Sidewinders (11 page)

“If I worried about every no-account varmint who's got a grudge against me, I'd never get any sleep,” Scratch said with a grin.

“Well, you'd better sleep with one eye open and a hand on your gun, if you know what I mean,” the townsman warned.

“I always do, amigo,” Scratch said. “I always do.”

Scratch left his horse with the elderly night hostler at Brantley's Livery Stable, then took his Winchester and ambled up the street toward the marshal's office.

Everything was still quiet around the jail. Scratch was glad to see that, although he was a little surprised by it.

Across the street was the Bear Creek Hotel, which had several rocking chairs on its porch where guests could sit. Even though Scratch wasn't staying at the hotel, he parked himself in one of those chairs where he could keep an eye on the jail. His rifle rested across his lap as he sat there.

The lamps in the hotel lobby had been blown out by now, except for a small one behind the desk, so the porch was mostly in shadow. That was the way Scratch wanted it. If anybody showed up to cause trouble, maybe they wouldn't notice he was there until it was too late.

The town quieted down more and more as time passed, although Scratch could still hear some noise coming from the other side of the creek. The saloons closed around midnight during the week like this, although they stayed open all night on Saturday.

He had been sitting on the hotel porch for about an hour when he heard the sudden clatter of a lot of hoofbeats on the bridge spanning Bear Creek. The sound made him come to his feet and draw back even farther into the shadows. He held the Winchester slanted across his chest. If those riders crossing the creek attacked the jail with the intent of taking Bo out and stringing him up, Scratch intended to give them some hot lead discouragement.

The possibility that he might be killed in a battle like that never crossed his mind. The only thing he thought about was protecting his best friend.

Instead of turning toward the jail, though, the horsebackers turned the other way when they reached the end of the bridge and headed south out of the settlement. Scratch figured they had to be the Fontaine crew, riding back to the Rafter F. That was the only group in town large enough to be leaving Bear Creek together after dark this way.

That meant either Danny Fontaine hadn't been able to stir them up into a lynching frenzy, or more likely Fontaine was just biding his time for some reason.

Scratch couldn't rule out the possibility of a trick of some sort, either. The Rafter F hands might double back.

So he sat down again with the rifle across his lap and settled back to keep watch some more.

Despite what he had told Lauralee about not needing as much sleep as he would, Scratch found himself getting drowsy. Over the course of his adventurous life, he had found himself in many situations where his own hide, as well as that of Bo, depended on him staying alert. So he was confident that he wasn't going to fall asleep. His eyes went down to narrow slits, but he was still awake.

A while later, a jolt went through him, jerking him upright in the rocking chair. Scratch muttered a curse as he realized that he had indeed dozed off despite all his good intentions. He shook his head and yawned, and as he moved his hand to shift his grip on the rifle, he felt something hard in the pocket of his buckskin jacket.

Professor Sarlat's elixir, that was what it had to be. Scratch recalled slipping the bottle into his pocket earlier in the day, after he had helped out the professor and Veronique the first time. He took it out and hefted it in his hands.

Maybe there really was something to Sarlat's claims that the elixir was a restorative and cure-all. Scratch could use something like that right about now. Not only was he tired, he was also bruised and battered from the tussle with the three cowboys. The professor's tonic might make him feel better, even if it was mostly booze.

Especially
if it was mostly booze, Scratch thought with a grin.

Balancing the Winchester in his lap, he used both hands to hold the bottle and work the cork out of its neck. When he had the bottle open, he held it to his nose and sniffed the contents.

The elixir didn't smell as bad as he expected. He caught a definite tang of alcohol, but it was mixed with a fruity smell. Nothing that Scratch could really identify, though. He thought it smelled more like a mixture of several different fruits. Maybe a little bit of chili pepper, too. It was odd, but not unappealing.

“Only one way to find out how it tastes,” he told himself out loud. He put the bottle to his lips, tipped it up, and took a sip.

