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  Kinda surprised me, but after I said that, they all just quieted down.

  While waitin’, I’d done some circlin’ on foot, tryin’ to come up with just one track that stood out. About my fifth try, I found one.

  A horseshoe had been worn or chipped to form a V on the left side of the shoe.

  “Rusty, Ben, you Quartermoon boys!” I called. “Come over here and look at this.”

  I pointed out the track to them.

  But none of them had never seen it before.

  I glanced at Ben. “You busy?”

  “Not to speak of. What’s on your mind, Sheriff?”

  “You know two ol’ boys name of De Graff and Burtell?”

  “Hell, Sheriff!” he protested. “They couldn’t have done this. They . . .”

  I waved him quiet. “I never said they done nothin’. I want to talk to them ’bout bein’ deputies. Can you find ’em and have ’em meet me in town?”

  “Consider it done, Sheriff.” He was on his horse and gone.

  I mounted up.

  “Where are we goin’, Sheriff?” Rusty asked.

  “To wherever this track leads, Rusty. Let’s ride.”

  We was on Circle L range, and we all knew it. And no one amongst us would have bet against where that track was gonna lead. And it done it, sure as shootin’.

  It was mid-morning when we rode up to the great house. House! It was a damned mansion. Looked as out of place on the range as a turd in a punch bowl.

  And it made me mad. It was some unreasonable, and I knew it, but it done it anyways. I was thinkin’ about them poor nesters back yonder, burned out with not even a pot left to piss in—the nightriders had even burned the privy—and here was this palace . . . where the tracks of the nightriders led straight for.

  All that was mingled in with the sight of that dead girl, raped, and neck broke.

  I just got mad!

  I rode straight up to the front of that house and looped Critter’s reins around the hitchrail and stomped up the steps onto the porch. I commenced to poundin’ on the front door.

  One of the Mex servants seen me and run back into the rear of the house. I kept on hammerin’ on that door until ol’ A.J. hisself jerked open the door.

  “What is the meaning of this . . . outrage?” he yelled at me.

  “Git out here!”

  “I beg your pardon, you . . . you saddle bum!”

  Jerkin’ open the outside door, I grabbed mister bigshot by the shirtfront and hauled him out, then I shook him like a hound dog with a rabbit in its mouth.

  Wanda Mills must have been visiting over, ’cause she and Joy run to the door, looked out, and then started squallin’ and jumpin’ up and down and makin’ more noise than a fire drill at a loony house.

  Ol’ A.J.’s head was bouncin’ back and forth like a puppet.

  I shoved Mister Hotsy-Totsy down in a porch chair and told him, very quickly, what had happened.

  Big Mike and about a dozen other hands come a-runnin’ over. Rusty shoved the barrels of a Greener under Big Mike’s chin and said, “First one reaches for iron, I blow your fat head off!”

  Rusty eared back the hammers, both of ’em, on that sawed-off, and Big Mike’s eyes got to lookin’ like saucers.

  Jerkin’ A.J. to his feet, I shoved him down the steps and toward the corral and barn. The rest followed, Joy and Wanda blubberin’ and snortin’ and flingin’ snot ever’ which-a-way.

  On the way over, I showed Mister A.J. the tracks of that horse we’d been trailin’. His face turned white as a fresh-washed petticoat.

  It was some rash on me and Rusty’s part, for if Maggie and Jean and some of their hands hadn’t a showed up, me and Rusty just might have ended up lookin’ like that cheese that’s full of holes.

  But show up they did, along with some Quartermoon boys, all of ’em ridin’ escort to the buckboard carryin’ the dead girl.

  I was right proud to see them all.

  By this time, the grounds was full of Circle L riders, most of ’em gunhands, or at least drawin’ fightin’ wages. And they was ready to earn their money, too.

  The Arrow and Quartermoon boys circled the yard.

  “Rusty,” I said. “Find that horse with the marked shoe.” I kept an eye on Big Mike while Rusty started lookin’. Mike was so mad his face was all mottled lookin’. But he kept his hands away from his guns. I sorta wished he would try to grab iron, and I think he knew it.

  It didn’t take Rusty long to find the horse. He led him right into the yard and I checked the shoe. There it was, the V standin’ out plain as egg on your face.

  I looked at A.J. and then at Mike. “You’re both under arrest.”

