A Time For Hanging (26 page)

"Hell, I think we better follow the boss," Frank said, nudging his mount gently.
 
"Let's go."

The others moved aside for him.

"You don't mean you're gonna take the word of a yella drunk?" Ross said.
 
"A man that ain't seen a sober day in no tellin' how many years?"

"I don't give a damn about him, tell you the truth," Frank said.
 
"But I know where my money comes from."
 
He kept on going, and the other ranch hands followed him.

When Benteen reached the porch, he stopped to wait for his daughter.
 
She gave Mrs. Morales on last comforting hug and stepped off the porch to join her father.
 
The cowboys waited a respectful distance behind.

When Lucille got on her horse, Harl Case got up from the porch and climbed on his own.
 
He didn't look at the men by the shed.

Benteen and his daughter rode slowly out of the yard, followed by the cowboys.
 
Harl Case and Willie trailed along behind.

"Goddamn that Harl," Ross muttered.
 
He, Harper, and Len Hawkins were left to face the sheriff and his deputy.

Vincent liked the odds better than he had earlier, but he was still uneasy.
 
Those two shotguns were enough to level him, Jack, and the shed besides.
 
Without reloading.

He caught a movement out of the corner of his eye.
 
Consuela Morales was walking across the yard.
 
The sun glinted on the barrel of the shotgun she carried, the one Harl had left behind.
 
She was carrying it purposefully, as if she knew how to use it.
 
She was no longer crying.
 
Her eyes were dry and hard.

The odds were getting better all the time, Vincent thought.

"It's over, fellas," Vincent said. "You might's well go on back to town.
 
We got two dead men here, maybe one in the shed.
 
No use havin' any more."

Ross' face was flaming, and not because of the heat.
 
He was irate about the way things had worked out.
 
He had been for a short time the leader of a whole crowd, but now he was down to only two other men.
 
The sheriff had no business being there, and then that damn Benteen girl had to turn up with Willie Turner.
 
It could all have been so simple, but it just hadn't worked out the way it should.

Turley Ross wasn't goin' to turn tail, though.
 
If the sheriff thought that, he was dead wrong.
 
Ross was goin' to get the kid and he was goin' to see that the kid got what was comin' to him.

"I ain't goin' nowhere, Sheriff," he said.
 
"Neither are these other two.
 
So why don't you just step aside and let me look in that shed.
 
If the kid's dead, well, then maybe we'll go on back to town."

"If he's dead, I'll be takin' you to the jail," Vincent surprised himself by saying.
 
"For murder," he added.

Ross took a deep breath, swelling his chest, then let the air out slowly.

"You sonofabitch," he said.
 
"You wouldn't dare to do that to me."

"Yes he would," Jack said.
 
"I'd help him, if he needed any help."
 
Vincent was as surprised at Jack as he had been at himself, though he shouldn't have been.
 
Jack had already showed he had nerve, last night.

Consuela Morales walked behind them then, entering the shed and bending over her son.

"How's the boy?" Vincent asked.

"He is alive," Consuela said.
 
"I think.
 
But he is very sick.
 
He is bleeding."
 
She turned to stand in the doorway, the shotgun trained on Ross.

"Looks like we got a stand-off here," Vincent said.
 
"Why don't you fellas let us get this boy to the doc.
 
I'll see that he stays in the jail this time and that he stands his trial.
 
We'll let the law decide if he's guilty."

"He's guilty," Ross said.
 
"Ain't that right, fellas?"

"Damn right, he is," Len Hawkins said.

Harper didn't say anything for a minute.
 
He was beginning to wonder if this was worth it.
 
Two men dead.
 
The kid beat to hell, maybe shot.

But Harper had been there in the grove.
 
He'd beat the kid along with the others.
 
"Yeah," he said.
 
"He's guilty, all right."

"So," Ross said.

"Yeah," Vincent said.
 
"Where does that leave us, though?
 
You want to try killin' all of us?
 
It seems likely you could do it, but one or two of you won't come out of it without a few holes in you."

Ross saw the logic of that.
 
He didn't want to get killed, but at the same time he wanted to get the kid.

"Let's leave it," Harper said suddenly.
 
"We can leave him to the law.
 
If he's guilty, he'll swing.
 
We don't have to be the ones to do it."

"If he's hurt pretty bad, he might not even make it to the trial," Hawkins said, not mentioning the fact that Vincent would consider Ross guilty of murder in that case.
 
"Maybe we oughta give it up."

Vincent watched Ross' reaction.
 
The stocky man ground his teeth; he was furious.

But he was not stupid.
 
He could see that things were not in his favor any longer, if they had ever been.
 
It was time for a decision.

"Goddamnit," he said with clenched teeth.

"If you drop it now," Vincent said, "you better not try anything else.
 
I've had about all I can stand of this."
 
His voice was a little strained; he hoped it was convincing.

