Mankiller, Colorado

CHAPTER 14

“Hold it!” Bo called, his voice ringing with command.

The man paused and turned a sneering, rawboned face toward the Texans. He was medium sized but powerfully muscled, wearing a leather vest over a faded blue shirt and gray wool pants tucked into high-topped boots with big spurs strapped to them. A flat-crowned black hat was thumbed back on his thatch of equally black hair.

“Who the hell are you?” he asked in flat, dangerous tones.

“Reckon that ought to be obvious,” Bo said. “We’re the law in Mankiller. Part of it, anyway.” He inclined his head toward Scratch. “He’s Deputy Morton. I’m Deputy Creel.”

“Well, I’m Finn Murdock, and I don’t give a damn. You old geezers run along now, and me and my friends won’t teach you a lesson for interferin’ with our fun.”

The three men who had followed Murdock out of the saloon had the same sort of lean, wolfish faces. They wore their guns low and looked like dangerous men. Bo had no doubt that they were.

But he wasn’t going to let that keep him from doing his job, and neither was Scratch. The silver-haired Texan drawled, “You fellas leave that hombre alone and run along now, and we won’t throw you in jail for disturbin’ the peace.”

Murdock and the other gunmen stared at Scratch as if they couldn’t believe what they had just heard. After a couple of seconds, Murdock said, “I’ve already got my gun in my hand, you old fool. I can kill you quicker’n you can blink, damn it!”

“You might be able to get lead in me,” Scratch allowed, “but you’ll be stone-cold dead before I hit the ground. I can guaran-damn-tee that.”

People in the street and on the boardwalks began to scatter, sensing that bullets were going to be flying any second now. Bo and Scratch hadn’t really wanted such a dramatic confrontation so soon, but on the other hand, it would help the word get around town that Mankiller had itself a couple of real lawmen now.

Assuming, of course, that the Texans lived through the next few minutes.

The man who had been thrown out of the saloon to start this scrambled to his feet. “Stop it!” he said in a choked voice. “Nobody has to die over this. You and your friends can have my claim, Murdock. I’ll find another one.”

Bo said, “So you’re claim jumpers. Can’t say as I’m really surprised. What is it, you let Peckham here do all the work, and then you take it over and cash in on it?”

“None of your business, that’s what it is,” Murdock snapped. “And you shut your damn mouth, Peckham.”

One of the other men spoke up. “Finn, are we gonna let these old mossbacks talk to us like that, or are we gonna do something about it?”

“We’re gonna do something about it,” Murdock said between gritted teeth. “Right now!”

The barrel of the gun in his hand was still pointed up, as it had been when he cocked it. Now, as the sharp words came out of his mouth, it snapped down and gouted flame.

Bo and Scratch were already moving, though. Bo went left, Scratch went right, and as they darted aside, their Colts leaped into their hands. Scratch took Murdock first, triggering at the sneering gunman as he felt the tug of a bullet plucking at the shoulder of his shirt. The slug came close enough so that he felt the heat of its passage, but it didn’t actually touch his flesh.

Murdock couldn’t make the same claim. The .44 caliber round from Scratch’s gun punched into his midsection and doubled him over. Murdock’s gun went off again as his finger jerked the trigger, but it was pointing down now and the bullet tore into the boardwalk at his feet, throwing splinters in the air.

At the same time, Bo lined his Colt on the closest of the other three men and fired as they clawed at their guns. His first shot drove into the target’s chest and knocked the man back through the batwings, which swung back and forth wildly from the impact.

A slug kicked up splinters at Bo’s feet as he shifted his aim. With the cool, steady nerves of long experience, he aimed and fired, sending another man spinning off his feet. Speed mattered in a gunfight, but so did accuracy and steadiness.

A second shot blasted out from Scratch’s gun. The steel-jacketed round ripped through the fourth man’s body, puncturing his left lung. He crumpled, bloody froth bubbling from his mouth as he sprawled just in front of the saloon’s entrance.

