by Bill Crider
"You mean to tell us that the Hawkins brothers are run off?" Gary said. "And you're the one that did it?"
"That's what I mean," Stump said.
"And you say the sheriff's shot?" Gary said. "Did they kill him?"
"I believe they thought so," Stump said. "And he very well might have died if not for the skill of the doctor who travels with the medicine show. Stuartson is his name."
"I thought that most of those men were drunks, or worse," the woman who had asked about Naomi said.
"Some of them may be," Stump admitted. "But this one performed a delicate surgery to remove a bullet and save the sheriff's life."
"I guess he helped me, too," Barclay Sanders said, walking to the front of the group. He stood there with a clean bandage around his head, waiting to get a little of the attention. He had been too groggy to remember who had fixed him up the night before, but he was willing to assume that it had been Stuartson for the chance to get a ray or two of reflected glory.
Storey listened, smiling, thinking how much the Colonel would have enjoyed this. There wasn't a person there who wouldn't want to come to the show that night, just to see The Boozer.
"And where is the sheriff now?" Gary said.
"He's out at the show," Storey said. Everyone's eyes were turned to him. "Dr. Stuartson is taking care of him, dosing him with Miracle Oil, I might add. You can come this afternoon and see for yourselves how well he's doing."
People were nodding, smiling, shaking their heads. Storey would have to tell the Colonel to make up plenty of Miracle Oil to sell at the show. There would be a good number of eager customers.
"But there is still more good news," Stump said, and people turned back to hear him. "While Mrs. Stump was held prisoner in the Hawkins brothers' shack, she found a sack full of money--your money. And she recovered it."
The eagerness the crowd had displayed before was nothing to what they showed now.
It was Gary who expressed what most of them were thinking. "How much did she find? And where is it?"
"It is right inside my house," Stump said. "And I believe that there is nearly two thousand dollars."
People clapped their hands, whistled, cheered. This was better than the medicine show, and just at the right moment, Naomi Stump came out of her house holding a flour sack in front of her.
Storey watched her walk through the yard. The Squaw Ro-Shanna could learn something about how to make entrances from her, he thought.
"Here it is," she said, moving to stand beside her husband. "All I could find of it, anyway."
"We are going to return the money," Stump told them. "Just as soon as each of you can make a reckoning of how much was taken from you. If it is not all there, we will divide it proportionally."
He was afraid it would not all be there; he suspected that the sheriff had taken a share. But maybe that too could be recovered in a way that would not be damaging to the sheriff if the man had indeed renounced his unlawful companions.
"I can tell you to the penny how much they took from me," Gary said.
"Me, too," Sanders said. "To the very last damn penny." Realizing where he was, he added, "Excuse my language preacher. Ma'am."
No one seemed to mind. They were all caught up in the excitement of the moment.
When they had calmed down for a minute, Storey reminded them again that there would be another show that afternoon and that Dr. Stuartson would be conducting the anatomy lecture.
"Women and children not admitted, of course. But there will be a chance for everyone to see the doctor's skills as they were practiced on the terrible wounds suffered by Sheriff Wilson. The sheriff himself will be there to watch the show. The show begins an hour before sundown."
"I can vouch for that Miracle Oil, too," Sanders said. "It sure got me over the rough patches last night after those Hawkins boys shot me in the head and left me for dead."
People gathered around to look at Sanders's head, but others wanted to know more about the money.
"Make out a reckoning," Stump repeated. "My wife and I will see that you get back at least the greater part of what is owing to you."
The group began to break up after that, with most of the women staying behind to commiserate with Naomi Stump about her ordeal, or to find out as many of the sordid details as she was willing to tell them.
Storey passed out as many handbills as he could, but he knew that they really were not necessary. There should be quite a crowd that afternoon.
16
The crowd began to gather a full hour early.
There were many more women than had been there the night before, and not a one of them had said a word about their preacher's wife having attended the show. Had things worked out differently, they might have had a great deal to say, most of it unflattering. Under the circumstances, however, it almost seemed that she had done the right thing. And if it was all right for her, it was all right for them.
The Colonel was hard pressed to contain his eagerness.
"What did I tell you?" he said to his wife. She and Louisa were with him in the wagon, waiting for the show to begin. The women never went out until it was time for their parts, the Colonel being a firm believer in not allowing the crowd to see anything ahead of time.
"I expect that the entire town is out there," he went on. "I hope we made up enough of the Miracle Oil and Vitality Pills."
"If we sell all we made, we won't have to give another show for a month," Louisa said. She had helped them in the preparations since they were making an extra large batch. "And if we sell out, you're going to have to get some more bottles and tins. We used nearly all of them."
The Colonel rubbed his hands together. "Last night was not of great financial benefit to us, but I believe we can more than make up for it tonight. Don't you agree, Sophia?"
Sophia had not said much all day. The feeling that they should have left was still strong in her.
"I suppose we can make up for it," she said, but her lack of enthusiasm showed in her face.
"I don't see how you can be worried," the Colonel told her. "Mr. Storey and the others put those rascals to rout last night. They won't be back."
