They had decided Bill would not attempt to break the kid out of the jail until after Thomson had ridden out of town and yet a further hour had gone by. If things went wrong with the jailbreak then at least Thomson would be well on his way to Fort Hood, and before anyone knew the newspaperman had gone he would be too far away to stop. This had been Thomson’s idea, and although Bill had no doubt that the jailbreak would prove successful he had to admit it made perfect sense to be cautious.
They had also roped in another man, or rather Thomson had, when he had taken Bill across the moonlit street towards the livery stable. Bill had been cautious as they crossed the street, his hands hovering over his Colts but they made the journey without incident.
Once inside the stable Thomson had roused the owner, finding him asleep, covered in a filthy horse blanket, in one corner of the stable. An elderly man with so much beard that it was impossible to put an age upon him. He could have been in his sixties, seventies or even eighties. The way he walked, with his back all stooped up suggested he was ancient but his eyes shone with the vitality of youth. The old man had but the one tooth in his head, dead centre it hung down like a gleaming tusk. The old man’s name was Sam and the newspaperman knew him well, told Bill they had been friends for a great many years.
Bill had stood aside, watching the exchange between the two men with some amusement. As soon as the newspaperman outlined the plan to break the kid free and then notify the US Marshal, Sam had become particularly animated. He had cursed the entire Stanton clan, said it was not before time that someone around here had the gumption to go up against them. The old man had looked Bill up and down for several moments and, looking unimpressed, had gone and saddled Thomson’s horse.
And now Thomson had gone and Bill placed his knitting into his saddlebags and looked at the old man.
‘Have you got it now?’ he asked.
‘Sure,’ the old man snapped and bit off a chunk of chewing tobacco, which was a considerable feat given that he had but the single tooth. He pressed the tobacco plug against his lower gum and bit down. ‘You told me a half dozen times and I heard you the first as well as the last.’
‘Better to make certain, boyo.’
The old man smiled, once again revealing his tooth. ‘I sure do hope you know what you’re doing,’ he said.
‘I’ve faced greater odds than an old man and his off spring,’ Bill said and then went off on one of his familiar tangents. ‘Did I tell you I was at the Little Big Horn?’
‘You didn’t,’
‘Well I was. And I’m still here.’
‘There were no survivors of the Little Big Horn,’ the old man said, grinning. This Welshman sure was a one for these fish tales.
‘That’s what they say,’ Bill agreed.
The old man looked at Bill, unsure what to make of this man.
‘Well come on then,’ Bill said, presently. ‘Let’s go and wake the sheriff.’
Once again Bill found himself crossing Main Street. It was now several hours beyond midnight and the entire town had fallen silent. He walked, the old man beside him, with great caution. His hands swung casually at his sides but this belied the fact that he was ready to go for his guns in a second should the need arise. Thankfully there was no such need and they reached the jailhouse without incident.
‘You get the man out here,’ Bill said and stood to the side of the door, his back against the wall and a Colt in hand. He wasn’t at all sure he’d be able to pull the same trick on the sheriff that he’d used on the newspaperman. The sheriff’s deputies would surely have been missed by now which would have at least put the sheriff on guard.
The old man nodded and walked up to the heavy door. He was just about to rap upon it when he had an idea. He reached out and grasped the door handle, twisted it gently and sure enough the door swung open.
The old man looked at Bill, shrugged his shoulders.
‘Guess the sheriff feels safe enough not to lock the door,’ the old man whispered.
‘Bloody marvelous,’ Bill said and quietly stepped into the jailhouse. He motioned for the old man to follow and then gently closed the door behind them. They stood there for a moment while their eyes grew acclimatized to the gloom. They could hear snoring, the sheriff most likely, coming from the back of the building.
‘Looks like we caught him napping,’ Bill whispered.
The two men moved through the jailhouse, heading towards the rear of the building where the sheriff’s snoring seem to be originating from. They froze when the old man bumped against the side of a desk. The muffled retort sounded to both men like thunder.
‘Be careful,’ Bill whispered.
‘Can’t see a darn thing,’ the old man grumbled back.
