by Bill Crider
5
It had happened three years ago, but Ray Storey would never forget a minute of it. He could still see it happening in his dreams, where it happened with agonizing slowness but where he was never able to stop it, any more than he had been able to stop it when it had happened in reality.
It was late in the afternoon, not long after the Fourth of July, and Ray and his brother, Chet, were walking down the boardwalk of the little Kansas town. Ray was holding a bag containing a pound of coffee, some dried pinto beans, and some canned goods. Chet was sucking on a peppermint that Ray had bought him.
Chet was six years younger than Ray, and he had never been quite like anyone else. He was a lovable kid, happy most of the time, always smiling, easily entertained, but he didn't have the kind of mind that took to book learning, or any kind of learning at all. The way the doctor had put it was that Chet would never really grow up.
Ray didn't mind taking care of his brother. He'd been doing it for quite a while now.
Their father had died in a fall from a horse when Chet was ten, and their mother had not lived for long after that. Some people thought that she had grieved herself to death, but Ray knew better. She hadn't been well, not even when her husband was alive. Whatever had killed her had been something that had eaten her away, all right, but it hadn't been grief. Her husband's death might have hastened the process, but she had been dwindling for years.
There had been a little money, not much, but enough so that Ray could keep the farm going. In a couple of years he was actually making a little money on his own.
And then there was the accident, if that was what you could call it.
It had been hot that day, and dusty. When he thought about it or dreamed about it, Ray could still feel the heat of the lowering sun on his back, still smell the dust of the street as it was kicked up by the hooves of the horses pulling a wagon going by, still hear the jangle of the harness.
They had been about a block from the bank when they heard the sound of shooting, the gun shots shattering the quiet air like rocks smashing through the smooth surface of a quiet pond.
Chet had started running, apparently thinking that the sounds were made by something he had been very impressed by only a few days before.
"Fireworks!" he yelled, the peppermint he still had in his mouth blurring the words. "Fireworks!"
Ray dropped the bag, the cans clattering on the boardwalk, beans scattering everywhere, and went after him.
Three men came running out of the bank. They were all wearing long dusters, and they were all heavily bearded, with hats pulled down low on their brows. Two of them were carrying canvas bags.
They were running for the horses that were tied to the hitch rail.
The whole town erupted in shooting at that moment. Someone from inside the bank fired at the retreating robbers, and they returned the fire.
The sheriff and one of his deputies came running from somewhere, guns roaring, and several men from nearby stores, realizing what was going on, ran outside and opened fire with rifles and shotguns.
In the middle of it all was Chet.
He was no longer yelling about fireworks. He had stopped in the middle of the street, a puzzled look on his face, his head twisting to the right and left as he looked for a way to run and escape the noise that crashed around him.
The three bank robbers were mounted now and returning fire both into the bank and at the townspeople as their horses reared and pitched. Then they charged down the street straight at Chet, who stood frozen in panic.
In his dreams since that day, Ray had made the run toward his brother a hundred times, two hundred, but it didn't matter. It always ended the same way.
It was as if his feet were mired in thick mud instead of running on the hard-packed, dusty street. He could hear the horses bearing down on him and Chet, almost feel their hot breath, and he could see his own hands again and again as he reached out to shove his brother out of the way.
He could see Chet turn his head slowly, slowly, and he could see Chet's eyes as they filled with fear and with the gradual realization of what was about to happen to him.
Then Ray would feel the heavy collision with the lead horse, feel his body being flung aside, feel the impact with the ground that drove the breath from him.
And he could hear Chet's scream as the horses ran him down.
* * *
Chet lived for ten long months after that, but Ray never saw him smile again.
It was hard to smile when you were paralyzed from the neck down, forced to spend what was left of your life motionless on a bed and never quite understanding what it was that was wrong with you. When your food probably tasted like dust and when you knew that you would never get out of that bed and walk again.
It was no surprise to Ray that Chet finally died, even though the town's doctor told Ray that there wasn't really anything wrong with the boy other than the paralysis.
"Tell you the truth," the doctor said, "he's about as healthy as anybody. Doesn't even have colds, much less fevers. But that doesn't necessarily mean he's all right."
"But he is all right," Ray said.
"Just some of him," the doctor said. "He'll never quite figure it all out, and what with him not being able to move so much as a finger, well, he just might get to wondering what it is that he has to live for. If he ever gets to that point . . . . "
The doctor didn't explain what would happen if Chet ever got to that point. He didn't have to. Ray got the idea.
He could almost have named the day when it happened. Chet had been trying to look out the window and see the snow that winter. He had always loved the snow, Ray knew, and they had always built a snowman in the front yard, putting an old coat and hat on it, with a couple of rocks for eyes and a corn cob for a nose.
Chet's eyes filled with tears as he watched the heavy flakes drift down, and Ray knew what he was thinking. He died not long afterward.
By then, Ray knew the name of one of the men who had robbed the bank.
"Sam Hawkins," the sheriff told him. "Not much doubt about it. Hard to tell under all that hair on his face, but that beard's one of Hawkins's trademarks. The teller recognized him from his wanted poster. It was Hawkins, all right."