All four of the gunmen were down, but at least some of them were still alive and therefore still dangerous. The Texans moved quickly, striding forward to kick guns out of the reach of clawing fingers.

Finn Murdock stared up at Scratch from pain-wracked eyes and gasped out, “How…how did you…”

“Think about it, mister,” Scratch said. “For fellas to get as old as we are, they have to be damn good or damn lucky…or both.”

Understanding dawned in Murdock’s eyes, but that was the last emotion to register there. They widened into a glassy stare as death claimed him.

The man who had fallen back through the batwings was dead, too, shot through the heart. The other two were unconscious and clearly not long for this world. Bo asked one of the bystanders to fetch the doctor anyway, then he and Scratch thumbed fresh cartridges into their guns to replace the rounds they had fired.

The miner, Peckham, stared at them from the street, where he had stood transfixed during the whole shoot-out. He seemed to have trouble finding his voice, but finally he was able to say, “You…you killed all of them. Four against two…and you’re not even wounded, either of you!”

“Murdock came close,” Scratch said, fingering the tear in his shirt where the gunman’s bullet had nearly tagged him. “This ain’t horseshoes, though. Close don’t count.”

Peckham stumbled over to the boardwalk. He was a stocky, middle-aged man with a broad, friendly face and curly brown hair. He shook his head in amazement as he looked at the bodies.

“Never saw anything like it in my life.”

That sentiment was echoed by numerous bystanders in the crowd that formed around the front of the saloon now that the shooting was over. Everybody wanted to take a gander at the bloody corpses.

A man pushed his way through the press of people. Bo recognized him as Sam Bradfield, the undertaker. Bradfield looked at him and Scratch and exclaimed, “Good Lord! When you said there’d be more business for me, I didn’t figure you meant this soon!”

“Wasn’t our choice,” Bo said.

“Those hombres called the tune,” Scratch added. “We just danced to it.”

Peckham said, “They were trying to force me to sign over my claim to them.”

“Is it a good one?” Bo asked.

A rueful laugh came from the stocky miner. “That’s just it. I’ve found some color, but not all that much. By the time I give the Deverys their share, I’m just barely making enough to keep going. I found a good-sized nugget yesterday, though, and brought it into town today. I guess Murdock saw it and thought my claim was a lot richer than it really is. That’s why I would have let them have it, especially if they hadn’t started roughing me up.”

Bradfield said, “I’ve seen this bunch hanging around town for several days. I had a feeling they were up to no good. They were just waiting for a chance to swoop in on somebody, like vultures. You were unlucky enough to be the one they picked, Tobias.”

Peckham nodded. “I reckon so. Thing is, that claim’s not really worth dying over.”

“That’s not what they died over,” Bo said. “They died because Deputy Morton and I stood up to them, and their pride couldn’t stand that.”

Bradfield frowned at the Texans. “And you risked dying, too, Deputy. You’ve barely pinned on those badges. You haven’t even had a chance to do the job we hired you for.”

“This is the job you hired us for,” Bo said, his voice hardening slightly. “Keeping the peace in Mankiller, no matter who threatens it. No offense, Mr. Bradfield, but if you want hired guns just to go after the Deverys, you’d best look for somebody else.”

The undertaker shook his head. “No, no, don’t get me wrong, Deputy. Absolutely, you should keep the peace and enforce the law. I just didn’t expect that there would be gunplay involved so soon.”

“Before we get this town cleaned up, I expect there’ll be more,” Bo said.

When they came into the sheriff’s office a short time later, after Bradfield hauled off the bodies in his wagon, the Texans found Biscuits O’Brien sitting at the desk, a puzzled frown on his face.

“I thought I heard shootin’ a little while ago,” Biscuits said. “You fellas know anything about that?”

“A little,” Scratch said dryly. “We had to gun down some hardcases who were attackin’ a citizen and tryin’ to steal his claim.”

The sheriff’s bloodshot eyes widened in surprise. “Did you say…gun down?”

