Tin Badge (Searcher Western #2)

Deke Casey sat on the ground in the shade of Hawksridge Mountains, waiting for his men to return from the bank robbery in Petie.

He was the leader of an outlaw gang, and he’d planned the robbery in detail, after having visited Petie numerous times, mapping out locations, planning strategy, and even holding rehearsals out on the prairie.

Fifteen men were in his gang, including himself, and he’d chosen nine to stage the robbery. He hadn’t wanted to use all his men, because he thought it’d be too many and they’d get in one another’s way.

Casey was slim, with a long face and a thin mouth. He wore a dirty gray hat with a wide brim and a high crown with a crease down the middle. A cigarette dangled out of the corner of his mouth.

Nearby, a group of his men played poker, raising and calling one another, using pebbles for chips. Embers of their breakfast campfire sent a thin trail of smoke into the sky. A few members of the gang slept in the caves nearby.

They’d all been members of Bloody Bill Anderson’s guerrilla cavalry during the war, fighting for the Confederacy, but mostly against civilians with Union sympathies. They’d left a trail of terror behind them, plundering, raping, committing massacres, burning entire towns to the ground, and they hadn’t surrendered after the war. They’d just continued with what they’d been doing during the war, with Deke Casey as their leader.

Deke Casey wore a red and black checked shirt and a black leather vest. He took his watch out of a pocket in his vest and looked at the time. His men should’ve returned by now. He wondered if anything had gone wrong.

Anything could go wrong with a bank robbery, but he’d thought the bank in Petie would be easy. It was a peaceful town and the citizens weren’t very vigilant because nothing bad ever happened there. Deke had got the sheriff out of the way by forging a note from one of the local ranchers, asking the sheriff to investigate the rustling of some cattle.

The sheriff was Buck Rawlins, an old gunfighter, but he was drinking heavily and didn’t appear to be much of a threat anymore. Still, Casey had seen no point in tangling with Rawlins, so he’d devised the ruse to make sure he wouldn’t be in town while the robbery was taking place.

Casey and his gang roamed the frontier, playing hit and run. They robbed banks, rustled cattle, held up stagecoaches, did anything that promised easy money. Sometimes they lived in fancy hotels and ate in the best restaurants, and mostly they camped in the open, as in the days when they rode with Bloody Bill Anderson. They were hard men who never hesitated to kill. Bitterness and hatred were in their hearts, and they felt they had the right to do whatever was necessary to maintain themselves as a free-roving fighting unit.

“Somebody’s comin’,” said Mike Chopak, a grizzled bearlike man, sitting at the card game with a pair of queens and a pair of fives in his hand.

Everybody dropped their cards and drew their guns. They moved behind boulders or dropped flat on the ground. Deke Casey took cover behind the trunk of the tree. His men probably were returning, but it could be Indians.

The cigarette dangled out of the corner of Deke Casey’s mouth as he thumbed back the hammer of his Remington. The faint clatter of hoofbeats came to him, but it sounded like only one horse. He peered around the side of the tree, but couldn’t see anything yet. Puffing the cigarette, he narrowed his snake eyes to slits and waited.

Schuler was closer to the canyon than the others, and had the best view. Casey eased the hammer of his Remington forward and dropped it into his holster. He stood next to the tree and hooked his thumbs in his belt as he watched Tom Hurley ride into view.

Hurley was a short man with a rat-like face, wearing leather chaps. He rode toward the campfire, pulled back on his reins, and climbed down from his saddle, a solemn expression on his face.

Casey and the others gathered around him. Hurley took off his hat, whacked it on his knee to get the dust out, and then put the hat back on his head.

“I was down the street from the bank when the boys went in,” he said. “Everything looked good, the sheriff was out of town, there was no problems. Then all of a sudden this big guy on a horse comes ridin’ down the middle of the street. The boys come out of the bank, carry in’ the loot and shootin’ at everythin’ in sight, and Charlie Phelan decides to take a shot at the big guy. Well, the big guy quick-draws and shoots Charlie down. Then the big guy takes out his rifle, hides behind a water trough on the far side of the street, and picks off the boys one by one. They’re all dead now, and the big guy is a hero. When I left town, they was throwin’ a party for him in the Paradise Saloon.”

