Sidewinders (14 page)

“I know what you're thinkin',” Scratch went on, “and I feel the same way, but I'll be damned if I'll let anybody string you up, Bo.”

Buchanan got to his feet and hammered on the table with his gavel as he shouted for quiet. The Fontaines kept up their demand for a trial, with some of the townspeople joining in. As the crowd surged forward, Bo stood up and turned to face them.

“Stop it!” he told them in a loud voice. “I know a lot of you folks. You don't really want to do this!”

The angry yells just increased in volume.

“That's enough, by God!” Marshal Haltom said. The shotgun in his hands came up so that both barrels pointed squarely at the crowd. Haltom thumbed the hammers back, first one and then the other. Even though that ominous clicking sound couldn't be heard over the chaos in the town hall, just the sight of those twin black muzzles was enough to make the shouting abruptly come to a dead stop.

“There's not going to be a trial here today!” Haltom's angry voice cut through the sudden silence.

“Maybe there doesn't need to be one,” Ned Fontaine said. His tone was just as ominous as the marshal's was. “We all know Creel's guilty. A trial would just be a waste of time. There are plenty of good cottonwood trees along the creek that'll do just fine for a hanging!”

It seemed likely that violence was going to break out at any second. If it did, innocent people were going to be hurt. The buckshot in Marshal Haltom's scattergun wouldn't discriminate. It would cut down anybody who got in its way.

Bo knew that, and even though he didn't want to die, he had to wonder if it would be better to let Fontaine have his way. He would be trading his life for the lives of Bear Creek's citizens that might be lost otherwise . . .

Then Scratch leveled his Winchester at Ned Fontaine and said in a voice that cracked through all the hubbub, “You got two seconds to call off your dogs, Fontaine, or I'm puttin' a bullet through your brain! One! T—”

“Hold on, hold on!” Fontaine called. Stunned silence again spread rapidly through the room. The rancher went on, “Marshal, you heard that man threaten to kill me. I demand that you arrest him!”

“The only reason he threatened to kill you is because he beat me to it,” Haltom snapped. “You're out of line here, Fontaine. Judge, is the hearing over?”

“It is,” Buchanan said. He smacked the gavel down on the table. “Court's adjourned!”

Haltom squinted over the barrels of his shotgun and said, “So this isn't a public proceeding anymore, and you're trespassing on property the town owns, Fontaine. Take your men and get out now, or I won't be responsible for what happens.”

Some of the townspeople were starting to move toward the doors, obviously unwilling to stay there and possibly find themselves in the line of fire. Fontaine must have sensed that his support was slipping. He glared at Haltom and said, “You're making a mistake by siding with that murderer, Marshal.”

“A jury will determine whether or not he's a murderer. Now git!”

“You'll be sorry you talked to me that way.”

“I'm sorry you even came into town today.” Haltom gestured with the shotgun's barrel. “Go on, get out of here, you and the whole Rafter F bunch.”

The spectators were making it a regular exodus now as they left the town hall. The lynch mob fever had broken. Scratch had shattered it with his well-aimed rifle and his coldly voiced threat. The townspeople had realized that if they kept it up, there was a good chance some of them would die.

“This isn't over,” Fontaine warned ominously.

“The hell it isn't,” Haltom shot back.

Bo could tell that Fontaine didn't want to let the marshal get the last word in, but there really wasn't anything left to say. Fontaine turned and stalked toward the door, followed by his sons, both of whom glowered darkly at Bo before they turned away. The Rafter F punchers filed out behind them.

The courtroom emptied in a matter of moments except for Bo, Scratch, Marshal Haltom, and Judge Buchanan. The judge slumped back in his chair and heaved a sigh. Beads of sweat stood out on his beefy face.

“That was a near thing,” he said.

“I don't reckon Fontaine knows just how tight my finger was on the trigger,” Scratch said. “Wouldn't have taken but a hair more pressure to put a bullet through that rattlesnake brain of his.”

Haltom said, “I'm glad you didn't shoot. Innocent folks would have gotten hurt if any gunplay broke out.” He shrugged. “I'd have risked it, though, to keep anybody from taking a prisoner away from me.”

“Do you have a man you can trust to send to Hallettsville for the sheriff?” Buchanan asked.

Haltom frowned in thought. He looked at Scratch, who shook his head without hesitation.

