Mankiller, Colorado

CHAPTER 26

Bo looked across the desk at Bella for a long moment, then said, “You think Devery had something to do with what happened here tonight?”

“He threatened me, Deputy. There’s no other way to look at it. It can’t be a coincidence that he came to see me today, and this fight broke out tonight after I wouldn’t go along with what he wanted.”

Bo scraped a thumbnail along his jaw. “You might be right. You said those miners came in and started the fight for no reason. Maybe Devery paid them to do it, or forced them in some other way.”

Bella nodded. “That’s what I’m thinking. You know he owns all the claims around here and demands a share from the miners. Maybe he told them he’d take a bigger cut if they didn’t do what he said.”

“Or bribed them by promising that he’d take a smaller cut,” Bo speculated. “Either way, sending them here to start a fight is crooked.”

“What about trying to get me and my girls to tell people how to vote?”

Bo shook his head. “That’s just electioneering. A mite dirty, maybe, but not against the law. The threatening and the fighting, that’s what’s crossed the line.”

“What are you going to do about it?”

“First things first,” Bo said as he put his hands on his knees and pushed himself to his feet. “We have to get some proof that Devery had anything to do with this ruckus.”

He and Bella went back to the parlor. Bo told Scratch what Bella had said, then asked the madam to point out which of the unconscious men had started the fight. When she had done so, Scratch and George dragged the men to one side of the room.

Bella’s soiled doves started fussing over the men who’d been the victims in the attack. Those hombres might have headaches when they came to, Bo thought, but other than that it would probably be a pretty pleasant awakening.

Not so for the ones who’d started the fight. George brought a bucket of water from the kitchen and threw it in their faces. The men came awake, sputtering and snorting as the water went up their noses.

Bo and Scratch had their guns drawn again. They showed the Colts to the men, and Bo said, “You fellas just take it easy. Sit there on the floor, and don’t try to get up.”

“You can’t do this,” one of the miners protested as he wiped water out of his eyes. “We didn’t do nothin’.”

“The hell you didn’t,” Bella said. “You caused a couple hundred dollars’ worth of damage, and who knows how bad you hurt some of my regular customers.”

The men glared at her.

“We’re going to have to lock you boys up,” Bo went on. “You’re under arrest for assault and disturbing the peace, and you’ll stay locked up until after the election, when Mankiller’s got a real judge who can decide what to do with you.”

That brought more protests and words of alarm from the miners. “We can’t leave our claims alone that long!” one of them said. “Somebody’ll come along and take all the gold out of ’em.”

“You should’a thought of that before you agreed to do Pa Devery’s dirty work,” Scratch said.

From the looks of surprise that appeared on the faces of the men, Bo knew that Bella’s hunch was right. Devery was behind the riot that had broken out here tonight.

The miners concealed the reaction as best they could, but it was too late. Bo said, “What did Devery do? Threaten to take even more of what you make from your claims, or promise to take less?”

“I don’t know what the hell you’re talkin’ about,” the first man replied in a surly voice. “I ain’t seen Devery in weeks.”

“Me, neither,” another man said, and the rest of them chimed in with similar denials.

“You know,” Bo said, “as long as the damage gets paid for, Deputy Morton and I might see our way clear to forgetting about the charges. That way you wouldn’t have to stay locked up in a smokehouse for a week or more, and your claims wouldn’t be unprotected for that long.” He saw hope start to creep onto the faces of the men, then added, “But you’d have to be willing to testify why you came in here tonight and started a riot for no apparent reason.”

It was like slamming a door. Several of the men shook their heads. One said, “You’ll have to lock us up then, Deputy. We ain’t talkin’.”

Bo tried not to let his disappointment show on his face. At the same time, he wasn’t really surprised. Devery had probably threatened to kill the men if they ever said anything about his involvement in tonight’s trouble. They were more afraid of him than they were of being locked up and possibly losing some gold from their claims.

“All right, if that’s the way you want it. George, have you got a shotgun?”

George nodded. “Yes, sir, Deputy, I sure do.”

“Do you mind getting it and coming with us while we lock these fellas up?”

“I don’t mind at all.” George smiled. “Fact is, I reckon I’ll enjoy it.”

Bo and Scratch searched the prisoners, removing several knives and a couple of pistols from them. Then the Texans and George marched the disgruntled prisoners down the street at gunpoint. They attracted a lot of attention along the way.

When they reached the smokehouse that would serve as a makeshift jail, they herded the men inside the windowless, thick-walled structure. Earlier in the week, Bo had picked up a padlock from Abner Malden’s store and hung it on the hasp of the smokehouse door. He snapped it into place now, and barred the door as well. As sturdy as the building was, the prisoners had no chance of getting out.

