"Shut up," the Swede said again. "Just wrap that thing tight, damnit."
"But who would'a thought the bastard would be so quick? Still, it didn't go so good, did it?"
The Swede swiped at Christian's head, and Christian ducked under it, said, "Hey, come on, I'm trying to help you here."
"Fat lot of help you are. Just wrap it tight and shut your damn mouth already."
Christian grumbled but did as he was told. When he was done, the Swede reached down for the bottle that sat on the floor between them. He took a long pull and neither of them spoke for a moment.
After a moment, Christian said, "Can I talk now? Is that okay with you, if I open my damn mouth?"
"I reckon so."
"Good. I thank you. What I wanna ask you is, what now?"
The Swede grimaced. "You're getting to be a smart-ass, you know that? But it's a fair question."
"Well?"
"I don't rightly know, do I? I can't let that son-of-a-bitch Marshal get away with it, though. He ain't likely to be in town long, and I'll be damned if I sit back and just watch him ride out."
"Seems to me we need some guns or some-such."
"Unless you got some scratch on you, I don't see how we can do that."
Christian said, "Nothing, sorry. I'm stoney."
The Swede took another deep drink from the bottle, burped, and a sly smile came over his face. He said, "Unless ... unless we steal a couple pieces."
From the open doorway, a voice said, "I wouldn't recommend that."
The Swede and Christian both nearly jumped out of their skins. They looked to see the Sheriff leaning against the doorjamb, a big grin on his red face. He had one hand on his hip and his round stomach thrust out over his belt buckle. In his other hand, he held a gunny sack.
"Sheriff," Christian said, "What ... I mean to say, what brings you by, sir?"
The Sheriff stood up straight, twirled a finger through his thick mutton chops. "Just stopped by to see how the Swede's holdin' up. That was a mighty blow on the head he took. And a nasty knife wound as well."
The Swede shook his head. "Now see here, Sheriff, it ain't like you think. That bastard Negro killed—"
"Save it, Swede. I ain't none too interested, truth to tell. But I feel it's my duty as Sheriff to inform you—you are one stupid, lug-headed ignoramus. If you don't mind me saying so."
"Now listen—"
"Coming at a U.S. Marshal with an ax, for Christ's sake. And all by your lonesome."
Christian said, "Hey, he wasn't alone. I was there, backing him up."
"Like I say, all by your lonesome."
Christian crossed his arms and sat back against the wall, frowning petulantly.
The Swede said, "Fine. So what? You gonna arrest us now?"
The Sheriff scratched his round stomach under his shirt. "Well, I suppose I could do that. I mean to say, that's one option on the table. Or ..."
"Or what?"
The Sheriff tossed the gunny sack at the Swede. The Swede caught it, looked at him with a question on his face.
"Go on," the Sheriff said, "open 'er up."
The Swede opened the bag.
Inside, he found two Colt .45's, well-oiled and clean, and a box of ammunition. A slow smile crept across his face.
The Sheriff said, "The Marshal is headed up to the Gandy place. You know it?"
The Swede shrugged, but Christian said, "Yeah. I know it."
"Kinda isolated up there, ain't it?"
Christian said, "Yeah. Very isolated."
The Sheriff nodded, patted his stomach, said, "Well, it's past my lunch time, gentlemen. I'm off to the Garden for some chow, maybe a beer. Ya'll take care of yourselves, hear?"
He left them alone, and Christian and the Swede stared at each other in disbelief, until Christian said, "Well, that was unexpected." They pulled the guns out and loaded up.
The woods outside of Little Ridge were sparse but green, scattered with ponderosa pines and dotted with Douglas-firs. The ground elevated the farther Gideon Miles rode, a steady incline up toward the Beaverhead Mountains in the distance, and a chill wind swept along the fields of snowberries. It would have been a nice place to linger, make camp, but there was a job to do.
Smoke trotted steadily on, responding to every slight tug and push from his rider. Man and horse traversed the woods at a nice clip, and after a half-hour Miles smelled wood smoke, saw it billowing from the chimney of a modest wood-lined house along Ridge Creek.
He reined up just before coming into the clearing. Across the creek, Gandy's small patch of land looked freshly cultivated. A couple mules fed at a trough on the far side of the house. About mid-way across the clearing stood a small but well-maintained shed, and about fifty yards from that a rickety mule cart.
