"Ten, maybe twelve dollars."
"Not enough. You're a vagrant, and we'll likely find a record on you once we start investigating. All of you, I'm tired of waiting."
"What about me?" Rettig stepped forward.
"I have nothing I can claim against you. Actually I'm putting you in charge, although I'm still suspicious of your friendship with Slaughter. Make one move to help him, and you'll join him. This department's been in bad shape for too long. I mean to put some muscle in it. I won't ask you anymore, " he told them. "Rettig, take his gun."
But Rettig hesitated.
"It's all right," Slaughter told him. "Every second we argue, there's more trouble outside. Do what he tells you. I'll make good on this."
Parsons laughed. "Sure you will. In your own jail. Let's get this finished."
Rettig looked at Slaughter, then took Slaughter's gun. The men with rifles stepped ahead to form a cordon, and the five men went out, guards around them.
Rettig watched as Parsons remained in the office and studied the map.
"How much help did he call in?" Parsons asked.
"Sheridan and Lander, places like that."
"Well, I think that I can keep them quiet, keep the word about this strictly in the valley. I don't want those ranchers ruined. Did he call in the state militia?"
"He wasn't sure yet." Rettig had troubled speaking.
"Good," Parsons said. "I stopped him just in time. Slaughter meant to ruin everyone."
"I hardly think so."
Parsons tapped his fingers on the map. "Rettig, what I need now is cooperation, someone who can do the job. Are you prepared to help, or aren't you?"
"Yes, I want to help."
"Then there isn't any problem, is there? You stay, and you work to keep the town safe. I have people who'll be downstairs watching Slaughter."
"But that reporter. Surely you don't think you can muzzle him. Eventually he'll write about the valley."
"What, a drunk, a common lush? When I'm through smearing his reputation, there won't be anyone who'll listen to him. Plus, there won't be anything for him to see. He'll never have the story."
"He can try."
"But he'll need evidence, and if you think your chief was good at cover-ups, you haven't seen what I can do. When I'm finished, this place will be happy valley. We'll have had a small exaggerated rabies scare."
"And Slaughter-"
"He'll be on his ass in jail or on the road to nowhere. He can't take charge of a town the way he planned and not get punished for it. We still have laws, you know."
"I guess it all depends on how you look at it."
"You're learning, Rettig. I might have a place for you. Let's get these phones in order."
"Tell me how much force you'll let me use."
"Enough to get the job done."
"That's too vague."
"I mean it that way. Walk the line. It keeps you careful. This town's economy is based on animals, on livestock. If you have to shoot, take time to get permission. Get in touch with anyone who owns a cat or dog. The court house has the license records. If you see a hippie-"
"Yes?"
"Well, I think you know how to handle it." Parsons looked at him, then slowly walked across to where he paused in the doorway, looked again, then went off down the hallway.
Rettig stood there, silent, stunned by what had happened. Glancing toward the window, he saw people in the front yard, mostly men, and they were angry, holding weapons. He felt suddenly exhausted.
"Tell me what that bastard thinks he's going to do," the officer beside the radio said.
"I don't know. He saw the pattern on the map. He heard us talking. It's my guess he plans to go up to the ghost town, pick a fight with them, and kill them all."
"But that's crazy. He can't get away with that."
"Oh, can't he? If those hippies have the virus, they'll attack for certain, so the killings will be justified. And even if they aren't, if Parsons takes enough men with him, we can't prosecute the whole town."
"But he's instigating them."
"No, he's just doing what they tell him. That's what he'll say later, and that's always been his pattern. Oh, he'll get away with it all right, and he'll come back with twice the power he started with. We're going to see some bad times, and I don't know how to deal with them. I wish Slaughter were in my place."
"Go downstairs and spring him."
"Do it for me."
"No, thanks."
"Then you see what I mean. We'd only end up in there with him."
Rettig turned to face the window once again. Outside, the crowd had shifted so that Parsons could go through, haranguing them. The phones were ringing. Officers were answering.
"I hate to say it, but no matter how you look at it, we've got some bad times coming, and God help us, there isn't any way to stop them."
FOUR
He was feeling strange now. They had warned him this might happen, but the bite had not been deep across his finger. Lots of scratches on his face and neck, but just the one slight bite where he had reached up to defend himself against her. When she'd started last night, he'd assumed that she was crazy from her grief. Their only child and he was dead now. Then he'd vaguely understood that even grief could not account for how she acted, and he'd tried to get away from her. She wouldn't let him. If that woman hadn't clubbed his wife, he doubted that he would have had the strength to fight her off much longer. Now more grief. His wife unconscious. Although grateful, he was sorry that his wife had needed such strong force to be subdued. He wondered if their lives would ever regain normalcy. He worried that his wife might even not survive.
And now the knowledge of the virus she and Warren had contracted, of the virus he himself might harbor. They'd explained to him that, if he had the sickness, he would demonstrate the symptoms in the next full day, and they had put him in this chamber. Locked him in the chamber really. It was padded, floors and walls and ceiling, without windows. It was for hysterics, and the thought of what he might become was reinforced by these conditions.
