the Devery family. Some of them might have even been members of the group that had attacked the Texans in the livery stable.
Bo and Scratch couldn’t worry about being recognized now. If they were going to function as deputies, they couldn’t hide.
But both of them were going to feel better once they had loaded guns on their hips again.
They reached Malden’s store and went inside. As they looked over the selection of guns the storekeeper had on display, Bo asked, “Have there ever been any deputies here in Mankiller before?”
Malden looked like he didn’t want to answer that question, but finally he said, “Well, yes. And a couple of sheriffs before Biscuits—I mean Sheriff O’Brien—too.”
“What happened to ’em?” Scratch asked. “And I got a feelin’ I ain’t gonna like the answer.”
“Some of them quit,” Malden said. “They were attacked…jumped in the night and roughed up. No one knows who was responsible for that.”
“Or at least nobody wanted to admit knowing,” Bo said.
Malden shrugged. “Around here, it amounts to the same thing.”
“How about the ones who
Again, Malden hesitated before saying, “No one really knows. Maybe they left in the middle of the night. All that’s certain is that they weren’t around anymore.”
Scratch said, “What you mean is that the Deverys’ hogs got ’em.”
“If that was the case, there wouldn’t be any proof left, would there?”
Bo said, “How do you know Scratch and I won’t wind up the same way?”
“To be honest, we don’t. But we’re hoping that you and Mr. Morton will be able to take care of yourselves better than those other men.”
“Yeah, we hope so, too,” Scratch said.
Bo looked over at O’Brien, who had sat down on a cracker barrel and appeared to have dozed off. “How did Biscuits wind up being sheriff?”
“Well, as you can imagine, after everything that had happened, no one really wanted the job,” Malden explained. “Then Pa Devery came up with the idea of giving it to Biscuits. I’m not sure why. Maybe he just thought it was funny.”
“Yeah,” Scratch said. “Hilarious.”
“Anyway, Biscuits was living pretty much hand to mouth, at that point. He was glad to get the wages, plus a place to sleep.” Malden’s mouth tightened in disapproval. “He spends most nights in one of the cells, sleeping off his latest bender.”
“Does he ever try to enforce the law?”
“Not really. Sometimes the Deverys will come and get him and take him along when they confront someone who hasn’t paid them their share of the profits. I suppose they think it gives their actions an air of legitimacy, just in case any real law ever comes in here. Of course, Biscuits just does whatever the Deverys tell him.”
Bo shook his head. “Sounds like a mighty sorry situation.”
“It is,” Malden agreed. “Why do you think we were so desperate to hire the two of you? Mankiller needs to have some real law, if it’s ever going to be a real town.”
Bo wasn’t sure that goal was even possible as long as the Deverys were around. But he and Scratch would do their best, he thought as he spun the cylinder of a Colt he had picked up.
At the very least, the next time they confronted any of the Deverys, they would be armed again.
When they left the general store a few minutes later, Bo had a new Colt just like the one he had lost to the Deverys snugged in his holster. Malden didn’t have any Remingtons like the ones Scratch carried, and he assured the silver-haired Texan that Lionel Gaines didn’t carry them, either. Since Scratch couldn’t get the sort of fancy smokepoles he preferred, he had also gotten a new gun belt and holster from Malden and carried the same model Colt that Bo had.
Each of the Texans wore a new hat similar to the ones they had lost, as well. Bo recalled that there was a rack in the sheriff’s office with rifles and shotguns in it, so they had decided to wait until they could check out those weapons before deciding if they needed any more.
Biscuits O’Brien shambled along with them like some sort of drunken bear. “Still think this is a bad idea,” he muttered. “Don’t want no trouble with nobody, though.”
“Leave the trouble to us,” Bo said. “Do you know if there are any deputy badges in your desk?”
Biscuits shook his head. “Could be. I ain’t ever looked through all the drawers.”
They reached the office and went inside. Scratch went to the rifle rack right away and began checking the weapons. He found a couple of Winchesters that appeared to be in decent shape, although they really needed cleaning because they hadn’t been used for a long time.
Meanwhile, Bo went through the desk, sitting in the chair behind it while Biscuits stretched out on a lumpy sofa under the front window. “Got boxes of .44-40s for those Winchesters,” he told Scratch as he pawed through one of the drawers. He set one of the cardboard boxes of ammunition on top of the desk and resumed his search.
One of the other drawers was crammed so full of wanted posters that Bo had trouble getting it open. He pulled out the thick wads of paper and stacked the reward notices on top of the desk as well. They were turned every which direction. As Bo straightened them, he asked the sheriff, “Don’t you ever go through these?”
“Huh?” Biscuits looked from the sofa and blinked at him in confusion. “Oh, you mean all them reward dodgers. No, they just keep sendin’ ’em to me, and I shove ’em in the drawer. As long as folks behave theirselves in