  “On what charge?” Mike hollered. “That horse don’t prove nothing!”

  “Orderin’ the murder of Broderick Simmons and aidin’ and abettin’ them who done the killin’.”

  Well, that wound up Joy’s key agin, and she and Wanda tuned up and commenced to squallin’.

  Jean and Maggie was both smilin’ kind of grim-like.

  “You’ll never make it stick, Sheriff,” A.J. said.

  “Maybe not,” I told him. “But I’m sure gonna give it all I got.”

  “You’re a fool!”

  As time would tell, I did come out of it lookin’ kinda foolish, but it did accomplish one good thing: it lined up the smaller spreads directly on my side.

  Chapter Five

  My, but it was a grand sight, for as long as it lasted, that is. Me and Rusty had tied A.J. and Big Mike’s hands behind them and boosted them up into the saddle. Only I give A.J. too much of a boost and he fell plumb over the other side of the horse. I ’spect it hurt when he done a belly-flopper on that hardpacked ground. He squalled something fierce about it.

  “I’ll sue you!” A.J. hollered, wallowin’ around on the ground.

  “Hell, I ain’t got nothin’. Go ahead and sue me.”

  We finally got everybody mounted and commenced to head for town. A.J. and Big Mike give us all a pretty good cussin’ on the way in. My, my, but for all of A.J.’s gentility and suaveness, he sure knew how to string together some mighty bad words. And that way of ridin’ was none too comfortable for them, neither. Big Mike fell off his horse twice. And that was a sight to behold. Come to think of it, he done some pretty fair country cussin’, too.

  Joy and Wanda had some hands hitch up a buggy and they followed us, in the drag, both of them varyin’ between cryin’ and cussin’. Them gals weren’t no ladies, neither, let me tell you that right off the bat. I never heard such nastiness come out of a woman’s mouth. Kinda makes a feller’s faith in womanhood quiver a bit.

  The whole town turned out to see A.J. and Big Mike get put in the pokey, not all of the onlookers pleased to see it.

  De Graff and Burtell was waitin’ in the office when I come inside, pushin’ A.J. and Mike ahead of me. George Waller was in the office, too.

  “You approve of these ol’ boys bein’ deputies?” I asked.

  He did.

  I looked at them. “You boys wanna wear a badge?”

  De Graff, he said, “Beats hell out of starvin’.” Then he looked at A.J. “And cuttin’ out an occasional steer for food.” He grinned big.

  “Goddamn thief!” A.J. hollered.

  “Hush!” I told him. “Swear ’em in, George.”

  He done it, all to the background noises of A.J. and Mike cussin’ and Joy and Wanda blubberin’ and squallin’.

  Then I locked up A.J. and Mike. Man, but they was hot under the collar.

  I’d ordered the body of Marie to be taken to Doctor Harrison’s office for an official opinion on the cause of death—not that it mattered much to Marie—and to verify that she’d been raped, too.

  “Rusty, you and De Graff and Burtell make damn sure nobody breaks our prisoners out. I’m goin’ down to Doc’s place.”

  De Graff just smiled and jerked a Greener out of the rack on the wall and broke it open, loading the sawed-off shotgun with buckshot.
Like Rusty had said, they was both men to ride to the river with.

  I got a lot of congratulations on the walk down to Doc’s office, all mixed up with some pretty dark looks from the Circle L and Rockinghorse riders. There must have been forty or fifty of them ol’ boys in town, all of them all geared up and ready for trouble.

  I seen Pepper and her ma as they come into town in a buggy, driven by Rolf Baker. Half a dozen Quartermoon riders flanked the buggy, her brother Jeff among them. And while those Quartermoon riders might not have been hired guns, I could tell by the way they conducted themselves they knowed what to do with them guns.

  Looked to me like the town of Doubtful might be gettin’ awful interestin’ pretty quick.

  But I hoped not too interestin’. It don’t take a fellow long to start thinkin’ like a lawman. Just hang a star on. They make dandy targets.

  Steppin’ into Doc Harrison’s office, I seen right off that the doc was mad as hell. He was kinda white around the mouth and his fists were clinched tight shut.

  “Tell me what you can, Doc. And keep it simple, please.”

  “The girl was horribly used, Sheriff. She was not only raped, but violated in an unnatural manner as well. It’s the most disgusting thing I’ve seen in all my years of practicing medicine.”

