The Law of a Fast Gun (9 page)

By coincidence, Gideon McCall had awakened just a few moments earlier. He lay in bed, feeling a momentary sense of detachment as a troubled dream slipped away and body and soul rejoined in this place and at this time.

He examined the moon shadows on the wall of the bedroom as his thoughts drifted back to the funeral he had conducted for Cindy Carey. He knew there were a few in his congregation who resented the fact that he had conducted a funeral for a whore. But it was not something he could turn his back on, even if it meant he would lose his entire congregation.

Gideon’s sermon had been long on the Lord’s forgiveness of sins. Forgiveness of sin was the keystone of his personal Christian faith. Sometimes, though, he couldn’t help but ask himself just how generous God really was with His forgiveness. Was Cindy truly forgiven? Would God accept someone like her, a whore? Would He accept those who had lied and stolen? Would He forgive someone who had killed?

He knew that within his congregation he had sinners of every stripe. He wondered just how much comfort he could give them and still serve the Lord.

Tamara lay sleeping in the bed beside him, and he could hear her deep, even breathing. Lifting himself up on one
elbow, he looked down at her, marveling at how lucky he had been to find such a woman.

Like many in his congregation, Gideon was a sinner. He was a repentant sinner, but a sinner nevertheless. There had been a time when he fell away from the faith, and during that time he had wandered about, lost and without direction.

Then he met Tamara. It was as if she were an angel sent by the Lord to show him the way. And, in his mind, there was no greater proof of the forgiveness of the Lord than that he had been blessed in such a way.

Tamara and Lucy were the light of his life, and thinking of them calmed the restlessness that had awakened him. He lay back down and closed his eyes. That was when he heard the first gunshot.

Across town from the parsonage, separated not only by distance, but by social mores, was the Hog Lot Saloon. In his room above the saloon, Hawke, at the sound of the first gunshot, was out of his bed with his gun in hand. Moving to the window, he saw the riders coming into town, firing their weapons. The muzzle flares lit up the night like flashes of summer lightning.

By now there were so many guns being fired that the shooting made one sustained roar, and in addition to the sound of the gunfire, Hawke could also hear the buzzing of bullets as they whistled down the street. One crashed through his window, and he saw other windows being shot out as well.

Hawke didn’t know who the raiders were, why they were doing this, or even how many were out there. But from the number of flashes and the rapidity of the firing, he knew there were quite a few.

He chose one of the flashes and fired just to the right of the flame pattern. He saw the rider clasp his hand over his chest, then tumble from his saddle. A second later a riderless horse dashed by just under his window.

Bullets continued to whistle through the night. Many of
them made little fireballs as they struck stone, then whined off as dark, deadly missiles. The firing continued very intensely for nearly a full minute.

Jessup, Deekus, and Arnie had broken off from the main body just as the group swept into town. Now, with each of them leading a mount, they rode to the back of the marshal’s office. Leaving Arnie to hold the horses, Jessup and Deekus ran alongside the jail. When they reached the front, they saw Deputy Foster, gun in hand, standing on the front porch, shooting toward the riders. Jessup slipped up behind the deputy and brought his gun down sharply on his head. The deputy dropped to the porch.

“Inside,” Jessup said to Deekus.

When the two men stepped inside the jail, Jessup called out, “Tex, Brandt, Cracker? Are you in here?”

“We’re back here, Major,” Tex answered.

“What’s all that shootin’ about, out there?” Cracker asked.

Jessup didn’t answer. Instead, he got the keys off the hook, then opened the cell door. “Get your guns,” he ordered. “Let’s get out of here.”

The three men did as told. As they stepped outside, they saw Foster lying in a crumpled heap on the porch.

“Is he dead?” Tex asked.

“I don’t know if he is or not,” Jessup answered. “We don’t have time to see. Hurry up! The horses are around back. We’ve got to get out of here.”

“Who is it that’s doin’ all the shootin’?” Cracker asked again.

“It’s our outfit,” Jessup said. “They’ve created a diversion so we could break you out of jail. Now hurry up, I can’t keep them out there too long.”

The five men ran to the back of the jail, then mounted.

“Deekus, take them to the encampment,” Jessup said. “I’m going to call our men back.”

“Come on, boys, let’s go,” Deekus said.