"What about the men with him?" Ray said.
"Teller didn't get a good look at those two. One of 'em might've been Sam's brother, Ben. They run together, mostly. But can't anybody say for sure."
"The teller's positive about this Sam Hawkins, though?"
"You can ask him yourself."
"I think I might just do that. Do you have a copy of that poster you could let me have?"
The sheriff gave Ray the poster, which he took to the bank. The teller was certain that was the man.
"It's the eyes," the teller said. "You can tell by the eyes that he's a killer."
Ray kept the poster. He had already decided that if Chet died, someone was going to be sorry. The robbers had gotten away clean, along with over six thousand dollars of the bank's money in the canvas bags. They had ridden through the bullets and shotgun pellets and out of town, never to be seen again. Because of Chet as much as because of the money, the lawmen of several counties had joined in the hunt, but the three men had been too fast and too clever. Ray, however, was determined he would track them down sooner of later, or at least one of them, the one whose name he knew.
Sam Hawkins. A man whose regard for life was so low that he would run down a boy in the street, leaving him paralyzed for the rest of his short life. Or if he was not the man, he was one of them, and they were all equally guilty as far as Ray was concerned. He was resolved that Hawkins would pay.
He buried Chet in the back yard that winter, and when spring came he sold the farm.
Then he started hunting.
* * *
Ray Storey walked out of the saloon and took a deep breath of the East Texas air. Now that he appeared to have finally located Sam Hawkins, he felt strangely irresolute. He realized that the hunt
had consumed so much of his life that he had not really made any plans about what he would do if he actually located the man.
At first it had seemed simple. He had even discussed it with the sheriff.
"You take him to the law when you catch up with him, if you ever do," the sheriff said. "That's what you got to do if you're really goin' to take off after him like this."
"I'm going after him," Storey said. "That's one thing for sure."
"Well, you don't want to go tryin' to be the law yourself. You don't have a badge, and that gun you're carryin' might not help you any if Sam Hawkins is as good as they say he is."
Ray had never carried a pistol before. He had bought it that winter right after Chet's death, and he had worn it ever since, every hour of the day, to get used to the feel of it. He hardly even noticed he had it on, now, but he wasn't what you could call "good" with it.
"You know how to use that thing?" the sheriff said.
"I can use it," Ray told him, stretching the truth by a pretty good way. He could aim and shoot, but that was about all. He certainly was no marksman. The bullets didn't always go where he aimed them, no matter how much he practiced. Some people had a knack for shooting, but he didn't seem to be one of them.
"The secret's not to be the fastest," the sheriff said. "You just got to stand your ground and keep shootin'. That's what it takes: patience and not bein' afraid."
"I'm not afraid," Ray said, and he hadn't realized until today that he had been stretching the truth a little bit there, too. As he stood outside the Western Dandy, he knew that he was afraid, though he had not known it before.
It was probably that before, he had not been faced with the actuality of Sam Hawkins. Until now, the man had been nothing more than a name to him, a name that he associated with one particular hot afternoon. The man had been the cause of Chet's death, and Ray had promised himself that he wasn't going to let Hawkins get away with it, but promising was one thing. The reality was something else.
He looked down at the handbills he was clutching. He had almost forgotten the medicine show, which was, after all, his real reason for being in town. He told himself that he owed the Colonel the courtesy of doing his job and that he could not let his own desire for revenge ruin the show's appearance in the town. He would have to put off his visit to Sam Hawkins until it was time for the show to move on. Then he would tell the Colonel that he was leaving. The Colonel would protest, but he would just have to find himself a new Kit Carson. Ray Storey would be staying in town to settle the score with Sam Hawkins.
He conscientiously passed out the rest of the handbills, and then he headed back to where the show wagon was waiting.
* * *
"I would like for you to do a bit of trick shooting this evening to begin the show," the Colonel said. He and Ray were setting up the little raised platform beside the show wagon. The Squaw Ro-Shanna and Banju Ta-Ta required a slight elevation in order for the crowd to have the best view of them.
Ray started to protest. He did not like to do the trick shooting, which was actually trickier than any of the spectators realized, though not tricky in the way they might have conceived it. The Colonel or his wife would toss small, hollow clay balls into the air, and Ray would break them by shooting them with his pistols. He could generally break eight or nine of ten balls, but that was because he would be using shells loaded with birdshot instead of solid lead.
"Now remember," the Colonel said, brushing back his thick hair with one hand, "it's not really deception. It's merely a part of the show. Entertainment, my boy. That's what we're providing here. Entertainment. We're taking no bets on your abilities."
"All right," Ray said, giving in. He knew he wouldn't be doing it more than once or twice more before leaving the show, but he didn't tell the Colonel that. "I'll do it."
"Good. Good. A little shooting always starts us off with a bang." The Colonel smiled at his own joke. "Gets everyone in the mood for the rest of the show."
The Boozer staggered up at this point, having drunk his day's allotment. The Colonel never allowed him to drink within two hours of time for the show to begin.
"And a fine, mellow mood that will be," The Boozer declaimed. "I myself am looking far'ard to it." The last word was smothered in a discreet belch.