  I didn’t know what in the hell he was talkin’ about. But I wasn’t gonna show my ignorance by askin’ him to explain. If it was that disgustin’, I didn’t want to know noways. So I just nodded my head and pretended I knew what he was sayin’.

  “Cause of death?”

  “Her neck was broken. Bruises on the throat indicate it was done deliberately. By someone with enormous strength.”

  Big Mike popped into my mind. Or Junior. Both of them looked to be strong as hell. “Well, I know the family ain’t got no money for no fancy burial, Doc. I’ll ask around for contributions to help out.”

  “I’ll handle the arrangements with Martin Truby’s funeral parlor. I should imagine the mother is too disconcerted to be of much assistance at this time of grief.”

  “Uh . . . yeah! Right. Dis-concerted. That’s her. See you, Doc.”

  Steppin’ onto the boardwalk, I wondered who I might ask what dis-concerted meant.

  Damn, but it’s hell to be ignorant.

  Back at the office, I was pleased to see that both De Graff and Burtell had armed themselves with Greeners. They’s lots of tough ol’ boys who’ll face a man with a six-gun in his hand but damn few who’ll stand up to a sawed-off shotgun—’specially when that shotgun is loaded with ball bearings and nails and pieces of scrap iron. One time, I seen an ol’ boy cut slap in two catchin’ both barrels of a Greener in the belly. It was not a sight I was likely to ever forget.

  A.J. and Mike had stopped cussin’ and hollerin’. I stepped back and looked in on them sittin’ on their bunks. Lawyer Stokes had been sent for.

  “What’s the bond for our charges, Sheriff?” A.J. asked. First time I could remember him ever callin’ me Sheriff.

  “That’s gonna be up to the judge. Barbeau’s been sent for.”

  I said that with a bad taste in my mouth, for I’d been told that Judge Barbeau was a personal friend of both A.J. and Matt Mills.

  Both A.J. and Big Mike smiled at that, and I had me a sinkin’ feelin’ in the pit of my stomach that the rumors about Barbeau was true.

  “So that means the judge will be here sometime in the morning?” A.J. asked.

  “I reckon so. If he can get his lard-butt up on a horse, that is.” I’d been told the judge was rather portly, as George put it. Fat-ass.

  “Well, Sheriff!” A.J. was all smiles now. “You don’t object if we have our meals sent in, do you?”

  “Nope. That’s about the only way you gonna get fed.”

  “That’s very good of you. Since we’ve missed lunch, why don’t you just step over to the cafe and order us something to eat?”

  I was still laughin’ as I closed the door leadin’ to the rows of cells. Big Mike and A.J. had started cussin’ again.

  Neither Joy nor Wanda was nowhere to be seen, and I was thankful for that for more reasons than one. There was some day-old beans in a pot and a half loaf of yesterday’s bread.

  Guess what A.J. and Big Mike had for lunch?

  “Outrageous!” A.J. had squalled. “Prisoners in the territorial prison get better food than this!”

  I didn’t pay him no mind.

  The novelty of A.J. and Big Mike bein’ in the pokey had wore off some when I stepped back outside. But the mood of the town had changed, I could sense it. It was an ugly, tense feeling in the air.

  I had left Rusty and Burtell back in the office, De Graff was makin’ rounds with me. He carried his Greener.

  He was quiet for a time, then said. “Trouble’s brewin’, Sheriff.”

  “Yeah. I feel it. We’ll stay out of the Wolf’s Den. Ain’t no point in us eggin’ nothin’ on. That’s what A.J.’s gunhands want us to do.”

  “Sheriff? You ever heard of Jack Crow?”

  “Yeah. He’s supposed to be the best gun west of the Mississippi. But I ain’t never seen him. Can’t tell you what he looks like. Why?”

  “Rumor has it he’s on the way in.”

  I glanced at De Graff. The man was about medium height and stocky, lookin’ to be in his mid to late thirties. Both he and Burtell were about the same height and build; both of them appearing to be quiet and steady men. Not gunhands, but the type of men who would back a fellow up and make the first shot count. Both De Graff and Burtell were western-born and raised, both of them comin’ from a little town down in Colorado.

