“You too.”
They got up.
“Now get over with the others at the bar. Line up.”
The men lined up. “Hey,” said one of them to the others, “look there at Dude’s britches. We can’t let our deputy sheriff go around with his ass out, can we? Don’t look right for the town. How’s about we all chip …”
Dude walked closer to him. He said, “Unbuckle your guns and drop ’em.”
The man stared at him. “Huh?”
Dude said, “I’m not going to tell you twice.”
Once more Dude’s fingers twitched. But the man glanced at the back of the room where Chance stood with his rifle and decided to do as he was told. His belt dropped heavily to the floor.
“Kick it away,” Dude said.
It was kicked.
“Now the next man.”
The next man looked ugly. “What the hell is this?”
“Drop ’em,” said Dude, and waited. When it was done he said, “We’re looking for a man who just ran in here.”
The next man in line, a burly red-shirted fellow whose only name was A.J., as far as Dude knew, said with heavy scorn, “Nobody’s just run in here.”
Chance spoke from the back of the room. “We’ll remember you said that.”
The gunbelts were all on the floor and out of reach.
Dude said, “Now hold up your feet.”
“For Crissake, Charlie,” somebody said. “Give him a drink. He’s gone clear off his head.”
Dude smiled. “The man we’re looking for has muddy boots. He hasn’t had much time to clean them. Hold up your feet.”
One by one the boots were lifted up. They were dusty but there was not one that showed a fleck of mud even in the welt or under the heel.
Dude’s heart began to sink. The warmth began to drain out of him. He could feel Chance’s eyes on him, watching him closely.
“Dude,” said Charlie the bartender. “Who saw a man run in here?”
“I did.”
Charlie laughed, out loud. So did several of the men. The others only snickered.
Dude felt sick. “You’re next, Charlie. Come on out.” He watched in agony for the first sign of Charlie’s boots as he came out from behind the bar.
They glistened with polish. They had not been wet or muddy for a week. They had not ever been wet or muddy.
Charlie said kindly, “Dude, you’ve been seeing things again. You better have a drink.”
The men laughed. They killed themselves laughing. Only Chance did not laugh. He stood in the back of the room and did not move or speak.
Dude looked away from them all around the room, miserable and desperate. There was no place for anyone to be hidden except behind the bar, and Dude had looked there. He knew he had seen the man from the stable run in here through the back door but now he was confused and uncertain. Maybe he had made a mistake. Maybe the shadows and the moonlight had fooled him. He heard the laughter behind him, but he heard Chance’s silence more.
One of the men who had been in here last night, the one named Jim, took a dollar out of his pocket.
“Hey, Dude,” he said, “if Charlie won’t stand a couple on the house, maybe this’ll help.”
He threw the dollar in the spittoon.
Dude tried hard to get angry. He couldn’t. The anger he had had when he came in was gone. And he did not even have fear to stiffen his spine. He knew that nothing dramatic was going to happen to him. Nobody was going to shoot him. They were just going to go on laughing, and Chance would go on saying nothing, and this time he would not bother to kick away the spittoon.
Dude looked at the two or three glasses of whisky left behind on the tables by the men he had ordered over to the bar. His mouth puckered with longing. His hand started to go out to pick up the nearest one, and a drop of red liquid fell from somewhere into the glass with a small plopping sound. Dude’s heart stood still for a moment and then bounded wildly. He watched the little red drop roil itself into the amber whisky and then without raising his head he turned and shuffled toward the bar and leaned his elbows on it.
“Maybe I do need a drink,” he said.
One of the men shoved a bottle toward him. He took somebody’s glass and poured himself a shot, peering all the time from under the flopping brim of his hat into the back-bar mirror. He spilled some whisky but he didn’t mind. He saw the reflection of a ladder in the corner of the room leading up to an opening in the ceiling. The loft was almost always closed and he had forgotten about it. He made a gesture of pushing his hat back to wipe his forehead. In this way he was able to get a good look at the opening. The barrel of a pistol just barely showed at the edge of it.
