Reuben Cole Westerns Collection

Chapter 6

Kicking off his boots, Sterling Roose stomped into his sparsely furnished office and, ignoring anything around him, went directly to the coffee pot and peered inside.

‘Not the most observant of folk are you.’

Roose whirled, hand reaching for his revolver, and froze before he managed to clear the holster primarily due to it being a Remington New Model Police revolver with a five and a half inch barrel. This detail had never much bothered Roose up until now. The last time he had drawn his g*n in anger had been almost twenty years earlier on that unforgettable evening when he and Reuben Cole laid out five Mexican bandits in the main drag. This, however, was not that warm, dry evening. This was a warm, dry morning and he was older, slower. Furthermore, the man sitting at his desk had a big calibre Smith and Wesson trained unerringly towards his midriff. He let his breath rattle out in a long, slow stream and straightened up. ‘All right. You’ve made your point, stranger, now do you mind telling me what you’re doing in my office?’

‘The door was open.’

‘That’s no answer.’

‘True.’ The man smiled and Roose took the opportunity to study him. Clearly, he had been on the range for a prolonged period, his face swarthy with the sun, a three or four-day growth of beard not totally disguising his solid jaw, the thin mouth. Ice blue eyes twinkled from under heavy brows, and he was not young. Deep lines cut through his cheeks and around his eyes. He appeared a hardened individual, one well versed in using the g*n in his hand, a hand encased in worn, kid gloves smeared, like the rest of his clothing, in the dust which invaded everything in that town. ‘I’m here to talk to you about Maddie.’

‘Oh.’

‘Yes … oh. Now, unbuckle that g*n belt and sit down real slow. I have some things on my mind that you need to hear.’

oh. ‘I don’t even know who you are.’

‘Well, that’s one of the things we can discuss, now ain’t it.’ He waved the g*n slightly. ‘The gunbelt … real slow.’

real Things all seemed to tumble into a mess of confusion from that moment. The door burst open violently, the force almost tearing it from its hinges and Mathias Thurst, Roose’s young deputy, bounded in. Wearing nothing but his sweat-stained long-johns, Thurst, like his boss, did not at first see the angular figure of the stranger sitting behind the sheriff’s desk. With his arms flapping around like those of a broken windmill, he strode in, gunbelt draped over one shoulder, hat hanging by its neck cord around his throat. He wore one boot, the left one held in his left hand.

‘Sheriff, oh please, you gotta come quick,’ he began, his words gushing out as if from an untapped oil strike, ‘It’s Mrs. Samuels, she came riding in like a crazy thing on that little buggy of hers and she is telling everyone she has …’ His voice trailed away as his eyes lighted on the stranger and, in particular, the big-barreled Smith and Wesson which was now turned on him

Roose took the opportunity, swept up the small cast-iron coal shovel with which he used to keep the pot-belly stove stoked up with fuel, and with all the power he could muster, smacked it, with a good deal of satisfaction, across the stranger’s jaw.

Shrieking, the stranger clutched at his right cheek and fell over the chair. Crashing to the ground, the g*n skating over towards Thurst, he writhed and moaned loudly. Thurst meanwhile stooped and picked the big Smith and Wesson up. ‘’T’ain"t even loaded, Sheriff.’

Not listening, Roose nimbly darted behind his desk and cracked the shovel two or three more times across the stranger’s skull. ‘Swine,’ he hissed. Satisfied the stranger would not be causing any more trouble, he stood up, breathing hard and glared at his young deputy. ‘What was you hollerin’ about, Thurst?’

It took a moment for Thurst to answer, eyes on stalks, studying the b****y and inert body of the stranger.

‘Thurst, open your ears!’

Thurst, ‘I … Darn it, Sheriff, you think you might have killed him?’

‘I don’t care if I have,’ said Roose, face flushed, sweat sprouting across his forehead. He threw the small shovel away and hoisted up his trousers. ‘He was already here when I came in this morning. Had that g*n on me. Don’t know who he is.’

By now Thurst was next to the body, fingers pressed under the man’s broken jaw. ‘I don’t get no pulse.’

‘Thurst, can you leave it and tell me why you came in as if all the hounds of Hell were snapping at your heels.’

Thurst stood up again, shaking his head. ‘Darndest thing I ever did see.’ He turned to fix his gaze upon his boss. ‘Mrs. Samuels, you know the one, she cleans a number of the big properties around here? Well, she went over to Reuben Cole’s place and found him all beat up, just lying there in his own dining room she said.’ He looked down at the body and shook his head again. ‘Just like him, I guess.’

‘Reuben Cole? Beat up? You sure that is what she said?’

‘That’s it. She’s over in Drey Brewer’s coffee house being comforted by them Spyrow sisters. I was on my porch when she came flying by in her buggy, pulled up real sharp and started squawking at me, almost demanding I come and get you. Hence my unkempt appearance, boss. I do apologize for that.’

demanding ‘Don’t you go fretting about any dress code, son.’ He pointed at the crumpled body next to the desk. ‘You, er, tidy up in here after we’ve put that i***t in a cell. Put his g*n on my desk.’

‘It’s not loaded.’

‘I heard you, but I wasn’t to know that was I?’

‘No, I guess not.’

‘Well then,’ Roose tugged off his jacket and flung it over the back of his chair, ‘let’s get him inside the jail, then I’ll call on Doc Evans to fix him up.’

‘He don’t need no doctor, Sheriff. He needs a preacher.’ Another shake of his head. ‘Or Jesus, to raise him.’