Bill noticed the apprehension in the other man’s voice and said, “I didn’t come with a warrant.”
“I’m glad to hear it. A deputy came by yesterday, asked could I back up Hutton’s story. I did. Down to the letter. He showed up a while ago, and apologized a dozen times for being two days late for work.” Barker chuckled and the sheriff smiled.
“Is he still around?”
Fred told Roger to keep at what he was doing, then struck off toward the stable. Bill fell into step with him.
“Thatcher worked with that ornery stud for a bit,” Fred said. “Then asked if he could inventory my tack, see if anything needed repair or replacement. He’s conscientious. Not like Roger,” he mumbled and spat out a chunk of tobacco. “I saw him come out of the stable a while ago. He’s probably back here.”
Bill was led around the stable to the corral. Thatcher and the stallion were in the center of it. Thatcher was lightly dragging a wound lasso in an unhurried and unending circuit along the horse’s back, down his flank, across his barrel to his shoulder and back up again to his withers. During one of these rotations, the animal got spooked for no good reason Bill could discern. Thatcher spoke softly and stroked him with his hand, settling him before applying the rope again.
He acknowledged their arrival with a glance over his shoulder. “Getting him used to the sight and feel of a rope.”
“Never thought I’d see it,” Barker said, sounding proud.
“We’ve got a long way to go,” Thatcher told him. “At this point, he trusts me only so far.”
Thrasher hung the lasso on his shoulder and rubbed the stallion’s neck with both hands while softly commending him for being so cooperative. “But you’ve had enough for today.” He stroked his forehead and muzzle, then left him and joined the men outside the corral.
“Impressive,” Bill said.
“You know horses?”
“Know enough to stay off them unless I can’t help it.”
Thatcher grinned. “I’m happy to give you some pointers.”
“Sheriff!”
The three turned in unison to see Harold jogging toward them and Roger rounding the corner of the stable.
The next sequence of events happened with lightning-bolt suddenness.
Thatcher’s right hand smacked his right thigh, then, in a single, fluid motion, he jerked the Colt six-shooter from Bill’s holster and fired at Harold, who fell back onto the ground.
Fred Barker slapped his hand against his heart.
The stallion went berserk.
Bill heard the report before it had even registered that Thatcher had disarmed him and fired his weapon.
By the time he gathered his wits and realized what had happened, Thatcher had lowered his gun hand. He calmly turned to Bill and extended him the pistol, grip first.
Barker blurted, “What in tarnation?”
The gunshot had stopped Roger in his tracks. Now he ran over to where Harold lay prone and called to them excitedly, “His head’s blowed clean off.”
Seventeen
Roger bent down and picked up the dead rattlesnake lying within inches of Harold’s size thirteen boots. The deputy struggled into a sitting position. Thatcher ran over to him. He didn’t even glance at the snake, but gave Harold a helping hand up. “There was no time to warn you. You all right?”
Stupefied, Harold nodded.
Roger was as energized as if he’d been plugged into an electrical socket. “Six feet if he’s an inch.” He dangled the limp, headless body, looking at Thatcher with bug-eyed admiration. “Never saw shooting like that.”
Bill had never seen anything like it, either. Not in all his days. And he’d grown up in a family of excellent marksmen, skilled with both long guns and pistols.
“Can I keep the skin?” Roger asked Thatcher.