Scratch nodded and hitched up his gun belt. “Sounds good to me. Let’s go educate those hombres about how they hadn’t ought to go around cuttin’ people’s throats.”
CHAPTER 23
Three out of the four men in the Fan-Tan looked surprised when Bo and Scratch came back into the gambling den. The swamper kept his eyes downcast and watched his mop making damp circles on the floor, but there was nothing unusual in that.
“Forget something?” Ashton asked from behind the bar. He didn’t look the least bit happy to see the Texans again.
“Yeah, we did,” Bo said as he came to a stop beside the table where Stansbridge and Keegan sat. “We forgot to arrest these two four-flushers for murdering and robbing Duke Mayo.”
Stansbridge’s face flushed with anger. “Damn it, we told you we haven’t been out of here for hours.”
“And Mike backed us up on that,” Keegan added.
“Yeah, but we got a witness who says that all three of you are lyin’,” Scratch said.
“Witness!” Ashton repeated. “What witness?”
“Never mind about that,” Bo said. “You’ll find out all about it later. We’re taking these two to jail, and you’re coming along, too, Ashton. You lied to a peace officer, and that’s against the law.”
Ashton shook his head and rumbled, “I’m not goin’ anywhere.” He looked and sounded like an angry old bull.
“We’d rather you came along peaceable-like,” Bo said, “but one way or another, you’re under arrest, too.”
“The hell with this!” Keegan suddenly exclaimed. “You two are about to wind up dead in an alley just like Mayo!”
“Damn it!” Stansbridge exploded. He realized what his friend had just done.
A grim smile played over Bo’s lips. “We didn’t say anything about where Mayo’s body was found. How would you know it was in an alley, Keegan, if you didn’t have something to do with him dying there?”
Keegan cursed and sprang to his feet. His hand darted under his coat and came out with a pocket pistol. At the same time, Stansbridge surged up from his chair. He thrust his arms out, twisting his forearms as he did so, and a pair of derringers leaped into his hands from under his sleeves, where they had been concealed in spring-loaded sheaths.
Bo and Scratch were moving, too, splitting up and slapping leather at the same time. Colts blurred from their holsters. Muzzle flame stabbed through the dim interior of the Fan-Tan as gun-thunder echoed against the low ceiling.
Both shots that crashed out from Scratch’s gun found their target. The slugs drove deep into Keegan’s chest and knocked him back, off his feet. The little pistol in his hand cracked wickedly, but the barrel had tilted up and the bullet went harmlessly into the ceiling.
At the same time, a bullet from Bo’s gun punched into Stansbridge’s midsection. He doubled over in agony, hunched above the table. His fingers tightened involuntarily on the triggers of the derringers, causing both weapons to fire. The bullets struck the cards that the men had picked up to resume their game of showdown. The pasteboards scattered again. A second later, Stansbridge collapsed on the table and began bleeding on the green felt.
“Look out!”
The shout from the swamper made both Texans swing around. They saw that Ashton had grabbed a sawed-off shotgun from under the bar and pointed it at them. Before Ashton could pull the triggers, the swamper brought his mop up and struck the barrels of the deadly scattergun with the handle. That knocked the weapon up enough so that the double load of buckshot went over the heads of Bo and Scratch and tore into the ceiling and the wall behind them instead.
Both Colts roared. Seeing the sawed-off pointed at them, Bo and Scratch had reacted instinctively and fired. Their slugs smashed into Ashton and sent him stumbling back against the shelves of liquor behind the bar. The bottles came crashing down, shattering and filling the room with the overpowering smell of spilled booze. It mingled with the acrid tang of gun smoke as Ashton dropped the shotgun, flopped forward onto the hardwood, and then slid off to land behind the bar.
Bo hurried to the end of the bar so that he could cover the man, although he had a hunch Ashton wasn’t a threat anymore. Seeing the sightless eyes staring at the ceiling, he knew he was right. Ashton was dead.
So were Stansbridge and Keegan. Scratch made sure of that, then reported, “These tinhorns have crossed the divide, Bo.”
“So has Ashton,” Bo replied. He looked at the swamper. “Are you all right, mister?”
The old man ran trembling fingers through his wispy white hair. “Y-yeah, I reckon so. I didn’t get hit by any of those shots.” He leaned over the bar to look at Ashton’s corpse. “You’re sure he’s dead?”
“I’m sure,” Bo told him.
The old man licked his lips. “That’s a lot of whiskey goin’ to waste, soakin’ into the floor like that.”
“Yeah, but only a man with no dignity left at all would get down and try to lap it up like a dog. You’re better than that, amigo. You proved it by telling us what you knew about Duke Mayo’s murder.”
The swamper sighed. “I reckon you’re right. Still, it’s a mortal shame to see all that whiskey spilled.”
“I agree with you,” Scratch said. “Nothin’ we can do about it, though.”
The shots had drawn some attention. Bo and Scratch had left the door standing halfway open when they came back in, and now a couple of curious townsmen poked their heads in.
“I’d be obliged if one of you gents would let Sam Barfield know that his services are needed here, too,” Bo said.
“What happened?” one of the men asked.
Bo snapped his gun’s cylinder closed after replacing the round he had fired. “The men who murdered Duke Mayo got what was coming to them,” he said. “And so did the man who tried to cover up for them and then threw down on a couple of lawmen.”
“Take a good look, boys, and spread the word,” Scratch invited. “That’s what’s gonna happen to hombres who figure on breakin’ the law in Mankiller.”
The two men looked at the corpses with big eyes, then disappeared. The sound of running footsteps came from outside. One of the men had probably gone to alert the undertaker that he was needed, as Bo had requested, and the other was probably going to be busy spreading the news about the shoot-out in the Fan-Tan.
As he finished reloading his Colt, Scratch said, “Well, this solves one problem.”
“What’s that?” Bo asked.
“Now we don’t have to figure out where we’re gonna lock up these varmints.”
“True enough. We can’t just kill everybody who breaks the law, though.”
Scratch sighed. “No, I suppose not.” He paused. “I’m glad Biscuits ain’t here.”
“Why’s that?”
Scratch nodded toward the bar. “Because I got a hunch that no matter what you said, he’d be down on his knees behind that bar right now, lappin’ up those puddles of who-hit-John like a dog!”
News of the shoot-out spread like wildfire from one end of Mankiller to the other. In less than twenty-four hours as deputies, the Texans had killed seven men, wounded another, and arrested three members of the most powerful family in town, plus the shoot-out Scratch had had with the bushwhackers at the hotel. People couldn’t stop talking about how the new lawmen were going to either clean up Mankiller at last…
Or be dead before they had a chance to do anything else.
When they got back to the sheriff’s office, Biscuits O’Brien was still asleep on the cot in the back room. Bo and Scratch got him up and forced him to drink black coffee until he was reasonably awake, if not sober. He refused to reveal where he’d had the extra bottle of whiskey hidden. Short of beating it out of him, the Texans didn’t know what else to do.
Reuben and Simeon yelled complaints from the cell block, but Bo and Scratch ignored them. Bo left Scratch there to keep an eye on things and went to pay a visit to Edgar Devery.