He glanced at his watch. They'd let him keep it, which to some degree was comforting. He saw that it said three o'clock- fourteen hours since he'd been bitten. Maybe he'd survive this, but he felt the strangeness in him. Only grief? Depression? Was it something else? Was this the way it started?
Angered, suddenly he punched against a padded wall. He kicked it, cursing. Yesterday his life had been perfection. Driving home with Warren from the doctor, he had felt relief and happiness, togetherness. Now everything had been destroyed for him. His son was dead. He punched the padded wall again. He growled at it. So easy to imagine how this day could have been different. Then he understood that he had growled just now.
He stood immobile, startled. No, he'd merely been angry. It was nothing. But the sharp salt smell of sweat in here was powerful. He sniffed. It came from the walls. He stepped close, sniffing harder. This was how it started then, he guessed. There wasn't any question. Although he should have felt more fear, his grief and anger had wearied him. He didn't at last care. And maybe that passivity was part of this thing too. He didn't have a choice. It forced him to accept it.
And that sharp salt smell of sweat. He leaned close, sniffing. He was licking. Then he realized that he was licking, but he couldn't stop himself. The urge was irresistible. His tongue scraped against the rough canvas. For an instant, he could recognize his double personality, but then analysis was past him. When they came ten minutes later, he was raving.
FIVE
Parsons waited in the field beside the fairgrounds. There were many who were here already, but he knew that soon there would be more. He had sent messengers to all the ranchers in the valley. Other men from town were driving in now. He saw ranchers whom he knew well just behind them. It was almost time to start. He climbed up into the Jeep and stood and raised the bullhorn.
"Listen to me." Amplified, his words boomed stridently toward them.
They stopped talkin
g, checking their weapons, or organizing gear in the back of their pickup trucks. They turned to face him, tense from expectation. Small motions rippled through them. Then the group was still, and they waited.
Parsons stood straighter, using his weight and size to gather their full attention. "Everybody knows the risk." His voice blared through the bullhorn. "Second thoughts? You'd better say so now because we won't turn back once we get started. If you want to go home, we won't think less of you, but make your minds up now before you don't have a choice."
They didn't move or speak. They just kept watching.
"Good. I knew I could count on you. Now there'll be outsiders who don't like what we're doing, who'll call us vigilantes. They don't understand the spirit of this valley, how our fathers' fathers got this land and more important how they kept it. These outsiders sympathize with weakness. If they had their way, we'd all have nothing. But I don't intend to give up what I've worked for, and it's plain that you don't either."
The group nodded forcefully.
Parsons watched as more Jeeps and pickup trucks drove in. "We have to look ahead to what they'll say against us. And I want it understood that we're no lynch mob. Our only goal is to defend ourselves. We'll go up, and we'll face them, and we'll make them stop what they've been doing. If they want to fight, they bring it on themselves. But we're not looking for that. What we want is peace. Remember that. If anyone accuses us, you know what our intentions are."
They murmured in agreement.
"Understood?"
They murmured louder.
"All together on this?"
They shouted, "All together!"
"What's that?"
"All together!"
"Now you sound like you deserve to live here!"
He gave instructions. They obeyed, getting in their trucks and Jeeps, starting motors, moving out to form a line. Others followed. Parsons slid down in his seat beside the driver. Other engines started. Other vehicles moved out. He heard the roar of motors, the crunch of tires. They headed across the rangeland, one long caravan of trucks and Jeeps, dust cloud rising.
SIX
Altick slumped exhausted on the gametrail. "This is no good. There's no time left," he gasped.
"But it can't be very far now."
"We'll need cover in the darkness." Altick squinted toward the dimming sky. The helicopter had gone back to town a while ago. It needed fuel. Besides, in the night, it would have been useless as a lookout. Altick had explained the places where they might seek shelter, and the helicopter would return at sunrise. They were on their own now, and although angry, Altick was hardly foolish. He studied the gametrail. "On that level up there. Grab some dead branches, bushes, anything. We're going to make a barricade."
They ran up, taking turns, some working while the others aimed their rifles toward the forest, then exchanging jobs so everybody had a chance to rest. They built the wall in a circle, a thick barricade made of fallen tree limbs with pointed branches sticking out. It was like the makeshift outposts he had sometimes helped to build in Vietnam. There were pointed branches projecting from the top as well, and anything that tried to breach them would soon be impaled or scratched damned bad for certain. Meanwhile, Altick and his men had their flashlights and their rifles and their handguns, lots of ammunition, seven men all told, forewarned this time and scared and angry and determined to put up a fight.
"There'll be no fire. I don't want to draw attention to us. Not until I'm ready for them. Let's find out tomorrow where they're hiding. Then we'll stop them. Help me make these torches. If we need them, we can light them."
They hurriedly gathered dead pine-tree branches, tying their needles into packets for torches. Their shirts were soaked with sweat as they worked breathlessly, others watching with their rifles as the sun sank behind the mountains. At once they entered the barricade, blocked off the entrance, and huddled silently in the darkness.