"Ah, Dr. Stuartson," the Colonel said. He never called him The Boozer. "I was wondering if I might prevail upon you to do the anatomy lecture this evening."
"Wha-what's 'at? The lecture? Me?" Stuartson appeared dumfounded. So was Storey.
"Of course," the Colonel said. "And why not? Who better to expound on the mysteries of the human body than a man who has devoted the greater part--I may say, the better part--of his life to its study?"
"I--ah--I'm not sure . . . . "
"And why not? Why not use some of your expertise in a way that will be valuable to the show and give the customers something that they will appreciate and remember? What do you say, man?"
The Boozer tried to straighten himself, brushing at the sticks and dirt that clung to his wrinkled suit. "I--I could try . . . . "
"Fine, fine," the Colonel said, putting his hand on Storey's arm. "Come along, Ray. Let us allow Dr. Stuartson some time to get himself together and prepare his mind for the lecture that he will be giving. And a fine one it will be, I'm sure."
Though the Colonel's voice was generally a little louder than anyone else's he was pitching it to be sure that The Boozer overheard him.
"What was all that about?" Ray said when they had gotten some distance away.
The Colonel paused. "I think it might be time for our friend Dr. Stuartson to take a bit more responsibility in the day-to-day operation of the show."
"Why?" Ray said.
"To put it simply, I believe that he is capable of it," the Colonel said.
Ray shook his head, his long hair flopping around his neck. He didn't understand.
"My medicine can heal many things," the Colonel explained. "But it cannot heal Dr. Stuartson. He must heal himself, and I believe that he is now ready to do so."
The Boozer didn't look ready to Storey. He didn't look any different than he had for the past year, and Storey said as much.
"Not to you, perhaps," the Colonel said. "But you are not trained to see such things. I am."
Storey wasn't sure just what training the Colonel was referring to. From what Storey had gathered, the Colonel had never actually trained to do anything.
Nevertheless, Storey kept his mouth shut. He had seen some remarkable things happen since he had begun his association with the Colonel. He knew that the "medicine" they sold was nothing more than alcohol and water and a few other things, but he also knew that there were people who had come to the show looking frail and sickly and who had returned within twenty-four hours looking as healthy as a pampered thoroughbred, and they were generally singing the praises of the Colonel and his medicine.
Storey couldn't explain it, and neither could anyone else, though Storey was also aware of the Colonel's seeming belief in his own product and thought that belief, both the Colonel's and the customer's, might have something to do with it.
Storey had asked him about it once, but the Colonel had only smiled and said, "There are more things in heaven and earth than are dreamed of in your philosophy, my dear Kit Carson."
Storey wasn't even aware of having a philosophy, and when he mentioned that point the Colonel told him that he had been quoting from a play.
"Quite a famous one, too," he said, "and as entertaining as our own humble presentations, I must say. You should read it sometime."
He had pressed a copy of a well-thumbed collection of Shakespeare's plays on Storey, who had read Hamlet with a good deal of interest.
Somehow it had reminded him of his own situation, though he had always been sure that he would never put off his revenge the way the young Prince of Denmark had done.
That is, he had never thought so until today.
6
Sheriff Coy Wilson sat on h
is horse and looked down at the Hawkins brothers, who were sitting on the porch of their shack in approximately the same positions they had been in all day. They didn't go in much for unnecessary movement.
The remains of the terrapin were still in the yard, only slightly chewed by the cat, which was back in the shade under the porch.
Ben Hawkins scratched his beard and spit into the dust near the forefoot of Wilson's horse.
"How you doin', Coy?" he said.
Wilson was not impressed with the accuracy of Ben's spitting or with anything else about him; he wasn't impressed with Sam, either.
"Look at the two of you," he said, relaxing in the saddle, leaning forward a little and resting his belly on the pommel. "Sometimes I wonder why in the hell I ever hooked up with you in the first place."
Sam sat up a little straighter. "Just because you shaved off your beard and started wearin' a badge don't necessarily mean you're any better than us, Coy. You oughta try to remember that."
Wilson grimaced. "I remember it, all right. I'm just beginnin' to wish I didn't."
"I don't know as that I like the sound of that," Ben said. "What do you think, Sam? You think our pardner the sheriff is gettin' too big for his britches now that he's packin' a badge?"
Sam laughed unpleasantly. "He might be, at that. You'd think he never did anything wrong in his whole life, wouldn't you? Just look at him, sittin' there high and mighty on that bay horse, lookin' like he had himself a hot bath and a shave not more'n a day or so ago. Maybe he thinks he's a little bit better than his old friends. Maybe that's it."
Wilson's face was getting red as Sam spoke, but he kept his voice even. "I'm not thinkin' any such of a thing, and you better believe it. It was your idea, my takin' this law job when we rode up on this town, not mine."
"Sure has worked out for us, too, ain't it?" Ben said. "Old Sam, he's full of good ideas."
"Damn right I am," Sam said. He looked at Wilson. "If you hadn't run down that kid, we'd all be livin' high on the hog today instead of hangin' out around a whistle stop like this, tryin' to rob the people two bits at a time."