state.
She spread the blanket Tristan had given her over the cot and, with a little grimace, lay down upon it. She supposed stretching out on a jail mattress was no worse than wearing that particular dress. The garment surely had a history of its own; one she didn’t care to examine.
“Do I have to dunk you in the horse trough again, Billy, or are you going to conduct yourself like a gentleman?” Shay asked, crouching beside the youth with the key to the handcuffs at the ready.
“I just wanna go home, that’s all,” Billy whined. He kept his eyes averted, but Shay knew what was in themall the same: the hope of murder. The converse and bitter realization that, for the moment at least, he was outmatched. “Just let me go home. My pa will be gettin’ real worried long about now.”
Shay blew out a breath and rubbed his chin in a show of deep contemplation. His beard was coming in, and it itched something fierce.
“I’ll see he gets out to Powder Creek all right, Marshal,” volunteered the man Shay had been beating at pool earlier in the evening. Jim O’Sullivan was the foreman on the Kyle ranch, and the old man often sent him along to town to play nursemaid to the boy. Not that it appeared to do much good.
“Well, now, Jim,” Shay said, “I’ll hand him over to you on one condition: that you keep him out of Prominence for a while. Me and Billy here, we’re not on cordial terms these days. We need some time apart.”
O’Sullivan nodded his agreement quickly; no doubt there would be hell to pay if he went back to the Powder Creek spread without the joy and delight of William, Sr.,’s heart.
Shay pretended to consider that, knowing all the while that he couldn’t lock Billy up, since Aislinn was already occupying the only cell. “You got your temper under control?” he asked, and examined the small key between his fingers at great length, as if he’d never seen it before. Billy’d come at him with that bowie knife of his as soon as he’d stepped through the saloon doors earlier that night, after the first encounter with Aislinn, there on the hotel porch. There’d been a scuffle, and Shay had subdued Billy, with more effort than he liked to recall, and finally cuffed him to the boot rail.
During the pool game, which Aislinn had interrupted at the worst possible time, he and O’Sullivan had been discussing the wreck of the stagecoach eighteen months before. The Powder Creek foreman had been getting steadily drunker with every break of the balls, and eventhough he’d never admitted to knowing anything about the robbery and murders, it had been plain from the sheen of sweat glistening on his forehead and at the base of his throat that he had some idea who’d been behind it all.
Shay had been real interested in O’Sullivan’s opinion on the matter, but when Aislinn appeared, wearing that god-awful getup and looking scared and defiant, both at the same time, the confessional mood was broken.
He opened the handcuffs and stood, dragging Billy along with him. He flung the boy forward, into O’Sullivan’s arms. “Get him out of here,” he growled.
Billy started to say something he shouldn’t, but O’Sullivan took him by the elbow and headed for the doors.
“That boy’s the sort to shoot a man in the back,” Jake observed, from behind the bar. He was smearing a dirty glass with an even dirtier rag, and when he met Shay’s eyes, it was clear enough that he had a few specific prospects in mind for the honor of receiving Billy’s bullet.
Shay rubbed the back of his neck. It had been a long day, and he was ready for it to be over and done with. He ignored Jake, scanned the saloon in case anyone else was of a mind to offer up their view. To his relief, nobody did so.
The night air was sultry when he stepped outside, and the stars hung low, gleaming like a shower of silver coins fixing to rain down on the earth. Shay smiled at the fanciful thought and headed for the jailhouse.
Tristan was at
She spread the blanket Tristan had given her over the cot and, with a little grimace, lay down upon it. She supposed stretching out on a jail mattress was no worse than wearing that particular dress. The garment surely had a history of its own; one she didn’t care to examine.
“Do I have to dunk you in the horse trough again, Billy, or are you going to conduct yourself like a gentleman?” Shay asked, crouching beside the youth with the key to the handcuffs at the ready.
“I just wanna go home, that’s all,” Billy whined. He kept his eyes averted, but Shay knew what was in themall the same: the hope of murder. The converse and bitter realization that, for the moment at least, he was outmatched. “Just let me go home. My pa will be gettin’ real worried long about now.”
Shay blew out a breath and rubbed his chin in a show of deep contemplation. His beard was coming in, and it itched something fierce.
“I’ll see he gets out to Powder Creek all right, Marshal,” volunteered the man Shay had been beating at pool earlier in the evening. Jim O’Sullivan was the foreman on the Kyle ranch, and the old man often sent him along to town to play nursemaid to the boy. Not that it appeared to do much good.
“Well, now, Jim,” Shay said, “I’ll hand him over to you on one condition: that you keep him out of Prominence for a while. Me and Billy here, we’re not on cordial terms these days. We need some time apart.”
O’Sullivan nodded his agreement quickly; no doubt there would be hell to pay if he went back to the Powder Creek spread without the joy and delight of William, Sr.,’s heart.
Shay pretended to consider that, knowing all the while that he couldn’t lock Billy up, since Aislinn was already occupying the only cell. “You got your temper under control?” he asked, and examined the small key between his fingers at great length, as if he’d never seen it before. Billy’d come at him with that bowie knife of his as soon as he’d stepped through the saloon doors earlier that night, after the first encounter with Aislinn, there on the hotel porch. There’d been a scuffle, and Shay had subdued Billy, with more effort than he liked to recall, and finally cuffed him to the boot rail.
During the pool game, which Aislinn had interrupted at the worst possible time, he and O’Sullivan had been discussing the wreck of the stagecoach eighteen months before. The Powder Creek foreman had been getting steadily drunker with every break of the balls, and eventhough he’d never admitted to knowing anything about the robbery and murders, it had been plain from the sheen of sweat glistening on his forehead and at the base of his throat that he had some idea who’d been behind it all.
Shay had been real interested in O’Sullivan’s opinion on the matter, but when Aislinn appeared, wearing that god-awful getup and looking scared and defiant, both at the same time, the confessional mood was broken.
He opened the handcuffs and stood, dragging Billy along with him. He flung the boy forward, into O’Sullivan’s arms. “Get him out of here,” he growled.
Billy started to say something he shouldn’t, but O’Sullivan took him by the elbow and headed for the doors.
“That boy’s the sort to shoot a man in the back,” Jake observed, from behind the bar. He was smearing a dirty glass with an even dirtier rag, and when he met Shay’s eyes, it was clear enough that he had a few specific prospects in mind for the honor of receiving Billy’s bullet.
Shay rubbed the back of his neck. It had been a long day, and he was ready for it to be over and done with. He ignored Jake, scanned the saloon in case anyone else was of a mind to offer up their view. To his relief, nobody did so.
The night air was sultry when he stepped outside, and the stars hung low, gleaming like a shower of silver coins fixing to rain down on the earth. Shay smiled at the fanciful thought and headed for the jailhouse.
Tristan was at
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