There was no sign of Gandy.
Miles touched spurs to Smoke's sides, and the grullo moved into the clearing.
He rode over the shallow creek, right up to the house, and still saw no activity. At the porch, he dismounted, placed Smoke's reins on the porch railing.
His boot was on the landing when he caught a glimpse of movement at a window next to the door. A small blonde head peeked out from behind the lace curtains but jerked back when Miles looked.
The daughter, he thought, frowning. Clemmy, the waitress had called her. Short for Clementine, like the old song? Whatever it was, he knew he had to play this one carefully—he wasn't willing to risk the child's life to bring in his man.
He stepped up onto the porch and the door opened and a slight, drawn man stood there looking at him.
Gandy was about forty years old, with a long melancholy face, scruffy sand-colored hair, and a small, almost feminine mouth. He said, "Something I can help you with, mister?" and then saw the badge on Miles' chest.
His eyes widened only slightly, and he took a step back into the house.
Miles said, "Mr. Edward Gandy, I wonder if I might ask you to step out here with me for a moment."
From inside, the girl said, "Daddy? Who is it, Daddy?"
"Never mind, Clemmy," Gandy said, not looking away from Miles. "Go to your room, girl."
"But, Daddy—"
"Do as I tell you." Gandy's pitch didn't change, didn't sharpen or threaten, but the girl did as she was told.
Gandy said, "U.S. Marshal, eh? I was wondering when you'd show up for me."
"Let's not play it hard, Gandy. Come on out."
"I heard about the charges. I didn't do it, I tell you."
"Just come outside, Gandy."
"But my girl—"
"We'll talk about that after you come out."
Miles was being careful not to place his hand anywhere near his gun, and to keep his face neutral and unthreatening. But Gandy was beginning to get spooked, he could tell.
"I was set up, I'm telling you. I never robbed nobody. You got to believe me."
"It doesn't matter if I believe you, Gandy. It's not my job to believe or not believe. It's just my job to bring you in. Now I'm going to ask you again to step out—"
"But I made a life for myself here," Gandy said, his voice grew higher, shriller. He took another step back. "I got a life now. I got a daughter, see, and a little bit of land. You can't ... you can't do this to me, don't you understand?"
Miles moved forward slowly until he was in the doorway. He said, "Stay calm, Gandy. Don't go doing anything foolish. Think of Clemmy."
And that was the wrong thing to say.
"But I am thinking of Clemmy! That's exactly what I'm doing! You can't do this to me!"
He charged at the lawman.
Miles sidestepped to the right, making sure his gun hand was free, and took the brunt of Gandy's weight against his hip and left leg. Using Gandy's momentum against him, he grabbed the back of Gandy's collar and propelled him out the door.
Gandy stumbled over the porch, went down on the steps, but was up again immediately. Miles stepped out after him, taking his time.
Gandy leapt onto the porch, swung wild at Miles' head. Miles easily sidestepped again, grabbed Gandy's wrist and twisted.
Gandy went to his knees, choking back a cry of pain.
"Stop it," Miles said. "This won't do you any good, Gandy."
He held the wrist, and Gandy looked up at him, his eyes pleading. From the house, the girl was yelling, "Daddy! Daddy, are you okay?"
Gandy managed, "It's fine, girl, stay in your room like I told you!" His eyes never left Miles'.
He helped Gandy to his feet, turned him around and pulled a short length of rope from his pocket to secure him. Pushing Gandy lightly up against the wall, he said, "Who can look after your girl, Gandy?"
Gandy didn't answer, and Miles said, "I'm not going to just leave her here, all right? Is there someone in town who can look after her? How about the girl who works at the restaurant?"
Gandy glanced back at him over his shoulder. "Janet? How do you know about Janet?"
"I don't know about Janet. I just ate there, is all. But she seemed pretty fond of you. Will she look after your daughter?"
Gandy sighed, faced the wall again. He nodded weakly.
Miles tied Gandy's wrists, turned him around. He asked, "You want a smoke or anything?" and Gandy shook his head.
Miles looked at his prisoner, but his prisoner wouldn't meet his gaze. They stood that way for a moment, until Miles finally said, "Okay, Gandy. Call your girl out, and we'll ride back to town. We'll use those two mules you have over there."
