *

Tuck couldn't explain even to himself why he played possum when Herschel showed up at the jail. Instinct probably. Or maybe because he sensed Mrs. Birdsall wanted his disability kept secret. So did he. Nothing there to crow about when a man's been beaten like a smashed plum. But enough was enough and his tolerance stopped when Mrs. Birdsall felt called upon to draw her bitty gun. Hence the noise, a ruse meant to distract Boomer--or so Tuck excused the pitiful sound to himself. Once begun, the manufactured schoolboy whimper became all too real. Worked though, drawing Herschel's attention to him like a magpie to a fresh kill.
And although Herschel laughed and took note of his weakness, Tuck had a hunch information had played both ways in this situation, what with Herschel's loose tongue. In picking out the truth from the brag, Tuck predicted there'd be fresh trouble in town within the next few days.
His groan was genuine as he rolled to face Mrs. Birdsall, his stiff back and sore kidneys a misery. The few days Herschel had mentioned didn't give enough time. Way he felt right now, a month would be better. He opened his eyes--eye. The one that wasn't swollen shut. Mrs. Birdsall stood frowning down at him.
"Don't worry about me." A grin, though he wished he could manage one, was impossible. "I ain't nearly so bad as I let on to Herschel."
"You aren't?"
"Nope."
"Then why try to fool him, Mr. Moon?"
Tuck fought his way up onto an elbow. "Can't say for sure, ma'am. Just seemed like a good idea before he got any more rambunctious."
She smiled faintly.
"That hombre is bad business," he added. "But I guess you know that. Don't know what he's up to, but it ain't anything good."
She nodded agreement.
"How'd he come to be deputy in the first place, if you don't mind me asking? Doesn't seem the kind of man Sheriff Birdsall would hire on." Making progress, Tuck swung one leg to the floor and fought the gravity that threatened to pull him back down when he tried to rise.
"He was here when Pel came." Delight entered the cell and helped him sit up. "Some folks seem to like him, so Pelham thought he was working out all right. I've never trusted him. Never. I don't like the way he looks at me."
Tuck didn't blame her.
She stuffed a spare pillow between his back and the knobby rock wall, giving him something soft to lean on. His muscles trembled.
"I think Mr. Herschel thought he'd be elected sheriff when the previous man left, but folks chose Pel instead." Mrs. Birdsall poked with a gentle finger at the stitches she'd put in his head the day before. "They'd heard Pel did well when he sheriffed down in Bledsoe County with my father. And Herschel--well, he doesn't fool everybody. But he's always resented that Pel won out over him. He never said anything, but his attitude spoke for him."
Tuck grunted. Stood to reason. Just as the wish crossed his mind, Delight fetched a big mug of hot coffee from the desk where she'd set it when Herschel accosted her. A pottery mug, he saw, not one of the old tin cups from when he was a prisoner, so he guessed, jail cell or no, he'd been elevated a notch. And she'd had it ready for him, brought downstairs from her kitchen.
"Thank you, ma'am." He sniffed the aroma--his nose seemed to work all right--with a sigh of pure pleasure. The first swallow slid down his throat and warmed his stomach. "You make the best coffee I ever drank, Mrs. Birdsall, bar none."
She made a funny gesture, as if his praise embarrassed her. "Start with fresh, cold water, use good coffee, and settle the grounds with an eggshell. Simple."
He drained the cup. "Hits the spot."
"If you can stand, Mr. Moon, I'll help you upstairs where you can have another cup and eat your breakfast with Pel. In a minute. First, though, what did Mr. Herschel mean by a has-been gunslinger? You?"
She'd picked a sore spot to probe, although Tuck didn't think she needed to sound so disbelieving.
"Tried my hand at it," he said, the admission dragging from him. "Some years back. Wasn't proud of it then, and I'm less proud of it now after--" He stopped, then went on. "But I guess you could say I learned who and what to watch out for when it comes to the bad element."
"Like Diggett Monroe.
He sipped again. "Yep. Like Monroe."
"Do you know him?"
Tuck struggled from the cot, trying to ignore the pain that shot all the way from his toes to the longest hair on his head. Lemon and lavender, he thought. Acid and sweet. Bring him the best coffee of his life, look on his pain with sympathy, then ask the ten-dollar question with a sharpness that cut through his innards like a knife.
"I've met him," he said. "He's what convinced me to follow the straight and narrow. I was afraid I'd turn out like him if I kept on like I was doing. So I quit. Rode into Endurance and got so drunk Pel throwed me in jail." His broken lips twitched. "But that's just what could cause a different problem."
At her questioning look, he explained. "Monroe is a man who keeps what he has. A horse, a drink, a woman. And men. He invites a man into his gang, they don't tell him no."
"And you did."
He sighed. "Yes, ma'am, I sure did."

* * * *

It was Pel's idea, sending Tuck Moon out to the ranch until both of the deputy's eyes functioned and his body moved without screaming. Not that Moon said a word about the way he felt, but it was easy enough for Pel to read, watching his face.
"We're a pair, aren't we?" Pelham said, his mouth twisting with rough sympathy.
"Reckon we are," Tuck Moon muttered.
Judging by the amount of sweat beading the deputy's forehead, just mounting the stairs had been about all he could handle. Now, at Pel's urging, he sat down to revive himself by drinking another cup of Delight's excellent coffee. A fine breakfast of ham and feather light hotcakes with huckleberries stirred into the batter filled the plate she set in front of him.
"Bad as I hate to say it, Herschel's right." Pel nodded at Delight's offer of maple syrup. "Folks get a look at you, Moon, and they're apt to lose confidence fast. It's bad enough me being down. Both of us--"
Delight hovered between them as if undecided which of her two patients needed the most immediate care.
"It's only a few miles to the ranch. Do you think you can manage alone, Mr. Moon?" she asked, harkening back to Pel's suggestion Tuck take a day or two off. She gave Pel a quick glance. "Maybe I'd better show him the way. Make sure he gets there all right."
Slowly, Pel shook his head. "Can't let you do it, honey. Somebody's got to be here. Somebody ambulatory, I mean. Boomer'll be spreading the news all over town that we're both laid up. At a guess, we'll have people dropping by within the hour to see if his report is true. Guess you'll be the one to fend 'em off, tell 'em we're both fine as hair on a chicken."
"Lie to them, you mean."
Pel chuckled. "Afraid so."
Delight's mouth tightened. "If anybody had told me the day would come when Pelham Birdsall encouraged me to tell an untruth, I'd have called him a liar."
"Ma'am," Tuck said, "if you're a-gin it, I don't want you to fib none for me. Let folks see. Shoot, I ain't near as bad as I look. Might be some real surprised banditos when they find out I ain't dead after all."
"All of them raring to finish the job," Pel said, putting an end to the bravado.
After a moment, Delight shrugged and started off toward the kitchen. "I'll put together some supplies for you, Mr. Moon. And then harness your horse to our buggy. I don't want you riding."
To Pel's amusement, she spoke over the top of Tuck's horrified protest. "No, no. I mean it. What if you fell off halfway there, Mr. Moon? Those are my best stitches in your head, and I don't want them going for naught.
"I've decided," she added, a roguish glimmer in her eyes, "that it's not really lying if you tell someone something not quite true as long as it's for his own good. Do you agree?"

* * * *

Before the hour was out, Tuck was astride Ripper and well on his way to the Birdsall ranch. He'd persuaded himself the sheriff and his missus might be right about him staying out of sight for a day or two. Or at least until his eye was open. One thing he was clear about. He'd be danged if he'd insult Ripper by hitching him to a buggy, no matter what Mrs. Birdsall said.
Pel had given easy directions to his ranch. "It's not far. Just follow the road," he'd said. "In about four miles you'll find a turn-off marked by a lightning-blasted cedar. From there, the trail goes south a couple miles. You'll find the cabin at the end of the trail."
But as it happened, Tuck, taking the back way out of town, had barely cleared the outskirts before a rider came loping up behind him. The rider, recognizing Tuck aboard the plodding Ripper, pulled his horse down to a walk beside them. A choking cloud of dust swirled around them both. Tuck like to passed out, snuffling through his swollen nose.
He knew the rider, which didn't raise any joy in him. It was Jake Liston, another of Monroe's hangers-on. Maybe the man wasn't the worst of the lot, but Tuck hadn't ever seen anything about him to brag about either. His hand, already shaking like he had a palsy, crept toward the shotgun tied to his saddle.
Seeing the move, Liston threw up his hands in mock fear. "No need to draw that scatter gun on me, Moon." His grin turned sly. "If you've even got the oomph for it. Man, it looks like a tree done fell on you. A real big tree."
"Nah," Tuck said. "No tree. Just Milt Wheatly, throwing his weight around."
"Yeah, I heard about the fight. Guess everybody has, by now. Said you wasn't tough enough to stand against him more 'n a minute or so. Disappointed him something fierce."
Tuck's pride stood up and growled. "He's calling it a fight?"
"Well, sure. You two was mixin' it up, wasn't you?"
"Somebody's got the numbers wrong. It wasn't just us two, and I'd say it's easy to take a man down when there's four against one, and a gun held on him to boot. When the choice is get shot or take a beating, I'll take a beating any day."
Liston's grin faded. "Something to that argument, all right, long as you live through it. Glad to see you come to your senses in time."
"In time for what?"
"Get out of town before the big dust-up starts. Not that there'll be much to worry about, what with the sheriff out of commission and everybody else shakin' in their boots. Oughta be over in a matter of minutes."
Liston's words were slurred, as if he'd started early this morning sampling the wares available at the Bucket of Sudz. Tuck figured it was the pop-skull loosening his tongue. "Dust-up?"
"Sure. Diggitt's calling all the boys back to Garnet City. Soon's everybody's together, he's gonna give orders to ride on Endurance. He figures we'll take over the town easy as a pig slidin' down a greased chute."
"He tell you that?"
"His very words. That's what I've been doing in town--getting the word out. Guess we'll be ready to move in a few days. Think you want to join up after all?" He laughed a little as he said it.
Tuck shook his head and tried to ignore the whirly red dots it raised behind his eyes. "Not me. Ain't my kind of life."
Liston sobered, his humor fading. "Then take my advice and show this god-forsaken place your heels. Ain't going to be any too pleasant when the shooting starts and you're on the wrong side. Monroe's declared anyone draws down on him or the boys is fair game. Makes those townsfolk into sittin' ducks, if you ask me. Runnin' is probably the smartest thing you've ever done." He flicked Tuck's stuffed saddle bags--courtesy of Mrs. Birdsall--a quick glance. "But I reckon you figured that out already."
Tuck opened his mouth to refute what Liston was taking for granted--about him turning tail on Endurance, that is--but he closed it just in time. No point in warning Monroe of his intentions. The outlaw would learn soon enough.
"Thanks for the warning, Liston," he said. "Be best if you went, too. You ain't a killer like some of these fellers. Pull out while you can. Don't get mixed up any deeper."
Liston frowned into the distance. "I try to leave now, my life ain't worth a plugged nickel, Moon. You know that."
Tuck winced from the pain of taking a deeper breath. "Yeah. I reckon I do."
Turn tail and run? Hell. He couldn't even walk.

* * * *

It was still early when Tuck came to the end of a dusty cow path and found the ranch. The cabin was up a side draw, a hay meadow spreading away out front, timber spreading up the hillsides. A feller could watch his stock from his porch, Tuck thought, admiring the layout. He threaded a way through a couple dozen head of fat beeves, leaving the animals undisturbed by his presence.
The cabin sat in the dappled shade of a few cottonwood trees. Close to, most of the lofty pines had been cut. Stumps, jagged and dry, their bark peeling, rose in the clearing, the logs used to build the house. There was a barn, too, and an outhouse with a crescent moon cut in the door. Just his style.
What he should do, he thought, was copy Birdsall's plan for a good life. Claim some land, work in town until the ranch was self-supporting, then sit back and let the world go by. And find a good, hardworking woman to keep him company. Too bad the only one he knew was already taken.
That's if anybody'd let him live long enough to do it--him and Birdsall both. Tuck almost smiled--until the stitching in his forehead pulled, serving as a reminder of what he was doing here.
At the barn, he unsaddled Ripper, turning the gelding into a corral where grass had grown knee high. With fresh water pumped into a trough, he figured the horse would be fine for a couple days.
A little bashful at making himself at home in Sheriff and Mrs. Birdsall's house, he was too tired to care. He saw the plain table and two chairs, and the set of cast iron cookware hanging from nails driven into the logs behind the cook stove through a blur. His eye caught on the peeled pole bedstead standing in a corner of the one room, its rope springs drawn tight. Flinging a blanket from his bedroll over the springs, he dropped down on top of it.
There was a minute of pain, of twirling vertigo, his head swooning and the light behind his eyes flashing red and black. And then it went solid black and he knew no more. He slept.

Chapter 11

The office key clinked against the derringer in Delight Birdsall's skirt pocket, a reminder that carrying the pocket pistol had become as routine as putting on her shoes and dress. The small weapon was always with her, whether she was cooking in her kitchen or on a trip to the outhouse. The key was because she was in the midst of locking up for the night and had paused on the back steps for a breath of crisp summer night air.
A forest fire is burning somewhere in the distance, she thought, sniffing. Far enough away the sky remained clear, but a breeze carried on it the ominous smell of smoke. The sunset had been spectacular.
It was hot upstairs, and despite the heat--or maybe because of it--Pelham had dropped into a restless sleep. She hesitated to disturb him, and so she tarried in the cool to sit a few minutes on the porch step, her skirt, modesty ignored, lifted above her knees.
Yawning, she stretched her arms to the sky, reveling in the moment of peace. It was late, nearing eleven o'clock. A full moon silvered the landscape, frosting the trees on the hillside behind the office with a glamorous cloak. For the first time since Pelham had been ambushed, she felt hopeful. He'd eaten well tonight, a sign he was better. Truly better and anxious to take up the reins of his profession once more. She no longer feared each hard won breath would be his last.
Remembering Pel's pain reminded her of Tuck Moon, and she shivered a little. As sorely wounded as Pel had been--still was--at least she hadn't had to physically poke and probe him as she had the new deputy. This had been her first try at sewing up a person and, frankly, she hadn't cared for the experience. Tuck, she felt certain, hadn't cared much for it either.
Thinking of the deputy brought to mind what Herschel had said about him. Had Moon really been a gunslinger? Was he a man they--she and Pel and the town--could trust? And what about Herschel? How had he known of Tuck's reputation? Why that struck a wrong chord in her, she couldn't say, but it did.
Occupied with these questions, her mood was shattered by a nearby flurry of shots, the pops a startling echo in the night. Delight jumped to her feet. A man shouted, a horse whinnied, and a dog barked. More men's voices rose in violent protest. Another single shot cracked; the voices went silent.
"Oh, no," she said aloud. "Not now." Maybe she could pretend she hadn't heard. But she had. Duty called. Pel's duty was her duty. She was his eyes and ears, representative in his place. And she hoped, against the odds, he'd sleep through the noise.
Nerves aquiver, she locked up before running around to the side alley and through it to the street. A cautious peek around the corner showed a group of men standing outside O'Hanlon's saloon, with several more crowded together in the open doorway. They all gawked at a man sprawled on the ground as blood spurted from his mid-section. The barking dog, which, given its protective stance must have belonged to the victim, stood guard over the body.
Meanwhile, the man who apparently had shot him danced around like a capering idiot, flaunting a large pistol and keeping the others at bay. As she watched, he sent another bullet into the dark sky.
She recognized the man. It was the one who Pel had arrested the night he was ambushed, the one who'd shot Mrs. Schmidt. Schoefield, who'd tried to bully her.
It seemed obvious all the men, except for the one with the pistol, were hanging back, waiting for somebody to take charge of a loaded situation. In other words, they were waiting for an officer of the law. Waiting for Pel. Or the new deputy. And since that was impossible, it meant she was next on the list. Her breath whistling in distress, Delight made certain of the derringer in her pocket and, squaring her shoulders, hastened toward them.
One person had, perhaps unwisely, separated himself from the others. He approached the man holding the gun, his empty hands spread wide. "Hold it," he said. "There's no need for this. Back off, Schoefield."
"Back off yourself," the gunman said.
"Please. Let us give this man some help."
"Hell, no." Schoefield looked offended. "This here feller is a card sharp, and I didn't shoot him just to have some bleeding hearts coo over him."
Delight ran on silent feet, nearly there. Damn Herschel for his lies, claiming this man had left town when he'd done no such thing. By rights, Schoefield should've been in jail right now, instead putting everyone on the street in danger. Yet here he was, and before she--before anyone--could stop him, the gunman took aim at the would-be peacemaker and fired again.
The impact spun the man around, and she recognized Jones from the newspaper. He clutched at his arm and let out a blood-curdling yell.
Enough was enough. Looked like the townsfolk had made their try at quelling the fracas. Now, as the sheriff's emissary, it was up to her. The thing is, it felt like her stomach was trying to crawl out through her throat.
Unseen at first, she approached the tableau from behind. Light spilled from the saloon windows and doorway. What with that and the full moon, the spreading puddle of blood beneath the downed man was all too evident. The dog whined once, sounding lost.
"What's going on here?" she demanded, making her voice loud and gruff.
The shooter whirled to face her, the pistol bore pointing straight at her left breast.
She didn't consciously tell her feet to stop. They just did. "Mister Shoefield," she said, "I'll thank you to put down that weapon."
"Go away, woman," he said. "This ain't your business."
"That man on the ground makes it my business." She did her best to ignore the pistol. "Do you admit you shot him?" An errant thought burned through her brain. If the man shot her next, she and Pel would be a matched pair, both with holes in their lungs. Only she, likely enough, would be dead.
"Yeah. So what? He was cheatin' at cards."
"Cheating is an offense the sheriff's office is equipped to handle," she said, staring him in the eye. "All anyone need do is file a complaint."
"Complaint's done been filed." Schoefield smirked. "And handled."
The victim was still moving a little. Not dead then, although Delight believed if he didn't get help, he soon would be.
The massive canine, one of the largest she had ever seen, snarled and showed its teeth. Schoefield's gun wavered, shifting between her and the dog and back again. Delight pulled the little derringer from her pocket and pointed it at Schoefield. The man's smirk ended suddenly as the dog launched itself into the air.
Schoefield pulled the trigger.
Horrified, Delight cringed as the dog screamed. It spun in midair, bit at the blood wetting its fur, then leapt once more at the shooter. With ninety or so pounds of angry dog, its teeth bared as it came at him, Schoefield fired again--and again. But either the pistol was empty or it misfired several times in a row, for there was only a dry click.
Schoefield screeched as the dog's powerful jaws closed on his arm. The two went down in a whirl of flying dog hair, pounding boots, and splattering blood. The dog growled, the man yelled and cursed. The crowd cheered them both on.
What, Delight wondered, dazed by the suddenness of it all, would Pel do?
The dog and the man continued their wild scuffle on the ground. Somewhere along the line, the pistol fell from Schoefield's grip and got shunted aside. Delight darted in and kicked it aside where someone, she didn't see who, picked it up.
That summed up the forthcoming help. Apparently it was up to her to put a stop to the ruckus by herself, and before anyone else got hurt. Both the dog and its master needed medical attention and, she supposed, someone would feel bound to kill the dog if it hurt the man. She was inclined to think the animal deserved a medal.
"Enough." She wasn't foolish enough to put a hand on the dog when it was in this state. Instead, she whistled shrilly between her teeth, a herding signal an old Basque sheepherder once taught her. The whistle may have been universal because it caught the dog's attention.
"Back up," she said.
The dog hesitated, its teeth a fraction of an inch from Schoefield's throat.
"Back up."
The dog trembled--weakness? Or eagerness to take the enemy on again, wound or no wound? One thing she knew, it didn't like the command.
"Good dog," she said. "Come."
Schoefield squirmed, trying to bat the dog loose.
"Be still, Mr. Schoefield. I won't destroy this dog on your account." Delight kept her voice calm. "Come," she told the dog again, and this time, it crawled toward her, one of its legs dragging.
Schoefield staggered to his feet and, searching for his hat, found it and jammed it over the bald spot on his pate. "Somebody hand me my gun. I'm gonna kill that son of a--"
Delight cut him off. "No guns, sir. And no killing. I'm placing you under arrest."
"You?" He snickered. "What're you talking about? You can't arrest me. You're a woman." He reached for the derringer in Delight's fist. "Give me that," he said.
She was quick, giving his hand a tap with the barrel sharply enough for him to shake tingles from his fingers.
"Come quietly, if you please, Mr. Schoefield." She retreated one safe step. "My husband is sheriff here. My authority comes from him."
He laughed--at first. Then he didn't laugh. He had no friends here. At least none unwise enough to place a gun in his hand. Not that it stopped him from trying to bull his way out of the situation.
"Ain't nobody gonna blame me for shooting a card cheat," he blustered. "Nor a mad dog."
"That remains to be seen." Delight heard herself, prissy as an old maid. "I warn you, those are only part of the charges. Until this is sorted out, I'll start with disturbing the peace." She turned to the saloonkeeper, who, along with the swamper she'd met the other day peering from behind him, watched events with his hands hidden beneath his apron. The men stared at her with their mouths open.
A laugh flickered inside her. What's the matter? she wondered. Hadn't any of them ever seen a virago before? Put together, they all looked like a school of bewildered fish.
"Mr. O'Hanlon," she said, "since the trouble started in your establishment, perhaps you would be good enough to help escort Mr. Schoefield over to the jail."
Schoefield started backing away, his hands in the air. "Do it, O'Hanlon, and you'll be sorry. The boss'll hear about this."
"I won't be sorry if you try to get away." O'Hanlon flipped his apron aside to reveal a shotgun with a sawed-off barrel. "Wish you would. Ain't illegal to shoot a runaway prisoner."
There were, Delight saw, two separate contingents of saloon customers. Town men, local loggers and a few farmers or ranchers were on one side. They nodded and muttered agreement with O'Hanlon. On the other side, three or four of Schoefield's kind, all strangers wearing pistols at their hips, rough clothes, and big hats, looked on with narrowed eyes. Outnumbered, the strangers remained tight-lipped and silent as the local men moved to help O'Hanlon.
Delight pretended not to see the saloonkeeper's shotgun. "Is Doctor Miller in the saloon?"
O'Hanlon grimaced. "Yeah, but he's plumb ossified."
"When is he not?" Delight's anger burned. "Get him out here. The dog's master looks seriously hurt. Throw a bucket of cold water over Doc. That works well enough to awaken him."
O'Hanlon jerked his thumb and the swamper, having the experience of seeing Delight in action previously, grinned and headed back into the saloon, moving fast.
Gathering up the reins of command, Delight addressed the wounded newspaperman. "How are you, Mr. Jones?"
"A graze, Mrs. Birdsall. Painful, but nothing to worry about." Jones peered at her, then made more marks with his pencil. He'd been skipping around with a small notebook in hand, writing furiously while the dog and man fought. "I'll be over to the jail to press charges later. I don't carry a gun, and I don't think the sheepherder had one either. This town will have to make an example out of Schoefield."
"That will be up to a judge and jury," Delight said, loud enough for every man there to hear in case anyone had a yen for vigilante justice. "Does anyone know what to do for this dog?"
"Sic Doc on it," someone said in a stage whisper. He won a few chuckles, but that was as far as it got.
Doctor Miller shambled out of the saloon, clutching his bag. Unsteady enough to put out a bracing hand to prevent a fall, he knelt beside the wounded sheepherder, now frozen in ominous stillness. Beside Delight, the dog whined, too hurt to object more.
"Easy." Delight laid her hand on the big dog's head. She'd seen pictures of some of the old European shepherding breeds and believed this animal was one of them. Inside, she flinched. Was this part of a lawman's duties, too, the taking care of hurt animals? Pelham had never said so, but then, it appeared there were a whole lot of things he'd never mentioned to her.
"One of you find a wheelbarrow," she said. "Bring it here and lift the dog into it. We'll take it over to the sheriff's office. I'll look after him myself. And be careful with him. That dog is braver than anybody."
Silent now, a couple men complied, remaining quiet even when the dog nipped one as they lifted it into the conveyance.
Schoefield didn't go with his escort of his own accord. Once he came near escaping, going so far as to knock two men down. O'Hanlon clouted him alongside the head with the shotgun's heavy walnut stock and, after that, the double threat of the scattergun and Delight's derringer kept him moving in the right direction. It wasn't until she locked the cell door on him and tucked the key away that she drew an easy breath. And even that juddered in her chest. All this commotion--had it awakened Pel? If so, he wasn't saying anything or drawing attention to his absence.
"You gonna be all right, Mrs. Birdsall?" O'Hanlon asked. "This here's a sturdy jail. I know--I helped build it. Wish we'd put a solider door in, is all. What I'm trying to say is, Schoefield won't get out as long as you keep it locked. Reckon your deputy'll be along in the morning to take care of him."
Delight sensed a question. "Deputy Moon is on assignment right now, but Pel is right upstairs and getting better every day. I'm not worried, Mr. O'Hanlon, although I am very grateful for your help tonight."
O'Hanlon, catching her careful implication that Pel was in charge, beamed. "This ought to put the run on those fellers for a while. We won't be seeing them in town again."
Schoefield stood at the cell door listening and wearing a sneer on his face.
"I hope you're right, sir," Delight said to O'Hanlon.
She couldn't tell him she thought he was mistaken. The men assigned to animal patrol showed up just then with a wheelbarrow borrowed from the livery, the big dog overlapping the sides. In the flurry of settling the animal on a rug in a corner of the room, she gratefully abandoned discussion of the other problem.

