wouldn’t let him.
Then she did. He backed up, turned and started for the door. As he got to it, he saw propped up against the wall, a pitchfork. He grabbed it, turned around, half yelled, half choked, “No squaw does me like this!”
He lunged, the pitchfork ahead of him like a jousting spear. Then he had one leg shot out from under him.
Dennis Sully, Sheriff of Stone County, stood just outside, holstering his pistol. Gleevie howled from the barn floor. “You shot me! Owwww! Goddam! Goddam! You shot me!”
Dennis walked in and lifted Gleevie’s leg up to view the damage. He let the leg drop and Gleevie howled some more. “I got you in the meat. In six months, you won’t even limp. Now get the hell out of here. And I mean out of Charity. If I see you around here again you won’t get out of jail till you’re an old man.” Gleevie struggled to his feet and, cursing all the way, hopped and hobbled out of the barn.
Jordis did not look pleased to see Dennis. “I could have handled him.”
“I know. But if the stupid sonofabitch was going to get himself killed today, I thought it was better I did it.”
She didn’t like it but had to accept that if Gleeve Pruitt was killed by an Indian, he was just a poor white man in his cups. If the sheriff shot him, he was a drunk who probably needed killing. “I assume you meant to hit him just there.”
“Yup. Woulda rather hit him some other place, but his back was to me. His ass was too big a target. Didn’t seem sporting.”
They heard groaning and complaining as Gleevie mounted his horse, then the soft clopping of hooves fading into the afternoon.
“Who is he?” Jordis slipped her knife back into her boot.
“His name is Gleeve Pruitt. He come through about a month ago to get work on the threshin’ crews. But he seems to spend more time at Leroy’s than in the fields. Anyway, if I see him hanging around Charity again, I will lock him up.”
Jordis picked up the pitchfork and put it back against the wall. “You want some pie?”
“What kind you got?”
“Apple and rhubarb. Lena baked this week.”
“Lena’s pies.” The sheriff smiled. “Well, maybe I’ll have a little of each.”
“Come on to the house. Gustie should be home soon. I’ll make some coffee.” Jordis led the way out. Emerging from the dim interior of the barn, her eyes quickly adjusted to the bright afternoon, and she saw Dennis’s horse Fever. He was lathered. Dennis had taken the threat to Jordis seriously. Then she smiled. No, he’d taken the threat to Gleeve Pruitt seriously. A solitary bird sounded his musical notes against the faint percussive buzz and ratchet of insects that drifted off the surrounding prairie in the drowsy dry August heat. “Why don’t you stay for supper? You can turn him out in the pasture,” she nodded to the saddle horse. “He can drink from the trough.”
“Poor Jordis.” Gustie smiled over her coffee cup. They had just finished a satisfying cold supper of smoked fish, potato salad, pickles, bread and butter, during which Jordis and Dennis had related the details of Gleeve Pruitt’s visit. “No one will let you kill anybody.”
Dennis raised his eyebrows.
“We had a run-in with Jack Frye a few weeks ago,” Gustie explained. “She didn’t get to do anything to him either but scare the living daylights out of him.” Gustie got up and refilled their cups.
Dennis chuckled. “I’d ’a liked to seen that.”
“Gustie intervened on his behalf,” said Jordis without amusement. “Otherwise I would have turned him into fish food.”
“Well, pity the poor fish. And none of ’em would ’a been fit to eat after, so I guess Gustie did a public service.” Dennis stirred cream and sugar into his coffee. “This is sure better’n Fritz’s coffee. Course, his is better’n mine. You want me to talk to Frye? Give him a warning?”
“I don’t think that will be necessary.” Gustie said it dryly, a smile in her gray eyes. She collected
Then she did. He backed up, turned and started for the door. As he got to it, he saw propped up against the wall, a pitchfork. He grabbed it, turned around, half yelled, half choked, “No squaw does me like this!”
He lunged, the pitchfork ahead of him like a jousting spear. Then he had one leg shot out from under him.
Dennis Sully, Sheriff of Stone County, stood just outside, holstering his pistol. Gleevie howled from the barn floor. “You shot me! Owwww! Goddam! Goddam! You shot me!”
Dennis walked in and lifted Gleevie’s leg up to view the damage. He let the leg drop and Gleevie howled some more. “I got you in the meat. In six months, you won’t even limp. Now get the hell out of here. And I mean out of Charity. If I see you around here again you won’t get out of jail till you’re an old man.” Gleevie struggled to his feet and, cursing all the way, hopped and hobbled out of the barn.
Jordis did not look pleased to see Dennis. “I could have handled him.”
“I know. But if the stupid sonofabitch was going to get himself killed today, I thought it was better I did it.”
She didn’t like it but had to accept that if Gleeve Pruitt was killed by an Indian, he was just a poor white man in his cups. If the sheriff shot him, he was a drunk who probably needed killing. “I assume you meant to hit him just there.”
“Yup. Woulda rather hit him some other place, but his back was to me. His ass was too big a target. Didn’t seem sporting.”
They heard groaning and complaining as Gleevie mounted his horse, then the soft clopping of hooves fading into the afternoon.
“Who is he?” Jordis slipped her knife back into her boot.
“His name is Gleeve Pruitt. He come through about a month ago to get work on the threshin’ crews. But he seems to spend more time at Leroy’s than in the fields. Anyway, if I see him hanging around Charity again, I will lock him up.”
Jordis picked up the pitchfork and put it back against the wall. “You want some pie?”
“What kind you got?”
“Apple and rhubarb. Lena baked this week.”
“Lena’s pies.” The sheriff smiled. “Well, maybe I’ll have a little of each.”
“Come on to the house. Gustie should be home soon. I’ll make some coffee.” Jordis led the way out. Emerging from the dim interior of the barn, her eyes quickly adjusted to the bright afternoon, and she saw Dennis’s horse Fever. He was lathered. Dennis had taken the threat to Jordis seriously. Then she smiled. No, he’d taken the threat to Gleeve Pruitt seriously. A solitary bird sounded his musical notes against the faint percussive buzz and ratchet of insects that drifted off the surrounding prairie in the drowsy dry August heat. “Why don’t you stay for supper? You can turn him out in the pasture,” she nodded to the saddle horse. “He can drink from the trough.”
“Poor Jordis.” Gustie smiled over her coffee cup. They had just finished a satisfying cold supper of smoked fish, potato salad, pickles, bread and butter, during which Jordis and Dennis had related the details of Gleeve Pruitt’s visit. “No one will let you kill anybody.”
Dennis raised his eyebrows.
“We had a run-in with Jack Frye a few weeks ago,” Gustie explained. “She didn’t get to do anything to him either but scare the living daylights out of him.” Gustie got up and refilled their cups.
Dennis chuckled. “I’d ’a liked to seen that.”
“Gustie intervened on his behalf,” said Jordis without amusement. “Otherwise I would have turned him into fish food.”
“Well, pity the poor fish. And none of ’em would ’a been fit to eat after, so I guess Gustie did a public service.” Dennis stirred cream and sugar into his coffee. “This is sure better’n Fritz’s coffee. Course, his is better’n mine. You want me to talk to Frye? Give him a warning?”
“I don’t think that will be necessary.” Gustie said it dryly, a smile in her gray eyes. She collected
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