Sidewinders (9 page)

Thinking about his next course of action, he smoothed out the telegrams on the table, then paid the proprietor for his meal and headed back to the depot. When he got there, he hurriedly printed another message.

The telegrapher read it and asked, “Are you going to wait here in Hallettsville for a reply to this one, too?”

Scratch shook his head. If he left now, he would get back to Bear Creek about dark. He didn't want to arrive any later than that. He had to be on hand in case a lynch mob tried to storm the jail.

“No, you're gonna have to send a rider to Bear Creek with it,” he told the telegrapher.

The man frowned.

“I don't know if I can—”

Scratch slid a double eagle across the counter.

“That'll cover sendin' the message and the trouble it'll be to get the reply to me, won't it?”

The telegrapher tried not to grin as he scooped up the twenty-dollar coin.

“Yes, sir, it sure will. Will the rider find you at the marshal's office in Bear Creek?”

“Yeah, that'll do,” Scratch said. He planned to stick pretty close to there as long as Bo was locked up.

“I'll take care of it, then,” the telegrapher promised. “I hope you get your reply soon, Marshal.”

“Yeah, me, too,” Scratch said. There was no telling how long it might take for Ambrose Pennington to send a wire to Judge Parker in St. Louis, get a reply back from him, and then send that reply on to Scratch.

And that was assuming that Pennington would even cooperate, Scratch thought bleakly. The clerk might decide that the matter wasn't pressing enough to bother Judge Parker with, even though Scratch had said it was a matter of life and death. Clerks who worked for the government usually thought they knew better about everything, whether they really did or not.

Scratch left the train station and heaved a sigh before he untied his horse and swung up into the saddle. All he could do now was head back to Bear Creek.

And hope that he got there before lynch mob hell broke loose.

The sun had dipped below the horizon by the time Scratch approached the settlement, but a proscenium arch of reddish-gold light still hung in the western sky.

He had pushed his mount hard and the horse had responded gallantly, although he could tell that it was tired. The horse could rest in Silas Brantley's stable, since Scratch wouldn't be returning to the Star C or to his sister's place tonight.

He just wished he had better news to deliver to Bo.

With dusk settling down over Bear Creek, the street and the boardwalks weren't very busy, although some of the businesses were still open. More noise and light came from the other side of the creek where the saloons were located.

Scratch thought he might take a pasear over there later. He wanted to say hello to Lauralee Parker at the Southern Belle, who was an old friend. Also, he thought he might have a talk with Barney Dunn, the witness against Bo who was supposed to work as a bartender at Lauralee's saloon. First, though, he would try to find out from her just how trustworthy the man really was. Lauralee was smart, and Scratch put quite a bit of stock in her opinion.

He noticed Professor Sarlat's medicine show wagon parked at the far end of the street, near the public well. Scratch hoped the three cowboys from the Rafter F hadn't come back later and given Sarlat and Veronique any more trouble. He didn't have time to check on them at the moment, though. He headed straight for the jail.

The place looked peaceful and quiet. Scratch was grateful for that, but he knew it might not last. The darker the night got, the greater the potential for trouble.

He dismounted and went to the door of the marshal's office, only to find that it wouldn't open. Haltom must have it barred on the inside, thought Scratch. Actually, that was a good sign. He hammered on the door with his fist and called, “Marshal? It's me, Scratch Morton.”

A moment of silence went by before Haltom answered, “Are you by yourself, Morton?”

“That's right.”

“You'd better not be lying to me. You'll get a double load of buckshot if you try anything funny.”

“Just open the door, Marshal,” Scratch said, trying to keep the impatience and annoyance he felt from being heard in his voice. “I need to talk to you and Bo.”

Scratch heard a scraping sound on the other side of the door as the bar was lifted from its brackets. Then Haltom called, “Come on in, slow and easy.”

Scratch opened the door, being careful as he'd been told, and stepped into the marshal's office with his hands in plain sight. With Haltom obviously holding a scattergun, Scratch didn't want to do anything to spook the lawman.

Haltom had backed away from the door after lifting the bar and now stood beside the desk with a double-barreled Greener in his hands. He gestured with the shotgun's twin barrels as he told Scratch, “Put the bar back in place.”

Scratch did so, saying, “I'm glad to see you're bein' this careful. Any trouble so far?”

“Not a bit,” Haltom replied. “You got that telegram from your friend the Hanging Judge?”