* * * *

The dog was still alive the next morning when Delight got downstairs. Its head lifted at sight of her, a good sign, although its interest may have been roused by the tray of ham and hotcakes she carried. The food had been intended as the prisoner's breakfast--until she saw the dog's nose working the scent.
The poor animal had quit bleeding, she noted, although its light-colored coat was rusty with dried blood. It had also drunk all of the water from the bowl she'd filled last night. The water and a warm place to lie had been all she knew to do for it. Maybe it had been enough.
"'Bout time you got here," Schoefield said, his large nose twitching in imitation of the dog's. He stood clutching at the cell bars and scowling. "I'm hungry. Must be nigh onto seven A.M."
Although Delight could scarcely credit it, he seemed no worse the wear for all the liquor he'd drunk the night before. The scowl must be habitual, she thought, for it fell into lines already in evidence on his face.
She walked past the cell, set the food tray on the desk and took some of the ham and a hot cake from the prisoner's plate. Tearing the food into bite-size pieces, she put it on a square of newspaper, which she placed the floor in front of the dog. The animal looked up at her, its eyes moist.
"Eat," she said, and it did, sniffing experimentally first, then wolfing the food down and looking for more.
"Hey," Schoefield said, "what the hell are you doing? That's mine."
"When it comes to food, Mr. Schoefield, you get what I say you get. Nothing more. Now stand back. Sit on your cot and I'll slide this plate under the door."
His scowl grew darker, if possible, and he grumbled, trying to bully her into opening the door and giving the meal into his hands. Delight said nothing, just shook her head and let him wear himself out. When he ran down, she said again, "This food is growing colder the longer you argue. Step back. Sit on the cot. Unless you want me to feed the rest of your breakfast to the dog."
She took pride in sounding cool and unflustered, even though her insides were tense enough to hurt. It took him a while to see she meant what she said. Glaring, and acting as if compliance pained him, he perched on the cot edge, giving her room to push the plate and cup under the cell door. After she stepped back, he snatched the plate up, examining the ham like he thought she might've dusted it with sleeping powder. A good idea, if she'd only thought of it.
"What am I supposed to eat with?" he asked.
"There's a spoon." Delight pointed to the short-handled implement at the edge of the plate.
"That? That's for feeding mush to a brat."
"You may use your fingers if you prefer," Delight replied. "Although, you might wash them first. There's a basin of water on the shelf."
The retort didn't set well with Schoefield. "Watch your step, missus," he warned her. "I won't be in this puny hoosegow for long."
"We shall see," she replied.
Jailbreaks were not unheard of, that was certain. Delight remembered her dad telling Pel when Pel had been a young deputy to be extra careful around some of the worst desperadoes they hauled in. A fork stuck in an unsuspecting lawman's throat could be just as lethal as a gunshot wound, and silent to boot. A kitchen knife could be honed to a point. She hadn't slept well at night for a week after hearing that. A deserved punishment for eavesdropping, she supposed.
Tuck Moon had used the same eating utensils she and Pel did, a privilege not extended to this man. She didn't trust anyone who'd shoot down an unarmed sheepherder and a dog--let alone a woman like Ilse Schmidt. Which reminded her. She needed to check with Doc first thing. See if the charge against Schoefield was murder or something less.
Sighing, Delight pushed a lock of brown hair off her forehead, refilled the dog's water bowl, and then went outside to feed Pel's horse and clean the barn. Sometimes all this seemed more than she could handle. She wouldn't say it out loud for the world, but Pel was right. She was feeling a tad weary. And from the way he'd said it, apparently what meager looks she'd been able to claim were fast disappearing. Right along with her enthusiasm for doing his job.

Chapter 12

Along about noon of his second day at the cabin, a grouse squawking outside awakened Tuck. Its noise combined with the high-pitched squeal of a cricket camped under the window on the shady side of the house. At first he was annoyed by the racket, but his irritation soon faded as the recollection of the beating he'd taken returned. By gum, if he could hear all those pesky critters, it must mean his eardrum wasn't broke after all.
Twinges of pain shot through his body as he rolled over on the rope springs, surprising him into biting off a curse. Felt like every joint in his body was banded in hot iron; every muscle stretched almost to breaking, then pulverized with a sledge hammer. If he hadn't desperately needed to use the outhouse, he figured he'd be content just to lie there in one spot until he died. He didn't quite understand why Happy and the bunch had left him alive anyway. Maybe just to put him through this?
Once assured his legs would hold him, he staggered to the privy, lurching from bed, to chair, to table, to door until he left the cabin, caroming from one side to the other like a drunken sailor the rest of the way. Ole Ripper, busy eating down the grass in the corral, nickered a greeting as he went by. The sun warmed Tuck's battered face.
He walked a little straighter on his return to the cabin where he forced himself to fix and eat some of the food Delight--Mrs. Birdsall, he corrected himself--had sent along with him. After making certain Ripper had water, weariness overtook him and he crawled back into bed.
One more night, he promised himself. He'd be ready to face Monroe after one more night. But first, he'd have to face Mrs. Birdsall and the sheriff.

* * * *

In the upstairs bedroom, Pel started awake, all senses alert. His heart pounded, hot blood rushed through his veins. There was a disturbance in the house, a faint sound he couldn't identify, though why this filled him with alarm he couldn't say.
All of a sudden, Delight's tabby streaked through the open bedroom door with its tail held high, hair stuck out sharp like the head of a thistle. It leapt onto the bed and set to washing its hind leg with quick, angry strokes of the tongue.
Something, Pel perceived, was wrong. Delight? She was alone down there with that prisoner she'd told him about. The one incarcerated by a means he still wasn't quite clear on. The one who'd shot an unarmed man and a dog and was now facing a murder charge. Pel'd about had a conniption when Delight first told him about it.
Grunting with effort, Pel swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood up, knees buckling beneath him. His night-shirt did little to hide the shaking. Groping for the holstered .45 hanging from the rocking chair, he drew the pistol, then, making heavy use of the wall to keep himself upright, he worked his way out into the hall. At the top of the stairs he stopped to listen.
What he heard sent a great rush of ice water through his veins.
Somebody had hold of his wife.
Another thought raced through his mind.
Somebody is about to die.
Bare feet silent, he stumbled down stairs, hanging onto the rail with one hand, his .45 with the other. Not that he need worry overmuch about noise. The men down there with Delight were making enough racket to cover any sound he made. Distinct in his ears--in his soul--was the smack of an open-handed blow on bare skin, followed by a low cry. It was his wife. He'd know the tones of her voice even if he was one breath away from death. She sounded as if she was either gagged or brave enough and tough enough to hold in the sound. The dog she'd told him about growled on a long, low note, like thunder rumbling in the distance.
The ice in his veins turned to red hot rage.
"Get the key," a man was saying, voice rising high with excitement. "Get the key."
"She did something with it," a different man said. "It ain't on the hook and it ain't in the desk."
"Hurry up and find it, Filmore," the first feller said. "Make her tell you where it is."
There was another slap, and another suppressed cry.
"C'mon, woman. Speak up." There was a laugh. "This hurts you more'n it does me."
Delight emitted an unintelligible squeak, and the dog rumbled again. Pel wondered why the damn thing didn't go after Delight's tormentors. Isn't that what it was bred to do?
"Again," a new voice urged. "Hit the saucy bitch again. Harder this time. She'll talk. Wag that knife under her chin. Touch her up a dab. Just get me out of here."
So that was the prisoner talking. Schoefield. Delight had said his name was Schoefield.
Cursing his puny legs and watery knees, Pel hurried. Wouldn't do any good to topple down the stairs at their feet, though. Worse, it might startle someone into killing her. She's strong, he told himself. She can take a slap. Yet how did he know? She'd never been slapped in her life.
Time passed, feeling like an eternity before he made it to the last step. Sweat ran, dropping from his chin as, still holding himself up by the rail, he stuck his head around the corner until he could see into the office. The scene was every bit as bad as it had sounded, with Delight in every bit as much trouble as he'd feared.
A giant of a feller held her arms pinned to her sides. What with her being so tiny and him being so big, she dangled a few inches off the ground, which didn't seem to cause him any particular effort. She was fighting hard. Refusing to give up, she lashed out with her feet, doing her level best to land a good kick where it would do the most good.
At last, one of her kicks struck home, causing the big man to gasp and squeeze down even harder. That one lucky blow was the extent of her retaliation. Too bad, since she deserved some return for the red welts marring both sides of her otherwise ashen face.
The brute shook her like she was a rag doll. The second man, the one called Filmore, jumped around like an excited rabbit, grinning and taking obvious pleasure in dealing out another blow.
"Damn you," she said. "Let me go. You don't know what you're doing. My husband--"
"Your husband," Filmore mimicked in a high-pitched voice as he flicked her along the jaw. "Your husband has one foot in the grave."
Delight refused to cry out. Not even as another slap broke open her swollen lower lip and blood streamed down her chin. She just grunted a little and kicked all the harder.
The debt was growing bigger and somebody had to pay.
Pel took a steadying breath as fury roiled his guts. Stay calm. Don't do anything stupid. Hadn't anybody seen him yet. The prisoner couldn't spot him from the cell, and the other two stood sideways to him. No use barging in and getting himself caught in the middle. He couldn't help Delight that way, and they'd kill her sure. And him.
At considerable cost, he put a damper on his wrath, taking time to scout his alternatives. He needn't bother about Schoefield just yet. Nobody had thought to give him a gun, and as long as Pel stayed out of his reach, he could ignore him, except for the way he was urging his partners to torment Delight.
It was the other two that worried Pel. The big feller could break his wife's slender neck with a twist of one meaty hand. But it was Filmore who had a bowie knife a foot long in his hand, waving it beneath her nose, the point within a hair's breadth of shaving off the tip.
"Hold 'er still, Milt," he said. "I'm goin' to carve her up good."
Him first, then. Pel sucked in his gut.
He wasn't looking for any help, but when it came, he didn't turn it down. The dog, crawling across the floor unnoticed until he was almost within striking range, gathered himself to leap.
From the cell, Schoefield spied the animal first. "Watch that dog. It's vicious."
It was a short distraction. The blade of Filmore's knife tilted past Delight's face as he turned to look. It was Pel's signal. He poked the Colt around the corner and shot Filmore square in the head. With his partner toppling toward him in a spurt of blood, the big feller was surprised into loosening his hold on Delight. Looking bewildered, he reached out to catch the man. Quick as a ferret, Delight dropped to the floor and rolled away, leaving Pel a clear shot.
Hand trembling, Pel pulled the trigger again, shooting the big man through the thigh. Milt toppled like a felled tree, grabbing his leg. Delight reached over and snagged his pistol from the holster before crawling on hands and knees to the side of the room, safe at last.
Too bad about the leg, Pel thought. He'd been trying for another head shot. There was going to be a terrible mess to clean up, a lot of blood having leaked onto the jail's plank floor.
Inside the jail cell, Schoefield mouthed a never-ending stream of obscenity in a high pitch like a hysterical woman.
Delight turned to the prisoner. "Shut up," she said. "Shut up, right now."
Pel felt like laughing. Funny, because the prisoner, evidently hearing the same thing in her voice that Pel did, closed his trap. Exhaustion claimed Pel then, and all at once, his legs gave out and he sank onto the bottom step. His ears roared with the beat of his heart. Only one real thought filled his mind. Delight was safe. He'd managed that, at least, and through wavering vision he saw her running toward him with her hands outstretched. Didn't seem right, though, the way his eyes were playing tricks. He saw her--and then he didn't. She kept fading in and out like a dream. And the strange part was, now her ordeal was over, he could've sworn she was crying. Why was she doing that?

* * * *

Delight wished the lot of men crowded into the small office to perdition. They only wanted to help, those who were more than ghouls come to see the blood, and there were more than a few of them. She, of course, could've gone for a lot less talk and a little more action. She didn't appreciate their behind-a-hand comments on her battered face either.
"Wonder what..." she heard one say without learning what it was he wondered. Nothing good, she supposed.
Meanwhile, she ached to speak with her husband in private. She wanted to throw her arms around him, kiss him with a passion new to them both, and tell him how much she loved him. It wasn't every man who would've put himself on the line to save his wife like he had. Just her man. Mr. O'Hanlon and Mr. Sheridan had shown up too soon after the shots. All she could do was hold his hand under cover of her spread skirt.
But at least some of the men were considerate enough to lift Pel into a chair out of the way and send someone for Doc. Lord knows there was plenty of work for the doctor here, between Pel and the two men he'd shot.
Doc'd had a big rush of business of late, the men agreed, guffawing over the fact.
"Poor ol' feller. He'll be too busy to take a drink," one said, to which another replied he'd never known Doc to drink less than his daily quota. "More, maybe. But never less."
It turned out Wheatley was the wounded outlaw's name--Milt Wheatley. They'd pried that much information out of the big man in between his yowling.
"That's the man who almost pulverized poor Tuck Moon." Delight leaned over to whisper in Pel's ear. "Mr. Moon told me about him. Said he likes to beat people with his fists."
Wheatley hadn't been bashful about urging Filmore to cut her either. Delight couldn't find it in her heart to feel sorry for him, even when it seemed likely he'd lose his leg.
"Serves him right," she said, with a new toughness in her tone that she could see shocked Pelham. "As ye sow, so shall ye reap."
As for Schoefield, he was dead quiet behind the locked cell door. Almost as quiet as the man Pel had killed. And who, Delight wondered with a queasy feeling, was going to clean the jail?
If a couple of these men who seemed so eager to hear every detail about the shootout cooperated, she'd have them keep watch over Schoefield while he did the cleaning. If they all weren't too afraid of the outlaw.
Pel tugged at her hand, and she bent to hear what he was saying. He was pale as a whitewashed fence, but a grin lifted a corner of his mouth.
"Don't know how I'm going to get back upstairs," he said. "Looks like I'm gonna have to sit here a spell. Embarrassing, without my britches on."
She squeezed his shoulder. "I'll see what I can do."
Lifting her skirt off the floor to keep it from dragging in the blood, she went over to where Doc was cinching a tourniquet tighter around Wheatley's leg. As she watched, the flow of blood slowed to a seep.
"Is he ready to move to your surgery?" she asked.
Doctor Miller looked up. "Thought I'd do it right here."
"No!" Delight felt faint at the thought. "No. Have some of these men carry him over to your surgery. I don't want him here. You stay behind. You and I will need to see Sheriff Birdsall makes it back to bed. He's overdone it."
"Somebody'll have to take care of Wheatley after I operate. Figured you'd want to keep him here at the jail." Doc was trying to insist.
Delight's glare could've peeled paint off a barn. "Certainly not. Hire a nurse to help you. I believe the county gives you a stipend for cases just like this. They don't give me one."
Doc muttered, but Delight didn't have that stubborn set to her jaw for nothing. Under her direction, men whisked the back door off its hinges and pressed it into use as a stretcher. Wheatley, being a mountain of a man, needed every one willing to help carry him across the street and down to the doctor's office, a small, shabby dwelling convenient to O'Hanlon's saloon. Doc, making a show of repacking equipment in his black bag, waved them away without him.
"You trying to kill yourself, Birdsall?" Doc growled as soon as they'd cleared out. "Thought I told you to lay in bed and stay still until that hole in your chest is well."
"Guess somebody should've told those two," Pelham said.
Doctor Miller sweated through his shirt under the unaccustomed physical effort combined with an excess of alcohol remaining in his bloodstream from the previous night's excesses. He wobbled as he took Pel's weight on his shoulder. "Damn fool," he said.
"They were threatening my wife," Pel gasped in between efforts to go easy on Doc. "You don't think I'd lay safe in my bed and listen to them cut her to pieces, do you? Look at her face, Doc."
Pel sounded almost amused at the idea, and Delight's heart swelled with thankfulness. Another minute and he would've been too late. Filmore had come within a gnat's ear of slashing her across the face. She'd seen the excitement, the desire, in his expression. She had a good imagination, and could see in her mind's eye what she would have become if it weren't for Pelham. The vision filled her with horror. She could almost see the children fleeing from her on the street.
"I am looking." Miller squinted at her as though studying a portrait from a distance. "Didn't want to say anything that called attention to it around the others. Shame about that pretty face of yours, missus." That shocked her so much she almost missed his medical advice, which was to, "Slather some witch hazel on the bruises. Better wash those cuts out, too. Got a nasty one on your cheekbone, but I think you can get by without stitches."
Delight was well aware of the "nasty one on her cheekbone." Even so, the situation could've turned out worse. At least Pel had been in time to stop Filmore. Delight, following Doc and Pel up the stairs, shivered and gave her husband an extra boost from behind. He jerked and hopped along a little faster.
Yes. Pel would do whatever it took to protect her, no matter if it killed him. He'd promised her father. And she--she would return the favor.

