by John Boyd
On its home planet, G-7 had been taught that kindness was the first virtue of the teacher, that patient gentleness was the shortest path for leading primitive organisms to the light, that the best training device was reward for achievement. Ian McCloud had demonstrated the probability that such preachments against violence might well be poppycock. Despite the precepts of G-7’s possibly effete ancestors, fear was a spur by which the wild spirit could be goaded to correct behavior.
G-7 would have to rearrange its priorities. Extreme respect for energy systems might prove to be an excess of piety on a planet where energy abounded and host organisms were so perverse. Already Ian was using his synapses for connections G-7 had not foreseen.
The nail in the saddle had been all Ian’s idea, and the man had understood the nature of the horse with an understanding more subtle than G-7’s. Indeed the horse was a spirited brute, but no more spirited than the brute astride it, and G-7 reveled in the power of the host it had chosen.
G-7 realized its pride in Ian’s power was a spiritual weakness, but the logic of the situation supported its pride. Sainthood was never a calling for ribbon clerks. Sainthood demanded the reckless courage of one who would draw to an inside straight, and Ian McCloud was its man. If McCloud chose to cudgel discipline into his fellow brutes, the true function of G-7 then would be to ameliorate the blows and trust that somehow good would be the final goal of ill.
Complacent in its pride and slothful in its ease, G-7 relaxed its tendrils along Ian’s neural paths, feeling the wind on Ian’s face, hearing the windrush in his ears, and thrilling to the undulating glide of the stallion. Occasionally, playfully, it fluttered a tendril in a certain area of Ian’s brain to tease out memories of watermelons.
This planet, Earth, was shaping into a garden of earthly delights to equal Vulvula.
5
Three p.m., Tuesday.
To Ian even the sunlight along the street of the empty town seemed lonely as he went from door to door, testing locks. His boot heels clumped hollowly along the boardwalk, and the clop-clop of Midnight’s hooves echoed his footfalls with a ghostly sound as the horse, like a faithful dog, followed its master down the boardwalk.
Ian was paying his last respects to the town which had befriended him. Checking the lock on the tailor’s shop almost created in Ian an attack of nostalgia. Abe Bernbaum—there was a man who could appreciate melancholy. Ian’s greatest regret in leaving Shoshone Flats came from his knowledge that he would not die here. Nothing would have pleased his corpse more than to have Abe as its chief pallbearer.
His footsteps quickened and his heart lightened as Ian walked from the shadow of Bernbaum’s shop and crossed the street toward the door of the bank kept open by provisions of its territorial charter.
He looped the reins of Midnight over the hitching rack to prevent the horse from following him inside and strode into the bank. Loosening his pistol in its holster, he walked into the dark interior, his eyes adjusting to the change of light as he neared the teller’s cage.
Knees spread, seated on his heels atop his high stool, a coat of black broadcloth spread over his kneecaps, Abe Bernbaum was acting as teller and sewing buttonholes.
“What are you doing here?”
“Acting as moneychanger for the Christians. Some Mormon might ride in to pay on a note.”
“Why ain’t you at the picnic?”
“I cannot forsake Israel for a ham sandwich. But if you’re going to stay in town, you can watch the bank and I’ll go to the picnic. It is my wish to be as far from you as I can get when the Avenging Angels ride. Though it is written that man who is born of woman has but a little while to suffer, I see no point in cutting short my allotted suffering time.”
Since Abe had not looked up and apparently did not intend to, Ian saw no point in threatening him with a drawn pistol.
“Abe, I want all the money in the bank’s safe.”
Fingers flicking, Abe said, “Get it yourself, deputy. The safe’s not locked. But, as town official, you’re required to sign for all withdrawals.”
This was proving fair to be the most unusual holdup he had ever pulled, Ian thought, as he opened the cage door and walked back to the safe. He opened it and pulled out the money drawer. A glance told him the drawer contained only a ten, two fives, three ones, and some loose change.
“Is this all the money in the kitty?” he called over to Abe.