Time stopped. Emotion stopped. And everything was beautiful.
Watching from the back of the room, all Chance could see was Dude hanging on the bar, a beaten man, and it was like watching Dude die. Several times he had wanted to step in and at least make Burdette’s cocksure arrogant sons-of-bitches stop laughing. But he hadn’t. This was Dude’s hand and he was going to have to play it, win or lose.
Dude had lost, and the losing was almost as painful for Chance as it was for Dude. But Burdette’s men only thought they had won. Chance was sure that they knew where the killer was hidden. Somebody was going to pay for Pat Wheeler. Somebody was going to talk.
Over at the bar Dude started to pick up the glass of whisky. But the gesture was never finished. Instead there was a smooth swift rush of motion and Dude had drawn his gun and turned and fired so fast that even Chance was stunned. The blast of the shot silenced every other sound in the place. There was a moment of total suspension, while the men stood frozen and their eyes glistened in the light like glass eyes in wax faces, and Dude remained in the attitude of firing, his body poised and beautiful inside its rags, his face quiet, smiling.
Then a man fell forward out of a small opening in the ceiling. He had a gun in his hand and he was dead before he fell. He hit the table underneath and broke it with a crash and lay still in the wreckage. The whisky glass in which Dude had seen the drop of blood went rolling away across the floor.
Dude walked over to the dead man and kicked his boots lightly. They were covered with fresh mud. Behind him at the bar nobody moved. They stared at Dude, utterly astonished. Chance came forward. Dude spoke to him.
“Ever see him before?”
Chance looked down at the dead man. “No.”
“Burdette must be importing some new talent,” Dude said. He bent over and picked up something bright and glittering which had fallen from the man’s shirt pocket. “A nice fresh fifty-dollar gold piece. Just about what Burdette would figure a man’s life was worth.”
Chance rolled the body over with his foot. It had two holes in it, the one Dude had put there just now that let the life out of it, and another one in the shoulder. Dude had winged him on the run. Chance grunted. “I wonder if he thinks so now,” he said, and walked over to A.J. in the red shirt. He said pleasantly, “You didn’t see him come in here, did you?”
A.J. shook his head. He scowled at the floor, his face heavy and sullen.
“Got fifty dollars in your pocket?” Chance asked.
A.J. shook his head again with great violence. “No, Sheriff, not me. I don’t have any money. Nobody paid me.”
“They should have,” Chance said, and laid the rifle barrel across his face so fast and savage that A.J. had no time even to lift a hand. He reeled back against the bar and then folded over it, groaning, and Chance said, “That’s so I’ll know you if you stay around town.” He swung around like a tiger to the next man, the rifle lifted for another blow, and the man shrank back, and Chance stopped. He was shaking. He looked at them all and his hands trembled with wanting to kill them. He smiled.
“The rest of you are lucky. But I know you, and the next time you won’t be. So get out, and take your boy here with you.” He pointed to the body. “You can tell Burdette he got Wheeler. And you can tell Burdette that anybody else he sends he’
d better pay ’em more, because they’re going to earn it.” He turned his back on them. “Ready to go, Dude?”
Dude said, “You in a hurry?”
“Not specially.”
Dude walked over to Jim. “You threw a dollar in the spittoon. Wouldn’t you like it back?”
Jim stared at him. He got red, and then he got pale. “Sure, Dude,” he said. “Sure.” He went down on his knees beside the spittoon. Dude watched him for a moment. Then he nodded and smiled and turned away. “That’s all for me, Chance.”
Chance nodded. He looked at Charlie the bartender. “You’re coming with us, Charlie.”
Charlie whined. “Why pick on me? I ain’t—”
“You’re going to carry all those guns down to the jail,” Chance said, cutting him short. “Get at it.”
Charlie’s lips moved as though he was cursing, but he did not say anything out loud. He began picking up the guns.
Dude walked out the door, striding long and standing tall, with his chin in the air.
