“You wouldn’t,” he said.
“Obstructing justice,” I said.
Rusty peered out, and then swung the door open.
“You got two choices. Leave now, or let yourself get frisked before you get taken to the boy. If you’re carrying guns or tools or keys, I’ll toss you in there with him.”
I thought that feller was going to explode, but he didn’t. He steered Queen out, and Rusty and me stood at the door a moment, watching the Braggs vamoose. They crossed the square and vanished somewhere.
“It ain’t over,” Rusty said.
“You mind watching the place? I’m going out there.”
“You’re crazy. They’re fixing to bust King out.”
“I think they were. But not now. Admiral thought he’d slip something to his boy. I’m going to wander into the Sampling Room.”
Rusty stared. “You’re crazy, Cotton. We’re in the middle of a jailbreak. What if they grab you and hold you hostage? Trade you for King Bragg?”
“Don’t do it. No trades. That’s an order. No matter what they threaten, just don’t.”
Dusty sighed. “Good way to get yourself kilt.”
“Where’s DeGraff?”
“He’s coming in at six.”
“All right, you’ve got the afternoon to kill. Talk to King. Maybe you’ll find out some things.”
“He’ll just tell me he’s pure as the driven snow,” Rusty said.
“He might be at that, Rusty.”
The deputy started wheezing. He thought that was pretty rich.
“Truth to tell, Rusty, I’m kinda itchy about this. I wish the trial had got into things a little better. Maybe the Bragg boy’s being hustled to a grave he don’t belong in.”
“He belonged in one by the time he was eleven,” Rusty said.
Rusty let me out. Doubtful was pretty quiet. It sure was a nice May day. There was a knot of horses down at the end of Wyoming Street, and most would be Anchor branded. I started with a sweep around the courthouse square, thinking it would make sense to look for surprises. I poked down alleys, looked into mercantile windows, and checked brands of horses. But I sure didn’t spot nothing amiss. I stopped in the courthouse, waved at yawning clerks, and peered into empty rooms, and then hiked out the main drag, Wyoming, toward Saloon Row. But I didn’t go into the Sampling Room. Not yet. I wanted to see what else was going on there. Like maybe a bunch of horses at the hitch rail in front of the Last Chance. There was only two or three nags there; not much happening in Upward’s watering hole. He was probably sitting on a stool there polishing the bar, which is what he did when there wasn’t anything else to occupy him. I liked Upward. One of these days he’d pour me a free drink. It hadn’t happened in three years, but it would. If Upward liked you, you could drink cheap.
Mrs. Gladstone’s Sampling Room was long and narrow, with double doors in front and a skinny bar down the right side. There was a row of tables along the other wall, and a sort of poker parlor at the rear, with a door going out to the two-hole piss palace. Only her customers never got that far. They mostly leaked into the alley, which didn’t improve the way things smelled around Doubtful.
I pulled open the door and stepped in. It sure was dark. Mrs. Gladstone, she hadn’t lit any lamps yet because the sun was still shining, and enough light got through the window in front to let her pour. She was behind the bar, not doing much of anything, wearing her usual white smock and one of them white thingamabobs on her hair to keep it from flying in all directions. But pretty near the whole payroll of Anchor Ranch was in there, all right. I didn’t see Admiral Bragg, or Queen, but the rest was lined up in a long solemn row down the bar, one foot to the rail, and a few was sitting at the tables. Her dealer, Cronk, sat at the rear, presiding over an empty green table with a single lamp burning to supply light to players. But he sure didn’t have no customers.
The place was uncommon quiet. Most of them slicks didn’t even have a bottle of Valley Tan in front of them. They was just standing there: Alvin Ream, Big Nose George, Spitting Sam. They was carrying sidearms, all right. There was a lot of metal hanging off of one or both thighs. Well, there was no law against it in Doubtful.
They looked me over, and I looked them over, and one thing was clear. The whole bunch of them was waiting for something.
TEN
Well, they sure weren’t missing anything about me. All them dudes was studying me like I was an anarchist or something. Their gazes was drifting toward my handgun, studying my boots for hideouts, checking the back of my neck for knives in easy reach.
Well, screw ’em. I spotted an opening between Big Nose George and Spitting Sam, and bellied up.
“Good afternoon, gents,” I said.
Mrs. Gladstone, she sort of sidled toward me, like maybe she wanted to steer clear of any lead flying in my direction.
“Red-eye, ma’am,” I said.
“Nice to see you, Sheriff. You hardly ever drop in.”
“Orderly place, ma’am. Sampling Room’s always quiet. Anchor Ranch folks are all model citizens.”
I was layin’ it on pretty thick, but no one smiled any. She brought the brown bottle and settled it in front of me,