The marshal's skeptical tone bothered Scratch, but he knew things were likely to get worse when he told Haltom about the responses he had gotten from Fort Smith.

Postponing the inevitable wouldn't change anything. He said, “Judge Parker's out of town, gone to St. Louis for a week, and Marshal Brubaker's somewhere over in Indian Territory chasin' after outlaws.” Scratch took the two telegrams from Ambrose Pennington out of his pocket and set them on Haltom's desk. “I got those back from the chief clerk of the judge's court.”

Haltom grunted, obviously unimpressed.

“So you don't have any more proof Creel's innocent than you did when you rode out of here this morning.”

“Maybe not, but damn it—”

Haltom lifted the shotgun a little and said, “That's enough. I told you it'd take a sworn statement from the judge to get Creel out of jail. You don't have that. You don't even have a telegram that amounts to anything. So he stays locked up and you can get out of here.”

“You got to at least let me talk to him again,” Scratch argued.

A stubborn frown appeared on Haltom's face, making Scratch think that the lawman was going to deny him that privilege, but then Haltom shrugged.

“I suppose it won't hurt anything. Take those guns off again.”

Scratch complied with the order. Haltom tucked the shotgun under his arm and unlocked the cell block door.

Bo must have heard Scratch's voice in the office. He stood at the door of the cell, his hands loosely holding the bars. He seemed relaxed, but an undertone of tension lurked in his voice as he asked, “Good news from Fort Smith?”

“No news from Fort Smith,” Scratch said, unable to suppress the disgust he felt. “Judge Parker ain't there, and neither is Forty-Two.”

Bo's expression didn't change, except for a brief flicker of disappointment in his eyes.

“Where are they?” he asked.

“The judge is in St. Louis on business. Legal business, I reckon, since I don't know what other kind he'd have. And Brubaker's off gallivantin' around the Territory somewhere.”

Bo smiled and said, “I'm not sure I'd call chasing fugitives gallivanting. How did you find out about this?”

“I got telegrams back from the clerk in Judge Parker's court. I asked him to wire the judge in St. Louis and try to get a reply from him, but I don't know how long that'll take, or if he'll even do it.”

Bo nodded slowly and said, “I guess we'll have to just wait and see.”

“Blast it, I ain't much good at waitin',” Scratch burst out. “I hate to see you behind bars like this, Bo.”

“The view's not very good from this side, either,” Bo said. “But you did everything you could for now.”

“I ain't so sure about that,” Scratch said, thinking about Barney Dunn. He wanted to ask that bartender some questions, and he was going to make damned certain that Dunn came up with the answers.

Hoping that it might help to get Bo's mind off his plight, even for a few minutes, Scratch went on, “There's a medicine show in town, you know. Came in earlier today. I met the folks who run it.”

“Medicine show, eh?” Bo chuckled. “You're not going to fall for that cure-all pitch again, are you, Scratch? I remember you guzzled down a bottle of so-called elixir once, and it made you sick as a dog for two or three days.”

Scratch shuddered.

“I ain't likely to forget about that,” he said. “I don't even like to think about how bad I felt. It was like the old joke about bein' afraid you were gonna die . . . then bein' afraid that you
weren't
.”

“Is there a girl with this show?”

Thinking about Veronique Ballantine made a grin appear on Scratch's face.

“I'll say there is. As pretty a red-haired gal as I've seen in a long time. You know I'm partial to redheads.”

“Yeah . . . and blondes and brunettes, too,” Bo said dryly. “Are you going to their show?”

“Hadn't really thought about it. I don't reckon I've got time, though. I need to get busy findin' out who really killed those gals, so we can get you out of here.”

“I wouldn't mind being out,” Bo admitted. “I never have liked being locked up.”

Scratch lowered his voice and said, “I still reckon we could do somethin' about that, especially if I rode back out to the Star C and talked your pa and brothers into givin' me a hand.”

“Absolutely not,” Bo said.

Scratch blew out an exasperated breath.

“You sure are a stickler for the law,” he said.

Smiling, Bo said, “One of us needs to be. Anyway, Cooper and Riley would never help you. Hank probably would, and my father might, but I won't risk them getting hurt. Everything's all right so far. For the time being we'll just wait and hope that you hear back from Judge Parker.”

“All right,” Scratch agreed grudgingly. “Did the marshal feed you?”

“A waitress brought a couple of meals over from the café.”

