by Bill Crider
While Jack was trying to get Len's bleeding stopped, Harper walked over to join Vincent. "I'm sorry about all this," he said. "We never meant for anybody to get killed."
"You meant for Paco to get killed," Vincent reminded him.
"Yeah," Harper admitted. "I guess we did. I guess we were wrong about that." He thought for a minute. "Who killed that gambler?" he asked.
"Paco," Vincent said. "But if you're thinking that makes him guilty of killin' the girl, you're wrong."
In fact, Vincent was now convinced that Paco was innocent of Liz Randall's murder. Somewhere in among all the shooting and the scrambling, the things he'd been thinking about had come together in his mind. He was pretty sure he knew now who had killed the girl.
"I wasn't thinkin' he killed the girl," Harper said.
"It is a good thing you were not," Consuela Morales said, speaking for the first time. Her face was shiny with sweat. Though she must have been in pain, her voice was strong.
"What were you thinkin', then?" Vincent said.
"I don't know if I oughta say it."
"Say it."
"I guess I was just thinkin' that it was one of those things that was meant to happen," Harper said. "Sooner or later, I mean. That gambler killed the kid's daddy, you know."
"I was kinda surprised to see him show up here," Vincent admitted.
"He just rode into town today," Harper said. He hesitated, but it was plain he had more to say. He pulled off his hat and rubbed a hand across his slicked-down hair.
"Go on," Vincent said. "If you've got somethin' to say, spit it out."
Harper put the hat back on. "Hell, it probably don't matter. Turley's dead and Harl's turned tail. Len sure as hell won't care."
"Say it, then."
"The kid's daddy. He didn't pull any knife on that gambler. The gambler carried that knife in his boot and he put it in Morales' hand after he shot him. Morales called him a cheater, and the gambler shot him. We backed him up because he was a white man. That's the long and the sort of it."
"Damn," Vincent said.
"Yeah," Harper agreed. "I don't think you oughta do anything to the kid for killin' that bastard. The kid was just doin' what was right."
"It wasn't right," Vincent said.
"It was justice," Mrs. Morales said. Her eyes were aglow with either pain or pride. "I knew that my husband was murdered and that my son was not a killer; he would not have shot that man if he had been left alone."
"You're probably right," Vincent said. "A clear-cut case of self-defense if I ever saw one. I doubt it'll ever come to trail."
"And what of the girl?" she asked.
"That either," Vincent said. He looked over at Jack. "How's the bleeding?"
"Just about got it stopped," the deputy said. "He'll live to get it cut off."
Hawkins groaned again.
After a few more minutes, they saw the undertaker's wagon coming.
#
When they got back to town, Vincent waited while Doc Bigby, still relentlessly cheerful, saw to Consuela Morales and Paco first, over Hawkins' vehement objections.
"Goddamnit, I'm a white man, Vincent!" he said. "You can't mean to get those two greasers taken care of before the doc gets a look at me!"
"I'd watch how I was talkin' if I were you, Len," Vincent said. "Anybody that throws down on the sheriff with a shotgun is likely to be in a whole lot of trouble. And the more you talk, the more trouble you're lettin' yourself in for."
Doc Bigby smiled and showed all his teeth. "You're in for plenty of trouble, all right, Len. Soon's I get my saw sharp, you're gonna have a little cuttin' done on you. There don't look to be enough of that arm left to feed a sick cat."
Hawkins stopped his complaining and moaned. "Won't do you no good makin' noises like that, either," Bigby said. "Might make me nervous, might cause my hand to slip. You sure wouldn't want my hand to slip, would you, Len?"
Hawkins tried to stop moaning, but he merely succeeded in reducing the noise to a whimper.
"You go on and take care of the Moraleses," Vincent said. "Len can wait. Can't you, Len?"
Len whimpered in reply.
#
Later, when Paco and Mrs. Morales were taken care of, Martha Randall took them home with her to rest and recuperate. Paco wasn't in any condition to be moved far.
"He's young, though," Doc Bigby said. "Tough. Hell, Sheriff, we were tough once. You remember. He'll be all right."
