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The scene that greeted them halted Mercy in her tracks. Preacher, Doc, Tom the smithy, and Frank, of all people, were trying to wrestle a man to the ground, but he was putting up one hell of a fight. And he had a gun in his hand, though Preacher’s death grip on his wrist seemed to be preventing the man from moving any of his appendages enough to shoot the thing.
“Get the gun!” Preacher yelled to…anyone, probably.
Mercy darted forward and grabbed the gun, but the man wouldn’t let go for anything. She yanked at his hand and dragged his flailing arm toward her as the men bore him down to the ground. When he still wouldn’t let go, she set her teeth in the fleshy part of his thumb and bit down. Hard.
That worked. He howled and dropped it. Mercy grabbed the gun and stepped back, aiming at the mass of writhing males on the ground, though she kept her finger away from the trigger, since there was no way to hit the bad guy without hitting one of the townsfolk.
The man must have finally decided he was outnumbered because he suddenly went limp. The men on top of him waited a few heartbeats before removing themselves, though Preacher kept firm hold of him until Frank rustled up some rope to tie the man’s hands. Then he sat back and sucked in a few lungfuls of air. Mrs. DuVere knelt beside him, pressing a handkerchief to his bleeding lip.
Their new prisoner leaned against a table leg and glared at everyone.
“Who are you?” Doc asked.
The man said nothing but spat in Doc’s general direction.
Mercy leveled the gun at him. “Answer the question.”
He turned his glare on her. “I don’t have to answer nothin’. You ain’t the sheriff.” He looked around the room, then back to her. “Where is your sheriff? I heard he likes to spend his time in the tavern.”
Mercy lowered the gun. “You heard wrong. But I guess we know why you’re here.”
She glanced at Doc, then Preacher. Both had grim faces but gave her quick nods to show they agreed with her assessment. They’d just caught themselves another would-be assassin.
Preacher wiped at his lip with the handkerchief. “I saw him on my way home last night. He was with another man, making camp just outside of town. Been watching for them ever since.”
That brought the man’s head with a snap. “You saw us last night?”
Preacher’s mouth pulled into a wry half grin. “You had a big enough fire going, anyone passing you from a mile off probably saw you.”
The man scowled and looked away, obviously not pleased he hadn’t been as stealthy as he’d thought.
Ice ran down Mercy’s spine. “Wait, you said you saw two of them?” she asked.
Preacher nodded, his eyes narrowing as he hauled himself to his feet. He, Doc, Mrs. DuVere, even Frank, closed in around the man and Mercy brought the gun back up.
“Where is the man you were with?” she asked.
His eyes widened a bit, but he still managed an impressive sneer. “What man?”
She cocked the gun and moved a step closer though she was careful to stay out of the man’s reach. Rope didn’t always hold.
“Let me share some information with you,” she said, her voice quiet and strained with the effort she was making to keep it from shaking. “The sheriff is my husband. And I have no intention of letting anything happen to him. So, if you don’t want to die here today, you’ll tell me who you are, who sent you, and where the other man is that you came with. And start with that last one.”
The man didn’t answer. He just looked up at her, his eyes as cold as a snake’s, and smiled.
She didn’t wait to try and get more answers out of him. She didn’t wait for the others. She just turned and ran for the door.
Gray.
…
Gray had just lifted the coffeepot to pour himself another cup when the door opened.
“Hey, Sunshine. You want a cup of—”
He caught the glint of sun on a raised gun and heaved the coffeepot as hard as he could. It struck whoever had just come through his door square in the forehead, and the man went down with a squeal that would have made a pig proud. He’d dropped his gun, and Gray kicked it out of the way before grabbing the pitcher of water on his windowsill.
“Hot, hot, hot!” the man screamed, clutching his head.