“That’s a pretty small space for half a dozen men,” Scratch commented quietly.

Bo nodded. “I know. I don’t reckon we can really leave them in there for a week or more. But they can suffer for a day or two. Maybe then they’ll be more willing to talk about why they went loco at Bella’s Place tonight.”

“I ain’t gonna hold my breath waitin’,” Scratch said with a shake of his head. “I reckon those hombres are plumb scared of Devery. Too scared to talk.”

“I’m afraid you’re right,” Bo said.

George went back to Bella’s, and the Texans returned to the sheriff’s office. They both had to identify themselves before Biscuits O’Brien would unbar and unlock the door and let them in, which Bo thought was a good thing.

“Any trouble while we were gone?” he asked Biscuits as they came in.

The sheriff shook his head. “No, it was quiet.” He gestured toward the desk, where three shotguns were lined up, pointing toward the door. “I was ready, though, in case anything happened.”

Scratch grinned. “See, Biscuits, you’re gettin’ the hang of bein’ a real lawman.”

Biscuits wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. “Yeah, well, I about jumped out of my skin at every little sound. Some whiskey sure would’ve steadied my nerves. All that damn coffee I’ve been drinkin’ has got me as jumpy as a cat.”

“Whiskey might’ve steadied your nerves for a few minutes,” Bo said, “but then they would’ve been shot to hell again. You’re better off not drinking, Biscuits.”

“I know.” Biscuits heaved a dispirited sigh. “Hell of a note, ain’t it?”

As the Texans took off their hats and settled down for the evening, Scratch asked, “You still think Devery’s gonna try to bust out those prisoners back in the cell block, Bo?”

“I’m starting to doubt it. Judging from the visit he paid to Bella’s this afternoon, he’s decided to try to win the election and go at the problem that way. Now, he may resort to shady means to do it, like threatening Bella, but for now I think he wants votes more than he wants those boys out of jail.”

It wasn’t destined to be a peaceful evening. A short time later, someone heaved a barrel through the front window of one of the saloons. The men who did it vanished into the shadows before anybody could even get a good look at them, let alone stop them.

When Bo and Scratch talked to the saloon’s owner, Bo acted on a hunch and asked the man, “Did Pa Devery pay you a visit today?”

The saloon keeper frowned in surprise. “Yeah, as a matter of fact, he did. He wanted me to tell everybody who comes in my place to vote for him in the election next week.”

“But you didn’t agree to that, did you?”

The man shrugged. “I said I couldn’t afford to take sides in something like that. Folks want to be able to come in my place and get a beer or a shot of whiskey without being bothered, no matter who they plan to vote for.”

Bo and Scratch looked at each other and nodded.

That was just the start of it. More windows were busted out during the night. Someone broke into both general stores and slung manure all over the merchandise. Coffins stacked behind Sam Bradfield’s business were chopped to pieces with axes. Somebody tied ropes to the corral posts at the settlement’s other two livery stables and pulled the fences down. The wave of malicious sabotage continued washing over Mankiller until after midnight, and Bo and Scratch always seemed to be one jump behind the varmints who were responsible for it.

More than once during the night, Scratch said bitterly, “Damn Deverys!”

Bo agreed with him, but they had no proof. Unless they could catch somebody in the act or convince those miners in the smokehouse to talk, it appeared that things would stay that way.

Finally, in the wee hours, the town settled down. The Texans hoped it would stay that way as they returned to the sheriff’s office to trade off catching a few hours’ sleep.

“Why don’t one of you take the cot and the other one the sofa?” Biscuits suggested. “I’m here, and since I quit drinkin’, I haven’t been able to sleep much anyway. It’s hard to doze off when you still feel like there’s ants crawlin’ all over your skin.”

“If you’re sure…” Bo said.

Biscuits nodded. “I’m sure. Get some rest.”

Bo stretched out on the sofa while Scratch took the cot. It was even money which place was the least uncomfortable. Saying that either one was actually comfortable would have been going too far.

Bo wasn’t sure how long he had been asleep when what sounded like two sudden peals of thunder jolted him awake. As he sat up sharply on the sofa and swung his legs to the floor, two more roaring reports blasted out.

Biscuits stood behind the desk, wide-eyed in the dim light from the turned-down lamp. “Somebody’s shootin’ off a shotgun down the street,” he said.

Bo shoved his feet in his boots and reached for his gun belt. “I know.”

By the time he was on his feet and had the belt buckled, Scratch came out of the back room, also ready for trouble. “Sounds like a war breakin’ out,” he said.

“If it was, it was a short one.” Bo had heard the four blasts, but no more.