Vincent explained to Martha Randall that Paco had nothing to do with Liz Randall's death, and Martha wanted to do something to help the boy and his mother.
"It'll help me get over what's happened," she explained. She had come to Bigby's after being unable to find Rankin at his place of business, where she had gone immediately after watching her husband shoot himself.
She told Vincent about her husband's death. "I don't know why he did it," she said. "Just put that gun on his head and shot himself right there in the room. Maybe he was upset at the way Liz died. I don't know."
She did not mention what had been said at their last meeting, except to say, "I don't think he killed her, do you? Not his own daughter."
"No," Vincent said, "I don't think he killed her."
"I really think he loved her."
"I'm sure he did," Vincent said.
"Why would he do a thing like killin' himself, though? I just can't understand why he'd do a thing like that, unless he was crazy. You think he was crazy, Sheriff?"
Vincent thought about what had happened at the Morales place. "Maybe he was," he said. "Maybe he was."
31.
When the stagecoach came, Lucille Benteen was ready to leave. Nothing her father said could change her mind.
"Things would always be the same here," she said. "You'll make Frank your foreman, and pretty soon you'll start thinking that he'd make just as good a husband as Charley. And maybe he would. But I wouldn't want either one of them for a husband. I know that now."
Benteen looked out the window of the hotel room. Things were more or less back to normal in Dry Springs. There were people on the streets, women in calico, men in sweated shirts, all going about their business as usual.
"What's wrong with Frank?" he said.
"Nothing," Lucille said. "Nothing that's not wrong with everyone in this town."
"What is that supposed to mean?" Benteen said, turning back to the room, looking at the packed bags on the floor by the door.
"It just means that a lot of people were ready to kill that Mexican boy for something he didn't do. Charley was one of them. Frank was, too."
She didn't say "You, too," but Benteen could sense that she meant it.
"We were wrong," he said. "We made a mistake."
"I know," she said. "And you tried to make things right."
She didn't say, "When it was already too late for Charley. And that gambler. And Turley Ross. And Len Hawkins. And the preacher."
"Sometimes things get out of hand," Benteen told her. "They go too far, and you can't stop them. I did what I could, there at the last."
"I know," she said, not mentioning that he had take his men and ridden away, leaving the sheriff to work thing out alone. "Can you help me with these bags?"
Benteen picked up the two heaviest valises. "Of course," he said.
"I wonder who did kill Liz Randall?" she said after they were in the hall. Benteen set down the valises and closed the door.
"We might never find that out," Benteen said. He took the cases again. "Not with that sheriff we've got."
"I don't know about that," Lucille said, starting down the stair. "I didn't think he had it in him to stand up to those men at the Morales place, but he did. He might surprise us again."
"Don't count on it," Benteen said.
#
Vincent found Willie Turner in the shade behind Danton's Saloon.
Willie was sitting with his back against the wall, his raggedy hat pulled down over his eyes. His mouth was open, and he was snoring noisi
ly and wetly.
Vincent nudged Turner's foot with his boot.
Willie snorted and jerked in his sleep, but he didn't quite wake up.
Vincent nudged him again, harder.
This time Willie came out of it. He shoved his hat back and peered up at Vincent, but he couldn't make out who it was. He rubbed his face savagely with both hands, leaned forward, and looked again.
"Hey, Sheriff," he said when he finally recognized Vincent. "What time is it, anyhow?"
"Time you were wakin' up," Vincent said. "You must've had a hard night."
"They're all hard," Willie said. His bloodshot eyes emphasized the truth of it. He was afraid that he knew what the sheriff wanted. He'd been trying to avoid him ever since that day at the Morales place.
"Somethin' I can do for you?" he said, knowing the answer and dreading it.
"I need to talk to you, Willie," Vincent said. "About Liz Randall."
Willie sat up straight and started looking around him, as if hoping to stop a bottle somewhere. He had known this was coming, ever since that Benteen woman talked him into goin' with her. He hadn't wanted to go, but he had, and now he was sorry. Hell, that wasn't exactly true. He'd been sorry for quite a while, but he'd begun to think maybe he was goin' to get away with it, that the sheriff had forgotten about him.