Bending low over his horse, Jessup galloped toward his men. When he got close enough to them, he called out.

From his room over the saloon, Hawke heard a commanding voice shouting from the darkness.

“Men, pull back! All riders withdraw!”

The shooting stopped almost instantly, and the riders turned, then galloped back to the far end of the street, leaving town in the same direction from which they had come.

With the gunfire over and the hoofbeats receding, other sounds now filled the early morning: barking dogs, crying babies, and men calling to each other in the darkness.

“Who were those people?”

“Anybody hurt?”

“There’s someone down here! Help me, somebody, there’s a man down in the street!”

From where the call was coming, Hawke knew that the man down was probably the one that he had shot.

Hawke dressed quickly, then hurried downstairs, his way illuminated by the moonlight that spilled in through the front windows. By the time he reached the street, there were two dozen or more armed citizens of the town milling around, their oversized shadows projected onto the false-fronted buildings by the wavering yellow light of the torches many of them were carrying.

Because several were also regulars at the Hog Lot Saloon, Hawke recognized many of the men. John Harder was one of them. George Schermerhorn was there as well, and so were Jubal Goodpasture and James Cornett.

He was not surprised to see any of them, but was surprised to see that Gideon McCall was among the men who had turned out to see what was going on. The parson and Bob Gary were standing over to one side engaged in quiet conversation, and Hawke couldn’t help but think of the juxtaposition of a parson and a bartender as a coda on what was already an unusual morning.

“Good morning, Bob…Parson McCall,” he said.

“Good morning, Mr. Hawke,” Gideon replied.

“Hello, Hawke,” Bob said.

“Who were those men who came riding through here this morning?” Cornett asked the assembled group. “Did any of you recognize any of them?”

“It was too dark and it happened too fast,” Jubal answered.

“My best guess is that it was a bunch of drunken cowboys out on a tear,” Harder suggested.

“Were they Bar-J riders, do you think?” George Schermerhorn asked.

“They could have been,” Harder agreed. “But there are a couple more outfits here now, just waiting their turn to start shipping their cows. Could’ve been one of them, or a combination of them.”

Gideon shook his head. “No, Mr. Harder, I think you are wrong there. This wasn’t a bunch of cowboys out on a drunk. This was an organized raid.”

“An organized raid?” Cornett asked. “What makes you think so?”

“Didn’t you notice the military preciseness of their maneuver? They came into town in a column of twos, and they maintained column integrity until they were withdrawn. And they
were
withdrawn, Mr. Mayor, they didn’t just suddenly tire of the game and run away.”

“The parson’s right,” Schermerhorn said. “I heard someone callin’ out for the others to fall back.”

“Yes, well, planned or not, here’s one of them that didn’t get away,” the mayor said. He nodded toward the man lying in the street. Doc Urban was squatting beside him. “How is he, Doc?”

Doc Urban shook his head. “He’s dead, that’s how he is.”

Cornett pointed to the man on the ground. “Well, what about this man?” he asked the others. “Now that we can get a close look at him, have any of you ever seen him before?”

“Jubal, hold your torch down by his face so we can all get a look,” Harder said. “Maybe someone will recognize him.”

The livery owner complied, holding the torch down so the man’s face could be seen. He examined him closely, then shook his head.

“Nope. He’s not anyone I’ve ever seen,” Jubal said.

“Me neither,” Schermerhorn said.

“Well, he’s never been in my store,” Cornett said. “So he’s not from around here.”

“Maybe he’s one of the cowboys from the Bar-J,” Schermerhorn suggested.

“I don’t know,” Harder said. “What about you, Bob, you’re behind the bar. I expect you’ve seen every Bar-J rider who’s ever come in. Is this man one of them?”

Bob looked at him for a long moment, then shook his head. “If he is, he’s never been in the Hog Lot. What about you, Foley? Have you ever seen him in Foley’s?”

“No, I don’t think so,” Foley answered.

“Who the hell is he?” Cornett asked. Then remembering that the parson was with them, he touched the brim of his hat. “Beg pardon, Reverend McCall, for my language.”

“Quite all right,” Gideon answered.

Robert Griffin came up then. Even in the middle of the night, he had taken time to put on his top hat and jacket. He looked down at the dead man for a moment, then back at the assembled town’s people. “Any other decedents?” he asked.

