by Ralph Cotton
“I never said he was going to die,” Will Summers retorted. “It was his own sergeant there who said it.” He nodded toward Sergeant Teasdale as Teasdale and Frieze shook hands and greeted one another.
Abner Webb said, “Maybe it wasn’t his sergeant. Maybe it was Campbell Hayes who said it.”
Will Summers replied, “It doesn’t matter who said he was going to die. He kept saying he was going to live. And so he did…for the time being anyway.” He sighed. “Looks like that clears things up for Teasdale. He can return home a hero now. He’s got a witness, and he’s recovered the machine rifle.”
“Good for him,” said Webb. “I hope things work out that well for us in Rileyville.”
“I don’t know why things wouldn’t,” said Summers. “We brought back the outlaws. We even brought back most of the supplies they stole. Don’t tell me you still dread facing the sheriff after all we’ve gone through?”
Webb chuckled. “After all we’ve been through, I doubt I’ll ever dread facing anybody again for any reason.” In Webb’s saddlebags, wrapped in a bandanna, he carried the trigger fingers of both Moses and Goose Peltry for Wild Joe’s son, Eddie.
“Does that include Renee Marie Daniels?” Summers asked.
“You had to mention her, didn’t you?” said Webb, a look of dread coming to his face.
“Sorry,” said Summers. He turned to Sherman Dahl, who sat in the driver’s seat of the supply wagon. “What about you, schoolmaster? How do you feel now that this is all over? Think you’ll have a hard time settling back into teaching kids how to read and write after this rip-roaring adventure we’ve been on?”
“I doubt it,” said Sherman Dahl, reaching his free hand over and scratching the head of Junior the hound. Junior lay asleep like some ancient warrior sated from the kill, at peace now on a rough plank wagon seat, a fly circling close above his head. “If I do, I suppose I’ll look you up, Will Summers. I’ve got a feeling you can always come up with something to do.”
The three men laughed among themselves as townsfolk came forward from their abode and stood looking at them with curiosity. Some of the townsmen circled wide and walked to the rear of the wagon and nudged one another at the sight of Moses Peltry’s head stuck atop a length of broken hitch rail. The dead face was stonelike and expressionless, peaceful with its closed eyes and its long gray beard asway on a passing breeze.
“Come say hello to these three possemen,” said Sergeant Teasdale, “They’ve turned out to be good men all.” He and Trooper Frieze walked over to the supply wagon, Frieze limping, but only slightly. On their way to join Summers, Webb, and Dahl at the supply wagon, Sergeant Lawrence Teasdale thought he saw something more than just curiosity in the townsfolk’s eyes. He saw respect and admiration. In the eyes of the men, he was sure he saw envy.
