The sheriff looked over his shoulder. Deke Stovall was in the mouth of the livery stable, leading his horse. “I posted him out of town last night,” the sheriff muttered, and swung off the walk with long strides. Billy Cordell hurried beside him.

  Stovall saw them coming. He dropped the reins and nodded with an expression of pained resignation; he held up his hand, palm out. “All right—all right.”

  Stovall was wearing a belted revolver, a Colt .45 with a walnut handle. He said, “I’m gettin’.”

  Billy Cordell said, “The smaller the man, the bigger the gun. Ever notice that?”

  Stovall’s lip curled back. “I take nothing from you, Billy.”

  It called forth Billy Cordell’s aggressiveness—a quality that never descended far beneath the surface. He said in a very quiet way, “We’re about to have us a little fox hunt, Deke. You’re the fox.” Dropping to a crouch, he flipped up his toad-sticker.

  Farris Rand said, “Use that on your fingernails, Billy.” He took a pace forward, placing himself between the two men. “Put it in the saddle, Deke. Now.”

  “You got no authority to post me out of town. I ain’t committed no crime.” But Stovall’s eyes wandered past the sheriff’s elbow to the knife in Billy Cordell’s blue-veined fist Clearly Stovall’s life was on the tip of Billy Cordell’s blade, and Billy Cordell was drunk, and there wasn’t a man in Mogollon County who didn’t know enough to walk wide around Billy Cordell when he was drunk. Deke Stovall twisted the stirrup, hopped around on one foot until he got himself ready, and hoisted his gaunt, undersized body up on the horse.

  With what dignity he could muster, Stovall guided his mount into the street and turned toward the coach road. I’ll be seeing you,” he said.

  “Better not,” the sheriff advised.

  Billy Cordell’s fingers snapped up a rock. He grinned and whooped and threw the rock. It struck Stovall’s horse in the flank: the horse spooked, jumped two feet sideways, and broke into a dead gallop. The diminutive rider clung desperately with his seat incongruously balanced across the saddle cantle. The horse spewed back dust, and a startled pedestrian flung himself out of the way. Billy Cordell’s hoots of laughter, half roar and half cackle, sang out boldly.

  Stovall disappeared around the bend, and the sheriff wheeled wickedly on Billy Cordell. “Give me that thing.”

  “Hey, we’re friends, Farris—remember?”

  “I remember. But the next time you pull a knife around me, one of us could be a dead friend. Now give it here.”

  “Jesus,” Billy Cordell said, “if you ain’t the goddam toughest nut in the forest!” He thrust his scowling face up against the sheriff’s. “Laugh, Farris.”

  “What for?”

  “No reason. Hell, think about Deke. Just laugh.”

  “Aagh,” the sheriff said in disgust.

  “You don’t know how anymore, do you?” Billy Cordell shook his head. He reversed the knife in his grip, slapped it hilt-first into the sheriff’s palm, and walked away with his face gone dull and sad.

  Ten feet away he stopped and looked back. “Hey, Farris.”

  “Yes?”

  “Keep your powder dry,” Billy Cordell said, and went on his way, bowlegged and old but very definitely unvanquished.

  The sheriff’s face was as leaden as the building sky. He walked back across the street, chewing his lip, and almost knocked over a pedestrian.

  He looked up, glimpsing a woman’s skirt, and began to lift his hat. “Sorry, ma’am, I didn’t—” He cut it off abruptly when his eyes reached her face. “Hello, Hannah.”

  Hannah Early inclined her head courteously.

  The sheriff’s shoulders stirred sluggishly, as if he had rheumatism. Standing in pools of shadow, they regarded each other cautiously.

  She said, “How nice to see you,” in a synthetic voice.

  He nodded and began to turn away. She uttered a sound. He stopped and said, “Yes? What can I do for you that hasn’t already been done?”

  “You said that a bit too loud, didn’t you?”

  “What do you want?” he said.

  “What do you think?”

  It made him grimace. “Don’t tell me you start breathing hard whenever I come in sight.”

  She said, “Hardly. But you been fooling with some ladies you shouldn’t be fooling with.”

  “That’s—”

  “None of my goddam business, I know. You love your wife, but.”

  His silence argued with her.

  “She doesn’t understand you.”

  “No.”

  “All right. But think about it—for what you receive, Sheriff, may you be truly thankful.”

  He said, “What the hell are you talking about now?”

  “Just tellin’ you to watch your backtrail, that’s all. You’ve gotten too damned careless.” Skirts lifted, she went on across the intersection, buttocks writhing, breasts freewheeling. Two of the town’s few sober and industrious citizens averted their faces.

  The thin lips pursed under the sheriff’s silver moustache. One eyebrow made a slight arch. He watched Hannah until she turned the corner and went out of sight

  Chapter Eleven

  Clyde Littlejack waddled into the office of the Enterprise with a conspiratorial over-the-shoulder glance. He swept the pressroom with suspicious scrutiny. Shoumacher watched him patiently.

