Blind Tiger by Sandra Brown

He fought them with savage will. They may shoot him, bayonet him, but he was not going to be taken prisoner by these bastards.

He managed to throw off the hand holding his head down and escaped the others’ hold long enough to flip onto his back. Instinctually, he thrust his hands straight up into the face of the man straddling him. He had a thick mustache and a white cowboy hat.

Cowboy hat?

There was a five-pointed star badge pinned to his shirt. Engraved on it: Sheriff.

Jesus. The war was over. This wasn’t France. He was back in Texas. The men surrounding him weren’t German infantrymen. But he sure as hell had been in a life-or-death combat with them.

Before he could surrender himself, the backs of his hands were flattened to the floor on either side of his head. He took stock of the men encircling him. They were all breathing hard from having exerted themselves to restrain him. But even at that, he didn’t know what he’d done to warrant their judgmental bearing. They stared down at him with unsettling disdain.

All were strangers save one. Thatcher recognized the gold pocket watch chain strung across his vest. He was the most heavyset. Thatcher figured it had been him he’d crashed into and rammed into the wall.

He was the first to speak. “That’s him, all right.”

“You’re sure?” asked the one wearing the sheriff’s badge. He planted his hand on the center of Thatcher’s chest and pushed himself off him and to his feet. “What have you got to say for yourself, young man?”

“I woke up with a gun to my face. I was defending myself.”

“Or resisting arrest.”

“Arrest?”

The only light in the room spilled through the open doorway from the hall. These apparent lawmen cast long shadows across the bed and onto the ugly papered walls, enhancing the menace they conveyed. They meant business.

Thatcher repeated, “Arrest? What the hell for?”

“You’re sure this is him, Bernie?”

“Positive,” said the man with the gold watch fob. “I recognize him, and I recognize that bag. He had it with him.”

He motioned toward Thatcher’s army issue duffel bag, which he’d placed on the seat of the room’s one chair after deciding last night that he could delay unpacking till morning.

“Gather up all his belongings, put them in the bag, and bring it,” said the sheriff.

“You bet.” One of the uniformed men turned away to do his bidding.

The sheriff said to another, “Question everyone in the house. See if anybody knows anything about him.”

“Yes, sir.” That man edged past the footboard and left the room.

Another moved forward and bent over Thatcher. His nose was bleeding. It and his eyes were beginning to swell. He was holding a shotgun, no doubt the one Thatcher had smacked into his face.

The man grinned with malice. “Thought you’d just drift into our town and haul off with one of our women? Think again, hotshot.”

Then he flipped the shotgun and smacked the butt of it against Thatcher’s skull. The blow hurt like hell and made his vision go dark and sparkly for a moment, but it didn’t knock him out.

“Hey, go easy, Harold,” the sheriff said. “We need him able to talk.”

He extended Thatcher his hand and helped him up. The man who’d struck him—Harold—watched smugly as Thatcher struggled to regain his equilibrium. He made blurry eye contact with the man he recognized by his gold pocket watch. He also was leering with self-satisfaction.

“I’m Sheriff Bill Amos. What’s your name?”

“Thatcher Hutton.”

The sheriff repeated his name as though committing it to memory, then gathered up the clothes Thatcher had hung on a wall hook before going to bed and passed them to him. “Get dressed.”

After he did, he was handcuffed. Then without further ado, the sheriff said, “Let’s go.”

Thatcher dug his heels in. “I have a right to know what you’re arresting me for.”

None of them seemed to think so. With the barrel of the shotgun against the base of his spine, he was prodded out of his room and into the hallway.

It seemed that he was the only boarder in the house who’d been taken unawares by the arrival of the posse. Everyone else had emerged from their rooms, all in pajamas or underwear, watching as the procession trooped down the two sets of stairs.

Few of them met Thatcher’s gaze directly, but the smart aleck, Randy, who earlier had heckled the older man on the porch, winked at him. And when Thatcher passed the flashy dresser who’d introduced himself to Randy as Chester Landry, he gave Thatcher a sly, speculative look as though they shared a dirty secret.

The landlady stood at the front door, arms crossed over her bony chest, lips tightly pursed. “Don’t expect no refund on your rent.”

Once outside, the sheriff dispatched all the deputies except Harold to “rejoin the search.” Thatcher asked, “The search for what?” but, again, he was ignored.

When Harold manhandled him into the officially marked automobile, he was showy with the shotgun, but careless with his gun belt, which was within easy reach of Thatcher’s cuffed hands. However, to go for the deputy’s pistol would be foolhardy. They would soon determine that they had the wrong man and release him. Until then, he’d go through the process without making more trouble for himself.