Meacham left the stranger sitting on the table like a startled cat, along with his medical supplies, as he ran to the front door and peered out. “Damnfool Dolarhyde kid, drunk again . . .” Meacham went out the front door without a backward glance.
The stranger got down off the table and stood listening to the commotion outside as he tucked in his shirt and re-buttoned his vest. Then he went through the door to the kitchen to fetch his hat—and his gun.
3
The late afternoon sun silhouetted Absolution’s main street against a backdrop of red-gold, light filtered through dusty air. Long blue-violet shadows lay in graceful strokes across the ground, a promise that the days relentless heat would finally ease as the hours crept toward dusk.
But for once Meacham failed to appreciate God’s artistry. His attention was already fixed on the riders heating things up a few doors away, in front of the Gold Leaf Saloon. He headed toward the trouble, hoping the Lord would grant him the tact, if not the saintly forbearance, to help keep any human beings from ending up like his window had.
He spotted Percy Dolarhyde, the Colonel’s cocky hot-headed drunkard of a son, easily enough—always the center of attention, even though he was on foot, and the cowhands that worked for his father were sitting on their horses as they shouted and egged him on. They drank for free, and they drank a lot, when they were with Percy.
The only man there who wasn’t drunk, or even smiling, was Nat Colorado, Woodrow Dolarhyde’s half-Apache foreman. He was still a young man, but he was tough as saddle leather, and Meacham had never seen him smile. He’d been the Colonel’s trusted right-hand man for as long as Meacham could remember, more like an older son than a stray Apache half-breed.
Everyone who knew the Colonel knew he hated Apaches with a vengeance, and as far as Meacham knew, Dolarhyde’s trust was not something he’d ever given to any other man. Bearing the weight of that alone would be enough to make any man lose his smile.
But worse yet it meant Colorado was expected to play nursemaid to Percy whenever he went into town. So far he’d kept Percy from actually killing anybody, and anybody else from killing Percy. But that was all he was allowed to do.
Nat sat in a chair on the boardwalk, his feet up on the hitching rail while he watched Percy’s antics. But a man would have to be blind not to realize there was nothing relaxed about him, or the way he held the rifle that rested in the crook of his arm. Even with the senior Dolarhyde’s reputation, and Nat’s own, there was no guarantee Percy’s luck would last forever. . . .
Nat paid no mind to Meacham as he passed; all of his attention was fixed on Percy, his mouth set in its usual expressionless line. Meacham glanced back as he entered the crowd of cowhands and townsfolk, and caught a glimpse into Nat’s eyes. He was startled when he didn’t find resentment, disgust, or simply nothing at all there; the depths of Nat’s eyes were dark wells of sorrow as he watched Percy.
The preacher looked away again, shaking his head. Two lost souls in one day . . . Either he was getting closer to God’s own wisdom, or he’d been spending too much time in the sun.
Percy was amusing himself and the crowd this time by shooting holes in the saloon’s elaborately painted sign. Percy was tall and brown-haired, a handsome boy—living proof that appearance was only skin-deep.
Meacham wondered whether Percy would be any different if he was sober. He’d never seen the boy completely sober. If Nat Colorado had it hard being trusted by Percy’s father, Meacham figured that Percy probably had it harder, being the Colonel’s only child.
Meacham tried to find a shred of compassion for the boy somewhere in his soul, and couldn’t. Just because Percy was miserable didn’t give him the right to act like a miserable bastard, taking it out on everyone he saw, any more than it gave anyone else that right. Either Percy would have to change until he was unrecognizable, or Meacham would . . . and that would be a miracle in itself.
He looked back as Charles Sorenson, the saloon’s owner, came out through the bat-wing doors, wearing spectacles and an apron, shouting, “Hey, hey, Percy, what’re you doin’?”
A lot of people besides Meacham called Percy a bastard, and it wasn’t due to an accident of birth. But unless they were as drunk as he was, they never did it to his face. No sane person ever called his father “the Colonel” within earshot either, because anyone who did wouldn’t live to brag about it.
