It was like slamming a door. Several of the men shook their heads. One said, “You’ll have to lock us up then, Deputy. We ain’t talkin’.”
Bo tried not to let his disappointment show on his face. At the same time, he wasn’t really surprised. Devery had probably threatened to kill the men if they ever said anything about his involvement in tonight’s trouble. They were more afraid of him than they were of being locked up and possibly losing some gold from their claims.
“All right, if that’s the way you want it. George, have you got a shotgun?”
George nodded. “Yes, sir, Deputy, I sure do.”
“Do you mind getting it and coming with us while we lock these fellas up?”
“I don’t mind at all.” George smiled. “Fact is, I reckon I’ll enjoy it.”
Bo and Scratch searched the prisoners, removing several knives and a couple of pistols from them. Then the Texans and George marched the disgruntled prisoners down the street at gunpoint. They attracted a lot of attention along the way.
When they reached the smokehouse that would serve as a makeshift jail, they herded the men inside the windowless, thick-walled structure. Earlier in the week, Bo had picked up a padlock from Abner Malden’s store and hung it on the hasp of the smokehouse door. He snapped it into place now, and barred the door as well. As sturdy as the building was, the prisoners had no chance of getting out.
“That’s a pretty small space for half a dozen men,” Scratch commented quietly.
Bo nodded. “I know. I don’t reckon we can really leave them in there for a week or more. But they can suffer for a day or two. Maybe then they’ll be more willing to talk about why they went loco at Bella’s Place tonight.”
“I ain’t gonna hold my breath waitin’,” Scratch said with a shake of his head. “I reckon those hombres are plumb scared of Devery. Too scared to talk.”
“I’m afraid you’re right,” Bo said.
George went back to Bella’s, and the Texans returned to the sheriff’s office. They both had to identify themselves before Biscuits O’Brien would unbar and unlock the door and let them in, which Bo thought was a good thing.
“Any trouble while we were gone?” he asked Biscuits as they came in.
The sheriff shook his head. “No, it was quiet.” He gestured toward the desk, where three shotguns were lined up, pointing toward the door. “I was ready, though, in case anything happened.”
Scratch grinned. “See, Biscuits, you’re gettin’ the hang of bein’ a real lawman.”
Biscuits wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. “Yeah, well, I about jumped out of my skin at every little sound. Some whiskey sure would’ve steadied my nerves. All that damn coffee I’ve been drinkin’ has got me as jumpy as a cat.”
“Whiskey might’ve steadied your nerves for a few minutes,” Bo said, “but then they would’ve been shot to hell again. You’re better off not drinking, Biscuits.”
“I know.” Biscuits heaved a dispirited sigh. “Hell of a note, ain’t it?”
As the Texans took off their hats and settled down for the evening, Scratch asked, “You still think Devery’s gonna try to bust out those prisoners back in the cell block, Bo?”
“I’m starting to doubt it. Judging from the visit he paid to Bella’s this afternoon, he’s decided to try to win the election and go at the problem that way. Now, he may resort to shady means to do it, like threatening Bella, but for now I think he wants votes more than he wants those boys out of jail.”
It wasn’t destined to be a peaceful evening. A short time later, someone heaved a barrel through the front window of one of the saloons. The men who did it vanished into the shadows before anybody could even get a good look at them, let alone stop them.
When Bo and Scratch talked to the saloon’s owner, Bo acted on a hunch and asked the man, “Did Pa Devery pay you a visit today?”
The saloon keeper frowned in surprise. “Yeah, as a matter of fact, he did. He wanted me to tell everybody who comes in my place to vote for him in the election next week.”
“But you didn’t agree to that, did you?”
The man shrugged. “I said I couldn’t afford to take sides in something like that. Folks want to be able to come in my place and get a beer or a shot of whiskey without being bothered, no matter who they plan to vote for.”
Bo and Scratch looked at each other and nodded.
That was just the start of it. More windows were busted out during the night. Someone broke into both general stores and slung manure all over the merchandise. Coffins stacked behind Sam Bradfield’s business were chopped to pieces with axes. Somebody tied ropes to the corral posts at the settlement’s other two livery stables and pulled the fences down. The wave of malicious sabotage continued washing over Mankiller until after midnight, and Bo and Scratch always seemed to be one jump behind the varmints who were responsible for it.
More than once during the night, Scratch said bitterly, “Damn Deverys!”
Bo agreed with him, but they had no proof. Unless they could catch somebody in the act or convince those miners in the smokehouse to talk, it appeared that things would stay that way.
Finally, in the wee hours, the town settled down. The Texans hoped it would stay that way as they returned to the sheriff’s office to trade off catching a few hours’ sleep.
“Why don’t one of you take the cot and the other one the sofa?” Biscuits suggested. “I’m here, and since I quit drinkin’, I haven’t been able to sleep much anyway. It’s hard to doze off when you still feel like there’s ants crawlin’ all over your skin.”
“If you’re sure…” Bo said.
Biscuits nodded. “I’m sure. Get some rest.”
Bo stretched out on the sofa while Scratch took the cot. It was even money which place was the least uncomfortable. Saying that either one was actually comfortable would have been going too far.
Bo wasn’t sure how long he had been asleep when what sounded like two sudden peals of thunder jolted him awake. As he sat up sharply on the sofa and swung his legs to the floor, two more roaring reports blasted out.
Biscuits stood behind the desk, wide-eyed in the dim light from the turned-down lamp. “Somebody’s shootin’ off a shotgun down the street,” he said.
Bo shoved his feet in his boots and reached for his gun belt. “I know.”
By the time he was on his feet and had the belt buckled, Scratch came out of the back room, also ready for trouble. “Sounds like a war breakin’ out,” he said.
“If it was, it was a short one.” Bo had heard the four blasts, but no more.
“We’d better go see what happened,” Scratch said. He glanced at the sheriff. “You still all right to stay here, Biscuits?”
“Yeah, I guess.” Biscuits nodded toward the desk, where the three shotguns still lay. “I haven’t even unloaded those Greeners yet.”
“I wouldn’t,” Bo said dryly as he put on his hat.
Biscuits let them out and locked up behind them. The Texans drew their guns as they started down the street toward the area where the shotgun blasts had originated. Bo wasn’t sure where the shots had come from—he’d been asleep, after all, when the first two went off—but he had been able to tell the general direction from the second pair of reports.
Most of the saloons in Mankiller never closed, but the hour was long after midnight so that they weren’t very busy anymore. A few men came to the batwings to peer over them curiously. The street was empty except for Bo and Scratch and stayed that way.
Lyle Rushford stepped out on the porch of the Colorado Palace as the Texans passed. “I reckon you heard the shots,” he called to them.
Bo and Scratch paused. “That’s right,” Bo said. “You have any idea where they came from?”