  But Jack Crow, now that was something else. Jack Crow had built himself a reputation over the years as a tough, vicious gunfighter. Nobody had ever beat him to the draw. And he come real expensive. And when he left out of a place, two or three people was dead.

  The description of Jack Crow was vague, only one thing remaining constant—he dressed in black and rode a black horse.

  I wasn’t lookin’ forward to meetin’ Jack Crow.

  “You heard anything else about Crow?” I asked De Graff.

  “Just that he’s definitely on the way here with the promise of big money.”

  I nodded, thinking. I knew from talkin’ to folks that Burtell and De Graff had been cowboys all their lives, ridin’ for the brand and loyal to it . . . except for the last brand. I asked De Graff about that.

  He was silent for a moment, the only sounds the striking of our boots on the boardwalk and the jingle of our spurs. “Mills and Lawrence is evil people. There ain’t no goodness in neither of ’em. They’ll do anything to take control of the area. Anything. They’re both power-crazy, and I don’t know what changed ’em. Maybe they was always thataway and me and Burtell couldn’t see it. But we just couldn’t take no more of it.”

  “But they got everything now!”

  “Seems thataway, don’t it? You or me or Rusty or Burtell, hell, most people, we’d be happy with just a little-bitty portion of what they got. But they want it all. And they’re bound and determined to get it, anyways they can. And I’ll tell you something now, Sheriff. Judge Barbeau is gonna cut A.J. and Mike a-loose. He’s done it before, and he’ll do it this time. Bet on it.”

  “That’s the feelin’ I get.”

  We stopped in the mouth of an alleyway, off the boardwalk, after first checkin’ the alley for any trouble-hunters. It was clear. But over across the street, leanin’ up agin’ a hitchrail, was a young man I’d seen ridin’ in with Jim Hawthorne, and he had trouble written all over him.

  De Graff had spotted him, too. “That punk’s gonna try us, Sheriff.”

  “Yeah. But not us—just me. It had to come sooner or later.”

  Out of the corner of my eyes, I seen Rolf Baker and Pepper, standin’ in front of a store. If something was going down, at least they was out of the line of fire.

  The punk kid across the street, wearin’ two guns, tied down low, called out, shoutin’ a terrible ugly nam
e at me. I stepped out of the alley, into the street, facin’ the kid, still a pretty good distance between us.

  “Go on back to the saloon, boy!” I told him. “I got no quarrel with you.”

  “What’s the matter, Sheriff?” the young man yelled, grinnin’ at me, his hands clawed, hovering over his gun butts. “You scared?”

  “No, boy. I ain’t scared of you.” I took a couple of steps toward him.

  “I’m just as good as Jack Crow!”

  I doubted that, but I still wasn’t afraid. Maybe I don’t have enough sense to be afraid. But I think it’s thisaway with anybody who’s handier than he ought to be with a short gun. Everything just sort of narrows down in your field of vision. You know they’s people watchin’ but you really don’t see nobody except the man you’re facin’. Time seems to pause for the draw. And you can hear the slightest sound, from far away.

  “The sheriff’s a coward!” the young man hollered, laughing.

  I took another couple of steps toward him. Since I’d brung A.J. and Big Mike to jail, I’d been wearin’ my right-hand .44 without the hammer thong, just a-waitin’ for something like this to happen, knowin’ in my heart it was soon comin’ at me. And here it was.

  “You’re bracin’ an officer of the law, boy. You’re in trouble from the git-go, don’t you know that?”

  “I just figure I’m facin’ a tinhorn who ain’t got the guts to draw!”

  “You wrong, boy,” I said quietly.

  “Jack Crow’s gonna have a long ride for nothin’,” the kid hollered, “’cause when he gits here, you gonna be dead!”

  There it was again. Jack Crow. Looked like he was sure on the way in. I took a breath and two more steps. “You’re wrong, boy.” My voice was just loud enough for him to hear. “Get on your horse and ride on out of here. I’m givin’ you a chance to live. Take it. Think about your momma, how this is gonna bother her.”

  “I figure she’ll be right proud of me, Cotton. After I kill you, I’ll have me a name that’s worth something.”

  “It’ll be on your tombstone, boy. That is, if you got the greenbacks in your pocket to have one stuck up over you. But chances are, two days after you’re planted, won’t nobody even ’member who you was. What is your name, anyways?”