The chatter started again, louder and edgier than before, churning out fast and snappy like the loads from a Hotchkiss gun, and the crowd moved toward Billy Bob , and was like little toads moving toward the king frog so he could croak loud and long for us, show us how it was done.
Riley, who had been peeping around the edge of the back door, came on out, tiptoeing and smiling. He leaned over the bar and looked at Jack, then he went around and bent over him.
"Dead," Riley said.
"You don't say?" Billy Bob said. "You mean splashing some beer on him won't bring him around."
Blue Hat came forward then, and things got quiet. We'd sort of forgotten him in all the excitement. He turned and looked at Billy Bob, then he walked over and looked at Jack. He bent down like Riley had done, and when he stood, he had Jack's pistol in his hand, which, by the way, Jack hadn't even managed to clear from his holster.
Blue Hat turned, holding the pistol loosely by the grip with a thumb and forefinger. He looked at Billy Bob. "I don't want no trouble," he said.
"That's good," Billy Bob said, but he sounded disappointed.
Blue Hat dropped the gun on the bar.
Riley, quick as a snake, sidled up to it, smiled at Billy Bob and said, "I'd like that as a souvenir."
"I was going to ask that," Blue Hat said to Billy Bob. "Jack said you was just a trick shooter, not a gunman."
Billy Bob glanced down at Jack's body. A messy, dark puddle was forming under it. "He ain't saying much of anything now, is he?"
"I ain't never seen shooting like that," Blue Hat said.
"And you won't again, unless it's me you see. You want that pistol, boy, take it. But unload it first. It would make me a mite more comfortable."
Blue Hat unloaded the pistol.
Riley watched him doing it, looking like a dog that had been kicked.
"You take them bullets," Billy Bob said to Riley.
"Yes sir," Riley said, just like it was the happiest thing he'd ever done. He scooped up the bullets, put them under the counter about where the Mexican's pistol was.
"And throw that ugly old liar out of here," Billy Bob said. "And mop up that blood, it's stinking up the place."
"Yes sir," Riley said. He ducked his hand behind the bar and got that same old rag he'd had the other day, went about mopping the counter off. The rag filled up quick, and I felt my stomach going. I tried to go for the door, but I couldn't make it. I put a hand on the bar and threw up on top of one of the stools.
When I lifted my eyes I seen Skinny looking at me over the bat wings. Next thing I knew Riley was putting a boot in my butt. "Get out," he screamed, "get out."
"Hold there," Billy Bob yelled. "Mind who you're kicking. He works for me."
I turned slightly and seen Billy Bob looking at me and Riley, and he was smiling. He looked ready to draw them pistols again. It didn't take much to know he was liking all this power. Wasn't no other reason he'd have stopped Riley from kicking me out. Any other time he'd have kicked me out his ownself.
"I'm sorry Mr. . . ." Riley stuttered.
"Daniels," Billy Bob said. "Wild Bill Daniels. And you go back to doing what you was doing. Get that trash out of here. Then clean up Buster's mess. He's been sick. Buster, come on over here."
I went. I didn't know what else to do. I hadn't managed to stop the fight, and I didn't know if I was glad Billy Bob was the one who won or not.
Billy Bob put his arm around me. "What'd you think of that, boy?" he said nodding at the spot where Jack still lay. Riley was getting hold-of the body under the arms and was fixing to drag it out the back way.
I opened my mouth to say something, but nothing came out. Billy Bob didn't seem to notice. He slapped me on the back. "Barkeep. A whiskey for my friend here. Whiskey on the house."
That got a cheer from folks, and they started gathering around me and Billy Bob, and suddenly it was hot, real hot, and when I looked around me, it struck me how nobody looked like a person anymore. Their faces had changed. They had the same looks, you see, but there was something about the way they were smiling and the way their eyes looked that made me think that the souls had gone out of them.
Riley dropped Jack and started pouring glasses of whiskey and beer, and suddenly I had a whiskey in my hand, and I felt like I needed it, so I drank it, and the next thing I know I had another, and I drank it too.
