Showdown at Gun Hill Read Free

punishment enough. I might never drink again.”
    Sam glanced all around the small office, seeing bullet holes in the walls, ricochet dings on the iron bars.
    â€œI’m letting you go, Caywood Bratcher,” he said. “Get on back to your mining.”
    â€œI’m gone,” the prisoner said over his shoulder, already headed for the door. “No disrespect for the law, Ranger, but that crazy sumbitch turns himself into a wolf, a bear, a bat . . . all kinds of things—gave me the willies just hearing about it.”
    â€œGet on out of here, Caywood,” Sam said.
    â€œNo offense, Ranger, there’s plenty of crazy drunks in Big Silver without the sheriff being one,” the miner said on his way out the door. “Something ought to be done.”
    â€œThat’s why I’m here,” Sam said quietly as the miner’s boots stomped hurriedly across the boardwalk.

Chapter 2

    Sheriff Stone awakened inside the cell, sprawled on one of the four cots set up along the walls. Outside the cell, the Ranger stood holding two steaming mugs of coffee in his hands. He watched as the waking sheriff moaned and raised a hand to the dark bruise reaching up along his left jawline. Early sunlight streamed through the front window and partially open door.
    â€œMorning, Sheriff,” Sam said, moving forward to the cell.
    Stone pushed himself up onto the side of the cot with shaky hands and stared out at him with a puzzled expression. He looked over at the sunlight; he rubbed a hand on his sore beard-stubbled jaw. Then he looked back at the Ranger.
    â€œRanger Burrack . . . ?” he said with uncertainty. “Is that . . .
you
?”
    â€œIt’s me, Sheriff,” Sam said. “Can you use some hot coffee?”
    â€œOh yes,” the sheriff said without hesitation. He made a failed attempt to rise from the cot, then sankback down, looking as if the room had started to tilt around him.
    â€œEasy does it, Sheriff,” Sam cautioned. “You’ve been in and out for a while. Careful getting your legs back.”
    â€œIn and out for
a while
?” said Stone, confused, looking all around the cell, seeing early sunlight shine through a small barred window. “The sun’s still coming up.”
    â€œYep, but you haven’t seen it do that the past two days,” Sam replied. “Get up slow and easy.”
    â€œTwo days?”
the sheriff said, this time making it to his feet unsteadily when he pushed himself up and swayed forward.
    â€œTwo days,” Sam repeated. He stepped over and set the sheriff’s coffee mug on the battered desk and picked up the key to the cell.
    The sheriff managed to stagger forward and grab the bars to steady himself.
    â€œI’ve been out for
two days
. . . .” He pondered it for a moment, trying to pull up any memory of the time he’d lost. He looked up and all around. “Why am I locked in my own jail?” he asked. “Who hit me in the jaw?”
    â€œI locked you up for your own good,” Sam said. “I hit you in the jaw because I didn’t want to shoot you. Sound fair?” he asked in a quiet tone.
    Stone only stared, rubbing his sore jaw.
    â€œWhere’s Caywood, my prisoner?” he asked.
    â€œI let him go,” said Sam, unlocking the cell door. “I needed the room.”
    Stone sniffed the air.
    â€œIt smells something awful in here,” he said.
    â€œYep, it does,” Sam agreed.
    Stone looked around at the bullet holes and ricochet nicks all over his office, a pile of empty whiskey bottles in a garbage crate.
    â€œJesus, I did all this?” he said.
    â€œYep,” Sam said again. He swung the cell door open and stepped back for the sheriff to walk out of the cell. Stone made his way around behind his desk and hung on to its edge. He reached a shaky hand down and pulled open a bottom drawer.
    â€œI—I don’t