“Not unless somebody in one of the houses is hurt,” Foley said.

“Oh, damn, I hadn’t even thought about that,” Cornett said.

“Where’s Truelove? He ought to be going around checking all the houses now,” Foley said.

“He’s in Plumb Creek,” Cornett said. “He won’t be back till tomorrow. But now that you mention it, where is Deputy Foster? Where was he when all this happened?”

“You could ask him yourself,” Hawke said. “Here he comes.”

Deputy Foster came walking up then, rubbing the back of his head as he approached.

“Are you all right?” Doc Urban asked.

“I don’t know,” Foster answered. “Yeah, I guess I am all right, but I got hit in the back of the head.”

“Let me take a look,” Doc Urban said. He examined the back of Foster’s head, then reached up to touch it.

Foster winced with pain. “Damn, Doc, that hurts.”

“That’s a nasty bump. It’s a wonder you don’t have a skull fracture,” Doc Urban said. “What happened?”

“I don’t have any idea,” Foster replied. “One minute I was standin’ on the porch, shooting at that bunch of riders, and the next thing I know, I was wakin’ up. I never saw what hit me.”

“Was it a ball that hit him, do you think?” Cornett asked.

Doc Urban shook his head. “No, this wasn’t a ball. The wound is too broad. It looks more like someone hit him on the back of the head with some kind of club or something.”

“That could be,” Foster said. “Like as not, it was one of the three cowboys I had in jail. After I come to, I went back inside and saw that the door to the cell was open. I reckon one of them coulda hit me, then used all the confusion in order to get away.”

“Didn’t you have the cell door locked?” Hawke asked.

“Yeah,” Foster said, still gingerly rubbing the back of his head. “Yeah, I had it locked.”

“Then how did one of them get out to hit you?”

“You’ve got me on that one, Mr. Hawke. I don’t have the slightest idea.”

“Perhaps their escape is the answer as to why these men rode through here,” Gideon suggested. “It could be that the raid was nothing but a diversion, conducted for the sole purpose of freeing your three prisoners.”

“Could be,” Foster said. “Though it don’t seem all that likely, since the only thing them three was being held for was breakin’ out a window. And I know for a fact that Marshal Truelove was goin’ to set ’em free tomorrow, soon as they paid their fine and paid Mr. Clemmons for a new window. And if that’s the case, why would someone bother to break ’em out of jail tonight?”

“Deputy, before you came up here,” Cornett said, “we were just saying that maybe we ought to go around from house to house to house, just to make sure nobody else is hurt.”

“Yeah,” Foster replied. “Yeah, that’s a good idea. Uh, does anybody want to help? It’ll be daylight before I get to all the houses if I do it by myself.”

“I’ll help,” the mayor offered. “I’ve got a lot of experience going house to house when I’m campaigning.”

“This ought to work out well for you, James,” Schermerhorn said. “You can see if anyone is hurt, and ask for their vote at the same time.”

“Yeah, the only difference is, with all the shooting, folks might still be scared,” Jubal said. “They may shoot right through the door.”

“What?” Cornett said. “Uh, listen, now that I think about it, maybe I should get back to the store. Karen will be worried. You can handle it, can’t you, Deputy? After all, it’s what we pay you for.”

“I’ll help you, Deputy,” Bob said.

“Thanks, Mr. Gary. You take that side, I’ll take this side. Knock on every door and yell out that you’re a special deputy. I don’t think there will be any trouble. Let me know if you find anyone hurt.”

“All right,” Bob agreed.

“Robert Griffin, how long will it be before you get this body out of here?” Schermerhorn asked. “He’s goin’ to be gettin’ ripe pretty soon, and I don’t want him smellin’ up my place of business.”

“I’ll be right back for him, soon as I hitch a team to my buckboard.”

“No need for you to go all the way back for your buckboard,” Schermerhorn offered. “If you’ll give me a minute, I’ll get a horse out here and we can just throw this fella belly down over him.”

“Oh, I can’t treat a body that way,” Robert Griffin replied. “It wouldn’t be proper.”

“Maybe you can’t, but I can,” Schermerhorn said. “I don’t want the son of a bitch lyin’ here any longer than he has to. You go on back, I’ll bring him down to you and you won’t have anything to do with it.”