the powerful odor of hen feathers. Boldly displayed brass plaque on the door declared him as Marshal Ridley Matthews.
Stood at the beer-gutted and red-faced man’s litter-covered desk and watched as he disintegrated right before my eyes. With his bootless and poorly socked feet propped in a battered chair, he pawed at an enormous, greasy gut and whined, “What the hell’d you bring ’im here for? If’n he’s Nate Coffin’s man, I don’t want ’im in my jail. Everybody in this whole godforsaken country knows the bunch that follows ’at ’ere wicked son of a bitch will come to my town in force, break him out, and kill us all sure as fat women sweat.”
Wasn’t in any mood for a debate on the subject, so I snapped back, “You don’t have one helluva lot of choice in this matter, Marshal Matthews. Gonna have to put him in one of your empty cells until I can make arrangements for his return to Salt Valley for proper trial and suitable hanging.”
Matthews turned, squirted a gob of stringy tobacco juice toward a brimming spittoon from the chewed cigar stub clenched between his yellow-stained teeth, then looked at me like I had three heads and an ear between each pair of eyes.
“Damned if I will,” he said. “Maybe I didn’t make myself completely understood. Ain’t a livin’ soul in these parts that don’t know what a murderous monster Nate Coffin is. You force me to put this scum in one of my cells, and Coffin finds out about it, my life won’t be worth any more’n a two-ounce lead fishin’ sinker.”
Dianna had strolled inside with me to inquire as to the whereabouts of a sawbones for MaryLou Wainwright. Face red as scarlet, she pushed around me, placed her hands on the fat slug’s desk, and leaned his direction.
Ice in her voice when she snapped, “Ranger Dodge is just trying to be diplomatic. Let me get right to the crux of this matter, Marshal. Hike your lazy rump out of that chair, you big tub of guts, get the keys off the peg behind you, and lock this man up. Or if you’d prefer, I’ll put a bullet in him right here and now. Then, when the story gets out that he died in your office, Nate Coffin will pay you a deadly visit for sure.”
Matthews came near to choking on the chewed-up cigar stump. His stubby, bootless feet hit the floor as he flopped forward in his chair. Stuttered, “Wha-wha-what the hell d-d-did you just say, woman?”
“Don’t tell me you’re deaf as well as fat, ugly, and stupid,” Dianna shot back. “I said, either lock this murderer up, or you can go buy a shovel and bury him. Your choice. Along with the possibility your wife, if you have one, could well be attending a funeral in the very near future herself.”
Nervy gob of spit jumped to his feet, slapped the top of his desk with a sweaty hand, and yelped, “B-b-by God, woman. I’ll not listen to such—”
’Fore he knew what happened, the end of his nose was surrounded by the muzzle of her pistol. Gingerly as I could, barely touched her with my finger, and ever so gently pressed the hot-eyed girl’s arm back toward her holster. Hell, couldn’t allow her to splatter his nose, and most of his brains, all over the jail wall.
Said, “Locals might not take well to us killin’ the courageous and renowned Marshal Ridley Matthews, Dianna.” Gradually the fire in her eyes came down a scorching notch, and she took a fuming step backward.
Whispered, “Calm down,” as she moved away. Turned back to the flabbergasted lawman. “Gonna have to do as the lady says, Marshal. Otherwise, I just might be forced to adopt her hotheaded methods and, trust me, you wouldn’t want that.”
Matthews looked like a man who’d been slapped in the face with a filthy, puke-dripping, Saturday night bar rag from the busiest saloon in town. His jowly, stubble-covered face twitched around tobacco-stained teeth and lips. “Well, shit, bring ’im on back, by God. But I swear ’fore crucified Jesus, if anything wayward occurs
Stood at the beer-gutted and red-faced man’s litter-covered desk and watched as he disintegrated right before my eyes. With his bootless and poorly socked feet propped in a battered chair, he pawed at an enormous, greasy gut and whined, “What the hell’d you bring ’im here for? If’n he’s Nate Coffin’s man, I don’t want ’im in my jail. Everybody in this whole godforsaken country knows the bunch that follows ’at ’ere wicked son of a bitch will come to my town in force, break him out, and kill us all sure as fat women sweat.”
Wasn’t in any mood for a debate on the subject, so I snapped back, “You don’t have one helluva lot of choice in this matter, Marshal Matthews. Gonna have to put him in one of your empty cells until I can make arrangements for his return to Salt Valley for proper trial and suitable hanging.”
Matthews turned, squirted a gob of stringy tobacco juice toward a brimming spittoon from the chewed cigar stub clenched between his yellow-stained teeth, then looked at me like I had three heads and an ear between each pair of eyes.
“Damned if I will,” he said. “Maybe I didn’t make myself completely understood. Ain’t a livin’ soul in these parts that don’t know what a murderous monster Nate Coffin is. You force me to put this scum in one of my cells, and Coffin finds out about it, my life won’t be worth any more’n a two-ounce lead fishin’ sinker.”
Dianna had strolled inside with me to inquire as to the whereabouts of a sawbones for MaryLou Wainwright. Face red as scarlet, she pushed around me, placed her hands on the fat slug’s desk, and leaned his direction.
Ice in her voice when she snapped, “Ranger Dodge is just trying to be diplomatic. Let me get right to the crux of this matter, Marshal. Hike your lazy rump out of that chair, you big tub of guts, get the keys off the peg behind you, and lock this man up. Or if you’d prefer, I’ll put a bullet in him right here and now. Then, when the story gets out that he died in your office, Nate Coffin will pay you a deadly visit for sure.”
Matthews came near to choking on the chewed-up cigar stump. His stubby, bootless feet hit the floor as he flopped forward in his chair. Stuttered, “Wha-wha-what the hell d-d-did you just say, woman?”
“Don’t tell me you’re deaf as well as fat, ugly, and stupid,” Dianna shot back. “I said, either lock this murderer up, or you can go buy a shovel and bury him. Your choice. Along with the possibility your wife, if you have one, could well be attending a funeral in the very near future herself.”
Nervy gob of spit jumped to his feet, slapped the top of his desk with a sweaty hand, and yelped, “B-b-by God, woman. I’ll not listen to such—”
’Fore he knew what happened, the end of his nose was surrounded by the muzzle of her pistol. Gingerly as I could, barely touched her with my finger, and ever so gently pressed the hot-eyed girl’s arm back toward her holster. Hell, couldn’t allow her to splatter his nose, and most of his brains, all over the jail wall.
Said, “Locals might not take well to us killin’ the courageous and renowned Marshal Ridley Matthews, Dianna.” Gradually the fire in her eyes came down a scorching notch, and she took a fuming step backward.
Whispered, “Calm down,” as she moved away. Turned back to the flabbergasted lawman. “Gonna have to do as the lady says, Marshal. Otherwise, I just might be forced to adopt her hotheaded methods and, trust me, you wouldn’t want that.”
Matthews looked like a man who’d been slapped in the face with a filthy, puke-dripping, Saturday night bar rag from the busiest saloon in town. His jowly, stubble-covered face twitched around tobacco-stained teeth and lips. “Well, shit, bring ’im on back, by God. But I swear ’fore crucified Jesus, if anything wayward occurs
Similar Books