Everybody called Sorenson “Doc”—and he really was a doctor, who’d earned an M.D. at a medical school back east. He’d taught Meacham a lot about treating wounds, despite—or maybe because of—the fact that most of the men who needed tending had gotten that way in his saloon.
Out here, Doc was just a saloon keeper, and his name was a joke. He’d been born a fish out of water, here in the Territories where he’d grown up.
“. . . little target practice, Doc!” Percy shouted, slurring. “Don’t worry, ain’t gonna wrinkle your dress!” Doc winced as Percy fired another bullet into the sign.
Percy laughed at the look on Doc’s face as he tried and failed to hide how upset, and how scared of Percy, he was. Meacham felt his mouth pull down; he was filled with compassion for Doc, and an ungodly urge to bash Percy’s head against the nearest hard object.
Doc’s wife, Maria, came out of the saloon in his wake. It was mainly her cooking that still drew in customers from the town’s small population, so that at least the Gold Leaf hadn’t completely turned into an extension of Dolarhyde’s petty empire, and Percy didn’t drink them into bankruptcy. Maria’s eyes were alive with both anger and concern—mostly concern for her husband’s safety—as she tried to get him back inside, out of harm’s way.
“Stop!” Doc was shouting, “There’s roomers upstairs!”
She caught him by the arm, forcing calm onto her own face as she tried to calm down her husband, but having to raise her voice just to make herself heard over him, “—it’s okay. There’s no one upstairs—”
“—Maria, please, go back inside—” Doc tried to shake her off.
She clung to him,“—Mira, he’s drunk, just let him be—”
“—bad enough, he drinks for free, now he’s gotta shoot up the place?” Doc shouted.
Percy spun around, looking up at Doc where he stood at the top of the saloon steps. Drunk or sober, Percy had his father’s uncanny knack for hearing anybody who happened to badmouth him. “What was that, Doc? What’d ya say? Come over here and let’s settle up what we owe.” He beckoned Doc into the street, gesturing with his pistol.
Reluctantly, Doc started down the steps to where Percy was waiting. Maria held onto her best placating smile, even as she lost her grip on her husband’s arm. “He didn’t say anything! Por favor, patrón,” she called to Percy. “What else can I get you and your men?”
But Percy had his eyes set on Doc, like a cat with a mouse hooked on its claw, and he wasn’t about to let go. He shook his head, “No, no—I wanna hear what you said. You ungrateful for our business? Wasn’t for my daddy’s cattle, there’d be no coin goin’ through this town! No meat on your tables, your doors’d be closed!”
“Don’t mean no disrespect to your father, Percy,” Doc said, realizing he’d crossed a dangerous line. But trying to backtrack, he only succeeded in stepping on the other foot of Percy’s flimsy pride.
Percy swung at Doc’s face, knocking off his spectacles; they landed in the dirt of the street. Doc’s face reddened with fresh humiliation and anger as he stooped down to pick them up, before Percy had a chance to step on them.
Percy laughed and fired his gun. The bullet kicked up dust right beside Doc, who jerked back, startled, and sat down in the street. Doc never used or even carried a weapon, which was fine for a big-city doctor . . . but not for a saloon keeper. Even Percy knew Doc was as gun-shy as a nervous horse.
“You see his face?” Percy crowed. “He thought I was gonna blow his head off!”
Meacham stepped out of the crowd of onlookers and crouched down to help Doc find his glasse
s. Doc’s body was trembling, not from fear but rage, as he got to his feet again and went back up the saloon steps to Maria’s side. Gently, she led him inside through the batwing doors.
Meacham took a deep breath. “All right now, son,” he said, amazed at the mildness of his own voice, “these people are scared enough of the damn Apaches without you shootin’ your gun off.”
Percy had planned to ignore the words; but then he turned back to Meacham with a wicked grin. “Know what, Preacher? You just gave me an idea. . . .” He looked around at his drunken crew, and at the townspeople who’d come out to gawk or frown at his one-man show.
“I know it ain’t Sunday,” Percy hollered out, “but what say we take up a collection for the poor man—” He took his hat off, flipped it over, holding it out like a collection plate. But his other hand still held his pistol, and he pointed it at the gathered townsfolk. “Who’s got money? Greenbacks or silver, we won’t pay no mind!”
