Chapter 2
Chapter
Deputy James Paxton moseyed down Second Street on his evening rounds.
All was quiet around the courthouse square.
As usual. Weeknights were pretty tame in Albany.
Weekends, too, for that matter. Just the way he liked it.
He’d gone nearly two weeks without arresting anyone.
Letting Donovan Farley sleep off his drunks on a jail cell cot didn’t count.
After Farley tripped over a rock last year and busted his arm on his way home from one of his drinking binges, his wife told him not to come home until he could see straight.
Farley’s vision was questionable on a good day.
Add a half-dozen shots of whiskey to the mix, and he’d be lucky to find his own boots.
If a jail cell cot kept the man in good graces with his wife, James didn’t mind putting him up for the night.
As long as he kept the contents of his stomach where they belonged.
Sheriff Adair didn’t take too kindly to his jailhouse smelling like regurgitated liquor, and James wasn’t overly fond of floor scrubbing.
A couple of decades ago, this part of Shackelford County looked vastly different.
Rowdy cowboys working the cattle trails to Dodge City, adventure-seeking soldiers stationed at Fort Griffin, buffalo hunters, gamblers, and outlaws of every sort made the area home.
Old-timers even talked about the days when Doc Holliday and Big Nose Kate lived in The Flat, the locals’ name for the town of Fort Griffin that sprouted up below the military garrison.
It had been one of the most lawless places in the West. Vigilance committees sprouted up to try to preserve the safety of the ranchers, farmers, and merchants in the area, but lynch mob justice was still murder in James’s book.
Thankfully, Albany won the county seat away from Fort Griffin and helped establish some stability in the area.
And when the railroad bypassed Fort Griffin in favor of Albany, people of The Flat dispersed in search of greener pastures.
Thank God for men like Henry Herron and William Adair—men who’d worn the badge and helped tame this land. James aimed to follow in their footsteps one day and wear the sheriff’s star himself.
His steps slowed as he turned his gaze upon the three-story limestone courthouse sitting in the center of town.
The impressive edifice never failed to inspire him.
Solid. Steady. A symbol of justice and righteousness.
His chest expanded. Yep. That’s what he wanted to be a part of—a system that valued righteousness, that offered protection and created peace.
God had been training him for this work since the day he was born.
The middle of five kids, he’d been negotiating truces and curtailing crises for years before he left his father’s ranch outside Breckenridge, Texas, to work as a deputy for Sheriff Herron five years ago.
He hadn’t had enough experience to run for sheriff when Herron retired in ’90, but there’d be another election in a couple of years, and James intended to throw his hat into the ring.
Not that he didn’t like working for Sheriff Adair.
He did, but he didn’t want to be an underling forever.
Leaving the courthouse behind, James ambled north on Main.
If trouble planned to come callin’ tonight, that’s where it’d start.
Most of the downtown area stood quiet after business hours, but this stretch of two blocks echoed with raucous voices, music, and the occasional impromptu bout of fisticuffs.
Billiard hall, saloon, hotel, and railroad depot—all within a few strides.
If a man wanted entertainment, games of chance, or a place to wet his whistle, this was where he’d be.
Which was why James passed most of his evenings patrolling these two blocks.
His pappy had always said that an ounce of prevention was worth a pound of cure.
Sure proved true in law enforcement. All the sheriff required of him during night shifts was to make a couple of rounds of the business district, then be on duty at the jailhouse in case someone required his services.
Easy enough since he lived there. Yet over the last two years, James had started putting in regular, after-dark appearances at the Salt Fork Saloon and the billiard hall a few doors down.
He never lingered too long—having a lawman on the premises tended to be bad for business in those particular establishments—but a well-timed entrance had a rather remarkable cooling effect on hot heads.
The number of assaults on the books in Albany had dropped by twenty-five percent since he’d begun the practice.
A fact that could aid a fella’s campaign when election time next rolled around.
What would not help his campaign was the thorn in his backside ignoring his warnings and continuing to harass law-abiding citizens.
Citizens with influence, and more importantly, votes.
James’s jaw tightened as he transformed his mosey into a march and lengthened his stride to hurry past the darkened fronts of drug stores, cobblers, and grocers on his way to his target.