"All right," Ross said, his shoulders suddenly slumping.
 
"To hell with it."
 
He slipped his pistol in its holster and turned to walk away.
 
Harper and Hawkins turned their horses to follow after him.

Vincent felt the tension drain out of him.
 
Behind him, Consuela lowered the shotgun, and Jack heaved a slow sigh of relief.

Vincent was about to look in the shed when Ross whirled back, whipping out the pistol.

He got off a shot, flame spewing from the muzzle.
 
The bullet passed right between Jack and Vincent and hit Consuela.
 
The force of the bullet shoved her backward, and she fell on top of Paco.
 
As she fell, she jerked the barrel of the single-shot Whitney up and pulled the trigger.

Harper and Hawkins, though taken by surprise as much as the others, were spinning in their saddles, trying to get their weapons in position to fire.

Vincent and Jack were dropping to the ground when the buckshot from Consuela's gun sizzled over their heads.
 
The pattern was already spreading when the shot got to the two men on horseback, but it was still concentrated enough to shred Len Hawkins' left arm, throwing him hard to the right and out of the saddle.

Vincent was half lying on his pistol and scrabbling to get his it out of the holster when Jack started firing.
 
The deputy wasn't hitting anybody, but he was keeping Harper too busy to fire the sawed-off.

Hawkins was lying on the ground now, screaming.
 
No one was paying him any attention.
 
They could hardly hear him, anyway; their ears were ringing from all the shooting.

Ross shot at the sheriff again, once or twice, but his aim was no better than Jack's.
 
At least one of the bullets whacked into the dry wood of the shed.
 
Vincent wasn't counting the shots, however, so he didn't know for sure how many times Ross had fired.

The sheriff finally got his pistol out.
 
He shot twice at Ross, and the stocky man staggered back on his heels, dropping his pistol.

He bent to pick it up, but he couldn't seem to reach it.
 
Looking at Vincent, he sat slowly down.
 
A red stain was spreading on the front of his shirt.

Vincent felt sick.
 
He hadn't really meant to hit him.

Ross kept his eyes on the sheriff as he felt around for his pistol.
 
When his fingers closed on it, he cocked it and fired again, missing everyone, even missing the shed.

Harper broke open the sawed-off and pulled out the cartridges that he had never fired.

"I'm done," he said, laying the gun across his lap and putting his hands in the air.
 
"Give it up, Turley."

Hawkins stopped screaming.
 
He lay on the ground, twisting and moaning.
 
His horse had run away.

"I ain't givin' anything up," Ross said.
 
He had made his play, and he was sticking with it.
 
No one was going to say that Turley Ross turned yellow at the end.
 
No one was going to laugh at him and call him a monkey again.

He was having trouble holding the pistol; it felt heavier than he thought it should, but somehow he kept it level.

He wondered if he had enough strength in his thumb to cock the hammer.
 
He began pulling it back.

"Goddamnit, Turley," Harper said.

Turley looked at him and smiled.
 
"Ain't it the truth?" he said.
 
Then he looked at Vincent.
 
He got the hammer cocked.

"Lay the damn thing down, Turley," Vincent said.

"Can't do that, Sheriff.
 
I got to finish it, show folks that I was right."

"This ain't right or wrong, Turley," Vincent said.
 
"It's just downright stupid."

It looked to him like Ross was leaning over to one side.
 
Maybe if he could keep him talking, he'd drop the gun.

"Turley, it ain't too late to call this off.
 
You put the gun down, and we'll --"

Turley pulled the trigger.

The bullet hit the shed, high up near the roof.

"Damn," Turley said.
 
He thumbed back the hammer.

"Stop it, Turley," Harper said.
 
"Damnit, just stop it now."

"Can't," Turley said.
 
The hammer clicked into place.

Vincent shot him.
 
The bullet hit Turley square in the chest, knocking him back and flipping him over.
 
He looked like he was doing a backwards somersault.
 
It would have been funny if Turley hadn't been dead.

The Reverend Randall rode home, got off his horse, and went inside.
 
His wife was there, sitting at the kitchen table.
 
She looked up when her husband walked in.

She didn't look good to him.
 
Her eyes were red from crying, and her fat face was even puffier than usual.
 
For a minute, he wondered who she was and what she was doing there.

For an even longer time, he wondered who he was.

"Where've you been?" she said when he didn't speak.
 
"Don't you care that your daughter's over there in the funeral home?
 
Don't you even want to see her one last time?"

It all came back to him then, who the woman was, and why she was crying.
 
He looked at her without pity.
 
"'Let the dead bury their dead: but go thou and preach the kingdom of God.'"

She pushed her chair back and got to her feet.
 
"You haven't preached the kingdom of God in years," she said.
 
"I don't think you ever did.
 
I don't know why I didn't see it before.
 
God knows, I should have known -- the way you treated Liz, the way you treated me.
 
You don't serve God, never have.
 
You serve the Devil."