Wyoming Slaughter by William W. Johnstone Read Free Book Online Page A

I’ll lock you up safe and sound.”
    That started the crew laughing, but Bully Bowler stuffed out an arm and grabbed my shirt and yanked me forward. I hadn’t seen it coming. Then the manager’s iron arm shoved me backward, over the table, spilling coffee cups, plates, dead food, and silver. I landed on the far side, sprang up, and bulled into Bowler. I heard other patrons screaming. The floor was littered with food and tableware.
    I hammered at the man. It was like hitting the door of a safe. Bully Bowler simply grinned, let me discover what I faced, and then lowered the boom. A few pops with those ham hands, a knee to the groin, a couple of elbows, and I was sprawled on the dining room carpet, discovering hurts I never knew I could enjoy and hearing the screech of waitresses and hotel guests. But Bully didn’t quit. A few kicks with his boots caught my ribs. And that was the signal for his four henchmen to join the act. Every time I tried to get up, or fight, all five of them got in their licks. And I got the arithmetic lesson, and quit.
    â€œSome sheriff you are, Pickens,” Bully said, grinning.
    I was more interested in all the ways I hurt than in my reputation.
    â€œGimme that rag,” Bully said, and one of the henchmen handed him a tablecloth. Swiftly, Bully wrapped me in it and yanked another cloth from another table, and wrapped that around me until I was wrapped in a winding sheet that was tied tight with anything handy, including scarves and belts. I was as helpless in my cloth prison as if I’d been lowered into a grave. My arms were pinned so tight I couldn’t get any purchase on anything, and my legs were wrapped to close that I couldn’t even bend them.
    â€œLet’s show the town what kind of sheriff it’s got,” Bully said cheerfully.
    One of the ranch hands pulled the pins out of a hinge and freed the wooden door into the kitchen. They loaded me on the door, and the pallbearers lifted the catafalque and marched into the bitter cold. One of those hands settled my hat on my chest as the cortege proceeded up Wyoming Street, through the heart of town, past the shops and eateries, straight up the one street where no one would miss the show, and toward the Courthouse Square, my sheriff office, and jail.
    It might be December, but people flooded to windows and opened doors to view the horrible sight.
    â€œIs he dead?” someone shouted.
    â€œMight as well be,” someone else said.
    I eyed Mayor Waller and then spotted Turk, the livery owner, and watched Hubert Sanders watching the spectacle from his bank window. I saw Leonard Silver, owner of the Emporium, peer from his door and spotted Doc Harrison studying the parade from the Beanery, and there was nothing I could do. If they wanted a sheriff who strode through town with a six-gun at his hip, a sheriff whose frown stopped little boys from tossing firecrackers at dogs, whose squint deterred burglars, whose beckoning finger corralled drunks, whose bold gaze intimidated cowboys bent on shooting up the town for sport, they could only be dismayed. The young man they’d employed to keep the lid on Doubtful, and keep all the he-cats and she-dogs at bay, namely me, was being hauled through town like dead meat.
    The message was clear. Doubtful was at the mercy of the ranchers and cowboys, and they intended to celebrate their New Year’s Eve exactly as they always had, and if there was any trouble, they’d show the citizens of Doubtful just who owned Puma County.
    Women emerged from doors, saw the awful spectacle, and herded their children inside. A carriage horse whinnied and reared, the spectacle too much for its equine temperament. Bully led the parade, smiling cheerfully but otherwise not acknowledging the crowds, while his four ranch hands carried the door, one at each corner.
    â€œWhatcha doing in the winding sheet, Pickens?” asked Alphonse Smythe, the postmaster.
    I could think of no