The taste was as smooth as it could be, but Scratch was prepared to have the stuff go off in his mouth like a keg of blasting powder anyway. Instead it immediately began to glow with a comforting warmth that spread through him as he swallowed. He took another sip.

If anything, the effect got better with the second drink. It wasn't because of the alcohol in the tonic, either, Scratch thought. It was all the other ingredients, whatever they were, that made him feel so good. A third swallow convinced him of that.

He was going to have to ask Sarlat what was in there. The professor might not tell him. Scratch wouldn't blame him for being secretive. Once word of how wonderful this concoction was got around, it might be worth a fortune.

He took one more nip, then licked his lips and forced himself to replace the cork in the bottle. He knew that if he didn't, he'd sit here and drink the whole thing. That might not be a good idea. Just because it tasted great now and seemed to invigorate him, that didn't mean the effects would last.

But one thing he could be sure of: that was the best medicine show tonic he'd ever had. If the professor and Veronique stayed around Bear Creek for a few days, he'd have to stock up on the stuff, Scratch told himself.

 

 

Lauralee Parker showed up a little after midnight, wearing trousers and a man's coat and carrying a shotgun under her arm. Scratch told her he was fine and could stand guard by himself, but she insisted on sitting with him. That was just like her, and he knew he'd be wasting his breath to argue with her.

Besides, even though he wasn't dozing off anymore, he had to admit that he enjoyed the blonde's company. They talked for a long time, until Lauralee got sleepy. Scratch told her to go ahead and get a nap.

“I'm supposed to be here to spell you,” she objected.

“I ain't all that tired. I'll catch a few winks later, after you do.”

She didn't argue, and after a few minutes Scratch heard the deep, regular sound of her breathing as she leaned back in her rocking chair and slept. It was a nice sound, he thought.

Along toward morning, after Lauralee woke up, Scratch allowed himself to doze off again for a little while. Even though the professor's elixir had made him feel better, he couldn't do without sleep completely. When he woke up, the eastern sky was turning gray with the approach of dawn.

“Any trouble?” he asked Lauralee.

“Not a bit. The night was as quiet as could be. That's a relief, isn't it, Scratch?”

“Maybe,” Scratch mused. “But it's sorta like waitin' for a storm to break, too.”

They stood up and stretched. Lauralee said, “Why don't we get some breakfast before I go back to the Southern Belle?”

“That sounds like a good idea. I could use some coffee.”

Although it wouldn't compare to the professor's elixir, Scratch thought.

The Red Top Café opened early. By the time Scratch and Lauralee finished eating and stepped back out into the street, the sun was just up.

“Do you think I should go and see Bo?” she asked.

“I reckon he'd like that.”

Lauralee nodded and said, “I'll come by later in the day then, after I've had a chance to sleep a little more and freshen up.”

“That ought to brighten his day more than anything else except gettin' out of that dang jail.”

Lauralee waved farewell and headed back across the creek. Scratch went to the marshal's office and knocked on the door.

“Who's out there?” Haltom shouted from inside. Scratch couldn't be sure, but he thought the marshal sounded like he had just woken up.

“It's me, Scratch Morton, Marshal.”

“You're by yourself?”

“Yeah.”

Haltom unbarred the door. Scratch went in and nodded to the lawman, who tried but failed to suppress a prodigious yawn.

“I told you I wouldn't let anything happen to the prisoner,” Haltom said when he'd finished the yawn.

“Yeah, I know it didn't, because I was sittin' right across the street with a rifle all night.”

Haltom scowled.

“You didn't have to do that. You shouldn't be interfering with law business.”

“The way I see it, I didn't interfere with anything.”

“Well, next time do whatever you were doing somewhere else.”

Scratch ignored that. He didn't figure Haltom had any legal reason to keep him from sitting on the hotel porch, as long as the hotel's owner didn't complain about it. As the marshal went over to the stove to stir up the fire and get some coffee heating, Scratch said, “I want to see Bo.”

“Fine. Our breakfast ought to be here pretty soon.”

“They were gettin' it ready at the Red Top when I left over there,” Scratch agreed.