“Forget it,” the silver-haired Texan said. “I ain't helpin' what strikes me as one of those, what do you call 'em, miscarriages of justice. Besides, everybody in this room knows good and well that just because Fontaine and his bunch left, that don't mean they're through with this. I plan on bein' here when they make their move.”

“You think they'll try again to raise a lynch mob?” the judge asked worriedly.

“It wouldn't surprise me a bit,” Scratch said.

“Or me, either,” Haltom agreed. “I'll send Rusty Gardner for the sheriff, Judge. He's young, but he's said something to me several times about how he'd like to be a deputy someday. I reckon this is his chance.”

“Is he trustworthy?”

“I believe he is.”

“Very well, then,” Buchanan said. “He needs to stress to the sheriff that it's imperative the prisoner be taken to the county seat as soon as possible.”

“I'll write a note to send with Rusty,” Haltom said.

Bo was annoyed that they were talking about him like he wasn't right there in the town hall with them, but he supposed that didn't really matter now. It was a lot more important that they were going to put him on trial for something he hadn't done.

“Judge, can I say something?” he asked.

Buchanan frowned at him.

“You had a chance to speak during the hearing, Mr. Creel.”

“I know that, but I've been thinking . . . If I did kill those girls, the way everybody seems to believe I did, would Scratch and I have ridden into town as bold as brass, right out in the open, the way we did? Isn't that enough to tell you right there that we didn't have any idea what's been going on around here?”

The judge's frown deepened.

“That's a good argument,” he admitted. “Your lawyer can make it during your trial. And by that time, if you've been telling the truth about working for Judge Parker when the crimes were committed, you may have proof of that, as well. In that case, I'm sure a competent attorney will have no problem convincing a jury to render a verdict of not guilty.”

“And for that matter,” Marshal Haltom added, “you'll probably be just as safe in the jail at Hallettsville as you would be here. Maybe safer.”

The lawman was probably right about that, Bo realized. Still, the thought of continuing to be locked up made his skin crawl. After all those years of riding free with Scratch, Bo didn't like being behind bars.

“All right,” he said. “I'll cooperate. Just don't expect me to be too enthusiastic about it.”

“I don't care if you're enthusiastic,” Haltom said, “as long as you don't try to escape. Come on. Let's get you back to jail.”

 

 

Since the possibility of an ambush existed, even on a walk as short as the one from the town hall back to the jail, Scratch went first to scout the town while Haltom wrote the note to send to the sheriff in Hallettsville.

A lot of people were still on the boardwalks, and most of them were looking toward the town hall, but Scratch didn't see any signs of threatening behavior.

“If you are looking for those men who hate your friend, M'sieu Scratch, they have all gone across the creek to guzzle down the cheap rotgut.”

The husky, alluring female voice made Scratch look behind him. Veronique Ballantine stood there, wearing a demure dress and shading herself with a parasol. She looked as lovely as ever.

Scratch tugged on the brim of his hat and said, “Howdy, mam'selle. Were you at the hearing? I didn't see you or the professor in the town hall.”

Veronique shook her head and said, “No, but we were just outside. We heard what was going on, and like everyone else we heard what those men were saying when they left. I believe they were urging the townspeople to violence against your friend.”

“Darned right they were,” Scratch said grimly. “They want to string him up.”

“Because he is guilty of those terrible crimes we have heard about?”

“That's part of it, I reckon,” Scratch admitted. “But the real reason the Fontaines keep tryin' to stir things up is because they were already feudin' with Bo's family. This is just an excuse for them to make things hard for the Creels.”

“That is despicable behavior.”

Scratch grunted and said, “Yep. You won't get no argument from me about that.”

“Come to the wagon later,” Veronique suggested. “Professor Sarlat and I will be glad to see you.”

“Much obliged. I'll stop by if I get a chance.”

Right now he was more worried about getting Bo safely back to the jail. Since everything looked clear at the moment, he said “so long” to the beautiful medicine show entertainer and hurried back to the town hall. Marshal Haltom was waiting in the doorway, the shotgun in his hands.

“I just sent that rider to Hallettsville,” the lawman said. “He ought to be back tonight with the sheriff's reply.”

Scratch nodded and said, “I don't see any sign of an ambush right now.”

Haltom turned his head to look back into the town hall and nodded curtly.

“Let's go, Creel,” he ordered Bo.

The walk back to the jail drew a lot of unfriendly stares from the townspeople, but that was all. Scratch was relieved when they reached the jail, but that relief didn't last long.