‘Well get behind me,’ Bill said. ‘Shadow my steps.’
‘Need some light to make a shadow,’ the old man grumbled and fell in directly behind the Welshman.
They made the back of the room without further incident and were presented with another door. Bill opened it, lifting the handle as he pushed inwards. The door creaked once but only briefly and Bill and the old man stepped through the door and saw the sleeping form of the sheriff. Bill looked around and through the dimness he could see the doorway that led through to the cells, where only yesterday he had been nursing a battered head.
So much had happened since then.
Two men had died since then.
The sheriff had constructed a hammock in the corner of the office and somehow he had gotten his bulk into it. It was secured to a beam at one end and to a hook that had been driven into the wall at the other. The canvas strained with the lawman’s considerable weight.
The sheriff, unaware of his two visitors, slept soundly.
Bill pointed to a shotgun that was leaning against the wall and the old man understood the gesture and went and got the rifle. Bill took a look around, peering into the darkness and he noticed the sheriff wasn’t wearing his gun-belt. The old man spotted it hanging on a nail in the wall behind the sheriff. He pointed it out to Bill and then carefully went and took it down.
The sheriff was unharmed and now had no chance of getting to his weapons. This was good because Bill didn’t want any shooting if he could help it. The sound of gunfire would bring too many people running.
‘Stand back,’ Bill said to the old man and then brought a leg up under the hammock and kicked out, toppling it. The sheriff came awake instantly, his eyes snapping open, startled, confused. Bill kicked again, sending the lawman falling to the floor with a dull thud, which drove all the wind from his body.
‘Really shouldn’t sleep on the job, sheriff,’ Bill said, pointed his Colt directly at the lawman’s head. ‘Now get up.’
The sheriff was unable to immediately oblige. All the wind had been driven from his body in the fall and he struggled to catch his breath. Added to that he was a big man who didn’t find it easy getting to his feet at the best of times.
‘What’s happening out there?’ the kid’s voice came from behind the large door that led to the cells. There was fear in the kid’s tone. He was probably thinking the noise meant a lynch mob arranged by Stanton had come for him.
‘Quiet, kid,’ Bill answered. ‘We’ll have you out of there in a moment.’
‘Bill? Is that you?’
‘It’s me, kid. Now quit jawing,’ Bill said and looked back down at the lawman. ‘Now get that lard-arse up.’
‘Come on fat man,’ the old man said, clearly relishing the situation. ‘You can move quicker than that. I’ve seen you jump when Stanton calls.’
The sheriff had recovered enough to take stock of the situation and he looked up at the two men holding weapons on him.
‘Where’s my men?’ he asked.
‘You mean your deputies,’ Bill said. ‘They won’t be gunning anyone down anytime soon. Now I won’t tell you again. Get up.’
Awkwardly the sheriff managed to get to his feet. He stood there, panting, spittle in the corner of his mouth and looked directly at the old man. He was unaware of his ridiculous he looked standing there in his underwear.
‘You’re making a big mistake, Sam,’ he said. It was obviously meant as a threat but the sheriff didn’t seem to be in any position to threaten anyone at the moment.
‘Shut up,’ Bill snapped. ‘Get the keys. Release the kid.’
‘What are you planning to do?’
‘Get the keys,’ Bill insisted and prodded the sheriff’s fat belly with the eye of his Colt.
The sheriff stood his ground, though. ‘Where are my deputies?’ he asked.
‘They’re dead,’ Bill said. ‘And unless you want to be joining them you’d better spring the kid.’
‘You won’t get away with this,’ the sheriff said and again cast a glance at the old man. ‘You can’t go around killing officers of the law. You’ll swing for this. Both of you.’
‘They intended on killing me,’ Bill snapped back.’ Law ain’t supposed to go around killing people.’
‘You won’t get away with this,’ the sheriff insisted.
‘I will not tell you again, boyo,’ Bill said and leveled the Colt so that it pointed directly between the lawman’s eyes.
His finger tensed on the trigger.
The sheriff went to his desk and took the set of heavy keys from his drawer.