“I hope she was pretty, anyway.”

“I wouldn't know. She never came back here. I heard her voice out in the office, but Marshal Haltom was the one who brought in the trays.”

“And he ain't what you'd call pretty.”

“No,” Bo said, “not unless you were blind. And probably not even then, with that gravel voice of his.”

Scratch promised to keep an eye on the jail all night, just in case there was any trouble. Bo told him to get some supper and some rest. Scratch shrugged noncommittally, lifted a hand in farewell, and left the cell block.

Marshal Haltom got up from behind the desk, closed and locked the cell block door, and asked, “Did I hear you say something about that medicine show that came into town?”

“Yeah,” Scratch said. “I talked to the folks who run it.”

“I knew it was here, but I haven't had a chance to lay down the law to them yet. Medicine show people are as bad as gypsies, as far as I'm concerned. I can't run 'em out of town as long as they haven't broken the law, but the sooner they're out of Bear Creek, the better. You tell 'em that for me, if you talk to them again.”

“Why, Marshal, are you deputizin' me?”

Haltom stared at him for a second, obviously confused by the question, then glared and said, “Get on out of here before I lock you up, too.”

“On what charge?”

“I'll think of something!”

Scratch put on his guns and left, momentarily pleased by the fact that he had gotten under the marshal's skin.

Then his attitude grew more sober again. He had spent the day trying to help Bo, but for all practical purposes he hadn't accomplished a blasted thing.

But the day wasn't over yet. Scratch was hungry, but he could get something to eat on the other side of the creek. Leading his horse, he walked down the street toward the bridge.

The Southern Belle was the oldest and most successful saloon in Bear Creek, and the best as far as Scratch was concerned. Lauralee Parker's father had started it more than twenty-five years earlier, when Lauralee was just a little girl. She had literally grown up in the saloon because her mother had passed away when Lauralee was an infant.

Most folks thought it was shameful for a child to be raised that way, especially a girl child. But Lauralee had turned out to be a fine woman. Smart, honest, and tough-minded, there had never been any question that she would take over the saloon when the time came, as it had when Samuel Parker's heart gave out on him with no warning one summer day.

The Southern Belle was closed for a period of mourning, but then Lauralee had reopened it and operated it ever since. She didn't water down the whiskey, and any gambler who wanted to play in the Southern Belle had to deal an honest game. No tinhorns allowed. Some of the girls who worked there were soiled doves, no doubt about that, but it wasn't a requirement and they conducted that part of their business away from the saloon.

The ladies who attended services at the Baptist, Methodist, and Lutheran churches considered all the saloons in Bear Creek to be abominations unto the Lord, of course, including the Southern Belle, but if you forced them to be honest, most of them would admit to having a soft spot in their hearts for Lauralee Parker no matter what her business was.

That was because anybody in Bear Creek who needed help could always count on Lauralee. She sat up with the sick and the dying, she helped make sure that anyone who was hungry got fed, and some of the saloon's profits always ended up in the coffers of those churches. The donations were anonymous, of course, but most people knew where they came from.

Bo and Scratch had known Lauralee ever since she was a little girl. They had been friends with her father. They had watched her grow up into a beautiful young woman.

During one of their previous visits to their old hometown, Scratch had seen a little something going on between Bo and Lauralee. He had the idea that she had pretty much thrown herself at his trail partner. As gently as possible, Bo had put a stop to that before it ever got started, for several reasons. Most important, he wasn't interested in settling down, and there was no getting around the fact that he was old enough to be Lauralee's father himself. Plus, he suspected that her attraction to him was more a case of hero worship than anything else, and he knew that wouldn't last.

Scratch was glad that it wasn't him Lauralee had set her cap for. He wasn't sure he would have been able to resist the persistent temptations of such a fine gal, no matter how much difference in their ages there was.

He was looking forward to seeing her, though. He suspected the ten years that had gone by since he had last laid eyes on her had just made Lauralee that much more beautiful.

The hitch racks in front of the Southern Belle were nearly full, but Scratch found a place to tie his horse. Laughter and music and loud talk, the siren song of good saloons everywhere, drifted over the batwings at the Southern Belle's corner entrance. Scratch stepped up onto the boardwalk and pushed those batwings aside.

Inside, the air was blue with smoke from pipes, cigars, and quirlies. The tobacco scent mingled with that of beer and sawdust. Lauralee saw to it that the Southern Belle was swept out and mopped good every morning, so some of the more offensive odors that often lurked in saloons weren't present here.