  Satisfied that there were no eavesdroppers, Littlejack finally spoke in a hoarse whisper. “He’s sober.”

  “Think of that. The way you came in here, I thought you were going to tell me there’d been a declaration of war.” Littlejack flushed. Scarlet flowed through his vast cheeks. “I sent Dinwiddie up to his office to keep him company so he won’t get drunk right away.”

  “Then why so secretive, Clyde? If Dinwiddie knows, the whole town will know in a few hours.”

  “Yeah, I guess that’s right.”

  Shoumacher stripped off his inky apron, reached for his bowler, and went to the coat rack. Littlejack said, “I been reading the paper all week.”

  “Are your lips tired?”

  Littlejack ignored the insult; he probably didn’t understand it. He said, “And I ain’t seen a thing against Rand all week. How come you’ve been laying off him?”

  “It’s a new strategy.”

  “Uh-huh,” Littlejack said, as if he knew what Shoumacher meant.

  “The paper hasn’t said anything against the sheriff, but it hasn’t said anything in his favor, either. In fact, you may have noticed that it hasn’t mentioned his name at all.”

  Littlejack screwed up his face to think about that.

  Shoumacher said, “On the other hand, you may have noticed that Colonel McAffee’s name has appeared on every page, in practically every column.”

  “Yeah, I seen that. How come?”

  A cutting remark rose to the editor’s lips, but died stillborn. He wasn’t sure how far he could push Littlejack without offending him. Littlejack was big and slow and warmhearted, like a St. Bernard, but he had a considerable capacity for anger, and when it was fired up, he had all the momentum of a ten-wheel locomotive—he was hard to stop. Shoumacher’s dislike of him was compounded of one part contempt and one part physical fear. Littlejack was like a trained bear; Shoumacher was never quite sure when the blacksmith might fly off in an angry, unexpected rage.

  He took Littlejack in tow and went outside. A chilly wind swept down the street. The sky was crystalline. Not a cloud anywhere, but the air had a taut feel; it was certain first snow would come early this year. A big hay wagon wended past the courthouse; Shoumacher and Littlejack went up the side stairs into the small dark hall that led to Colonel McAffee’s office. McAffee had no official status, but the county provided him with office space, perhaps because he defended most of the cases that came before the courts (not that there were very many cases), or perhaps because he had designed the building and the county felt he had to suffer the consequences.

  The colonel was prepared for siege: bulwarked behind his heavy desk, surrounded by bookshelves laden with legal texts, provisioned with a drawer full of John Vale sour mash. Dinwiddie occupied a chair under the window; he scowled when Shoumacher entered. Dinwiddie was probably unhappy because he had failed to keep the colonel from opening his first bottle of the day.

  Littlejack shut the door and braced his back against it, as if to prevent an invasion.

  Shoumacher said, “You’re going to have to go on a strict ration of that stuff, Colonel.”

  “By whose authority, sir?”

  “The voters are not prepared to elect a rum pot to office,” Shoumacher said bluntly. “Even I can’t put that much across.”

  “My personal habits are my own concern, I should think.”

  “You should think,” Shoumacher said, “but evidently you don’t.” He glanced at Dinwiddie for support, and Dinwiddie nodded unhappily.

  Littlejack said, “He’s right, Colonel. Ain’t nobody going to pay much attention if you ain’t sober enough to give a few rousing speeches.”

  “I have never been too drunk to make a speech,” McAffee said. He did not regard the statement as funny, but nonetheless Dinwiddie almost fell out of his chair.

  Shoumacher’s bulging eyes were paler than their surroundings. He took down a Blackstone from the bookcase and pretended to examine it. The act afforded him reason to remain on his feet—a superior attitude that gave him the edge in the conversation. Dinwiddie wiped his eyes with a handkerchief; Littlejack folded his arms across his enormous chest and tucked his chin down, preparing to do his all-out best to follow the subtleties of whatever discussion was to follow.

  Shoumacher took the lead. “We have just four weeks to launch a full-bodied campaign that will depose Farris Rand. That’s not much time. We’ve got to—”

  Clyde Littlejack said, “Ain’t going to be easy knocking Farris down, you know.”

  Shoumacher turned irritably. “He puts his pants on the same way you do. Don’t let him frighten you. Just do your job.”

  “What job?”

  “I’ll come to that.”

  McAffee’s hand was on the desk. In the circle of his grip was the bottle of John Vale. He was turning it slowly, pretending to examine the label. He said, “Mr. Shoumacher, let me say I don’t much like the way you’re acting.”

  “How so?”

  “As if you were in command.” The colonel’s eyes whipped up, as if to catch Shoumacher off guard and see if he had scored a point.

