“Yeah, he’s full of pride and plumb loco to start with,” Scratch agreed. “That ain’t a good combination. Mix that together with anger over his boys bein’ locked up and fear that he’s gonna lose somethin’ he thought he never could lose—”
“And it’s liable to turn into something dangerous enough to blow up this whole town,” Bo said.
CHAPTER 18
Now that they had prisoners locked up in the jail cells, Bo and Scratch knew they couldn’t leave things in the hands of Biscuits O’Brien. Someone would have to stay there all night and guard the place.
“We’ll take turns,” Scratch suggested. “One of us can stay, and the other can go over to the hotel and get some sleep. I’ll flip you for the first shift.”
“With what?” Bo asked. “We don’t have any coins, just those few bills Mrs. Bonner was able to give us as an advance.”
Scratch rubbed his jaw. “Oh, yeah. Dadgummit. I don’t even have my lucky silver dollar no more.”
“Your two-headed silver dollar, you mean?”
Scratch put his hand over his heart. “Why, Bo, are you accusin’ me of cheatin’ in the past whenever we’d flip for somethin’? And us havin’ been saddle pards for so long! I can’t believe you don’t trust me.”
Bo grinned and jerked a thumb toward the door. “Go get some sleep. I’ll take the first shift. I’m not that sleepy right now, anyway.”
“Well, if that’s the way you want it…” Scratch tucked one of the scatterguns under his arm and then left the office.
Bo turned the flame on the lamp a little lower, made sure all the blinds were down over the windows, and placed the other shotgun on the desk so it would be within easy reach when he sat down. The front door opened inward and had brackets on either side of it so that a bar could be lowered into them. Bo found the bar in the back room where Biscuits continued to snore. He put it in place, blocking the door.
He checked the back door. It was locked but didn’t have a bar. If he and Scratch were going to stay on here for very long, they could add a bar to make that door more secure, Bo thought. The front window could use some iron bars mounted in them, too. A lawman sometimes needed to be able to fort up in his office and withstand a siege. Bo could see such a situation developing here in Mankiller, definitely.
Satisfied that he had done what he could to prepare for trouble, Bo sat down behind the desk. He tipped the chair back a little and raised one booted foot, propping it on the corner of the desk. He wasn’t comfortable enough that he was in any danger of dozing off, but at least the stance was a little restful.
Meanwhile, Scratch found that there were still quite a few people standing around in the street, watching the jail in amazement as if they couldn’t quite believe that three of the Deverys were actually locked up in there. They stepped aside and gave him respectful nods as he walked toward the hotel.
Harlan Green was behind the desk in the lobby. “Deputy Morton,” he greeted Scratch. “Where’s Deputy Creel?”
“Bo’s stayin’ over at the jail for now,” Scratch replied. “You might’ve heard tell about how we got some prisoners that need guardin’ tonight.”
Green nodded. “Thad, Reuben, and Simeon Devery. It’s all anyone’s been able to talk about. You and Deputy Creel are famous, at least in Mankiller.”
“Famous for bein’ dumb enough to take on the Deverys, you mean,” Scratch said with a shake of his head.
“Not at all. Everyone I’ve talked to admires the two of you. It’s just that…”
“You ain’t sure if we’ll live long enough to do any real good, right?”
Green shrugged eloquently. “Men have tried to oppose the Deverys before. None of them are still around.”
“I know what you mean. Bo and me are pretty doggone stubborn, though, and we been around long enough to know a few things about takin’ care of ourselves.”
“I hope so. I certainly wish you the best. Is there anything I can do for you? Have a tub and some hot water brought up, anything like that?”
Scratch shook his head again. “No, I’m just gonna turn in and get some shuteye for a while, then go over and relieve Bo. See you later.” He headed for the hallway that ran toward the back of the hotel, right next to the stairway to the second floor. The rooms Green was providing for them were down that corridor, near the back door.
Scratch found his room and used the key to let himself in. The glow from the dimly lit hallway showed him a small room containing a narrow bed, a rug on the floor beside it, and a night table with a lamp, a basin, and a pitcher of water on it. A porcelain thundermug peeked out from under the bed. A single window had the curtains pulled over it. There was no chair, but Scratch didn’t intend to do any entertaining here, only sleeping.
A packet of lucifers lay on the table beside the lamp. He snapped one of them to life with his thumbnail and held the flame to the wick, then lowered the chimney and let the yellow glow fill the room. He closed the door and turned the key in the lock, then leaned the shotgun in a corner. The air in the room was a little stuffy, so he pushed the curtain aside to raise the window a couple of inches.
As he lifted the pane, Colt flame bloomed like a crimson flower in the thick darkness of the alley outside. The glass shattered in front of Scratch’s face. He felt a sting on his cheek where a flying shard nicked him, and at the same time he felt a heated disturbance in the air only inches from his right ear and knew it was a bullet whipping past his head.
Instinct sent both hands stabbing toward his hips as he ducked away from the broken window, even though he wore only one gun at the moment. That Colt came swiftly and smoothly from its holster and roared as flame licked from its barrel. The window was already busted, so Scratch didn’t worry about that. He just triggered three fast shots at the spot where he had seen the muzzle flash.
More shots thundered in the alley, sending Scratch diving to the floor. As he rolled over, he caught a glimpse of a shotgun’s twin barrels being thrust through the window. Surging up onto his hands and knees, he dived behind the bed, which was the only cover in the room.
The Greener’s double blast was so loud in the close confines of the little room that it pounded against Scratch’s eardrums like giant fists. Both loads of buckshot ripped into the bed, shredding the mattress and throwing chopped feathers into the air so that they filled the room and floated down like abnormally large snowflakes.
With the feathers falling around him, Scratch heaved up from behind the ruined bed and slammed two more shots through the window into the alley. That emptied his Colt, so he ducked down again and grabbed fresh cartridges from his pocket so he could start thumbing them into the cylinder.
The shotgun’s roar had deafened him, so he couldn’t hear much of anything. When he had the revolver reloaded, he ventured a look and didn’t see anything except the last of the feathers from the mattress drifting to the floor. He reached over and turned the lamp down until the flame guttered out. Darkness washed over the room.
Crouched there in the shadows, Scratch waited to see if anybody was going to shoot at him again. No more flashes came from the alley, but maybe the bushwhacking skalleyhooters were just biding their time.
A heavy pounding on the door made Scratch aware that his hearing had returned. Urgent shouts followed it. “Deputy Morton! Deputy Morton! Are you all right?”
Scratch recognized the voice. It belonged to Harlan Green.
After checking himself over for wounds and not finding any other than the little cut on his cheek from the flying glass, Scratch called, “Yeah, I’m fine! Best say outta here, though, Mr. Green. Those varmints could still be out there!”
“Should I send for Deputy Creel?”