Deke Casey couldn’t believe his ears. “Are you tellin’ me that one man killed everybody?”

A scowl came over Deke Casey’s face as he chewed on the end of his cigarette. “Why didn’t you do somethin’?”

“He would’ve got me just like he got the others. He was a dead shot. You wouldn’t’ve done no better.”

“Well, after it was all over, the mayor set up the bar at the Paradise, and I went over to see what was goin’ on. I had me a drink, mindin’ my own business, askin’ a few questions. All I could find out was the big guy had just rode into town that mornin’, and nobody knows where he come from. His name is John Stone.”

Stone stood barefooted in front of the mirror, scraping a straight razor across his cheek. A towel was wrapped around his waist, and on the bed lay new jeans and a new shirt, courtesy of Caldwell’s General Store. A bottle of premium bourbon sat on the dresser, courtesy of Petie Spirits and Liquors, and next to the bourbon were boxes of cartridges for his pistols and rifles, courtesy of Main Street Shooters Supplies.

Stone had taken his first bath in nearly two weeks, and the tub near his bed was still filled with dirty water. His room was on the top floor of the Olympia Hotel, with a view of Main Street below him. Last time he’d looked out the window, he’d seen a bunch of kids on the far side of the street, looking up at him.

He’d become the local hero, and still hadn’t got used to it yet. Usually he rode into towns and nobody paid any attention to him. He had to work for every bite of food and every drink of whiskey he got, but now everybody was buying things for him.

It was a welcome change, and he’d always liked luxury. He’d grown up as the son of a rich man, and had spent his days hunting and fishing, and his nights at parties. Life had become more austere when he attended West Point, and during the war he’d been an officer and a gentleman.

Since the war he’d been just another saddle tramp, sleeping under the stars more often than not, usually low on cash, frequently hungry, often lonely. The frontier had been a shock at first, because there was no law in most places. A man had to learn to take care of himself, and Stone soon learned that his best friends were his loaded guns. He had a slight advantage because he’d hunted since he was a small boy, and was a good shot. His marksmanship had improved during the war, and he still practiced regularly, every chance he got.

Stone finished shaving and washed the surplus lather from his face. Looking in the mirror, he examined his weather-beaten face. He had an aquiline nose, strong jaw, and prominent cheekbones, all visible now that his growth of beard was gone. His body was heavily muscled and his stomach was flat, with a few scars.

He put on his new clothes, and they smelled clean and fresh. His jeans were dark blue, his shirt was red, and they’d given him another black bandanna. He pulled on his boots, dropped his knife into the sheath sewn into his right boot, and buckled on his gunbelts. Then he picked his hat off the peg and reshaped the crown with his fingers.

He knew he should get a new hat, but couldn’t give up his old one. He’d worn it through the war, and it was like an old friend. Smudged and discolored, it had character, in his opinion. You could see where he’d torn off the Confederate Army insignia, but it still held its shape pretty well and kept the rain and sun off him.

He put the hat on and looked at himself again in the mirror. It was nice to be clean again, living in pleasant surroundings for a change. He’d decided to take the job as deputy sheriff for a while, to build up his cash reserves. Then he’d resume his search for Marie.

He lifted her picture from the dresser and looked at it. She’d lived on the next plantation, and they’d grown up almost as brother and sister, until they grew older and things became serious. She was the only woman he’d ever loved, and he could never love anybody else. She was all he wanted in the world.

He dropped the picture into his shirt pocket and left the hotel room, descending the stairs to the lobby. People called his name and waved to him as he crossed the lobby, heading toward the front door. He stepped onto the sidewalk, and the kids across the street ran toward him, gathering around, gazing at him with admiration.

He smiled at them, tipped his hat to a lady, and walked in long strides down the street toward the Diamond Restaurant.

