Free Blood Valley by William W. Johnstone Page A

shotgun is loaded with ball bearings and nails and pieces of scrap iron. One time, I seen an ol’ boy cut slap in two catchin’ both barrels of a Greener in the belly. It was not a sight I was likely to ever forget.
    A.J. and Mike had stopped cussin’ and hollerin’. I stepped back and looked in on them sittin’ on their bunks. Lawyer Stokes had been sent for.
    â€œWhat’s the bond for our charges, Sheriff?” A.J. asked. First time I could remember him ever callin’ me Sheriff.
    â€œThat’s gonna be up to the judge. Barbeau’s been sent for.”
    I said that with a bad taste in my mouth, for I’d been told that Judge Barbeau was a personal friend of both A.J. and Matt Mills.
    Both A.J. and Big Mike smiled at that, and I had me a sinkin’ feelin’ in the pit of my stomach that the rumors about Barbeau was true.
    â€œSo that means the judge will be here sometime in the morning?” A.J. asked.
    â€œI reckon so. If he can get his lard-butt up on a horse, that is.” I’d been told the judge was rather portly, as George put it. Fat-ass.
    â€œWell, Sheriff!” A.J. was all smiles now. “You don’t object if we have our meals sent in, do you?”
    â€œNope. That’s about the only way you gonna get fed.”
    â€œThat’s very good of you. Since we’ve missed lunch, why don’t you just step over to the cafe and order us something to eat?”
    I was still laughin’ as I closed the door leadin’ to the rows of cells. Big Mike and A.J. had started cussin’ again.
    Neither Joy nor Wanda was nowhere to be seen, and I was thankful for that for more reasons than one. There was some day-old beans in a pot and a half loaf of yesterday’s bread.
    Guess what A.J. and Big Mike had for lunch?
    â€œOutrageous!” A.J. had squalled. “Prisoners in the territorial prison get better food than this!”
    I didn’t pay him no mind.
    The novelty of A.J. and Big Mike bein’ in the pokey had wore off some when I stepped back outside. But the mood of the town had changed, I could sense it. It was an ugly, tense feeling in the air.
    I had left Rusty and Burtell back in the office, De Graff was makin’ rounds with me. He carried his Greener.
    He was quiet for a time, then said. “Trouble’s brewin’, Sheriff.”
    â€œYeah. I feel it. We’ll stay out of the Wolf’s Den. Ain’t no point in us eggin’ nothin’ on. That’s what A.J.’s gunhands want us to do.”
    â€œSheriff? You ever heard of Jack Crow?”
    â€œYeah. He’s supposed to be the best gun west of the Mississippi. But I ain’t never seen him. Can’t tell you what he looks like. Why?”
    â€œRumor has it he’s on the way in.”
    I glanced at De Graff. The man was about medium height and stocky, lookin’ to be in his mid to late thirties. Both he and Burtell were about the same height and build; both of them appearing to be quiet and steady men. Not gunhands, but the type of men who would back a fellow up and make the first shot count. Both De Graff and Burtell were western-born and raised, both of them comin’ from a little town down in Colorado.
    But Jack Crow, now that was something else. Jack Crow had built himself a reputation over the years as a tough, vicious gunfighter. Nobody had ever beat him to the draw. And he come real expensive. And when he left out of a place, two or three people was dead.
    The description of Jack Crow was vague, only one thing remaining constant—he dressed in black and rode a black horse.
    I wasn’t lookin’ forward to meetin’ Jack Crow.
    â€œYou heard anything else about Crow?” I asked De Graff.
    â€œJust that he’s definitely on the way here with the promise of big money.”
    I nodded, thinking. I knew from talkin’ to folks that Burtell and De Graff had been cowboys all their lives, ridin’ for