It pained him to close the door. The sound of the lock as the hasp rasped into its groove was repugnant. The jingle of the keys was insufferable as he walked back into his office. And the daggers she stared at his retreating form cut him deep.
The star he kept shined mocked him; the desk he'd grown accustomed to now seemed foreign. In spite of his discomfort he sat and tried to catch up on his paperwork, but nothing made any sense to him. Everything he'd taken for granted had been turned upside down. The law had ordered a woman hanged.
He remembered how she'd come to him; bloodied and afraid. He'd locked her up both because it was the law and because he could protect her here. He'd gone out to survey the scene, he'd wired his report to the circuit judge in Reno. Everyone in the town was sure it was a matter of self-defense, and he was simply waiting on the order of the judge to release her. No one had counted on her husband's family. No one knew the man had any relatives to speak of, and most folks knew what an animal he'd been to her.
The only reason no one stepped in was because she'd begged them not to interfere, begged the law not to interfere. He'd been unable to do anything because she wouldn't swear out a complaint against her husband. It wasn't the first time his star had come between him and what was right. Sometimes the law was too black and white; it didn't allow for humanity's many shades of gray.
The fancy lawyer had demanded a trial; the judge was in no position to resist. As sheriff, he'd given the only the facts when called upon and neither side asked for his interpretation of them or his suspicions of guilt. The jury was brought in from another town; none of them knew the drunkard whose ring she'd worn and whose beatings she'd endured. All they knew of him they gathered from his mother's tearful recollections. The guilty verdict was all but expected.
As she waited out her last days in his jail, she had small comfort for what would be history in the making. She'd had some visitors, but the little family she had was thousands of miles away in Ohio. A party of supporters had ridden to the territorial governor in Carson City to seek an injunction, an appeal, anything that would keep her out of the noose. He'd received a wire just this afternoon from them: the territorial government would not grant a stay. It wasn't too hard to figure out that her husband's family had gotten to the governor first.
The sound of saws and hammers had drawn on into the dusk until there was no longer light to see by. The workmen weren't proceeding with "all due speed" as the judge had charged them, but the sheriff was not inclined to hurry their task. As he sat at his desk with his head on his hands, he wracked his brain for ideas to save her. He lifted his head and rose to his feet when he heard the front door to his office open.
The two men that entered had a determined set to their features. The dust of a hard day's ride came in to the office with them, and as they sat, the sheriff read the disappointment in their faces. The weariness in their postures echoed his own; for once, he could not ease their minds.
"It ain't right." The larger of the two men had spoken. The sheriff nodded his assent, but said nothing further. The smaller man got up from his chair and paced back and forth.
"It ain't right. You know it ain't right," he said, his voice gathering steam as his emotions drove his words. "But you're gonna do it anyway, because that's the law. Don't you have any feelings? Don't you have any decency?" The man collapsed back into his chair, exhausted by his outburst.
"You got no call to speak to him like that," replied the larger man. "There ain't nothin' he can do."
The smaller man looked the sheriff in the eye. He stood up, stood toe to toe with the sheriff, and there was no mistaking the tone in his voice.
"You're gonna be the first sheriff in the territory to hang a woman." The accusation was clear in the cold, quiet words. And at that moment, the sheriff came to a decision.
"No I'm not," he murmured. The smaller man gaped at him and the larger man shot out of his chair.
"You got a plan, you figured a way out of it," the larger man began hopefully. The sheriff shook his head.
"Not a legal one. I can't get her out of this. Someone else will have to do the job. And it won't be either of you," he stressed to them in answer to the looks on their faces. "If anyone in this room interferes, that man's family will sniff a conspiracy in a wink and we'll all be walking up a gallows stair. I don't know how it will be done. All I know is it's got to be done."
He went back to his desk and sat down. The two men stared at him bewildered. He examined the paperwork on his desk for a moment while he collected his thoughts. He took a deep breath and looked them full in the face.
"Go and find someone for the job. Leave the particulars up to them. Then the two of you head home. Don't come back until you hear from me or until you hear from someone that I need you." He returned his focus to his paperwork, and the two men left hastily.
An hour later, he was roused from his work by a faint cry from the cells. Gathering his keys, he left his gunbelt at his desk and started for the corridor. As he opened the door, the cry became words.
"Sheriff," she called. He took a deep breath and strode confidently to her cell. She sat on the bed, her back to him. He looked for a moment at the chestnut curls cascading down her back.
"What do you need, Mrs. Dallen?" he inquired politely. Her back stiffened, and she rose slowly to face him. She stepped to the bars, and the Colt Peacemaker she hefted at him was his answer. He gingerly handed the keys to her and raised his hands in the air. This time, as the key turned in the lock, the sound of the hasp didn't grate on his nerves.
She nearly handed the keys back to him, but he stopped her with an almost imperceptible shake of his head. Understanding shone in her eyes, and she took command of the situation. She squared her shoulders and took a deep breath.
"I'm not gonna be the first woman hanged in this territory Sheriff," she stated loudly. "I'm gettin' out of here." She motioned with the pistol toward the door, and he complied. When they entered his office, he turned on her.
"I can't let you do this," he said calmly. "Give me the gun before you make things worse for yourself." He stepped toward her and she backed up, bringing the pistol to bear. He stopped and tried a different tack.
"You'd have to ride all the way to Mexico to get away with this," he hinted loudly. "You'd have to ride through hundreds of miles of wilderness and dangerous country. No woman can make that journey alone." He went to move toward her again, and she put her finger to the trigger. Her hands were shaking, but he kept his slow, steady advance. She looked into his eyes, and understanding dawned once more. Her hands steadied, and he kept coming.
As the report of the gunshot echoed through the town, he felt himself crumpling to the floor. The fire in his shoulder told him what he already knew: she was more than woman enough to make it to Mexico. He turned his head and watched the ripple of her skirts as she fled the room and into the dark night.
When he'd waited as long as he dared, he staggered to his feet and started for the door. As his hand reached for the latch, the door opened and the doctor caught him. He muscled the tall sheriff back to his desk and cast about for some means to staunch the bleeding.
"I've got to go after her, Paul. She's a fugitive." The sheriff made to rise, but the doctor pressed him back down. Soon the workmen arrived, and they helped the doctor get the sheriff to his clinic.
"Someone fetch his family," ordered the doctor as he began to remove the sheriff's shirt.
"Someone round up a posse," groaned the sheriff. An older man came over to the examination table and spoke to him.
"There ain't nobody in town, Sheriff. They all rode down to Carson City to fight for her. We don't expect none of 'em back 'til day after tomorrow." The sheriff gripped the man's sleeve and raised himself partway off the table.
"My brothers rode back early. Tell them to start looking for her at first light," he said in a strangled voice. The doctor pried the sheriff's hand from the man's sleeve and pressed him back down to the table.
"Elijah, you fetch his brothers, but don't you tell them to start lookin' for that gal," warned the doctor. "I need someone in town to look after his welfare, and as you said, there's no one else. Go quick!" The man nodded and headed for the door. The doctor turned his attention back to his patient. The flow of blood had stopped, but the amount the sheriff lost was significant. Fortunately, the bullet had gone straight through his shoulder and showed no sign of having damaged the lung.
"You're about the luckiest sheriff on this earth, Adam Cartwright. Eulalia Dallen is a pretty poor shot." He set about getting his instruments together to close the wound.
"Actually, she's a better shot than you think," Adam whispered to himself. Then he let the blackness take him.