Chapter 8

Brett was in one of those "not quite asleep, but eyes closed" relaxed states of mind with his boots up on the wooden desk in the sheriff's office when a shadow crossed the sunlit swamped opening of the front door. He opened his lids wide enough to recognize the outline of "Squawman" Bob, his half-breed drinking companion from Indian Territory. It was enough for him to ease his hand off the handle of his cross-draw six-shooter and issue a word of welcome.

"Howdy, Bob, come on in and rest your bones. I got no warrant on you so set your mind at ease."

The shifty looking hombre with the wide-brimmed sombrero glided into the office on silent moccasins cradling a Henry repeater in the crook of his arm.

"You got a sweet deal here, amigo. It sticks in my mind that not too long ago, we were both making tracks to shed that posse from our trail up north of the railhead."

Brett remembered the tense times with great clarity despite his attempts to bury the memory deep enough in a remote corner of his brain to forget it entirely. They were both lucky and managed to hook up with a band of retired lawmen out of Denver that were trying to recover a payroll stolen from the biggest silver mine in Colorado. Fortunately they didn't get too inquisitive about their past and they soon shared in the reward for disposing of the thieves and returning the cash to the rightful owners. That was the start of Brett's bounty hunting career and he never considered returning to the outlaw life as a viable option.

"Bob, I have to admit this is a swell job but this is one hell of a dangerous place to be the law. The gunhands and nasty varmints are everywhere and you need eyes in the back of your head for the back-shooters. I hope the federal marshals get off their tail up in the state capitol and get us some help to rein in the paid killers."

The half Indian with the penetrating eyes pulled a mail pouch from inside his jacket and tossed it on Brett's desk with a smirk on his face.

"I done read that thing already, sheriff. It looks like the Governor has every confidence in your ability to get this thing done by your lonesome self."

The packet did say exactly that but it also included the authority to hire a force of four additional deputies who would be funded by the state law enforcement department until the range war was cleared up enough to declare a victory for law and order. It was obvious that the politicians in the capitol were hoping to buy a win down in the lawless territory under his control.

"Let's head down to the Long Branch, Bob and get a couple of shots under our belt. Things always look a little bit brighter with some of that rotgut settling down inside. You interested in being a deputy? It is pretty good money for as long as this thing lasts and you can leave whenever you like. You can have the spare bunk at the jail and I will be sure to have Rachel over at the Reverend's bed and board to bring you a hot breakfast each morning."

Squawman Bob was noncommittal but Brett could tell he was interested as there was precious little chance of any half-breed ever finding honest work in the territory considering the ingrained hard feelings against the savages.

It was a slow night at the Long Branch but Brett noticed a few new hardcase faces over at the poker table that must have been new additions to the rancher's side in the range war. None of the settlers were so foolish as to go into the Long Branch after daylight so there was little danger of a gunfight unless some of the gun fighters had a falling out. The girls were avoiding their table because they didn't want to be seen talking to a half-breed causing them grief with their regular customers. He was just relaxing with his second shot when he saw the play setting up at the end of the bar. Two of the new hard-cases started a shouting match that he instinctively deduced was a ploy to distract his attention from the third yahoo who was already up the curved staircase and standing on the balcony almost directly above him and Bob. He nodded to Bob who was already ahead of the game and he wandered away to a position where he could cover the bar area.

It happened real fast with the two yahoos at the bar both drawing at the same time. Before they even got a chance to open fire the third member of the trio sighted his pistol down on Brett's head and started to squeeze the trigger. Bret let him have two in the gut before the hammer fell and he fell to the bar-room floor trying to make himself a real small target. It was a smart move because the incoming rounds from the bar area hit the back of his recently occupied chair.

Bob let fly all six rounds from his right hand gun and one of the yahoos at the bar fell backwards without making a single sound except a muted death rattle in his throat. Brett lined up his sights on the other one and fired only one round which entered the man's left eye and left the rear of his head taking a good portion of his brain matter with it. In the space of less than seven seconds, all three sidewinders were breathing no more and the bar was suddenly filled with shouts and cries of dismay.

Brett knew they wouldn't be visiting any of the working girls tonight after that and they slowly backed out of the place watching for any sudden movement from the rancher faction crowd. The way this thing was shaping up, it looked like he was on the side of the settlers even though his sympathies were all with the ranchers and the cattleman's way of life.

He was starting to get back to normal with his adrenalin in an acceptable range and made a point of cleaning and reloading his six-shooter while keeping the other one handy and only inches from his free hand.

Bob was squatting down in the dark corner with his back to the wall and a scatter-gun on his lap. He was smiling and humming a little tune that sounded more like an Indian chant than white man's music. The half-breed thrived on danger and he would make an ideal back-up man to help clean up this mess of a range war.