Free The Salem Witch Society by K. N. Shields Page A

boss cried. “How good of you to come. You’re just in time. Tonight is the—”
    A beer bottle flewfrom the crowd, striking the show boss in the chest. The man went down in a heap. Lean fired one shot into the air, which brought a sudden silence to the rumble of the mob.
    “Deputy Marshal Lean of the Portland police. I order you to disperse immediately!”
    “One of these Indians killed that girl, and he’s going to swing for it!” yelled one man.
    “Turn him over and no one else will get hurt!” shouted another.
    “No one’s turning anyone over. Now, I’m warning you—this is a criminal assembly. Anyone failing to disperse will be arrested.”
    A man who seemed to be a leader of the mob stepped up to Lean and announced, “This ain’t Portland. You’re out of your territory.”
    Lean extended his arm, pressing the pistol against the man’s forehead. He waited a moment, the entire mob and dozens of onlookers all staring at him. Then he released the hammer on his pistol and drew it back slowly from the man’s forehead.
    A nervous smile appeared on the man’s face. “Now, step aside and let us do what’s right.”
    A sudden rage welled in Lean’s gut and rushed up past his chest. His hand flashed forward and rammed the butt of the pistol into the man’s forehead, splitting open a thin, bloody seam. The man buckled and went down. Two other fellows came forth with violence still on their faces, but they only moved to help their comrade off the ground. Lean sensed the steam going out of the mob. Once again he ordered them to disperse and then made the mistake of holstering his pistol.
    With a rumbling growl, a young man from the mob came hurtling forward, arms wheeling. A well-timed left to the man’s face dropped him at Lean’s feet. Two more men rushed him, and Lean tried to square his feet, but the young man on the ground had clasped on to his leg. Lean threw an off-balance punch as the first reached him, then went down as the second assailant tackled him.

    Grey had dashed away, circling around the developing mob scene. He rushed along the sand dunes, his steel-handled walking stick in one hand while his other rested on the bottles in his coat pocket. Grey moved toward the three long wagons where the mob had congregated earlier. He set his walking stick against the shortest wagon in order to free the draft horses and tether them to a nearby tree. In the back were several empty wood casks that the men had used as seats. Grey smashed one of these into kindling on the ground, then doused it with Sagamo Elixir. He broke off a match, struck it, and dropped it onto the wood. Once it lit, he snatched up a thin burning board and turned toward the wagon. He splashed the wooden frame with just enough to cause alarm to the owners, without actually damaging the structure. The point was to startle the mob, not actually cut off their escape. He lit the wagon, and a thin streak of blue-tinged flames spread along the edge.
    “What the hell you think you’re doing?”
    A hand gripped Greyby the shoulder and spun him around. A thickset ogre of a man, well over six feet, with raging, whiskey-soaked eyes, took a wild swing. Grey ducked out of the way as he dropped the fiery brand and the bottle. He seized his walking stick and delivered an over-the-head strike. The man blocked it with a treelike forearm, snapping the stick in half.
    The man shook off the blow and threw a roundhouse that connected with Grey’s ribs, wobbling him. Before Grey could react, the man grabbed him and slammed him to the ground next to the burning wagon. Grey caught sight of the Sagamo Elixir. He crawled under the wagon, snatching the bottle as he went. The man grasped Grey’s left ankle and pulled. Grey tipped the bottle and filled his mouth with what tasted like turpentine spiked with sugar. As the man dragged him from under the wagon, Grey reached for the burning board he had used to light the wagon.
    The man hauled Grey to his feet, then