Sidewinders (7 page)

The worst part of the ride into town was having to listen to the taunts from Danny Fontaine, Bo thought. The young man had plenty to say about how Bo was going to wind up kicking at the end of a hang rope. He was looking forward to the spectacle, he declared, and the punchers from the Rafter F who were riding with him laughed in agreement.

Bo ignored them as much as possible. He tried to talk to Marshal Haltom, to make him understand that it was impossible for Bo to have committed the crimes everyone believed he had, but the lawman told him to be quiet.

“You'll have a chance to tell your side of the story to Judge Buchanan,” Haltom said.

Bo remembered Judge Clarence Buchanan. He said, “Judge Buchanan's just a justice of the peace.”

“He's what we've got in Bear Creek,” Haltom snapped. “He'll decide whether to take you over to the county seat and turn you over to the sheriff.”

Right now that didn't sound like such a bad idea to Bo. He figured he would be safer in jail at the county seat than in the little crackerbox hoosegow in Bear Creek. He suspected that as soon as they got back to the settlement and he was locked up, Danny Fontaine would head for the saloons on the other side of the bridge and start trying to stir up support for a lynch mob.

Thinking about how the Fontaines were feuding with his family put an idea in Bo's head. Having one of the Creels suspected of being a particularly brutal murderer made it easier for folks around here to support the Fontaines. Was it possible that wasn't just a coincidence? Bo knew it was a stretch to think that the Fontaines might have had something to do with the killings, but he couldn't deny that the whole situation was mighty convenient for them.

That was something else he could talk over with Scratch when his friend came to town . . . providing that Marshal Haltom allowed Scratch to visit him.

Bo kept an eye out for his father as the posse rode into town. It was bad luck that John Creel hadn't been able to get a word with Marshal Haltom before the lawman set out to make an arrest. It might not have made any difference if he had, but at least John could have tried. Bo assumed that Haltom and the posse had taken a different trail from Bear Creek.

When they reached the settlement, Haltom rode straight to the marshal's office and jail with the posse and the prisoner behind him. The group's arrival in town caused quite a commotion. People hurried out of the buildings to follow along the boardwalks on both sides of the street. Some of them yelled questions at Haltom, but the marshal ignored them and kept his gaze fixed on their destination.

He reined to a stop in front of the building. A crowd had formed on the boardwalk by the time Haltom dismounted. He raised his voice to be heard over the hubbub and said, “All right, you folks get back! Make room, I say! I've got a prisoner to lock up!”

Without waiting to be told, Bo swung down from the saddle. He looked around the posse members, and his gaze settled on Silas Brantley, the owner of the livery stable.

“See that my horse is taken care of, would you, Silas?” he asked.

Brantley nodded and said, “Sure, Bo.” The man looked vaguely embarrassed to have gotten caught up in the fever that gripped the town. “Don't worry about the critter.”

“Thanks,” Bo told him with a smile.

Well aware that at least a dozen men were pointing guns at him, he stepped up onto the boardwalk after Marshal Haltom, who spread his arms wide to keep the townspeople back.

“I'm not sure folks would be this worked up if it was ol' Santa Anna himself you were locking up,” Bo commented.

“Shut up and get inside.”

Danny Fontaine holstered his revolver and said loudly, “All you men who rode out to bring in this mad dog killer, drinks are on me at the Southern Belle!”

That brought cheers of appreciation from the Rafter F hands and from some of the other possemen, as well.

Bo heard that as he stepped into the jail and tried not to think about what it meant. One way to get a lynch mob eager to take the law into its own hands was to prime the pump with liquor first.

The front room was the marshal's office, complete with a scarred wooden desk, a rack of rifles and shotguns on the wall, a potbellied stove in the corner, a couple of armchairs with sagging seats, and a cabinet.

One unusual touch was a large painting that hung on the wall. The scene it depicted was that of a group of men on horseback, dressed in fancy red jackets, galloping across a bucolic countryside in pursuit of what appeared to be a fox. The picture was so out of place in this frontier lawman's office that Bo couldn't help but stare at it, even though he had more important things to worry about at the moment.

Marshal Haltom saw where Bo was looking and said, “Some artist fella who was passing through here got drunk one night, and when I arrested him he didn't have enough money to pay the fine the judge levied on him, so he offered to paint pictures for us instead. This is what I got.”

“Looks nice,” Bo said, struck by the bizarre nature of this conversation.

Haltom put his hand on the butt of his gun and nodded toward the door that led into the cell block.

“Get in there,” he ordered. “We're not here to talk about art.”

The cell block door was open, which told Bo that there were no other prisoners at the moment. The door was thick and sturdy, with a small, barred window in it to provide ventilation and a way to look into the cell block from the office.

The short aisle on the other side of the door had two cells made of iron bars on each side of it. Each cell had a bunk with a thin mattress attached to the wall, with a bucket shoved underneath the bunk. That was all. The accommodations sure weren't fancy, thought Bo. But they weren't any worse than plenty of other jails he had seen during his wanderings with Scratch.

Come to think of it, they had been locked up in worse places than this.

The cells were all empty, so Marshal Haltom followed Bo into the cell block and said, “Take your pick.”

There was a vacant lot to the left of the jail, with a narrow alley to the right. So the cells on the left ought to get more air coming through their windows, Bo decided. He walked into the first cell on the left.

Haltom clanged the door shut behind him. Bo didn't like the sound.

“I'll bring you some dinner after a while,” Haltom said. “Until then you might as well sit down and take it easy.”