* * * *

Two nights and two days in the solitude of the Birdsall ranch was plenty for Tuck Moon. The first twenty-four hours he'd spent more or less unconscious, sleeping like he'd never awaken. The second twenty-four he spent all too conscious, feeling every twinge of abused muscles and tendons. By the third morning, his eye opened of its own accord, his vision restored. That the white was not white, but blood red he knew from seeing himself in a sliver of looking glass stuck to the wall above the washbasin. The skin around both eyes was purple-black from his broken nose, and his hearing still came and went. He hadn't lost any teeth, he discovered, probing with his tongue. Nobody would call him pretty, but, his dander up, he was ready to resume the fray.
According to what Jake Liston had told him, Monroe and his men wouldn't wait much longer before they moved to take over Endurance. If they hadn't already done so. The time was ripe because who was there to stop them? Not Birdsall, for certain. Not Herschel. That was twice as certain. And from what Tuck'd seen and heard, the voting public would turn tail at the first rattle of gunfire.
The sun shone down and the day boded hot as he closed the cabin door and toted his gear over to the corral. Ole Ripper snorted at sight of the saddle and came to him without fuss. Ripper needed work. Tuck guessed the horse had gotten bored with nothing to do but graze the small pen. There'd been a lot of days like that of late.
Tuck pulled himself into the saddle like he was a decrepit old man, but once aboard, his muscles settled into an accustomed pattern and he felt better. Alive, anyway. There'd been a spell when he'd wondered if he'd survive the beating.
The trail back to town didn't seem half as long as it had on the way out. A couple of hours found him riding up to the barn behind the sheriff's office, having approached from the back so as to remain out of sight. He wasn't ready for folks to know he'd returned just yet. Not until he'd talked with the sheriff.
Easing himself to the ground, he stumbled on the uneven terrain. Apparently, his legs still lacked their usual starch. When certain of his balance, he led Ripper inside to a stall, unsaddled and brushed the horse down.
At the rear entrance to the sheriff's office, Tuck stuck his least battered ear against the door. He didn't hear anybody speaking, although that might not mean much. It was the quiet time of day and the door was thick. Best not to give anyone a big surprise when he barged in, though. He didn't want to get shot by accident. He guessed Birdsall might be a little jumpy, waiting for the hammer to fall. And it would fall. The only question was when.
Pushing the door open in small increments, Tuck listened closely until he was certain Herschel or somebody else wasn't lying in wait. However, the office was neither silent nor empty. He heard the rustle of paper being turned, a sound like a heavy sigh, and the familiar clatter of a spoon scraping food off a tin plate. Everything appeared peaceful enough. He opened the door a little wider and slipped inside.
The heavy, intermittent sighing sound turned into a low growl. Tuck stopped with his back to the door, transfixed as a large cream-colored, long-haired dog poked his snout around the corner and snarled a warning.
"Who is there?"
It was Delight asking; Tuck recognized her voice, although its harsh timber was new.
"Me," he said, keeping an eye on the dog. "Tuck Moon."
"Tuck!" A chair scraped along the floor and her skirt rustled as she came to call off the beast. "Mr. Moon, I'm glad you're here. Are you well? We've desperately needed you."
At her urging, the dog moved aside far enough for Tuck to step into the office. The animal dragged a useless back leg like a boat rudder, he saw, with the fur on its hindquarters patchy where it'd been cut away from a deep wound. But its eyes were clear and glared at him from amber depths.
"Bet there's a story on where this feller came from," Tuck said, noticing the way it kept between him and Mrs. Birdsall. Hadn't taken her long to win its loyalty, he thought, since it had been nowhere in evidence before he left. A silent chuckle rumbled through him. He guessed there wasn't much difference between him and the dog. Hadn't taken her long with him either.
"There is indeed," she said. "Make friends with him. He may save your life like he did mine."
Her words drew his direct gaze, which gave him his first good look at her. He almost strangled on his own spit, sucked in hard enough to set him coughing. "What's been going on here? Who did that to your face?" His fingers clenched as though reaching for the non-existent pistol at his side.
"I met up with some of your former friends, Mr. Moon." Her voice was very dry. "Discovering, to my detriment, they're not particular who they pick on. They've gone through men, women, and dogs, so far. I expect children and babies are next on their list."
"Sheriff Birdsall?"
She read the question correctly. "Alive. Recovering from this latest contretemps."
Tuck didn't know the word, but he caught the meaning. "That mean he's on his feet?"
"He was yesterday, for just long enough. Today he's not. Come in, Deputy Moon. There's been a great deal happening you need to hear about."
A harsh laugh came from one of the cells at the side of the room, which made Tuck spin around. The man standing at the bars, a sneer on his face, was watching him. Tuck recognized his former cellmate, Schoefield. Another of Diggett Monroe's hangers-on.
"You ain't relying on this character, are you, Mrs. Sheriff?" Schoefield said with an air of false concern. "Why, look at him. Ain't even got a gun no more. Sold it to a feller so's he could buy a bottle of pop-skull. Was a good gun, too, from what I hear. Once upon a time."
While Tuck was still figuring out how to reply--or deciding if he should--Delight glanced across at Schoefield.
"If you're done with your dinner," she said, "shove the plate out under the door. I don't want food left in the cell. It'll draw more bugs and rats."
Schoefield reddened. The plate was already on the floor. He reared back with a foot and gave it a sharp kick. The plate tipped coming under the bars; leftover gravy spilled, a bread crust rolled. It was the dog saved the day, by dragging itself over and licking up the spill. Delight retrieved the plate and spoon, handling them as though they might be contaminated.
"At least someone has manners," she said, patting the dog on its shoulder. "Deputy, Sheriff Birdsall will want to speak with you. It's dinner time, so I expect you're ready for a bite to eat."
The story of the past couple days, which Tuck figured she curtailed somewhat, poured from her as she led him up the stairs to the Birdsalls' apartment. Tuck let her soft voice wash over him, dismayed by the incident, while at the same time, a part of his mind fixed on other things. For instance, she hadn't reacted when Schoefield talked about him having sold his pistol for the price of a brown bottle. A sharp woman like her, she must've known--guessed, anyway--that he wasn't but one step up the ladder from Schoefield, or even Diggett Monroe. The sheriff had probably told her about him. Didn't it bother her, being in the same room with a no-good like Tuck Moon? Regret for his past deeds made him feel a fool.
But it was her face, the fresh white skin marred by a clear imprint of harsh fingers in the purple bruises that bothered him most. She'd been slapped, first from one side, then the other. There was a scabbed over cut on her swollen lower lip, another high on her cheek. Dark shadows, signs of worry and sleepless nights, lay stark beneath her blue eyes.
Birdsall ought to get her away from here, Tuck thought. Send her to relatives or friends out of the danger zone. Because, unless he missed his guess, this-- What had she called it? Contretemps? Yeah. This contretemps was just getting started.
"Who'd you say slapped you, ma'am?" He hardly realizing he'd interrupted something she was telling him about the dog and its owner. Its former owner.
"I didn't say, Mr. Moon." She stopped on the stairs and flipped a careless hand. "But don't let the way I look worry you. Mr. Birdsall has already taken care of all that. There's a certain Mr. Luke Filmore lying in the cemetery right now as a consequence of his actions. I believe you recognize his name?"
"I do," Tuck said. And right now, he couldn't decide whether he was glad Birdsall had taken care of that problem, or if he should be jealous because he wouldn't have minded doing it himself.
Ah, well. He had no doubt his chance would come. Made sense the bone orchard would be greeting some new residents before long. And one of them might be poor old Tuck Moon.

Chapter 13

Stubborn to his very core, Pelham Birdsall fought his way out of bed at his usual time the morning after he shot Luke Filmore. Contrary to his wife's wishes, he dressed in shirt and pants before hobbling out to the kitchen wearing hand-knit slippers instead of struggling with his boots. Five minutes after eating his breakfast, before Delight went downstairs to tend the prisoner, he'd had her help him to the couch where he'd lain ever since, his feet hanging over the end. He'd slept the morning away, he discovered, jerking awake at the sound of voices on the stairs. It was Delight and someone else, a man.
His hand crept under the pillow for his Colt before recognizing Tuck Moon's voice. Then he sat up, head swimming with the remnants of bad dreams, before the two reached the apartment.
Seeing him awake, Delight smiled at him, saying gaily, "Look who's here!" before peeling off toward the kitchen. Moon came forward, his hand outstretched.
"Had some trouble, I hear." Moon's handshake, though firm, did not try to overpower Pel's weakened grip.
Pelham nodded. "We did. Fortunately, my wife is a fighter. Between us, we handled the situation, but Moon, I'm glad you're back. I don't know how much longer this quiet is going to last."
Moon sat on the edge of the chair next to the couch, an obviously ill-at-ease guest in the sheriff's house. His ramshackle hat twirled between his fingers. "Not long, I expect. I already had word Monroe has plans for Endurance. Another day or two, then look out." He fell silent.
"Had word?" Pel asked. "At the ranch?"
"Nah. Feller I know overtook me on the way out to your ranch. He figured I was leaving town, and I didn't tell him any different." Moon shifted in the hard-seated chair. "Mrs. Sheriff, she was telling me how she come to be all banged up. Diggett Monroe won't be happy, you shooting a couple of his men. He's got a temper, and he don't give up. Losing a man, it'll just make him mad, more determined to bring you down. Sooner or later, he'll try to get you."
"That's about what I figured," Pel said. "You know him. Think we've got time to call in the U.S. Marshals before he moves on us?"
Tuck rubbed a hand through his sand-colored hair, pausing at a knob left there from his beating. "Doubt it. Can try, I reckon, but he's had time to gather his gang. I expect he's ready, just waiting for Friday."
"Friday? What the hell does Friday have to do with it?"
"Monroe's superstitious. If you check his record, you'll see he always pulls his stunts on Friday--in the evening usually."
How did Moon know? Pel wondered, just as Moon added, "Sheriff, if you've got any favors due, this would be a good time to call 'em in."
Pel considered. Who else was there but the U.S. Marshals? Plenty of men might owe him a favor, but nobody he could reach before Monroe's probable attack. The closest lawman was Hood Barnes up near Colville, and it would take him a couple days to get here unless train service had rolled into town by now. He huffed out a breath and shook his head.
"You and me, Moon. That's all. My missus tells me a couple of men stepped up the other night and helped out, but I think the consequences, what happened with those two yesterday, scared some of them into having second thoughts. A man don't want his wife treated like Mrs. Birdsall."
"I don't blame them," Tuck said.
Pel grimaced. "So we can't trust the townsfolk to be so bold another time. It helped that the men here yesterday were drunk. Made them more vicious, maybe, but the rotgut slowed them down some, too. Doubt we'll get that lucky again."
"Most of them will be sober when they come next time," Tuck agreed. "And all the more dangerous because of it."
"A sober man thinks strategy. A drunk just blunders in, come what may." A brief grin curled the corner of Pel's mouth. "Think Monroe'd take a case of whiskey with my compliments if I sent it to him?"
Tuck snorted. "Might be worth a try."
The moment of levity passed. "You noticed my missus' face, and she probably told you how Monroe's men slapped her around, threatened her with a knife. One of the men, Luke Filmore, is dead; the other one, Wheatly, has a crippled leg. We don't need to worry about either of them. But the rest of the gang--" Pel's mouth tightened and his low murmur quieted further. Delight had sharp ears, and she was tuned to his voice. He didn't want her overhearing this next part. "You have some acquaintance with Monroe. Tell me the truth. Does this make Mrs. Birdsall more of a target or less?"
His deputy sat there, gazing at the floor, still on the edge of his seat with his battered old hat hanging from a hooked finger. At last he met Pel's eyes. "More," he said, almost whispering. "Monroe, he don't let any advantage pass and, Sheriff, he knows by now that if he has her, he has you."
It was just what Pel had been thinking.
"Well, then," he said. "I reckon it's up to me to make sure Monroe can't get at her. We need to carry the fight to Monroe. Choose our ground. Found out the other day when Monroe's men shot the place up that two of us can't defend the jail. Walls might as well be built of paper." The corner of his mouth twitched. "Wish we had a fort--and a company of trained soldiers."
"Send your missus away," Tuck advised.
Pel grimaced. "That's what I was thinking. I just wish it was that easy."

* * * *

Delight, straining her ears, listened to the men talk. Only a word here and parts of a sentence there reached her, but enough to know her name came up. She moved back and forth from the stove to the kitchen table, stirring leftover stew as it reheated, cutting bread, setting out a bowl of applesauce laced with cardamom. What were they saying that they didn't want her to hear?
Men! Annoyance shot through her. It wasn't as though she could go back and be the innocent Pel wanted her to be, the prim, respectable lady she'd been two weeks ago. Truth be known, she'd learned a whole lot more about the sheriffing business when she was a little girl hanging around her dad's office than Pel wanted to give her credit for. She was in the middle of this fight now. There was no going back, and surely they were all safer if she knew what to watch for.
Meanwhile, she didn't want Pelham getting too excited or worried. That sort of thing would delay his recovery. Even Doctor Miller, slurring his words as he spoke, had said on his last visit Pel shouldn't be bothered. She sighed, scattering silverware at the side of yellow flowered crockery plates. Too late for that as well. Pelham would do as his principles dictated, no matter the cost to himself. And so would she.
Pasting on another of those smiles that were beginning to feel like someone had drawn half-circles on her face with chalk, she made a production of stepping out of the kitchen and calling, "Dinner is on the table. Mr. Moon, you may wash up at the kitchen sink. Pelham, let me give you a hand."
A drawn--no--a guilty silence fell before Tuck Moon lurched to his feet. Did they think she hadn't noticed? Well, she had. They were making a mistake, leaving her out of the planning, whether they acknowledged it or not. Irritation jerked at her again.
And then Tuck Moon acted so off-handed about stepping in and assisting Pel from the couch it was almost funny, while her husband did his utmost to pretend he didn't need it. He hated showing weakness, even to his deputy. Even to her. But that was Pel.
Her smile, which she'd allowed to fade, came back, real this time. "I hope you're hungry," she said. "Stew is always best the second day, so this should be just right."
She had the satisfaction of knowing it was.

* * * *

"What were you and Tuck Moon talking about today before dinner? Whispering, so I wouldn't hear. I swear, you two were like a pair of schoolgirls hatching a plot of some kind."
Delight's question came out of the darkness. She was stretched beside him, careful to keep to her own side of the bed where she couldn't inadvertently roll too close and hurt him somehow. Pel felt her, lying stiff and tense, and longed to pull her into his arms. He resisted the impulse, knowing he wasn't ready for that. Neither was she. She needed a whole man, not an invalid.
Realizing she was waiting for an answer, he sighed, the rise and fall of his chest painful.
"You," he said, when the silence had dragged on a little too long. "We were talking about you." He was pretty sure he wasn't telling her anything she didn't already know; a surmise proved when she felt around under the blankets until she found his hand and gripped it hard.
"I'm not going anywhere," she whispered, her fingernails digging into his palm. "That's what you and Mr. Moon were talking about, wasn't it? You want to send me away?"
Pel grunted. "Got big ears, don't you?"
"I read the signs. The pair of you were really quite obvious. Every time I mentioned something I could do to help, you and he looked at each other and avoided my eyes. Guilt if ever I saw it!" From the schoolmarm tone of her voice, Delight felt a little snippy.
Pel smiled under cover of the night. Snippy, indeed. "I wouldn't say I want to send you away, honey. Sure would make things easier, though, if Moon and I don't have to spend our time worrying about you."
"You don't need to worry about me. I can take care of myself."
Though he figured he was treading water in danger of going under, Pel said, "Like you took care of yourself yesterday?"
Her breath caught. "I wasn't expecting to be cornered in the sheriff's office. Now I know to watch everywhere. They won't catch me unaware again. And if there is a next time," she added, "I won't worry a mite about waking you up. I'll scream my head off and shoot them down like the rabid animals they are."
This time, his chuckle rolled warm and loud. "That's my girl."
Her grip on his hand relaxed. "I can help, Pelham. You know I can."
"I do know. You already have. You're the reason I'm alive right now, honey."
Delight's voice turned very soft. "I'm too young to be a widow. Keep that in mind, please."
"I will. I most surely will." Blast this damnable weakness. "Come here," he said roughly and, ignoring the painful twinges it caused him, pulled her into his arms.
"I'll hurt you," she protested.
He caressed her, reveling in the feel of her skin under his hand. "I don't care."

* * * *

They were running low on tincture of iodine and carbolic, Delight noticed as she changed Pelham's bandages. He, having reached a point in his recovery where he insisted he didn't need the medication, said there was no rush to resupply. He caught her hand as she tied off the soft bandage strip, shaking his head when she argued.
"I want you to stay off the street, honey," he said. "Moon says there's talk going around."
"Talk? About what?" What now? What more awful thing? She knew from Pelham's expression the news meant nothing good.
Pel shrugged, an uncomfortable lift of his shoulders. "About Schoefield mostly. The fact it was you who arrested him. Monroe's men are blaming you for the shooting of Wheatly and Filmore."
"Hmph! As if their own actions counted for nothing. Anyway, I thought we were keeping that quiet. Who let the cat out of the bag?"
"Don't know, but Moon says it's common knowledge." He let her go to finish knotting the bandage. "I don't want you going out for a while unless Moon or I are with you."
She knew he thought her stymied since he sure wasn't going anywhere, and Tuck Moon had been making a point of keeping his battered face out of sight.
"I see," she said, which was neither argument nor agreement. Pelham, as she thought he would, took it as agreement. She, however, considered her husband wrong about the need for medical supplies with which to treat him. That's why, once she'd settled him on the couch for one of his frequent naps, she removed her apron and dusted her nose with rice powder, determined on a trip to the drugstore. She'd be right in plain sight, for goodness sake. How dangerous could it be?
Waiting until Pel's whistling breaths told her he'd fallen asleep, she tiptoed from the room.
Tuck Moon, his hat pulled low to hide his face from chance visitors, was sitting at the office desk playing a game of solitaire with a ratty deck of cards when Delight came downstairs, her purse swinging from her hand. He looked up at the sound of her light footsteps.
"Ma'am, are you thinking of going out on the street?" he asked with the same kind of alarm in his voice she'd heard from Pel.
"Not thinking of it. I am going out." She touched her brown hair, swept back into a bun from which, to her disgust, small straggles were already falling, and kept on walking toward the door.
"Does the sheriff know?" He held a card poised in mid-air. "Ma'am, I don't think you should go where you might come face-to-face with some of them hooligans. It ain't safe."
"Nonsense. You're here, aren't you? They won't try anything with you around."
Tuck's shoulders twitched, an unconscious repeat of Pel's action earlier. "Some of those fellers will try anything, anyplace, at any time," he said. "They ain't scared of nobody."
Delight's chin jerked up. "I've got my pistol. After Filmore..." She stopped. "I'll shoot if I have to."
"Ma'am," Tuck said, standing up like he had the intention of physically stopping her, "you don't want to have to shoot anybody. Trust me. You can take that to the bank. Be best if you stayed to home. We can send a boy if there's something you just got to have."
Doggone men. Always telling her what to do--what not to do.
"I think not, Mr. Moon," she said crisply. "I will not be a prisoner in my own home. I'll only be fifteen minutes." And before he could move, she swept past him and out the door.
Once outside, sensitive to the deputy's eyes on her back, she almost turned around, except giving in to Pel and Moon's kid-glove treatment set her temper on end. She'd proved herself plenty tough, hadn't she?
But in truth, when she gazed about, it was to find she was the only woman on the street when generally half the ladies in town would be going about their afternoon shopping. An itch between her shoulder blades nagged as she passed two men standing outside the post office, each with a foot braced in casual attitude against the building's wall. Their eyes followed her, hot and avid. The distance to Thomas's Drugstore had never seemed so long, not even when she was trying to find Doc Miller on the day Pelham fell. Safe arrival on the building's doorstep brought a distinct feeling of relief.
The strip of sleigh bells attached to the door jingled merrily as Delight entered the store. Sweat beaded her temples, trickled under her arms. Disgusted, she dabbed at her forehead. The weather was hot, all right, but not that hot. Breathing in the sharp, chemical odors prevalent in the store, she blamed her nervous dithers on Pel and Tuck and their pessimistic warnings.
It was always cool in the little corner store. Dark, too, a condition Mr. Thomas encouraged because he said it helped preserve the powders and herbs necessary to his profession. Therefore, Delight was halfway down the center aisle, walking between rows of ladylike necessaries, shaving goods for men, and shelves of books, newspapers and magazines--the drugstore also being the supplier of what passed for cultivated society in Endurance--when she noticed the odd silence.
She stopped cold. Of its own accord, her hand went to her pocket and gripped the butt of her little pistol, hidden there.
"Mr. Thomas?" she called.
A mouse walking across the floor, not that a mouse would dare show its whiskery little face in Thomas's drugstore, would've sounded like a dinosaur.
And Mr. Thomas would never--never--leave his store unattended.
"Mr. Thomas, are you here?"
She took one step backward, caught herself, and took two forward. "Millie?" In the afternoon, Mrs. Thomas often helped her husband.
Heart pounding, Delight took a couple more steps, and a couple more, until the counter barring shoppers from reaching the cubicle where Mr. Thomas compounded Doc's prescriptions brought her to a halt.
There was an odor in the air. Or a blend of odors. One caustic, like chemicals. One unexpected, like rough tobacco smoke. Another sweet and metallic, like...blood. Like the blood, bright red and liquid, trickling from beneath the gate under the counter.
Silence thick enough to cut, air thick enough to eat, settled around Delight, making her dizzy. "Oh, no," she whispered. "No." Drawing the pistol from her pocket, she drew the counter up on its hinges and pushed through the gate into Thomas's private territory.
She found the pharmacist on the floor, just inside the gate. His head, she saw in a whirling kaleidoscope of raw color, had been bashed in by something heavy and hard, no doubt the fist-sized, horridly smeared marble pestle lying beside him. She knelt, touching her unsteady fingers to the side of his neck. Warm, but she felt nothing. Not that she expected anything different after seeing his eyes, one open, one half-closed, already bore the vacancy of the dead.
Stomach heaving, she stood up. Robbery, she thought. Murder. The cash register drawer hung open, the compartments empty. A couple dimes lay on the floor, dropped in the robber's--the murderer's--haste. Several bottles and tins used in dispensing medical concoctions were overturned, some smashed.
And then something, a stirring, cut through Delight's shock. The floor in the room beyond the dispensary creaked. Footsteps--she was certain they were footsteps--tapped. She heard the distinct jingle of spurs, the click of a door latch.
Grip tightening on the butt of the derringer, she slipped around the corner into the back room, almost falling over the woman's body lying there. Millie Thomas. At her touch, the woman's arm twitched and she groaned.
A flash of daylight showed at the back, shadowed, then the door slammed. Someone ran.
"Millie!" Dropping to her knees, Delight gathered the woman's cold hand in her own. "Millie. Oh, Lord, Millie."
Millie's eyes opened. "Henry," she whispered, that being her husband's first name. She tried to sit up and, like a rag doll, fell back. "Help. Henry is hurt. That man... "
"Yes," Delight said. Tears flowed down her cheeks, not the cool appearance she wanted to present, but she couldn't seem to stop them. "I'll get help. Don't move, Mrs. Thomas. Lie still."
Getting up, she dodged around Mr. Thomas's body and raced to the front of the store where she pointed her little pistol toward the ground and pulled the trigger twice. In seconds, from a block away, she saw Tuck Moon appear in the door of the sheriff's office and head toward her, running. From the other direction, O'Hanlon's swamper ceased his sweeping and gawked toward her.
"Fetch Doc Miller," she yelled to the swamper so harshly he jumped to obey.
In front of the Bucket of Sudz, two or three of Monroe's men, in town, no doubt, to keep an eye on things, stood as if frozen. As if waiting. As if ridden by a kind of guilt.
In minutes, enough people had defied their fears to gather around, dispensing Mrs. Thomas to Doc's surgery, and Mr. Thomas to the undertaker. Delight, after finding a key and locking the pharmacy's door, under Tuck Moon's escort went home to face the wrath of her husband.

