Shade kept talking. He wasn’t praying now. Instead what came out of his mouth was the vilest profanity as he heaped curses on the whole town and everyone in it. Matt reached out with the rifle and used its barrel to shove the door open.
“Come on out,” he said again, “or we’ll have to come in and get you. And we won’t be gentle about it.”
Shade spewed more obscenities. He seemed to have forgotten all about his claims of being a man of God. If he ever really had been, those days were far behind him now.
He came toward the door, raising his arms so that his clawlike hands were extended toward Matt and Sam, who kept their rifles trained on him. Shade’s long hair was tangled and matted, as if he had been running his fingers through it constantly all the time he had been locked up in there. His eyes seemed to be sunken even deeper in their sockets, and they blazed with an unholy fire.
Shade’s steps were unsteady as he emerged from the cell. Matt didn’t trust that the outlaw was really as weak and shaky as he appeared to be, though. Shade could be pretending, hoping to catch them off guard.
“Randy,” he said to Johnson, “get those shackles and leg irons Sheriff Flagg has in the cabinet.”
At the mention of the restraints, Shade’s head jerked up. He threw himself at Matt with a speed and ferocity that he hadn’t seemed capable of a second earlier.
The blood brothers were expecting that, though. In fact, Matt had spoken in the hope of goading Shade into revealing his true colors.
Before Shade could reach Matt, the barrel of Sam’s rifle came down on his head with a solid thud. Shade stumbled and went to his knees. Matt took a quick step to the side and planted a booted foot in the middle of Shade’s back, driving him facedown onto the stone floor.
He kept that foot there while he and Sam each grabbed one of Shade’s arms and forced them over his head. Johnson rushed in and snapped the shackles into place around Shade’s wrists. Once those heavy cuffs with their six-inch length of chain between them were secured, Johnson took the pair of leg irons that was draped over his shoulder and fastened them around Shade’s ankles.
The blow to the head had stunned Shade enough so that he was quiet while the restraints were being put on him. His senses came back to him, though, and he started cursing again as Matt and Sam each grasped an arm and lifted him to his feet. The outlaw was slender enough so that the blood brothers were able to handle him without much trouble.
“You reckon we’d better gag him before we take him out?” Matt asked Sam.
“It might be a good idea,” Sam said. “Otherwise, the ladies out there are going to hear things that they don’t have any business hearing.”
They took off their bandannas. Matt wadded his into a ball and shoved it into Shade’s mouth, jerking his hand back as the outlaw tried to bite his fingers. Sam used his bandanna to tie Matt’s into place.
“We’ll have to buy new ones,” Matt commented. “I don’t want that bandanna back after it’s been in the mouth of a hydrophobia skunk like Shade.”
“Ask over at the general store,” Johnson suggested. “I’ll bet the owner would replace ’em free of charge after everything you fellas have done to help the town.”
With Shade gagged, shackled, and in leg irons, Matt and Sam led him out of the jail. When they reached the street, Shade quit cooperating, and they had to drag him toward the town hall, where his trial would take place. Johnson and the other deputies surrounded them, shotguns held at the ready.
A hush fell over the crowd in the street as Matt, Sam, and the other men emerged from the jail with their prisoner. Folks stared wide-eyed at the notorious bandit leader, their expressions a mixture of curiosity, anger, and nervousness. Joshua Shade was probably the most hated man in the territory, as well as the most feared.
People stood aside to create a lane through which Matt and Sam dragged Shade. He grunted, but couldn’t force any coherent words past the gag, and his struggles didn’t avail him anything against the strong grip that the blood brothers had on him. They reached the town hall, forced him up the steps and inside the building.
The jury had already been agreed on by the lawyers, and the twelve men were seated in a row of chairs against the wall. All the other chairs were full already except for one at a table up front.
Matt and Sam recognized the elderly, white-bearded man sitting at the table as Colonel J.B. Wilmont, who was going to handle Shade’s defense. At another table sat Mayor Wiley and the town prosecutor, a slender, fair-haired man named Finch.
Sheriff Flagg was waiting beside the empty chair at the defense table. He nodded to Matt and Sam as they manhandled Shade up to the table.
“No need to sit him down yet,” the sheriff told them. “Just hang on to him for a minute, if you would.”
Flagg turned and shouted over the talking that filled the room, “Everybody hush up! All rise for the Honorable Julius Stanfield!”
As the spectators came to their feet, Stanfield emerged from a door in the back of the room and walked to the table that would serve as his bench. He carried his gavel with him. He took off his hat and placed it on the table, then banged the gavel.
“Be seated. This court will come to order.”
Matt and Sam each put a hand on Shade’s shoulder and forced him down into the empty chair. As soon as they let go of him, though, he bolted up again, grunting and thrashing and staring in pop-eyed hate toward the judge.
Stanfield banged the gavel down on the table several times and said, “Sheriff, take whatever steps are necessary to restrain the prisoner so that we can have order and decorum in this court!”
“Yes, Your Honor.” Flagg turned to Johnson. “Randy, go get a rope!”
“No need.” The voice came from Stan Hightower, who was in the front row of the spectators. “There’s a lariat on my saddle, and my horse is right outside. I’ll fetch it.”
