Sourdough Creek Page 9

  Sam glanced back through the open doors of the saloon, between the horses tied in front, and across the street one more time to make sure everything was okay over at the doctor’s office. The boardwalk in front of the tiny building was empty. Satisfied nothing was amiss, he made his way to the bar and got comfortable, leaning against the shiny wood. He propped his boot on the brass footrest that ran its length.

  These were the men that were going to defend their town against a band of cold-blooded killers? Miss Hershey had been dead right. They were a motley group to say the least. He couldn’t have imagined any worse for a gun battle if he’d tried.

  Walter held up his hand. “As we know, this here town is in danger of bein’ set upon by gunmen,” the bartender said. “Spencer’s been sayin’ it fer some time and now Jonathan says a newcomer to town not only saw them, but heard it directly from their own mouths. If that’s indeed the case, what do you men want t’ do about it?”

  “I say we hang Spencer right now! Today,” the one-legged man called out. He limped over to the spittoon, his irregular stride tip-tapping all the way to the end of the bar, and let go a stream of brown tobacco. “Then his men won’t have no interest in Rosenthal no more.”

  The farmer shook his head. “Can’t do that. It’s against the law. Besides, that would make his men madder than they are now. Then where would we be? No telling what they would do if they took it upon themselves to get back at us, even though I agree Spencer deserves it.”

  “Let him go,” the drunkard said to no one in particular. He stood and approached the bar, weaving and bumping into chairs and tables. He pushed up against the bar next to Sam, regaining his balance. “One less problem for us.”

  Now it was Jonathan who held up his hand, waiting to speak. One by one the men quieted and silence filled the room. “The way I see it, the gang out there thinks we’re as good as sitting ducks now that our sheriff is dead. They won’t be expecting a fight when they ride in to town to bust their leader out.”

  “Jist let ’em try, let ’em try,” Chester shouted from the side of his mouth. He poured whiskey into his already-full glass, emptying the bottle and spilling liquor onto the bar.

  Sam could guess where this was leading. Jonathan would volunteer to take on the duty of sheriff even though he was barely out of short pants. A nice young man, but Sam doubted he’d ever gone up against others before, especially outlaws.

  “Let me finish,” Jonathan said heatedly. “We need an authority figure here, someone who can make a plan and organize the few men we have. At least until the law from Carson City shows up. We can’t just sit here doing nothing but twiddling our thumbs until they come calling.”

  Chester looked around as if searching for another bottle. His hands shook violently as he picked up his shot glass, but stopped half way when he spotted Sam. “Who’re you?”

  “My own thoughts exactly,” Walter the bartender added. “No telling what you’re doing here! Maybe yer one o’ them. A spy?”

  Sam opened his mouth to reply, but Jonathan beat him to the punch.

  “His name’s Sam Ridgeway,” he said, giving Sam a nod.

  “I never seen him around town before. Could be he’s part of the gang.” The farmer stepped closer so he could get a better look at Sam.

  “I’m not with the outlaw gang. I’m just a passerby; be moving on as soon as I can.”

  “That’s easy ’nough said. Then why’re you here listenin’ in on privite business?” The bartender’s hand slid to his side arm.

  Oh, for Pete’s sake. Why was he here, anyway? Everything had gone so haywire lately. If only Arvid Angel hadn’t stolen his claim, he’d be off at his mine right now, minding his own business without a thought of Cassie and her little sister. But his if-onlys weren’t doing him any good now, as the men crowded around.

  Sam slipped his boot off the footrest and straightened. “Like I said before, I’m just passing through. Jonathan invited me along.”

  “Men,” Jonathan said, interrupting the men’s talk. “Sam’s trustworthy. We need all the dependable men we can find. I’m going to take it upon myself to volunteer for the position of acting sheriff until a new one gets hired. Time is of the essence.”

  The men cheered, relieved to have someone taking the reins. Sam pushed a peanut shell around with the toe of his boot, thinking. Miss Hershey counted on this young man. Their future together wasn’t hard to see. It would be a shame if anything were to happen to him now, especially with her father over there dying. And Josephine, she wasn’t going anywhere for some time. Who knew how long it would be before she could sit her horse.

