I rustled up some paper and a nib pen and inkpot and blotter, and set them before the judge, who had settled his bulk in my swivel chair.

“Should have made it sooner,” he said, uncorking the ink and dipping his nib into the ink. “Trouble is, I soaked my gizzard more than usual, and catnapped. The rascal decamped, though I’d intended to collar him. He was swizzled, and I didn’t discourage it. He’s a blabbermouth, and after a dozen little sips, which I’ll charge the county for, he began to undo his perjury.”

He studied the naked paper, his pen poised and ready.

“What are you writing?” I asked.

“I’ll show you in a minute.”

“Print her out,” I said. “Then I’ll get them letters right.”

“No, I’m going to scribble, and then I’ll read it to you.”

“What you got going there, Your Honor?”

“Hush now, this taxes me. You can’t stay up all night and write a bulletproof court order now, can you?”

I figured I’d just have to wait. I slid a shutter open a little, and saw that the new day was quickening, and soon there’d be full light to shine upon the day’s slaughter. I sort of wished the light would never come, and this here day wouldn’t begin. But I didn’t have any skill at stopping clocks. And the seven-day clock on the case there was showing almost seven. It sure was quiet. Not a peep from back in the jail either.

Judge Nippers scribbled a little and then paused. “That soak you sent my way was entertaining. After we’d shared a few shots, I asked him what happened over there at the Last Chance, and at first he just smiled some and allowed it was just like his testimony in court. I eyed him and said, ‘Horsepucky.’ He laughed and said that was rich. Horsepucky was it, all right.”

“What was horsepucky?”

“The whole story. It took another dozen sips before the wretch began to spill any beans, but when they spilled, they scattered all over my floor.”

“There’s another story?” I asked.

He glared at me. “You sure are slow, Pickens. I don’t know what to do about you.”

He paused, pen poised over the paper. “I don’t quite know what to do yet. But I’ll do something,” he said. He reached for his flask and took a long, deep suck on her, and then hiccuped and belched real fine. That judge could belch his way right through an hour if he wanted.

“I sure had to pump the little turd to get it out, but I got it out,” he said.

“You mean Carter Bell?”

“He’s the only little turd in town, Pickens.”

I peered out the window, looking for signs of life, but it still was real quiet out there on Doomsday.

“After we soaked his brain a little, he told me how it happened. Crayfish had it in for the three crooks he employed, he being a bigger crook and now having smaller ones nibbling at his ankles. There were the Jonas boys, dumb as stumps but smart enough to slide out and turn the T-Bar brand into the Double Plus, by extending the T into a cross, and turning the bar into a cross. Now you’d think some crooks would be a little cautious about claiming a brand like a Double Cross, but these dopes thought it was clever. It didn’t fool Crayfish for an instant.

“Rocco, the remaining deceased, was another sort of cat. Crayfish had some appetites that would have made Paul Bunyon look like a midget, and Rocco was hired to keep him supplied. But Rocco came out of Hell’s Kitchen, and saw ways to make money. So Crayfish thought it was time to ventilate Rocco, along with the Jonas lads.

“Now here’s the fun of it. Crayfish amused himself with the idea of pinning the whole thing on King Bragg, son of his rival Admiral, who had a nasty habit of strutting down Wyoming Street with a custom-made revolver, looking for someone to kill. Well, my friend, it was easy to set up. Carter Bell had no notion he’d be a witness. He was simply told to wait in the Last Chance. That crappy bartender Sammy Upward was recruited to dose some red-eye he would serve the kid. After that, Plug Parsons wandered next door now and then looking for King Bragg to come in, as he usually did, and simply invited him over. It was easy. Bragg showed up, landed on his face, Crayfish pulled the kid’s Colt, executed the three on his list, and stuffed the gun back in the kid’s possession, where it remained until the kid awakened. That was the afternoon’s entertainment.”

“The boy’s innocent?”

“Now I’m not saying that, Pickens. I’m saying that we’ve got to have another trial and Bell’s going to cough up.”

“He’s not going to say one word in court against his boss,” I said.

“Then I suppose the kid’ll hang,” the judge said. “Won’t be the first time an innocent man got hung.”

I sure was having a bad time of it. “What are you going to do?”

“Stay the hanging until there can be a new trial.”

“Why not just let him go?”

“And deprive Doubtful of a good hanging? Not on your life, Pickens.” He yawned, and set the pen down. “That’s what I get for burning the midnight oil,” he said.

His head slumped forward, and his body relaxed.

“Your Honor! Get that thing writ up!”

He muttered something, and sunk deeper into my chair.

“Wake up! Write it up!”

“Oh, I will, give me a minute,” he said, and settled into another snooze.

“Your Honor, you have to do it right now. Now.”

Nippers just smiled, eyes closed, and wobbled in his chair.

“I’ll help you up. We’ll walk some,” I said.

I headed for the chair, tried to lift his massive bulk, but he sort of swatted me away. “Five minutes, boy. Five minutes,” he muttered.

“Just finish it up, write it up,” I said.

But he pitched forward, splaying himself over my desk.

I guess I never did get myself into such a pickle. That seven-day clock was ticking and tocking and there wasn’t four hours until I had to take the Bragg boy out there to courthouse square and do what had to be done.

