“Of course.” Bickford’s head bobbed up and down in a nod. “We always try to cooperate with the local law.”
Sam didn’t figure that Porter cooperated with anybody, but he didn’t say that.
“Say, did Coleman tell you to keep an eye on the wagons?” Bickford went on.
“That’s right.”
“It’s not necessary, you know. We always have at least two men standing guard.”
“Yes, I can see that, but since that’s what he told me to do…”
“Of course, of course. Wouldn’t want you to disobey orders, especially your first day on the job!” Bickford raised a hand in farewell. “Well, see you later. I’m going to go find a café and get a cup of coffee. Nothing like a hot cup of belly wash!”
The amiable little special marshal walked off toward Main Street. Sam moved into the shade of a cottonwood, leaned against a tree trunk, crossed his arms over his chest, and settled down to watch the wagons as Marshal Coleman had told him to do.
The moaning and cursing that came from inside the wagons brought a frown to Sam’s face after only a few minutes. Not so much the profanities, but the sounds of men in pain bothered him. He stood it for a while, but eventually he straightened from his casual pose against the tree and walked toward the wagons.
One of the guards saw him coming and stepped out to meet him. The man was rawboned and had a lantern jaw with dark stubble on it. He held a Winchester at a slant across his narrow chest.
“You best hold it right there, mister,” he warned as Sam came closer.
Sam stopped. “I’m a deputy, too.”
The man shook his head. “You ain’t a special deputy workin’ for the governor, like I am, so that means you ain’t squat as far as I’m concerned. Marshal Porter said nobody was to come around them prisoners, and that means nobody.”
“Sounds like some of them are in pretty bad shape.”
A leer stretched the guard’s thin-lipped mouth. “Never you mind about what kinda shape they’re in. They got what was comin’ to ’em, the damn moonshiners!”
“You never took a drink yourself?” Sam asked sharply.
The way the guard glared and then suddenly, furtively, ran his tongue over his lips told Sam that the man had indeed taken a drink in the past. He could have used one right now, in fact.
But then a stubborn expression came over the guard’s face, and he said, “That ain’t none o’ your business. Just back off, or when Marshal Porter gets here, I’ll tell him to arrest you, too!”
“Shouldn’t he have been back by now with the doctor?”
“That ain’t none o’ my concern.” The guard started to swing the muzzle of his rifle in Sam’s direction. “Now skedaddle, or—”
The face of one of the prisoners appeared in the small, barred window on the side of the lead wagon. The window was set so high that the man must have had to pull himself up somehow.
“Mister!” he cried in a wretched voice. “Mister, you gotta help us!”
The guard whipped around and yelled, “You get away from that window, you bastard!”
The prisoner was looking straight at Sam. “They’re gonna murder us! You gotta help!”
“I said shut up, damn you!” The guard lunged at the wagon. Sam followed and saw that the prisoner was holding on to the bars, supporting himself that way. Then the guard lashed out with his rifle, slamming the barrel against the bars and smashing the prisoner’s fingers. The man screeched in pain and dropped out of sight.
“You probably broke his fingers!” Sam exclaimed angrily.
The guard whirled toward him, snarling, “I told you to get the hell out—”
Sam’s patience had reached its limits. He reached out, took hold of the guard’s rifle, and plucked the weapon out of the man’s hands. Sam’s movements were so smooth and efficient that he didn’t even appear to be moving fast, but in reality, he had taken the guard’s rifle away before the man even knew what happened. When the guard let out an outraged howl and clawed at the revolver holstered on his hip, Sam swung the Winchester and caught the man on the side of the head with the stock, knocking him senseless to the ground.
“You sonuva—”
That angry shout came from the other guard, who was charging toward him. Sam dropped the rifle, pivoted lightly, and drew his Colt at the same time. The special deputy skidded to a shocked, frightened halt as he found himself staring down the rock-steady barrel of Sam’s revolver from a distance of about four feet.
“Whatever you were about to do, I’d advise you not to,” Sam said quietly.
The man’s prominent Adam’s apple jumped up and down as he swallowed. “Mister, you’re crazy! When Porter gets back here, he’ll throw you in one of those wagons!”
“He may try,” Sam said. Despite the fact that Matt was generally the more reckless and hotheaded of the pair, Sam had just as deep a reserve of outrage when he saw something happening that shouldn’t be. And when Sam Two Wolves finally lost his temper, as was about to happen here, he was every bit as much a man to stand aside from as Matt Bodine was.
He went on. “Put your rifle on the ground, and then put your pistol beside it.”
“I’m not givin’ up my guns,” the guard insisted. Sam had to give him credit for some courage. It took sand to refuse to follow orders when a fella was pointing a gun at your face from only a few feet away.
The standoff came to an end a couple of heartbeats later when Marshal Coleman roared, “What in blazes is goin’ on here?”
“Stand aside!” That was Ambrose Porter. “Stand aside, by God! I’m going to kill that man!”
“The hell you will! That’s my deputy!”
From the corner of his eye, Sam saw Coleman and Porter hurrying toward the wagons, trailed by a man in a dark suit who was probably Cottonwood’s doctor. Porter carried his rifle, and Coleman had drawn his handgun. It was a question now of who was going to shoot who.
But it seemed entirely likely that one way or another, in the next moment or two, bullets were going to fly.
Chapter 21
“Sam!” Marshal Coleman bellowed. “Put away that gun! That’s an order!”
“Marshal, you don’t understand—” Sam began.
“I understand that you pinned on that badge, and that means you do what I tell you, damn it! We’re all lawmen here. We don’t need to go around killin’ each other.”
Porter was so tightly strung that he quivered a little as he said, “That man is under arrest. I’m within my rights to kill him for assaulting a special officer and interfering with the performance of our duties.”
“Nobody’s gonna arrest anybody,” Coleman said, still trying to be the voice of reason. “I’m tellin’ you, this is all just a plain ol’ misunderstanding. Sam, holster that hogleg—now!”
Sam took a deep breath and lowered the Colt. He didn’t holster it, though. Instead, he held it down at his side, ready to use it. He wasn’t convinced that gunplay had been averted here.
Coleman moved so that he was between Sam and Porter. “Now, let’s try to get this straightened out,” he said.
“There’s nothing to straighten out.” Porter’s voice was as cold and hard as a glacier. “That man is under arrest. We’ll be taking him back to Wichita with us to face trial.”
“How about if I give you my word that he won’t bother you or any of your folks again while you’re here in Cottonwood? That I’ll keep him away from you?”
Sam felt a surge of anger at Coleman’s words, but he knew the marshal was just trying to head off more trouble. He clamped his jaw tightly shut so he wouldn’t say anything and just make the situation worse.
“You want me to close my eyes to a violation of the law?” Porter demanded. “You know I can’t do that. My God, man, my deputy was attacked!”
That so-called deputy was nothing but a hardcase, a hired gunman, Sam thought, and he couldn’t hold his anger in check any longer. “Doesn’t anybody want to know what actually happened here?” he asked.