Chapter 14

Tuck, lethargic after a nap broken by uneasy dreams, clomped along the section of board sidewalk in front of the Garnet County Merchant's Bank, his footsteps echoing with a hollow thud. By the clock outside the bank, it was near onto eleven o'clock at night. Light shone through the windows of the Bucket of Sudz and O'Hanlon's saloon, as well as one in a corner room on the hotel's second story. Tuck figured a traveler was finding one of those thin mattresses too hard. Otherwise, nothing stirred except a lone tomcat, silent on the hunt.
Tuck's senses sharpened. Maybe it was too quiet. A glance showed Sheridan's stable undisturbed and peaceful. Same with Schmidt's Mercantile and the butcher shop. Even so, his shoulders hunched as if expecting a blow.
He couldn't put a name to what stopped him in mid-stride. Was there a flicker of movement beyond the bank's window, more imagined than seen? Could've been his own reflection, he told himself, even as he dismissed the idea. After a moment, he moved on as if he'd seen nothing.
The boardwalk was an amenity meant for bank customers, and it ended just beyond the corner of the building. Tuck stepped off into silent dirt and the acrid smelling weeds growing in the alley between the bank and hardware store. Running now, he broke out into the service yard behind the row of buildings. Two horses were tethered to the bank's small back stoop. Their ears pricked at sight of him.
Tuck raised the short-barreled shotgun snugged under his arm and cocked it. Then, walking as soft-footed as the prowling tomcat, he crossed the yard, ending up outside the rear door of the bank. He found the wood splintered, the lock and latch broken. The door hung a couple inches ajar, enough so whoever was in there could make a fast get away, but not so much as to flap in the breeze.
He smiled with grim humor. Wouldn't be anybody going anywhere, without first asking his by-your-leave. He leaned against the outside doorjamb, waiting for the owners of those horses, his plan to take them by surprise as they left the building.
He hadn't much time to kill. He'd no more than gotten comfortably settled than he heard whispers from inside.
"Stick your head out and see if we're clear," a man said.
"Me? Why don't you?" The next man was louder as they came nearer. The gurgle of a tilted jug accompanied his question.
"You're a lazy bugger, ain't ya?" said the first.
"Lazy? Hell, no. I just don't want my head blowed off."
"There ain't nobody out there," the first scoffed.
"Then why bother lookin'?"
Tuck inched over, bringing up his shotgun, but whichever man opened the door, he jerked it wide enough to see out, but not far enough to spot him.
"Yeah, yeah. I'm doin' it. Don't push me." Then, "Don't see nobody. And gimme a snort of that red-eye. I'm the one been doing all the work."
The bottle gurgled again, and Tuck felt himself relaxing. He was going to enjoy this. Nothing too difficult about nabbing two half-drunk bank robbers.
A couple seconds later, when he stepped out to confront the pair and startled the bank robber with the bottle into throwing it at him, it flashed through his mind he hadn't taken being splashed in the face with whiskey into account.
"Hold on there." Tuck stepped back and swept the rotgut away with the back of his hand, wincing with the burn of raw alcohol on his unhealed knuckles. His eyes stung; his vision blurred.
"It's the law," one of the men howled. "Run." With what looked like a pillowcase he'd probably stolen off some housewife's clothesline clasped in his hand, he churned off into the dark alley, leaving his partner to engage Tuck in combat.
At least it started out that way.
Tuck wanted none of it. He flipped up his shotgun and aimed in the general direction of the combative thief's belly, easy enough to see in the dark with the man wearing a white dress shirt. The thief could see the shotgun, too. He reached for the pistol he'd been carrying in the waistband of his trousers.
"I can't hardly miss," Tuck said. "Not from this distance."
The robber stopped in his tracks, took about one second to think the situation over, saw reason and stuck his hands above his head. "Don't shoot, Sheriff."
Tuck gestured him to the side. "You," he shouted at the other man who, weighted down by the bulky pillowcase, was attempting to mount one of the horses. The animal, under severe aggravation caused by the man digging his toe in its ribs every time he tried to drag himself into the saddle, kept dancing out from under him.
"Get away from that horse." Tuck, having relieved the first bank robber of his six-shooter, pushed his prisoner ahead of him. They approached the feller with the horse, the excited animal tossing its head and trying to bite the man. With some success judging by the sound of things, earning it a curse and a sock in the nose.
At that, the animal jerked loose the reins and took off down the alley at a run, leaving the man standing there, pillowcase dangling from his hand like an afterthought.
"Throw down your pistol, mister," Tuck said. "And hang onto whatever it is you got hold of there. Reckon you boys better accompany me down to the jail."
For his third night on a new job, it wasn't a bad haul.

* * * *

Morning found Deputy Tuck Moon sleeping with his head pillowed on the office desk. He roused to some loud, unmusical snoring from the prisoners in the cells and Mrs. Birdsall's sheepdog blowing hot breath in his face. Wincing, Tuck sat up, pulled on his boots and settled his hat, then hiked up the stairs to the sheriff's apartment. Not too early, because he didn't want to wake Birdsall if he was asleep. Turned out Birdsall was already in the kitchen eating breakfast and nothing would do but for Tuck to put his feet under the table as well.
He thought maybe Birdsall was relieved to see him, considering a coolness that palpably hovered in the air between the sheriff and his wife. Looked like Pel hadn't forgiven his missus for ignoring his wishes yesterday, even though she'd probably save Mrs. Thomas's life by doing so.
"Pull up a chair. There's plenty," Mrs. Sheriff said. A plate appeared in front of him, piled high with feather light flapjacks and thick-cut bacon. For the next few minutes, she was kept busy conveying more and more of the flapjacks from stove to table.
In between bites, Tuck made his report to the sheriff, stopping often to shovel a forkful of flapjack into his mouth.
"I don't like it." Birdsall's fork stopped in mid-air, a frown pulling his face as if it were the food that offended him. "A couple of hick bank robbers sure to botch the job? They don't sound the sort of man Diggett Monroe would take into his gang. For one thing, they gave up too easily."
Tuck had a brief regret for the fear he'd felt, facing them down the way he had. Just a pair of hicks.
Mrs. Sheriff had her back turned to them, busy watching bubbles rise on the flapjacks until she flipped them over. "That doesn't mean they aren't dangerous, Pelham," she said. "Even if they're not part of his regular crew. Maybe he sent them just to be a nuisance. Or a test, to see if there was any reaction."
"That's a smart idea, ma'am. I'd say you got the right of it." Tuck mulled it over, grateful to her for saying out loud what he thought. "If we caught 'em, he'd know to be more cautious himself. If we didn't, he might as well push on in."
Birdsall stuck a chunk of bacon in his mouth, chewed and swallowed, taking time to catch his breath. Eating was a chore for him, Tuck knew, although his missus didn't need to force nourishment on him like she had at first.
"Or," Birdsall said, "could be they're just a pair of drunks who wandered into town looking for some easy money. It's happened before. Not every would-be hardcase that comes down the pike is connected with Monroe."
So now they were hardcases. Tuck wasn't about to argue with his benefactor, although in his opinion, Mrs. Birdsall's idea came closer to the mark. Could be the sheriff was just whistlin' in the dark. But a glance at Birdsall's set face told Tuck he didn't believe his own words anyway.
Mrs. Birdsall finished her cooking and sat down, shifting a slice of bacon from the platter onto her plate. She had taken only one flapjack, leaving plenty for the prisoners as well as the orphaned sheepdog.
"It doesn't matter either way, does it?" she asked, poking at that one as if she'd lost her appetite. "If they're no more than inefficient thieves, they're taken care of and we can forget about them. If they're Monroe's men, he'll have guessed we're ready for him. But since they're behind bars, we can still ignore them. Because really, what has changed? We have to prepare for Monroe and he has to prepare for us. The only question is, who will be ready first?"
Birdsall sighed, his fork tracing a scar on the old wooden kitchen table. "I figure we'd better be the ones in a high state of readiness. Not much else we can do."
Tuck nodded agreement. "They'll come. Tonight, I expect, seeing it's Friday."
Mrs. Birdsall cocked an eyebrow in question.
"Monroe's lucky day," Tuck said, "or so he tells his men. Liston seemed pretty sure when he warned me to get out."
"Glad you stayed," the sheriff said, then added, "Damn, I wish we had some help we could count on. I'd deputize about anybody with an honest face about now. "
He wasn't the only one. Tuck would've welcomed the devil himself, long as he was on their side.

* * * *

Pel was not one for carrying a grudge, especially when the object of his displeasure was his wife. By noon he'd gotten over his aggravation with her perceived carelessness and even figured out it wasn't her disregard of his concern that had brought on the coolness between them. No. Call his anger what it really was--bone-chilling fear.
But now, his temper having cooled once, it flared again as they tiptoed on the edge of disagreement. For all his wife was a quiet woman, she could be every bit as bullheaded as her dad had been. Not that you'd think it to look at her as she sat in the rocker beside him, the little cat on her lap. Until you saw she was acting like she couldn't hear a word he said.
"I am not leaving." Her mouth set in a straight line. "Not Endurance, not my home, and not you."
It was as if she'd stuffed her ears with cork and put on blinders, all of which irked Pel enough to want to take a switch to her. Would've, too, if she'd been a child instead of a full-grown woman and his wife. She plain wasn't listening to a word he said.
"Damn it, woman!" His abused lungs choked so he could hardly talk, the infirmity making him almost as angry with himself as he was with her. His argument would've had more clout, he figured, if he hadn't had to stop for breath every time he got to the crux of what he wanted to say. "Why won't you do as I ask? I can't have you in the middle of a gunfight."
"I know you don't want me here." She smiled down at the cat in her lap. "But the fact is, you need more help and it looks like I may be it."
"I do need more help," he agreed. "But I need someone handy with a gun. Not a certain little body who'll only cause me more worry. I'm your husband, Delight. You'll do as I say."
She looked at him, eyes narrowed, and shook her head.
"Do you remember that rancher?" she asked, leaning forward. She'd obviously put her mind to work on the problem, at the same time proving his premise she hadn't been listening to him. "A Mr. Ned Sorenson? He's the one who brought in the dead horse thief and claimed the bounty a few days back."
Pel nodded, recalling the man, although the other memory was vague. He hadn't been at his best at the time.
Excitement quickened Delight's words. "From what he said then, he fancies himself in the role of bounty hunter. Why not call on him to help? He seemed tough enough, and you can make his efforts legal."
Pel gawked at her in wonder, then grinned, willing to let the other problem slide for the moment. "How'd I get lucky enough to find such a smart wife? You're right. Sorenson's everything you say he is, tough and able. Tell Moon to hustle out and talk to him. His ranch isn't far. Tell Moon he can take my horse if he wants. Think she's got a better turn of speed than that old nag of his."
Delight jumped up, dislodging the tabby, and went to relay his instructions to the deputy, who never, Pel noticed, had a problem accepting her role of go-between. A whoop sounded as the suggestion met with Moon's favor. Footsteps thudded, and the back door slammed, telling Pel the deputy was making his way to the barn with all speed.
But time, Pel thought after the first rush of hope, was an element he could do nothing about. It might take Sorenson a while to reach Endurance even if he decided to help. Who knows? Moon might not be able to find him soon enough, or talk him into taking such a dangerous position if he did. They weren't out of the woods, by any means. Tonight was the greatest danger.
"Please, honey," he urged Delight when she came back to announce all was in hand. "At least go stay with Mary Fanlon tonight. She's a tough old bird and won't mind your company." He wished he could get up and pace instead of lying in his bed feeling like a clot of thick mush. "I'm not saying get out of town. I expect it's too late anyhow. Just get away from here and leave this place to Moon and me. A few men may be willing to stand with us. They're scared, but they know if Monroe takes over, they'll lose everything they've built here."
His speech had no discernable effect on her that he could tell.
Delight smiled her singularly sweet smile. "Save your breath, Pel. What if Monroe's men broke in--not that it'll ever happen--and I wasn't here? They might take a notion to tear this town apart looking for me. Mary hardly deserves the kind of treatment she'd get from them."
Lord knows she spoke from firsthand experience, with the bruise on her cheekbone, the scabs on her soft lips as proof. Pelham conceded as much.
"But the thing is," he repeated, "they won't know where you are. You'll be safe. Believe it or not, Moon and I can defend this place without your help."
The trouble being she didn't believe that argument, and he wasn't any too sure he did either.
"If you were well, you could defend this town, me, and the whole county all by yourself," Delight said, smiling into his eyes. "But, Pel, you're not well. What if Mr. Moon were to be wounded? Could you help him, weak as you are? No. As for you, you don't have a drop of blood to spare. You haven't rebuilt what you lost ten days ago. I'm staying."
Leave it to a woman to have the last word.

* * * *

Tuck Moon was on his way back to town, his mission of drafting Ned Sorenson and his crew as temporary deputies successfully completed. He'd caught the rancher just before Sorenson rode out of the dusty ranch yard, a couple cow dogs chasing at his horse's heels.
"Hell, yes," Sorenson had said after Tuck stated his mission. Glee was writ large across his craggy face. "My men"--a cock of his head indicated four riders lined up behind him, every one looking tough as old boots and packing a well-oiled revolver--"they're all for it, too. Ain't you, boys?"
A couple looked at each other as though still undecided, but the general consensus seemed to be that they'd do whatever their boss said.
"Reward money aplenty to be had. These boys picked the wrong California companies to rob. Lotta reward money coming outta California." Tuck's assurance of payment settled any indecision on those two riders' parts. They nodded right along with their compadres.
"We'll be along early this evening," Sorenson said, settling deeper in his saddle. "I got this branding to finish afore I go anywhere."
"Sheriff Birdsall will be mighty relieved." Tuck shook Sorenson's hand. "And so'm I. Monroe's got most of the town folk buffaloed right now. Between setting fires and the murder of the pharmacist, they're scared. They ain't used to needin' guns to protect themselves."
"Damn fools," Sorenson said, but he looked pleased just the same. "Reckon I'd best get back to work then. My wife Minnie'd be glad to scare you up a cup of coffee and a piece of pie if you got the time."
Tuck wouldn't have minded the pie and coffee, but something kept pushing at him, saying he didn't have a quarter hour to spare. Nerves poking him, he guessed.
Halfway back to Endurance, light flashing off a shiny object where there shouldn't ought to be a shiny object prodded Tuck Moon into sitting straighter in the saddle. A touch on the reins halted Birdsall's black mare.
The flash of light, for which he couldn't see any logical cause, indicated his sense of dread was working overtime. What did the light mean, situated as it was at the best place for an ambush along this stretch of road? Having experienced one nasty surprise already since taking up this job, he figured an investigation was in order before he rode into something he couldn't handle.
At the first twist in the road, he guided the mare into some trees and tied her to a limb. Taking his shotgun from the saddle scabbard, he went forward on foot. Easing along so he didn't scare any birds into taking flight or rustle the overgrown bushes, he crept up to where he'd seen the flash. At that he damned near walked into two horses tied up out of sight of the road, just like he'd tied his. One of the horses lifted its head, about to nicker a greeting.
"Quiet," he whispered, his hand over its nose, and in a moment it relaxed. Moving on, he duck-walked down a little gully until the road came into sight. A metallic clatter helped him spot the man hunkered behind some bushes fiddling with his rifle. His back was turned to Tuck and he was looking down the trail. Try as he might, Tuck couldn't see the other, until a harsh whisper from across the road broke the silence.
"See him, Bull? He ought to 'ave got here by now."
"Shut your trap," Bull replied in a low voice. "He'll show."
The other feller poked his head around a cluster of boulders and stared into the distance. "Then where'd he get to? We seen him on the trail ten minutes ago."
Tuck sucked in his gut. "Right here, boys," he said, cocking the shotgun as he stood up. His voice sounded loud in the hot, still air. Bull whirled to face him. "Drop your weapons," Tuck added.
At first he thought they were going to do it, both of them. Thought he'd get out of this free and easy--until Bull, his eyes boring into Tuck like a crazy man's, yelled, "Shoot him, Purdee," and proceeded to take his own advice. A single .44-caliber bullet missed Tuck's head by the span of a hair. Without waiting for more, in a reflexive yank, Tuck pulled the trigger on his shotgun. With a broken cry, Bull took the charge full in the chest, a thick splatter of red patterning the air.
Without waiting for the body to fall, Tuck switched his aim to the other man. Purdee was fumbling with the rifle's lever, snapping it twice as unfired shells landed on the ground. He didn't seem to see Tuck, but stared at Bull's bloody body as if dazed.
Tuck's finger curled around the shotgun's trigger, on the verge of finishing the second man, an easy target. "I got another shot here. You want it?"
Another shell flew out. "N...no." Purdee's hand finally stilled its reflexive motion. "No."
"Drop the rifle," Tuck said again. He was almost surprised when, with a start, Purdee did, then held his arms high.
"Don't shoot, mister," Purdee begged.
To tell the truth, Tuck thought, his guts roiling of a sudden, he didn't think he had the strength. Look at me. Shaking like a girl.
Stumbling forward, he crossed the trail and took Purdee's weapon, ordering the man to wrap Bull's bloody corpse in the blanket from his bedroll and tie it onto his horse. Noticing how Purdee flinched when Tuck gave orders, he guessed the outlaws had been friends, until he figured out he was shouting at the man like he was deaf. The ear damaged in the beating Monroe's gang had given him rang like a school bell.
Tough old Purdee jumped every time Tuck's scattergun moved his way, which didn't exactly make Tuck feel any better. Shootin' a man--any man, outlaw or not--was something that just didn't settle well with him. It didn't help that Purdee had to stop three or four times and heave into the bushes. Pay him two cents and Tuck just might join him.