ELEVEN
Burdette’s men had hidden away out of town, but they had not taken the dead man with them. He stayed behind, disowned. Charlie had put all the guns neatly in a corner of the jail, exactly as Chance told him. Now Chance followed him outside onto the narrow porch.
“That’s all,” he said. “Start walking.”
Charlie started across the street in the direction of the saloon.
“Not that way,” Chance said. He pointed with the rifle barrel. “Out of town.”
Charlie glared at him, furious. “You can’t—”
“Oh yes,” said Chance. “I can. You can walk to Burdette’s by morning. That’ll give you a lot of time to remember not to come back.”
“Mr. Burdette won’t like that.”
“No?” said Chance, and showed his teeth in a particular kind of a smile. “Good. I’m glad to hear it.”
Charlie stood a moment longer. Then he tore off his apron and threw it down and began to walk.
Chance went back to the jail.
Dude was in fine shape. His eyes shone with excitement and triumph. He was telling Stumpy how it had all happened and the old man was fairly dancing up and down.
“That’ll show ’em,” he kept saying. “One good man’s an army all by hisself. Ain’t that so, Chance?” He war-whooped like an Indian. “Hell, we’re all right. You and me and Dude, that’s all we need.”
Dude looked at Chance. He was proud. But he wanted Chance to say something. Chance smiled briefly.
“Welcome back,” he said. “But I’m going to tell you something. One reason you got away with it is because they were laughing at you. Borrachin, talking big. And you surprised the hell out of them. Next time they’ll be ready for you. They’ll shoot first and do their laughing later. So don’t get too sure of yourself.”
Dude’s face tightened. Stumpy raged. “Spit in his eye, Dude. What a bastard. What a son of a—”
“He’s always been one,” Dude said. “If he was to change any he’d worry me. Anyway, he’s right.” He got up and looked Chance in the eye. “That’s one of the hatefullest things about you, John T. You’re nearly always right.” Then he laughed. “I ain’t going to get mad any more tonight.” He flipped the heavy Colt out of the holster and into the air and caught it again deftly while Stumpy watched him admiringly. “Not any more tonight,” Dude said. And he began to tell the story again to Stumpy.
Chance left them and went down to the funeral parlor.
Wheeler was in the back room stretched out under a sheet and Chance did not disturb him. In the front parlor Colorado was talking with Sam and a couple more of the men from the wagon train. They talked in low voices. The air smelled faintly of dusty plush and chemicals. Bert the undertaker was creaking discreetly around in the background. Chance spoke to him briefly and then Colorado and the teamsters looked at him as though they had something on their minds and he said good night to Bert and went outside. He breathed hard to get the smell of death out of his nostrils. Death itself never struck him as being so terrible, especially if it caught you between strides as it had Wheeler—though it was nothing a man looked forward to. It was all the stuff that came afterward that revolted him.
Colorado and the men joined him. Sam kept shaking his head. He looked as though he had been brutally jarred out of a drunken good time and had still not quite absorbed the fact that Wheeler was actually dead.
“Some of the boys ain’t even heard yet,” he muttered. “They were real drunk, sleeping it off. They’re going to feel bad. They’re going to feel awful bad.”
“How bad?” asked Chance. “Enough to make trouble?”
“What kind of trouble?” Sam asked, surprised. “We heard you got the man that killed him.”
“Dude got him,” said Chance carefully. “Not me.”
“But he’s dead, ain’t he?”
“Yes. He’s dead.”
“Well then,” said Sam. “I don’t know what more you can do than that.”
There was a short silence. The teamsters stood dazed and mournful. Colorado looked steadily at Chance. His face was pale, tight-drawn, almost too controlled. There was something in it that puzzled Chance, something he could not quite read.
“Bert says you have Wheeler’s papers and his money.”
Colorado nodded. “We thought somebody ought to take care of them.” He pulled out a small greasy wad of papers and a deerskin sack that clinked and was heavy when he put it in Chance’s hand. “Figured you’d probably be after ’em anyway. It’s all there except sixty dollars. We had a little discussion about that, the boys and me, and I said I’d go by your say-so.”
