by Jory Sherman
THIRTY-FIVE
The sheriff’s office resembled a war room, with Pete as the general in charge.
He had ripped down the wanted flyer for Brad Storm and thrown the ones on Jigger’s desk into the trash basket by the desk.
Adolphus Wolfe was in a jail cell, guarded by Hunsacker.
Gathered in the room were Percy Willits, Wally Culver, Julio Aragon, Carlos Renaldo, Quince Mepps, and Brad Storm.
Pete handed Wally the sheet of paper on which he had copied the names of the outlaws and their hotels.
“These bastards do their dirty work at night,” he said. “So they should all be in their rooms at the hotels or nearby.”
“You comin’ with me, Pete?”
“No, this is a one-man job. You go to each man, wearing your badge on your vest plain as crap on a lady’s doily. You tell ’em Jigger and Wolfe have called a meeting in Jigger’s office. They are to come here immediately.”
“That’s all I do?”
“If this works, they’ll come here and they’ll go straight into one of those cells back there. Now get crackin’, Wally. You should get all those names on the sheet by dusk.”
“I hope it does work,” Wally said, a look of chagrin on his face.
“You’re going to be the new sheriff, Wally. Act like one. Now get on your horse and make your rounds.”
Wally left.
“You give him all the names?” Brad asked.
“No, I left two of them off, Brad.”
“Which two?”
“Lenny Carmichael and Earl Fincher.”
“Ah,” Brad said.
“You, me, and Quince here will call on those two. Quince knows what Fincher looks like. I want him real bad. He’s the man who killed an innocent young man named Hugh Pendergast.”
“When do we go?” Brad asked.
“Now,” Pete said.
He turned to Julio and Carlos, with a side glance at Percy Willits.
“Julio, you and Carlos stand by this front door. Percy, you sit at the desk with your pistol or scattergun handy. Any of those jaspers come in here looking for Jigger, you boys grab them right off. Disarm them and put them in a cell. Got that?”
“We will do this,” Julio said.
“I’ll put the shotgun on them right after they come in,” Percy said.
“Good. Let’s go, Brad. We’re burnin’ daylight.”
Pete, Brad, and Quince rode to the Carmody Hotel, but they did not go in. Instead, they hitched their horses to a rail outside a little saloon called the River Tavern. They could see the front of the hotel and the horses at the hitch rail outside.
Brad looked up at the sky; the sun hovered over the snowy mountains. He held up four fingers and tucked two back as he measured the distance between the sun and the mountaintops.
“Sun goes down in about a half hour,” he said.
“Let’s hope they come out so we can see them before it gets pitch-dark,” Pete said.
They did not wait long.
Two men emerged from the hotel and paused, looking around them before they went to their horses.
“One on the left is Fincher,” Quince whispered.
“Then the other one must be Carmichael,” Pete said, keeping his voice low.
“They’re goin’ for their horses,” Quince said.
“Now,” Pete said, drawing his pistol. “Follow me.”
They walked swiftly the few doors separating them from the hotel and stopped just across from the Carmody.
“Hold it right there, Carmichael,” Pete yelled across the street. “You’re under arrest, both of you. Hands up.”
Lenny grabbed for his pistol and stepped behind his horse.
Earl stepped into the open.
“Go to hell,” Fincher yelled, clawing for his pistol. Quince drew his pistol. He and Pete fired at Lenny, who was ducking and swaying his body to avoid being hit. He returned fire, his bullet sizzling the air over Pete’s head.
Brad stepped off to the left and drew his pistol with a lightning-fast swoop of his hand.
“Fincher, drop it,” he called.
“Go to hell,” Fincher said again, cocking his pistol and raising it as if he was at a shooting range.
Brad didn’t wait.
He squeezed the trigger, and the Colt bucked in his hand, rose several inches after the bullet exploded. He brought the pistol back level and fired again as he saw a puff of dust lift off Fincher’s jacket and felt the breeze of a bullet fry the air next to his ear.
Pete waited a split second as Lenny bobbed to one side, and then Pete fired off a shot as the man exposed himself to fire at Pete and Quince.
Fincher spun around from the force of the first bullet and staggered a foot or two. Brad’s second shot caught him in the side and spun him the other way.
Lenny pitched backward and fell, a bullet hole in his throat. Blood bubbled up from his mouth, and he gurgled like a hog swilling slop as his life eked away.
Brad stood over Fincher, his foot on Earl’s gun hand. He was still alive, but he had a hole in his chest that was spurting blood and foam, scraps of lung matter.
“Who . . . what ...” Fincher gasped.
“I’m Sidewinder,” Brad said, holding the pistol to Earl’s forehead.
“You . . . you ...” His gasps were airy, blood-filled, and his mind was clouded with pain.
“I’ve got something to tell you, Fincher,” Brad said.
“Huh?”
“Vengeance is mine, you bastard. And Hugh’s.”
Then Brad squeezed the trigger and blew a hole in Fincher’s forehead, the back of his skull flying off like a cracked bowl of oatmeal in a cloud of rosy spray. Earl’s eyes turned to olive pits and he slumped into eternity.
Pete came over and put an arm on Brad’s shoulder.
“Here’s two we don’t have to lock up,” he said. “Carmichael’s dead as the proverbial doornail. I heard what you said to Fincher, Brad. This isn’t vengeance, it’s justice.”
“What’s the difference?”
Brad looked off into the glowing sunset, the shining mountains. The glow in the sky was magnificent, the clouds serene and majestic, their gilded forms turning purple and gray, their silver turning to ash against the pale blue of the evening sky.
It was over, he thought, and the weight was once again off his shoulders and the stone gone from his heart.
Vengeance or justice? It was all the same to him.
