Blind Tiger by Sandra Brown

She took a challenging stance. “I got iron control.”

“You didn’t the night Wally battered that girl.” Bill eyed her keenly. “Or was that under your control?”

Looking up at her from beneath the brim of his hat, Thatcher noticed an instantaneous slackening of the woman’s smirk, her rapid blinking. Bill had struck a nerve, but she recovered quickly.

“Chew good, sheriff. It’d be a damn shame if you choked to death on your burger.” She looked again at Thatcher. “Any of my girls would be tickled to see you.” She turned and lumbered off.

“Why, Thatcher. I think she took a shine to you,” Bill said. He was still laughing under his breath when Lefty brought over their food.

After one bite, Thatcher understood why the burgers had earned their reputation. He’d polished his off in no time and was about to comment on the tastiness, when the crack of a gunshot silenced him. Reflexively he dropped sideways out of his chair onto the floor and pulled the pistol from his waistband.

Much more calmly, Bill stood up and drew his weapon. “That was only the warning shot, Thatcher. But any from now on, you should take seriously.”

“Warning shot?”

“We’re raiding the back room.”

Bill left him and began swimming upstream of all the patrons who were hotfooting it toward the entry. “I could use some help,” he shouted back at Thatcher.

Thatcher was furious at Bill and at himself for being so goddamn gullible, but he followed, pushing people aside before they could trample him.

When he and Bill drew even with the staircase, Gert leaned over the bannister and screamed, “I won’t forget this, sheriff! Fuck you!”

Ignoring her, Bill slid into a narrow space behind the bar that accessed a door. He knocked on it twice with the butt of his gun. It was opened by Harold, who was breathing heavily. “Hell’s broke loose.”

From beyond the doorway came the sounds of pandemonium: swearing and shouting, grunts of pain, the splintering sound of breaking furniture, glass shattering.

Bill turned and slapped his hand over Thatcher’s chest. “Pin that on and consider yourself deputized.”

Thatcher fumbled the star-shaped badge, pricking his finger on the pin. “You son of a bitch.”

“Well, I guess I am, but—”

A barrage of gunshots drowned out the rest.

“Dammit!” Bill barged through the open doorway.

Thatcher slid the badge into the breast pocket of his jacket as he followed the sheriff. Holding the Colt at shoulder level, barrel toward the ceiling, he entered the fray.

Scotty had the man obviously responsible for firing the gunshots pinned facedown on the floor. Bill was trying to wrestle away the man’s handgun before he could fire another round.

Harold was dodging the uncoordinated jabs of a broken beer bottle wielded by a man so drunk he could barely stand. Thatcher rushed over and bonked the drunk on the back of his head with the grip of his pistol. The man dropped the broken bottle and landed on the floor like a sandbag, face first.

Harold said, “That’s twice I owe you. Thanks.” Then he dashed off to help other deputies whom Thatcher recognized but didn’t know by name. They were swapping blows with some of the angrier, drunker customers.

Others trying to avoid arrest were overturning tables, chairs, and each other in their mad scramble to exit through the single door at the back of the room. Some were making their escape by jumping through windows. Along with their male counterparts, a few women were kicking and clawing their way toward the nearest way out.

A dozen or more people had bottlenecked at the exit. Thatcher noticed in the midst of them a familiar head of hair, so pomaded it looked like it had been painted onto his scalp. No sooner had he identified Chester Landry than the man managed to squeeze through the congested exit to the outside.

Thatcher fought his way toward the door. Harold, he realized, was following in his wake, apprehending the people Thatcher shoved back toward him.

When Thatcher reached the door, he bolted outside and tried to catch sight of Landry. Mad confusion was made even worse by the darkness, and by the sudden blinding glare of headlights as people made it to their cars and peeled out in every direction.

A car without headlights came speeding out of the darkness, missing Thatcher by a hair. Thatcher saw two autos collide in their haste to leave the area. Some drove over ground in the opposite direction of the road, leaving clouds of dust that further obscured vision.

He didn’t catch sight of either Chester Landry or his automobile, which Thatcher probably couldn’t have identified anyway. But one vehicle did catch his eye, and it caused his heart to lurch. He ran over to it; no one was inside.

He replaced the Colt in his waistband and ran full-out back into the building, where the chaos continued. The deputies and Sheriff Amos were trying to restrain those still bent on escaping and to keep corralled those they’d halted. Above the cacophony, Gert was bellowing profane threats. Lefty was swinging a full bottle of whiskey at the head of a man he was calling a goddamn snitch, which his victim was frantically denying as he ducked each hazardous arc of the bottle.

On his first sweep of the room, Thatcher didn’t see whom he sought, but there were several men down, lying on the floor either wounded or dead of gunshot. He rushed over to the first, who was cursing and clutching his thigh.