Chapter 15

Voices echoing up the stairwell awakened Pel. He started, his hand reaching for the Colt on the table beside the chair where he napped. Finding himself alone, his first thought was for Delight, fresh anxiety over where she might be nagging him until he heard Tuck Moon speaking. Relief flooded in. Moon must be talking to my wife, he thought.
Pel, levering himself upright with some effort, held to the stair rail for safety as he maneuvered himself downstairs to hear the deputy's report. He was a little surprised to discover Moon prodding a new prisoner toward the lock-up. There was no sign of his wife.
"You're back sooner than I expected." He cast a glance over the detainee. "Everything go all right?"
The deputy nodded. "Sorenson'll be here by evening," he said. "He had some branding to finish." Moon's thin features tightened as he pushed his prisoner, a rough looking character, into the cell with Schoefield. The two avoided looking at each other.
"That's the good news," he continued. "I had a run-in with a couple of yahoos on my way back to town. They're Monroe's men. This one has had plenty to say."
Pel frowned. "A couple?"
Tuck pointed outside to where a bay horse stood nibbling its bit at the rail, a body draped over the saddle. "That one and this one. They tried to ambush me. I had to kill one."
"Well, that'll help our odds some." Pel had no sympathy to waste on a dead outlaw. He eyed the two hapless bank robbers Moon had brought in the night before, both of whom were well chastened after a sobering night in the lock-up. One of them gripped the cell bars with white knuckles. "There going to be a war break out?" he asked. "Sheriff, I don't want no part of that."
"Thought you was in with that crowd," Moon said.
The man shook the bars. "No, sir. Not me...us. No, sir."
Pel studied him, judging the truth as best he was able. "It's getting a little crowded in there," he finally said. "You two learned your lesson?"
His face brightening with hope, the short, stocky man stood up. "You bet, Sheriff. No more robbing banks for me. Me and my brother, we've learnt our lesson, for sure."
The other one's head bobbed agreement.
Making an executive decision, Pel unlocked the cell door and stood aside. "Then get out of here. Leave town and don't ever come back." A sense of urgency drove him to tell Moon, "Walk 'em down to the livery, deputy, and make sure they pay their bill before they go. Deliver that body to the undertaker on your way, then stop in at the lumberyard for something to board these windows with. You can give me the bad news later."
Moon hadn't fooled him any. He could see whatever the deputy had learned spelled more trouble.
"You seen my wife?" he asked, trying to sound offhand.
Moon shook his head. "She shouldn't ought to be out today. Hard tellin' who's holed up in the alleys, waiting for tonight."
"I know it." Pel couldn't quite hide the anger he felt as he clomped over to the doorway to peer out into the street. Wasn't always easy, being married to such a headstrong woman, as much as he admired her independence--most of the time. What was she up to now?
"I expect she's fine," Moon said, not sounding any too confident. "She's carrying that bitty gun of hers, ain't she?"
"Better be."
The deputy nodded, his expression somber as he chivied the newly released pair from the office.
Birdsall occupied himself in cleaning his guns while the deputy was gone, a small chore that came close to making him sweat, weak as he was. He was still at it when Moon returned.
"I put a bug in those boys' ears," Moon said.
A worker from the lumberyard followed him, hauling a cartload of two-by-sixes.
Moon's crooked grin flashed. "Looked like they was plenty scared of Diggett Monroe, stepping into his territory without a by-your-leave."
Pel figured he might be right, since he'd seen the pair mount their horses and high-tail it out of Endurance at a dead run. But two inept bank robbers were the least of Pelham Birdsall's worries. Defending the office from an attack by Diggett Monroe and his gang loomed highest on his list. That and discovering his wife's present whereabouts.
As soon as they were alone, Moon had a full report for him, one that did nothing to set Pel's mind at ease. "Seems there's a rumor going around Monroe's camp," he said, "and your wife's name is mixed up in it."
A dollop of cold slid down Pel's spine. "What kind of rumor they got going now?" If there ever was a word he hated, it was rumor. He didn't, in plain fact, like his wife's name mentioned anywhere in a loose manner, and it scared hell out of him to hear Monroe's gang had been talking. But according to Moon it had been, and he had to know the details.
Moon flushed red as a thimbleberry, all the way from his neck poking out of a worn shirt collar to the roots of his sand-colored hair. "Happy Monroe, he's seen her on the street." His voice changed to a mumble. "Admires the way she looks. Then, after what happened to Filmore... Well, now he's bragging about what he's going to do when he catches up with her. Said if she cooperates, he might even keep her around for a while before he gets tired of her."
Pel's gut clenched, thinking of that piece of gossip doing the rounds in the Bucket of Sudz or O'Hanlon's place. Hellfire! If only he could persuade Delight to reconsider staying with Mary tonight, he'd be a lot happier man.
He didn't realize he'd spoken aloud until Moon said, "This is her home. Women set a lot of store on where they live. Rugs and china dishes, furbelows like that. They take care of what they have." He found a saw in amongst the lumber supplies and propped a two-by-six across the side window, measuring where to cut the board.
Wherever the deputy had gotten his information about women, Pel figured it was right on target. "Can't blame her, I guess," he said. "I feel the same. What I've got, I'll fight to defend. This building isn't the best place to make a stand. Too easy to surround. But I can't walk away from it--or from the job that comes with it."
Moon drew the saw across the line he'd drawn in the wood. "I ain't telling you any different."
Pel talked like he was trying to convince himself of something. "Long as this is headquarters for all the law and order in this county, my duty is here. Leaving would be like giving up before I even started."
"I know it," the deputy agreed. "I'm with you."
A shadow passed in front of the window. Pel snatched up his shotgun and leveled it as the door opened. Delight, entering on a flurry of skirts, stopped dead still as she caught sight of him.
"Where have you been?" Pel hadn't meant to sound so rough.
Moon shot him a glance and Delight's surprise--and displeasure--was evident as the smile she'd worn faded.
"I took Mrs. Thomas a cake," she said as if bewildered. "Mr. Thomas' funeral is tomorrow."
"It isn't safe on the street today. I don't want you out."
He noticed the way her hand went to the pocket where her derringer was concealed. "It's broad daylight, Pelham. Plenty of people are around."
"No more, Delight. Listen to me. Stay in and out of sight until this is over."
He knew he'd offended her by the way she stiffened, her cheeks reddened, and her eyes snapped blue fire. "Yes, sir." She saluted with military precision and, without another word, whirled, fleeing up the stairs to their living quarters. The silence when she closed the door up there was broken only by Tuck Moon's whoosh of air through his nose, although wisely, the deputy never said a word.
Pel ran an oily cloth through a chamber on the Colt for a second--or third or fourth--time. "Shouldn't have said it like that," he finally muttered.
"Reckon probably not," Moon agreed.
"But, damn it," Pel said, then forgot what else he meant to say.
Moon looked up from his sawing. "Monroe won't come before dark, Sheriff. You should rest some."
"And apologize to my wife?"
Moon shrugged. "I expect it's gonna be a busy night, Sheriff. I can get these here fortifications whipped out in no time."
"I can help," Pel lied.
The deputy shook his head. "I'm used to doing by myself."
At last, persuaded and relieved, Pel hurried to put away his gun cleaning supplies and dragged himself back up the stairs to the couch and a lap robe. And, most importantly, to make that apology to his wife.
Delight, removing her apron as she entered the front room, came to meet him and lend a hand. She avoided meeting his eyes. "Pelham, what is going on downstairs? What's that racket?"
"Moon is boarding up the windows. We'll be fine," he assured her, seeing her lip tremble just a little. He settled on the couch with a tired sigh.
Delight, the cat curled on her lap, sat in the rocker beside him.
"Sorry, honey," he said. "I didn't mean to snap at you, earlier. It's just...I worry when you're out of my sight."
At this, she leaned forward to peck him on the lips, and he knew he was forgiven. Lucky the man with a wife who carried no grudges. Grinning crookedly, he told her about the bank robbers, ending up by saying, "So there are a couple fewer mouths for you to feed. That ought to cheer you up some."
Her answering smile looked forced. "I'm not so easily cheered, I'm afraid." Now, finally, she met his eyes full on. "Pel, we are going to be all right, aren't we?"
Pel reached for her hand. "Sure we are. You've been working too hard since I got shot, and it's made you pessimistic. But I still wish..."
Her finger across his mouth muffled the rest of the sentence.
Downstairs, steady blows of a hammer resounded, telling them Tuck Moon was busy nailing boards across the vulnerable glass windows. A curse or two made creative punctuation.
Desperation squeezed Pel's lungs. "Sweetheart, you can't prevent either Moon or me from getting shot, if that's what is meant to happen." He couldn't get the story Moon had passed on to him a while ago out of his mind. "But if you'd go over to M--"
She held up her hand, stopping him. He couldn't help thinking she was twice as stubborn as her pa had ever thought of being, and that was going some.
"There's something else, isn't there, Pel?" she asked him now, bringing his attention back with a jolt. She frowned, rocked the chair forward and straightened the pillow beneath his head. She'd bathed earlier and smelled freshly of lemon verbena. "Something you aren't telling me."
There were a good many things he didn't want to tell her. What was the point of scaring her more than she already was? Bad enough she knew an element out there wanted to harm her. No need for her to know exactly in what way. "Only what I've been saying until I'm blue in the face. Trouble is, you're not listening."
Her shadowed cerulean eyes rose to meet his. "Oh, I've been listening. But I'm not leaving you, Pelham Birdsall. Please, don't ask again. Rest. Let me do what I can to help and then later, I'll hide under the bed if that's what you want. But I'd rather not."
He pressed his head against the soft pillow. It felt good and he was tired. His eyes closed. "And if you'd rather not, you probably won't."
Soft lips touched the corner of his mouth. "No. I probably won't." He heard the smile in her voice. "Go to sleep," she said, so he did.

* * * *

When she was certain Pelham was asleep, Delight made her way downstairs where, following the rattle and bang of hammer upon nail, she stepped into the back hall. She found Tuck Moon there, applying thick planks diagonally, some this way and some that, across the rear door. He was making a thorough job of it. She stood watching a minute before he became aware of her.
"The sheriff resting up for tonight?" he asked.
"Yes." She took up the broom and swept the dirt he'd shaken loose into a pile.
"Sorry for the mess and the racket, Mrs. Sheriff." He removed his shabby hat and ran his arm over his sweating brow. From his awkward manner with the hammer, this wasn't a job he was accustomed to doing. "I'm putting these boards up so can't nobody slip in without one of us knowing. Hope this ain't keeping him awake."
Delight made a throwaway gesture with her hand. "It's not." The hammering hadn't disturbed Pel in the slightest. Still, the deputy's efforts bothered her.
"Are we keeping them out, do you suppose, or us in?" she asked.
Tuck Moon shot her a wary look. "Ma'am?"
Limping on his bad leg, the sheepherder's dog came up and stood beside her, nuzzling her apron pocket where she happened to have a couple pieces of leftover bacon saved from breakfast. In feeding him, she'd noticed his ribs made knobby ridges beneath the heavy fur. She stroked the animal's head as he wolfed down the treat.
"Let's hope it doesn't occur to Monroe to set the building on fire," she said. "His men seem to have set a precedent of sorts these last few days. I have no desire to be roasted alive."
"No, ma'am!" Tuck sounded shocked. "Me neither. But what else am I supposed to do? There's only me--and the sheriff. Tell you what I'd do if I figured Pel could handle what happens here."
"What is that, Mr. Moon?"
"Tonight, as Monroe's men come to town, I'd go after them one-by-one. Not wait for them to bring the fight here."
Excitement quickened in Delight's mind as the import of his logic sank in. What he said made perfect sense, if only it could be done. "Do you think it would do any good?"
Moon's chest puffed out. "I faced down those two back-shooters this morning and came out on top. Two less of them helps our odds."
"That's true." Delight tapped a fingernail on a tooth. "I hadn't realized you were such a strategist, Mr. Moon."
"A what?"
She smiled. "A strategist. In this case, someone who plans our line of attack. I have no doubt you're on the right track."
"Yeah." Moon pounded in another nail, the rat-tat-tat of his hammer sounding an angry tattoo. "Too bad it won't work."
"Why is that?"
"Because I can't go off and leave the sheriff. It'll take more than one man to defend the jail."
She watched as he finished the door, picked up a couple of boards and the bag of nails and carried them over to the side window. He'd saved the front for last, perhaps to make the preparations less obvious from the street. The town folk were apt to become a little upset when they saw the sheriff's office preparing for a siege.
He took up the hammer again and glared at it. "You know as well as I do the sheriff can't handle this big of a place by himself. He's barely on his feet, let alone able to hie off from one window to another fast as a man can run. If Sorenson don't show..." He stopped.
She refrained from saying Pel wouldn't be alone, that she would be at his side, and said stoutly, "What we need is to find others we can rely on who will take up arms in support of their town."
"Don't know who that'd be." His scowl was pensive. "Figure they ought've stepped up by now if they mean to."
"Oh, I agree, Mr. Moon. But perhaps even at this late date a few can be convinced to lend a hand. Worth a try, wouldn't you say?"
"Yes, ma'am." He took off his hat, revealing the tan line across his forehead, and wiped away a film of sweat and sawdust. He set down his hammer. "Reckon I'd better get at it then. It'll be dark soon. Before you know it. And I still got this to do."
Delight had no trouble ascertaining his worry. So much to do, so little time. "I'll go," she said. "These people know me. I'll make them listen."
"Pel said you wasn't to leave the building."
"This is something I have to do. I'll be right here on the main street," she assured him, mentally running over the list of men she thought halfway capable of defending their own property. Sheridan, O'Hanlon, Mr. Hunt, maybe Mr. DeWitt, although he was doubtful. Mr. Schmidt who talked tough, if one could understand him. And I'll try Mayor Green, too. "I won't go out of your sight. If I need you, I'll scream."
He cocked an eyebrow.
"I promise."
"You sure Pel's asleep?" he asked warily.
She smoothed her skirt. "Yes."
"Huh." Moon made a show of turning his back.
Delight surmised it was his way of agreeing to the old "what you don't know won't hurt you" school of thought. She tiptoed out the door, shutting it gently behind her.
Sheridan, the blacksmith whose life and property the deputy had saved a few days earlier, had obviously been thinking along the same lines as Delight. She stood outside the shop where she fanned herself with a hand against the heat radiating from the white hot coals in the forge. He, working in his long underwear, appeared not to notice his sweat-soaked state.
"Those bast...buggers ain't going to get past me again, ma'am," he said, "and you can tell the sheriff I said so. He needs help, tell him to just start bangin' away with his guns, and I'll do what I can to watch his back."
"Thank you, Mr. Sheridan." Delight felt a small piece in her tension relax. "Working together, we can put Mr. Monroe where he belongs."
"Hope you're talkin' six feet under, ma'am."
She hadn't been exactly, but she nodded as if agreeing and continued on her way, next stopping on the stoop outside O'Hanlon's saloon. A fellow lazing about on the bench beside the batwings went in to fetch the saloon keeper to her.
As soon as she broached the subject, O'Hanlon turned, showing her the revolver nestled in the waist of his britches. "I don't go anywhere without it. And I got a shotgun and a box of shells under the bar at both ends. I'll be ready to back Pel's play. But if I were you, Mrs. Birdsall, I'd tell the sheriff not to count any on Buford at the Bucket of Sudz. He's mighty cozy with Monroe's bunch."
"I will." Delight forced a smile. "It's good to know he can rely on a few men like you."
Passing the drug store, closed for the funeral--and who was going to supply Endurance with medical needs now?--Delight approached the bank. It was nearly closing time, and one of the tellers went back in to ask Mr. Hunt to speak with her.
"Come on in." Hunt gestured to her. "Although I take it you're not here to make a deposit."
She smiled. "I'm afraid not."
Hunt remained attentive as she repeated a speech growing more comfortable to her with practice. About how he owed it to himself to help protect his bank and the depositors who trusted him. About how this was his town and she believed he felt his neighbors, the ones who couldn't do for themselves, like Lillian down at the Elk Café, were worth defending.
He listened until she ran out of steam. "Very eloquent, Mrs. Birdsall. The sheriff has an excellent advocate in you. You may tell him I will stay downtown tonight, and every other night until this is finished. My head teller, Henry Delgerson, is with me. We're armed and prepared to shoot if necessary."
Delight, put off by his alarming dignity, refrained from hugging him in her relief, and went on to her next target. Only one turned her away, the elderly harness maker who told her he'd only get in the way of the fighting men. She secretly thought he was hedging his bets.
Hills to the west of town cast shadows over the street as the sun sank behind them. Delight hurried back to the office, taking long steps as she sped past O'Hanlon's. Coarse talk and shrill whistles followed her. Her stomach lurched and she was almost running as she escaped to the comparative safety of the sheriff's office.
Tuck Moon was still working, nailing reinforcements to protect the cells as she slipped inside. He looked up, relief on his sweating face at seeing her safe.
"Anybody agree to help?"
Her smile lit up the darkened room. "They did, Mr. Moon. Thank goodness for that. Several agreed to help out from their own businesses."
"Spreads us out a mite," Moon said doubtfully.
"All the more reason for you being mobile and able to go quickly where you're most needed."
Tuck grinned. "Think you're one of them strategists you was telling me about, ma'am." His grin faded. "Now I don't mean to rain on your campfire, but that still leaves the sheriff by himself.
"Pel won't be alone. I'll be here."
This brought his eyes up to meet hers directly. "Sheriff said he was sending you somewhere tonight. Somewhere safe."
"He tried." She shrugged away his concern and forced briskness into her voice. Briskness and a cheerful bravado. "But I convinced him otherwise. He hasn't rescinded my authority, either, which means he's still relying on me to make wise decisions. My decision is for you to walk out of here right now and do what you said. Go after those outlaws and beat them to the punch."
"Gotta finish getting this place fortified first," Tuck said, shaking his head.
She reached out, taking the hammer out of his slackened grip, and selected a six-penny nail from the canvas bag he'd set on the windowsill. "I'm a dab hand with a hammer, Mr. Moon. At home, my mother was forced into handyman duties because Dad's job took him away so often, and she didn't want the house falling down around our ears. She taught me. I can make as good a job of nailing up a few boards as you can." To prove her words, she set a length of two-by-six in place over the window, braced it with a knee and, under Tuck's watchful eye, tapped in the first nail. She'd lost none of her skill. "Which leaves you free to do the other," she added pointedly.
"Yes, ma'am," Tuck said, but refrained from moving out of her way. "The sheriff know about this?"
"He knows I'm staying here with him." Her hammer banged, another nail pounded in. "Your plan is good. Why wouldn't he agree with it? He's approved everything else you've done."
Delight could see this argument told with Deputy Moon. He'd had a few days of taking orders passed from Pelham to her and on to him. Why should he question this one? But she knew he did. It was his own sense of taking the right action that convinced him to leave off carpentering and take up his shotgun.
"Pel said he has more shells that'll fit this." There was a new eagerness in his tone.
"Yes. The ammunition is in the bottom desk drawer. Take all you need. Filmore--the man Pel killed--his pistol is in there, too. Take that as well, if you like. A gift." Her lips twisted. "Filmore won't be needing it anymore."
Tuck sucked in a breath, then let it go with an audible sigh. "Filmore's .44?" He reached into the drawer and drew out the pistol, handling it with an odd reverence. "I guess I'll take you up on the offer, ma'am."
He strapped the gun belt around his middle. Delight watched him cinch the buckle to the next to last hole, already worn to that size by a previous owner--but not Filmore, who'd been a heavier man. The leather fit the deputy's slim hips like it had been made for him, which, with stinging shock, she thought maybe it had. She called to mind Herschel saying Tuck had sold his pistol to one of Monroe's gang. But had he sold it? Or was he now only reclaiming what was his before going out to set Pelham and her up for disaster?
She hated the sudden attack of doubt that assailed her. It was not the best moment to begin wondering if she could trust him. Yet what if he planned to bring calamity down on them?

* * * *

Tuck suspected Missus Birdsall didn't know how clearly her open face mirrored the thoughts in her head. He felt bad, seeing the misgivings she had about him now. The pistol is what had done it, he knew. He might as well shouted from the ridge peaks that he was back to wearing a gunslinger's gear. His own old rig.
Probably wouldn't do any good to tell her he'd been a poor excuse for an outlaw. The life hadn't suited him at all. Turns out he didn't enjoy pointing a gun and stealing the fruits of another man's hard work. And he didn't like the reputation wearing a gun gave him, or the way it led youngsters to challenge him. Farmer kids, like the one lying dead in a pool of bright blood.
Forcing the memory away, he ventured a smile meant to reassure her. "Make sure you drop the bar across the door as soon as I leave, ma'am. It's a stout plank, hard for anyone to break through. Be a sad thing to board up the windows and let 'em in the front. If any shooting starts, stay low and away from the glass. You know what to do." He must've said the right thing for she looked a little easier.
"Yes. I learned from our last experience. But what about our prisoners?"
"Yeah." Wheatley, recovered enough to be returned to the jail cell, propped himself on an elbow. Although Doc had managed at the last minute to save his leg, he wasn't up to standing. "What about us?"
Tuck turned to look at the three prisoners. "These here leftover boards oughta help. Could be you better hope your boss cares enough about your miserable hides to avoid shooting blind. If he don't..." He shrugged.
Most of Schoefield's brag and bluster had been wiped out--but not all. "Turn us loose, Moon. Diggitt'll break us out anyway. Save yourself some trouble."
"You're a murderer. The only place you're going is the state penitentiary," Delight said.
Tuck agreed. "My advice is to belly down on the floor and pray--if you're so inclined."
Delight frowned. "Are there any other fortifications we can make, Mr. Moon? I'd hate for--"
He cut her off. "Whatever happens, it's none of your doing." His gaze softened as it shifted to her. "Don't fret over them. You don't see them worrying about you or the sheriff, do you?"
"No. I don't." Firming her mouth, she went over to the stack of lumber Tuck had piled at the side of the room, selected another length and, setting it up on the front window sill, began nailing it to the wall.
A wise lady, he noted, with her resolve firmly in place.
Tuck loaded his pockets with shotgun shells, gave the dog a pat on the head, and prepared to depart. He hated leaving her alone with all this on her narrow shoulders, but he wanted an early start. If he had his druthers, he'd stay here with Mrs. Birdsall--Delight, he named her to himself. And with her husband, of course, as fair a man as Tuck had ever known. Yeah, he'd druther fight beside them. But safety was an illusion, as he well knew. Monroe could burn the structure. Sheer numbers could overwhelm the sheriff and his wife. Bullets could come through a crack in the walls and cut down every living soul in the building.
He peered through the last uncovered window for any observers, then let himself out onto the deserted street before he changed his mind. He knew he'd made the right decision. Get before you're got. Those words belonged in some kind of fighter's creed, or so he figured.

