TWELVE HOURS TILL NOON
I
Amity was on the biggest binge in its history, not alcoholic, but one of exuberance and enthusiasm and triumph. Tomorrow was Dam Day. Enough money had been raised to finish building the dam on Buffalo Creek and the main canal as well, so the completion of the irrigation project was insured at last.
As far as Sheriff Jerry Corrigan was concerned, this was fine. In fact, it was strictly wonderful because he could marry Jean Dugan next month as planned. Not that there had been any doubt-except in his own mind. He had worried because the sheriff’s salary was pretty slim for supporting a family.
But now all his worries were over, for Corrigan was one of the lucky ones. His quarter-section below town would be under the ditch and so overnight he had become a well-to-do man. Not by any effort on his part. It was just that his place was located in the right spot. Land that had been good only for grazing would now be the most valuable in the country.
The trouble was that Amity had rolled out the red carpet for the celebration tomorrow. In spite of the hot weather that had held for several days, everybody who lived in the county was in town, and it even seemed to Corrigan that most of the people of Colorado were here, too. The hotel was crammed, every spare bedroom had been rented out for the night, and people were camped up and down the creek on both sides of town.
Tomorrow at noon the Populist governor of Colorado, Benjamin Wyatt, would speak. There would be a band concert, a free lunch, and then the land that was for sale and would be irrigated from the proposed Buffalo Creek project would be auctioned off. After that, there would be dancing in the Masonic Hall.
Yes, Corrigan told himself as he prowled Main Street and the side streets and the alleys, this was all very fine. It was stupid to kick good fortune in the face. Still, it was a hell of a thing when you’re twenty-five years old and so much in love with your girl that you can’t bear to be away from her, but you can’t leave your job long enough to take her buggy riding as you had promised.
He was supposed to have picked Jean up hours ago. Yes, supposed to, and then he was supposed to get back to town in time to attend a meeting that Jean’s father, Matt Dugan, had called for the committee heads to go over the final plans for the celebration tomorrow.
Matt was the general chairman. Corrigan didn’t want to make him sore, but right now he knew he wasn’t going to that meeting. If Jean wasn’t mad at him, and, if the damned town ever settled down, he was still going to take her buggy riding.
The crowd had thinned out and the men who were here seemed peaceful enough. He returned to the street and moved on down to Cassidy’s Saloon. It, like the hotel bar, wasn’t crowded as it had been all evening, and he guessed that both of them would be empty in another half hour.
The Palace across the street was the only other saloon in Amity. Corrigan hesitated, having a notion to get the buggy and pick up Jean and leave town for an hour. The Palace catered to ranchers and cowboys, and, if they wanted to kill each other off, it would be a good idea.
So far today he had stopped three fist fights and one gunfight and had tossed eight men into jail for disturbing the peace or drunkenness or, as he’d told the last one, just plain orneriness. There hadn’t been a farmer or a townsman among them. All had been cowboys.
Then he shrugged and crossed the street. When he pushed through the batwings and glanced at the crowd, he groaned. The place was jumping just as it had been an hour ago. From the buzz of talk, he had an idea these men had no intention of leaving. By the time this crowd went home, Jean would be in bed asleep and maybe never speak to him again.
He saw Uncle Pete Fisher talking to three Owl Creek ranchers at the far end of the bar. He started toward them, surprised that Uncle Pete was here. He was an old man, seventy or over, bent by rheumatism and hard work in his youth. He had been the first to settle in Buffalo Creek valley, his original sod house still standing on the slope north of town. He had been a successful stockman and then a banker, but the Panic of 1893 had cleaned him out less than a year ago.
Now Fisher was a defeated and bitter man who smoked countless cheap cigars and lived off his wife’s money. Matt Dugan, who had taken over his bank, felt the old man should have a part in tomorrow’s celebration, and had given him the job of planning the activities of Amity’s brass band.
“Jerry!” Sam Elliott called from behind the bar.