SEVEN
Wheeler had never worked this hard in his life. After he had buried what he'd shot, he'd led his bait to water. It was no good if his three steers fainted when he needed them. He brought them back and staked them again, and then he dug a trench around them, not deep, just five inches. He brought five-inch plastic drainage tubing from the barn, cut it into manageable sections, sealed one end with a screw-on, glued plastic cap, filled each section with gasoline, then sealed the other end. He was almost ready.
He'd been careful not to fill the tubes near where he planned to use them. Fumes from gasoline would only scare his targets away. His only compromise was that he drove his truck to the trap he was preparing. There he struggled with the tubes as he made several trips from truck to trench, but then he had the tubes in a circle, and he drove the truck back to the barn.
A trigger now. He needed something to ignite the gasoline. He doubted that a bullet would do the job, but for sure a dynamite cap would. He had the plunger and the wires from when he'd been blasting boulders that blocked the stream to his pond. When had he been doing that? Two years ago. He'd never finished that chore, but at least he had a use for his equipment now, and he rigged the dynamite cap between two sections of the tubing, and he strung the wire and plunger to his vantage point up in the tree. He sprinkled dirt across the tubing and the wire. He glanced sternly around in search of anything he'd forgotten. Then he slung his rifle across his shoulder and climbed the tree. Jittery from Benzedrine, he stared at the darkness. When the moon came up, he knew he'd have no trouble seeing. It was brilliant, even brighter than last night, almost full. He wouldn't have to strain to see their movements out there. He would hear them as well, hear his cattle, because this time he intended to permit the steers to die. He wanted to catch as many of those hippies as he could, to trap them as they swarmed upon his cattle.
At first he thought that the cattle fidgeted and lowed strangely because they were tethered. Then the night was suddenly in motion out there, figures crouching, darting forward from all angles. Jesus, this was going to be much better than he'd hoped.
He waited until he couldn't tolerate it any longer, until the cattle were sprawled on the ground and bellowing with madness. When he pushed the plunger, night turned into roaring day. A circle of tall flames entrapped the figures. He shot repeatedly. Through the whooshing flames, he couldn't see his targets precisely, only fire-enshrouded movement.
He kept shooting. Abruptly he was out of bullets, and he frantically reloaded. Laughing, he shot again. His shoulder ached from so many recoils. He shot and shot. He heard the screams. He smelled the burning flesh amid the roaring circle of flames. He shot, reloaded, and shot again, laughing.
The fire diminished. He scanned the mounds of lifeless bodies and continued shooting at them. Then his rifle clicked on empty, and he fumbled in his pocket for more cartridges. Finding none, he tried the other pocket, but that was empty as well, and then he heard a noise below him. Staring down, he saw a figure. No, several of them, clawing at the tree trunk. In the brilliance of the moon, the dying flames around the charnel mound, he heard them climbing, their bearded faces looming toward him, and he kicked. He jabbed with his rifle as hands reached up to grab him. He was screaming.
EIGHT
Five men in the cells downstairs, two other men with rifles watching them. The guards were leaned back in their chairs against the wall. There was a desk, a door that led out to the stairs up to the main floor, and a second door that led through to the tunnel toward the courthouse. That way prisoners could be escorted to the judge without their ever going outside, and the tunnel was both dank and fetid, odors that came underneath the bottom of the second door and filled the cell room. Slaughter had been down here only when he was required. Certainly he'd never been a prisoner, and he was understanding the humiliation, vowing that he'd make things better if he ever got the chance, although that didn't seem too likely. He was finished in this town. He knew that. Parsons had been much too clever for him. He was sickened, and the damp oppressiveness around him didn't help things.<
br />
He at least had gotten some sleep. At first he had been anxious, pacing back and forth across his cell. He'd even tried to reason with the guards, but they just looked at him and didn't answer, and his friends who were imprisoned with him, when the arguments had lagged, exchanged diminishing complaints, then gave up, sprawling in defeat across their bunks and finally were silent. Slaughter gave up with them. In his weariness, he slept.
The cells were in a row, five units with a prisoner per unit.
Lucas, who had come back after all these years to see his father, only to discover that the wheel of time had swung around to trap him. He had stayed a prisoner down here when he had testified against his father at the trial. The prosecution had been worried that he'd flee town before telling the jury about his father's temper, so he'd been jailed for what was jokingly described as his protection. He had thought he'd never come back, but his dying mother had been forceful. She'd wanted him to claim the birthright she had worked so hard for. Plus, he intended to make amends. He knew that he'd been wrong, that if he'd told the truth about the compound there was every chance his father wouldn't have been punished. He had stolen two years from his father. With the passage of too many seasons, hate had turned to pity, and with one remaining parent, he was determined not to lose the father he'd never had. He wanted to get to the ranch, to make peace with his father, to warn him, to see if he needed…
The medical examiner, who was puzzled how he'd let himself become committed to this. All his life, he'd tried to keep a distance from other people, and now he was close to being prosecuted for his rare social behavior. If only he'd persisted in his concentration on the dead and not the living. Yesterday when he had found the virus-ridden dog, he should have phoned the police station and been done with it. Instead he had become involved, and now he surely would be forced to…
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