by Bill Crider
Most of the crowd had disappeared now, their horses' hoofbeats no longer even an echo in the clearing. They knew what was going to happen, and they wanted no part of it. Their own homes and businesses had suffered enough from the depredations of the Hawkinses, and no one wanted to get involved in this new fight and let himself in for more of the same.
Sam and Ben's horses pawed and snorted while the two riders looked disdainfully at the Colonel and the others, and just for fun Sam fired a shot into the boards of the platform right at the Colonel's feet.
The Colonel did not flinch. He might not have been a real colonel, but he knew how to act the part in times of danger.
"What is the meaning of this?" he said.
Sam and Ben laughed, their mouths hardly showing in their beards.
"What is the meaning of this?" Sam mocked. "The meaning of this is, you've got some money, and we want it."
"Yeah," Ben said. "So give it to us." He spit into the dust and leered at Banju Ta-Ta. "And them women ain't so bad, either. I may take me one of them with me, too."
"Oh, no, you won't," the Colonel said. There was something in the tone of his voice, a strength and authority, that Ray Storey admired tremendously. It might have been acting, but it sounded real enough.
Ben was impressed, too. "To hell with that, anyway. Give us the money." He spit tobacco juice again, splashing it on the platform. This time, the Colonel moved his foot.
"Go ahead and give them the money," the Colonel said, as if it didn't matter much to him one way or the other.
Storey and the women did as he said, handing the money to Sam, who put it in a cloth bag he had stuffed inside his shirt.
"Well, now, that was pretty easy," Sam said. "Kinda like stealin' from a little kid." Looking around, he saw the two fallen men. "Wonder how those fellas would feel about knowin' how you gave in so sweet-like?"
To tell the truth, Sam was disappointed. He actually liked for his victims to fight back. It added a little spice to things.
He glanced contemptuously at Storey. "I'd have thought a big fella like you would at least have put up some kind of a fight."
Storey said nothing. There was nothing he could say. He burned with fury inside, but outwardly he was stone. It was as if the cords of muscle inside his gun arm had been cut and he could not will them to move.
"What about that woman over there?" Ben said, noticing that Naomi was still lying in the dirt.
"What woman?" Sam said.
"That one over there," Ben said. "The one that fell out when we rode by her. She was a pretty little piece, looked like to me. And she weren't no injun, either."
He spit in the direction of Banju Ta-Ta, who looked as if she would like to spring on him, drag him from the saddle and rip his throat out with her bare hands. The Colonel put a restraining hand on her arm.
"Hell, take the one that's passed out, then." Sam said. He didn't care. They would be leaving this place soon, and it didn't much matter what they did. If they took the woman, that might just make Coy look like even more of a hero when he supposedly ran them off.
Ben rode over to Naomi, and while Sam kept the others covered he got down and lifted Naomi onto his horse like a sack of grain. Then he climbed back into the saddle.
"Looks like it's gonna be a good night tonight," he said.
"Yeah," Sam said. "I guess it is. Let's go."
He wheeled his horse, fired a shot over his shoulder, and the brothers rode away, their horses kicking up clods of dirt and clouds of dust in the fading light.
8
The Reverend Lawton Stump watched in horror as the two men nearly allowed their horses to trample his wife, but he watched in safety, having slipped behind the tent where he could not be seen.
He felt that he should go to her aid when she fell, though he was able to convince himself that there was nothing he could do. He was not armed, after all, and two men on horseback certainly looked like killers to him. What if they shot him? What good would he be able to do anyone then? Perhaps his wife was unharmed. He could go to her when the men got what they wanted and left.
But when he saw the man picking up his wife and putting her on the horse, he felt a jolt of pure revulsion. What must they be planning to do with her?
It was an easy question to answer, and he knew that the moment had come for him to step from behind the tent and declare his presence, at the same time demanding that the two men put down his wife and leave her with her lawful husband.