Five minutes, then. The minute hand had crept past the hour, and onto the ten. It was three hours and fifty minutes until the hour of tears.

I wrestled the half-done paper out from under him. It was dated, all right, and it said, far as I could tell from that curvy script, that the execution of King Bragg would be stayed for one week, until—And that’s where it quit, and wasn’t signed, and wasn’t worth beans without him signing it.

I eyed that flask, and slid it away from him just in case he woke up and got a new thirst to put himself back to snorin’ again. I paced around, and discovered the blue speckled coffeepot. It hadn’t been washed in a while, maybe two weeks, but I set to work on her, and scraped all that brown coating off. I’d have to built a little fire in the stove to heat it up, and it was going to be a warm day. Maybe I could just go over to the diner and get me a cup and bring it over for the judge. I’d hold it up and pour it down his gullet.

I ached to go back there to that cell and tell the boy that he’d live to see another sunrise, but I couldn’t do that. I couldn’t say stuff to that, and then break his heart if the judge decided to let the hanging go ahead.

It sure was quiet back there. I wondered if them Braggs heard any of it. They might have. But I didn’t have anything good to tell them. I peered out the door, and wondered where Burtell and DeGraff and Rusty were. They should have been in by now. I didn’t see a soul out there, even with the sun up and the day stirring. If one of them would show up, I’d send him over for some coffee, and get the judge honked up a little so he could finish up that paper.

I watched that clock tick away. Every once in a while, it would have a convulsion and tick twice and tock once, but it kept time pretty good, and got past those five minutes. So I went and shook the judge on the shoulder, and he just wobbled like a dead dog, and flopped like a twice-caught fish, and muttered. So I thought I’d give him another five, and then it would be all right, and he would finish up that document, and I would halt everything, and maybe I could free the boy. I wasn’t inclined to let his pa get out, not until eleven, just like I said, but the boy, he could vamoose.

So another five rolled around, and I tried to wake up Judge Nippers, but he just said “Eh!” and started snoring. This here was getting a little chancy, so I figured I’d just have to quit the sheriff office long enough to get some coffee and pour it down his throat. That’d do it. I’d get some java and hold his head up and pry his flaky lips apart, and aim it between his yeller teeth, what was left of them, and pat him on the back some, and pretty soon he’d pop right up and whip that paper into shape, and I’d spring the kid.

That clock was clattering away, and the minute hand was spasming along, like it should, and the hour hand was crawling slower, like it should. It was getting bright out there, with the sun up and the early light slanting across Wyoming Street, so some buildings were lit, and the others were casting shadows.

I was getting real ornery about my deputies. Where was Rusty? Where was DeGraff and Burtell? Maybe they wasn’t men enough to face this day. I began going from window to window, opening the shutter for a look, and finding nothing but a real empty street and alley out there, and the clock was ticking away.

I tried rattling the judge again, but he just said something blasphemous and waved a hand at me, and then it was eight in the morning, and pretty quick it was eight-thirty. And still them lazy no-good deputies of mine hadn’t showed their faces.

The bunch collecting down the street a way looked to be armed to the gills, in spite of my ban on weapons this day. I could only wait and see which outfit was defying me, and it didn’t take long. That bunch was T-Bar, and they was strolling straight toward the county sheriff office and jail, and they was staying apart some, not bunched up, like a battle line, and I knew straight off there would be more trouble than I ever faced in my life.

Sure enough, there was Crayfish, back a little, and in front of the usual bunch of rannies and gunslicks and riders. Plug Parsons was leading that parade, looking like a bull, and sure enough, there was Carter Bell in there, wearing his fancy artillery. And I sure wasn’t seeing no deputy of mine, and it was dawning on me that I wouldn’t, because this outfit had collected them and held them somewheres. That was bad news too. It meant they was going to do what they were itching to do all the time they camped in Doubtful.

I had to make some decisions real fast.

I shook the judge until he finally rattled awake and sat staring at me silently.

“Write that thing.”

He collected himself a moment, and nodded. His hands shivered and shook like one of them belly dancers, but he set to work, and made them wobbly letters and words, while I watched real sharp. Then he eyed me, dipped the nib into the well, and signed the thing. He eyed the clock and added the time to it, and handed it to me.

“They’re coming,” I said.

“Who?”

“Crayfish and his bunch. They’re armed. They got my deputies off somewhere, so I’m holding the fort.”

He sighed. “I’ll talk to them. In your hands is a legal stay of execution, pending a review.”

“The boy ain’t free to go?”

“He might be. But I’m going to see whether Carter Bell sober says the same thing as Carter Bell lit up. Maybe later today. In vino veritas isn’t a legal doctrine.”

I sure didn’t know what the old goat was talking about, but it didn’t matter. In a moment, King Bragg’s life would change.

I tucked the stay of execution into my pocket. It felt light as air. It made me feel real light, like a ton of hemp rope was lifted off my shoulders. I’d tell the boy that he was off the hook. It’d all work out. Nippers sure wasn’t gonna let the kid hang now.

I heard the bunch collecting outside the door, and then someone yelled. I knew that voice. It was Plug Parsons, who was probably leading this bunch, while Crayfish hung back a little.

“Open up, Sheriff. Open up, and you won’t get hurt,” Parsons said. “We’ve got some business to do.”