“What’s going on?” Thomas’s boots crunched against the packed snow as he hurried across the street.
The man with his hands curled into fists turned his direction. “Ain’t none of your business.”
“Probably not. But I can promise it’s the sheriff’s business.”
“In more ways than one.” Isaac’s voice was unmistakable against the quiet night.
So he’d been right about Isaac being held. Thomas quickened his pace to a dead run.
Most of the men on the porch were still looking at him, and Isaac used the distraction to jerk away from one of his captors, spin, and slam his free fist into his other captor’s temple.
A sickening crack split the night, only to be swallowed by shouts and jeers.
The man that had been ready to throw the first punch swung at Isaac, but Isaac ducked just as Thomas bounded ontothe porch. Thomas jerked the would-be assailant back by the shoulder, then hooked an arm around his neck, trapping the brute.
Another man swung at Isaac.
“To your left,” Thomas shouted.
The warning was a moment too late. The man’s fist connected with Isaac’s jaw in another sickening crack.
Isaac returned the punch, felling his assailant with the blow, then drew his gun from his holster. “This stops here and now.”
“I got me a gun too.” One of the men behind them slurred.
“Quiet, Finney. You ain’t sober enough to use it.”
“Here now, Sheriff.” The first man Isaac had punched raised himself up on his elbows. “We didn’t mean nothing bad ta happen ta ya. We’s just having some fun.”
“Didn’t look very fun to me.” Thomas gave the man’s neck he was holding another jerk back, just to make sure the man didn’t get any fancy ideas about trying to swing Thomas off his back.
“The lot of you are under arrest.” Keeping his gun trained on the men sitting down, Isaac stepped forward and handed Thomas a set of handcuffs. Then he moved to the drunkard with the gun, who was leaning against one of the porch posts, and locked the handcuffs on him.
The bar door creaked open, and a bearded man stepped into the night. “Need any help out here?”
Isaac snorted. “You’re a little late, Neville. Don’t suppose you got some rope behind the bar.”
The bartender mumbled something and disappeared inside, then returned a moment later with a length of rope long enough to tie up only one of the four left.
“Thank you for making them come outside, Sheriff.” Neville scratched the back of his head while Thomas secured one of the men with rope. “Didn’t want my place messed up.”
Isaac sighed, his shoulders hunched. “You’re welcome.”
“Better get back inside now.” And with that the man left the two of them on the porch with the ruffians.
Isaac gestured to the two men on the floor, one of which was unconscious. “Check them to see if they have any weapons.”
Check them? He was the son of a town drunk. He could break up a fight or ten— he’d certainly stepped into the middle of enough fights to defend his drunken father while growing up. And the mining towns he’d lived in over the years had no shortage of fights to break up. But he wasn’t exactly a lawman.
He eyed the conscious man who’d claimed they’d just been having fun. How hard could checking him for weapons be?
“I don’t got no gun.” He scooted back until he pressed against the wall of the bar.
“Then you won’t mind letting me look. Stand up.”
The man didn’t move. “I said I don’t got no gun.”
“Good, this’ll be quick and easy. Now I told you to stand.”