At gunpoint, the suddenly helpless crowd was all too vulnerable. Folks began to toss their change into the hat as Percy circled around them, reciting like a Gospel sharp on Sunday, “Much obliged . . . much obliged. . . . Mighty Christian of ya . . . I’m sorry Doc’s bad luck has to be taken out on you good people. . . .”
He stopped suddenly, eyeing the one person who made no move to give him anything. “Hey!” he shouted. “You, too.”
Meacham suddenly realized that Percy was talking to the stranger he’d left in the church. The man had followed him, obviously, but Meacham had no idea how long he’d been standing there, casually leaning against a corner post of the covered walkway, just watching Percy like everyone else. Or maybe not just like everyone else.
The man stayed where he was—no surprise to Meacham—even when Percy moved toward him and pointed the gun at his face. The man never flinched, still surrounded by the unnerving calm that he’d worn like a second skin when Meacham caught him in the kitchen. “Watch where you point that thing,” the man said to Percy. “Before you get hurt.”
Nat Colorado’s eyes were on the man now, too. And this time, Meacham noticed, his expression was dead serious. Nat got to his feet, holding his rifle, watching the stranger like he might watch a rattlesnake suddenly coiled up in Percy’s path. But then something changed subtly in his expression; he stared at the man with a deepening frown, doubt slowly turning into what looked like recognition.
Whatever it was he saw in the man’s face, he didn’t act on it, and any clues at all were lost on Percy.
Thoroughly riled now, Percy leaned in close to the stranger’s ear and said, in a mock-whisper loud enough for everyone to hear, “I wanna give you the benefit of the doubt, ’cause maybe you don’t know who I am—”
The man did move, then. His knee hit Percy in the balls, faster than anyone else could react.
Percy’s eyes bulged and he doubled over, gasping, in too much pain even to scream.
The man turned away, moving through the crowd like water, and went on down the street. He walked past the small knot of deputies who stood outside the sheriff’s office and jail, where they had been observing Percy’s antics along with everybody else, just as ineffectually.
The sheriff was out of town—but even if he’d been here, it wouldn’t have made much difference. Even the lawmen didn’t make a move in Absolution without the Colonel’s permission—at least not against his son.
Under the circumstances, they didn’t say a word to the stranger, either.
But Percy had finally found his voice, and enough self-control to raise his pistol. “Hey! You!” he shouted, his voice ragged. “Turn around!”
The man kept on walking, ignoring him. Meacham had never seen Percy this angry, and to his amazement, Percy’s temper was still getting hotter. “Hey!” Percy screamed. “I’m warning you!” He fired a warning shot, aiming to the stranger’s left.
One of the deputies cried out, clutching his shoulder, and slumped to the walkway’s deck.
Meacham pushed through the crowd, hurrying toward the wounded man, his attention now solely on helping someone who really needed it.
“Whoa!” Percy said, in slurred surprise. “Where the hell’d he come from?” As he started toward the deputies, the townsfolk took the opportunity to get away from him, heading off in all directions.
WITH TIMING THAT might have been planned by God Himself, or maybe the Devil, Sheriff John Taggart and his chief deputy, Charlie Lyle, rode back into town through the scattering crowd of what appeared to be Absolution’s entire population.
Taggart’s seasoned eyes went directly to the center of the commotion: Percy Dolarhyde, as usual—drunk as a skunk and just about as pleasant to have around. Taggart exchanged glances with Lyle, who rolled his eyes and muttered a curse under his breath.
They’d been out all afternoon because somebody had found a couple of riderless horses wandering loose along the river. They’d seen the horses, established that they belonged to Wes Claibourne and one of his sons, either Luke or Mose. It had been impossible to follow their back trail for long, so he and Lyle had called it a day. Taggart had heard a lot of things about the Claibournes—about how they worked both sides of the law.
The scalps hanging from the Claibournes’ saddles had only made it easier for the two of them to turn their backs on the whole matter: The scalps had been women’s. If someone had beaten the Claibournes at their own game and left them for buzzard bait, he figured New Mexico Territory was probably better off for it.
