the street.
Jubal made his way to the county jail. Built in the pueblo style, it consisted of four small cells constructed with crude metal poles, each area with its own bucket to serve as a privy. A short hallway and wall separated the large open room’s barred cubicles from the small office up front.
Jubal tied Frisk to the rail and stepped inside. He found two desks, each with a man behind it, asleep. “Excuse me, Sheriff?”
“What the—” The larger of the two sat up, red of face, with a heavy handlebar mustache. “Don’t you believe in knocking on a door before you enter, child?”
“Sorry, sir. The door was open. I just thought—”
The man called out to the other sleeper, “Wake up, Ron. Hell’s fire. You can’t get no help these days.” His attention came back to Jubal. “You look to be somebody what was shot at and missed, shat at and hit.” He grinned at his own joke. “What’s eatin’ at you, laddie?”
Jubal didn’t think it funny. “I’ve got a young guy in my wagon been shot in the chest.” He walked toward the door. “He’s in a bad way.”
The heavyset lawman stepped outside and yelled once again at his deputy. He looked at Jubal’s passenger, who had returned to his moaning. Deputy Ron finally came stumbling out the front door, rubbing his face.
“Ron, carry yourself down to the hotel and get Doc Brown here, quick-like.”
It wasn’t more than five minutes before a harried-looking older man in a suit vest and black string tie came hustling down the street. “Where is he?”
The sheriff pointed toward the back of the open wagon.
The older gentleman examined Ty. “Anybody know how this happened?”
Jubal looked to the sheriff, then back to the doctor. “He was shot.”
The doctor continued tending to the pale gunman. “I can readily see that, youngster.”
“By whom?” asked the sheriff.
Jubal paused. “Me.”
The sheriff watched Jubal. “Ron, climb up on that buckboard. You and Doc here, take that shot-up boy back to the doc’s office at the hotel. You hear?”
“I’m on it, Sheriff. Just you watch my smoke.”
“Mind my horse, sir.” This from Jubal.
The sheriff signaled for Jubal to follow him back into the jail, where he gestured for the young man to take a seat. They sat looking at each other far too long for Jubal’s comfort.
“I’m gonna let you think on some things for a minute or so. I’ll be tending some ‘portant business in the back.” He made this sound like a great secret between them. “Okay by you, sonny?”
Jubal looked around the sparse office. A faded picture of an older man with a badge and gun held a strong family resemblance to the sheriff who was “tending business” in the back. A shelf behind the desk held several rifles and a shotgun. Framed documents on the wall proclaimed Bufort L. Morton a stellar public servant. A newspaper article stated the sheriff had been instrumental in the capture of Harry Walls, a desperate wife-beater and chicken thief. With credentials like that, Sheriff Morton will round up the raiders of the Young family farm in no time at all.
As Jubal waited, he relived the past two days, not really regretting anything he had done, except the way his father had died. He was caught in a trap of memory as the sheriff’s couple minutes expanded to nearly half an hour, until he heard voices coming from the back, where he thought the cells to be.
With an explosion of energy, the big man burst backinto the room. He plopped down in his swivel chair. “You want to tell me about it, son?”
Jubal let out a sigh. “I was hunting up around Morning Peak—”
“And this fellow just happened to step in front of your rifle, correct?”
“No, sir. Not exactly. I’m sorry to say I shot him on purpose.”
Morton grew a huge grin. “So you shot him for good reason, but you’re sorry you did it. By the way, I assume that’s his horse tied to the back of your buckboard, right?”
Jubal couldn’t keep up
Jubal made his way to the county jail. Built in the pueblo style, it consisted of four small cells constructed with crude metal poles, each area with its own bucket to serve as a privy. A short hallway and wall separated the large open room’s barred cubicles from the small office up front.
Jubal tied Frisk to the rail and stepped inside. He found two desks, each with a man behind it, asleep. “Excuse me, Sheriff?”
“What the—” The larger of the two sat up, red of face, with a heavy handlebar mustache. “Don’t you believe in knocking on a door before you enter, child?”
“Sorry, sir. The door was open. I just thought—”
The man called out to the other sleeper, “Wake up, Ron. Hell’s fire. You can’t get no help these days.” His attention came back to Jubal. “You look to be somebody what was shot at and missed, shat at and hit.” He grinned at his own joke. “What’s eatin’ at you, laddie?”
Jubal didn’t think it funny. “I’ve got a young guy in my wagon been shot in the chest.” He walked toward the door. “He’s in a bad way.”
The heavyset lawman stepped outside and yelled once again at his deputy. He looked at Jubal’s passenger, who had returned to his moaning. Deputy Ron finally came stumbling out the front door, rubbing his face.
“Ron, carry yourself down to the hotel and get Doc Brown here, quick-like.”
It wasn’t more than five minutes before a harried-looking older man in a suit vest and black string tie came hustling down the street. “Where is he?”
The sheriff pointed toward the back of the open wagon.
The older gentleman examined Ty. “Anybody know how this happened?”
Jubal looked to the sheriff, then back to the doctor. “He was shot.”
The doctor continued tending to the pale gunman. “I can readily see that, youngster.”
“By whom?” asked the sheriff.
Jubal paused. “Me.”
The sheriff watched Jubal. “Ron, climb up on that buckboard. You and Doc here, take that shot-up boy back to the doc’s office at the hotel. You hear?”
“I’m on it, Sheriff. Just you watch my smoke.”
“Mind my horse, sir.” This from Jubal.
The sheriff signaled for Jubal to follow him back into the jail, where he gestured for the young man to take a seat. They sat looking at each other far too long for Jubal’s comfort.
“I’m gonna let you think on some things for a minute or so. I’ll be tending some ‘portant business in the back.” He made this sound like a great secret between them. “Okay by you, sonny?”
Jubal looked around the sparse office. A faded picture of an older man with a badge and gun held a strong family resemblance to the sheriff who was “tending business” in the back. A shelf behind the desk held several rifles and a shotgun. Framed documents on the wall proclaimed Bufort L. Morton a stellar public servant. A newspaper article stated the sheriff had been instrumental in the capture of Harry Walls, a desperate wife-beater and chicken thief. With credentials like that, Sheriff Morton will round up the raiders of the Young family farm in no time at all.
As Jubal waited, he relived the past two days, not really regretting anything he had done, except the way his father had died. He was caught in a trap of memory as the sheriff’s couple minutes expanded to nearly half an hour, until he heard voices coming from the back, where he thought the cells to be.
With an explosion of energy, the big man burst backinto the room. He plopped down in his swivel chair. “You want to tell me about it, son?”
Jubal let out a sigh. “I was hunting up around Morning Peak—”
“And this fellow just happened to step in front of your rifle, correct?”
“No, sir. Not exactly. I’m sorry to say I shot him on purpose.”
Morton grew a huge grin. “So you shot him for good reason, but you’re sorry you did it. By the way, I assume that’s his horse tied to the back of your buckboard, right?”
Jubal couldn’t keep up
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