Sheriff Buck Rawlins approached the other end of town, riding his Appaloosa. He was six feet tall, had a black mustache, and wore a black hat with a wide flat brim and a flat crown. He was in a bad mood, because he’d just gone on a wild goose chase.

He’d received a note from the Double M Ranch, asking him to go out there to investigate some cattle rustling, but when he got there, the owner of the Double M, Phineas Mathers, had told him he’d sent no such note and wasn’t having any problems with rustlers. Rawlins showed him the note, and Mathers said it wasn’t even his handwriting.

Sheriff Rawlins’s lips were set in a grim line as he rode down the main street of town, heading for his office. Somebody had played a trick on him, but he wasn’t surprised. He knew he wasn’t the most popular man in town, and in fact he had many enemies. He’d cleaned up the town in the old days, risking his life frequently in shootouts with drunken cowboys on a spree, bandits, and assorted hard cases, but now the townspeople didn’t have much use for him anymore. He knew what they were saying behind his back, that he was getting old and he drank too much. Well, forty-six wasn’t old, and everybody else in town took a drink now and then, so why shouldn’t he? They also complained about his manners, but he was a lawman, not a dandy from the East with a perfumed handkerchief and poems for the ladies. He could still outshoot anybody in town, and that was all that mattered.

He stopped in front of his office, tethered his horse to the rail, and climbed onto the sidewalk. He looked to his left and right, and the town was quiet, people going about their business as always. He’d seen Petie grow from a rollicking little frontier settlement to the largest town in the territory.

He opened the door to the office and saw Abner Pritchard, his clerk, seated at the desk near the left wall, doing paperwork. The jail in back held a few drunks. Rawlins hung his hat on the peg and sat behind his desk in the middle of the room.

“Anything happen when I was gone?”

Pritchard was an emaciated man with a sunken chest, wearing a green visor and suspenders to hold up his pants. “You might be getting yourself a new deputy sheriff.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

Pritchard told him about the bank robbery, and how it was stopped cold by a stranger named John Stone. “He shot down all eight of the crooks,” Pritchard said. “I didn’t see it, but those who did said it was a helluva show.”

Sheriff Rawlins’s brow was furrowed as he opened the side drawer of his desk and pulled out his glass and a bottle of whiskey. He filled the glass half full and took a swig. His black hair was parted slightly to the left and combed flat, and his hollowed cheeks gave him a saturnine appearance. His jaw looked like it had been carved from a block of granite.

“So anyways,” Pritchard said, “Mayor Randlett offered Stone the job of deputy sheriff, and Stone’s supposed to tell him yes or no.”

“He shouldn’t’ve offered anybody the job of deputy sheriff without talkin’ with me first. You see this Stone feller?”

“Akerson set up the bar over at the Paradise, and I went over for a quick drink. Stone’s a big, strong-looking galoot with shoulders out to here.” Pritchard held up his hands to indicate the size of Stone’s shoulders, and they appeared wider than Sheriff Rawlins’s. “Other than that he looked like a bum.”

“John Stone prob’ly ain’t his real name. He might be on the dodge. I’ll have to check the wanted posters.”

“Mind if I go out for a bite?”

“Don’t take too long.”

Pritchard tore off his green visor and walked out of the office. Sheriff Rawlins took another drink of whiskey and thought about the bank holdup. He surmised that the forged note must’ve been sent to him to get him out of town while the holdup was going on, but somehow John Stone had been in the right place at the right time.

“Killed all eight of them,” Rawlins muttered, because he often spoke to himself. “Wonder how he did that?” He gulped more whiskey and lit a long, thin black stogie, smoke swirling around his head. “They shouldn’t’ve offered him the deputy’s job until they checked with me. I’m only the sheriff around here, after all. I haveta find out what’s goin’ on from my goddamned clerk.”

Sheriff Rawlins raised the glass to his lips again. He felt himself getting angry. Cursing the town and its citizens, he drained the glass and let the whiskey burn all the way down to his soul.

