his leg to square it up, and took them back to the desk.
“I appreciate it, Sheriff,” he said as he set the stack of posters on the desk.
“Find what you were looking for?” Manning asked.
“Not really,” Bo said, “but thanks for letting me look anyway.”
Manning leaned back in his chair and regarded his visitor speculatively. “You know,” he said, “a suspicious man might wonder if you were looking through those dodgers to make sure you and that partner of yours weren’t on any of them.”
That hadn’t occurred to Bo. The thought brought a chuckle to his lips. “There’s no paper out on us, Sheriff,” he told Manning. “At least, not that I know of, and if there is, it’s a mistake. We’re peaceable, law-abiding hombres, Scratch and me.”
“Who carry guns and look like you know how to use them.”
“So do a lot of other men.”
“Other men haven’t been able to shoot it out with the Deadwood Devils and stay alive. I think I’m going to be keeping my eyes on you and Morton, Creel.”
“That’s fine,” Bo said. “We won’t be in town for long, though. We’re headed back to the Golden Queen mine tomorrow to pick up another shipment of gold.”
“Good luck,” Manning said. He added dryly, “You’re liable to need it.”
Bo left the sheriff ’s office and walked to the Bella Union. He found Scratch and Chloride at the bar in the large, ornate saloon. The fire that had raged through the eastern end of Deadwood the year before had almost reached this far, but it had stopped just short of the Bella Union, sparing the saloon.
“Get your
Bo nodded. “I did. Did you get your thirst taken care of?”
“I’m workin’ on it.” Chloride lifted the half-full mug of beer in front of him and drained the rest of the amber liquid in one long swallow. As he thumped the empty onto the hardwood, he wiped the back of his other hand across his whiskery mouth and then let out a loud belch. “There. I reckon that’ll do the job.”
Scratch finished off his own beer. “You ready to go?” he asked Bo.
“Yeah.”
They had left their horses temporarily at the livery stable. Bo mounted up, then gave Chloride a hand climbing on behind him. The three of them rode up the gulch to the old-timer’s cabin. An icy wind whistled along the creek.
“Got a hunch winter’s comin’ early this year,” Chloride commented. “We’re liable to see snow before Thanksgivin’.”
“I hope not,” Scratch said. “I got to find a wild turkey for Sue Beth to cook up for the feast.”
“We’ll keep our eyes open,” Bo told him. “There are bound to be a few gobblers left around here.”
The old cabin was dark and quiet when they reached their destination. Bo and Scratch kept their hands near their guns until Chloride had the candle lit, just in case anybody was lurking around who shouldn’t be. The old-timer poked up the ashes in the stove and got a fire burning again to take some of the chill out of the air.
On a cold night like this, the best thing to do was curl up in some blankets and sleep. The Texans spread their bedrolls and turned in pretty quickly, followed shortly by Chloride. They would be up before dawn to get ready for the trip back up the gulch to the mine.
Long years of experience had gotten both Bo and Scratch in the habit of sleeping lightly. It didn’t take much to wake them. The slightest unusual sound or any other warning of potential danger would do it.
In this case it was a smell. Bo didn’t know how long he had been asleep when his eyes suddenly opened. Instantly he was fully awake. His life had depended on just such a swift reaction too many times for it to be otherwise. He lifted his head and sniffed the air.
The sharp tang he smelled was familiar, and as he recognized it, he threw the blankets off and reached for his boots. “Scratch!” he said in an urgent whisper.
“I smell it,” the silver-haired Texan replied in the same tone. “Coal oil!”
“Yeah. Wake Chloride, but try to keep him quiet. We don’t want the varmints to know we’re awake just yet.”
There was only one explanation for the smell of coal oil being so strong inside the cabin. Somebody was splashing the stuff around outside, soaking the walls with it, getting ready to burn the cabin to the ground . . . with Bo, Scratch, and Chloride inside it. The citizens of Deadwood would probably think the candle or an overturned lantern had started the blaze, but in reality, it would be pure murder.
If the men outside got away with it. Bo didn’t intend to let that happen.
Moving quietly, he pulled on his boots, buckled on his gunbelt, shrugged into his coat, and picked up his hat and Winchester. As he moved toward the door, he heard the soft whisper as Scratch tried to wake Chloride as quietly as possible, so they could take the would-be arsonists by surprise.
That didn’t work. Chloride came up off his bunk sputtering and yelling. “What is it? Who’s there? Injuns! Don’t let ’em scalp you—”
Just as Bo reached the door, he heard a man’s harsh voice outside, ordering, “Light it up!” Bo grabbed the door and jerked it open.
A sheet of fire roared up in his face.
