Thad must have known that Bo was telling the truth. He covered his eyes with a trembling hand and sat there shaking as he started to cry. Neither of the other prisoners said anything now, as if they were afraid that the slightest sound would cause Bo’s finger to tighten just a little more on those triggers. That was all it would take. Just a little squeeze…
A fist pounded on the office door. “Bo! Bo, it’s me! Lemme in!”
Bo dragged a deep breath into his lungs, slowly as if a great weight was pressing against his chest. Then he lowered the shotgun and carefully put the hammers back down.
“You’re a lucky man, Thad,” he said.
Thad continued to cry. The stink in the room was ample evidence that he had done more than piss himself in his terror.
Bo swung around, glanced at the other prisoners. They drew back like they’d unexpectedly found themselves standing on the brink of a long drop. Bo walked out of the cell block and slammed the door behind him.
“Hang on,” he called through the door to Scratch as he set the Greener on the desk. “I’ll take the bar off the door. Are you all right?”
“Yeah,” Scratch replied. “Open up and I’ll tell you about it.”
Bo grunted as he lifted the bar from its brackets and set it aside. He unlocked the door and swung it open. Scratch came in, not wasting any time in doing it. He knew as well as Bo did what a good target a man made when he was standing in a lighted doorway.
Bo shut the door, turned the key in the lock, and set the bar back in place. Scratch said, “I reckon you heard the shots?”
“I did. I knew you had to be right in the middle of them, too.”
“Damn straight. There were bushwhackers waitin’ in the alley outside the window of my hotel room. They made a mess of the place, but the only thing that got me was a piece of flyin’ glass when the window broke.” Scratch touched a small smear of dried blood on his tanned, leathery cheek. “Reckon I made things hot enough for ’em that they gave up and lit a shuck.”
“Did you get a look at them?”
Scratch shook his head. “Nope. Never saw anything except muzzle flashes.”
“Bound to have been the Deverys, though.”
“Bound to,” the silver-haired Texan agreed. “Unless it was friends of that fella Murdock and those other hombres we had to shoot.”
Bo ran a thumbnail along his jawline as he frowned in thought. “Yeah, I suppose it could’ve been something like that. My money’s on the Deverys, though.”
“Yeah, mine, too. When you heard the shootin’, your first impulse was go chargin’ out there, wasn’t it?”
Bo grunted. “Well, sure. I figured you were in trouble.”
“And that old man Devery’s cunnin’ enough to know that. You done the right thing by stayin’ forted up in here, Bo.”
“Yeah,” Bo said with a hint of bitterness in his voice. “I know that, but it wouldn’t have helped much if it turned out you were dead.”
Scratch grinned. “But I ain’t. I’m hale and hearty as ever. So don’t lose no sleep over it.”
“I don’t intend to. I reckon you’re planning to stay here the rest of the night?”
Scratch pointed at the sofa with his thumb. “It’s probably a mite lumpy, but one of us can sleep there while the other stays awake and on guard. Sound like a good idea to you?”
“It does,” Bo agreed. “And we’d better get used to it, too. We may have to keep it up until everything is settled.” He looked toward the back room, where the sound of Biscuits O’Brien’s snores continued unabated. “Because I don’t think we’re going to be getting any help any time soon.”
The rest of the night passed quietly. With the impending war between the Texans and the Deverys, it seemed that the rest of the troublemakers in the settlement were content to hold their hell-raising in abeyance, at least for the time being. Bo knew that wouldn’t last, but he was grateful for any break that he and Scratch could get.
Early the next morning, while Bo was brewing a pot of coffee, Biscuits O’Brien stumbled out of the back room groaning and holding his head. Scratch pulled out the chair at the desk and let Biscuits slump into it. The sheriff rested his elbows on the desk and ran his fingers through his tangled hair.
“Damn it, somebody make the room stop spinnin’!”
“The room’s still, Sheriff, I’m afraid it’s your head,” Bo told him. “I’ll have the coffee ready in a minute, if you’d like a cup.”
Biscuits groaned again. “I don’t want any coffee. Damn it, I’m already too sober!” He yanked a drawer open and started to paw through it. “Where’s my bottle?” His voice grew more desperate. “Where’s my bottle? Where’s it gone?”
“Take it easy,” Bo said. “It’s still there.”
“Ah!” Biscuits snatched at something in the drawer and brought up the half-full bottle of whiskey. “Thank the Lord!”
Scratch reached over and took the bottle out of his hand before Biscuits could pull the cork. Biscuits let out a startled yelp and stared at Scratch as if the silver-haired Texan had just grown a second head.
“What the hell are you doin’? Gimme that back!”
Biscuits tried to lunge up out of the chair and reach for the bottle, but he moaned and fell back. His hands clutched the edge of the desk in a death grip like the world was about to throw him off if he didn’t hang on for dear life.
“I’m gonna be sick. Oh, hell, I’m gonna be sick. Help me into one of the cells. I gotta lay down.”
“You can’t go in the cells,” Bo said. “They’re occupied.”
“That’s what we wanted to tell you,” Scratch added. “That’s why you need to wait on that eye-opener. Your brain don’t need to be all muddled up right now.”
“Occupied?” Biscuits muttered. “You mean…we got prisoners locked up?”
“That’s right,” Bo said.
Biscuits pulled at his hair again. “I wondered why I woke up on that cot. The bunks in the cells are comfort…comfortabler.”
“That ain’t a word,” Scratch said.
“Shut up and gimme that damn bottle! Who’s the sheriff here?”
Scratch held the bottle out of reach. Bo said, “You’re the sheriff, Biscuits. That’s why you need to think straight. We have prisoners. Important prisoners.”
Biscuits stared at him out of bleary eyes. “Who?”
“Thad, Reuben, and Simeon Devery.”
The sheriff’s eyes got wide, although not as wide as Thad’s had been the night before when Bo pointed the shotgun at him. “Deverys!” Biscuits exploded. “You can’t lock up any of the Deverys!”
“Too late,” Scratch said with a grin. “We already went and done it.”
“But…but why?”
“They went loco—or just crazy mean—and started wrecking one of the whorehouses,” Bo explained. “Bella’s Place.”
Biscuits panted. Sweat coated his face. “That…that ain’t no reason to arrest ’em. Pa Devery would’ve made good the damages.”
“Really?” Scratch asked doubtfully.
“Well…no, prob’ly not. He prob’ly would’ve told Bella to go suck an egg.”
“That’s not all,” Bo went on. “They pistol-whipped a man who works for Bella—”
“George? Good ol’ George?” Biscuits interrupted.
“That’s right.”
“Is he hurt bad?”
“I reckon he’ll be all right, but what they did to him is assault and attempted murder. They could’ve killed him easy enough. And then Thad drew on me, which is attempted murder of a peace officer.”
“He didn’t shoot you, did he?”
“Nope.” Bo took a sip of the coffee he had just poured in a cup. “Because I shot him first.”
“Son of a bitch! You shot a Devery?”
“Yep.”
“Is he…” Biscuits swallowed and had to force himself to finish the question with a visible effort. “Is he dead?”