Deke Casey sat against a rock, whittling a stick with the long knife he carried in a sheath on his belt. His men were lying around nearby, not playing poker anymore. They were all in a rotten mood over the massacre of their henchmen in Petie.

Casey couldn’t understand how such a setback could take place. It didn’t make sense that one man could stop eight experienced gunfighters who also had long combat records. Who in the hell was John Stone? he wondered. Hurley had described Stone, but Stone didn’t remind Hurley of any outlaw or gun-fighter he’d ever heard of. Must be somebody new, he thought.

Casey knew his men expected him to do something about the killings. He couldn’t let Stone get away with sending eight of his best men to boot hill. Casey and his men lived by the old biblical code, an eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth. Stone would have to be killed. He couldn’t be permitted to get away with shooting down eight men from Bloody Bill Anderson’s old outfit.

“Chopak—get over here!” he shouted.

Mike Chopak, nearly as wide as he was tall, picked himself up from the ground and walked toward Casey. The sleeves of his shirt were torn off, revealing huge bicep muscles, and the muscle on the left bicep showed a blurred crude tattoo of a skull.

‘Take a man with you and ride into Petie,” Casey said. “Find out where this John Stone lives and what his routine is. Get as much information on him that you can, and then come back and report to me.”

Chopak nodded. He turned around and walked back to the others. “Ramsay,” he said. “Let’s go.”

Fred Ramsay raised himself from the ground and spit a gob of tobacco juice out the corner of his mouth. He was tall as Chopak, but built like a stiletto. His tight-fitting shirt was fraying at the collar and around his wrists. He and Chopak walked wordlessly toward their horses.

Casey watched them saddle their mounts. He didn’t know John Stone, but hated him with a slow simmering passion. Casey and his men were low on cash and supplies, and they’d have to do something soon to replenish the larder.

But they lived by their own harsh code of justice, and first they had to pay back John Stone for killing their comrades.

John Stone sat by himself at a table in the Diamond Restaurant, eating a large wedge of apple pie. He’d just finished a steak dinner with all the trimmings, and his appetite was satisfied. It was his first good meal in eight days. Trail food cooked over open campfires, or sometimes not cooked at all, could get awfully boring.

It was a small restaurant with ten tables and red and white checkered tablecloths. He was aware of men and women at other tables looking at him and talking about him. It made him feel conspicuous and uneasy, after so many solitary days alone on the prairie. He finished his pie and sipped a cup of hot black coffee.

“I’ll take the check,” he said to his waitress when she passed his table.

“There won’t be no check, Captain Stone,” she said. “It’s all taken care of.”

“By who?”

“Mr. Thomaston.”

Thomaston was the owner of the Diamond Restaurant, and had greeted Stone like a long-lost relative when Stone had entered. Now Thomaston was bustling in and out of the kitchen, supervising the activities of his busy establishment. He wore a suit and a long mustache with upturned points.

Stone threw a few coins on the table for the waitress, and arose, picking his hat off the peg. Thomaston saw him and rushed over, an ingratiating smile on his perspiring face.

“Hope you enjoyed your meal, Captain.”

“I did enjoy it, thank you.”

Thomaston beamed as he watched Stone walk toward the door. It would be good for business if word got around that Captain John Stone patronized the Diamond Restaurant.

Stone stepped onto the sidewalk and placed his hat upon his head. He felt strong, clean, and ready to go to work. He’d decided during lunch that he’d take the deputy sheriff job, and there was no point waiting to tell Mayor Randlett. He thought he’d go to the mayor now and accept the job.

“Good afternoon, Captain Stone.”

A stout woman with pudgy cheeks was addressing him. He’d never seen her before in his life, but he tipped his hat and said, “Good afternoon.”

She smiled broadly, showing teeth like a horse’s. “I’m Mabel Billings and I’m president of the Ladies Auxiliary at the church. I’d like to invite you personally to attend services with us on Sunday morning. Reverend Scobie preaches a fine sermon.”

“I’ve met the reverend, and I’ll attend the services if I’m able. Thank you for inviting me, ma’am.”

