So he jerked on the reins, heading across the street towards the livery stable with its big FEED sign, intending to take care of the animal before tending to his own needs. But then another door on the street came open, thumping back against the front of a building and Joe turned quickly in the saddle to see a man standing in the doorway of the sheriff’s office, aiming one of the new .52 caliber rim-fire Starr rifles at him. The man, a five-pointed tin star on his chest, had the rifle raised to shoulder level and Joe could see the steely glint of his eyes behind the back-sight.
“I ain’t never shot no parson,” the lawman said evenly, “but then you ain’t no more a man of religion than I am. You get off that horse real slow and easy and you keep your hands way out at your sides.”
Joe knew better than to draw against a man with a rifle aimed at him from less than ten yards away, so he did as instructed, dropping easily to the ground. But then his horse gave a sudden nervous jump and her hindquarter caught Joe in the back, sending him stumbling across the street. A rifle cracked and a hunk of leather was bitten from Joe’s right boot toe, went bouncing off into the dust. He froze and glanced across the street, saw a man perched on the roof of the bank, in the same stance as the sheriff, blue smoke curling away from his rifle muzzle.
“My deputy,” the sheriff said evenly. “He didn’t miss. If he had known that wasn’t just a stumble you’d have a bullet where your brains are. We heard about you shooting a feller and then cutting up another one. Mex came through here early on and told us. Wouldn’t stay around so I guess we’ll have to put you in the cooler until we can find him as a witness. Plenty of time. Circuit judge ain’t due for a month or more.” He glanced down at the bank. “Okay Hank,” he called. “Come on down here and get his guns.” Then back at Joe. “Hank’s been up there and me waiting here for a couple of hours. Figured you might be through this way. Man’s got to eat and the way the Mex told it you ain’t been doing too well in that respect.”
The shot and raised voices had brought the whole town awake now and several doors and windows were opened on both sides of the street. But nobody came down off the sidewalks except the deputy, who approached wearily, rifle at the ready. He had one the new Starrs too, which he now carried at hip level, finger ready on the trigger.
“He’s got a handgun under the cloak and some kind of razor tucked in at the back of his neck someplace, Hank,” the sheriff called.
Joe felt a hand go under the cassock from the rear, remove the Remington, then there was a movement at his neck as the razor was withdrawn from its pouch.
“Got em, Mr. Hammond,” he said with deep satisfaction in his tone. “Guess he ain’t so tough now.”
“You ain’t standing where I am and looking in his face, Hank,” Sheriff Hammond warned. “I wouldn’t trust that cuss if I had the whole US army backing me up. Over here, feller. Slow and easy, like you were walking on fresh laid eggs and you didn’t want to break not one of them.”
Joe moved. “Sheriff,” he said.
“Yeah?”
“I’d appreciate it if you didn’t call the Mexican a Mex. My pa was Mexican and it’s kind of derogatory to use that term.”
“What do you know,” the sheriff said wryly. “A half-breed Mex using four dollar words.”
Joe was at the sidewalk now and stepped up, his boots resounding hollowly on the planking. The deputy named Hank clanked up behind him, as the sheriff backed into the office.
“Hi there fellow man in trouble,” somebody said and Joe peered towards the rear of the room, across the desk top with the chair and rack of rifles behind it, saw the bars of two cells, one with the door open and empty, the other closed and padlocked, behind which a middle aged man sat on the edge of the bunk and grinned out at the activity in the office.
“Shuddup, Stupid,” the sheriff snapped, motioning with the Starr for Joe to enter the vacant cell.
The man’s grin stayed as bright as ever. “That’s not my name,” he said conversationally to Joe. “Sheriff’s sore ‘cause I won’t tell him who I am, so he calls me Stupid all the time. I don’t mind. I’m easy.”
The cell door clanged closed behind Joe and the key clicked dryly in the padlock. Joe sat on the edge of the bunk.
“We know who he is,” the sheriff said with a sigh of relief as he returned his rifle to the rack and sat down behind his desk. “He’s a half Mex man called Edge.”
Joe’s fellow prisoner shook his head in disapproval. “Never tell ‘em your name, buddy.”
“I didn’t.”
“Go and stable his horse, Hank,” Sheriff Hammond told his deputy as his rifle and Joe’s razor were placed on the desk. “And bring his stuff in here.”
The deputy nodded and went out of the office, looking pleased with his part in the capture.
“Any chance of some breakfast?” Joe asked.
Hammond sighed and went to the door to call after the departing deputy. “Go and see Annie at the restaurant, Hank. Get her to bring breakfast for four.”
Joe raised his feet from the floor and stretched out on the bunk. It was hard and the blanket smelled of damp, vomited whiskey and urine, but it would do.
The man called Stupid started to chatter, as if he had been alone for too long and company excited him. “The boys and me did the bank last night. Got away with close on five thousand, I reckon. Not me, of course, sheriff there netted me with a lucky shot at my horse. Real mean of a man to shoot a horse but lawmen are mean. So here I am. Not for long, though. Boy’s will be back soon to get me out. We’d have got clean away if a punk hadn’t fed info to the sheriff here. When I get out I’m going to hang him myself, personal like.”
Joe had closed his eyes, heard the man rambling on without listening, discounting his hope of being busted out of the jail. Joe put his faith in the knife the deputy had overlooked, which was now pressed uncomfortably into the small of his back, yet at the same time feeding comfort into his mind.
“You ain’t really a priest, are you?” Stupid asked, trying a direct question in order to get the other man interested.
“No he ain’t and if you don’t shut your overflowing mouth I’ll tie you up and stick a gun cleaning rag down your throat,” Hammond said with impatience.
Then the deputy returned, hefted Joe’s saddlebags and bedroll on the desk, laid the booted Henry down beside them. Stupid watched with great interest as the sheriff emptied out the bags, spilling out the money.
“Hell, he’s a bank robber himself,” he said with awe. “There must be a fortune there.”
“Count it,” Hammond ordered his deputy.
Joe was still flat on his back, eyes closed. “No need,” he said. “There’s two thousand there.”
“Stolen?” Hammond asked.
“Earned.”
“I bet.”
“Four breakfasts,” a woman’s voice said and now Joe opened his eyes, hoisted himself into a sitting position and looked at a tall girl of perhaps twenty five who stood in the doorway, a hard smile on her harshly attractive face. “Fifty cents a piece.” She saw the money and made a circle with her voluptuous lips, almost dropped the tray upon which the plates were set.
Hammond picked up a five-dollar bill from the pile and held it out. “They’re on Edge. He won’t mind if you keep the change.”
None of the men looked at Joe for approval, and he made neither a negative nor affirmative sign. His eyes were locked upon those of Annie, who had given a start of recognition when she heard Hammond speak the name Edge.
“Down here,” Hammond said, indicating a spare corner of the desk, and the moment ended as Annie set down the tray, took the five dollars and with a final glance into the cells, went out. There was room under the cell doors for the plates to pass and this is how they were given to the prisoners, the deputy placing them on the floor and skating them through with his boot. No eating tools were provided for those on the wrong side of the door and Joe and Stupid had to pick up the food with their fingers as Hammond and Hank ate with knives and forks.