Thad carried on even more while that was going on, and screamed like a little girl when Weathers set the broken bone. The doctor put splints in place on both sides of the arm and then wrapped it securely. By the time that was finished, Thad’s head had fallen back on the bunk, and he appeared to have passed out.
“Good work, Doctor,” Bo said as he closed the cell door behind Weathers. “Fella called George down at Bella’s place is in need of your services, too.”
Weathers nodded and said, “So I’ve heard. That’s where I’m going now.”
The two of them went out into the office. Bo closed the cell block door. Weathers paused beside the desk to look down at the still-snoring Biscuits and shake his head.
“He never should have been made the sheriff. As long as he didn’t have a regular job, he never had enough money to drink constantly, like he does now. And I’m convinced that Jackson Devery slips him some extra, just to make sure that he never sobers up and tries to actually enforce the law.”
“Well, that’s changed now, ain’t it?” Scratch said.
“Yes…for now. But if I was you, I’d be sure to make the acquaintance of—”
“Sam Bradfield,” Bo and Scratch said in unison.
Weathers didn’t smile, but grim amusement twinkled in his pale blue eyes. “I see I’m not the only one who’s given you that particular bit of advice.” He nodded to them as he went to the door. “Good night, gentlemen. I hope you’re still alive come morning.”
“What do you mean by that?” Bo asked.
“I mean that when Jackson Devery hears that his boys are behind bars, he may not wait until the sun comes up to declare open war on you two.”
When the doctor was gone, Bo went over to the desk and gripped Biscuits’s shoulder. Giving it a good hard shake, he said, “Sheriff! Sheriff, wake up!”
Biscuits’s head lolled back and forth while Bo was shaking him, but as soon as Bo stopped, a particularly loud snore issued from the mouth of the sleeping man. Scratch laughed.
“You’ve got a real chore in front of you, Bo, if you figure on wakin’ him up any time soon. What’s wrong with just lettin’ him sleep it off right where he is?”
“Nothing, I suppose,” Bo said. “But if there’s trouble, we’ll have to worry about him getting hit by a stray bullet.”
“There’s a cot in the back room, right? Why don’t we pick him up and put him back there? At least he’d be out of the way.”
Bo nodded. “I reckon that’s the best thing we can do. You want his feet or his head?”
“I’ll take his feet. There’s probably so much whiskey on his breath it’d make a man tipsy just to get too close to him.”
They pulled the chair back and took hold of Biscuits. He was dead weight as they lifted him and carried him into the back room, which was so narrow there was room for the cot but not much more. When they lowered him onto it, Biscuits stirred slightly and muttered something completely unintelligible, then started sawing wood again.
“And that’s our boss,” Scratch said.
As they went into the front room, they heard a rising tide of loud voices in the street outside. The Texans looked at each other, and Scratch said, “That don’t sound good.”
“We’d better see what it’s all about,” Bo said.
Scratch went to the gun rack and took down one of the Greeners. “Don’t open that door yet,” he advised. “Not until I load up this street-sweeper.”
He brought the shotgun to the desk, broke it open, and took shells from a drawer to load it. Bo said, “That’s a good idea,” and followed suit, lifting down one of the scatterguns for himself. No matter how arrogant and angry a man might be, facing the double barrels of a shotgun would make him stop and think twice about doing anything foolish.
When the Texans were well armed, Bo nodded to Scratch, who grasped the doorknob and turned it. They stepped out onto the porch, and a sudden hush fell over the street.
A man stood with his back turned toward the jail, facing the crowd. His arms were raised as if he had been haranguing the onlookers. Now he lowered them and turned slowly.
Bo had already recognized the man from his size and white hair as Jackson Devery, so he wasn’t surprised to see the hatchet face of the clan’s patriarch. A quick scan of the crowd didn’t reveal Luke or anyone else Bo recognized as a Devery. Their leader appeared to have come alone to the jail.
“What do you want, Devery?” Bo asked curtly.
A muscle in Devery’s tightly clenched jaw jumped a little as he pointed at the jail and said, “You got two of my boys and my nephew locked up in there.”
“That’s right, we do.”
“Well, what the hell’s wrong with you?” Devery thundered. “Let ’em out!”
Bo shook his head. “We can’t do that. They’re under arrest for assault, destruction of property, and attempted murder.”
“Murder?” Devery roared.
“They pistol-whipped a fella who works in the establishment they tore up.”
Devery waved that away. “You mean a darky who works in a damn whorehouse! Nobody cares about that!”
