Here by the Bloods by Brandon Boyce Read Free Book Online Page A

ground.
    â€œWell, as if you need any more goodwill thrown your way, God bless you, son. You do the sheriff proud.” Whitlock takes my hand as he rises and gives it a hearty squeeze.
    â€œWho watches him now?” I ask.
    â€œBig Jack has the honor. He and his twelve-gauge,” Boone says.
    â€œTell Jack I will spell him come midnight.”
    â€œHe will appreciate that,” the mayor says. “As for these papers, I know you are not a reader. I would be happy to keep them in my care.”
    â€œLeave ’em,” I say.
    â€œAre you sure? It is the sheriff’s official will and testament. As executor—”
    â€œFor heaven’s sake, Walter, let the boy have his papers,” Whitlock says. “You have mightier concerns. Like how on earth do you intend to get that sonofabitch to Heavendale to stand trial? I hardly think our young friend here is up for another mule train.”
    â€œYes, I have been thinking about that,” Boone says, turning his gaze toward the window and the rising moon over the pasture. “What if he never went to Heavendale?”
    â€œWhat are you saying, Walter?” the rancher asks. “We have no magistrate.”
    â€œWe can send for one. This man committed his crimes in Caliche Bend. And it is in the Bend that justice should be served. Judge Haggerty is an old friend. I have no doubt he would agree to such a reasonable request. We can put him up at the hotel. Hell, he can stay at my place.”
    â€œWell,” Whitlock says, rubbing his hands together, “I guess with Heavendale and the Bend being part of the same county, there would be no issue of jurisdiction.”
    â€œOh, it is all perfectly legal. I have already checked. But dammit, that scoundrel should swing!” Boone barks, his face reddening. “And I will be dammed if some freethinking jury in Heavendale should decide it any other way. We cannot leave it to chance.”
    â€œThis man killed our sheriff, my friend. You really think he could escape the gallows, even in Heavendale?” Whitlock asks.
    â€œAsk yourself how you would feel if he did,” Boone says. The mayor turns from the window and slinks into a chummier tone. “You boys ever seen a hanging?”
    â€œCannot say as I have,” Whitlock frowns.
    â€œHow about you, son?” Boone says, fixing on me.
    â€œSeen what was left of a lynching once, old Mexican fella. Caught stealing the wrong chicken. Couple farmers made example of him. Left him up in that tree nearly a week. Buzzards finished off what the coyotes could not reach.”
    I figured Whitlock for a heartier man, but he goes a bit green around the gills at my story.
    â€œYes, well, we are not talking about vigilantism. We are going to keep everything aboveboard,” the mayor says.
    â€œAre we?” I ask.
    Boone settles back into his chair and folds his hands before him on the table. “I witnessed a hanging, couple years ago, down El Paso. Fellas, it was the darndest thing. A spectacle! Must have been in the hundreds, maybe thousand, Christian and heathen alike, shoulder to shoulder, like they were watching a prizefight. And the commerce! Drummers of every kind—cigars, ladies’ dresses, potions and calmatives. I tell you, if it could be sold, some drummer had a stand set up to shill it.”
    â€œGoodness, that must have been a sight,” Whitlock says, enraptured.
    â€œLike the circus had come to town.” Boone continues. “The saloon was so packed with drinkers and gamblers the proprietor had to turn people away at the door.”
    â€œCould you imagine our Merle doing such a thing? Ha! That would be the day.” The rancher is right about that. Merle would sooner lop off a toe than say no to a dollar.
    â€œAnd the hotel? Not an empty bed to be had,” Boone says. “Why, I myself stretched out on a cot set up in the parlor and felt lucky to have it. Not that anyone did any