Louisa wanted to say that the rout hadn't been exactly attributable to Mr. Storey, but there was no use. When her father's zealousness was aroused, there was no need in talking to him. He always believed what he wanted to believe, and he almost always painted a prettier picture of things than anyone else would do.
But he was often right, and she supposed that was better than always painting a picture of gloom. In fact, she wished that she could make herself cheer up.
She still could not decide how she felt about Ray Storey. He had not done what she thought was the right thing, but Dr. Stuartson did not seem to see anything wrong in Storey's behavior. She wished that she could make up her mind.
"I think I should go out there and entertain the people for a while before we get to the main part of the show," the Colonel said. "Perhaps a few verses of 'Bury Me beneath the Willow.'"
He picked up his banjo by the neck and left the wagon.
Sophia sighed.
"Don't worry, Mother," Louisa said. "I'm sure everything will be fine."
"I hope so," Sophia said, but she did not sound hopeful at all.
* * *
"That damn cat's under the house," Ben said. He was down on his hands and knees, peering into the dark shadows under the shack. "I can see the bastard in under there, but he won't come out."
"I wish you'd stop worryin' about that cat," Sam said. "He probably knows what you're thinkin' of doin' to him, and he's not about to let you."
"I could shoot him right where he's lyin'," Ben said.
"Just leave him be. We won't be comin' back this way. Maybe he'll starve to death."
That thought cheered Ben momentarily, and he stood up, brushing half-heartedly at his pants knees.
"Ain't it about time to go on into town?" he said.
Sam got up from the porch where he had been sitting. "Prob'ly i
s. It'll be sundown in a couple of hours."
"I hope there ain't gonna be a show," Ben said. "I hope ever' one of them townies is right there at home. It's time to show 'em that they can't mess with us. Nobody oughta mess with the Hawkins brothers."
He kicked a pine cone and sent it skittering under the shack.
"Much less a damn cat," he said. He drew his pistol. "Before we go, I'm gonna shoot that bastard."
"Never mind that scrawny old yellow cat," Sam said. "Take it out on the townies." He started for the lean-to. "Let's saddle up."
Ben watched Sam go and then fired a shot into the dirt under the near edge of the shack. "Take that, you son of a bitch," he said.
* * *
No one was much interested in listening to the Colonel's banjo strumming or his singing. They were instead curious about the sheriff and his wounds.
Ray Storey was standing outside the tent, allowing only a few people at a time to go inside, where Dr. Stuartson was attending the sheriff.
Stuartson had drunk his usual quantity that day, or perhaps a little less. He knew better than anyone that no matter what the Colonel's hopes for him, it would take more than one success with a patient to restore him to whatever he had been before he began drinking.
Nevertheless, he had felt an infinitesimal return of self-confidence, and he was actually enjoying the attention of the people who came to pay their respects. He was even starting to look forward to presenting the anatomy lecture.
Ray Storey was not looking forward to anything.
He looked in at the sheriff and tried to feel hatred or at least disgust, but he felt nothing. Chet was dead, and there was no way to bring him back. If he killed the sheriff, what difference would that make to Chet?
He wondered if he was just making excuses, for there was no need to try to fool himself.
He was not going to kill the sheriff, even if it would make a difference. He was not a killer. Whatever it took to be one had been left out of his make-up. He had not realized it before because he had been driven by the residue of his rage. But the rage was gone now. The Boozer had been right. There was nothing left but sadness and regret.
* * *
Sam and Ben rode into town quietly. There was hardly anyone on the street. The boardwalks on each side were deserted except for a dog sleeping in the sun front of the saloon and Barclay Sanders, who was sweeping in front of his store.
"I guess there must be another show, all right," Ben said. "Looks like ever'body in town's gone."
"Not ever'body," Sam said. "Let's see what old Sanders has to say for himself."
They rode down the street toward Sanders's store. When they passed the saloon, the dog got up and jumped down into the street. He barked once at the horses, then turned and trotted off.
Sanders, alerted by the dog's bark, looked up. He had not gone to the show because despite having consumed an entire bottle of Miracle Oil, not counting what he had rubbed on his wound, he still had a throbbing headache that just wouldn't go away. He had planned to clean up his store and go home for the day. There was hardly a customer left in town anyway. He would eat a little something and go to bed early. He figured the rest would do him good.
When he saw the two riders coming, the low sun throwing long shadows of them and their horses in the street, he recognized them at once, and he wished mightily that he had gone to the show along with everyone else.
"Wellsir," Ben said when they got to the boardwalk. "Looks like you're all by yourself today."
Sanders looked at them, holding his broom handle clasped in both hands. He was going to stand his ground; he knew there was no use in running.
"You don't look too happy to see us," Ben said. "I bet you thought we were long gone."
That was what Sanders had thought, all right, but he didn't say so. He didn't say anything.
"We figger you owe us some money," Sam said. "You wanta pay up?"
"I don't owe you anything," Sanders said.
"Seems to me like you do," Sam told him. "Seems to me like you haven't paid us in a good long time."