“I look forward to seeing you, Captain. It’ll be about time that a lawman in this town went to church.”

“Could you tell me where I might find Mayor Randlett?”

“I imagine he’s in his office, down the street on the right.”

Mrs. Billings waddled past him and Stone crossed the street thinking that he might actually attend church on Sunday. It was a nice thing to do, and he believed in God in some vague way. He’d gone to church every Sunday when he’d grown up, and it had become a habit with him, although he knew he was a sinner; he’d done a lot of things that he supposed God wouldn’t approve of, but a man had to survive somehow. Religion was one thing, and the real world something else entirely.

On the other side of the street, Stone heard a guitar being strummed, and the guitar was badly out of tune. Ahead of him, seated on a bench in front of the blacksmith shop, was Toby Muldoon, singing a sad old cowboy tune drunkenly, tapping his foot on the sidewalk to keep up the beat.

Muldoon looked up as Stone approached. His melancholy expression transformed suddenly into a grin that showed his toothless gums. “Well hello there, Cap’n. What’s up?”

“I’m on my way to the mayor’s office.”

“What for?”

“He offered me the job of deputy sheriff, and I decided to take it.”

Muldoon’s expression grew serious again. He tapped the bench next to him. “Have a seat.”

Stone sat down. Muldoon looked to the left and right conspiratorially, and said in a low voice, “Watch out for Sheriff Rawlins. He ain’t a-gonna like you, and he ain’t nobody to fool with. When he gits drunk he gits mean. Saw somebody draw on him once, and Rawlins shot him before the fool even got his gun out of its holster. So you be careful, you understand?”

“I’ve got to see the mayor. What can you tell me about him?”

“Owns a good piece of this town and a big ranch west of here, the Circle J. He’s a fancy lawyer too, works out of his office down the street here. Got a real pretty daughter, sweet as sugar, his only child, his wife died a few years back. You’ll like his daughter, Jennifer’s her name. Makes me wish I was young again. How’s about a drink?”

“You drink too much, Muldoon.”

“Don’t tell me how to live, Cap’n. I been around too long, and I’m too old to change now.”

Stone arose from the bench and handed Muldoon a few coins. Then he headed for Randlett’s office, towering over most of the people he passed, and the sidewalk shook slightly whenever his boots came down. He passed a bakery, a Chinese laundry, and a ladies dress shop. Then he saw a sign that said:

Martin Randlett Attorney at Law

He opened the door and stepped inside an office. A beautiful young redhead sat behind the desk directly in front of him. Stone took off his hat.

“I’d like to see Mayor Randlett, if he’s available.”

“Who shall I say is calling?”

“John Stone.”

She smiled. “Oh, so you’re the one everybody’s talking about. I’m Jennifer Randlett, the mayor’s daughter. How do you do?”

She stood behind the desk and held out her hand, and it felt like a dove. She had green eyes and smooth creamy skin, and her hair was like fire.

“I’ll get my father.”

She turned around and walked toward the door behind her. She was slim-waisted and had nice curves in the right places, moving with a graceful swaying gait. Stone fingered the brim of his hat with both his hands as she opened the door and entered the next room. He’d seen a lot of attractive women in his life, and in the old days, before the war, he’d been acquainted with some of the most renowned belles of the South. Jennifer Randlett would rank with the prettiest of them, and even with Marie Higgins, who’d been quite a famous beauty herself.

A few moments later Mayor Randlett emerged from his office, followed by his daughter. “You look like a new man,” he said to Stone. “Glad you stopped by.” He placed his arm around Jennifer’s shoulders. “I guess you met my daughter. What can I do for you?”

“I’ve decided to accept your offer.”

“I was hoping you would, and we might as well tie everything up quickly before you change your mind. Why don’t you go down to the sheriff’s office and wait for me. I’ll be there with the Reverend Scobie in about a half hour.”

Stone turned to leave, but Mayor Randlett raised his hand.

“I think you made the right decision,” he said. “This is a growing town, and you can grow with it. People here like you and want you to stay. There’s no limit to what a man like you can accomplish in a town like this.”

