Sheriff on the Spot by Brett Halliday

himself for what he had done; yet in his heart he knew, too, that under the same circumstances he would do the same again. Sheriff or no sheriff; silver star or no silver star, Sam Sloan and Ezra were his friends. No matter what they had done—they were still his friends. Nothing could alter that. It was something that happened to a man. You don’t look for friendship, and you don’t throw it away when it comes to you. It brings certain duties with it; and foremost of those is that you shall not forsake your friend.
    Pat Stevens didn’t put any such thoughts into words as he rode back to Dutch Springs, but they were in his heart in essence, and he knew they were there to stay.

6
    A small group of excited men greeted Pat Stevens on Main Street when he rode slowly back into town after directing the posse away from the direction Ezra had taken.
    They crowded around him, asking eager questions as he swung off his commandeered horse. No one knew exactly what had happened, and the small town was flooded with wild rumors.
    Pat took time to explain the situation swiftly: “Some guy robbed the bank. Broke in the back door. We had him surrounded, but he got to his hawse an’ got plumb away. I followed him to the crossroads east of town, an’ there’s a posse ridin’ after him up the north fork. They’ll get him, I reckon.”
    â€œHow-come you’re not ridin’ with the posse, Sheriff?” a curious voice asked.
    â€œThis hawse I was forkin’ didn’t seem none too fast,” Pat explained. “An’ I had some important business back here in town at the Jewel Hotel. Some of you fellows see about gettin’ that padlock an’ chain back onto the rear door of the bank,” he went on hastily. “Don’t know how much money’s gone, but maybe there’s some still left in the vault that ought to be locked up.” He turned away from them and strode up the street toward the hotel, feeling the weight of the towel-wrapped death-knife against his ankle with each step, a grim reminder of the role he had elected to play in concealing murder evidence.
    Joe Deems and Kitty Lane were in the hotel lobby when he strode in. Kitty leaped up and demanded angrily, “Why have you got a guard posted at my door? What’s all this mystery about, Sheriff Stevens?”
    â€œWhat happened at the bank?” Joe Deems cut in. “We heard a lot of shooting but no one seems to know whether you caught the robbers or not.”
    â€œWe didn’t. Not yet. But there’s a posse after him.” Pat turned his gaze on Kitty and said slowly, “About your room, Ma’am. We’ll go upstairs now an’ take the guard off the door.”
    She tossed her head and said, “It’s about time you let us in on the secret,” and she and the hotel proprietor followed Pat up.
    Along the upper hallway, Harold Morgan was disconsolately squatted on one heel with his back against the wall between the two rooms he was guarding. He looked up with a scowl, and slowly got to his feet when he saw the sheriff. “Sounds like I missed a lot of fun,” he grumbled. “What’s in these two rooms that you want guarded, Pat?”
    â€œWe’ll find that out just as soon as Miss Lane opens her door,” Pat promised him. “I want you right here, Morgan, for a witness to testify what’s inside these rooms.” He stepped aside politely and motioned to Kitty’s door. “Go ahead an’ open it up.”
    Kitty hesitated in front of her door with a heavy hotel key in her hand. Light came through the keyhole from inside the room. She threw Pat Stevens a frightened look, then caught her underlip between her teeth and slowly inserted the key in the lock. There was a loud click as she turned the key. She took hold of the knob with a trembling hand and opened the door. She took one step inside the lighted room, and then swayed back with