“Twenty-three dollars and thirty-two cents,” Abe said. “On Saturday the payroll must be met. Eleven dollars and fifty cents to you, twelve dollars and twenty cents to the high sheriff, and fifty cents for me. Someone is going to be asked to accept scrip, and it will not be a Methodist Gentile.” His voice sunk low in despair. “It will be this Jewish Gentile.”
“I’ve seen lots more money in a poker pot,” Ian said in disgust.
“Not in Shoshone Flats you didn’t. Poker playing is outlawed by the city ordinance against gambling.”
“Is this all tax money?”
“Yes.”
“Who collects the taxes?”
“Mayor Winchester.”
“Who pays the taxes?”
“Mr. Bain. The mayor does not approve of drinking, so the saloon is taxed and taxed and taxed.”
“Don’t the people around here keep their money in the bank?”
“Not yet.”
“Not yet,” Ian echoed in astonishment. “Is there a season for banking around here?”
“Weather’s a part of it. Few Mormons deposit here, for in bad weather they can’t get to town. If you should open the road, as Mayor Winchester promised, perhaps more Mormons would come. But mostly the people have no confidence in the law’s protection. Myself, I could rob the bank and outrun Sheriff Faust on foot, but the money would not pay me for the footrace.”
“How long do you figure it would take for the people to put their money in the bank if they could rely on the law?”
Abe lifted his eyes and spoke with quiet assurance.
“For me, after today—if Deputy McCloud should live so long. If you survive this day, you should live forever. By now, Bryce Peyton has conferred with his bright angel, Moroni, gotten his instructions, and six black saints are riding… riding… riding.”
As Abe’s voice dwindled into a sinister and ominous silence, its dramatic effect was lost on Ian whose thoughts skittered off at an obtuse angle.
“I heard tell Peyton could hear voices,” he remarked, as he walked out of the cage, leaving the money behind. “I didn’t know whose. This Moroni’s a new angel on me.”
He leaned against the teller’s window, thoughtfully pounding his fist into his palm, remembering the thought he had had last week: Either quit playing poker or find richer banks to rob. He had no choice of banks in Shoshone Flats, but this one could be made a lot richer with patience and planning.
Plan ahead, Colonel Blicket had always told him back in the palmy days of their relationship. Standing here now, Ian remembered the injunction and planned.
In three weeks, the stage would haul the payroll from Wind River to the mine. If, by then, he had proved that a strong lawman could enforce law and order in Shoshone Flats and had built an all-weather road to lure the Mormons into town, trusting depositors would swell the coffers of the bank. As a respected deputy, he could ride shotgun for the stagecoach of the Wind River to Shoshone Flats leg of the journey, hold up the stage en route, ride into town, and knock off the bank.
The mine’s payroll and the bank might provide the biggest haul since the James boys hit Richfield, Minnesota. Johnny Loco, an ordinary run-of-the-road gunslinger with a mere $50 bounty on his head, might go down in history by setting a record for a one man heist. It was a distinction worth waiting for.
But he’d have to get the road built by September 3, the day the payroll was hauled, and the town needed a labor force and money for the road fund, right now. There wasn’t enough money in the bank to furnish him with the ante to try for a road fund at the poker tables, ev
en if he could play poker.
Play poker! That was a solution.
He turned to Abe, talking fast, “Abe, I’m going to make an official visit to the picnic. Somebody’s got to make Christians out of them Mormons, and it might as well be me. How long will it take you to finish my suit?”
“Ordinarily it would take two hours. If you’re going to wait here for it, it’ll take fifteen minutes.”
“Abe, I’ll see that you’re paid in full for that suit on my first payday, plus a bonus, if you’ll do me a favor.”
“What collateral could you possibly offer?”
“You don’t do me the favor till tomorrow. If I’m killed, you’re only out of the use of the suit for one afternoon.”
“Name your favor, deputy.”
“Accept an appointment as justice of the peace at eight o’clock tomorrow morning.”