The moment had come quickly, and it passed with equal swiftness while Stump did absolutely nothing. Nothing, that is, except to stand exactly where he was and watch the two men ride away.
When he was sure they were gone, he slipped away into the darkness and began the walk toward town.
* * *
Ray Storey's face was burning. He could feel Louisa's scornful eyes on him, but he did not want to look at her or any of the Mahaffeys.
How could he have allowed this to happen? One of those men had been Sam Hawkins. There was no question of it. And the other must have been his brother, Ben, who, judging by his appearance, was certainly one of the three men who had run over Chet.
They were there, and he was there. The situation was just as he had wanted it to be, just as he had prayed it someday would be. He should have drawn his pistol and challenged them as he had dreamed of doing for more than a year now, but he had not been able to do it. He had stood there like a statue and been about as much use as one.
At the same time, he had allowed the Colonel to be robbed of the entire afternoon's take. He had always thought of himself as a man with a little bit of a backbone, but now he was beginning to wonder.
The Colonel did not appear to be too worried about his money. He was thinking about the two men that were still lying in the dirt near where the wagons had been.
"We've got to see if those men are alive, and if they are we must help them," he said. "Louisa, go look for Dr. Stuartson. Sophia, you and Mr. Storey come with me."
He stepped off the platform and started toward the men. His wife followed.
After a second's hesitation, so did Storey. His legs felt like wood, and he found it hard even to bend his knees. The answer to why he had not drawn his pistol began to dawn on him. It was obvious, and he knew he should have seen it sooner, but it was hard to admit such things to yourself.
He was a coward. His conception of himself as a sort of lone vigilante had been the worst sort of self-deception, the fantasy of a fool. He kicked at the ground in disgust.
The Colonel was kneeling beside one of the men, feeling for a pulse. Evidently, he found none.
"Dead," he said. "Shot in the back by those scurrilous poltroons. Men such as that have no reason for being in existence; they merely infest the earth like vermin."
He let the man's hand drop and moved to the other victim. This one seemed to be in better health, and Storey recognized him as the man he had seen in the dry goods store.
"It's Mr. Sanders," he said, correctly assuming that the name on the store was the name of its proprietor.
"You know him?" the Colonel said.
"Met him in town," Storey said.
"Well, he's a lucky man. It appears that the bullet struck him only a glancing blow on the side of his skull. He is unconscious, but his breathing is regular and steady. Dr. Stuartson should be able to patch him up right here."
"No, he won't," Louisa said. She was standing there with them. "Dr. Stuartson won't be able to do anything. He's in the back of the wagon, drunk as a lord."
"Drunk?" the Colonel said. "But he knows the rules about that!"
"Maybe he just didn't care," Louisa said. "I think he got into the alcohol you use for the miracle oil."
"My God," Sophia said. "He'll kill himself."
The Colonel's face was grim. "Not if I get to him first, my dear."
He turned to Storey. "My wife and I will go assist Dr. Stuartson. Perhaps we can get him into a passable condition. Meanwhile, you and Louisa
might move this man into a better light so that we can clean his wound. If Dr. Stuartson is unable to help him, we may have to do so ourselves."
"Shouldn't someone go for the sheriff?" Storey said.
"I should think that any number of people have already informed the sheriff of our visitors," the Colonel said. "If they did not trample one another in their eagerness to leave here, that is."
Storey might have imagined it, but he thought the Colonel gave him a look of mild rebuke as he spoke, but without saying more, the Colonel and his wife went to the wagon, and Storey found himself alone with Louisa and the still unconscious Sanders.
It was not a situation that Storey relished. He had not been comfortable around Louisa for some time now.
It was not that she wasn't pretty; she was, and he was well aware of it. Too well aware. He had had other things on his mind up to this point, however, and his plans did not include getting tied down by some pretty young woman. He had been looking for Sam Hawkins.
Well, now he had found Hawkins, and he had found himself wanting. No one had yet said anything to him, but he could see what Louisa was thinking. It was plain on her face.