"Ain't you got that stinker out of here yet?" Billy Bob yelled at Riley, and nodded at Jack's feet, which were now the only part of him you could see at the edge of the bar.
"But you said. . . " Riley started, then changed his mind. "Right," he said. He went back and got Jack and dragged him out the back door, and as he did, I got one last look at Texas Jack, Deadwood Pistol Demon, and he didn't look so special. He was just a fat, old, dead man with half his face blowed away. And there probably hadn't never been nothing special about him. He was just a sorry old loafer who lived off storybook rep more than fact, and it had caught up with him. I figured that story Riley had told me about the Mexican was only half-truth. Jack most likely shot that sucker in the back and Riley's mouth took over from there.
Well, Riley got the mess cleaned up, and he came back and poured more drinks, and Billy Bob called for more, and I kept finding a whiskey in my hand, and I kept drinking it.
Each time I looked up from finishing one, the place had changed some. People looked odder and odder, even when I wasn't seeing them through the bottom of a whiskey glass.
Blue Hat was up by Billy Bob now, and it was like Texas Jack hadn't never been. The tick had dropped off the dead dog and was hooked onto another. The bony saloon girl was sitting on a stool next to Billy Bob and was entwined around him now, instead of the farmer, who had probably stayed home to do a bit of Bible study with his wife.
Riley was leaning over the bar and I couldn't get my eyes centered on nothing but his teeth, which seemed big and strong and ready to chew me or anything else up. His mouth was opening and closing, and it took a while before what he was saying to Billy Bob sunk into me. He was telling him about Homer, and saying what a bad hombre Homer was, and how he was even tougher than Jack, and he went on and on about the gunmen Homer had faced, and he told that story he told me about him tracking down Wild Bill Longley by himself
I was dizzy, real dizzy. Too many Wild Bills. Wild Bill Hickok, Wild Bill Longley, Wild Bill Daniels.
"He ain't nothing but an old man," I blurted out.
"What's that?" Riley said.
"I said he ain't nothing but an old man. You said he was an old man, seventy year old."
"Well now, boy, I ain't saying different now. I'm just telling Wild Bill here that Homer ain't gonna shine brightly on finding out there's been a shooting in town."
I seen what Riley was doing, but couldn't put the thought into words. I was too drunk. I had just come to that understanding. I'd never drank more than one whiskey in my life, and now here I was with a belly full of that hot, worthless rot, and I was so drunk I couldn't make my mouth work. I wanted to tell Riley to go to hell. I wanted to say to Billy Bob that it was just Riley talking, trying to match him up with the sheriff, trying to turn real life into a dime novel, but the only thing that would come out when I finally got my mouth open was what I said before. "Homer's an old man. You said he was seventy year old."
"You said that already, hoss," Riley said, and I hated those teeth of his. He didn't look like nothing but teeth with a set of eyes over the top of them.
"He's drunk," Blue Hat said.
Billy Bob laughed shortly, put his arm around my shoulders, and started walking me toward the door. I tried to push against it, but I didn't have no iron in my legs. I think if Billy Bob hadn't had his arms around my shoulders I'd have fallen down.
"Seventy year old," I said. "He ain't no gunfighter. You ain't neither."
Billy Bob pushed a little harder until we went through the bat wings, then when we was out on the boardwalk out of eyeshot of the drunks, he pulled me up close to him and presse
d his forehead against mine and whispered. "You're embarrassing me, you dumb fool."
"He ain't no gunfighter, just an old man," I said, but it sounded more like a mumble.
Billy Bob turned me around and kicked me in the butt. I went tumbling into the street.
"Go on back to the wagon and sober up, kid. Stay out of my sight tonight."
I didn't see Billy Bob go away. I wasn't seeing much of anything. I rolled over on my back and looked at the sky for a bit, then I closed my eyes. When I opened them everything was fuzzy, but someone was leaning over me, and he was thin and had his hands stuck out and there were guns in them, and for a moment I thought Wild Bill Hickok had gotten out of that box and come to pay me a visit.
"Bang! Bang!" It was Skinny's voice.
"Help me, Skinny, I'm sick."
Skinny leaned close enough that his face came out of the fuzz.