Chapter 16

The street was empty, although Tuck knew somebody was watching him as soon as he stepped out the door. He could tell by the creeping itch that raised the hair on the back of his neck. That right there let him know Monroe was in town already and playing a waiting game. Tuck suspicioned the outlaw preferred the night for his doings.
It was almost dark now, the twilight casting long shadows into the alleys and doorways of buildings. Tuck viewed them all as places of concealment. Mrs. Birdsall had returned to the office in the nick of time. Another quarter hour might've proved too long.
What in hell has happened to Sorenson? He should've been here by now.
Tuck turned right, toward O'Hanlon's saloon, trying not to let on he knew he was being watched. The crawly sensation on his neck showed no signs of abating and he shifted the sawed-off shotgun into the crook of his arm where a quick flip would bring it into firing position. If they thought to catch him unaware, they had a surprise coming.
They. Who did that mean? Diggett and all his faction? Or maybe only Happy Monroe. He hoped it was Happy. Nothing in this world would suit him better than to meet Monroe one-on-one in an alley with his scattergun at hand and no one to interfere.
A breeze kicked up dust and the strong scent of wood smoke through the streets. Coming from Bush's sawmill burner south of town, he supposed. The smell seemed stronger than usual, clear on air crisp enough to foretell of summer's end. Or maybe, he reflected with an inward wry grimace, he was savoring what might be his last few hours on earth.
Ahead of him, a man came out of the newspaper office and bent to fix a stout padlock on the door. He recognized Jones, the man, according to Mrs. Birdsall, whose arm one of Schoefield's bullets had clipped the night the outlaw killed the sheepherder.
"Good evening, Deputy." Jones caught sight of Tuck and stood up straight, pocketing the padlock key. "All is quiet so far. I heard--"
Tuck stopped and put his back against the wall of the building. "What did you hear?"
The newspaperman's eyes swiveled from side-to-side in a furtive kind of way. "There's a story going around that you'd left town and that Sheriff Birdsall is barricaded in the jail fearing for his life. Then I was told flat out that Endurance, which means me and every other resident of this town, had better take up a new allegiance." His stare into Tuck's face was apprehensive. "I'm hoping I heard wrong."
Tuck blinked. "I hope you did, too. Now I'm wondering who told you all that." Of course, folks'd have to be deaf not to have heard the hammering going on in the sheriff's office this afternoon.
"I have my sources," the newspaperman said.
"I reckon you do. But, as you see, here I am, doing the job I'm paid to do." Tuck shifted, preparing to walk on.
Jones frowned. "I've been writing an editorial about the situation here, Mr. Moon. With the sheriff out of commission and Duncan Herschel fired from his job--nobody is talking about why--you're a bit of a question mark. About the only thing we know about you is that you were serving time in jail."
"Ain't much else to know," Tuck said. "I got drunk, acted stupid and Sheriff Birdsall made sure I paid my dues. Had it coming to me, Mr. Jones, and I knew it. Now I served my time and want to settle down. Clear this town of men like Monroe and it'll be a fine place to live." And if that didn't come near to being a real speech, he didn't know what did. Somebody ought to put him up as a politician.
If Jones wanted more, he didn't get it, and after a pause in which he seemed to be waiting for Tuck to add something, Jones said, "I'm thinking, praise be, as quiet as it is now, Diggett Monroe may be having second thoughts. Perhaps he's decided to move on."
Tuck, concentrating on the outline of a man slipping into an alleyway down the street, allowed his attention to wander from Jones' chatter. There was another, he saw, ducking into a doorway in the store, closed now, next to O'Hanlon's saloon. They were sneaking too much to be honest shop owners on their way home. Looked like Monroe's men were getting into position. Keep going and he guessed he'd find out.
"Well, Mr. Jones," he said, "if you noticed it's quiet on the street, it's because men of good sense have taken cover behind closed doors. I'd recommend you do the same."
Funny, how a man's self-assurance could drain out all at once like Jones's did just then.
"You mean...right now?" Anxiety thinned Jones's voice. "Why?"
"I mean Monroe ain't moved on," Tuck said bluntly. "And a man stays too long on the street might get caught in something he don't want mixed up in. You got a gun, Mr. Jones?"
"No, I-- Thanks for the warning, Deputy. I'll just get out of your way and let you proceed."
Tuck chuckled as Jones scooted off, moving a little faster than was becoming in an intrepid newspaperman. Appeared he'd learned a painful lesson when Schoefield pinked him the night he interfered with the sheepherder.
By the time he'd gotten as far as O'Hanlon's, Tuck spotted three men lurking in the shadows, not so hidden as they might've imagined. Or were they confident enough not to care? He passed the first one, his ears catching a sound as the man fell in behind him.
Tuck caught a stir of movement from above. Another man leaned over the parapet of the boarding house across the way for an instant, silhouetting himself against the darker green of the trees hanging over the building. Four, maybe five of them then. Plenty for him to handle, but he knew Monroe had several more men loyal to him. Where were they? He had a feeling Pelham Birdsall might have an answer to that in short order.
The Bucket of Sudz was extraordinarily quiet in the early evening. Tuck missed the tinkle of the saloon's badly tuned piano whose music generally spilled out the open door. Tonight the place was all closed up, which meant even Monroe's allies were playing it cagey. Lights showed yellow beyond the dirty windows, where only shadows moved.
Tuck noticed conditions were much the same at O'Hanlon's as he approached, except there, lamps remained unlit against the dusk. Apparently O'Hanlon had taken Mrs. Birdsall's warning to heart. He hoped the saloon keeper was alert in there. And sharp enough not to shoot poor old Tuck Moon by accident.
Certain of the man following him, Tuck ducked into the alley before he reached the saloon. From there, he followed the building's wall to the back. No remnants of daylight remained here, which suited his purpose just fine. In the murk, his presence faded to near invisibility.
He'd barely had time to set himself before he heard the crunch of heavy footsteps grinding through the pine needles, broken glass, and gravel littering the ground. Excitement built inside him. And fear. There was that, too.
The man following him sped up, sure enough of himself to be careless, his breath hissing in and out, working hard. The sound told Tuck the man's name--Liston. Sure as day and night, it had to be Jake Liston, him being the only one of Monroe's men he knew was heavy enough to pant like a hardworking dog at the least exertion. Tuck reasoned Liston's warning about the attack had ended any allegiance Liston ever had for him.
The man huffed around the corner, and Tuck stepped forth to meet him. "Hello, Jake," he said, soft-voiced, and smacked the scattergun's butt up under Liston's jaw. The heavy man sank to the ground, the whites of his rolled up eyes glinting. A pistol dropped from his hand, causing Tuck to wonder what kind of miracle had kept it from going off in his face.
It took a second or two to figure out what that strange thrill was running along his spine. Besides the terror cramping his gut, that is. Then he got it. Pride, by gum. Pride in a job well done. Confidence built of getting in the first lick.
Hurrying now, before any of the other men began wondering what was taking Liston so long, he took a set of handcuffs from the back pocket of his britches and clamped them around Liston's thick wrist. If the tight fit rubbed off some skin, he didn't much care. He used a dirty kerchief from around Liston's own neck to stuff into the unconscious man's mouth before heaving him into some bushes growing close to the saloon's rock foundation.
In motion again, he stole through the alley until he got to the other side of the building. Beyond, horses whickered in the livery corral, more restless than drowsing horses ought to be. Someone moving among them, he thought, stirring them up. So be it.
Before he could change his mind, he hastened toward the street, making his footfalls sound as heavy as possible. Down at the end of the alley, he spied someone waiting for him. Someone who stood up and called, "Jake? Is that you?"

* * * *

"Hey, you, Mrs. Sheriff. We need the pot emptied. It stinks."
Schoefield, having regained all his belligerence, stood at the cell door bellowing at the top of his lungs and complaining--as usual.
Thoroughly disgusted, Delight did her best to ignore him. For a moment, she wished she hadn't been so quick to see Deputy Moon on his way. She had no vocabulary with which to answer Schoefield's complaint or his crudity.
"Hey," he yelled again, "what time is supper around here? I'm hungry. We all are. We're entitled to our meals, by God."
With the last plank barring the door nailed in place, she gathered the accoutrements of her work and stashed them out of the way.
"You." Schoefield bellowed as if she were as far away as the moon. "Somebody come dump these slops. A man can't hold it all day, ya know. And I--we--got a right to a clean cell."
Delaying the moment of direct confrontation, she paused to light a lamp in the darkened room, then knelt, propping the remaining boards against the bottom of the occupied cell as a further barricade against bullets. If only she could stop her ears from the onerous duty of hearing the prisoner. The surprising element was that Pel had managed to sleep through Schoefield's bellowing.
Worse, to everyone's misfortune, she had to admit the prisoners' pot did stink. Something they all had to live with for the moment.
Standing, she took time to survey her surroundings. She'd secured the jail best she knew how. Tuck's handiwork at the rear door looked strong enough to hold back a charging elephant, while the windows she'd boarded over had firing slits where the defenders could look out, but attackers could not see in. At least that was the plan.
The main door had the heaviest bar that would fit the hardware, and there were two two-by-fours set to prop against the door to prevent it from opening. All in all, an hour's worth of hard work. Waiting came next. But for how long?
And how is Tucker Moon faring? What does this eerie silence outside mean? He's been gone an awfully long time.
"Hey you, Mrs. Sheriff," Schoefield shouted from about a yard away. "You deef?"
Finding herself closer to him than she liked, she stepped farther out of reach. She wouldn't put it past him to try and grab her through the bars. And why, she wondered, hadn't the builders of this jail had the good sense to use plank doors in the first place, instead of open bars? She'd speak to Mr. O'Hanlon one of these days, since he'd bragged on helping build it. She'd ask--no, demand--the cell doors be changed.
Retreating to a safe distance, she faced the prisoner at last. "No, Mr. Schoefield, I'm not deaf. And I'll thank you to keep a civil tongue in your head. If you're inconvenienced, blame Mr. Monroe. If it weren't for him, you'd have normal sanitary privileges."
"La-di-dah," Schoefield began, but from within the cell, Wheatley grumbled something just outside her hearing. He might have been agreeing with her because Schoefield turned and snapped, "Shut up, Milt. Whose side are you on?"
Delight slipped away while his attention was thus diverted and hustled up the stairs to the apartment. Craven retreat, she knew, but justified her escape on the grounds it had been hours since she'd last checked on Pelham. He said he was better. And he had to be, this night. He was certain to be thoroughly tested.
As it happened, she found Pelham asleep in the rocking chair, the tabby curled on his lap. It made Delight smile to see the pair of them. Before he'd been shot Pel had ignored the cat, calling it "a woman's critter," although she'd caught him petting it and feeding it tidbits more than once. She hadn't let on she'd noticed. But since that awful night, he seemed to take comfort in the creature's presence.
The tabby opened its golden eyes as Delight came over and placed her hand on Pel's shoulder. Her light touch jerked him awake as Schoefield's commotion could not.
"Everything all right?" he asked, blinking at her. The lamps needed lit and she moved to do so.
"Yes. So far. We're as ready as we'll ever be." She didn't want to talk about the coming fight. Not yet. "Are you hungry? I suppose I'll have to fix the prisoners something. Mr. Schoefield has been complaining. A sandwich, I think. And a piece of that green apple pie. There's just enough to go around."
Pel yawned. "A pity to waste the pie on them."
She forced a laugh as she walked into the kitchen and pumped water into the coffee pot. She made a full pot, figuring they'd need every drop before this night ended. "Don't worry. There's plenty for you."
The rocking chair creaked as Pel fought his way upright and followed her. "Moon get the building sealed off? I heard the hammer even while I was sleeping. Seemed to take him a long time."
Delight kept her back to him. Let him eat first, then tell him Deputy Moon had taken it upon himself to carry the fight to the enemy. And that it was just Pel and her here to protect this bastion of law and order.
"The building is as secure as possible," she said, spreading golden butter on thick-sliced brown bread. Even these prisoners would have no call to say they were underfed.
Pel's arms slipped around her waist and just for a moment, she closed her eyes and let herself lean against him like she would've done without thinking two weeks ago. Then she stiffened her spine and moved out of his reach.
"It'll be dark soon," she said. "We need to get set."
She felt his eyes on her. "We? No, honey. Not you. Moon and I. We can handle it. It's too late for you to go elsewhere, but you can take cover up here. The kitchen is the best place, I think. In that space behind the kitchen stove where the brick chimney wall backs it up. Remember to stay low."
Delight nodded, as though agreeing. "I hadn't thought of it, but I expect that is the safest place in the house. Hot, though."
"Better hot than shot." Pleased with his play on words, Pel took the sandwich she handed him and began to eat, taking big bites. He'd already buckled on his gun belt with the Peacemaker Colt in the holster. The belt drooped low over his hips, thinner now than looked comfortable. He'd propped a Winchester carbine against the door jamb close to hand, with a ten-gauge double-barreled shotgun next to it. She'd smelled the gun oil in the office where he'd cleaned his weapons earlier, preparing them for action. It was a smell that permeated the entire building.
A shiver went through her. How had they come to this? With a powerful liking for this country and the people, she and Pel had decided to stay almost from the day they arrived. Not for the first time, she wondered at Diggett Monroe's reasoning. He cared nothing for home or land. Why did he want theirs? How could one man turn a whole town--no, a whole county--upside down with only greed for motivation? She didn't understand and thought she never would.
Finished putting the sandwiches together, she set them on a tray with three plates of apple pie, and added cups for the coffee.
"Are you ready?" she asked.
"As I'll ever be." Pel gathered his weapons and started down the stairs, leaning against the wall for balance.
Good, Delight thought. He was taking no chances against a fall. She held back a little, giving him room. But since he was ahead of her, she was fully aware when he reached the bottom, swept the room with a glance, and found it empty except for the prisoners in their cell.
He faced her, his gaze piercing and full of accusation. "Where is he, Delight?" he asked, before she had a chance to set down the tray. "Where's Moon? He hasn't gone, has he?"
She'd never had him take such a harsh tone with her. Quiet, so the prisoners wouldn't catch his words, but stern. And cold. Despite herself, her lips trembled. "Certainly not. Deputy Moon is out patrolling the town, Pel. He...we...decided together."
"Exactly what did you decide--together?"
She drew in a breath and lifted her head. "We decided it would be best to have a person outside, so, if things go wrong, not all of us are trapped inside the jail. On the positive side, we believe Monroe will stop short of burning the place with his own men inside, and that you and I together can hold the building against the rest of them."
"You and I?" Anger soured Pel's voice. "Delight, he's got twenty men--"
Delight shook her head, interrupting him. "Twenty men? Perhaps he did--perhaps--but we can account for three right here. And at least two more, among the dead."
He stared at her.
"We do have a plan, Pel. Deputy Moon will draw some of Monroe's men away from the jail, thereby dividing his forces and giving us all a better chance. And, until Sorenson arrives...well, we've contacted some of the townsmen. A few have volunteered to take up arms and join us."
"Who?"
Her reply had almost as much bite as his question. "Schmidt, Sheridan, Hunt, Mayor Green and, of course, Mr. O'Hanlon."
Pel grunted. "This is the most outlandish, most foolish stunt I ever heard of," he got out from between gritted teeth. "What makes Moon think he has any chance of coming out of it alive?"
Her voice was very soft. "I believe he's depending on courage and determination, my darling. And maybe a trace of luck. Just like you. What other choice do any of us have?"

* * * *

Pel stood aside, watching Delight, her body tense, approach the cell, the prisoner's meal balanced on a tray. She'd learned caution these last few days. She made sure the plates of food fit beneath the cell door, and poured coffee into cups the prisoners held out through the bars. He approved.
Schoefield, of course, found fault. "Sandwiches? I wanted steak and mashed taters."
Delight never turned a hair at his objection. It seemed as though she didn't even hear him.
Although on the outside Sheriff Pelham Birdsall railed against his deputy's foolhardiness in going into the streets alone, he had to admit to a degree of admiration. Foolhardy, yes, given the number of men they were up against. Had the outlaws been fewer, or he an unmarried man, it was just the kind of brash ploy he would've thought of himself. But he was married, and glad of it, never forgetting the responsibilities happiness brought.
"When did Moon leave?" His voice softened. Poor girl. She'd done nothing to deserve his censure. This obligation was his to bear--his and Moon's--not hers.
She brought the coffee pot over to the desk and set it on a pad. "About an hour ago."
He moved around the room, taking in the boarded-up windows and barricaded doors, and frowned. "An hour? Hasn't been that long since the hammering stopped."
Her skirt swished. "Most anyone can wield a hammer, Pel. Including me."
"You?" A grin hovered, fighting to break free from the hold he had on it.
The deep blue of Delight's eyes appeared to twinkle. "Do you doubt it?"
In truth, Pel had begun to think there was nothing his young wife couldn't do; nothing she wouldn't dare to do. Turns out she was a bit of a spitfire, and he'd never once guessed, so demure she'd always been, giving in to his judgment. He trusted her newfound independence wouldn't turn contentious.
Putting his eye to a slit between boards over the front window, he stole a look outside. Whether Moon or Delight, whoever had done the nailing had also put the slit at about eye level. Just the right height for a man with a rifle. He would've liked a more open field of fire, but this would do. As he watched, he saw the shape of a man flit from one side of Schmidt's Mercantile across the way to the other. Another slid into a prone position behind the watering trough next to the hitching rail in front of the store. Pel hoped the thug was enjoying lying in the liberal amounts of wet horse manure scattered there.
So he'd spied out two of the enemy. Where were the others? He never doubted there were more. How many was the question. And where was Moon?
"Delight," he said, "pour those boys another cup of coffee, then take yourself upstairs. Looks like it's going to get a little busy here in a while."
He propped his rifle handy at the front window and moved along to the side. Ah, yes. There was another of Monroe's men, partially visible, not nearly so well hidden behind a pillar holding up the front of Green's butcher shop as he probably hoped. Three of them now, he'd spotted.
This one being the easiest, he'd take him out first, a good lesson to the rest of the gang to show a mite of caution. He placed his scattergun at this window, along with a box of shells. A sense of apprehension mixed with excitement started his heart pumping harder and he panted, his lungs trying to keep up. A drop of sweat rolled down his face.
Sorenson should've had time to get here by now. Where was he?
When he turned around, Delight was still there, calmly shoving fresh cartridges in her little derringer.
"What're you doing? I told you to go upstairs. Hunker down where I showed you." Concern put a sharp edge on his tone.
"Look at you." Her voice was softly mocking. "You move like an old, old man. Not your fault, my darling, but you can't get around this room fast enough to cover every window. So I'm going to help you."
Pel opened his mouth meaning to counter her reasoning when, from outside, a rifle cracked and a bullet thudded into the wall not six inches above his head.
It had begun.
"Get the light," he said, and almost before the words were out of his mouth, Delight had dashed to the desk and extinguished the one there. A second lamp, one fixed to wall next to the cells followed, plunging the room into near-darkness. Within the cells, one of the prisoners swore and a tin cup clattered onto the stone floor.
"That was just a warning shot, Birdsall," Schoefield said. "Better give up. Maybe Monroe will let your wife go." He laughed. "But I doubt it."
Pel refused to be taunted. Drawing his pistol, he knelt at the side of the front window and watched for movement. Forget Sorenson. Where was Tuck Moon? Had he run? Had he joined Monroe? Was he dead?
"Delight, please," he said without turning his head, "go upstairs. I can't worry about you and fight these yahoos, too."
He hadn't seen or even heard her approach, but a touch of her hand showed she was right beside him. Little fool.
"Then don't worry about me. Just tell me where I can serve you best and I'll do it, even if it's only reloading your weapons."
He couldn't see her expression or tell if her voice had trembled. He didn't think it had. Her dad had been a man to trust your life with, as rock-solid as the surrounding hills. How could it be he'd never before seen the ways she resembled Tom Regal? Reaching out, he put his arm around her and pulled her close, drinking in the fragrance of lemon and lavender from her hair. She made a real nice armful...that was sure.
"I don't know who scares me most," he said. "You or them."

Chapter 17

The shot Schoefield described to the sheriff as a warning also gave Deputy Tuck Moon cause for gratitude. It diverted the feller at the end of the alley enough Tuck closed in on him before the outlaw could realize the one approaching him was a much smaller man than his friend Jake. And by then, it was too late.
The shotgun butt to the jaw had worked fine the first time Tuck tried it. Worked almost as well the second. Took two blows to bring the man down this time, although the first paralyzed any real resistance. Early starlight showed Tuck his opponent's face. He didn't remember having seen him even before the loss of two teeth and a bloody mouth altered his appearance.
Using the man's own braided rope belt to secure his hands in back of him, Tuck then tugged the unconscious outlaw's britches low enough he could use the legs as binding at the ankles. Two men down--two enemies removed from play. It was bidding fair to be a successful enterprise.
But Tuck set no store in precedent. Aware of the other two who'd been on his tail, he wouldn't feel free to brag until they had all been eliminated. With his latest catch dragged to the side out of the way, Tuck took up station where the man had been. He'd always been a patient hunter. The next move was up to them.
He hadn't long to wait. Only enough time passed to let the spurt of battle energy ebb and get his ragged breathing under control. Truth be told, he could've used a little longer, but the thud of boot heels on the boardwalk outside the saloon warned him that was not in the cards.
One set of boot heels. Where had the second man gone?
"Ed," the one following him called as he came closer, "that deputy come by yet?"
Tuck recognized a yahoo named Lisenbee by his whiskey-roughened voice.
It didn't seem polite not to answer. "Shh," he whispered, withdrawing deeper into the alley. He gestured Lisenbee over to him. "This way."
"You seen Jake?" Without a trace of suspicion, the outlaw followed him. It wasn't until Tuck stopped and faced him that the man knew anything was wrong.
"You ain't Ed," Lisenbee sputtered, alarmed. "Where is he?"
A snuffling came from over by the dump pile where Tuck had dragged Ed.
"What's that?" Lisenbee asked, peering over Tuck's shoulder.
"A rat." Tuck brought up his shotgun.
Even then, at first, Lisenbee's predicament didn't sink in. Then it did. Finally catching on to what was happening, he yelped, "Hell on fire. You're that damn deputy." Skittering back out of Tuck's reach, he grabbed for the pistol at his hip.
Tuck had a second of worry, but then saw Lisenbee had a problem. The pistol's hammer had hung up on the holster's thong and no matter how hard the outlaw yanked, he couldn't free the pistol.
"Fool, watch--" Tuck began, but before he could finish, the pistol went off. Straight away, Lisenbee started hollering and dancing around on one foot--until he fell over.
"Ooh," he yowled. "Ooh, ooh."
He reminded Tuck of a cow caught in a barbed wire fence, the way he thrashed around.
But it may have been that at a distance, his cries sounded like the command to begin firing. Seemed certain whichever of Monroe's men had taken a position on the roof took them as such. To Tuck's astonishment, the roof man opened up shooting blind, emptying his rifle's entire magazine into the alley. Bullets sprayed every which way, with a couple ricocheting off some good-sized boulders whoever had built the saloon had dug away from the foundation and left scattered.
Tuck sheltered best he could against the saloon wall and put his head down until the fusillade was over. Then the silence, when the gunfire stopped, almost hurt. He could see Lisenbee was all right. The outlaw was lying in the same spot he'd been when the shooting started, almost like he'd been frozen to the ground. His mouth hung open, and Tuck could see the whites of his eyes where they bugged wide.
Tuck went over to the man he'd trussed and dragged out of the way. Keeping his voice low, he asked, "You hit?"
He decided the return words through the bound man's gag meant no. At least he took it as such.
Tuck turned and pointed his shotgun at Lisenbee's gut. "If I was you, I'd climb on my horse and get out of town. Better yet, get out of Idaho Territory before Sheriff Birdsall is back to his regular self. He ain't in what you'd call a forgiving mood right now."
"I'm shot." Lisenbee's voice sounded pallid, if such a thing could be.
"Yup. I noticed. You done pretty good, shooting yourself." Tuck didn't bother to keep his amusement from showing, but Lisenbee must've been too wrought up to take offense.
"You gotta get the doc for me," Lisenbee whined.
Tuck grunted. "Walk out onto the street where that feller sitting on the roof can shoot me? I guess I ain't so careless."
The outlaw talked fast. "He won't shoot. I'll tell him to hold fire."
"Like he held fire just now? My ma didn't raise me for a fool."
Before Lisenbee could argue further, a flurry of gunshots broke out down the street by the sheriff's office. The noise continued for what seemed like a powerful long time. Then it stopped. Except for two or three dogs trading yelps about the noise, a deep silence ruled.
Tuck didn't much like it.