“We’d better go see what happened,” Scratch said. He glanced at the sheriff. “You still all right to stay here, Biscuits?”

“Yeah, I guess.” Biscuits nodded toward the desk, where the three shotguns still lay. “I haven’t even unloaded those Greeners yet.”

“I wouldn’t,” Bo said dryly as he put on his hat.

Biscuits let them out and locked up behind them. The Texans drew their guns as they started down the street toward the area where the shotgun blasts had originated. Bo wasn’t sure where the shots had come from—he’d been asleep, after all, when the first two went off—but he had been able to tell the general direction from the second pair of reports.

Most of the saloons in Mankiller never closed, but the hour was long after midnight so that they weren’t very busy anymore. A few men came to the batwings to peer over them curiously. The street was empty except for Bo and Scratch and stayed that way.

Lyle Rushford stepped out on the porch of the Colorado Palace as the Texans passed. “I reckon you heard the shots,” he called to them.

Bo and Scratch paused. “That’s right,” Bo said. “You have any idea where they came from?”

Rushford waved a hand toward the lower end of the street. “Down there somewhere. Do you want me to come with you while you check on them?”

Bo shook his head. “No thanks. This is our job, not yours.”

“Yeah, but I’ve got a stake in what goes on in Mankiller, too,” Rushford said as he came down the steps and took a pistol from inside his coat. “If there’s trouble, I’m happy to lend a hand.”

“Suit yourself,” Scratch said. He was peering down the street. “Bo, ain’t that smokehouse where we locked those fellas up down yonder about where those shots came from?”

The same thing had just occurred to Bo, and the thought brought with it a chill that pierced to his core. “That’s right,” he said. “Come on.”

The three men hurried along the street toward the smokehouse. As they approached, Bo couldn’t see anything unusual or threatening around the building. It looked just the way it had when he and Scratch and George put the prisoners in it hours earlier.

“What’s got you so worried about the smokehouse?” Rushford asked. “Did you say something about locking somebody in there?”

“The men who caused that riot at Bella’s this evening,” Bo explained. “Yesterday evening, now, I reckon, since it’s after midnight.”

“Oh, yeah, I heard something about that.”

They came up to the sturdy, squarish building and stopped in front of the door. Bo sniffed the air and thought he smelled the faint tang of powder smoke.

Scratch pounded a fist on the door and called, “Hey in there! You fellas all right?”

There was no answer.

Scratch tried again. “Damn it, speak up! Are you all right? Is anybody hurt?”

Silence was all that came from the smokehouse. It might as well have been empty.

Bo checked the padlock, thinking that maybe the shotgun blasts had blown it off so that the prisoners could be freed. The lock was intact, though.

“Son of a bitch,” Bo muttered, suddenly so shaken that he indulged in one of a very occasional profanity. He smelled something besides the gun-smoke, a coppery scent that set all his nerves on edge. “We need to get in there.”

Scratch and Rushford grabbed the bar and lifted it from its brackets. As they set it aside, Bo took out the key and twisted it in the padlock. The lock snapped open. He took it out of the hasp and pulled the door toward him.

The mingled smell of gun smoke and blood suddenly grew stronger. Bo reached in his pocket and found a lucifer. Holding the match up in his left hand, he snapped it to life while he gripped his Colt in the other hand, ready to fire if need be.

No one in the smokehouse represented a threat, though. The prisoners were nothing now except more work for Sam Bradfield.

Rushford glanced past Bo at the grisly scene. The flickering light from the lucifer revealed blown-apart bodies scattered all over the ground inside the smokehouse. It was obvious what had happened, although the how wasn’t so clear.

“Check around back,” Bo told Scratch.

The silver-haired Texan came back a moment later. “There’s a ladder propped against the back wall. I climbed up far enough to see that somebody chopped a hole in the roof. It ain’t a very big hole, though. Not big enough for anybody to escape through.”

“But big enough for the barrels of a shotgun, I’ll bet,” Bo said bleakly. “Whoever it was climbed up there and probably told those boys inside that he was there to get them out, so they’d stay quiet. Then he chopped out the hole, stuck the gun through, and let off both barrels. There wasn’t time enough between the first pair of shots and the second for him to have reloaded, so he must’ve had somebody helping him. The man on the ground handed up another loaded shotgun, and the killer emptied it, too, just to make sure he didn’t miss anybody with the first two barrels.”

“My God,” Rushford said in a voice thick with shock. “I’ve never seen anything like this in my life. This was the cold-blooded murder of, what, six men?”

Bo nodded. “Yeah. Six men.” He started to take a deep breath, then stopped because he didn’t want to drag that much blood-tinged air into his lungs. “Six men who can never testify against Jackson Devery now.”