Storm's Thunder by Brandon Boyce Read Free Book Online Page A

how easy it would be for the native to run or commandeer the shotgun or—producing a weapon that he surely held somewhere under that Navajo blanket draped about him—commit any number of bloody violations upon his captor.
    But Big Jack Early was not the type of lawman who favored manacles. In fact, he’d have to do some digging around the station even to find a pair. Besides, it was just the drunkard, Saulito. Jack had arrested him twice already, and he’d only been sheriff for a few months.
    * * *
    â€œExcuse me, Sheriff,” Cross said, “is that native in custody?”
    â€œWell,” Big Jack eyeing the little brown man with some curiosity, “why don’t you tell me who’s asking and I’ll decide if I’m answering.”
    â€œQuite right, sir. I apologize for my impertinence.” Cross produced a small leather wallet, opened it, and held it up for Big Jack to see. “I am Jacob Cross. Bureau of Indian Affairs.” Jack’s eyes focused on the gold badge, the likes of which he’d never seen, but he knew it was far more substantial than the cheap tin he’d special ordered for himself from the Woolworth catalog.
    â€œIndian Affairs? Golly. You here all the way from Washington?”
    Cross carried with him at all times, a second, irrefutable credential, but he would not need that, not with this hayseed sheriff.
    â€œI am here on official business, sir, but as this man in your charge is clearly Native, his violation of the law is also my business.”
    â€œThis here’s Saulito. Ain’t nothing but a harmless Navajo, what comes down from the hills now and then to get his drunk of tizwin. Merle found him sitting out in his vegetable patch, eating carrots straight out of the ground.”
    â€œA crop stealer. I’ll note that in my records.”
    â€œOh, it’s hardly stealing. Hell, Merle’d give him the carrots if he knew how to speak Navajo.” Big Jack already had a bad feeling about the stranger. But when the second man—the one wearing a noose like a bandolier—fell in behind him, Big Jack knew things had taken an ominous turn.
    â€œSheriff, you have in your possession a White Mountain Apache, making him neither Navajo, nor harmless.”
    â€œApache? He don’t look like no Apache I ever seen. Hair’s all wrong. Moccasins all wrong.” Big Jack pinched Saulito’s blanket. “And I know a Navajo weave when I see it. Now what makes you so sure he’s Apache?”
    Cross said something to Saulito in a native language. The Indian muttered a response.
    â€œBecause he just told me.” Cross had spotted the irregularities in the Indian’s clothes from the first moment. But the definitive reason Cross knew him for Apache—a reason he would not share with the gathering crowd—was that he could smell the difference. The Apache have a stink all their own. Cross cleared his throat. “And as this Apache is very far from home, you may remand the prisoner to me. It shall be my duty to escort him back to San Carlos personally. I take full responsibility. You are free to keep your jail cell available for those who need it. I’m sure it sees ample use in this town. Mister Van Zant?” Van Zant stepped forward.
    â€œNow hold on just a minute,” Big Jack finding his legs. Van Zant stopped. “I’m still sheriff of this town, and I’ll decide when my prisoner gets released.” Van Zant’s eyes narrowed, both men considering twelve-gauge options. Cross touched his associate on the shoulder and Van Zant slackened.
    â€œYou would be Sheriff James Early. ‘Big Jack,’ as you’re known in Calich’ Bend.”
    â€œCal-EE-chi,” Jack correcting.
    â€œApologies, Sheriff. I may be a stranger, but I mean no disrespect to your office. As I’m sure you mean no disrespect to mine. We are both public servants, entrusted with legal authority.