* * * *

Waiting for the war to begin tore at Pel's nerves. Being stuck inside the sheriff's office, when every instinct he possessed urged him not to wait on anyone's timetable but his own, got his hackles up. Almost as high as the hair rising along the dog's back. The animal's dark eyes fixed on the side window, a low growl purling from its throat as it belly-crawled across the floor to Delight's side.
Delight reached down, stilling the animal with her hand.
"Pel," she called to him, her voice low and worried, "someone is standing awfully close to this window. He's only about ten feet away."
"Don't get in front of it," he warned her, almost snapping. "Stay low and to the side."
"I know."
The boards nailed across the openings helped, but weren't foolproof. They wouldn't prevent flying glass or a bullet shot through one of the spaces. Pel wished for solid steel shutters. He wished for an army at his back. Most of all, he wished his wife away from here and somewhere safe.
"I'm glad we lighted a lamp, Pel, even one this dim." She glanced toward him, seeming to take comfort by having him in sight. "This way we won't trip over each other or the dog."
He would've preferred total darkness and vision attuned to the night, but he heard the tremor in her voice, and knew how brave she was and what it cost her to stand beside him.
"Yes. I'd hate like the dickens to trip over anything. Might not make back onto my feet." After a quick smile at her, he stared into the street through a slit between boards, holding onto his night vision.
Useless chatter because, except for the desk and couple of chairs stacked in the middle, the room was clear. Tuck Moon's doing, he supposed. Or maybe Delight's. She was a whole lot sharper about this kind of thing than he'd ever given her credit for.
Movement caught his eye. A tall, thick-set man clomped down the street opposite the office, his form almost lost in the gloom.
Diggett Monroe, unless he missed his guess, come to take charge of the doings. Breath hissed between his teeth.
Delight turned at the slight sound. "What is it?"
"Monroe. The head snake has showed up in person."
As he watched, another gent ran up and the two of them conferred. Monroe's arm waved. A few seconds later, gunfire erupted from the roof on top the boarding house a couple blocks down the street. The noise echoed through town.
Delight cried out, and Pel couldn't stop the way he ducked before he found, to his surprise, the shots weren't aimed at the jail. But Monroe had only one other reason to shoot wild like that and its name was Deputy Tuck Moon. Somewhere over there, Moon must be pinned down--or shot dead.
Sensing his arrested attention, Delight came to stand next to him. "Which one is he?" she asked, just above a whisper. Pel knew who she meant.
"Tall one with the big hat." Pelham thrust the barrel of his pistol through the slit and gave the window glass, one of the few not already broken, a sharp tap. The pane shattered, most of the shards falling onto the sidewalk outside.
The sound of falling glass had Schoefield stirring restlessly in his cell. "Is the boss here?" he called. "Is Diggett coming?"
"He's here," Pel said. "You fellers better get ready to duck."
Delight clutched his arm, then just as quickly, let go and stepped back.
"We'll be fighting soon," she said, resignation in her voice.
"I will. You stay low."
Behind them, Schoefield was dragging the thin straw mattress off his bunk onto the hard, rough floor. "Get down, Wheatley, Purdee," he said to the other men. "It's time we hit the dirt."
With Purdee hovering like he was thinking about helping, Wheatley groaned and slid from his bunk, his stiff leg making any movement difficult. Not that Pel gave a button. But he didn't want any prisoner killed inside his jail, while under his care, and applauded Schoefield's advice.
The dog drew everyone's attention by emitting a queer sound somewhere between a whine and a growl. He rose on his three good legs, lunging in sharp protest toward the side window Delight had abandoned a minute before. The lunge became an attack against the wall, toenails gouging at the wooden planks as though he would dig through to the other side. His growl became a full-fledged snarl that grew in volume, his lips drawn back over his teeth in a vicious smile.
Pel caught Delight's arm as she started toward her assigned post. "Don't get near him," he said, worried now as much by the dog as by the men outside.
That attitude changed as a cluster of shots banged outside of where the frenzied dog leapt. The window shattered just above the animal's head, the boards stopping part of the glass--and most of the bullets. One went through the firing slits, straight past Delight's nose where it thudded into the opposite wall. She shrank back and, even in the uncertain light, Pel saw she'd gone dead white. She didn't need to be touching him for Pel to feel her trembling.
As abruptly as it started, the barrage stopped, leaving the dog untouched but barking louder than ever.
Above the noise, Pel heard someone hollering. He peered through slits in the boards and spotted Monroe partially concealed behind a cord of wood stacked outside Schmidt's store, waving his big hat over his head.
"Missus Birdsall," he called again, "you alive in there, ma'am?"
If there was one thing Pel knew, it was that he wasn't up to a prolonged discussion with a lot of back and forth yelling. In plain fact, he wasn't up to any yelling at all. He exchanged a look with Delight. "It's Diggett Monroe."
"Do you want me to answer him?" she asked.
"Not yet. Let him talk."
"If he shows himself, maybe you can shoot him," she said. "That should solve the whole problem."
Pel smothered a laugh. He didn't know what to think of Delight taking such a bloodthirsty attitude. She'd always been such a proper little lady--until now.
Her blue eyes found his. They were dark, the pupils dilated, and just a little too wild. "He's a wanted man, isn't he? Wanted dead or alive? Cut off the snake's head and you cut away its ability to strike."
Pel remembered her dad saying that, slow and ponderous in his deep voice. "Delight--" he began, only to have Monroe interrupt. The outlaw was easier to hear, this time, because a second glance showed he'd moved closer.
"We got him," Monroe said. "Moon, I mean."
Pel heard Delight's indrawn breath from all the way across the room. "Oh, no," she whispered, as if to herself.
He opened his mouth to tell her not to believe Monroe, but the outlaw was speaking again.
"Now there's just you, Birdsall. Due to your recent...accident...I'm giving you a chance to run. You can walk off and leave the town to me. I'll take care of folks. Count on it."
Although the outlaw was difficult to see clearly through the gathering dusk, Pel sensed him grinning. His skin burned with the rage that swept over him. Accident? Accident he'd lived through the attack, Monroe meant. And any man who thought Pelham Birdsall a man who would abandon his town, his home, to the likes of Diggett Monroe, had another think coming.
"What do you say, Birdsall? I'll even let you take your wife with you, although I've got to say a few of my men would druther she stayed. They tell me she'd make a pretty playmate--for as long as she lasted."
Pel still made no reply, although Delight's outraged gasp cut him through.
"Pel," she said, but he held up his hand, a plea for her to remain silent.
"I'm waiting for your answer, Birdsall," Monroe said, then, when Pel remained silent: "Birdsall? You alive? Come out--now! Meet me out front and we'll settle this, just you and me."
Pel glance locked with Delight's anguished gaze.
Seconds passed before Monroe shouted again. "Wheatley? Schoefield? Is everybody dead in there?"
Pel turned, his pistol aimed at the prisoners. "Anyone of you opens your yap, I'll shoot you in the knee cap."
"I ain't saying nothin'," Wheatley said.
Purdee shook his head, while Schoefield glared.
Pel nodded approval. "Smart." He wanted Monroe to come closer. Let this be between him and the outlaw--an end to the shooting. Yep. Cut off the snake's head and eliminate its ability to strike. Tom Regal's daughter had it right.
His steely glare fixed on Schoefield, who stared at him, mouth open. Slowly, the prisoner's mouth closed.

* * * *

Look at him, Delight thought, watching her husband with a glum eye. His skin was gray as ashes and his jaw knotted in that stubborn way he had. His limbs might shake with weakness, but with him, none of that counted. He was going to do it. Walk right out, meet Monroe, and expose himself to another sniper's shot. His pride would let him do no less. He made an oath when he took this job. He'd vowed to defend Garnet County and everyone in it, and he'd do so, no matter the cost to himself.
But what he did would cost her, too, and she refused to pay.
"Pelham Birdsall," she said, "don't you dare leave this room. We'll hole up here until help comes, but we will not give in to that man. Mr. Moon will not have died for nothing."
"Don't bet your life on Sorenson, honey. He may not make it here in time. If he comes at all."
"Hmph," Delight said. "Only a week ago I paid him a handsome reward when he brought in a dead horse thief. Going by his reaction then, he won't be averse to earning a few dollars more. I had the impression he's quick with his gun, as well as being a bit on the greedy side."
"I think he's only a step above the thieves," Pel said, sounding amused.
"The thought had occurred to me. But I, for one, don't care what he's like as long as he minds his manners and does what's needful in this crisis."
"I won't have any vigilantism. Not in my town."
"Of course not. But we have to get through this first. Then, if necessary, you can persuade him to mend his ways."
"I'm not saying anything different." Pel smiled at her, his old slow smile, the one that had always made her heart go pitty-pat, even when she'd been thirteen years old and too young for him to notice.
"I'll deputize Sorenson, if he comes," he said. "May not be the letter of the law, but the chance for some reward money should buy his loyalty. Let's hope he'll be content to go back to his ranching after the excitement is over."
Problems for the future, too inconsequential to think of now. But only, she couldn't help reflecting, if the rancher came soon. An overwhelming sense of regret swept over her. "I wish he and his men had gotten here in time to save Mr. Moon. It's my fault. I shouldn't have agreed when he said he wanted to meet them outside. I said you and I could protect the office, so he went." Unshed tears clogged her throat.
Pel, as he turned back to the window to keep Diggett Monroe in view, seemed strangely cheerful in view of her sadness. "I seem to recall you saying it was his idea. Don't start beating on yourself, Delight. Monroe's a terrible liar, and we have only his say so that Moon is dead."
"Oh. But..."
"I don't believe him. All we heard is one rifle."
"Yes?" She knew she sounded unconvinced.
"We didn't hear any return fire. No shotgun blast. I doubt any of Monroe's men are good enough to take him without a fight. We haven't seen anybody parading Moon's body down the street either, like I'd expect Monroe to do. Don't be so quick in writing him off."

Chapter 18

Was Delight--Mrs. Birdsall, that is--trying to defend the sheriff's office by herself? Deputy Tuck Moon near had a conniption, worrying about her. Guilt settled in, curdling his last meal, which lay lumpish in his stomach. Feisty and strong as she might be, no female was prepared or able to take on Diggett Monroe and his gang of rowdies.
Tuck cursed his luck for about the tenth time since he'd heard shots coming from the sheriff's office. Having taken three prisoners, he now found himself as much a prisoner as any of them. The feller on the rooftop over yonder kept him pinned down like a bird stuck under a net.
Tuck didn't care for the direction this standoff was heading.
Every so often after the first flurry of gunshots, he caught glimpses of the sniper moving from position to position. A little light had remained low on the horizon then, throwing the feller into relief, but now night blanketed the town. The shooter was no longer visible, therefore, it stood to reason Tuck himself was every bit as hard to spot. This is the moment he'd been waiting for.
He hauled Ed closer to the downspout running from the saloon roof and, sacrificing his own sweat-damp kerchief, tied the man to the pipe, wrenching the knot tight.
"Might be a good idea to keep your mouth shut, my friend. Looks as if that feller across the way ain't too particular where he aims his rifle. You make just as good of a target as I do."
Ed, in pain and a whole lot more subdued than before he shot a hole through his own foot, nodded and slid the cuff around the drain low enough he could sit on the ground. He moaned deep in his throat.
Tuck left him there, going back the way he'd come, following along behind the businesses until he came to the first cross street. He figured he was out of the rooftop shooter's line of sight here, and crouching low, he darted over to the other side. He reversed direction, bearing off toward the rooming house. Unless the sniper had forced the landlady, old Missus Doherty, to open up at gun point--thereby gaining access through the attic--he must've gotten up to the roof by climbing the fire escape at the rear. Tuck planned on doing the same. Should be simple.
A minute later he'd tugged off his boots and stood in the dark with one foot on a simple ladder nailed handily to the wall of the house. While taking care not to knock over a trash barrel, second thoughts roiled through his mind. What if the sniper was sitting up there waiting for him? First peep over the roof edge and he'd be a goner, a big hole in his head where his brains used to be.
If he had any brains to begin with, which he was beginning to doubt. How had he gotten to this place, straight out of jail, only to wind up working on the side of the law? Didn't make any sense. But neither did the scent of lavender wafting on the late summer night's breeze. A scent that reminded him of a lovely young woman who depended on him for her very life. A woman who belonged to another man and had offered Tuck Moon only her simple friendship and trust.
He was a damn fool. Sighing, he began to climb.

* * * *

Stiff from standing in one place too long, Pelham shifted his weight onto his other foot, stifling a groan at the small motion. Old age setting in, he told himself. He didn't bounce back from hurts like he used to do.
"What time is it?" he asked Delight. The clock on the desk was visible to her from the other side of the room.
She stretched her neck to look. "Seven."
"Sorenson and his men should've been here by now." He'd been on his feet a solid hour. Too long for a man just risen from his sick bed. Tremors shook his innards like he'd heard earthquakes in California shook the land.
As though she'd read his mind, Delight said, "Let me get you a chair. You can sit and watch for trouble every bit as well as you can stand and watch."
He was beyond protesting. "Thanks, honey," he said, receiving the chair she skated across the floor to him. He'd no sooner sat down than Schoefield broke his long silence. It had taken a while for the outlaw to regain his poise after dodging the hailstorm of bullets that had flown his way.
"Feeling a mite weak, Sheriff?" Schoefield asked, mocking Pel. "You're feeble as an old man. Why don't you call Diggett in right now? Save a whole lot of trouble. He'll win anyway. Diggett always wins."
Pel heard Delight sniff.
"Not this time," he said.
"You know Diggett's brother, Happy?" Schoefield went on. "See, it ain't just Diggett you got to fight. Right now Happy's taking orders, but it's easy to see he don't like it. If you get Diggett--which I'm guessing you won't--but even if you did, Happy is next in line. You won't get them both."
"Shut up," Wheatley snapped out. "You talk too damn much."
Wheatley had the right of it. Pel turned his head away and quit listening, wishing he could close Delight's ears at the same time. He couldn't.
She shook her head as though disbelieving what she'd heard. "How can either of you have any loyalty to this man? Diggett Monroe is about as sorry of an excuse of a man as I've ever heard of. Has he asked if you lost your leg, Mr. Wheatley? Certainly not, although Doc says it is a miracle you haven't." She glared at the two men, though they may not have seen her. "Has he inquired after your welfare, Mr. Schoefield? Ha! Not one word. Have any of you realized he showed no regard for your welfare when he shot into the jail? You three are in every bit as much danger as the sheriff or I."
"They're expendable," Pel said. "That's the word you're looking for."
"Precisely. Thank you."
"What's that mean?" Schoefield asked, standing up and clasping the bars on the cell door.
Pel laughed. "Means Monroe doesn't give a hoot who he kills. Me, that dog, you. It's all the same to him."
"That ain't so," Schoefield said. But the outlaw fell silent, and Pel saw how the man's hands gripped the iron bars hard enough to turn his knuckles white. The sheepherder's dog gave notice of more trouble on the way by letting out an awful howl, then lunging against the wall over near the side window.

* * * *

Delight expected the dog would take a leg off whoever was scrabbling around outside, if only he could claw an opening through the thick wood clapboards. And if that happened, she wouldn't try to stop him, either.
She'd gravitated to her husband's side during the lull, wanted to cling to him, but now she hurried back to her position. She was nerving herself to shoot, if it came to that, and held the .44 Pel had found for her--a twin to the one Tuck Moon now carried--in both shaking hands, aiming the wavering barrel at the window. Somebody started hammering the boards from beyond the wall. The barrier jiggled, but didn't give way. Not yet.
"Look sharp," Pel said. "If one those boards breaks loose, shoot. Don't wait for a still target. You probably won't get one." He lifted the rifle to his shoulder, tracked movement outside in the dark, and let off a shot. He grunted satisfaction as an anguished cry signaled a hit.
She winced. "What if someone out there needs our help?" A horrifying question occurred to her. "What if an ally is in trouble, Pel? What if it's Mr. Moon?"
"It's not Moon, and the locals are all tucked up inside their houses."
"Maybe not," she said uneasily. "Some of the men said they'd fight to protect their own property. What if--"
"Nothing we can do about them now." He turned to look at her. "Aim for their middle, Delight, if they break through."
He believed they were going to be killed. The shocking realization hit her, but before it had a chance sink into her brain, a new volley of bullets thudded into the building. The office boiled over with the thunderous roar of gunfire as Pel opened up with his rifle. Her ears rang with the clamor in the enclosed room. An acrid odor of exploded gunpowder stung in her nose, residue burned her eyes, and the frantic dog howled his fear and anger.
From the corner of one tearing eye, she saw Schoefield huddle into the corner of his cell, while Wheatley turned his cot on edge and lay down behind it as if he thought the thin mattress provided some protection. Purdee merely sat on the floor, almost as if daring a bullet to reach him.
Time ran out then. She had no more chance for observation as a wave of gunshots resounded from the side alley. Bullets thumped into the board barrier.
She and Pel were caught in a crossfire, with Diggett Monroe determined they find no way out.
One of the boards she'd nailed up earlier crashed to the floor, and through the gap, she saw the shape of a man. His torso, mostly, since he was near enough to fill the whole opening. He was hammering at a second board with the butt of his pistol, and it was within an ace of falling, too. Worse, though, the dog was intent on reaching the man, bouncing against the wall as though to rip a way through the window. He blocked her vision and she had no clear shot.
"Come away," she cried to the dog. "Come away!" Maybe, she thought, she should let him go, but then the animal hesitated, his head turning toward her.
"Here," she said. "To me. Good fellow. Come away."
He dropped to the floor a fraction of a second before the ruffian outside reversed his weapon and fired blindly into the room. For a wonder, he missed. The bullet passed above the animal's head, then tore past Delight's face close enough to clip a lock of her hair before it slammed into the desk. It still had enough force to topple the chairs piled on top. One tumbled to the floor with a clatter.
Delight's wrists trembled as she lifted the .44, but she refused to let the sudden failing stop her from pulling the trigger. The pistol roared once, twice. The man dropped away from the window, though not before she caught sight of the bright stain spreading across the middle of his blue calico shirt.
He screamed, and her stomach turned within her belly. With the sound still ringing in her ears, another figure reared up to take the first man's place, and without thinking, she fired the .44 again. And then she fired it again, and yet again, until he went down. Pelham's shouts from across the room finally sank into her brain.
"Reload," he yelled at her above the din from his own gun. "You're out of bullets. Delight, reload."
And somehow, before any other of Monroe's gang worked up the nerve to face her fire, she did, only to empty it once more against another man brave enough, or stupid enough, to come at her. Whether she hit him or anyone else, she preferred not to know.

* * * *

Monroe's men kept a respectful distance after Delight shot two of them at nearly point blank range. Under different circumstances, Pel might've laughed at their surprise. No weak link was to be found at Delight's window. No, sir. The only weak thing was Pel's heart, which about failed him trying to watch her while keeping up a steady fire of his own.
The feller who'd taken cover behind the watering trough outside the mercantile now sprawled in plain sight. From the way the body lay, Pel knew he was dead. A lantern inside the store spread enough light on the area for him to see that much. Another man lay squashed up against the boardwalk not five feet from the dead one. He thought maybe Schmidt would be claiming bragging rights when all this was over--if he was still alive to do so.
As the minutes wore on, the wounded man's caterwauling weakened, and Pel figured he'd soon be joining his partner in hell. There'd be plenty of crosses erected on boot hill when all this was over.
If Endurance had a boot hill. Pel sighted on a shadowy target and squeezed off a shot that made the feller duck. He disremembered ever hearing mention of one, but it looked like there'd be a demand when the gun battle was over.
After his last shot, everything went still, the street silent and empty, the wounded man quiet at last. Over the ringing in his ears, Pel heard dogs barking in the distance, and what sounded like the hoof beats of several horses. Coming or going? He hoped they were going. Opening a new box of shells, he reloaded.
Behind him, Wheatley gasped as he sat up. "Schoefield, you alive?" he called over to his cellmate.
"Guess so," the other prisoner muttered. "Purdee?"
Purdee groaned.
"Pel?" Delight whispered, hope in her voice. "Pel, are they leaving?

* * * *

Tuck Moon curled his bare toes around the last rung on the ladder and, taking in a short breath and holding it, poked the top four inches of his head above the roof edge. To his surprise, nothing happened--except he became aware of his feet hurting to beat thunder from being arched over the thin side of a one-by-two. He felt like a fool, too, walking around without his boots on. But better a live fool than a dead one. One slip and the sniper would hear him and shoot. Then, if that didn't kill him, likely the fall would.
At first he believed his precautions may have been for naught, until he caught sight of the sniper crouched in a corner where he had a good view of the street. He'd propped his rifle beside him and was involved in rolling a smoke and listening to the gunfire down the street. From his attitude, he must suppose he had the world by the tail.
Tuck grinned. Let him think so. Let him light his match. That'd be the time to shift the shotgun Tuck wore strapped across his back and get the drop on the bugger. The feller's eyesight would be dimmed by the light and his hands too busy to make a fast reach for his weapon. Tuck believed in taking every advantage offered.
But, although he tensed in anticipation, the match didn't flare and Tuck's toes kept right on hurting. He almost fell from his perch when the man on the roof spoke. "Hey, yourself," he said.
Took him a couple slow thumps of his heart before he concluded the feller wasn't talking to him, but to someone standing in the street below.
"Yeah, it's quiet here," the sniper said. "Think I got him. You're welcome to go see if you can find his body."
The reply, from Tuck's position, was unintelligible.
"No, siree." The sniper sounded amused. "Your brother said for me to get up here, stay put, and guard his back. Reckon I'll do just like he says."
From that, Tuck determined the sniper must be talking to Happy Monroe. Tuck's heart speeded up. He had a score to settle with Happy, and the sooner the better. Too bad the man on the roof stood between them. Now, he thought with fierce anger held in too long, right now would be a good time.
He never knew what alerted the sniper. Maybe the brush of his clothing as he swarmed over the edge onto the flat roof; maybe he grunted as a bare toe stubbed against the final rung of the ladder. Could even have been a sixth sense that caused the man to whirl around, his rifle ready.
"Who is that?" the man yelped.
"It's me," Tuck said, and he brought his scattergun up into firing position.
Good thing he did, too, because the sniper hollered, "Moon! How'd you..." Then he yanked his rifle to hip level and started shooting.
The bullet sang over Tuck's head like a hummingbird drubbing its wings. Tuck let go with his first barrel at a far greater distance than the shotgun was effective, but he sprinted forward at the same time. The sniper, pinked by a few lead pellets, brought his rifle to bear as Tuck bore down on him, rushing him enough his next shot went off kilter to Tuck's right. Another followed, but by then Tuck had gotten the distance he needed. The heavy buckshot in the scattergun's last load brought the sniper down like he'd melted. He groaned a time or two, his heels drummed, then went silent.
Tuck ran over and kicked the rifle away from the man's outstretched hand--just in case--only to see, when he looked down from his rooftop perch, the back side of Happy Monroe hightailing it up the street towards the commotion at the sheriff's office.
"Gutless son of a lowlife pig farmer," Tuck muttered. Happy must've heard the sniper identify him and run rather than meet him man-to-man. First time he'd ever considered Monroe a coward.
He was still shaking his head over the outlaw's treachery when a fresh outpouring of shots erupted down at the sheriff's office. Tuck picked up the sniper's rifle and peered through the sights, boring down on Happy's light-colored shirt. Finger light on the trigger, he squeezed off a shot at the same instant the outlaw ducked into the alley leading to the back of the jail.
"Worthless piece of junk." The rifle had shot high. Frustrated, he threw it over the edge of the roof where it bounced a couple times on the ground below.
As though in response, the noise of the fight going on between the sheriff and Diggett grew in intensity and, over that, he heard the sound of several horses galloping along the road into town.
Was it more of Monroe's men pouring in to tear Endurance apart? Or was it Sorenson's men from up valley coming to help at last? Hope quickened. Tuck didn't figure to take any chances. He hunkered down beside the dead sniper on the roof top and waited for the riders to come into sight.