The irate woman jabbing a pointed finger toward Milton Taggert’s chest.
“I will not make myself scarce, Mr. Taggert. I will make myself heard. I have the right of free speech, and I will exercise that right wherever and however I choose. I choose here and now.”
The finger jabbed toward the ground to emphasize her point, easing a bit of James’s anxiety over the likelihood of said digit being snapped in two by the irate tavern owner.
Milton Taggert had moved to Albany from The Flat after the railroad came through and had a roughness around his edges that didn’t bode well for single-minded women too blinded by their ideals to identify the danger right in front of them.
“My customers have rights, too,” Taggert growled. “Like the right to spend their evenings as they see fit without being insulted by some sour-faced, teetotaling old biddy who wouldn’t know a good time if it bit her on the nose.”
Miss O’Sullivan’s stubborn chin ticked up a notch. “The demon drink you serve only offers the illusion of fun, but it’s a lie, and we both know it. In truth, it steals a man’s sense and his morals, leading to crime, cruelty, and an immeasurable amount of stupidity.”
James chuckled inwardly at that, ducking into the shadows as he neared. The woman had grit. And a valid point. Not that he expected her zealous sermonizing to sway the burly man glowering at her like a grizzly bear on the boardwalk outside the Salt Fork Saloon.
“If liquor is such an abomination, why did that Jesus fella you’re so keen on turn water into wine for a wedding party?”
Noreen O’Sullivan blinked. Her lips parted but no rejoinder sprang forth.
Taggert’s arms unfolded. “That’s what I thought. Drop this obsession and go home, O’Sullivan. You got no business here.”
Yes, go home, lady. Please. No need to escalate this into something ugly. Even as the plea formed in his mind, Noreen O’Sullivan’s eyes narrowed, and her finger rose back to pointing position.
“Proverbs twenty verse one: ‘Wine is a mocker, strong drink is raging: and whosoever is deceived thereby is not wise.’ Ephesians five verse eighteen: ‘And be not drunk with wine, wherein is excess; but be filled with the Spirit.’ Galatians five verse twenty-one . . .”
The woman kept firing her Scripture bullets, paying no heed to her increasing peril. Her ammunition bounced off Taggert without making a dent, yet the more she fired, the angrier he became. When the man took a threatening step forward, James stepped out of the shadows.
“Evenin’, Taggert.”
The saloon owner pulled up short and whipped his face toward James, jaw tight and eyes blazing.
“You gonna do somethin’ about this, Deputy?
” He jerked a thumb in Miss O’Sullivan’s direction.
“This Bible thumper’s been out here for the past twenty minutes haranguin’ my customers and disturbin’ the peace. ”
Miss O’Sullivan pivoted toward James, her back ramrod straight and her eyes as fiery as Taggert’s. Not a good sign. “I’m on a public street, exercising my freedom of speech. There’s no law against such activities.”
Taggert spun to face her, his fists clenched but thankfully not raised. “What about the law of human decency? You’re a public nuisance!”
“And you’re a threat to public safety, filling men with liquor with no care as to how the drunkards you create will treat their wives and children when they get home.
” Miss O’Sullivan’s voice cracked slightly, and for the first time James suspected that temperance was more than a social issue to this reformer. It was personal.
James wedged himself between the two before they could start taking swings at each other with something more damaging than words.
“All right. That’s enough.” He kept his voice calm and measured, hoping to defuse some of the tension. “Taggert, I’m sure you have customers to tend. I’ll see Miss O’Sullivan home.”
“What if I’m not ready to go home?” She took aim at James with a pair of glistening brown eyes that bore a striking resemblance to shotgun barrels.
James held his tongue and forced his gaze away from the compelling woman.
He eyed Taggert instead, making it clear he’d not tolerate anything other than retreat.
The owner of the Salt Fork exhaled a disgusted breath but complied without arguing.
He backed off a few steps, then pivoted and shoved the flat of his hand against the batwing doors, sending them flying inward with a squeak of hinges.
James returned his attention to the woman before him and offered his arm. “Shall we?”
“We shall not,” she declared as she stretched her arms behind her back and laced her fingers in protest.