Bo nodded. “I’m afraid so. We gave them a chance to back off, but they weren’t having any of it.”

“You…you killed them? How many were there?”

“Four,” Scratch said. “Two of ’em died pretty quick, and the other two crossed the divide a few minutes later. We sent somebody to fetch the doc, but by the time he got there, it was too late.”

Biscuits scrubbed his hands over his face and rocked back and forth in his chair. “This is bad, this is really bad,” he said. “Who was it you killed?”

“The leader of the bunch called himself Finn Murdock,” Bo said. “We never got the names of the other three, but I reckon we can try to find out.”

Biscuits shook his head. “No, no, that’s all right. Doesn’t really matter, I guess. But people are gonna hear about this. It’s liable to cause more trouble.”

Bo propped a hip on the corner of the desk and nodded. “It’s possible. Any time there’s a gunfight, there’s somebody out there who hears about it and thinks that he ought to challenge the winner, just to find out if he’s faster.”

“But there’ll be other hombres who hear about it and decide that they’d better behave themselves while they’re in Mankiller,” Scratch pointed out. “So it sort of evens out in the long run, if you look at it that way.”

“What if the men you killed had friends who’ll want to even the score for them?”

“We’ll deal with that when and if the time comes,” Bo said. “If you heard the shooting, Sheriff, why didn’t you come to see what was going on?”

“Didn’t figure it was any of my business,” Biscuits replied. Then, as if realizing how that sounded, he added, “Anyway, I knew I had two deputies out on patrol to handle anything that happened.”

“Yeah, you could look at it like that,” Scratch said dryly.

“One thing lawmen do is watch each other’s back,” Bo said. “We’re not professional star packers, but we’ve worn law badges before and know a little bit about it. Have you ever worn a badge before, Sheriff?”

Biscuits shook his head and reached up to touch the tin star pinned to his vest. He looked at it like he had never seen it before and couldn’t figure out how it got there.

“Maybe you should be the sheriff instead of me, uh…what was your name again?”

“Bo Creel.”

“Yeah, that’s right. Bo.” Biscuits looked at Scratch. “And you’re Scratch, right?”

“Yep.”

Biscuits started fumbling with the badge in an attempt to unpin it and take it off. “I’ll just resign,” he said, “and one of you can have the job, I don’t care which—”

Bo reached over and took hold of Biscuits’s wrist, guiding his hand gently away from the badge. “You’re the duly elected sheriff,” Bo said. “There’s no reason for you to resign.”

“Duly elected,” Biscuits repeated, then gave a hollow laugh. “I don’t think anybody even voted in that election ’cept for Deverys and their friends and relatives. I can’t be sure about that because, well, I was drunk all day Election Day. And just about every day since, for that matter.”

He seemed sober at the moment. Bo knew that looks could be deceptive. Somebody like Biscuits who drank all the time could stay drunk, even when they didn’t look it.

“It doesn’t matter who voted for you. You’re the sheriff, and you swore to do your duty and uphold the law.”

“Oh, hell,” Biscuits muttered. “Those are just words.”

“And words mean something,” Bo said. “So do actions. You can still be a good sheriff. You just have to act like one.”

Biscuits looked up at him and laughed again. “You ain’t gonna try to reform me, are you, Bo? I warn you, it’s been tried before. Ask Reverend Schumacher. Hell, ask anybody in Mankiller. They’ll all tell you how worthless I am.”

“We’ll see about that.”

“You’ll get yourself killed. I warn you about that right now. You go to dependin’ on me, you’re takin’ your life in your hands.” Biscuits shoved to his feet. “Now, I got to go.”

Bo stood up. “You mean go and get a drink?”

“If I do, that’s my business.” Biscuits came out from behind the desk and stumbled toward the door.

Scratch moved to get in his way, but Bo shook his head and said, “Let him go.”

“Yeah, lemme go,” Biscuits said. “Don’t waste your breath tryin’ to save me, Scratch.”

When Biscuits was gone, Scratch looked at the door that had closed behind the sheriff and said, “That is one sorry-ass son of a bitch.”

