Sourdough Creek (11 page)

“I think we should remove the damp towels and put dry bedding around her,” Annabelle answered.

“Annie?” A soft plea came from the other room.

Annabelle sucked in her breath and ran to her father’s side. Cassie followed.

“Water.” He whispered the one word so softly Annabelle had to lean close.

“Here, Daddy.” She lifted his head and held a cup of water to his lips.

His eyes widened briefly and his last breath came out on a sigh, his head rolling to the side. It knocked the cup from Annabelle’s hand which clattered to the floor, spilling water everywhere.

“
Daddy
?”

Frantically, she patted his sallow cheek several times. “Daddy. Daddy!”

Annabelle’s voice rose higher with each passing moment. She took him by the shoulders and gently shook him. When he didn’t respond, she collapsed onto his motionless chest, crying uncontrollably.

Hurrying over, Cassie placed her fingers on the man’s neck, feeling for a pulse. When she was sure that the poor doctor was indeed dead and nothing more could be done for him, she sat on the side of the bed and rubbed Annabelle’s back, not knowing what else to do.

Annabelle was inconsolable, her sobs wracking her small frame so violently that they rocked the bed. Her fingers gripped the man’s bedclothes in a tightfisted ball.

“Here, Annabelle,” Cassie said. She pulled the girl’s stiff body away from her father’s, and turned her in her arms. She held Annabelle tightly, remembering the day her own mother had died. “Go ahead and cry,” Cassie whispered.

Many minutes passed as Annabelle let her grief flow. Then she quieted and pulled away. Her eyes were vacant, lost. The clock on the mantel chimed softly. Cassie stood and pulled the sheet up over the departed doctor’s head. It hadn’t been that long since she’d done the same for her mother.

Chapter Nineteen

S
am stood just inside the swinging doors, taking in the barroom. It was dingy and dark. It reeked of stale, dirty bodies.

“Quiet!” the bartender shouted. His wooden gavel banged down several times on the bar top, rattling whiskey stained glasses and dishes soiled with leftover food from the night before. His eyes shone brightly with excitement above his long, gray handlebar mustache. “I will have
order
here!”

Jonathan, his elbow dangerously close to the banging gavel, was talking with a farmer. A skinny little man with a wooden leg stood nearby, listening. Two boys, who looked a lot like Jonathan, sat at the other end of the bar, rolling dice. Neither one looked a day over fifteen.

Bang, bang, bang
!

Jonathan’s face pinched in annoyance and he covered his ear with his hand. “Walter, do you have to pound that thing so hard? We’re all right here.”

“Yer darn tootin’ I do. This here’s important business. Y’all need t’ shut yer traps.”

One man, draped across the top of a scuffed-up table in a pile of disheveled playing cards, snored loudly. His partner threw back another shot glass filled with whiskey and belched. Sam counted that as his third since he’d pushed through the doors and joined the group.

Walter pointed the gavel at him. “We’ll have civility here, Chester! Now, wake Larry up. Ever’ man counts.”

The drunkard shook the shoulder of his sleeping friend. “Larry,” he slurred into his ear. “Wake up! All hell’s breaking loose.”

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

T
here 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 inside 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.