The long hardwood bar was to Scratch's left. On the wall to his right a staircase ascended to the second floor. More than a dozen tables for the drinkers sat in between. Poker tables, faro and keno layouts, and a roulette wheel were in the back, along with a small stage where a slick-haired piano player tickled the ivories. There was nothing really unusual about the Southern Belle except that everything was clean and in good repair.

A woman with blond curls spilling down her back, as opposed to the more elaborate braids and buns that most women preferred, stood at the far end of the bar talking to one of the bartenders. When her eyes swung toward Scratch, they widened with recognition.

“Scratch Morton!” she exclaimed as she hurried along the bar toward him. “I'd heard you were back in these parts. It's so good to see you again!”

She threw her arms around him in an enthusiastic hug that immediately made Scratch the envy of just about every man in the place. He knew they were all thinking about what it must feel like to have that enticing bundle of female flesh in his arms.

It felt mighty good, he had to admit. The scent of that thick hair the color of sunshine as she pressed her head against his chest was downright intoxicating, too. He thought it would be a good idea to step back a little, so he did and rested his hands on Lauralee Parker's shoulders as he gazed at her.

“Dang it, gal, I don't think you've aged a day in the past ten years!”

She smiled and slapped a hand lightly against his chest.

“You always were full of flattery, Scratch,” she said.

“That's a generous way of puttin' it,” he said with a grin. “People are all the time sayin' that I'm full of somethin'.”

Lauralee grew serious as she went on, “I heard about Bo being in jail. That's terrible. I just can't believe it.”

“Neither can I. And it never should've happened. I told that marshal and everybody else in earshot that Bo never hurt those gals. He couldn't have.”

“I know it doesn't sound like him.”

Scratch shook his head.

“No, I mean he
couldn't
have done it. He was with me, and we were a long way from Bear Creek when those girls were killed.”

“And you say you told the marshal about that?” Lauralee asked with a frown.

“I dang sure did. He didn't believe me, because of that picture one of your bartenders drew.”

Lauralee glanced toward the bartender she'd been talking to when Scratch came in, and he realized the man was probably Barney Dunn.

“I saw that picture,” Lauralee said quietly. “I don't know if you've seen it, Scratch, but it does look an awful lot like Bo. Exactly like him, in fact.”

“Yeah, the marshal let me take a gander at it,” Scratch admitted. “And I know things look bad for Bo. But I know for certain sure he's innocent, and not just because we weren't anywhere around here. I know it because I know Bo.”

Lauralee nodded.

“I feel the same way,” she said. “That's why I told Danny Fontaine and his friends to take their business elsewhere. They were in here earlier, getting drunk and saying awful things. I thought they might start a brawl when I told them to leave, but they finally went on without starting any trouble.”

Scratch had noticed when he came in that the crew from the Rafter F was nowhere to be seen. Now he knew why.

But there were plenty of other places on this side of the creek where the men could continue getting liquored up. The danger of a lynch mob forming remained high.

“Come and sit down with me,” Lauralee said as she took hold of Scratch's arm. “We need to talk.”

“I was thinkin' the same thing.”

They went to a table in the rear corner. This was where Lauralee held court, Scratch recalled, laughing and telling stories and generally being the beautiful queen of the Southern Belle.

“Do you want something to drink?” she asked him.

“Maybe some coffee. I need to keep a clear head tonight. And something to eat, if you've got it.”

“I can always rustle up something for you,” she told him with a smile. “How about a roast beef sandwich?”

“Sounds mighty good,” Scratch told her.

She left him sitting at the table and went through a door at the end of the bar, coming back a few minutes later with a cup of coffee and a plate with the sandwich on it. The thick slices of roast beef nestled between equally thick slices of bread. The long ride had left Scratch hungry, so he dug in eagerly.

Lauralee sat with him and let him get several bites down before she said, “Tell me the whole story, Scratch.”

He drank some of the coffee and then said, “There ain't much to tell. Bo and I rode in, thinkin' we'd have a nice visit with our families and old friends, and found the whole dang county's gone loco.”

“People are upset about the killings,” Lauralee said. “Those girls may have been soiled doves, but they had friends, especially Rose. She'd worked here for a long time. But it's more than that. People are scared, too.”

“Because they don't know when the killer's gonna strike again,” Scratch said.