“Right now, maybe.”

“He’s right, Bo. You can’t save everybody. Some folks are too far gone, and some just flat-out ain’t worth it. I reckon Sheriff Biscuits O’Brien may fall into both them categories.”

“We’ll see,” Bo said.

He sat down at the desk and spent the next few minutes going through the stack of reward posters he had gotten out of the drawer earlier, thinking that he might find a reward dodger on Finn Murdock or one of Murdock’s companions. There was nothing on Murdock, however, and none of the drawings on the other posters matched the three men who were now keeping Murdock company down at the undertaking parlor.

It was well after noon by now, and the Texans hadn’t eaten since breakfast at Francis O’Hanrahan’s dugout that morning. They left the office and walked over to the café. The lunch rush had cleared out a little, so they went to the counter and sat down on stools there. Lucinda Bonner came over to them, a slight frown on her face.

“What’s wrong, Mrs. Bonner?” Bo asked.

“I heard about that gunfight,” she said. “You killed four men?”

Scratch shrugged. “Seemed like the thing to do at the time, since they were tryin’ to kill us.”

“Oh, I know, you had to defend yourselves. I don’t fault you for that. I just hate to hear about more violence, and so soon after we hired you.”

“You hired us to clean up the town,” Bo pointed out.

“Yes, of course. But Mankiller already has a reputation for being a dangerous place. I mean, even that name…! I just wish there was some way to get rid of the troublemakers without having to…to…”

“Shoot ’em?” Scratch suggested.

“Well, yes.”

“We’ll settle things peacefully with anybody who’ll let us,” Bo said. “We would have let those four gunmen walk away a while ago. It was their choice not to. I reckon you’ve seen enough of life on the frontier, Mrs. Bonner, to know that sometimes the only way to deal with trouble is to meet it head-on.”

Lucinda nodded. “Unfortunately, that’s true. And you certainly didn’t waste any time letting everyone in town know that law and order has returned. I suppose that’s a good thing.”

“Have you thought any more about what we discussed earlier, about electing a town council and a mayor?”

“Yes, I spoke to Wallace Kane when he came back in for lunch, as well as Mr. Malden and Mr. Gaines. They’re all for the idea. I think we can get all the men who were here earlier for the meeting to run for town council, except for Francis O’Hanrahan, of course. He doesn’t live in the town limits. I suppose we can just pick one of them to be the mayor.”

Bo smiled. “Actually, I had something else in mind. I think you ought to be mayor.”

Lucinda looked shocked. “Me? But I’m a woman. I can’t even vote!”

“Maybe not, but I don’t see why that would keep folks from voting for you. You must know just about everybody in town, Mrs. Bonner. Most of them have probably eaten here at one time or another, and I would think the food here would be a good incentive for them to vote for you.”

“That’s hardly a reason to elect someone mayor,” Lucinda protested.

“Who came up with the idea of hiring Scratch and me as deputies?”

“Well…Francis really thought of it, but he and I discussed it before we brought in the other businessmen.”

“There’s proof that you’re devoted to improving the town and making Mankiller a better place to live,” Bo said.

Scratch grinned as he leaned his elbows on the counter. “You’re wastin’ your time arguin’ with this old varmint, ma’am. Once Bo gets an idea in his head, you can’t blast it out with dynamite.”

“That’s because I’m right most of the time,” Bo said.

“Well, there’s one thing you’re forgetting, Mr. Creel,” Lucinda said as her face grew solemn. “If we have an election, Jackson Devery won’t like it. He’s not going to just sit back and accept any threat to his power in this town. He’ll try to put a stop to it, and if he can’t do that, he’ll do the next best thing. He’ll run for mayor himself and try to get his relatives elected as the town council!”

Bo shrugged. “That’s his right. You and the others will just have to out-campaign him.”

“Problem is,” Scratch drawled, “if it looks like they’re fixin’ to lose, Devery and his bunch are liable to vote with bullets, not ballots!”