Corrigan stopped, his gaze still on Fisher and the Owl Creek bunch who were, as usual, drinking too much. He knew them all: Vance Yarnell, Zach Lup-ton, and Harry Mason. They ran shirt-tail spreads near the head of Owl Creek and raised hell every time they came to town.
Corrigan turned to Elliott who owned the place. “Having any trouble?” he asked.
“Not yet, but you may have some tomorrow.” Elliott leaned over the bar and said in a low tone: “Jerry, you ought to listen to those Owl Creek boys. They’re talking about shooting the governor tomorrow.”
Corrigan groaned. He had enough trouble keeping Corrigan groaned. He had enough trouble keeping the peace without having to run herd on a bunch of trigger-happy cowboys who hated the Populist governor. Probably they were merely echoing what Uncle Pete Fisher had been telling them. Fisher blamed the Populists and the governor in particular for losing everything he owned and he had sulked ever since he’d heard that Matt Dugan had invited Benjamin Wyatt to speak.
“Probably just the whiskey talking,” Corrigan said.
“No, it’s more than that,” Elliott said worriedly. “They sold a jag of steers yesterday, and at today’s prices they got next to nothing. They’re sore about that, and now they’re listening to Uncle Pete’s wild talk. Of course, he tells them that Wyatt is to blame for the hard times, and tomorrow they’ll have a chance to take it out of his hide.”
Corrigan shook his head, feeling as if he had been caught in a great flood and was being carried far away from where he wanted to go. “I’ll talk to them,” he said, and threaded his way through the crowd to where the Owl Creek men stood listening to Fisher.
The old man was saying: “I tell you that, if Wyatt is re-elected in November, the sovereign state of Colorado will be bankrupt. There will be rioting in the streets of every town from Denver down to little burgs like Amity. Blood will flow to our knees. On the other hand, if Wyatt was to die suddenly between now and election day. . . .”
“I don’t want to hear anything about Governor Wyatt dying,” Corrigan said. “I’m surprised at you, Uncle Pete. The governor is to be our guest for an hour or two tomorrow. It’s our job to treat him as a guest.”
Fisher turned slowly and glared at Corrigan. He had a mustache and beard that were black, although his hair and brows had turned white long ago. There were those who were irreverent enough to say he used shoe blacking on his mustache and beard, but no one had the temerity to say this to his face.
“You are a young squirt, Sheriff,” Fisher said sullenly. “You haven’t seen the things happen that I have. The Populists are no better than Socialists or Anarchists. We built this country, these boys and me and Matt Dugan and some more. We hate like hell to see it destroyed by a bunch of fools and crooks. Wyatt is the biggest crook and fool in the lot.”
“Matt is expecting you in the bank, Uncle Pete,” Corrigan said.
“Well, I ain’t ready to go,” Fisher snapped. “I was just educating these boys about the Populists and I ain’t finished. Look at what they’ve already done. Brought about the worst panic in the nation’s history. Gave women the right to vote here in Colorado. Women’s place is in the home tending to their babies, and not going to the polls and holding office and acting like they want to be men.”
“Uncle Pete, if you’ll just go to the bank. . . .”
“Damn it, I ain’t done!” Fisher bellowed. “The Populists want to abolish the national banks. They want the government to take over the railroads and telegraph. I tell you that, if Wyatt is allowed to live, and the fool voters of this state put him back into office. . . .”
Fisher tried to break free, but failed. Corrigan pulled him toward the batwings, but he had not taken more than two steps until Vance Yarnell said: “Let’s take this snot-nosed sheriff and whittle him down to size. He sure needs a lesson, seeing as he ain’t dry behind the ears.”
Yarnell lunged at Corrigan who had been watching them and, knowing that this was typical of cowboys who hated any figure of authority, had expected some kind of a move. He let go of Fisher’s arm and drove his fist squarely at Yarnell’s chin, a pile-driving blow that knocked the Owl Creek man cold. Corrigan jumped back, his gun in his hand.
Lupton and Mason were slow to follow Yarnell’s Lupton and Mason were slow to follow Yarnell’s lead, slow enough so that now, facing Corrigan’s gun, they lost their appetite for fighting. “Pick Yarnell up,” Corrigan ordered. “Tote him out of here. You’re going to jail, the three of you.”