He should've known better. Vincent hadn't forgotten, and now here he was, asking Willie what Willie didn't want to think about, much less talk about.
"I don't know a thing about that killin', Sheriff," Willie said, hoping that Vincent would believe him. "Except for what I've already said, anyhow. I've tried like hell, but I just can't remember, and that's all there is to it."
"I know that, Willie," Vincent said.
He didn't sound mad or anything, and Willie started to relax a little. He still needed a drink, needed one bad, but maybe it was goin' to be all right. Maybe the sheriff wasn't goin' to do anything to him.
"I was just hopin' to jog your memory a little bit," Vincent said.
Willie leaned back against he wall and closed his eyes. He didn't want his memory jogged. Maybe if he just sat there, the sheriff would go away.
Vincent nudged his foot again. "Look at me, Willie. I got to ask you a question."
Willie opened his eyes reluctantly. "O.K., Sheriff. I guess you got to if you say so."
"I want you to think real hard, Willie. I want you to tell me who you saw that night, besides Paco Morales."
"I told you I've tried to remember that," Willie said. "I can't. I flat can't."
"Try again," Vincent suggested. "I'll give you a little help." He told Willie a name. "Did you see him that night, Willie. Was he there in the grove?"
Willie was shocked at the mention of the name, but he was even more shocked to think that Vincent was right. Somehow the mention of the name had penetrated the alcoholic fog that surrounded Willie's brain and made him recall something that he believed he had forgotten or never even known.
"That's right, by God," he said. "He was there. He --" Willie started suddenly to get up, trying to get his feet under him as if he might run away. "He's the one done it! He's the one killed the girl!"
"You're sure about that, Willie?"
Willie got to his feet, excited now. "Sure I'm sure. I don't see why I didn't remember that before! He's the one, all right. He's the one."
"Tell me about it," Vincent said.
Willie thought for a minute. "Well, I went out there with a bottle. Maybe half a bottle. Sometimes I'd talk to that Randall girl, but not that night. He'd got there before me, I guess. Cut her up like that. I saw him cleanin' up, as best he could, but he didn't see me. No, sir. I couldn't make out exactly what it was he was doin', so I waited till he left. Then I went and looked and saw that girl. I drank that whole bottle. Or half of one, whatever I had. Straight down. I never saw anything like that before, and I just slugged it all down."
Willie's face was white at the memory. "Then I got sick. Walked off into the brush and puked. Then I passed out, I guess. Didn't wake up till that Morales boy came by. But he didn't do nothin'."
Willie was sweating profusely. He wiped a hand across his forehead. "What're you goin' to do, Sheriff?"
"Arrest him," Vincent said. "You willin' to be a witness at the trial?"
Willie laughed ruefully. "Who'd believe me?" he said.
"The jury might," Vincent said. "What with the other evidence I've got."
"Well, I might be willin'," Willie said. "Maybe."
"We'll see if you're needed," Vincent said. "It'll be a while."
That was fine with Willie. He figured that what he needed right then was a bottle. Just one drink wouldn't do it, not this time. He looked at the sun. It wasn't too early to get started.
#
Vincent went to Doc Bigby's office. The doc was there, polishing his surgical instruments, and he was glad to see Vincent.
"The patients are all doin' good," he said. "That boy's got the constitution of a mule. He'll be out workin' on that little farm before you know it."
"That's fine," Vincent said. "How're you doin, Doc?"
"Me? Hell, I'm doin' good, too." Bigby's grin lit up the room. "If I was doin' any better, I'd think I'd died and gone to heaven. How about you?"
"Not so good," Vincent said. It was what he'd learned from Willie that was makin' him feel bad, he thought. He'd known already, but he'd wanted a witness. Now that he had one, he didn't feel any better about things.
"Got a fever?" Bigby asked. "Or is it one of those stomach things that's been gettin' folks down? If it's the stomach, I got a patent medicine here somewhere that supposed to be the proper stuff."
"It's not that," Vincent said.
"Well, what is it, then? You can tell me. I'm the doctor."
"It's about the Randall girl," Vincent said. "I know who killed her."
