Everyone looked around to see that Dave Sutherland was on his feet at last, moving toward the bar from the table where Angus and Culley still sat. The young man’s eyes were still a little bleary, but by and large he seemed to be sober.
“Old-timer, is it?” muttered Scratch, but no one paid any attention to his indignant question.
Marshal Harding said, “No offense, Dave, but of course you’d stick up for these two if they’re really workin’ for your ma.”
“That doesn’t have anything to do with it, Marshal,” Dave insisted. “You know me and my mother don’t always get along. I wouldn’t lie to the law just to help out a couple of strangers who haven’t even been working for her an hour yet!”
Harding rubbed his jaw in thought. “Yeah, I reckon that makes sense—”
“Don’t listen to him, Marshal,” Rutledge said. “You’ve got Claremont’s statement, and I’m sure when my men are in shape to talk to you, they’ll tell you the same thing. Maybe they got a little proddy. I won’t argue that with you. Men sometimes have to blow off some steam. But these two could have seriously injured them. My God, Bartlett’s nose is broken! I’ll swear out a complaint, and you arrest those saddle tramps.”
Rutledge’s arrogant tone put a burr under the lawman’s saddle. Harding’s back stiffened. He said, “Don’t go tellin’ me what to do, Mr. Rutledge. I’m the marshal of this town, and I know how to do my job.”
Rutledge back off some immediately. “Of course you do, Marshal,” he said. “I didn’t mean to suggest otherwise. But it’s hard to stand by and watch that woman and her people deliberately cause trouble. Good Lord, I’m not convinced that there’s not some sort of connection between the Sutherland Stage Line and those outlaws of Judson’s!”
That bold-faced statement made both Bo and Scratch stare at Rutledge. Earlier, Abigail Sutherland had made exactly the same sort of accusation against Jared Rutledge.
Harding gave the freight line owner a dubious frown. “I dunno, Mr. Rutledge,” he said. “That sounds mighty far-fetched to me.”
“It’s loco, that’s what it is,” Scratch burst out. “Why, it’s only been a few hours since Bo and me was tradin’ shots with those owlhoots while they tried to hold up one of Miz Sutherland’s coaches!”
Rutledge sneered at him. “We’ve got only your word for that, don’t we?”
“What about that bullet hole in Ponderosa Pine’s shoulder?” Bo asked quietly. “I’d say that’s proof.”
“Proof that the old fool got shot, that’s all,” snapped Rutledge. “It might have been an accident, or maybe one of you shot him just to make your story look good. For all we know you’re part of Judson’s gang!”
Scratch’s eyes narrowed. “Mister, I’m gettin’ mighty tired o’ that line o’ bull you’re puttin’ out.”
Bo moved between Scratch and Rutledge. He said, “Marshal, you can ask Gil Sutherland and Ponderosa about the robbery. They’ll tell the same story we do.”
“Of course they will,” Rutledge said.
Bo ignored him and went on. “And there have been other times when Judson’s gang held up Mrs. Sutherland’s stagecoaches. I’m sure there were witnesses to those crimes.”
Harding nodded. “Yeah, that’s true. I talked to the passengers who were on the coaches that got stopped, and their stories pretty well matched up.”
“And I believe Mrs. Sutherland said that a driver and a guard who worked for her were killed during one of the holdups.” Bo looked at Rutledge. “I know I just met Mrs. Sutherland, but I don’t think she’d have anything to do with murdering innocent men just to keep suspicion from falling on her.”
Rutledge at least looked a little uncomfortable now. “Maybe those men were killed accidentally. Things could have gotten out of hand…Anyway, I never said I thought there is a connection between Mrs. Sutherland and Rance Judson, just that there could be.”
Scratch snorted. “You could be able to flap your arms and fly to the moon, too, mister, but I ain’t gonna wait for it to happen.”
“I think we all need to just settle down,” Harding said. He had lowered the shotgun, and now held it in one hand at his side. With the other hand, he gestured toward Bartlett, whose groans had subsided to the occasional pathetic whimper. “Mr. Rutledge, why don’t you have a couple of your boys take Bartlett down to Doc Chambers’ place and see if the doc can do anything for him? And the rest of ’em can haul Langdon and Simms back to their rooms and let ’em sleep it off.”
“They’re not drunk,” Rutledge said. “They were knocked out. Assaulted.”
“This wouldn’t be the first time those three have got mixed up in a shootin’ and somebody else wound up dead,” the marshal said. “I don’t like killin’s in my town. So I don’t feel much like givin” em the benefit of the doubt this time, no offense.”
Judging from the glare on Rutledge’s face, though, he took offense, and plenty of it. But he didn’t argue any more with the lawman. He just jerked a hand at his men and barked a couple of orders. Two of the hardcases helped Bartlett to his feet and assisted him out of the saloon. The others picked up the still-unconscious forms of Langdon and Simms and carried them out.
Rutledge took a cigar from his vest pocket, clamped one end of it between his teeth, and left it unlit as he said, “If I was you, Marshal, I’d keep a close eye on these saddle tramps. If you do, you’ll see that it’s them who are the real troublemakers.”
With that, he turned and stalked out of Sharkey’s, slapping the batwings aside with such force that they swung back and forth several times after he was gone.
Marshal Harding shook his head. “That’s a stiff-necked man,” he said, and the comment seemed directed as much to himself as to anyone else. “Lots of mad in him, and not much back-up.” He turned to Bo and Scratch. “I’d keep an eye out behind me if I was you boys. Those three don’t take kindly to anybody gettin’ the best of ’em, especially Cal Langdon. When he wakes up he’s gonna be touchy as an old grizzly.”
“Are you saying he might try to shoot us from a dark alley or something like that, Marshal?” Bo asked.
“Well, no, I don’t think he would…I’m just sayin’ you ought to be careful, that’s all.”
Scratch grunted. “If we wasn’t careful, we wouldn’t have lived as long as we have.”
“That’s for sure,” Bo agreed with a faint smile.
Harding turned to the bartender. “Claremont, when I ask you a question, I expect a straight answer, savvy?”
“I told you the way I saw it, Marshal,” Claremont answered stiffly. “I’m working here. It’s a busy night. Can’t expect a man to see every little thing that goes on.”
“Uh-huh.” The dry sarcasm in Harding’s curt answer made Claremont flush angrily, but the bartender didn’t say anything else.
Harding turned back to Dave Sutherland, glanced past the young man to the table where his two friends still sat, and went on. “I’m a little surprised you’d stick up for these two, Dave. I heard you and Angus and Culley had a run-in with them yourselves a while ago.”
“That was mostly Angus and Culley, Marshal. And we’d all had too much to drink.”
“That don’t surprise me none.” Harding sighed. “Try to keep your nose clean, kid. Keepin’ the peace around here is hard enough without you three young hellions goin’ around stirrin’ things up.”