Lauralee nodded.

“That's right. People have been afraid to step out of their houses at night because they think somebody's lurking in the darkness with a knife, just waiting to murder them, too.” She shrugged. “Maybe now that Bo's locked up, they'll rest a little easier.”

“They'll be makin' a mistake if they do,” Scratch said, “because whoever killed those gals is still out there somewhere.”

“You and I know that. Most of the people in Bear Creek will want to believe that the danger is over, though.”

Scratch grimaced and shook his head. He ate some more of the sandwich before he asked, “What about that fella Dunn?”

“Barney?” Lauralee looked toward the bar again. The object of her scrutiny was a short, stocky man with a round face, a double chin, and a mostly bald head that shone pinkly in the light from the chandeliers. “He's been a good bartender, always shows up on time and does what he's supposed to do. I don't know much about him. He's from back East somewhere. I hired him about a year ago and haven't had any problems with him.”

“You trust him?”

“He's never lied to me as far as I know. That's all I can tell you, Scratch.”

“So you don't know of any reason he might lie about what he claims he saw out back in the alley that night?”

Lauralee shook her head.

“It doesn't make any sense to me that he would. And I sure don't see how he could have drawn such an accurate sketch of Bo if he hadn't . . . well, if he hadn't seen him.” She added hastily, “I know you say that's impossible, Scratch, and I want to believe it is, too, but I still don't see any other explanation.”

Scratch finished off the sandwich and washed it down with the rest of the coffee. As he set the empty cup on the table, he asked, “Do you mind if I talk to Dunn?”

“No, of course not.” Lauralee hesitated. “You won't threaten him or anything, will you?”

“Forcin' him to change his story wouldn't do any good,” Scratch said. “Folks would know he was doin' it because he was scared of me, and they'd still think Bo is guilty. That ain't what I want. I want proof to convince everybody that Bo's innocent.”

“I agree.” Lauralee stood up. “I'll send him over here.”

“I'm obliged to you.”

“It's the least I can do. You and Bo were always good friends to my father . . . and to me.” A pink flush spread across her face. “You may not know this, Scratch, but there was a time when I had sort of a crush on Bo.”

“Never dreamed of it,” Scratch lied with a straight face. “And Bo never said nothin' to me about it.” That part was true.

“He wouldn't have. He's too much of a gentleman for that. He always has been.” Lauralee's tone became more brisk as she went on, “I'll get Barney.”

She went over to the bar and spoke to Dunn. He glanced nervously at Scratch, but Lauralee seemed to be trying to reassure him. After a moment Dunn nodded and came out from behind the hardwood. The two of them walked back to the table in the corner.

“Scratch, this is Barney Dunn,” Lauralee said. “Barney, Scratch Morton, an old friend of mine.”

“Pleased to meet you,” Dunn said, and Scratch heard the eastern accent in the man's voice.

Scratch stood up and shook hands with the bartender, then said, “I'm obliged to you for talkin' to me, Dunn. I reckon this must be a mite awkward for you. You're bound to know who I am.”

“Yeah, the friend of the guy the marshal's got locked up,” Dunn said. “The guy I drew the picture of, the one who . . .”

From the uncomfortable look on Dunn's face, Scratch knew what he'd been about to say before his voice trailed off.

“We might as well put our cards on the table,” Scratch said as the three of them sat down. “You're the reason my pard's in jail.”

“Yeah, but you gotta understand. When all that happened with . . . with Rose . . . I didn't know who the guy I saw was. I'd never even heard of Bo Creel. I just described him as best I could, and then I got the idea that maybe I could draw a sketch of him. I used to be pretty good at that when I was a kid, you know.”

“You mind goin' over the story again with me, about what you saw that night?”

“Well, I hate to think about it . . . It ain't a pleasant memory, you know? But sure, I can tell you what I saw.”

It was the same thing Scratch had heard before, but the tale had more immediacy and impact coming from the man who had lived through it.

“I've never been so scared in my life,” Dunn concluded. “I swear, that big knife came within a whisker of getting me. I don't want to ever come that close again.”

Scratch had to admit that the bartender's story sounded convincing. Anyone who listened to it and saw the sketch Dunn had made would have a hard time believing that Bo
wasn't
the Butcher of Bear Creek.

And yet Scratch knew that was impossible. He said, “What if I was to tell you that Bo was more than two hundred miles away from here when that happened?”