15 Western Short Stories — page 31: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

THE GIRL IN THE JAIL bottom. Bess stood beside it and looked out for a moment, then rolled the blanket as the sheriff has suggest- ed. She put the chair in a dark cor- ner, out of a line of fire, and sat down. Minutes seemed long hours as she waited. She heard the pounding hoots as ranch men left the saloon to hit the trail for their homes. There was no more loud talk and raucous laughter. A breeze swept down from the hills and rustled the dry brush and litter behind the jail. Some dog bayed at the moon. She was a little afraid, and her fear made her doubly alert. So, after a long time, after she had commenced think- ing she and her uncle had guessed wrong, that Steve Roskin was not guilty, or, if guilty, was too wise to walk into a trap, she heard a slight sound that attracted her swift atten- tion. The sound came from the little office in front. She heard footsteps. She wondered if the sheriff was slip- ping in again with news of some hap- pening. She got up from the chair and crouched in a dark corner of the cell as far as possible from the cot and the roll of blanket upon it. She heard the slight creaking of the office door, soft furtive steps approaching the cell. The faint light from the lantern with its wick turned down cast a sudden shadow. She did not speak. If it was the sheriff out- side the cell, he would speak to her first. Then she heard a yell outside: “He went in the front door...I saw him! Must have had a key! Watch the back! We'll go in the front!” A sudden rush of feet outside the cell. A voice that snarled words: “They may get me, Bess, but I'll get you first! Like I got your sweet- -heart...” Gunfire blasted the small confines of the little cell room. Bullets ot screamed and ricochetted from the walls, from the cell bars. Streaks of amber flame dimmed the light of the lantern, and pungent smoke filled the room. A wild cry, a gasp, the sound of a body falling. Then a man was shout- ing at the window, and other men were rushing in from the office. Steve Roskin was sprawled on the floor of the cell room, his gun beside him. The sheriff and one of his dep- uties bent over him, turned him over, heard his faint mutterings. “What in blazes happened?” Lucas said. “We didn’t get here in time to use our guns. Did he shoot himself?” Bess answered calmly as she went to the cell door. “I shot him while he was shooting at the cot. It’s a good thing you didn’t search me when you put me into your jail, Sheriff. I had one of Uncle Mart’s guns hidden un- der my dress. Got it when I changed clothes at the ranch before riding to town. Did you hear what Steve Ros- kin said? ‘I’ll get you...like I got your sweetheart!’” “We heard it,’ Lucas told her. “We'll get you out of there, Bess, and I’ll take you home for my wife to care for. Then we'll ride out and pick up Clyde Roskin. He’ll have a little ex- plainin’ to do himself,-as to his part in these shenanigans.” “Gosh all hemlock,” one of the dep- uties said, “wait’ll the town hears about this.” “Then it’s safe for Uncle Mart to come home now?” “That’s right.” “I want to ride home at daylight, then. I'll signal him it’s all over. He’ll be watching for my signal...a white- and-red checked tablecloth stretched on the clothesline.” Bess Treddy picked up her sunbon- net from the floor, and stood waiting for the sheriff to unlock the door of the cell, @END COMiICcloo (CO