He knew the building wouldn't stand up to a determined assault from a large group of men, and he had a hunch that was exactly what the Fontaines were working up to on the other side of the creek. They would have all day to keep the liquor flowing freely for anyone who wanted to get drunk and listen to the venom they would be spewing.

When Bo was locked up in his cell, Scratch followed Haltom into the office and said, “The judge should've let us take Bo to Hallettsville today. The Fontaines are liable to be on your doorstep with a lynch mob tonight.”

“No, the judge was right,” Haltom said glumly. “If I'd tried to take Creel to the county seat by himself, he might've made a break for it. And don't waste your breath saying that you would have gone along to help. You know good and well you'd have knocked me on the head the first chance you got and took off with Creel.”

Scratch couldn't exactly deny that. The thought had definitely crossed his mind.

“So what are we left with?” he demanded. “You can't hold this jail by yourself, and you know it. I might be able to round up a few old friends who'd pitch in and help, but not enough to make a difference against a hundred liquored-up varmints with a hang rope.”

Haltom had the bleak, fatalistic look of a man who knew he had probably been sentenced to death. He said, “I'll do the job I was hired to do, and if it doesn't work out, then that's just too bad.”

“You'll gun down townspeople if they break in here? Your own friends?”

“If they're breaking the law, I sure as hell will,” the marshal insisted.

Scratch wasn't sure he believed Haltom, though. The man was probably sincere in what he said, but when the time came that he was looking over the Greener's barrels at people he saw on the street every day, he might not be able to pull the triggers . . . especially in defense of a man he believed to be a cold-blooded and particularly brutal killer of women.

There was no getting around it, thought Scratch. So far he had gone along with what Bo wanted because he respected his trail partner's wishes. Bo was a law-abiding man.

But sometimes the law was just flat-out wrong, and to abide by it would be the same thing as committing suicide. In a case like that, Scratch had to do what he knew was right.

“Where are you going?” Haltom asked as Scratch started toward the door.

“Nothin's gonna happen while it's light,” Scratch replied. “I'll be back later.”

“Better be careful when you come around. My trigger finger's liable to be a mite nervous.”

Scratch didn't doubt it.

He stepped out of the marshal's office and closed the door behind him. The bar scraped into place in its brackets on the other side of the door. Scratch turned toward the bridge.

He wanted to get the lay of the land while he made his plans. He knew now that he was going to have to bust Bo out of that jail, come hell or high water, and he had the rest of the day to figure out exactly how he was going to do it.

Scratch circled the jail, looking it over. The windows in the cells were too small for anybody to go through, but if the bars were pulled out of their frame, say with a rope tied to a couple of horses, enough of the wall might bust out around the opening to let a prisoner crawl through it. The window in the marshal's office was bigger, but Haltom would be waiting on the other side of it with a double load of buckshot in his scattergun.

There wasn't a back door. The front door could be busted down, but only with some time and effort.

Unfortunately, the building was constructed of lumber, which meant it would burn. That might be the tack the lynch mob would take. Even though most frontier towns lived in mortal fear of fire, Fontaine might risk it since he could have men with buckets of water standing by to keep the flames from spreading. Once the jail was on fire, Haltom would have no choice but to come out and bring Bo with him.

Scratch didn't mean to let the situation get that far. As soon as it was dark, he was going to fetch his horse and Bo's mount from the stable and jerk that cell window out of the wall. He could fire one of the Remingtons through the opening to keep Marshal Haltom back while Bo scrambled out.

A jailbreak like that would make them outlaws and fugitives, Scratch thought glumly. Even though they had both been locked up before, those had all been misunderstandings that had been cleared up before things deteriorated this badly. They had never stepped completely over the law's line, just sort of edged a toe over it now and then, always in a good cause.

But saving Bo's life was a good cause, too, Scratch told himself. He was convinced that if he didn't get Bo out of that jail, his old friend wouldn't survive the night.

With that decision made, he walked along the street toward the public well and the medicine show wagon. He was aware that some people were sending hostile glances in his direction, but he ignored them. Everybody in Bear Creek knew by now that he and Bo were friends and that he believed Bo was innocent. The only ones who were likely to start any trouble, though, were across the creek in the saloons.

Professor Sarlat, looking as splendid as ever in his top hat and swallowtail coat, was brushing his horses, which were picketed near the wagon where they could graze on the grass growing under some oak trees. He greeted Scratch with a smile.