"Things is going to get bad." He stuck his fingers at me. "Bang!"
"I ain't for playing. I'm sick."
I closed my eyes again, and a moment later I felt hands on me. When I opened my eyes, Skinny was working with all his might to get me up. I gave it everything I had to help, but there just wasn't anything there.
Then Albert stepped out of the dark, pulled me to my feet, and slung me between him and Skinny. They hauled me away, the toes of my boots plowing trenches.
"I tried to stop him," I said to Albert. "I tried."
"I know, Little Buster."
"He killed Jack," I said. "That old man didn't have a chance. He wasn't nothing, Albert. I could have beat him. Anybody could."
"Hush up, Little Buster"
"I didn't know what to do, Albert. I tried but wasn't nobody listening to me."
"You did what you could. Wasn't no stopping them."
I got sick again. They stopped while I chucked up the whiskey in my gut, but it didn't help me feel no better. They carried me to the wagon and laid me out on my old stoop. "Not in here, Albert," I said. "Not here."
"Shush up, Little Buster. You just going to lay here while I fix you a bedroll outside. I'll come get you in just a shake."
"No Albert," I said, but Albert was gone.
Everything was spinning. I turned my head toward Wild Bill and his box. It looked like that damned near skull face was grinning at me, and I swear to God there was a glint coming out of them bony sockets. The same glint I seen in Billy Bob's eyes after he'd killed Texas Jack. The glint he had when all them folks were gathered around him, trying to suck off the killing he'd done.
My eyes closed. I felt like I was whirling around and around. I could hear voices, though wasn't none of them American. It was them spirits in the wood. I knew it. They was talking to me. And though I couldn't make out a thing they were saying, I knew what it amounted to was the same thing Skinny had said: "Things is going to get bad."
CHAPTER 6
I don't remember falling asleep, or when the voices went away—if there ever were any voices besides them inside my head—but when I woke up I was out of the wagon.
Albert had built a tent out of tarp and had me under it. He and Skinny were inside with me. It was raining. I could hear it drumming on the tarp. I could hear the wind picking up too. It was still nighttime.
My mouth tasted dry and awful, like some rats had nested there. "The storm here?" I asked.
"Getting here," Albert said.
"We got to move on, with or without Billy Bob," I said. "He ain't going to go, Albert. He's living a dime novel and he loves it."
I told Albert about the sheriff, about how Riley was setting the old man up for a shoot-out. I told him how I thought it was what Billy Bob wanted. That he'd force the play, even if the sheriff wanted no part of it.
"I'm going to try and talk to him, Little Buster. See if I can put some sense in his head."
"He ain't the same as he used to be, Albert. He's gone a whole lot worse. I think he's got Wild Bill's gun spirit in him. You ain't never seen anything move as fast as he drawed on Jack. It was spooky, I tell you. With Wild Bill's shooting-iron spirit in him, and his own nasty disposition . . . Well, I think he's pushed too far, Albert, he'll kill most anybody."
"He won't kill me."
"He ain't the same, I'm trying to tell you."
"Bang," Skinny said loudly, drawing up both hands quick-like and pointing his fingers at me.
"Quit that now," Albert said. "Just quit it. It's making me shaky."
"He seen what Billy Bob done," I said. "He's mocking him." I propped up on one elbow. "I think we ought to go on without Billy Bob. Leave the wagon. Just get Rot Toe, sell some of our stuff and buy a couple mules, ride out of here."
"Can't," Albert said.
"You said yourself this was a bad town, Albert. You know that storm is coming and it ain't no regular storm. It's full of vengeance and it's Billy Bob it wants But if we're here with that Hickok's body . . . We got to leave, Albert, you know that."
"I can't."
"What in Heaven's name has Billy Bob got hanging over you? It ain't slave days. You can go as you please. You don't owe him a thing. It don't make sense you letting him run your life like that."
"I got my reasons. Just shut up now, Little Buster. You're starting to make me mad."
I shut up. Skinny stretched out on the ground by me and fell fast asleep. I turned over and slept. Next thing I knew it was morning.
