Free The Lawmen by Robert Broomall Page A

belt. “Take this, too.”
    Essex buckled on the belt and examined the pistol. It was a Navy Colt in an unusual .44 caliber, with bored-through chambers to accept the new-style metallic cartridges. “Fancy piece,” he commented, spinning the cylinder and peering down the barrel. He holstered the weapon. “So what’s our plan?”
    “Plan?” said Clay. “Sit tight, I guess, and hope that help comes.”
    “Don’t sound like much of a plan.”
    “You got a better one?”
    “You’re the boss man, you’re supposed to do the thinking. Where’s all this help going to come from, anyway?”
    “Tucson.”
    “Folks in Tucson know we’re in trouble?”
    “They will, if we’re lucky.” Clay hoped to hell Julie got that note to the stage driver. “There isn’t much else we can do. We can’t try Vance in Topaz—Judge Saxon quit, and no one wants to take his place. The nearest place for a jury trial is Tucson, but I don’t know how we could get Vance there without his brothers finding out about it and stopping us.”
    “How long you figure we’ll have to hold out here?”
    “Four days, maybe.”
    Essex rolled his eyes. “Four days? Against all them men?”
    “It can be done. We can store up food and water. The building’s adobe—it won’t burn. There’s only two doors. We’ll put one man on the front door and one on the back. Oh, hell, what am I talking about? The likelihood that we’ll make it is about as close to zero as you can get. Vance will end up free, and we’ll end up on Boot Hill.”
    “What are you trying to say?”
    “I’m trying to say get out. I have to do this. You don’t.”
    “Bullshit. You just want to play the hero all by yourself. ”
    “I still don’t know why you want to stay,” Clay said. “What you do here won’t make a difference to anyone.”
    “It’ll make a difference to me,” Essex told him.
    Clay’s eyes narrowed. “You sure you’re not just looking for a chance to get alone with the prisoner and dispense a little justice on your own?”
    “That thought never crossed my mind,” Essex replied.
    Clay sighed. “Have it your way, then. The last marshal’s bags are in the back room. Check them and see if you can find some ammunition for that repeater. We’ll need enough to stand a siege.”
    Essex went into the small back room. “Where do you live?” Clay asked him.
    “Got me a shack at the end of Apache Street, ’long with the other colored folks and Indians. Only place I can live in this town.”
    “What did you do before you came to Topaz?”
    “Worked on a ranch in Texas. It was a good job till the area got pacified and the so-called ‘decent’ folks started moving in. They thought it was horrible that a nigger like me was working alongside white cowboys. A committee of them good people gave me thirty-six hours to get out of the county or get hung. ”
    “What’d you do?”
    “I gave them about thirty-three hours worth of change.”
    “You weren’t so eager to stay and fight then,” Clay said. “What’s the difference now?”
    Essex came back to the front room. “This time I got something seems worth fighting for. If I got to die, I’d rather it be for a reason, ’stead of just ’cause I’m black.”
    “Find anything back there?” Clay asked him.
    Essex shook his head, and Clay said, “I’ll have to go buy some—”
    There were muffled yells from the jail in back. Clay opened the connecting door. “What do you want?”
    “Leave that door open, will you?” Vance said. “For the breeze. It’s burning up back here.” Vance saw Essex over Clay’s shoulder. “Who’s that?”
    “The new deputy,” Clay replied without enthusiasm.
    Vance started laughing. He laughed so hard that he fell back on his cot. “You expect him to help you against my—” He stopped and stood again. “Hey! He’s wearing my gun!”
    “No shit,” Clay said.
    “But ... he can’t do that. That’s an expensive rig. It’s mine.”
    “You won’t