Bo had barely gotten settled down in the office when he heard the gun-thunder from somewhere not too far away. He bolted up from the chair, grabbing the shotgun from the desk. He was certain that the shots had come from the direction of the hotel, and Scratch had gone over there just a few minutes earlier. It was possible that somebody had been laying in wait to ambush him.

Bo took a couple of steps toward the door of the sheriff’s office, then stopped short. A grimace pulled at his mouth. Every instinct in his body called out for him to go to the aid of his old friend, but at the same time, alarm bells rang loudly in his brain.

Someone might be waiting in the darkness for him to yank the door open and rush out of the office, making a perfect target of himself as he was silhouetted by the light behind him. Or it might not be a lone rifleman lurking, but rather several killers armed with shotguns, ready to blast him out of existence.

And with him out of the way, Bo thought, it would be an easy matter for Jackson Devery to waltz in here and let his sons and nephew out of jail.

Bo knew he couldn’t allow that to happen. Deep trenches appeared in his cheeks as he heard a Greener roar, followed by more shots from a handgun. All he could do was pray that Scratch was all right.

Maybe the ruckus didn’t have anything to do with Scratch, Bo told himself. Mankiller was known far and wide as a boomtown, the sort of town where hell was in session nearly twenty-four hours a day. True, the settlement had been surprisingly peaceful today, but Bo suspected that was because everybody was sort of in a state of shock over the idea that somebody would actually stand up to the Deverys. That attitude would wear off, probably sooner rather than later, and Mankiller would return to its wild, wicked ways.

But even though Bo knew that made sense, he couldn’t bring himself to believe. The same instincts that wanted to send him charging out the door told him that Scratch was right in the middle of all that flying lead.

The shooting had stopped now, Bo realized grimly. But what that meant, he didn’t know.

“Hey! Hey, Creel! You hear them shots?”

That was Thad Devery’s voice coming from the cell block, through the barred window in the door between the two parts of the building. Bo’s head turned in that direction. His lips pulled back from his teeth in a savage snarl.

“That was the other old fool dyin’! You know that, don’t you, Creel? Why don’t you go and try to help him? See what that gets you! Haw haw haw!”

The donkeylike bray of laughter was all Bo could stand. He strode across the room, grabbing the key ring along the way, and unlocked the cell block door. The other two Deverys were laughing now, too, but Bo didn’t pay any attention to them.

Instead he stopped and swung the shotgun up, leveling the twin barrels as he aimed through the bars at Thad’s face. The laughter stopped like it had been chopped off by an ax. Thad’s eyes widened so much the whites showed all the way around the pupils. He had been standing beside the bunk. Now, he collapsed onto it as all the color washed from his face. His wounded arm bumped the wall and it must have hurt like blazes, but he didn’t seem to notice.

Bo squinted over the barrels and slowly cocked both hammers on the weapon, one and then the other. Thad panted in terror. A dark stain began to spread over the crotch of his jeans.

“Please,” he moaned. “Please don’t.”

“Damn it, deputy, no!” one of the other Deverys said behind Bo. “You can’t just shoot him down like adog!”

“Yeah,” Bo said through gritted teeth. “Yeah, I could. It’d be easy.”

“You…you’d n-never forgive yourself!” Thad stammered in desperation.

A smile as cold as a blue norther blowing through the Texas Panhandle spread across Bo’s face. “You stupid little chickenshit,” he said. “I could blow your brains out and never lose a minute’s sleep over it the rest of my life.”

Thad must have known that Bo was telling the truth. He covered his eyes with a trembling hand and sat there shaking as he started to cry. Neither of the other prisoners said anything now, as if they were afraid that the slightest sound would cause Bo’s finger to tighten just a little more on those triggers. That was all it would take. Just a little squeeze…

A fist pounded on the office door. “Bo! Bo, it’s me! Lemme in!”

Bo dragged a deep breath into his lungs, slowly as if a great weight was pressing against his chest. Then he lowered the shotgun and carefully put the hammers back down.

“You’re a lucky man, Thad,” he said.

Thad continued to cry. The stink in the room was ample evidence that he had done more than piss himself in his terror.

Bo swung around, glanced at the other prisoners. They drew back like they’d unexpectedly found themselves standing on the brink of a long drop. Bo walked out of the cell block and slammed the door behind him.

“Hang on,” he called through the door to Scratch as he set the Greener on the desk. “I’ll take the bar off the door. Are you all right?”

“Yeah,” Scratch replied. “Open up and I’ll tell you about it.”

Bo grunted as he lifted the bar from its brackets and set it aside. He unlocked the door and swung it open. Scratch came in, not wasting any time in doing it. He knew as well as Bo did what a good target a man made when he was standing in a lighted doorway.

Bo shut the door, turned the key in the lock, and set the bar back in place. Scratch said, “I reckon you heard the shots?”

“I did. I knew you had to be right in the middle of them, too.”

“Damn straight. There were bushwhackers waitin’ in the alley outside the window of my hotel room. They made a mess of the place, but the only thing that got me was a piece of flyin’ glass when the window broke.” Scratch touched a small smear of dried blood on his tanned, leathery cheek. “Reckon I made things hot enough for ’em that they gave up and lit a shuck.”