Gandy raised his eyes, and Miles saw tears in them. "I don't want her to see me like this. I don't want her thinking her Pa is some criminal."
"I can't untie you. I'm sorry."
"What do I have to do to convince you I'm innocent of the charges?"
"Nothing. I'm trying to tell you, Gandy, that I'm not the one you have to convince of anything. You're going to stand trial. You'll have an attorney, and if you're innocent you'll be set free. It's as simple as that."
"And if I'm found guilty?"
Miles shook his head. "This is pointless speculation."
"What happens, Marshal? What happens if they decide I'm guilty?"
"Prison, Gandy."
"Or worse. They could hang me."
"That's possible."
Gandy's small mouth opened and closed a couple times, as if trying to form words before they were ready. He gave up and hung his head. "Clemmy," he said. "Come on, girl. We're going into town with the Marshal."
The girl appeared in the doorway. The eyes that looked up at Miles were scared and nervous. Miles forced an easy grin on his face, said, "Hello, Clemmy. My name's Gideon. You feel like a ride today? Your father and I are—"
A bullet smashed into the wood of the door arch, only inches above the girl's head. The shot echoed across the clearing a split second later.
Instinctively, his gun was in his hand and Miles dove at the girl, pulling her down on the porch. He yelled, "Get down, Gandy!" just as another bullet pounded into the wall of the house, and another.
The girl was screaming, and Gandy, hands tied behind his back, scrambled across the porch to reach her. Miles crouched and peered between the porch railings, trying to determine where the shots had come from.
Another crack of gunfire, and a bullet singed past his head. He said, "Gandy, get the girl back in the house." He glanced over his shoulder long enough to see that his prisoner was one step ahead of him—both Gandy and Clemmy were already in.
From behind the little shed, someone called out, "You ain't getting away so easy this time, lawman!" and another two shots rang out.
Miles still couldn't see them, but he knew he had to draw fire away from the house. About twenty yards away, near the middle of the clearing, sat Gandy's rickety mule cart—not much cover, but it would have to do.
He took a deep breath, and then vaulted over the porch railing and ran for the cart. Bullets chased him, kicking up dust at his heels, and he fired off a few rounds in the direction of the shed as he ran.
He dove behind the cart, heard lead pounding the wood, sending splinters flying. And then everything was quiet.
Someone yelled, "Did we get you, Marshal? You bleeding yet?"
Miles said, "Why don't you come on over and see for yourself?"
Laughter. Two men, as near as Miles could tell. One of them said, "Naw, not just yet. You still sound right healthy to me."
"I will admit," Miles said. "I'm feeling pretty sprightly. How about you, Swede?"
A moment of silence, and then, "Okay, so you know who I am. It ain't gonna help you none."
Miles laughed. "Well, maybe not. But it does put my mind at ease. It's a comfort to know I'm just up against another stumble-bum fiddlefoot, and not a real gunman."
"Stumble—" the Swede said, his voice choking with anger. He fired a few more rounds off that buried themselves in the cart. "I'll show you stumble-bum fiddlefoot!"
The other man said, "Easy, Lars, don't waste no ammo."
"We got plenty, Christian," the Swede said, and fired three more times to prove his point. That started an argument between the two, voices hushed and strained.
Miles used the lull to check his weapon. Two more rounds in the cylinder. He riffled through his pockets, found three more bullets, loaded them quickly.
His war bag, with another fifty rounds of ammunition, was in the pack on Smoke's back. Along with the Winchester rifle. Five bullets, that was all he had to work with.
Well, he thought. Needs must as the Devil drives, so they say.
The Swede yelled, "You may as well come on out from behind there, lawman."
"No, I think I'll stay. It's nice and cozy here."
"We can wait you out, then. Don't think we can't. You're gonna have to come out sometime, and when you do—"
Miles said, "I don't have any pressing engagements today."
The Swede said, "Son-of-a-bitch!" and Miles chuckled to himself. The big oaf didn't strike him as the patient sort.
But then the other one, the one called Christian, said, "If you don't come out from there, lawman, we'll start for the house. You hear me? We'll kill your man Gandy. And ... and the girl, too. We'll put a bullet right between her pretty little eyes, just see if we don't."