“You can’t do that!” Lupton shouted indignantly.
“What’d we do?”
“You attacked an officer of the law,” Corrigan said. “Now do what I told you or I’ll pistol whip both of you and haul you in myself.”
A cowboy on the other side of the room let out a rebel yell and shouted: “Let’s take the sheriffs pants off! He’s too smart for his britches.”
“Stand pat!” Elliott bellowed above the rumble of the crowd as he brought a sawed-off shotgun into view from behind the bar. “Any of you buckos who think you’re going to take the sheriff will get your heads shot off. I’ll start with you, Holly.”
The cowboy who had yelled raised his hands in mock surrender. “I’m sorry, Sam. I decided I don’t want the sheriffs pants, after all.”
“Get those Owl Creekers out of here, Jerry,” Elliott said. “I’m closing for the night.”
“Move,” Corrigan said.
Cursing, Mason and Lupton picked up Yarnell and started toward the batwings, Corrigan coming behind them, his cocked gun in his hand.
Fisher was already on the boardwalk by the time Corrigan got there with the Owl Creek men. He was meek now as he said: “You’re coming to the bank, ain’t you?”
“No,” Corrigan answered. “I’m supposed to take Jean buggy riding and that’s what I’m going to do. You tell Matt that.”
“I’ve got something to tell you,” Fisher said, “and you’d better listen. Wyatt will never live to ride out of this town.”
Corrigan turned away and went on toward the jail, keeping two paces between him and the Owl Creek men. They reached the end of the business block and crossed the street to the courthouse square. A minute later he locked the three men in a cell, then wheeled and sprinted to the livery stable.
Walt Payson, the liveryman, saw him run through the archway and called: “You don’t think Jean is gonna wait up for you this long, do you?”
“I dunno,” Corrigan panted. “Just hook that horse up, will you?”
The Dugan house was across the street from the courthouse and directly north of the platform that had been built for the speechmaking and the auctioning of the irrigated land. Corrigan was still breathing hard when he drew up in front of the house and whistled. Usually he walked up the path to the front door and yanked the bell pull, but tonight, as late as he was, he was afraid to. If Jean didn’t come, he’d know she’d given up and gone to bed. In that case, he’d take the horse and buggy back to the livery stable and try to see her first thing in the morning.
The front screen slammed shut and he saw her run across the yard to the street. His heart began to pound. He couldn’t stand it if she bawled him out. They never had quarreled and he didn’t want to start now.
She climbed into the seat beside him, not at all worried because her skirt flew up and exposed her trim ankles. She said: “Lead on, McDuff, or whoever it was I studied in school.”
“Honey, I’m sorry I’m late,” he said. “I should have been here hours ago, but the town’s wild tonight and I couldn’t get away.”
“And what’s more, you probably shouldn’t be here now,” she said gaily. “Go on. Let’s get out of here before you hear somebody shoot somebody else. Find a private little spot of beauty where you can kiss me properly without the neighbors watching us.”
“You’re not mad at me for being so late?”
“Of course not, silly. I was afraid you couldn’t make it at all. Just because you’ve got red hair and a hot temper aren’t reasons for me to get mad at the drop of the hat.”
He took a long, sighing breath of relief. “Honey, I love you more every day.” He slapped the horse with the lines. “Come on, Napoleon. Haul us out of here.”
II
Governor Benjamin Wyatt closed his eyes and relaxed, his head resting against the red plush cloth that covered the back of the seat. He listened absently to the rhythmic click-click of wheels on rails as the train thundered eastward across the Colorado plains. They were scheduled to pull into Burlington at midnight and it was nearly that now.
He didn’t think he had ever been as tired as he was at this moment, but when you’re seventy years old with white hair and a white beard and you look like everybody’s grandfather, and when you’re making five or more campaign speeches a day, you have a right to feel tired.