“Ian, I’m no judge,” Bernbaum exploded. “The only law I know is the law handed down by Moses, and I observe that it does not apply in Shoshone Flats.”
“Abe, if the law of Moses was good enough for Jesus Christ, it’s good enough for Ian McCloud. This is how it will work. I’ll put a defendant in front of you, and you give him ten days or ten dollars unless I tug my ear. If I tug my ear, that means he’s guilty, so give him twenty days or thirty dollars. I’ll give you a dollar out of every ten dollars I collect.”
Suddenly interested, Abe looked up. “That sounds logical, ten percent of all fines as court costs.”
“However it figures out. Keep sewing.”
Twenty minutes later, garbed in official black, Ian was galloping south on his matching-color stallion, the town’s tax problems on their way to being solved, pending the mayor’s approval; the town’s court set up, pending the mayor’s approval of the appointment; and a schedule set which included, at the end of three weeks, the double robbery of a stagecoach with a payroll and a bank with deposits.
Ian’s mind was functioning at such a peak of creativity it had begun to explore a plan to bring Colonel Blicket and The Sergeant north to get in on the killing, as victims.
Only one problem he could not solve: Where would he find and arrest twelve or fourteen able-bodied lawbreakers quickly enough to get the road started and finished by September 3?
When Ian galloped up to the picnic meadow spread along a curve in the river, he saw Gabriella surrounded by three full circles of Gentile gallants. She spotted him on the heights of Midnight and managed a fluttering wave of her handkerchief. He waved back, unable to see her face below the shoulders of all the tall young men who had come courting after Billy Peyton fell. Liza was there with two and a half circles of men surrounding her.
Ian swung from the saddle after he spotted Mr. Bain, and tethered Midnight to keep the horse from following him into the crowd and stepping on someone’s toes. He cut the saloon keeper from Liza’s herd, led him aside, and went straight to the point, “Mr. Bain, how’d you like to offer a little game of poker as an amusement to the customers of your place?”
“Deputy, I’ve wanted to do that for so long I can taste the poker chips. With only drinking to divert them, the customers are working my poor girls to their bones.”
“How many tables could you set up?”
“Eight, easy. Maybe ten.”
“All right. I’m going to get you poker parlor rights in Shoshone Flats. You take a dollar an hour, the house’s cut, from the kitty at each table, and you play from six p.m. till two a.m. You keep fifty cents for yourself, give fifty cents to the town, and you won’t be taxed anymore.”
Brother Winchester took longer to cut from his group because he was surrounded by the ladies of the church. Ian finally sent Liza in, who had broken through her circle to compliment Ian on his suit and bronc-busting ability.
“They tell me you pinwheeled and near broke that horse’s back.”
Brother Winchester was solemn as they walked away from the crowd, and he listened as Ian explained his plan. He scuffed his toe against the grass and said, “Heck, Brother Ian, gambling’s against my principles, as a preacher. So’s whiskey, but I’d be run out of town if I tried to stop drinking.”
“I can’t say I don’t disagree with you, Brother Winchester, but draw poker ain’t gambling. It’s a game of skill. You can keep the gambling laws and allow draw poker. You’ve got to look at this matter through the eyes of the mayor, not the preacher. I’ve been sounding out the folks in Shoshone Flats, and there’s talk of electing a gambling mayor next June. Half of that road fund would go for your administration, and you deserve a salary for your labors. As long as the people are bound to have poker anyway, mayor, let it be done under a Christian administration, I say.”
“You bring up some powerful arguments, Brother Ian. Let me walk alone to under yonder tree and ask for guidance in this matter.”
“While you’re checking, Reverend, ask about getting Abe Bernbaum appointed justice of the peace.”
“That’s my province, Brother Ian. Does Abe know the law?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then he’s your J.P.”
Brother Winchester must have had a direct line to heaven, Ian felt, for he was gone only slightly more than a minute. When he returned, his long face was split by a smile.