“Good day to you, Mr. Morton,” the professor said. “How are you?”

“Middlin',” Scratch said. “I reckon I feel better than I expected to, considerin' that ruckus I was in last night and the fact that I didn't get much sleep.”

“Ah,” Sarlat said with a sly grin. “You partook of my miraculous elixir, didn't you?”

“If by partook you mean I guzzled down half of it, yeah, that's about right,” Scratch admitted with a chuckle. He patted his jacket pocket where the brown glass bottle still resided. “That's powerful good stuff.”

“Powerful is indeed the right word. My elixir is unmatched in its potency.”

“It helped me get through the night while I was guardin' the jail, that's for sure.”

Sarlat's face grew solemn as he said, “Veronique and I have heard about your friend's plight. I wish there was something we could do to help.”

“Don't worry about that,” Scratch said. “Bo ain't gonna be in jail much longer.”

“Yes, I know. The sheriff is supposed to travel from the county seat tomorrow and transport him to the jail over there, isn't that correct?”

“Yeah, but it may not come to that.”

As soon as Scratch said that, he realized he might have made a mistake. The professor had to be pretty smart, or else he wouldn't be a professor. It was possible he might figure out what Scratch meant by that comment.

Sarlat gave Scratch a shrewd look and said, “It sounds as if you might be planning something, my friend.”

“Look, Professor, just forget I said anything, all right? If I've got somethin' in mind, and I ain't sayin' that I do, it ain't anythin' you need to be concerned about.”

“You've come to our assistance twice. If there's anything we can do to assist you, Veronique and I would be more than happy to do it. I'm confident that I speak for her, as well.” Sarlat smiled. “She seems a bit smitten with you, I must say.”

“Oh, I don't reckon that's right,” Scratch said. “I figured the two of you . . .”

“No, indeed. I know that people in our profession—traveling entertainers, as it were—don't have the best reputation when it comes to such things, but I assure you, the lovely lady and I are business associates, that's all.”

“Well, it don't really matter, since I'm probably old enough to be her grandpappy.”

“Yes, but that doesn't mean she's not fond of you.” Sarlat stroked his goatee and frowned in thought. “Speaking hypothetically, if someone were to try to arrange for a prisoner to escape from jail, that goal would be easier to attain if there were some sort of distraction taking place at the same time, wouldn't it?”

Scratch's eyes narrowed.

“Yeah, I suppose it would, if I follow what you're sayin',” he replied. “But whoever provided that distraction would be puttin' themselves in a bad spot.”

“Not if it appeared that the whole thing was sheer coincidence. Especially considering that it's our job to attract attention, after all.”

“People would still suspect that you were tryin' to help me.”

“They might suspect, but they wouldn't be able to prove anything.” Sarlat chuckled. “We appear to have left the realm of the hypothetical. If you intend to break your friend out of jail, Scratch, Veronique and I can help. Tell me what time you intend to make your move, and we'll do something to attract the attention of the entire town.”

Scratch hesitated. It was possible that the professor was trying to trick him into admitting that he planned to bust Bo out of jail. If he did, Sarlat might try to sell him out to the marshal . . . or worse, to the Fontaines.

Sarlat and Veronique had no reason to want to help the Rafter F bunch, though, Scratch reminded himself. After those two run-ins with Fontaine's punchers, they were more likely to want to cause trouble for the rancher and his men. Because of that, Scratch's instincts told him that Sarlat could be trusted.

“If anything was to happen tonight,” he said, “I reckon it'd probably be as soon as it's good and dark.”

“Excellent. I'll remember that.”

“And if there was to be some sort of hoo-raw out in the street just about then, it sure might come in handy.”

The professor laid a finger alongside his nose and nodded.

“I take your meaning, sir,” he said with a smile.

“Just be careful,” Scratch said. “I don't want anything bad happenin' to you and the lady, and I know Bo wouldn't, either.”

“Don't worry. No one will suspect a thing.”

Scratch wasn't sure about that, but it wouldn't hurt to draw attention away from the jail. He was confident that he could deal with Marshal Haltom, but he didn't want the townspeople to interfere with his plan.

Scratch put out his hand and said, “I may not see you again, Professor, and in case I don't, I want you to know it's been a pleasure meetin' you and Miss Veronique.”

Sarlat shook hands with him.

“Veronique will be disappointed if she doesn't get to say farewell to you,” the professor said. “I suppose if your plan is successful, you'll have to leave the vicinity as quickly as possible.”