* * * *

Sheriff Birdsall swiped at the sweat running from his forehead into his eyes and drew air into his laboring lungs. This present outbreak of gunfire had to be the outlaws' last hurrah. Had to be. How many men had he killed so far? Four? Four that he knew of. How many had Delight? Two for sure.
And what about Moon?
The office was in shambles. Several of the barriers protecting the windows had fallen to the office floor, the boards shot to smithereens by the lead Diggett Monroe's gang had expended in the last few minutes. It was a wonder either of them had any ammunition left. He knew his supply was about gone. When Monroe came at them again, it would be their last opportunity to win this fight.
Glass from broken windows crunched underfoot every time someone moved. Meanwhile, Delight crouched close to the floor, as if she wished to become a part of it. Her face, what Pel could see, was as white as milk, almost ghostly in the room's murk.
The barrel of his own rifle hot from rapid fire, Pel glanced at her every few seconds, his heart tripping over the fear the next bullet would have her name on it.
Just like one of the gang's bullets had found Wheatley a minute ago. Unsurprisingly, the straw mattress failed to protect him and now he sprawled on his back on the cell floor with a hole between the eyes, blood that looked black in the dim light seeping down his face just like the sweat from Pel's brow.
Purdee sat immobile, back against the wall with his eyes closed, hands gripped in front of him. So far he was untouched, although the wall around him was pockmarked from the hail of lead. Schoefield lay on the floor next to him, his arms wrapped around his head and cursing a steady string of obscenities unintelligible over the din.
Then, as if by a prearranged signal, the shooting from outside stopped. Pel's ears thundered in the sudden quiet. From across the room, he saw Delight rise up and shake out her skirt, her wide eyes full of questions.
"Wait," he said, motioning her back down.
"What's happening? Is it over?" Her voice wobbled.
Wobbled, but she was holding firm. Pel was proud of her. Another woman would've been screaming her head off, if not fainted dead away.
"Why did they quit shooting?" she asked. She put her fingers up to her ears and rubbed. "Do they think we're dead? Or have we won?"
"Don't know. Might be a trick to make us come out." He eased his head around until he could peer over the window sill, expecting even so cautious a motion to draw a bullet. It didn't. To his surprise, he saw Diggett Monroe standing in front of the mercantile across the street, waving a white rag on the end of his rifle barrel.
"Birdsall, let's talk," Monroe hollered. The sound carried clearly through the glassless windows.
Pel thought the hoof beats he'd heard earlier must've been an illusion because he didn't hear them now.
"Don't you go out there, Pel," Delight said.
"I won't. He's testing the waters. Wants to see if he can get a rise out of me."
Delight shuddered. "Shoot him."
Pel's lips twitched a smile. "It's tempting." Tempting indeed. His body shook with weariness, his shoulder ached from the constant recoil of his rifle, his arms felt leaden, his revolver too heavy to lift. Yes. Shoot the man down under the white flag and end it all. He doubted anybody would blame him.
But he was sheriff of Garnet County and weakness didn't count. Following the law did. He would blame himself.
"You ready to turn yourself and your gang in?" he hollered back. His lungs burned with the effort and he coughed.
Meanwhile, Monroe jerked as if maybe he had thought Pel dead, then his laughter rang out. "You're tough, Birdsall. I'll grant you that. Heard you was more dead than alive, but I guess my informant was wrong."
His informant being--who? Pel thought he knew, and if pushed, he'd say Boomer Herschel.
Monroe was speaking again. "You've shot up some of my men, sheriff, and my brother says that deputy of yours killed another before they got him. But now it's just you. You can't take us all. Give up. Walk away."
"I figure you're joshing, Monroe. It'll be a cold day in hell when that happens. I repeat, turn yourself in. Make things easy on yourself." Pel choked on another bout of coughing.
Pel heard the whisper of Delight's skirt dragging on the floor as she ignored his instructions to stay put and, bending low, slipped over to stand beside him. The .44 in her right hand was like an extension of her arm.
"Shoot him," she whispered again. "He plans to kill you if he gets the chance."
"I know he does. Look!"
Diggett Monroe was dashing across the street toward them waving the white flag. As soon as he reached the corner, he hunkered down beside the raised boardwalk and started talking again.
"Give up now, Birdsall, and I'll guarantee your woman's safety."
Pel felt Delight clutch at his arm, but when he glanced at her, she didn't look frightened, only angry. He lifted her fingers and gave them a squeeze. "Stay here," he said.
"You're not going out there!" Horror widened her eyes.
Pel sighed. "I have to, honey. It's the only way." With an effort, he straightened, went over to the door and lifted the bar. Holding the rifle cradled across his arms, he stepped outside, pretending not to hear Delight's indrawn breath.
He would've had to be blind to miss Monroe's surprise when he stepped out the door. "We meet at last, Birdsall," Monroe said. "I didn't think you'd have the nerve to meet me." He studied Pel a moment. "You're a smaller man than I thought you'd be."
Pel shrugged. "You ready to give yourself up, Monroe?"
"I'm ready for your capitulation and to take over this town. We can do it civil or we can...not do it civil."
"That's not the way it works around here." Pel noted the man's feigned good humor and wondered at it. "Drop your weapons and tell your men to do the same. I'm placing you all under arrest." Talk big enough, maybe he'd surprise someone into giving up. One way or another, it was time to bring the situation to a close.
Monroe's laughter rang loud and gloating. "All of us? Sure this little jail house is big enough?" His expression grew vicious. "Got to hand it to you, Birdsall, you killed more of my men than I thought you would, but you're done now. You should've stayed holed up."
"And you should've stayed out of Endurance." Pel gestured. "Drop your guns."
"Oh, I guess I won't." Monroe laughed again. "By the way, I changed my mind, Birdsall. Guess we'll take your woman after all."
At this threat Delight gave an odd little squeak, and Pel swung toward her. She'd followed him, and instead of remaining under cover like he'd told her, she stood framed in the office doorway. He could see the back of the room over her shoulder, and through the alley side window he saw Happy Monroe sighting his pistol on a point between her shoulder blades. His gut clenched and without thinking, he knocked her out of the way. His rifle snapped into position, his finger already pulling the trigger. He was turning back to face Diggett before Happy even finished dropping.
Monroe, white flag dangling from the sight of his rifle, had a bead on Pel's exposed back.
But Delight, from where she lay prone in all the dirt and broken glass was shooting, too. She fired the .44 past his legs, close enough he felt the whip of the bullet. And before Pel could do a thing, Diggett, wearing a shocked expression, clutched at the geyser of blood erupting from his throat. Which didn't do him a particle of good. The outlaw thudded backward onto the sidewalk.
Delight gave a great whooping cry and turned her head.
Then it was over, except for the horses loping toward them down Endurance's hard-packed main street, their riders shouting like wild Indians. Slow as sap running from a sundered tree limb, Pel's legs collapsed under him until he landed on his knees beside his wife.
Fear that she was dead melted his backbone, but then her head lifted and she reached for him with her arms wide open.

Chapter 19

Pel avoided shooting the man riding at the head of a column of men by a hair, and that was thanks to Delight pulling down his arm and saying, "No. That's Mr. Sorenson, Pel, come to help."
The riders drew up in a choking cloud of dust, which, when it settled, allowed Pel to see his deputy trotting to keep up with the horses, on foot at Sorenson's side. Moon's health appeared perfectly fine, except he wasn't wearing any boots and had a hole in the toe of his sock.
"Glad to see you folks are still alive," he said.
"And you," Pel replied.
Their eyes met.
A snarling grin turned Sorenson's face fierce. Apparently the dead bodies and signs of warfare showing in the street pleased him. He took a second glance at Diggett Monroe's crumpled body. "That Monroe?"
"Yup," Moon answered him.
Sorenson spat a stream of tobacco juice into the dirt beside Monroe's outstretched hand. "Where's the brother? I'll take him."
Pel bent down and made a show of helping Delight to her feet, although, in truth, it was more her helping him. He jerked a thumb over his shoulder.
"Happy's a goner, too," he said. "I've taken care of him."
He took a deal of satisfaction is seeing how the announcement struck them. "But," he added, "as consolation, I can deputize you and you can go after the rest of his gang. They're hightailing it."
From out back of the mercantile, the sound of men and horses getting in the way of each other could be heard.
Sorenson's hard face lit up. "Like rats trying to escape a burning building. Oughta be fun."
"Then consider yourself deputized." Pel was plain too tired to go into the whole rigmarole of oaths and badges and such.
"You want them dead or alive, Sheriff?" Sorenson asked, holding his horse on a tight rein.
"Alive if possible." Pel stared at the rancher. "The leaders are dead. The rest are mostly hangers-on. A few years in jail will straighten them out."
He was glad to see the strictures put on Sorenson didn't dampen the man's enthusiasm. Almost before he'd finished speaking, Sorenson gave a signal and his men spread out, spurring toward the commotion behind the mercantile. They disappeared into the dark and presently a few scattered war cries and a crackling of shots rang out, the noise soon dwindling as the outlaws, Sorenson hot on their trail, put some distance between themselves and the town of Endurance.
A hearty noise rose up from outside Schmidt's Mercantile as the mister and missus appeared, telling their story to other residents brave enough to come out of hiding.
"On me his gun vas held," Mrs. Schmidt announced, her voice soaring over all others. "Und so Herr Schmidt shot him, he did."
"Well done," Mayor Green was saying. "Guess we showed those outlaws what a determined town can do."
Deputy Tuck Moon, being afoot, perforce refrained from joining the deputized party. He climbed onto the boardwalk to examine Diggett's body before coming forward to shake Pel's hand. "Sorenson'll be disappointed when it sinks in," he said.
Pel, his head abuzz and feeling like he was about to fall down, made no sense of his deputy's comment. "Disappointed?"
"The Monroes both have prices on their heads. As a pair and individually," Tuck said. "They was wanted for a bank robbery over on the Oregon coast, for one thing. Bragged loud about that one. They grabbed the payroll of one of the big logging companies. That reward alone would keep most folks in clover for a couple years.
"There's another offered by the Great Northern Railroad. Diggett and Happy, they pulled a stick-up over in Montana and blew a train locomotive almost to kingdom come. Used too much dynamite. The GNR'll be tickled to get that one off the books."
Delight gazed wide-eyed at Tuck. "And none of their gang turned on them? You mean there's honor among thieves?"
Tuck grinned. "Doubt there's any honor involved, ma'am. Fear, more like."
Pel finally figured out what Moon was trying to tell them. He was a little slow, he guessed, due to his extreme weakness. Nevertheless, a grin slanted across his face. "In other words, Delight and me, we're the ones who're eligible to claim the rewards."
Tuck nodded. "That's about it."
"Seeing you're so well informed, Moon, just how much money are we talking about?"
"'Round about fifteen hundred. Maybe a bit more." Tuck Moon removed his hat and dusted off the seat of his britches. "I had time to look through the new wanted posters this morning, Sheriff. Curious, you know."
Pel, although he nodded, suspected it might've been a little more curiosity about his deputy's own standing than the Monroes that triggered Moon's research, but whatever problems he'd had in the past, they were even now.
Without warning, Pel's legs gave out on him. If it hadn't been for his arm still wrapped around Delight's shoulders he would've fallen. As it was, she struggled to hold him upright.
"You're exhausted," she cried, although in truth, the shadows around her eyes and in the hollows of her cheeks said she wasn't in much better shape. "Mr. Moon, please help me get him upstairs. He's done in."
"Surprised he's held up this long." Moon leapt to do Mrs. Sheriff's bidding.
Amused, Pel grinned at the way Delight wrapped the deputy around her little finger. He wasn't blind to the way Moon looked at his wife, but beyond the desire, he'd also seen the respect. He couldn't fault Moon for admiring Delight. And yet she remained oblivious.
He had no doubt that whatever Delight asked, Moon would bust his gut trying to get it done. Remove dead bodies, sweep glass, mop blood, give the townsfolk--except for a select few conspicuous by their absence during the fight and only now coming out of their hiding places--what for.
And he'd even look after her husband for her.
The newspaperman, Jones, creeping warily toward them, notepad in hand, seemed to be the only Endurance citizen courageous enough to show Pel his face.
"Sheriff," Jones called when he was still some distance away, "let me be the first to offer my congratulations. Nobody thought you'd beat the Monroe gang. How about an interview giving the latest report? I'll put out a special edition."
Pel chuckled, swaying where he stood as Moon caught hold of him. "Talk to Deputy Moon, Jones. He'll tell you what you need to know."
But Moon shook his head. "Ain't got time right now. Gotta get the sheriff to bed. Then I gotta find my boots."
Jones was persistent. "I'll go with you. There must be a story about how you came to be barefoot."
Pel was laughing as Moon and Delight boosted him up the stairs.

* * * *

The sound of men talking in the other room formed a comfortable background as Delight Birdsall, retired from her gun-toting duties as Mrs. Sheriff, bustled around her clean, cheerful kitchen. After shoving another stick of wood into the stove, she stirred the pot simmering at the back where the heat was less. The menu for tonight's supper consisted of campfire beans and corn on the cob fresh out of the garden.
It was the end of the month and the Birdsall bank account ran a little short. Pel's medical bills had about wiped out their savings. The budget didn't run to beef steak and chocolate cake, what with all the prisoners she'd been feeding the past couple of weeks. And they ate what she and Pel ate.
However, the reward money due for removing the Monroe brothers from the wanted list was being wired to their Endurance bank this Monday. With it, the debt for their land would be cleared. Happiness bubbled inside her.
Tomorrow, the prisoners, one of whom was Boomer Herschel, caught along with the others trying to escape that awful night, were leaving for the state capital under the guard of a few good men. She'd be very glad when she was no longer sleeping under the same roof as that bunch of killers, especially Schoefield.
By now Pel, truly on his way to full recovery, had relegated her to the background of law enforcement. Her job, once more, consisted of cooking for the prisoners in the Garnet County jail. Personal contact with them she left to her husband and his deputy. Her feelings weren't a bit hurt.
"Supper's ready," she said, calling her husband and Deputy Tuck Moon to the table. But they had no more than sat down than she saw the strained atmosphere between them. Her attention sharpened. What had happened? Half an hour ago they'd been on the best of terms, drinking coffee, smoking cigars, and discussing the job.
Without letting on she noticed, she ladled out beans and handed around hot boiled corn. There were plenty of biscuits. She passed them, along with a pot of whipped honey butter.
The silence, except for the sound of cutlery on crockery and chewing, became uncomfortable. Finally, she'd had enough.
"Is something wrong?" She caught Pel's eye.
Pelham set down his fork. "Why do you think..."
Annoyance shot through her. There he went again, acting as if she were a fragile flower in need of a sun shade. Hadn't he learned anything over the last few weeks?
She put up her hand to stop him. "Aren't the state authorities coming for the prisoners after all? Or have they decided not to pay the reward money?"
Pel glowered, but not at her. At Deputy Tucker Moon. "Yeah. The prisoners are going and the money is coming. The only thing wrong is this bullheaded dunce you hired a while back. I've never seen a more stubborn feller in my life."
"Ah." Enlightened, Delight set her knife and fork across her empty plate and joined her husband in glaring at the hapless Tuck Moon. "You mean he won't take his third of the reward money."
"Ma'am," Tuck said, but Pel overrode whatever he meant to say.
"Says he won't, but he'll take it."
"No, I won't." Tuck spoke up, stubborn conviction written all over him. "I didn't rid this county of the Monroes. You folks did. You're the ones earned the bounty, not me."
"Nonsense, Mr. Moon." Delight tried sweet reason. "You were an equal partner in defeating the Monroe gang and equally deserving of a share."
"No, ma'am. I sure ain't gonna take any money for my part in the doings. I hardly even got shot at, down the road where I was." Tuck's face turned a brick red. "My fine idea about going outside after them about got you killed, for which I'm very sorry. I never meant to put you in worse danger." He shot a look at Pel. "Either of you."
Like light breaking over a mountain at dawn, it occurred to Delight that the deputy was just a little bit sweet on her, old married woman that she was. A glance at Pel told her he was way ahead of her. He'd already known Tuck Moon's feelings. Heat burned beneath her skin. And yet, Tuck's admission gave her just the opening she was looking for.
Her eyes met Pelham's across the table. She waited for his nod, then said, "If you won't take the cash, Mr. Moon, my husband has another proposition for you. I'll think you'll find it interesting."

* * * *

Tuck had it in mind to tell the Birdsalls he was leaving Endurance soon. A story to account for this yen to travel shouldn't be too hard to concoct. He'd been a drifter when he came here; why not carry on a few more miles down the road? Maybe the next town he landed in would be different. Because one thing sure, he couldn't stay in Endurance, working for a man whose wife he wanted for himself. Seeing her every day, and her just as sweet and devoted to her husband as could be. Envy nudged him. No. He couldn't do it.
"Ma'am," he said, "I'm moving on. I appreciate the chance you folks gave me, letting me make a new start here, but I've got the wanderlust in my feet. Me and Ole Ripper both. Time we found a new pasture."
It was a long speech for him, and he found himself floundering. Sounded like a fool, he did. He felt his face heating up and, in desperation, he looked away from Mrs. Sheriff's blue eyes and met her husband's steady hazel ones. Pel, he thought, might've appeared a little sympathetic.
"Maybe," Tuck continued, "you wouldn't mind writing out a recommend for me, Pel. If you think I deserve one. Might help the next man take a chance on hiring me."
He heard his own words with a sense of wonder. A month ago he'd been mired down so far he thought he'd never make it up, but listen to him now. With the help of these good people, he'd made it out of the muck and he was never going down again. The bottom of a bottle held no more allure. He touched the pistol riding his hip. And a gun could sometimes be used for good.
Pel folded his hands around his coffee cup and shook his head. "I'm sorry to hear you want to leave here, Moon. Thing is, my missus and I, we've been kind of counting on you."
Tuck blinked. "Counting on me?"
Mrs. Sheriff's soft voice took over. "Yes, Mr. Moon. You see, Pel's and my circumstances have come together to make us independent. As you know, our ranch in the valley is right on the verge of profitability and with our share of the reward money, we don't have to worry about finances for a couple years. Pel can quit sheriffing and we can finally live in our own home."
Pel had another nail to pound. "We wouldn't feel right, though, me quitting my job before the election in a couple of months. Especially without a good man to take over. Mrs. Birdsall and I, we talked about it and came to a decision. I'm not running again. With you in charge, though, I could quit with a free conscience. I'd be leaving Garnet County and Endurance in good hands."
Tuck's head whirled. "Me?"
"Well, of course you, Mr. Moon," Delight said, lemony and sharp. "Who else could we trust?"

* * * *

Pel, watching Moon's reaction, thought he knew how the other man felt. Neither of them was saying so, but it was Delight who'd given Moon his chance. Who'd seen something in the drifter other people missed. And she'd been dead on.
She'd seen something in him, too, when she followed her old dad's recommendation and married him after Tom was killed. Seen something more when she refused to let him die because he knew he'd never have made it without her.
That was his wife, all right. His Delight. With him in every way, matching him step for step.
"We'll be out of your hair, Tuck," he said. "I doubt you'll see us more than a half-dozen times a year. We won't be around every day to remind you."
He could've been talking about the job, but he wasn't.
Tuck Moon chewed on that for a minute before sucking in a long breath. "Well then," he said. "I expect I could handle that."

C. K. Crigger

C. K. Crigger was born and raised on a farm in North Idaho--on the Coeur d' Alene Indian Reservation. Her folks grew wheat, barley, oats, peas and lentils, and raised about sixty Black Angus beef a year. C. K. and her sister used to herd those cattle, via horseback, keeping them in the draws and out of the fields.
These early years formed the background for her love of western stories, writing, and western traditions of farming, ranching and the yen for wide-open spaces. She likes writing of free-spirited people who break from their standard roles. Although most of her published books are fantasy/historical/adventure/love story, the locales are real places. The last four books she has completed are westerns set in the Inland Northwest with a historical background. Next on the agenda is a historical suspense, with an eye to a series, and a straight historical novel placed in the opening days of white settlers on the Coeur d'Alene Indian Reservation.

Amber Quill Press, LLC

Print and Electronic Books
Romance
Action/Adventure
Fantasy/Paranormal/SciFi
Mystery/Suspense/Thriller
Historical/GLBT
Erotica...& more!
http://www.AmberQuill.com

http://www.AmberHeat.com

http://www.AmberAllure.com