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

answer, so I kept quiet. My ma used to say that there was no way out of a winding sheet. But maybe they’d let me go.
    â€œSend me a postcard,” Smythe said, enjoying himself.
    I still hurt, and the cold was reaching me. I couldn’t wiggle enough to keep warm.
    And still Bully’s parade marched onward, turned, heading now toward Saloon Row, the very blocks where I, Sheriff Pickens, always walked tall and subdued rough men in a rough neighborhood. This was going to be the most painful of all. I’d kept order there mostly because troublemakers knew I’d whip them one way or another. But now every lowlife in Doubtful was going to see me wrapped tight in tablecloths.
    The wind sure was getting to me. I rolled around on my wooden door, and the pallbearers were none too gentle about hauling me along, never looking to my comfort. Bully Bowler proceeded nonchalantly ahead, ignoring the cold but making sure the whole town of Doubtful knew the score: this sheriff is a joke. This sheriff couldn’t enforce a law against stray dogs. Doubtful had no public safety. Those cowboys out on the ranches were going to do whatever they damned pleased on New Year’s Eve or any other time.
    My little funeral parade—that’s how I saw it now—drew no followers. It was just Bully and his hands and me lying on the hotel door. But by the time we reached Saloon Row every barfly and tavern keeper was on hand. Somehow word had buzzed ahead, and the show had arrived. I saw Sammy Upward frowning and the whole McGivers Saloon crowd gaping at the spectacle. Some of them were looking pretty smirky. I spotted a few lowlifes I’d thrown into my iron cages a time or two, some for public intoxication, some for threatening with weapons, some for brawling. And now they were enjoying the sight of their nemesis bound helplessly on a door. What sort of message was all this? I resisted a sudden impulse to resign and load up Critter with all my worldly goods and head for Argentina or some place.
    Bully Bowler steered his pallbearers toward Lovers’ Lane, as some called it, and there the ladies flocked to the windows to watch. Some waved; some blew kisses. Most of them giggled, and a few flashed a little flesh. There was nothing like seducing a man tied up tighter than a hog going to market.
    But eventually, the cortege slid past the bawdyhouses. Bully Bowler headed for the sheriff office, either tired of the sport or content that he had delivered an indelible message to the county supervisors. In any case, Bully and his boys entered the sheriff office, dumped me on the cold floor, stole one set of jail keys, and departed with the hotel door. Not a word was spoken. Not a warning, not a lecture, not a joke.
    I lay on the cold floor, nearly helpless, but I soon found I could wiggle my fingers and arms. The long tour had loosened the bindings. It sure was cold in there, hardly warmer than outside because no one had built up the fire. I gradually freed my arms and hands, untied the rest, and stood, getting some blood circulating in my body at last.
    I had complex feelings about the whole business. Bully and his four thugs had jumped me, deliberately planning the event. But that trip to town was what bothered me. I might as well turn in my badge. That was exactly the message that Bowler and his hooligans were sending to everyone in Doubtful.
    I stretched, built up the fire with some kindling on hot ash, and pretty soon got a little warmth going. No one came in, and I was grateful for that. I wanted to think things over. I wanted to make some decisions. But I wasn’t offered that chance. County Supervisor Amos Grosbeak stepped in, glaring at me like a thundercloud.
    The supervisor examined the tangle of tablecloths and bindings, and squinted at me.
    â€œMr. Sheriff, I do believe an explanation is in order.”
    â€œWell, I pounded on myself until I was all beat up, and then tied myself tight in some tablecloths, and