“The sixty dollars was your wages, I guess.”
“Yeah. But Sam and the others have wages coming too. Don’t know if there’s enough to cover ’em all, or—”
“I’ll have to hold the money,” Chance said. “All of it. And the wagons. I got to have a court order before I can turn anything over to anybody.”
“How long will that take?” Colorado asked. But he gave Chance the sixty dollars. “I’m flat broke.”
“Couple of weeks. Judge is due back then. Meantime, if you or any of the others want eating money, I’ll go good for it.”
“Thanks,” said Colorado. He smiled. “I’d feel better if you’d do that soon, before anything happens to you. No offense again, Sheriff.”
Colorado took Sam by the arm and started off. Then he stopped and said over his shoulder, “Tell Dude thanks.”
He went off down the street with the teamsters.
Chance went back to the jail. He put Wheeler’s papers and money into the small iron safe in the corner and locked the door on them. And that, somehow, was the end of Wheeler. He felt very bad. He realized suddenly how tired he was. He was an easygoing, even-tempered man. Violent emotions left him exhausted and a little sick at his stomach. He had never been able to understand how it was that women enjoyed them so.
He said, “If you two can hold the fort here, I think I’ll grab a few hours’ sleep. Okay?”
“Sure,” said Stumpy, and Dude said, “Sleep all night if you want to. We’ll do fine.”
He was still in the clouds. He was showing Stumpy all kinds of tricks with a gun and Stumpy was oh-ing and ah-ing, talking about old times and the stories about Dude that had once been common knowledge on this whole part of the border. Chance was worried about Dude. He had gone too far up now, from being too far down. But he was afraid to say so. Anyway, he supposed it was natural enough; about the way a man would feel coming out into sunlight again after three years in a dark cave. He wondered wryly what the hell he did want of Dude. He had forced him into proving that he was as good as ever, and he had proved it, but still he was not satisfied.
He decided that he was just not thinking straight.
He doubted that Burdette would try anything more tonight, but he warned Dude and Stumpy not to get careless. They had a rude answer for him and he grinned and then went wearily to th
e hotel while Dude covered him from the jail.
There were only two lamps burning in the big room, one on the desk and one on the bar, and at first he thought the place was deserted. Then he saw the girl sitting at one of the tables with a game of solitaire laid out in front of her. Somehow he knew that she had been sitting here for a long time, waiting for him, and it annoyed him.
“What’s the matter?” he said roughly. “Don’t you sleep?”
She got up and came toward him, the brown feathers shining against her dark shining hair, her skirts rustling and swaying as she moved. “I was beginning to think you didn’t,” she said. “I was waiting for you.”
“Still looking for an apology?”
“No,” she said. “I was thinking of making one.” Her eyes were very honest, very steady. They were very blue. “You had a perfect right to think what you did about me. I was bitchy. I’m sorry. I didn’t know you were in so much trouble.”
He stood looking down at her. Her throat was white against the dark stiff collar of her dress. He wanted to touch it, to run his fingers along the clean strong curve of her neck, to feel the warmth of it. Her lips were red, full, half-open and eager. He had an impulse to kiss them. He did not.
“I’m going to have a drink. How about you?” he asked.
She smiled, taking this as an assent. “Thanks.” She came with him to the bar while he fished around for glasses and a bottle. “I’m sorry about Mr. Wheeler. Carlos told me he was a friend of yours.”
“That’s why he was shot. Or did Carlos tell you that too?”
She nodded. “He told me a lot of things.” She took the glass of whisky he poured for her. They made the customary salute and she sipped hers, studying him over the rim of the glass.
“How does a man get to be a sheriff?”
Chance shrugged. “He gets lazy. Gets tired of selling his gun all over and decides to sell it in one place.”
She said softly, “Seems like you made a poor sale.”
“There’s a lot of people will agree with you,” he said. He filled his glass again and drained it.
“Including you, I’ll bet,” she said, and smiled. “But it is a sale and you’re damned if you’ll back out.”
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