“Did you get a look at them?”

Scratch shook his head. “Nope. Never saw anything except muzzle flashes.”

“Bound to have been the Deverys, though.”

“Bound to,” the silver-haired Texan agreed. “Unless it was friends of that fella Murdock and those other hombres we had to shoot.”

Bo ran a thumbnail along his jawline as he frowned in thought. “Yeah, I suppose it could’ve been something like that. My money’s on the Deverys, though.”

“Yeah, mine, too. When you heard the shootin’, your first impulse was go chargin’ out there, wasn’t it?”

Bo grunted. “Well, sure. I figured you were in trouble.”

“And that old man Devery’s cunnin’ enough to know that. You done the right thing by stayin’ forted up in here, Bo.”

“Yeah,” Bo said with a hint of bitterness in his voice. “I know that, but it wouldn’t have helped much if it turned out you were dead.”

Scratch grinned. “But I ain’t. I’m hale and hearty as ever. So don’t lose no sleep over it.”

“I don’t intend to. I reckon you’re planning to stay here the rest of the night?”

Scratch pointed at the sofa with his thumb. “It’s probably a mite lumpy, but one of us can sleep there while the other stays awake and on guard. Sound like a good idea to you?”

“It does,” Bo agreed. “And we’d better get used to it, too. We may have to keep it up until everything is settled.” He looked toward the back room, where the sound of Biscuits O’Brien’s snores continued unabated. “Because I don’t think we’re going to be getting any help any time soon.”

The rest of the night passed quietly. With the impending war between the Texans and the Deverys, it seemed that the rest of the troublemakers in the settlement were content to hold their hell-raising in abeyance, at least for the time being. Bo knew that wouldn’t last, but he was grateful for any break that he and Scratch could get.

Early the next morning, while Bo was brewing a pot of coffee, Biscuits O’Brien stumbled out of the back room groaning and holding his head. Scratch pulled out the chair at the desk and let Biscuits slump into it. The sheriff rested his elbows on the desk and ran his fingers through his tangled hair.

“Damn it, somebody make the room stop spinnin’!”

“The room’s still, Sheriff, I’m afraid it’s your head,” Bo told him. “I’ll have the coffee ready in a minute, if you’d like a cup.”

Biscuits groaned again. “I don’t want any coffee. Damn it, I’m already too sober!” He yanked a drawer open and started to paw through it. “Where’s my bottle?” His voice grew more desperate. “Where’s my bottle? Where’s it gone?”

“Take it easy,” Bo said. “It’s still there.”

“Ah!” Biscuits snatched at something in the drawer and brought up the half-full bottle of whiskey. “Thank the Lord!”

Scratch reached over and took the bottle out of his hand before Biscuits could pull the cork. Biscuits let out a startled yelp and stared at Scratch as if the silver-haired Texan had just grown a second head.

“What the hell are you doin’? Gimme that back!”

Biscuits tried to lunge up out of the chair and reach for the bottle, but he moaned and fell back. His hands clutched the edge of the desk in a death grip like the world was about to throw him off if he didn’t hang on for dear life.

“I’m gonna be sick. Oh, hell, I’m gonna be sick. Help me into one of the cells. I gotta lay down.”

“You can’t go in the cells,” Bo said. “They’re occupied.”

“That’s what we wanted to tell you,” Scratch added. “That’s why you need to wait on that eye-opener. Your brain don’t need to be all muddled up right now.”

“Occupied?” Biscuits muttered. “You mean…we got prisoners locked up?”

“That’s right,” Bo said.

Biscuits pulled at his hair again. “I wondered why I woke up on that cot. The bunks in the cells are comfort…comfortabler.”

“That ain’t a word,” Scratch said.

“Shut up and gimme that damn bottle! Who’s the sheriff here?”

Scratch held the bottle out of reach. Bo said, “You’re the sheriff, Biscuits. That’s why you need to think straight. We have prisoners. Important prisoners.”

Biscuits stared at him out of bleary eyes. “Who?”

“Thad, Reuben, and Simeon Devery.”

The sheriff’s eyes got wide, although not as wide as Thad’s had been the night before when Bo pointed the shotgun at him. “Deverys!” Biscuits exploded. “You can’t lock up any of the Deverys!”

“Too late,” Scratch said with a grin. “We already went and done it.”

“But…but why?”

“They went loco—or just crazy mean—and started wrecking one of the whorehouses,” Bo explained. “Bella’s Place.”

Biscuits panted. Sweat coated his face. “That…that ain’t no reason to arrest ’em. Pa Devery would’ve made good the damages.”

“Really?” Scratch asked doubtfully.

“Well…no, prob’ly not. He prob’ly would’ve told Bella to go suck an egg.”

“That’s not all,” Bo went on. “They pistol-whipped a man who works for Bella—”

“George? Good ol’ George?” Biscuits interrupted.

“That’s right.”

“Is he hurt bad?”