When Haltom had the fire in the stove burning to suit him, he unlocked the cell block door. Scratch left his rifle and gun belt on the marshal's desk, then went in and found Bo curled up in a thin blanket on the bunk, still sleeping.

“Well, that's a sight you don't see very often,” Scratch said. “Bo Creel still abed after the sun's up.”

Bo rolled over, pushed the blanket aside, and stood up to stretch. He grimaced as his bones popped and crackled a little.

“Reminds me why it's a good idea not to sleep on a jail cell bunk at our age,” he said with a wry smile.

“That ain't a good idea at any age,” Scratch said.

Bo took hold of the bars and asked, “Any trouble last night?”

“Nope, and I got to admit that I'm a mite surprised. I figured that Fontaine kid would try to stir up somethin'. The whole town's in such a state, it wouldn't have taken much.”

“Well, be thankful for small favors, I suppose.”

“Oh, I am, I am,” Scratch assured his friend.

The cell block door was open, so he heard someone else knock on the front door of the marshal's office. Scratch stepped over to the opening so he could look into the office as Haltom called to the visitor, “Who's that?”

“It's Judge Buchanan, Jonas. Open up.”

Haltom didn't argue or ask the judge if he was alone. He unbarred the door and opened it himself this time.

Judge Clarence Buchanan was a heavyset man in his fifties with graying brown hair. His ample belly stretched the material of the tweed suit he wore. He looked over at the open cell block door and said in evident surprise, “Scratch Morton.”

“Howdy, Judge,” Scratch said. “Wish I could say it's good to see you again.”

Buchanan frowned and asked, “Did you ever appear before me in court?”

“Nope. You were still just practicin' law the last time Bo and me came through these parts. We heard you'd been appointed justice of the peace, though.”

“Hmmph. As I recall, you two have had your share of run-ins with the law . . . although nothing anywhere near as serious as the crimes for which your friend is now locked up.”

“Which he didn't do,” Scratch said sharply.

“According to you. I think we all know that you'd lie to protect him.”

“I don't have to lie. It's the truth . . . and I'm workin' on gettin' the proof of what I said.”

“Proof is what the law deals in, all right.” Buchanan turned to the marshal and went on, “To that end, Jonas, I'll hold a hearing this morning to consider evidence in this case and determine whether the prisoner should be charged with two counts of murder. Ten o'clock in the town hall.”

Haltom nodded and said, “All right, Your Honor. I'll have Creel there.”

“Hold on a minute,” Scratch said. “Are you still the only lawyer in town, Judge?”

“I am,” Buchanan admitted.

“Then how in blazes is Bo gonna get a fair trial if the judge is the only lawyer around here?”

Scratch couldn't keep the anger out of his voice as he asked the question. Buchanan glared at him and said, “Creel doesn't need a lawyer. This is a hearing, not a trial. The trial will take place in Hallettsville, and he can get a lawyer then. All I'm going to determine is if there's sufficient evidence to warrant the charges.”

“Sounds like you've already made up your mind about that,” Scratch snapped. He knew he wasn't doing Bo any good by arguing with Clarence Buchanan, but the old blowhard had always rubbed him the wrong way.

The justice of the peace looked at Haltom and said again, “Ten o'clock.”

“We'll be there,” Haltom said.

On his way out of the marshal's office, Buchanan paused and looked back at Scratch.

“If you're so worried about your friend having legal representation,” he said, “why don't
you
act as his lawyer?”

“Me?” Scratch said. “I don't know anything about the law.”

“Except how to break it now and then, eh?” Buchanan asked with a sneer. He went out, pulling the door closed behind him.

Haltom looked at Scratch and just shook his head.

Scratch sighed and stepped back into the cell block. He said, “Bo, I reckon I might've made things a mite worse.”

“I heard the conversation,” Bo said, smiling.

“And for what it's worth, that pompous old goat puts a burr under my saddle, too.” He paused. “But you know, maybe you acting as my lawyer isn't such a bad idea.”