“When's the hearing going to be?” Bo asked. “There has to be a hearing with the judge.”

The marshal snapped, “Don't get uppity with me, Creel. You're not a lawyer, so don't go acting like one. You'll see the judge when the judge is ready to see you, and not before.”

“Just want to make sure things are done properly,” Bo said in a mild voice.

“They will be. You can count on that.”

Haltom went out and swung the cell block door closed with a heavy thump. The key turned in the lock. Those sounds were pretty depressing, too, Bo thought as he sighed and sat down on the bunk. It wasn't any more comfortable than it looked.

He had never liked having to depend on other people, but there was no getting around it. Right now his fate rested in the capable hands of Scratch Morton.

Scratch didn't waste any time getting to town. He didn't slow his horse until the settlement came in sight.

As he rode into Bear Creek he passed a wagon that was also entering town. Scratch's mind was filled with thoughts of the danger facing Bo and what he was going to do about it, but even as distracted as he was by that, he couldn't help but notice the gaudily painted vehicle.

The back of the wagon was enclosed, and painted on its sides in bright red letters was T
HE
L
EGEND
P
ROFESSOR
T
HADDEUS
S
ARLAT AND
H
IS
T
RAVELING
P
HARMACOLOGICAL
E
XPOSITION AND
E
MPORIUM
. A medicine show, in other words, Scratch thought. That was confirmed by a painting of a bottle, and underneath it in smaller letters
Professor Sarlat's Miraculous Elixir and Curative—Restores Vitality—Ameliorates Disease—Replenishes Bodily Fluids—Try It Now!

Scratch had made the mistake of falling for the pitch of more than one snake oil salesman. Every bottle of so-called miracle cure he had ever tried, though, was nothing more than a mixture of foul-tasting stuff spiked with alcohol. And not good whiskey, either. He wouldn't be buying anything from Professor Sarlat.

He couldn't help but look at the woman on the seat next to the tall, skinny man who had to be the professor, though. Fiery red hair was piled high on her head, above a strikingly beautiful face. A small beauty mark near her mouth made her looks that much more compelling. Although she wore a rather simple gray dress, her lushly elegant figure made it seem like a fancy ball gown. She was the sort of woman to take a man's breath away.

She certainly kept Scratch from paying much attention to her companion. Professor Sarlat had sallow features under a black top hat. Scratch thought the man's pointed goatee made him look vaguely European. Other than that he couldn't have said much about Sarlat's appearance.

The team of four black horses pulling the wagon were decked out like circus horses, with fancy rigging and feathered plumes. Scratch glanced at them as he went around them. From the looks of the outfit, the medicine show did a pretty good business.

Then Scratch forgot all about the other newcomers to Bear Creek, because he saw the marshal's office up ahead and knew that his best friend was locked up in there. He angled his horse toward the hitch rack in front of the jail.

Quite a few people along the boardwalks were watching him, Scratch realized as he reined in and dismounted. That had to be because they knew he was Bo's friend. That made him suspicious in their eyes. Scratch never would have dreamed that their old hometown would turn on them like this, but that was what had happened.

Once Bo's name was cleared, it would be a different story, he told himself as he looped his horse's reins around the hitch rail. Then folks around here would feel mighty foolish about the way they had rushed to judgment.

He went into the office and found a barrel-chested, big-nosed hombre in a brown vest sitting behind the desk. The tin star pinned to the man's vest told Scratch he had found Marshal Jonas Haltom.

The lawman glanced up, grunted, and asked, “Something I can do for you?”

“My name's Scratch Morton.”

Haltom set aside the pen he'd been using to scrawl something on a piece of paper and frowned.

“I reckon I know that name from somewhere,” he said.

“You ought to,” Scratch snapped. “Bo Creel's my friend.”

“That's right,” Haltom said. “You're the fella who's been riding with that murderer. The one he claims can clear his name.” The marshal's frown deepened. “There are plenty of people around town who think I ought to arrest you, too, Morton. They say you must've been in on those killings with Creel, or at least known about them.”

“My word's not good enough for you, is that it? You don't believe me when I tell you that Bo's innocent?”

“Why in blazes should I?” Haltom demanded. “I don't know you for Adam. For all I know, you're even more loco than Creel is!”

Scratch controlled the anger that welled up inside him and drawled, “So if my word ain't good enough, how about that of a federal judge and a deputy United States marshal?”

Haltom's eyebrows climbed up his forehead. He put his hands on the desk and heaved himself to his feet.

“What are you talking about?” he asked. “What judge?”

“Isaac Parker, up in Fort Smith, Arkansas.”

“The Hanging Judge.” Nearly everybody in this part of the country had heard of Judge Parker, and Haltom was no exception. “What's he got to do with this?”

“He can tell you that Bo and I weren't anywhere around Cottonwood or Bear Creek when those gals were killed,” Scratch said. “And so can that federal marshal I mentioned, because we were helpin' him out with a little chore at the time.”

For a second Haltom looked like he wanted to accept what he was hearing. The evidence that Scratch claimed to have was pretty convincing.

But then a fresh wave of stubbornness washed over Haltom's rugged face, and he yanked open one of the drawers in his desk.

“How about this?” he asked as he took out a sheet of paper and slapped it down on the desk. “How do you explain this picture?”

Scratch stepped closer to the desk and looked at the drawing. Marshal Haltom rested his fingertips on the paper and rotated it so that Scratch could see it better.