"We can't jostle him," he said, referring to Sanders, not looking Louisa in the eye. "I'll get my hands under his shoulders and you take his feet. We'll carry him to the tent."
Sanders was not particularly heavy, and they got him into the tent with no trouble. There were two benches there so that some of the men attending the anatomy lecture could be seated in relative comfort. They laid Sanders on the bench nearest the lantern.
Storey started to leave the tent, but Louisa's voice stopped him before he could escape. "You had a gun," she said. "Why didn't you use it? Why did you let those men get away with that woman and the money?"
Storey wanted to tell the truth, wanted to say that he had simply been unable to do anything, but something else suddenly occurred to him.
"I couldn't use the pistol," he said. "I didn't reload it after the shooting exhibition."
The worst thing about it was that he was telling the truth. He never reloaded after the exhibition, and all of them knew it. But even though it was true, it was still a lie.
"You could have made them believe that it was loaded," Louisa said, but she seemed less sure of herself now.
Hating himself even more, Storey said, "What if they didn't care? What if they'd shot all of us? I couldn't take that chance."
"I see," Louisa said, and Storey was surprised to see a glistening in her eyes that might have been the beginning of tears. "But I still think you should have done something!"
Storey was going to ask what he could have done, but she went on. "You could surely have stopped them from taking that woman if you had just stepped forward."
Storey was finding plenty of reason for self-disgust. He had forgotten all about the woman, worrying about his own problems.
"We'll tell the sheriff about her," he said, looking down at Sanders, who seemed to be stirring a bit. "Don't let him fall off the bench."
"And where are you going?"
"To check on Dr. Stuartson."
"That won't be necessary," the Colonel said, as he and his wife entered the tent, supporting The Boozer between them.
The Boozer did not look well, especially by lantern light. His face was not its usual brick red; it was instead a pasty shade of gray, and he could have used a shave. His knees were wobbly, and his hands were shaking even more than was usual for him.
"The Colonel administered a vomit to Dr. Stuartson," Sophia explained. "I believe that he has disgorged a rather large quantity of alcohol."
"A trifle," The Boozer said, his voice barely audible. "A mere trifle." He wiped the back of a trembling hand across his mouth.
"Can you look at the wounded man?" the Colonel said.
"Of course. Where is he?"
The question was not one that would have inspired confidence in Sanders had he heard it, since he was lying in plain sight not more than six feet away.
"Right here," Louisa said, pointing.
"Uh, oh. Of course. Let me look at him." The Boozer tried to take a few steps without support and folded at the knees.
Storey stepped to help him up, but moved back at a look from the Colonel. The Boozer knelt in the dirt for a moment, swaying slightly. Then he fell on his face.
This time Storey did help him up and held him erect.
"No good," The Boozer said. "I'm just . . . no good."
"Don't say such things," the Colonel told him. "You are a good man and a good doctor."
"Once," The Boozer said. "Was once. Not now."
"You are," the Colonel said. "You simply need to regain your confidence."
"No. No use. No use to anybody. Le'me go." He tried to pull away from Storey's grip.
"Very well," the Colonel said. "Release him, Mr. Storey."
Ray let go of The Boozer's arm, and the old man staggered out of the tent.
"Well?" Louisa said. "What do we do now?"
"As I said, the man's wound is not serious," the Colonel said. "I will treat it myself. Then we will see about getting Mr. Sanders back to town. I expect the sheriff will be here soon."
He left the tent to get some of his alcohol to use as an antiseptic.
Storey could feel Louisa looking at him, but she had nothing more to say now that her mother was with them. Ray felt his chest tighten, as if the air in the tent was beginning to suffocate him.
"I think I'll go outside for a minute," he said. "Someone should check on The Boozer."
"Don't call him that!" Louisa said.
"Sorry," Storey said, and then he escaped from the tent.
* * *
Coy Wilson found it hard to believe what he was hearing. Was it possible that Sam and Ben could have been so stupid?
