Marshal of Hel Dorado Read Free Page A

it’s just Cob, not sir, not
Mister.”
           “Yes, si—” She paused at his admonishing
look. “Yes, Cob.” It seemed disrespectful to not put some salutation before his
name, but he was insisting.
           “Good girl.” He dropped the brace across
the back door that Scarlett hadn’t noticed. He checked the latch for
sturdiness, then pulled the Marshal’s chair out from behind the desk and
dragged it over to the wall that tucked into a curve near her cell. He settled
himself in it, the scattergun pointed at the door over his lap.
           It was an ideal position. He could see both
doors and her. At that range, the scattergun would make short work of anyone
bursting in. Fortunately, her brothers wouldn’t come through the front, but his
position gave him a good angle on the cell.
           “Now, you want to tell ol’Cob what you were
doing in the bank tonight, Miss Scarlett?”
          “If I
can’t call you sir, I think just Scarlett would be fine, s—Cob.”
           His lined face wrinkled in good humor.
“Fair enough.” He drew a thin waxy piece of paper from his pocket and a
well-oiled tobacco pouch. Scarlett scooted back on the cot, not quite leaning
away while he rolled up the tobacco and used a wooden match to strike against
the bars.
           The flame flickered, threatening to go out
in a breeze only it seemed to feel, but then flared as Scarlett watched it
carefully. Cob lit his cigarette and shook the match out, tossing the smoking
wood onto a metal plate on the desk’s edge.
           Cob cocked an eyebrow in her direction, a
haze of blue smoke shimmering in the light of the kerosene lamps. The noise of
horses stamping and the angry voices of the townsfolk rose in volume outside.
Cob divided his attention, one eye firm on the door.
           Her brothers would have a bit of a ride to
give slip to the posse after them and even if they managed to circle back
around, the commotion would have them hunkering down. She might have time to
chat with the Marshal after all. A curiously hopeful sensation bubbled up
inside of her.
           Cob squinted his left eye closed as he
sucked in a lungful of smoke. “You looking mighty pleased for someone who could
be hanging at dawn.”
           The thought was enough to evaporate her
good cheer. Oh, she wouldn’t hang. Her brothers wouldn’t allow it. Least of all
Wyatt. But Wyatt was a fair ride away and it would be days before he found out
she was here.
           “I didn’t think people liked to hang
women.” She wasn’t sure where she’d heard that, but it seemed a reasonable
thought. Most of the hangings she’d ever heard of were men, some Anglo, some
Tejanos, and a Negro or two, more than a few Comanche and Apache and the
Spaniards. They definitely liked hanging them when their raiders came over the
borders.
           “I can’t say that a few folks don’t enjoy
any kind of hanging, but stealing’s a hanging offense, little lady. The Marshal
pulled you out of the bank, so I reckon he might insist on waiting for the
territorial judge, but dead at the end of the noose at dawn or in a few weeks
is still dead.”
           Her throat closed convulsively. She’d only
ever seen one hanging. A horse thief in Eucher Butte who’d killed a widow and
her three littles had been strung up on the spot. The man had kicked, screamed,
spit and yelled as they dragged him up on a horse, thrown a rope around his
neck and tossed the other end around a tree branch. Quanto told her to look
away, but she’d never forget the harsh snap of the man’s neck breaking.
           A mercy, Quanto told her, but the sound
haunted her dreams for weeks.
           The office door slammed open, bringing Cob
upright, the gun centering square on the torso of a spindly man dressed hastily
in loose britches pulled over long underwear. His too narrow face looked
pinched, sun burnt skin dragging over his cheekbones and