“I don’t want to misrepresent myself,” Stone told him. “My plan is to work here for exactly one month, and then move on.”

“Maybe you’ll change your mind about that, Captain.”

“I doubt it, sir.”

Stone left the office and walked down the street toward the sheriff’s office. He was thinking about Jennifer Randlett, how she’d stood calmly at her father’s side, measuring Stone, curiosity in her eyes and a faint smile on her lips.

Muldoon had been right: Stone liked her. He didn’t hardly know her, but she seemed decent and wholesome, and he’d always been attracted to women like her. Marie had been the same way, the kind of woman a man could trust. Muldoon said Jennifer was Mayor Randlett’s only daughter, which meant she’d inherit all he owned someday. She’d be quite a catch for some lucky cowboy.

He came to the sheriff’s office. A few wanted posters were tacked to the bulletin board beside it, and the sign on the door said:

BUCK RAWLINS Sheriff of Petie

Stone opened the door and stepped inside the office. A cadaverous man wearing a green visor sat behind the desk to his left, and a craggy-faced man with a mustache, smoking a stogie and wearing a badge on the lapel of his frock coat, sat behind the desk to his right.

‘‘Sheriff Rawlins?” Stone asked the latter man.

“What do you want?” Sheriff Rawlins replied.

“I’m John Stone, your new deputy.”

Sheriff Rawlins looked up at Stone through hooded eyes, and Stone could smell whiskey. There was silence in the office for a few moments, then Sheriff Rawlins picked up a piece of paper and read it, ignoring Stone.

Stone had never been a lawman before, and wasn’t sure of exactly how to proceed. He’d been chased by lawmen, and had been in jail once, but that was all he knew about it.

Stone looked around, saw a chair underneath the rifle rack, and sat on it. He took out his bag of tobacco and rolled himself a cigarette, then placed it in between his lips and lit it up.

Sheriff Rawlins glanced at him. “I didn’t say you could smoke.”

“You didn’t say I couldn’t.”

“If you want to smoke in my office, you ask me first.”

“Like hell I will.”

Sheriff Rawlins turned red, and Stone could see the ends of his black mustache quivering.

“I don’t think we’re gonna git along,” Sheriff Rawlins said.

“That’s up to you.”

“I guess you think you’re real special in this town, after what you done, but I ain’t impressed like everybody else because I know better. If them bank robbers had been any good they would’ve shot yer fuckin’ head off, but instead they was just a bunch of bunglers and fumblers who let themselves git killed by you. Christ, my clerk Pritchard here prob’ly could’ve handled them, and he can’t even hardly see straight. You’re gonna find out, Sonny Jim, that this job ain’t as easy as you think. For all I know, you’re a wanted man yerself. Where you from?”

“South Carolina.”

“I didn’t ask you where you was born. I asked you what town you was in before you come here.”

“Some town north of here. Don’t remember the name. Wasn’t there that long.” Stone knew very well what town he’d been in, but didn’t want to mention it because that was the town in which he’d been in jail.

“You look like an owlhoot to me.”

Stone shrugged, then took a long draw on his cigarette, blowing the smoke out the corner of his mouth. Pritchard sat across the room at his desk, in a mild state of shock. He’d never heard anybody talk back to Rawlins before. Everybody in Petie was afraid of Rawlins, because of his bad temper and fast gun.

Sheriff Rawlins stared at Stone. “Are you an owlhoot?”

Stone leaned back in his chair, crossed his legs, and puffed his cigarette.

“I just asked you something,” Rawlins said menacingly.

“I don’t answer stupid questions.”

Rawlins turned red again. He was tempted to whip out his Colt and put a hole in John Stone, but this wasn’t the time or the place, and besides, there was something about Stone’s manner that made him think twice about it. Stone was like a big mountain lion relaxing in the chair across the room, and Rawlins knew that a mountain lion could go from complete repose to a total all-out attack in a split second. Sheriff Rawlins couldn’t help feeling respect for a man he couldn’t intimidate, because he was accustomed to intimidating everybody he met, but that didn’t make him hate Stone any less.

