Dark Is the Night by William W. Johnstone

Author:William W. Johnstone
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Pinnacle Books
Published: 2023-01-12T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER 13

“Well, I’ll be . . .” Burt Whitley mumbled to himself when he looked out the door as two riders rode past the stable. Not sure he could believe his first glance, he hurried to stand outside the door. “What in the world?” he mumbled again when a second look confirmed it. Cullen McCabe, astride his big bay gelding, was leading one of Sheriff Prophet’s deputies, his hands tied behind his back, up the middle of the street. Curious to see where McCabe was taking the deputy, Burt walked up the street behind them. The riders on the two horses caught Hiram Polson’s eye as well, and he laid his hammer aside and fell in step with Burt as Cullen led Merle past the blacksmith’s shop. Rapidly becoming a parade, they picked up a couple more intrigued spectators, including Johnny Bledsoe, when they passed the saloon.

On the other side of the saloon, Slim Bradshaw sat on the tiny front porch of the sheriff’s office. When he looked down toward the stable and saw the small crowd coming his way, he got up from his chair and took a longer look. It was enough to make him swear, then he stepped just inside the office door. “Boss, there’s a damn parade marchin’ up the street this way, and you ain’t gonna believe who’s leadin’ it.”

“Now, what the hell?” Prophet mumbled, and came to the door immediately. His patience already spent, what with the recent failures he had suffered, he was not in a mood to suffer another setback. “McCabe,” was the one word he uttered when he stepped out to look.

“That’s Merle behind him,” Slim said. “It looks like he’s got his hands tied behind his back. What the hell is he doin’?”

Prophet didn’t answer him but walked to the edge of the porch to await the confrontation, a dark scowl prominent upon his face. By the time the parade reached the jail, it had attracted an audience of a dozen or more of the town’s citizens, sprinkled here and there with a drifter or a drunk. All of them, too curious to pass up the opportunity to spectate, followed close behind the deputy’s horse. Fighting hard to control his anger, Prophet remained standing there, saying nothing, until Cullen reined Jake to a stop in front of the steps. Then, with just one word again, he said, “McCabe,” more a curse than a greeting.

Cullen answered with one word only as well. “Sheriff,” he responded, sounding almost like a cheerful greeting in contrast. They remained in a silent confrontation for a long moment, one standing defiantly, the other in the saddle, equally defiant, each taking full measure of his adversary. After what seemed a long empty space, with no sound other than that from an out-of-tune piano in the saloon down the street, Cullen spoke. “I thought I’d bring your deputy back to ya. I reckon he musta got lost. I found him south of here on Fred Thomas’s range.”

“Is that so?” Prophet asked.

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