The Last Good Day, стр. 15
B.W. nodded in agreement, put the cap back on the bottle, sat it on the table and laid down on his bed.
“Good to know you’re in control instead of the whiskey,” Rance said and turned over.
B.W. laid the double-barrel beside him on the bed, wrapped a hand around the whiskey bottle on the table and sat it beside him in the bed, snuggling up to it and closing his eyes.
9
The three of them were the only ones in the eatery enjoying a big plate of biscuits, sorghum and sowbelly, B.W. sipping on his whiskey a little after six in the morning. Julie walked up to their table.
“How’s the biscuits?” she asked.
“Ma’am,” B.W. said. “These biscuits are so good, I would ask you to marry me if I was a marrying man.”
“Ask Fannie then, she made them,” Julie said.
“I’ll keep that in mind, might do that,” he said and smiled.
“Need any more coffee, Rance?” Julie asked.
“Think I’m done, might give B.W. another cup.”
“How bout you, Tommy? Want some more milk?” she asked.
“No ma’am,” he said.
“I’ll stop in before we leave town,” Rance said.
“You do that,” she said.
The door came open and a tall man with dark eyes and a bushy black mustache walked in. He was wearing a black Stetson, a marshal’s badge on his white shirt and a tied-down walnut-handled Colt .44 with the initials W.P. carved into the handle. He sat down at a table by the door.
“What’ll you have this morning, marshal?” Julie asked.
“Just coffee,” he said, took off his hat, laid it on the table, looked their way and nodded. They nodded back.
They picked up their gear, B.W. paid Julie and they walked out on the board sidewalk.
“That must be the Yankee marshal Julie was tellin’ me bout,” Rance said.
B.W. nodded.
The streets were empty and they could see people peeking out the windows of some of the stores.
“We do have our pants on, don’t we, B.W.?” Rance asked.
“Curious bunch, ain’t they?”
The marshal came out of the eatery behind them with his Colt drawn. “Don’t make any sudden moves, boys, or it’ll be your last. I’m Marshal Willie Preston and you’re under arrest.”
Three men stepped out of nearby stores with shotguns pointed at them.
“What’s going on, marshal?” Rance asked.
“Murder. Got a witness that says you two look like the hombres that murdered a man named Allen Dobbs in Whiskey Gulch. Now, if you’ll stand real still, I’ll have my boys relieve you of your weapons.”
“Who’s the witness?” Rance asked.
“Your roommate was in Whiskey Gulch when it happened, come and told me last night,” the marshal said. “I locked him up as a witness, figured it was better to do this in the daylight.”
“The big fellow with no neck?” Rance asked.
“Name’s Lester. He’s a miner in the Gulch.”
“Wondered why he didn’t come back to bed,” B.W. said.
Julie heard the commotion and came out on the sidewalk. “What’s going on?” she asked.
“We been arrested,” Rance said.
“For what?” she asked.
“Murder, but it was self defense.”
“You know these men, Miss Julie?” the marshal asked.
“Yes I do.”
“I’ll have some questions for you later,” the marshal said. “Would you look after the boy. Keep him in tow till I figure out what to do with him?”
“Sure,” She placed a hand on Tommy’s shoulder. “I’ll take care of him Rance.” Rance and B.W. nodded. “Come with me, Tommy,” she said.
“Yes ma’am.” They walked back in the eatery.
“You got a name I can pronounce, Indian?” the marshal asked, looking at B.W.
“Black Wind. B.W. for short. Make it easy for you.”
“You don’t talk like an Indian,” the marshal said.
“Educated,” Rance said.
“And who might you be, wise-ass ?”
“Rance Allison, sir.”
“Where do you boys know Miss Julie from?”
“I grew up here,” Rance said. “We owned a farm the Yankees stole.”
“You don’t say,” the marshal said. “May be more to this than murder, then. Take Mr. Allison and this educated Indian to the jail, boys.”
Five minutes later, B.W. and Rance were looking out the jail window, another prisoner in the next cell had his hat pulled over his face ,sleeping in the bunk.
“Knew somethin’ was wrong with sleepin’ in a bed,” B.W. said. “Every time I do something bad happens.”
“You just sleepin’ in the wrong beds,” Rance said.
A booming voice from the next cell yelled out. “They gonna hang you!” The man in the cell pulled his hat off his face and sat up.
“Well, it’s No-Neck,” Rance said. “You gettin’ paid to lie?”
“Name’s Lester Crayton,” he said.
“Well Lester, you know B.W. had to kill him,” Rance said.
“It was self-defense,” B.W. said. “He was goin’ to shoot both of us.”
“I know that,” Lester said. “But do you think anyone in Whiskey Gulch is goin’ to remember it that way? They would kill me if I said that.”
“Would think so, you’re probably right but we’ll make sure we figure out how to kill you before they hang us.” B.W. said.
They heard the door rattle to the cell room and a big ornery-looking brute, almost as big as B.W., with thick blonde hair walked in with an ivory-handled Colt on his belt.
“Name’s Charlie Caldwell, deputy marshal. If you’re expectin’ lunch, forget it,” he said. “We feed you two meals a day - breakfast and dinner from Jake’s Eatery. There’s a water bucket by your cell with a dipper. If you have to go to the outhouse, run the dipper on the bars. Has to be one at a time.”
“All the comforts of home,” Rance said.
“You won’t be so cute when your feet are kickin’ air.”
“What about me?” No-Neck said. “I’m not a prisoner, I’m a witness.”
“You’re in the jail. Same applies to you.” He walked out and they heard the lock turn on the cell door.
“Did you see that gun he was wearing?” B.W. asked.
“A Colt,” Rance said.
“Was one of those new double-action French Colts. You don’t have to cock it. That’s