He thought about all the things he had tried in his lifetime. He’d been a farmer, a schoolteacher, a soldier during the Civil War, a merchant, a lawyer, and finally a newspaper editor. He had not been outstanding at any of them, and still he had been elected governor of Colorado at the age of sixty-eight on the Populist ticket. It was a sort of miracle any way he looked at it.
Now, with six weeks to go until election day, he wasn’t sure how it would turn out, but he thought he had a chance of winning a second term in spite of the panic of the previous year, the vilification, the name calling, and the actual death threats that had been made against him. The women had been given the right to vote during his administration, and he expected their support in return for what he had done for them.
His secretary, Tom Henry, came into the coach from the smoking car and sat down beside him. Wyatt opened his eyes to glance at Henry, then closed them again. Tom Henry was in his middle twenties, a crusader with the drive and zeal of a man who knows the world must be saved and there was very little time left.
Wyatt was always amused when he thought about this. There had been a time when he had been as young and idealistic as Tom Henry and had been filled with the same zeal and the notion that time was rapidly running out. He had been an Abolitionist; he had even been a conductor on the Underground Railroad. Now, when he was close to the end of his life, he was very much aware that changing the world was a slow process indeed.
“You thought about your speech tomorrow, Governor?” Henry asked.
He patted his beard and sighed. “Yes, I’ve thought about it. It will, as Matt Dugan suggested, be nonpolitical. I’m sure that if I gave a rousing Populist speech in Amity, I would start a riot.”
“I’m afraid you would,” Henry said. “You’ll have an audience of conservative farmers and ranchers who think any suggestion of change is treason.”
“They do,” Wyatt agreed. “They do, indeed.”
“Are you going to quote from Governor Lewelling’s address when he was inaugurated in Kansas?”
“Which quote do you have in mind?” Wyatt asked.
“The best one,” Henry said. “ ‘The people are greater than the law or the statutes, and, when a nation sets forth its heart on doing a great or a good thing, it can find a legal way to do it.’ I think that’s the way it goes.”
Wyatt nodded. “Correct. Yes, I plan to use it. You know, Tom, these Amity people are doing a worthwhile thing and they’re doing it themselves. Dugan says they’ve borrowed the money to build the dam and dig the main canal, and they’ve already started work. Any of us, Populist or Democrat or Republican, would approve
of it.”
“Sure,” Henry said, “but it gravels me that they asked you to make the speech and then they tell you it has to be non-political.”
“They wanted the governor of the state of Colorado,” Wyatt said, “and they invited him in spite of his being a Populist. They have land to sell. This will give them free publicity and it will do the same for me.”
“But you won’t get a damned vote out of it,”
Henry said hotly. “They may even shoot you before you leave town.”
Wyatt smiled. “Oh, come now, Tom. You don’t really believe that.”
“They might,” Henry said doggedly. “You’ll have a hostile audience. Even Dugan admitted that.”
“Matt Dugan is an honest man for a banker,” Wyatt said. “Cussing me and shooting me are two different things. On the other hand, I know some men in Denver, rich men, who would shoot me if they could figure out a way to do it and not get caught. The interesting part of it is that they honestly think they would be saving the state by removing me before I bankrupt it.”
Henry swore under his breath. “It doesn’t make any sense, Governor. We did not bring on the Panic of 1893, but we get the blame for it.”
“I know,” Wyatt said wearily. “If I could have persuaded the legislature to give me what I wanted, I could have prevented some of the suffering that took place, but you know what happened.”
Henry was silent for a moment, his worried gaze fixed on Wyatt’s face, then he burst out: “Governor, you can’t go to Amity tomorrow.”
Wyatt smiled. “Are we back on that again?”
“Well. . . .” Henry swallowed. “I mean, you’re scheduled for a speech in Colorado Springs the day after tomorrow. It’s going to be nip and tuck if we make it. We’d better send word. . . .”
“Tom, when did our relationship reach such a low point that you have to lie to me?” Wyatt asked. “You take care of the scheduling. You’ve done a good job up to now. I find it hard to believe that suddenly you find you’ve committed a grave error just as we are about to arrive in Burlington.”
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