Bigby grinned even wider. "Well, now, that's just fine. You arrested him yet?"
"I'm about to," Vincent said.
"Who is the sonofabitch?" Bigby said.
"You are," Vincent told him.
Bigby laughed. "You always were one for funnin' a fella," he said when his laughter died down. His hand strayed toward a gleaming scalpel that was lying by his open bag.
"That the one you used on the girl?" Vincent said.
Bigby jerked his hand away as if the scalpel might have burned him. "I don't know what you're tryin' to tell me," he said.
"I'm tellin' you that you killed Liz Randall," Vincent said. "I know it and you know it, so you can quit the foolin'."
Bigby wasn't smiling now. "I don't know what's got into you, Sheriff. You do need some medicine, I guess."
"I don't need any medicine," Vincent said. "You lied to me, Doc, and you left some things out that you didn't need to leave out. You killed her, all right."
"Lied?" Bigby said, seeming genuinely puzzled. "What did I lie about?"
"About that horse that foaled," Vincent said. "You shouldn't've told that story to explain why you looked the way you did that night. Too easy to check."
"You talked to Stuart, huh?" Bigby said. "Why'd you go and do a thing like that?"
"Because you didn't tell me the girl was pregnant," Vincent said.
"I told you that when you asked me," Bigby said.
"Not at first, though, and you knew it all along. Charley told me that the girl'd been to see you about it before she went to Miz Morales, and you didn't mention that, either. You should've told me, Doc."
"I didn't think it mattered," Bigby said. His voice was quieter than Vincent had ever heard it. "I didn't think you'd find it out."
"I did, though," Vincent said. "And then I got to thinkin' about it. I got me a witness, too."
"What?" Bigby sounded doubtful. "Who?"
"Willie Turner," Vincent said.
Bigby laughed again, but not with any enthusiasm. "Willie Turner," he said flatly.
"I figger it like this," Vincent said. "She was a pretty thing, and she'd been with a man. You k
new that. So maybe you ran across her in the woods, saw she was alone, and stopped to talk. Maybe you tried to do a little more than talk, and she didn't go for it. Maybe you decided to put a scare into her with somethin' sharp."
"Lotta maybes in there," Bigby said.
"Yeah," Vincent said. "But it's pretty close to the truth, I bet."
"Yeah," Bigby said. "Yeah, it is." His hand was straying toward the scalpel again.
Vincent pulled his gun from the scabbard. "Once was enough, Doc."
Bigby moved faster than Vincent thought he could, bringing up the scalpel with the speed of a striking snake and slashing at Vincent's face.
Vincent stumbled backward, firing as he fell. The bullet slapped into the ceiling and then Bigby was on him.
The doctor was stronger than Vincent would have thought. He had a grip on the sheriff's gun hand, pinning it to the floor. He was working the scalpel toward Vincent's throat, though Vincent was trying to force it away.
Vincent could feel Bigby's hot breath on his face.
The scalpel pressed against Vincent's throat and sliced through the skin.
"I . . . didn't mean . . . to kill her," Bigby panted.
Vincent knew that he was not going to be able to overpower the smaller man. There was only one thing he could do.
He fired his pistol.
The bullet hit the wall with a crack, not doing much else, but the shot surprised Bigby just enough for Vincent to throw him up and back.
As soon as Bigby's weight was off him, Vincent pushed himself away and brought his gun up.
"It's over, Doc. Put the scalpel down. Maybe they won't hang you, just put you in jail for a little while."
"The hell they will," Bigby said. He jumped for Vincent.
He must have known he didn't have a chance. Vincent shot him in the chest.
He looked almost like Turley Ross as the force of the bullet hurled him backward. The scalpel flew from his hand and made a shiny arc as it fell. It clattered on the floor as the sound of the gunfire died away.
Vincent sat there and looked at Bigby's body and the red stain that was spreading under it. He should have felt good now that it was all over, but he didn't. He felt sick at his stomach.
There was a pounding on the door. Jack Simkins had been making his rounds and had heard the shooting. "What's goin' on in there?" he yelled. "Open up this door, Doc."