“It'll be downright rapid,” Scratch said.

His belly reminded him that it was time to eat, no matter what else was going on, so after leaving the medicine show wagon he headed for the café to get some lunch.

Folks in the Red Top gave him some dirty looks, but Scratch ignored them. He had never worried that much about other people's opinion of him, as long as he knew he was in the right, like he did now.

After he had eaten, he continued to follow his instincts and headed for the bridge. A smart man kept up with what his enemies were doing, and right now most of those enemies were on the other side of the creek.

Scratch walked across the bridge, went to the Southern Belle, and pushed the batwings aside. He had heard a lot of noise coming from the saloon as he approached, but it fell silent as he entered.

The unfriendly looks he had gotten from the townspeople earlier were nothing compared to the glares directed at him now. The tables were full and men stood two-deep at the bar, and it seemed like every hombre in the place was looking at Scratch like he was lower than a pile of buffalo droppings.

Some of them, maybe even most of them, were drunk already. Scratch could tell that by looking at them.

But three men who sat at one of the rear tables clearly weren't drunk. Ned Fontaine and his two sons had glasses of whiskey in front of them, but they must have been nursing the drinks along for quite a while.

That right there was enough to tell Scratch that they were planning something and wanted to keep clear heads while they urged the rest of the men in the saloon to keep drinking. All the drunken cowboys and townies were weapons for the Fontaines to use as they saw fit.

The only really friendly face in the saloon belonged to Lauralee Parker, who came out from behind the bar and went to meet Scratch. That seemed to break the spell. The crowd went back to talking and tossing down booze.

Lauralee took Scratch's hand and said, “Come with me.” She led him toward the empty table in the back that was always reserved for her and her guests.

To get there they had to pass fairly close to the table where the Fontaines were sitting. Nick leaned back in his chair and said, “I don't know why you'd want to associate with a worthless old saddle tramp like that, Lauralee.”

Still holding on to Scratch's hand, she turned her head sharply to glower at Nick and said, “Who I associate with is none of your business, Nick Fontaine.”

“Maybe it will be one of these days,” Nick drawled with an arrogant smirk on his face.

“You're even dumber than you look if you think there's any chance in hell of that,” Lauralee snapped. “Come on, Scratch.”

When they were seated at her table, Scratch said, “You might not want to get the Fontaines too mad at you. A lot of your business probably comes from them and their punchers.”

“You think I care about that? I've got a good mind to tell them to get out right now and take their drinking elsewhere.”

Scratch shook his head.

“Don't do that,” he told her. “You're probably makin' some good money today, and somebody ought to get somethin' out of this mess.”

“But Bo—”

“Bo would tell you the same thing if he was here.”

Lauralee leaned toward him and lowered her voice.

“You know good and well why Ned Fontaine keeps buying the drinks. He wants the whole bunch so drunk they'll do whatever he tells them. They'll charge the jail and go after Bo, even with the marshal and his shotgun waiting for them.”

“And if everything works out,” Scratch said, “Bo won't still be there for them to try it.”

Lauralee's blue eyes widened as she realized what he meant.

“You're going to break him out!”

“As soon as it's dark,” Scratch agreed with a slight nod. “Then we'll light a shuck out of Bear Creek.”

“But you'll be fugitives. You'll have to run from the law from now on.”

“Maybe not. I'm hopin' we can get Judge Parker up in Fort Smith to lend us a hand and clear our names. There may still be some trouble over the jailbreak, but once folks realize that Bo's innocent and the only way to save him from bein' lynched was to get him out of there, I reckon there's a chance any other charges will be dropped.”

“You're risking a lot,” Lauralee said.

“Yeah, but I'd rather do that than risk Bo's life.”

“I can't argue with that.” She paused. “What can I do to help?”

“Nothin',” Scratch replied. “Just don't say anythin' about it to anybody.”

“You know I won't. I'd like to do more than that, though.”

Scratch smiled.

“Just have your bartenders keep pourin' drinks. Maybe some of those fellas will get so drunk they'll pass out, and then they can't be part of any lynch mob.”

“You know, that's an idea,” Lauralee said. “I could have them slip something into the whiskey—”

Scratch stopped her by shaking his head.

“That'd be liable to come back on you,” he said. “And you've got to live here and stay in business. I'm tellin' you, it's help enough just knowin' that we've still got a few friends here in town.”