But seeing Percy Dolarhyde in town and in trouble meant that their long, wasted day had just gotten a little longer. They rode on toward the sheriff’s office.
“Damnation!” Lyle said suddenly. Taggart saw his other deputies huddled in a bunch, and one of them, Duffy, down on the walkway, bleeding. Preacher Meacham was already beside him—treating an injury, Taggart hoped, and not giving him last rites. The two men dismounted together, Taggart keeping hold of his shotgun.
“Grandpa! You’re back!”
Taggart glanced up, hiding his concern as his twelve-year-old grandson, Emmett, came running to greet him. Taggart put an arm around the boy’s shoulders, giving him a brief hug and the reins of the two horses, as Lyle went ahead to find out what had happened to Duffy. Whatever it was, he didn’t want the boy witnessing too much, or thinking too much about it. “You go see to the horses, all right?” he said.
Emmett looked pleased to be given a man’s job, or what passed for one, to a boy. As he led the horses away, Taggart turned back to the real man’s work, which too often involved bloodshed and possible death. “What happened here?”
Lyle’s face said it was bad news; he nodded at Percy, who’d actually followed them as far as the entrance to the office. “He shot Duffy,” Lyle said, keeping his voice low. “Just winged him,” he added, as Taggart’s face froze.
Taggart’s expression turned grim clear to his eyes.
“It—it was a warning shot!” Percy was yelling. “It wasn’t my fault! He came outta nowhere!” Percy pointed with his gun past Taggart and Lyle, at a stranger standing in the street. “He dry-gulched me! Tryin’ to make me look like a fool!”
Percy had always done a perfectly good job of making an ass of himself without anybody’s help, as far as Taggart was concerned. The man he’d pointed out was a stranger in town; but the stranger wasn’t even trying to explain his version of the truth. He simply stood where he was, watching everything that went on, with an expression Taggart couldn’t figure out.
Taggart wondered who he was. A man who stood up to Percy Dolarhyde and then just walked away from it wasn’t your average stranger.
He looked back at Percy then, all too aware that his usual bunch of hangers-on, with Nat Colorado, too, were forming a circle around the boy now, on horseback.
“You crossed a line, Percy,” Taggart said, loudly enough for all of them to hear. “You went and shot a deputy. I gotta lock you up.”
The shotgun Taggart was holding was some comfort, but not much, as N
at Colorado turned his horse so that Nat was facing him directly. Nat’s hand lingered above his holster; the look on his face was almost protective as he said, “Taggart, you know that’s not a good idea.”
Taggart knew Colorado had a job to do, and he’d do what he had to—anything he had to—for Percy Dolarhyde’s father. He was a fast gun, a deadly shot, and half Apache. But Nat wasn’t crazy; in fact he might just be the sanest person in the whole Dolarhyde outfit, and that included the Colonel.
Taggart understood Colorado’s position right now, all too well. But he had a job to do, too, and Nat would just have to live with it.
“Nat, you know he drew blood on a lawman,” Taggart said, glancing at Percy, his expression warning the other man off. “I don’t have a choice—you get your crew outta here, now.”
Nat looked back at Percy, and then at the stranger in the street. He looked down, considering, for a long moment. At last his hand dropped to his side, and he nodded to Taggart, letting the sheriff know he’d made his decision. He started to turn his horse away, a sign to the other men that they should do the same. The shooting had sobered them all up considerably.
“Nat, you son of a bitch!” Percy shouted. “Where you going? Don’t even think about leavin’ me!”
Nat turned back in his saddle. “I’ll tell your father what happened today,” he said, his voice expressionless. And then he rode away, taking the other men with him.
Taggart watched them ride off. He had mixed feelings—the only kind he ever seemed to have anymore. He took a deep breath, let it out. The trouble was under control for now. But when word reached the Colonel . . .
“Shit,” he said to Lyle, who was still standing at his side. “That’ll just bring more trouble.” He turned to Percy, who was surrounded by deputies now, and no one else. Taggart gestured with his shotgun, and Percy finally handed over the pistol he was still holding. Two of the deputies helped Duffy onto his feet and into the office, as Lyle went back to haul Percy after them and lock him up.
Cowboys and Aliens Page 3