Skinny was still asleep, but Albert wasn't around. I got up and went outside It was raining a steady drizzle and the sky was growling and lightning was flashing.
I went over to the wagon and found Albert inside looking at Wild Bill.
"He ain't nothing but bad luck," I said climbing inside. "Ain't nothing been good since we took him on."
"Wasn't all that good before we got him, was it?" Albert said, turning to look at me. "And before I picked you up, wasn't nothing for me to do but worry about Billy Bob. Now I got you too."
"Don't you worry none about me," I said. "I can take care of myself"
"You can, can you?"
"That's right. I'm seventeen now."
"So you are. Ain't nobody can take care of himself completely, Little Buster. We all needs someone sometime for something."
We were kind of smiling at each other then. I changed the subject before we got so chummy I felt like crying. "You ain't seen Billy Bob yet?"
"Stayed up last night waiting on him. He never showed."
"Still feel like you got to talk to him?"
"Yeah."
"When?"
"When he shows, I reckon."
He didn't show all that day. The storm got worse as time went on. The wind had gotten so high the trees were swaying on either side of the street and you could hear them groaning and you could hear the lumber in the buildings in town creaking.
We did some things to kill the time. We put Wild Bill in his box. We made sure Rot Toe was high and dry inside his tarp-covered cage. We fed and watered him. We took the mules over to the livery where they'd be more comfortable from the storm. We played some cards and cheated each other. Somewhere during the day Skinny came awake and wandered off, maybe going back to the saloon or bumming money for peppermints.
Finally it was dark, and still no Billy Bob.
We went out and took down the tent Albert had made, as the rain had run up under it and it wasn't a good place to lie anymore. We were folding it up, putting it in a corner of the wagon when Albert said, "I got no choice. I'm going over to the saloon. See if I can talk to Billy Bob."
"They'll kill you."
"If they don't, I reckon this storm will."
"All right, listen Albert. You got a mind to talk to Billy Bob, you let me go with you. I'll go in there and get him to come out. Try anyway. That way, no harm's done. Okay?"
"All right, Little Buster, we'll do it your way."
By the time we got to the saloon we were drenched from head to foot. The street was nothing but mud and water and the sound of the rain on the buildings was as loud as Indian drums. Or
loud as I figured they'd be. I'd never heard any.
Skinny was standing outside the bat wings, his hands in his pockets, shaking a bit. The wind and the rain had brought some coolness with it. He smiled at us. We got up under the walkway porch with him and we all stood there for a while, shivering, looking out at the street.
"All right," I said finally, and I went inside.
Billy Bob was where I'd seen him last, and so was the bony saloon girl—wrapped around Billy Bob like a snake twisting on a limb. Riley was leaning over the bar, laughing at whatever Billy Bob wanted him to laugh at. Blue Hat was dangling on Billy Bob's every word, as if they were hooks. I went over to Billy Bob. He didn't exactly look glad to see me, but he managed to be civil. "Buster. How you doing this fine day?"
"It's raining," I said.
"Not in 'here," he said, and everyone in the saloon laughed.
"It's the storm, you know?"
"Oh hell, don't start with the storm again," Billy Bob said, then he turned and told everyone about me and Albert believing the storm was haunted. That got him another good laugh.
When he was through, I said, "Albert's outside. He wants to talk to you."
"Anything a nigger's got to say can wait," Billy Bob said.
"This is important."
"I said it could wait, kid."
"Billy Bob!" It was Albert's voice, sharp and cleat Billy Bob shook that saloon gal off like a bulldog shaking off water. He stood, turned, and one hand came to rest on a pistol butt. Albert had his hands on top of the bat wings and he was looking at Billy Bob. He looked pretty stern.
"Don't you come in here," Riley bellowed.
"What do you mean calling to a white man like that, nigger?" Billy Bob said.
Albert let a strange smile work across his face. When he spoke it was the voice he'd used that day in Louisiana to keep Billy Bob from shooting that wife-beat fella. "I got to talk to you. Now"
"I don't want to hear nothing about no storm, dammit."
"It don't matter about the storm. We got to push on anyhow. We don't, you going to end up killing the sheriff."
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