  “I’ll be your temporary sheriff if you want me,” he said finally. “I’m going to be here for a while, and I’ve got more experience than Jonathan.”

  Jonathan looked at him gratefully, as if he’d been hoping he’d volunteer. “I think it’s a good idea. I believe these men will be more apt to take orders from you, someone they don’t know so well, than they would be from me. I vote yes.”

  The drunkard, head down on the bar, snored loudly. The farmer shrugged. His one-legged friend just looked suspiciously from one man to the other. Jonathan’s younger brothers crowded up to Sam’s side, in awe.

  The bartender poured a glass full of whiskey and offered it to Sam. “I think you’ve just been elected our new sheriff. Drink up.”

  Sam took the proffered glass and poured the drink into the sawdust on the floor. “First rule. No more whiskey. At least until the crisis is over. We need our wits about us.” He pointed at the farmer. “You, there, take these two men out to the trough and sober them up.”

  Chapter Twenty

  There was a shout from outside. A horse galloped past the saloon doors, his hooves kicking up dirt and rocks, causing all the other horses tied at the hitching rail of the Happy Deuce Saloon to spook. One pulled loose and ran after the rider, his reins trailing behind him, flying this way and that.

  Expecting danger, Sam hurried outside, along with every other body in the bar, to see if trouble had finally arrived.

  At the end of the long street, next to the jail, a big black-and-white pinto slid to a stop, its rider firing shots into the air. The horse reared and the outlaw shot out two street lamps and the pane glass window of the dry goods store, opposite the jail.

  “We’re comin’ for you, Spencer. You’ll be outta that stink hole ’fore you can count to three.”

  “What’re y’ waitin’ for? Christmas?” Spencer bellowed back from the jail.

  Crowded between Brox, the farmer, and one of the wobbly drunks who’d latched onto his arm for support, Sam was unable to take a decent shot. The bartender, standing alone, pulled up his gun, leveling it on the outlaw and squeezing off a shot before Sam could stop him. Halfway down the block the window in the Blue Bell Café shattered, and inside a woman screamed.

  “Hold your fire!” Sam yelled. He glanced across to the doctor’s office. Cassie was standing within the doorframe, her Colt 45 in her hand. Fatigue etched her face, but her back was ramrod straight as she watched the scene unfolding at the end of the street.

  The rider laughed brusquely. He spun his horse in a tight circle, shooting wherever his gun pointed, breaking glass, kicking up dirt and spooking horses. Cassie darted inside and slammed the door. The crowd outside the Happy Deuce hit the boardwalk as shots flew down the street in their direction. Suddenly, the rider spurred his horse viciously and galloped away up a side street, whooping and hollering all the way until he was gone.

  The men slowly climbed to their feet, brushing dirt and debris from their clothes. The faces of the two boys were ashen, all pretense of bravery gone.

  Chester gawked at Sam. “Ain’t y’ going after ’im? If you’re the new sheriff, do somethin’!”

  “Could be he’s trying to lure us into a trap. We’ll move in our time, not theirs,” Sam said, just before sprinting across the street.

  “Was that one of the men you saw last night?” he asked Cassie, now insid
e the doctor’s office.

  “The hideous man who shot Ashes was riding a horse just like that. I’m certain it was him.”

  “No doubt. That animal is quite distinct.”

  “When do you think they’ll make a move on the jail?” Cassie asked. “Soon?”

  He nodded, even though he didn’t want to add to her worry. “I’d think within a day or two. Spencer’s a caged dog wanting out.”

  As expected, a frown furrowed Cassie’s brow. “Annabelle’s daddy passed on.”

  A rush of sadness took Sam by surprise. “That’s too bad. How’s she taking it?”

  “Not well. She’s still in there with him. I can’t get her to leave the room.”

  Sam went into the bedroom to find the doctor’s body covered with a sheet and Annabelle curled up on the bed staring at the wall. Leaving quietly, he closed the door with a muted click.

