16
The sheriff shook his head.
“The way I remember it,” Stanley stopped counting. “The Indian came rushing out of the tack room when I drove into the barn. He was up to something.”
Wendell leapt across the table at Stanley, spilling several the beers on the table and himself, and the sheriff was on his feet with his Colt revolver drawn and pointed. Around the barroom, weapons were drawn.
“Jesus Christ,” Wendell said, attempting to wipe off the wet as he backed into his chair.
“These two clowns . . . They should be in jail,” Jake growled.
“Like I said, I’m all filled up . . . How much you got there?”
“About two hundred, give or take . . .” Stanley took a sip of whiskey and winked at Wendell, and Wendell thought how he’d like to rip off his eyelid.
“Well that’ll have to do it,” the sheriff said and pushed back his chair. He was ready to be done with this charade.
“I ought to just shoot the two of them and put them out of their misery,” Jake wasn’t about to let his displeasure go.
“You do that, and I’ll have to make room for you. There’s a law against murder.” The sheriff let out a long sigh meant to wipe away any outstanding questions or concerns. In his mind, this was a satisfactory resolution. Guilt or innocence was irrelevant—best to let the fat man believe he’d won so as to prevent a violent revenge.
Jake swept the money up and put it in his pocket. “It’s not nearly enough.”
He stood up and eyeballed Wendell and Smoke. Then he left, followed by Stanley and the sheriff.