“I reckon he’ll be all right, but what they did to him is assault and attempted murder. They could’ve killed him easy enough. And then Thad drew on me, which is attempted murder of a peace officer.”

“He didn’t shoot you, did he?”

“Nope.” Bo took a sip of the coffee he had just poured in a cup. “Because I shot him first.”

“Son of a bitch! You shot a Devery?”

“Yep.”

“Is he…” Biscuits swallowed and had to force himself to finish the question with a visible effort. “Is he dead?”

“No, he’s just got a busted wing. But he won’t be wrecking a whorehouse or trying to shoot a lawman, or anybody else, for that matter, any time soon.”

Biscuits closed his eyes and breathed heavily for a moment. Then he said, “I didn’t think things could get any worse, but I reckon they have. We got to let those boys go right now.”

Scratch shook his head. “Can’t do that, Sheriff. They’re under arrest. A judge’ll have to rule before we can release ’em.”

“Judge?” Biscuits shrilled. “What judge? There ain’t no judge around here but the circuit rider, and he won’t be back for weeks!”

Bo said, “There’s going to be an election. Mankiller’s going to elect a judge, along with a mayor and a town council. Things are going to be run properly around here from now on.”

Biscuits stared at him for a few seconds, then said, “I get it now. You’re crazier’n I am! Just a couple of crazy old coots who think you’re real lawmen! There ain’t no such thing in these parts. There’s only the Deverys.”

“Not anymore,” Bo said. “The decent people in town—and there are enough of them to make a difference, whether you believe that or not—have had enough. There may not be anything we can do right now about the Deverys collecting half of what everybody makes, but at least we can stop them from running roughshod over the whole settlement and everybody else in these parts.”

“And while we’re puttin’ a stop to the Deverys’ shenanigans, we’ll clean up the rest of the hellholes around here, too,” Scratch added. “Mankiller’s gonna be a safe place to live.”

“You two really have been chewin’ locoweed, haven’t you?” Biscuits muttered.

Bo smiled. “I’ll tell you something even more loco, Biscuits…you’re going to help us.”

Biscuits started shaking his head. “Oh, no. No, you’re in this mess on your own. I don’t want any part of it!”

“It’s too late for that. You’re the sheriff. Thad and those other boys were arrested on your watch. Jackson Devery’s going to blame you for what happened, too.”

Biscuits shot up out of his chair, and this time he made it. “No!” he cried. He pawed at the badge pinned to his vest and finally succeeded in ripping it free. He threw it on the desk, where it bounced off and landed in the floor with a tinny clatter. “I won’t be the sheriff anymore! I quit! I’m done, you hear me?”

Scratch bent and picked up the badge. He rubbed it against his shirt to get the dust off it. “Don’t reckon you can do that, Biscuits,” he said. “Leastways, not yet.”

Biscuits stared at him in disbelief. “You’re sayin’ I can’t quit my job?”

“There’s no one in authority to accept your resignation,” Bo pointed out. “If you really want to quit, you’ll have to wait until after the election. Then you can turn in your resignation to the town council.”

It was a flimsy excuse and Bo knew it, but he was counting on Biscuits’s head hurting too much for the sheriff to think it through.

That was what happened. Biscuits slumped back into the chair and pulled a little more hair out. By the time the Texans left Mankiller—if they lived to do so—he was liable to be bald as an egg, Bo thought.

“What am I gonna do?” Biscuits asked miserably. “What am I gonna do?”

“Is there any chance you can stay sober? If there is, you can stay here and guard the prisoners while Scratch and I deal with bringing law and order to the rest of the town. You’ll have to keep a clear head, though. The Deverys are liable to try some tricks.”

“Stay…sober?” Biscuits repeated, sounding so uncomprehending that he might as well have been speaking a foreign language.

“That’s right. If you can do that, Biscuits, you’ve got a chance to be a real lawman, whether you think that’s possible or not.”

“I dunno.” Biscuits licked his lips. “I could sure use a drink to help me think.”

Scratch shook his head. “If you’re gonna help us out, Biscuits, you’ve taken your last drink for a while.”

“No! Oh, God…no, I can’t, I just can’t…”

Someone knocked on the front door and interrupted Biscuits’s moaning.

Bo and Scratch turned quickly in that direction, their hands going to their guns. “Who’s there?” Bo called.

“It’s Lucinda Bonner,” a pleasant female voice answered. “Harlan Green told me that you’re living in there now, so I took the liberty of bringing your breakfast over to you. I have flapjacks and bacon and scrambled eggs—”

Biscuits made a gagging, choking sound and bolted out of the chair. He flung himself at the door to the back room and disappeared in there. Hideous sounds filled the office until Bo closed the door, muffling them somewhat. Scratch shook his head and said, “Hope he found a bucket in time.”

“Goodness gracious,” Lucinda said when Bo unlocked the door and opened it for her, so she could carry a large tray filled with covered plates into the office. “What was that racket?”

“Nothing for you to worry about, ma’am,” Bo assured her. “Sheriff O’Brien’s just, uh, not very hungry right now.”

“But that’s all right,” Scratch added with a grin. “More for us that way!”