Mankiller, Colorado. William W. Johnstone

except for the man sprawled on the desk.

      “Scratch!” Bo called over his shoulder. “Get in here.”

      Scratch was there instantly, alert for trouble. “What is it?”

      Bo nodded toward the desk.

      “Son of a bitch,” Scratch said. “You reckon he’s still alive?”

      “I don’t see how, with that much blood on the desk. But we’d better make sure.”

      They started forward warily, splitting up so that Bo went to the right of the desk and Scratch to the left. Bo glanced through an open door that led to a small cell block. He could see see into two of the cells. They were empty, and when he called, “Anybody back there?” no answer came from the cell block.

      “Who could’ve cut the sheriff’s throat in his own office?” Scratch asked in a low voice.

      “That’s assuming he’s the sheriff,” Bo pointed out. “We don’t know that.”

      “No, I reckon we don’t. But if he is, I wonder if he’s got any deputies. We’ll have to report this to somebody.”

      Bo nodded. “And hope that we don’t get blamed for it.”

      “Yeah, that’s just the way our luck runs sometimes, ain’t it?”

      They were at the desk now, and as both Texans leaned toward the body, Scratch suddenly sniffed and said, “Bo, somethin’s wrong here. Up close like this, that don’t really look like blood. It don’t smell like it, neither. In fact, it smells like—” Scratch reached out, dipped a finger in the dark pool, and lifted it to his nose. He sniffed again, then licked his fingertip. “Yep. Rum.”

      Bo sighed in mingled relief and disgust. “Yeah, I can see part of a flask lying there under him now. I guess—”

      The man chose that moment to give out with a loud, gasping snore that filled the office. He jerked, then lifted his head from the desk, having woke himself up.

      Seeing the two Texans standing there so close to him must have startled him, because he shoved his chair back so hard and abruptly that it started to tip over backward with him still in it. He waved his arms in the air frantically and yelled, “Whoa, Nelly!”

      Scratch grabbed hold of the man’s right arm while Bo caught the chair and kept it from tipping over. He righted it, causing the chair’s front legs to thump heavily on the floor. That threw the man sitting in it forward again, and only Scratch’s strong hand on his arm kept him for falling face-first on the desk again.

      The man’s bleary eyes opened wide at the sight of the dark, liquid pool on the desk. “Godfrey Daniel!” he cried. “What a catastrophic turn of events!”

      He wrenched free of Scratch’s grip with unexpected strength and leaned forward, plunging his face toward the desk so that he could start lapping up the rum like a dog.

      “Good Lord, man,” Bo said, completely disgusted now. “Don’t you have any self-respect?”

      The man glanced up at him and said, “There are some circumstances, sir, when shelf-respect is…is painfully inshufficient for a man’s needs.”

      Scratch went behind the chair and reached down to take hold of the man under each arm. He straightened, hauling the man up and out of the chair.

      “What you need is to have your head ducked in a water trough a few times, mister. You scared us outta some time we can’t afford to lose at our age!”

      “Take it easy, Scratch,” Bo advised as he caught sight of the tin star pinned to the man’s vest. “You’ll get arrested if you start manhandling the law.”

      “You mean this pathetic drunk really is the sheriff in these parts?”

      Bo leaned closer to peer at the badge in the bad light. “That’s what the tin star says, anyway.”

      “Un…unhand me, sir!” the drunken lawman demanded. “Or I’ll be forced to…to throw you in the calaboose!”

      Scratch lowered the man back into the chair. “Sorry, Sheriff,” he said. “I figured you must just be some drunk who wandered in from the street to sleep off a bender. I thought maybe we’d be doin’ you a favor by gettin’ you out of here before the real sheriff found you.”

      The man let out a huge belch, then grabbed hold of the desk’s edge with both hands as if the room had started spinning around him. “I…I am…the real sher’f. Sher’f O’Brien at your…your shervice. What can I…do for you two…fine gennelmen?”

      Sheriff O’Brien was a thickset man who wore a dirty flannel shirt that was missing a button so that some of his ample belly showed where it bulged against the garment. He had a close-cropped salt-and-pepper beard and a thatch of graying hair that stuck up in wild spikes as if O’Brien had run his fingers through it several times before passing out. The butt of a handgun stuck up from a holster attached to a gun belt strapped around his hips.

      Lawman or not, Bo wasn’t sure it was a good idea for somebody like this to be carrying a gun. O’Brien might shoot himself or somebody else without even knowing what he was doing.

      Bo looked around and spotted a battered old coffeepot sitting on a cast-iron stove in the corner. “You want a cup of coffee, Sheriff?”

      O’Brien shuddered. “Can’t stand coffee. Keeps me awake at night. Man with…an important job like mine…needs his sleep at night.” He peered at Bo and Scratch, looking back and forth between them. “Who…who are you? I don’t remember…don’t remember seeing you around our fine community before.”

      “That’s because we just rode in. He’s Scratch Morton. My name’s Bo Creel. We’re from Texas.”

      “Well, you’re welcome in Mankiller anyway.” O’Brien hiccupped. “Ever’body’s welcome in Mankiller. Bustling—hic!—bustling community.”

      Scratch looked at Bo and shook his head. “We’re wastin’ our time talkin’ to this fella. He’s drunk as a skunk. You won’t be able to get anything sensible outta him.”

      O’Brien leaned back in his chair and glared. “Drunk as a skunk, am I?”

      “That’s the way it looks to me.”

      O’Brien pointed a trembling finger at Scratch. “Don’t you…disreshpect the office of…of sher’f. I’m the…the law around here—”

      He stopped short, turned in his chair, and threw up all over the floor behind the desk.

      Grimacing, Bo said, “Come on, let’s get out of here. We’ll ask somebody else about those men and that so-called toll bridge.”

      He and Scratch had started toward the door when O’Brien grabbed hold of the desk again and pulled himself up. “Wait a minute!” he called. “Did you say…toll bridge?”

      Bo stopped and looked back. “That’s right.” He thought that the sheriff appeared slightly less drunk, probably because he had emptied his belly of all the rum he’d consumed earlier. “Two men stopped us at this end of the bridge over the river and demanded that we pay them a toll. Do they have a legal right to collect such a toll, Sheriff?”

      O’Brien blinked rapidly. “You…you paid ’em, didn’t you?”

      Scratch smiled and shook his head. “No, we sorta persuaded them to let us pass without payin’. Some .44 caliber persuasion, if you know what I mean.”

      O’Brien looked even sicker than he had a moment earlier. “Oh, no. Godfrey Daniel and all his thrice-damned brethren! You didn’t…you didn’t kill them, did you?”

      “It didn’t come to shooting,” Bo assured the lawman.

      “Yeah,” Scratch added, “they saw the light when they found themselves lookin’ down the barrels of our guns.”