“It’s all set, Deputy McCloud. Bain can have draw poker, long as it’s two-card draw. Now all we need’s the road gang. I got confidence you’ll get one, but don’t go around arresting people free-handed. We got to get them and let them know why they’re got. It’s got to be legal because they’ll be voting, at least by next June.”
Together they walked back to the picnic table, the mayor putting a fatherly arm over Ian’s shoulder. “I’ve got my eye on you, deputy. You keep up the good work and you’re going to be made high sheriff of my town. But don’t arrest any Mormons. They don’t vote in our elections, and I don’t want them to start. So leave them good people alone lest it’s a matter of life and death.”
Ian appreciated the compliment even though he knew his work was just beginning and the toughest job, rounding up a work gang, lay ahead. Looking around him at the scrubbed faces of the young Gentiles, he couldn’t see one that looked like a lawbreaker. Yet, wearing a black suit with a tin star, he didn’t look like a lawbreaker either.
For a while Ian enjoyed the plaudits of the men who gathered around to compliment him on his horsemanship and to admire, at a safe distance, Midnight. He enjoyed, too, the comments of the ladies on his new suit as he tasted the delicacies spread out on the tables, until Liza broke away from her admirers long enough to whisper, “I’ve got something special for you in the back of my buggy.”
He figured she meant a hamper of chicken, but before he could force a thanks to his lips, she was whisked away. Likely females were scarce in the Wyoming Territory. He hadn’t managed a word with Gabriella and not more than a sentence with Liza. No wonder there was bad blood between the many-wived Mormons and the women-scarce Gentiles.
Ian was grateful for his relative solitude. He had problems to consider. The take from the poker tables would give him a highway fund and he could get a sealed bid from the general store to furnish him with wheelbarrows, graders, and shovels, but the road gang was going to be a problem. From the looks of this crowd, there were not enough Gentile lawbreakers in the valley to build a footpath. To Ian, the obvious solution would be to ride south and round up a few Mormons on bigamy charges and hold them in jail until after election day.
As he stood apart, ruminating, that which all but Ian had dreaded came to pass.
Around him the flutter of voices died on the summer air. A silence fell, broken only by the indrawn gasp of a woman standing nearby who cried, “Here come the saints!”
Ian followed her gaze southwestward and saw, on a hillock outlined against the sky, six black horses bearing six riders garbed in black. A chill wind that did not stir the air swept in from the horsemen as, riding abreast in an even rank, they walked their mounts slowly down the slope toward the meadow and the fr
ozen crowd. Implacable, awesome, funereal, they came on.
In the silence Ian’s voice sounded calm, authoritative, almost cheerful as he spoke to the Gentiles, “You folks stay to the left of the tables, away from me. None of you will get hurt if you fall to the ground when the bullets start firing. Some of theirs might not be aimed straight.”
He strode a few yards to the right of the tables and forward to halt, facing the horsemen, his legs spread, his knees bent slightly. Moving as slowly as mourners, the riders came toward him. He could make out their faces now. A lanky man in the center wore a grim smile which bared his teeth. That would be the stake superintendent, Peyton.
Fifteen yards from the lone man, the procession halted, almost as one, and the man with the smile held up his arm.
“Be you Ian McCloud?” he called.
“I’m Ian McCloud, and you’re likely to be Bryce Peyton, recently deceased, if one of your boys makes a sudden move. Any of your saints feel an urge to sneeze, he’d better hold it. You’ll be killed first, the next five won’t be around long enough to grieve.”
Suddenly, from dead behind him, Liza’s voice rang over Ian’s shoulder. “I’m with you, Ian. That something special I brought for you is aimed and loaded for Mormon meat. I’ll take the two undertakers on the right.”
“Get out of the line of fire,” he hissed backwards. “There ain’t but six of them.”
“We come in peace,” Bryce Peyton called. “I come to thank you, Ian McCloud, for shooting some sense into my boy Billy’s head. After you blowed off his trigger finger, he give up the idea of being a gunfighter, and he’s down on the south forty now, bandaged hand and all, plowing for winter wheat. All that boy was ever good for was farming, and now he knows it.”