Sanders's shoulders slumped. He should have known that what the Reverend Stump said was too good to be true. There was no way that the town was ever going to be rid of the Hawkinses.
"Just let me go inside," he said. "I'll bring your money. How much is it this time?"
That was too easy for Ben. He'd wanted Sanders to resist a little, at least put up a little bit of a show. He thought he'd try to perk Sanders up.
"All you got," he said, drawing his pistol.
"I can't give you everything," Sanders said. "Hell, you've took near about all of it anyway."
"That's another thing," Sam said. "We took it, but we don't have it now. We want it back."
Sanders straightened. Dammit, they might get what he had in the store, but that was all. He wasn't going to tell them about the money Mrs. Stump had recovered.
"You can just go to hell," he said.
Ben fired twice with his pistol, the twin explosions hammering the air. The first shot went wide, thwacking the wall to Sanders's left, but the second bullet hit Sanders right in the neck.
Sanders dropped the broom, and the handle hit the boardwalk with a thud. Sanders staggered back against the wall, both hands on his neck, but he couldn't stop the blood that was pumping out between his fingers.
He slid slowly down the wall until he was sitting on the boardwalk. He tried to say something, but he couldn't get it out. His mouth was full of blood.
Sam looked at Ben reprovingly. "You didn't need to do that. Now he can't tell us where the money is."
"He oughtn't to tell me to go to hell," Ben said.
"I guess not," Sam said, getting down off his horse. "Hell, the way his head's all bandaged up, it looks like he's been shot once already. I'm going inside and see if he has any money. You wait out here."
Ben waited, looking at Sanders. Blood was soaking the front of Sanders's shirt now, and the storekeeper's eyes were glassy and dead.
"You oughtn't tell a man to go to hell," Ben said, though he didn't figure that Sanders could hear him. He looked down the street to see if the shots had aroused anyone, but no one was coming. They must all have been at the medicine show, he decided. Otherwise, they'd have come running at the shot. Or maybe not. They weren't much good when it came to shooting.
Sam came out of the store. "Just a few dollars," he said. "Better'n nothin', though."
"What're we gonna do about that preacher?" Ben said. "I don't guess he's in town."
"Don't matter if he's gone," Sam said. "The church is still here."
Ben grinned. "Yeah. But maybe it won't be when he gets back."
They turned their horses down the street. From where he sat on the boardwalk, Barclay Sanders seemed to be watching them as they rode away, but his eyes saw nothing.
* * *
There were others in town, of course, but Ben was right about them. They weren't much good when it came to shooting, not even Carl Gary, no matter how much he might have liked people to think so.
He was in his office in the back of the Western Dandy Saloon when he heard the shots. Seeing the medicine show a second time held no interest for him.
He got up, opened the door, and asked the bartender what was going on.
"I don't know," the bartender said. "I just mind my own business."
It was true that he didn't know. He had heard the shots, but he had not moved from behind the bar. If the Hawkins brothers were back in town, he wasn't going to tangle with them.
There was only one patron in the saloon, but he was not interested in the shooting either. He was a serious drinker who had nearly finished a pint of whiskey he had bought earlier. It was possible that he hadn't heard a thing.
Gary walked through the saloon and out the batwing doors. He saw the two men down at the church, but he didn't see Sanders at first.
When he saw him, he had a pretty good idea who the two men were. He crossed the street, first making sure
the two riders weren't looking in his direction, and stepped up on the walk in front of Sanders's store.
It was obvious that Sanders was dead. His bloody hands were still at his neck, and the front of his clothing was soaked with red.
Gary felt that he should do something, get Sanders inside maybe, but he didn't want to get the blood all over him. He would have to go for Tal Thurman, if Tal wasn't at the medicine show and assuming that Sam and Ben didn't come after him before he could locate the undertaker.
He wondered what those two were doing down by the church.
Then he heard shooting again.
* * *
Sam first threw a loop of his lasso around part of the picket fence, then dragged it into the street.
That wasn't very satisfactory, however, so he and Ben drew their pistols and started shooting out the windows of the church. It was a little disappointing that there were so few colored ones, but they saved those for last. Sam, being the better shot, got the most of them, but Ben enjoyed watching the glass splinter and fall.
Even breaking the windows did not pacify the Hawkinses. Sam could not forget how that preacher had made him run.
As he thumbed fresh cartridges into his pistol, he wondered what else he could do. It didn't take him long to think of something. He got down from his horse and opened the door of the church.
"Go right on in, Ben," he said. "A little religion will do you good."
Ben went in, all right, but he did not get off his horse. The church door was wide and high, and he rode right through.
As his horse clopped down the narrow center aisle, Ben fired his pistol into the lectern that stood on the dais behind the altar. He fired at the pews. He fired at the walls.
Sam walked in behind him, his pistol blasting at the ceiling, at the little shards of glass that still hung in the windows.
The thunder of the shots echoed in the church, and smoke filled the sanctuary before it began to eddy out the empty windows.
By the time the Hawkins brothers emerged from the church, Carl Gary was gone from town. He was on his way to the medicine show.
Barclay Sanders still sat in front of his store, his blank eyes staring at nothing.
