everybody?”
Bickford sighed. “I’m afraid Ambrose doesn’t have much patience with people. He’s very devoted to his job, you understand, and he can’t stand the idea of anything or anyone keeping him from doing it to his fullest.”
“If he keeps that up, somebody’s going to take offense and draw on him.”
Bickford shook his head. “It would be a real shame if that happened. Ambrose is pretty fast on the draw himself, you see. In fact, I’ve never come across anybody faster. I’m not sure even your friend Bodine could beat him.” The pudgy little special marshal brightened. “Luckily, we’ll never have to find out, because you and Bodine are law-abiding citizens, aren’t you, Sam?”
“We try to be,” Sam allowed.
“And now that you’re a fellow lawman, well, I’m sure there won’t be any trouble. In fact, if we need a hand while we’re here in town, we’ll be able to count on you, won’t we?”
Sam didn’t care for the question, but he had to nod. “Sure. How long do you plan to be here?”
“I suppose that’ll depend on what the doctor says about our prisoners. If he thinks they’re fit to travel, we’ll probably pull out later today and get started to Wichita. If not, I guess we’ll wait a few days and let them get stronger.”
Sam nodded again. He knew that Marshal Coleman wanted Bickford, Porter, and the others out of Cottonwood as soon as possible, so he hoped the doctor would say the prisoners were all right to travel now.
“Ambrose has gone to find the doctor,” Bickford went on. “We should know something soon.”
“It would be a good idea if you kept Marshal Coleman informed about what you’re doing.”
“Of course.” Bickford’s head bobbed up and down in a nod. “We always try to cooperate with the local law.”
Sam didn’t figure that Porter cooperated with anybody, but he didn’t say that.
“Say, did Coleman tell you to keep an eye on the wagons?” Bickford went on.
“That’s right.”
“It’s not necessary, you know. We always have at least two men standing guard.”
“Yes, I can see that, but since that’s what he told me to do…”
“Of course, of course. Wouldn’t want you to disobey orders, especially your first day on the job!” Bickford raised a hand in farewell. “Well, see you later. I’m going to go find a cafe and get a cup of coffee. Nothing like a hot cup of belly wash!”
The amiable little special marshal walked off toward Main Street. Sam moved into the shade of a cottonwood, leaned against a tree trunk, crossed his arms over his chest, and settled down to watch the wagons as Marshal Coleman had told him to do.
The moaning and cursing that came from inside the wagons brought a frown to Sam’s face after only a few minutes. Not so much the profanities, but the sounds of men in pain bothered him. He stood it for a while, but eventually he straightened from his casual pose against the tree and walked toward the wagons.
One of the guards saw him coming and stepped out to meet him. The man was rawboned and had a lantern jaw with dark stubble on it. He held a Winchester at a slant across his narrow chest.
“You best hold it right there, mister,” he warned as Sam came closer.
Sam stopped. “I’m a deputy, too.”
The man shook his head. “You ain’t a special deputy workin’ for the governor, like I am, so that means you ain’t squat as far as I’m concerned. Marshal Porter said nobody was to come around them prisoners, and that means nobody.”
“Sounds like some of them are in pretty bad shape.”
A leer stretched the guard’s thin-lipped mouth. “Never you mind about what kinda shape they’re in. They got what was comin’ to ’em, the damn moonshiners!”
“You never took a drink yourself?” Sam asked sharply.
The way the guard glared and then suddenly, furtively, ran his tongue over his lips told Sam that the man had indeed taken a drink in the past. He could have used one right now, in fact.
But then a stubborn expression came over the guard’s face, and he said, “That ain’t none o’ your business. Just back off, or when Marshal Porter gets here, I’ll tell him to arrest you, too!”
“Shouldn’t he have been back by now with the doctor?”
“That ain’t none o’ my concern.” The guard started to swing the muzzle of his rifle in Sam’s direction. “Now skedaddle, or—”
The face of one of the prisoners appeared in the small, barred window on the side of the lead wagon. The window was set so high that the man must have had to pull himself up somehow.
“Mister!” he cried in a wretched voice. “Mister, you gotta help us!”
The guard whipped around and yelled, “You get away from that window, you bastard!”
The prisoner was looking straight at Sam. “They’re gonna murder us! You gotta help!”
“I said shut up, damn you!” The guard lunged at the wagon. Sam followed and saw that the prisoner was holding on to the bars, supporting himself that way. Then the guard lashed out with his rifle, slamming the barrel against the bars and smashing the prisoner’s fingers. The man screeched in pain and dropped out of sight.
“You probably broke his fingers!” Sam exclaimed angrily.
