For a dozen years, Bobby Logan had worked for this moment.
He’d tracked Stanley Ferguson all through Nevada and Arizona, giving the scoundrel just enough lead so he wouldn’t hear the falling hooves of destiny closing in on him.
And all the while, Bobby had inched his way up the ranks of lawmen -- doing chores at the jail when he was still a boy, serving stints as a deputy and jailkeep in Wickenburg and Ragtown, even chasing down bandits in the open desert near Hackberry.
Finally, at the ripe old age of twenty-three, Bobby became sheriff of Barrentrail just about the time Ferguson pulled off his bank heist in Black Mesa.
Barrentrail was the perfect sort of town for a scaredy-cat outlaw looking to lay low after he got a little big for his britches. All Bobby had to do was wait, and Stanley would come to him.
So that’s what he did, night after night. Walking main street, patrolling the outskirts on horseback, looking out into the desert from the balcony of his room at the hostelry.
Bobby doubted he’d slept more than a couple of hours at a stretch since he was thirteen, but that was OK.
Vigilance was his respite from the world.
Still, it was a surprise when the man slinked into Bobby’s jail late one night asking for a place to sleep and a bite to eat. Bobby had expected the coward who shot his daddy to at least be smart enough to avoid laying himself across the jaws of the law.
“Sure, I can help,” Bobby grinned as he escorted a sickly looking Stanley through the front door.
This was going to be easier than he ever imagined.
And, at last, Bobby was pretty sure he’d get a good night’s sleep.
No comments:
Post a Comment