  “As soon as Jonathan gets here, I’ll have him go to the undertaker to get a coffin. We’ll take care of the body. You and Annabelle shouldn’t have to. For now, you need some rest.”

  “I can’t sleep now,” Cassie said. “Just look at her, Sam. She’s so small and defenseless.” Josephine’s cheeks were two splotches of red on her little face. “I just got here. I need to do something.”

  “No arguing. You can’t do Josephine any good if you pass out from exhaustion. Your eyelids are dropping half-mast right now. We’ll look after her while you take a nap. Come on,” he said, taking her hand. “There must be a bed up here somewhere.”

  She was too tired to dissent further. His big hand felt warm, wrapped around hers as he led her to the stairs.

  The passage to the second floor was narrow. Sam had to duck his head to avoid smacking it on a low-hanging beam. At the top, the landing opened up to a tall ceiling and a hallway with three doors. Still holding her hand and pulling her along behind him, Sam glanced into the first room. “A study.”

  He guided her into the second room; it must have been the doctor’s. It was clean and neat, with a bright red-and-blue overstuffed quilt on the four-poster bed. There was a highboy, cluttered with all sorts of interesting looking items that any man would probably love to have, and hanging on the wall was a tintype of the doctor in his younger days, next to a woman holding a baby. The window was open a few inches, and sweet, clean air filled the room.

  “I don’t want to stay up here, Sam,” Cassie said as they neared the bed. She felt skittish being in such an intimate setting with Sam. She was getting used to his calm presence, and knew she was depending on him much more than she should.

  He gently pushed her to a sitting position on the side of the bed and reached for her boot. She drew it back abruptly out of his hands. “I can do that.”

  The corners of his mouth tilted up as he rocked back on his heels. “Still as prickly as ever, huh? It’s just a boot the last time I checked.”

  “Oh, really? And to think I thought it was a turnip,” she retorted, trying to put some emotional space between them. “I can take it off by myself.”

  Sam stood, shaking his head, but his grin remained. “Sometimes I think the fairies dropped you in my path just so you could aggravate me and torture my every waking moment.” His eyebrows arched, making him devilishly handsome.

  Cassie looked away and mentally chastised herself. She liked Sam Ridgeway way too much. Certainly more than she ever expected to. She felt flustered with his nearness.

  “Well, suit yourself, then,” he said when she didn’t respond. “Leave your boots on if it’ll make you feel better.”

  At the door, he turned back. “But, don’t you dare show your face downstairs until you’ve slept at least—” he looked to the window where the early morning light filtered in, “—at least two hours. We’ll be watching over Josephine. She’s fighting the infection, so don’t worry. Get some sleep.” He closed the door quietly behind him.

  Cassie sat for a moment, and then slowly removed her boots. She was stiff and sore, and her eyelids fairly drooped. She lay back onto the soft quilt and pulled a corner of the cover over her body, a weary sigh escaping her lips. She closed her eyes.

  After three ticks from the clock on the nightstand, her eyes eased open and she glanced around. Was it just her imagination, or was the room more shadowy now that Sam had gone? Around the highboy and under a brown corduroy chair that sat sadly along the wall, darkness seemed to shift softly, as if to taunt her. When something moved in her peripheral vision, she jerked the quilt over her head. Moments passed. She peeked out. It was just the breeze waving the curtain. Still, the quiet tick, tick, tick, sent a tiny shiver up her spine. It felt odd to be in the doctor’s room—and on his bed—with his passing away just moments ago. She took a deep breath, glancing at the tintype of him on the wall. Was his soul still lingering nearby?

  She was too worn out to worry over anything. Her eyes drifted down, and she let the tension that had been building in her body fade from her thoughts. “The Lord is my shepherd,” she whispered. “There is nothing I lack. In green pastures you let me graze…”

  Sam stood patiently at the closed door, his ear pressed against it, making sure Cassie wasn’t going to get up. She was mumbling something. So many responsibilities on her small shoulders. When the soft drone of her voice quieted, he tip-toed down the stairs.