It appeared that they could, at least according to Carl Gary, who stood in front of Wilson's desk in the little one-cell jail, his moustache fairly bristling with indignation. There was a mob of other irate citizens just outside backing him up.
"Two men, Sheriff," Gary said. "At least two. I saw them fall myself, shot in the back like dogs. And God knows what may have happened to those medicine show people by now. Those two women . . . . I hate to think what those animals might do to those women."
"You're sure it was the Hawkinses?" Wilson said. Dammit, the brothers had always been smart enough to avoid having any reliable witnesses before this. Why had they made such a mess of things this time?
"Of course it was them. You needn't try to get out of doing your duty by bringing out that tired old excuse. I saw them. Everyone saw them."
"And you didn't do anything to stop them?"
Gary paused and drew himself up straight. "What is it that you would have us do, Sheriff? We did as much as you have done against those two."
Gary was right, and Wilson could see that it would do no good to try and sidetrack him.
"We demand that you form a posse and go after them," Gary went on. "Now. Tonight."
Wilson wasn't eager for a posse. He had planned to go alone. There was danger that someone besides the two men Gary was talking about would be shot if a posse went out, and Wilson didn't think the Hawkins brothers were likely to be the ones who got hurt.
"I'd better ride out there to that show and check on things first," Wilson said. "See if they killed anybody else. We got to know exactly how much damage they did. Besides, it's not a good idea to go ridin' in on anybody like the Hawkinses in the dark. Best wait for daylight."
Gary saw the logic of the last part. In fact, he was pleased to hear it. He didn't actually want to be a part of a posse at all, much less at night, and he suspected that the others felt pretty much the same. But they had asked him to speak for them, and he had to put up a good front.
"You will form a posse?" he said. "You will ride on the Hawkins brothers in the morning as soon as it's light?"
"I can't make any promises like that," Wilson said, standing up. "I got to see if things happened
like you said. Then we'll see about what to do." He started around the desk.
Gary stepped aside to let Wilson get by. "Very well," he said. "Suppose you tell those people out there what your plans are. They are the ones I am representing, and it is their decision."
"Nope," Wilson said. "I'm the sheriff. It's my decision."
Wilson had never been fond of Gary. He seemed to think he had the right to tell everyone what to do since he was the wealthiest man in town. The sheriff wondered how many of the people outside the jail knew that Gary was always the most prompt when it came time to pay off the Hawkinses. The saloon owner didn't want to take any chances of getting his own place of business shot up, and he could afford to pay off even if the others couldn't. The Hawkins brothers had hardly affected him at all, if the truth were known.
Wilson stepped out the door and told the crowd what he was planning to do. There was a minute or two of muttering, but then everyone seemed to agree that it might be just as well to wait until morning.
"And another thing," Wilson said.
"What's that?" someone said.
"I won't be needin' a posse in the mornin'. I'll be ridin' out there alone."
"You must be crazy," Gary said from behind him. "Those men will kill you at once."
"Maybe they will, and maybe they won't. Anyway, that's my look-out. I'm the sheriff, and I'm doin' this my way."
Gary shrugged. If Wilson wanted to get himself shot to death, so be it. That way, Gary wouldn't have to risk his own life.
"What if you do get kilt?" a man asked. "Where the hell does that leave the rest of us?"
"Needin' a new sheriff, I reckon," Wilson said. "Now if you gents will let me get to my horse, I think I'll go out to that medicine show and see what the damage is."
"Two dead men, is what the damage is," the man said. "We all saw 'em fall. Barclay Sanders is one of 'em."
"Maybe they aren't dead," Wilson said moving through the crowd and freeing his horse's reins from the hitch rail. "Maybe they're just wounded."
He hoped he was right, but he suspected the man was right. He knew Ben and Sam too well. They used to call Sam "Hawk" because of both his last name and his killer instincts. It wouldn't have bothered Sam at all to kill a fleeing man. For that matter, it wouldn't have bothered Ben, either.