Sheriff Rawlins returned his eyes to the correspondence in front of him. Across the room, Pritchard’s pen scratched on a piece of paper. Stone puffed his cigarette and looked around the office. Wanted posters were tacked to the walls, an American flag hung limply from the top of a pole, and a picture of Bobby Lee was mounted on the wall above the cot.

The door to the office opened, and Mayor Randlett entered, followed by the Reverend Vernon Scobie, who was carrying a black Bible.

“Afternoon, Sheriff,” Mayor Randlett said, smiling in a friendly manner.

Sheriff Rawlins looked up at him and scowled darkly.

“Guess you met your new deputy.”

“I never asked for no deputy.”

“We thought you could use one—take some of the work off your shoulders. Captain Stone here’s a good man. He’ll be a real help to you.”

“Seem to me I should have some say in who’s hired to be my deputy.”

“We didn’t think you’d have any objection to Captain Stone giving you a hand,” Mayor Randlett said. “After what he did today, the town council and I thought he’d be ideal. Surely you don’t object to having Captain Stone as your deputy?”

“What the hell’s all this captain stuff? What’s he a captain of?”

“He was a captain of cavalry for the Confederacy during the war.”

“The war’s been over a long time.”

“But we don’t forget, do we, Sheriff? You were a sergeant in the Confederate infantry, so you and Captain Stone were comrades in arms. That’ll give you something in common. If you don’t have any objection to Captain Stone becoming your deputy, Reverend Scobie will swear him in right now.”

“Do what you want,” Sheriff Rawlins said gruffly.

“Captain Stone, will you step over here please?”

Stone stubbed out his cigarette in an ashtray and sauntered across the room to where Mayor Randlett and the Reverend Scobie were standing.

“Place your left hand on the Bible, please, and raise your right hand in the air.”

Stone did as he was told, and the Reverend Scobie opened his mouth. His Adam’s apple bobbed up and down as he intoned gravely: “Do you, John Stone, swear to uphold the laws of the town of Petie, to the best of your ability, so help you God?”

“I do,” said Stone.

Now it was Mayor Randlett’s turn to speak. “Pursuant to the authority vested in me by the charter of the town of Petie, I hereby appoint you deputy sheriff of the town of Petie, for an indeterminate period, beginning today.”

Mayor Randlett smiled, and the Reverend Scobie tucked the Bible underneath his arm. He looked more like an undertaker than a minister of God.

“Congratulations,” said Mayor Randlett. “I’m sure you’ll do a good job.”

“I’ll try my best,” Stone replied.

“That’s all we can ask.” Mayor Randlett pulled a tin badge out of his vest pocket and pinned it on Stone’s shirt. “Just had this made up at the blacksmith’s place. It’s a little rough around the edges, but it’ll do. Good luck to you.”

The Reverend Scobie shook his hand and wished him well. Pritchard remained rooted to his chair, writing with his pen as if nothing unusual was taking place, and Sheriff Rawlins shuffled through papers on his desk, also showing a lack of interest.

“Well,” said Mayor Randlett, “we’ve got to be on our way. Lots to do, you know. I’ll leave you here with Sheriff Rawlins, who’ll explain your duties.”

Mayor Randlett left the office, followed by the Reverend Scobie. Stone turned around and faced Sheriff Rawlins, who’d pulled an old newspaper from his bottom drawer and was reading it.

“What’re my duties?” Stone asked.

Sheriff Rawlins glanced up at him. “You’ll have the shift from eight at night till eight in the morning, seven days a week, but you’re always on call. You can start at eight tonight.”

Sheriff Rawlins raised the paper and covered his face. Stone stood in front of him silently for a few moments, waiting for more instructions, and realized he wasn’t going to get any more. He reached out and pushed the paper down until he could see Rawlins’s face again.

“What does a deputy sheriff do?” Stone asked.

Sheriff Rawlins glowered at him. “You figger it out.”

Chapter Two