Sourdough Creek by Caroline Fyffe Page B

shot glass filled with whiskey and belched. Sam counted that as his third since he’d pushed through the doors and joined the group.
    Walter pointed the gavel at him. “We’ll have civility here, Chester! Now, wake Larry up. Ever’ man counts.”
    The drunkard shook the shoulder of his sleeping friend. “Larry,” he slurred into his ear. “Wake up! All hell’s breaking loose.”
    Sam glanced back through the open doors of the saloon, between the horses tied in front, and across the street one more time to make sure everything was okay over at the doctor’s office. The boardwalk in front of the tiny building was empty. Satisfied nothing was amiss, he made his way to the bar and got comfortable, leaning against the shiny wood. He propped his boot on the brass footrest that ran its length.
    These were the men that were going to defend their town against a band of cold-blooded killers? Miss Hershey had been dead right. They were a motley group to say the least. He couldn’t have imagined any worse for a gun battle if he’d tried.
    Walter held up his hand. “As we know, this here town is in danger of bein’ set upon by gunmen,” the bartender said. “Spencer’s been sayin’ it fer some time and now Jonathan says a newcomer to town not only saw them, but heard it directly from their own mouths. If that’s indeed the case, what do you men want t’ do about it?”
    “I say we hang Spencer right now! Today,” the one-legged man called out. He limped over to the spittoon, his irregular stride tip-tapping all the way to the end of the bar, and let go a stream of brown tobacco. “Then his men won’t have no interest in Rosenthal no more.”
    The farmer shook his head. “Can’t do that. It’s against the law. Besides, that would make his men madder than they are now. Then where would we be? No telling what they would do if they took it upon themselves to get back at us, even though I agree Spencer deserves it.”
    “Let him go,” the drunkard said to no one in particular. He stood and approached the bar, weaving and bumping into chairs and tables. He pushed up against the bar next to Sam, regaining his balance. “One less problem for us.”
    Now it was Jonathan who held up his hand, waiting to speak. One by one the men quieted and silence filled the room. “The way I see it, the gang out there thinks we’re as good as sitting ducks now that our sheriff is dead. They won’t be expecting a fight when they ride in to town to bust their leader out.”
    “Jist let ’em try, let ’em try,” Chester shouted from the side of his mouth. He poured whiskey into his already-full glass, emptying the bottle and spilling liquor onto the bar.
    Sam could guess where this was leading. Jonathan would volunteer to take on the duty of sheriff even though he was barely out of short pants. A nice young man, but Sam doubted he’d ever gone up against others before, especially outlaws.
    “Let me finish,” Jonathan said heatedly. “We need an authority figure here, someone who can make a plan and organize the few men we have. At least until the law from Carson City shows up. We can’t just sit here doing nothing but twiddling our thumbs until they come calling.”
    Chester looked around as if searching for another bottle. His hands shook violently as he picked up his shot glass, but stopped half way when he spotted Sam. “Who’re you?”
    “My own thoughts exactly,” Walter the bartender added. “No telling what you’re doing here! Maybe yer one o’ them . A spy?”
    Sam opened his mouth to reply, but Jonathan beat him to the punch.
    “His name’s Sam Ridgeway,” he said, giving Sam a nod.
    “I never seen him around town before. Could be he’s part of the gang.” The farmer stepped closer so he could get a better look at Sam.
    “I’m not with the outlaw gang. I’m just a passerby; be moving on as soon as I can.”
    “That’s easy ’nough said. Then why’re you here listenin’ in on privite business?”