The Law and Miss Penny Read Free Page A

alongside the lead wagon and glanced over at the occupants. The man was driving the mules, with his wife silently puffing away on her stogie beside him, but there was no sign of the "Indian princess." In fact, now that he thought of it, he realized he had seen neither hide nor hair of her since she'd stormed into the wagon back in Bucksnort and slammed the door in his face. Nor did he care. All he really cared about was putting this particular medicine show and its quacks out of business. That and wiping the Doolittle Gang off the face of the earth.
    He instructed the man to pull up the mules and then prepared to take his leave. That would have been the end of it, but as the medicine wagon skidded to a halt, the supply cart slid down off the edge of the muddy embankment, burying the wheels up to the axles.
    Morgan sighed heavily, knowing his progress would be delayed even further. No matter how little he thought of the troupe, or how much further ahead of him the Doolittle Gang might get, he just couldn't ride off leaving a crippled old man and two women stuck in the mud.
    "You've buried your supply wagon, old man," he said, his anger over the delay reflected in his tone. "Set your brake and get back there. We'll be shoveling mud at least until nightfall working it free." He pointed up at the sky, where thunderheads were quickly collecting. "And if I don't miss my guess, we'll be digging under a lot nastier conditions than these before the hour is out."
    As he started to dismount, a small dog popped through the privacy beads at the mouth of the medicine wagon and joined the doctor and his wife on the bench seat. When the dog began barking, Morgan's horse widened his eyes and then shied away from the rig, nearly unseating his rider before Morgan had a chance to get his foot out of the stirrup. Remembering that he'd been unable to persuade Amigo to get over his fear of dogs, even pint-sized little mutts like this one, Morgan reined the gelding up sharply.
    "Lock that damn dog up," he snapped at the old man. "We've got work to do."
    Then he climbed down off Amigo, grabbed the shovel that was lashed to the side of the wagon, and headed toward the cart. Zachariah joined him moments later, and set to work on the other side of the rig with his bare hands and a sugar scoop he'd removed from the back of the cart. A light mist had begun to fall by the time Morgan felt they'd dug enough to try using the medicine wagon to pull the cart out. Determined to get the task accomplished before a full-blown storm hit, he ordered the old man to the front of the rig to take control of the mules, and then he braced himself against the back of the medicine wagon. He would have to give the wagon a shove, and then move quickly to get out of the way so he wouldn't be hit by the cart. Coiling himself into a push-and-run position, he shouted, "Now, old man. Go."
    The rig groaned for a moment as its big wooden wheels clung to the bank, and then it popped free, lurching up the incline with a surprising burst of acceleration. As Morgan was about to leap to the side, his boot slipped on the recently dampened mud and he went down on his knees. Before he could regain his footing, the rig slammed against the back of his head. In the next second, he felt as if a great wall of ice was surrounding his skull. And then he felt nothing.
    * * *
    When the marshal's big white hat came blowing down the road, tumbling end over end until it was out of sight, and he wasn't running along behind it, Zack figured something had gone awry. As he started for the back of the wagon, he spotted the lawman lying near the side of the road. He was sprawled out on his belly, arms spread, one leg bent at the knee and tucked beneath the other, looking like he'd been flung out with the bathwater. His head was turned to the side, his mouth was open, and his tongue listed at the edge of his bottom lip, ready to fall out at any moment.
    Getting down to ground level with his thigh-high wooden