  With enough light now coming in the window, Sam turned down the wick in the lamp and put the flame out. People braving Main Street were out talking excitedly about the shooting that had jarred them from their beds. Sam opened the door, looking for Jonathan, but found the two boys from the saloon instead. They were sitting on the chairs outside the door.

  “Howdy,” one offered, jumping to his feet. His brown hair fell into his eyes and he quickly pushed it back.

  “You’re the boys from the saloon this morning.”

  They nodded. “I’m Frankie, and he’s Bill. Jonathan is our brother.”

  Sam stepped out and shut the door, keeping his voice low. “I thought as much. I’m looking for Jonathan now. Do either of you know where he is?”

  “Yes, sir,” Bill answered. “He’s down at the jail, guarding Spencer.”

  Jonathan was going to get himself killed yet.

  “I’d like you,” Sam said, gesturing to Bill, the taller of the two, “to run down there and tell Jonathan that the doctor is dead and we need to discuss what we’re going to do about it.”

  Both boys’ eyes opened wide.

  “Also tell him to circulate the word that we’re having another meeting at ten this morning, back in the bar. Is there an undertaker in town?”

  Frankie shook his head. “He died. But there’s still a few coffins left in the back of the mercantile.”

  “Good. Go tell whoever’s in charge we’ll need one this afternoon.”

  Frankie turned to go.

  “Hold on,” Sam said, handing the boy a silver dollar he pulled from his pocket. “When you’re done with that, stop over to the café and get three plates of breakfast. That should cover the cost. If it’s not enough, tell them the new sheriff will settle up a little later on today.”

  “Yes, sir,” they answered in unison, and hurried off.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Sam didn’t have to wait long before he heard footsteps on the boardwalk and the door opened.

  “Good morning, Sheriff Ridgeway. I’m Grace Hearthgrove. I’ve—” Unable to go on she dabbed at her puffy, red eyes with a handkerchief that was twisted in her hand. “I’m sorry. I just got the news about David.” She stopped and looked away for a moment. Her voice was smooth as honey, with a soft southern drawl.

  Sam marveled at how fast the news had traveled. A warm, cinnamon scent followed her through the doorway. She was tall and slender and a few years older than he. Her chestnut hair was piled high on her head, with several locks falling down around her attractive face. “I just returned this morning to the heart-breaking news,” she continued. “Where is his…”

  Sam pointed to Annabelle’s room.
“In there, ma’am. But,” he added quickly as she turned to go, “I’m sorry to be so tactless—but…” he began again. “As you know, the doctor is already dead, but this little girl here, isn’t.” He indicated Josephine, lying on the examination table. “She has a high fever. Is there anything you might know of to help bring it down?”

  Seeming to see Josephine for the first time since entering the room, a small sound escaped her mouth and she went over to the child’s side. “Of course, Sheriff Ridgeway. There will be time for grieving later. I’ll do whatever I can.” She placed the back of her hand on Josephine’s forehead, and then ran it down her cheek. “She’s extremely hot. What happened?”

  “She was scratched by an animal and it’s gone into infection.” In his mind he could see Josephine standing on the cliff’s edge, her eyes as round as saucers as she firmly gripped her cat. He pointed to the marks on Josephine’s small arm.

  Grace Hearthgrove looked at Josephine for several moments. She lifted each eyelid. “We packed her in ice a few hours ago. I think it helped. And the doctor’s daughter put sulfur on her wound.”

  “Both very good.” She nodded in thought. “At this point, I’m afraid it’s mostly up to her. Our efforts will be for our own peace of mind, with the outcome left to God.” She smiled sadly at him again across Josephine’s small, unconscious body. “But that won’t stop us from trying, will it? Is she your daughter?”

  Sam shook his head. He could see she had more questions, but kept them to herself.

  She went back to the door and opened it, looking up and down the street until she saw someone. She waved, calling, “Mr. Fennimore, over here. Can you go over to my house and wake my father? Tell him I need some goldenseal, as much as we have, and bring it to me. Can you do that?”

  Sam heard a mumbled response.

  “And then go over to the ice house and get me a load of ice. I need it right away.”