  “I don’t like the way you do things,” McAffee said. “Made that plain to you before, I think. Don’t believe I want you to manage my campaign, if that’s what you’ve got in mind.”

  “We’re on the same side, Colonel.”

  “Strange bedfellows, then. No secret I’ve always regarded you as a slimy sort of creature.”

  Shoumacher contained his irritation. “Colonel, if we want to knock Rand off his perch and replace him with you, then you and I have got to make peace between us.”

  “You’re asking a lot of a good hater,” McAffee said. Shoumacher put the book back in place on the shelf and slammed it home. “All right. Now you listen to me, Colonel, because I want this settled right now. Ever since you came to this town you’ve wanted political office. You ran for county judge. And lost. You ran for mayor. And lost. Now you want to run for sheriff. You’re getting a very late start in the race, and you haven’t got so many friends that you can afford to be too particular about pedigree. Let me make it clear to you—I can put you in office. Without me, you’re holding a bust hand. Now, sometimes you’re a little hasty in what you consider to be your judgments. You put on a fine show of indignation when the spirit moves you, but you and I both know that you’d set fire to your own mother if you could get a good price for the ashes. So let’s not fence with each other.”

  McAffee murmured, “You’re getting to a point, sir. What is it?”

  “I think I’ve just made it.”

  “No. You’ve made noise. You haven’t told me why you want to help me or how you can deliver the office to me. Or have you got an exaggerated picture of the influence you wield with that yellow rag you print?”

  Dinwiddie crossed his legs and steepled his fingers. His stovepipe hat stood on the windowsill beside him. He said, “Gentlemen, gentlemen. Must we destroy each other’s dignity before we get down to cases? Phil, there’s no need to insult the colonel. And vice versa.”

  Shoumacher flashed a bug-eyed, petulant look at him, but then he realized Dinwiddie was right. About the only virtue the colonel had left was his sense of dignity, and it might not serve their best interests to prick that.

  He said in a tone meant to placate, “It may be that my newspaper is not held in biblical esteem. But people do read it. They may ignore the editorials, but they read the news. They believe facts when the facts are brought to their attention. And all I need to do to slip you into the sheriff’s office is give the people a few facts to chew on.”

  “What facts?” McAffee said.

  “Information concerning Farris Rand.”

  “What kind of information?”

  “Documentation of certain affairs in his past,” Shoumacher purred, “which, not to put too fine a point on it, could be described as questionable.”

  “Name them.”

  “Not yet,” Shoumacher said. “I’ve wired some people in the Midwest. The information is still coming in. I’m not yet at liberty to—”

  “Goddam it,” the colonel roared, “you haven’t said a thing.”

  “I’ll say this,” Shoumacher answered. “The facts I’ll print will make Rand’s position untenable. And all of us know that voters are a crochety breed. They vote against, not for. They’ll vote against Rand.”

  “And, therefore, for you,” said Dinwiddie.

  “By default,” the colonel grumbled. “Hell of a way to win an election.”

  “Don’t be such a farmer,” Shoumacher said. “Are you afraid to gamble? Colonel, everybody who comes West comes to gamble. What have you to lose?”

  “On the contrary,” McAffee said. “The question is, what have you to gain?”

  “What difference does that make?”

  “It could make a great deal. You hate Rand, don’t you? Why?”

  “I don’t know why. And I don’t care enough to find out What does it matter?”

  “At least Farris Rand is a man,” McAffee said. “You’re only a bad joke, Shoumacher.”

  Shoumacher’s eyes seemed ready to pop out of the sockets. He said grimly, “Colonel, I’m bending over backwards to help you. Now if you don’t—”

  “You’re bending over backwards so far that you’re standing on your head,” McAffee said.

  Dinwiddie sat up. “Gents, for Christ’s sake, simmer down. Look, Colonel, just tell me this. What lengths would you go to to get elected?”

  “Whatever lengths I might have to go to.”

  “Then what are you arguing about?”

  “A man likes to know who his friends are.”

  Dinwiddie said, “You’ve got a lot more sand than I gave you credit for, I’ll say that.” He laughed. “You know, I’ll bet you wouldn’t make such a bad sheriff, at that.”

  The colonel swelled up. “Thought I was a joke, did you? Thought I’d be a willing puppet. I’ll warn all three of you—if I’m elected, I intend to be my own man.”

  “Sure you do,” Shoumacher said. “Look, we don’t care about that right now.”

  “I think you do,” McAffee said. “If you didn’t, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”

  Shoumacher said, “Let’s win the election first.”

  Clyde Littlejack said, “That ain’t going to be too hard, the way Farris has been coddling that nigger. First he hangs a no trespassin’ sign on him, and the next thing you know the nigger’s took over that ranch of Clay’s and running it like it was his own.”

  “You don’t need to tell me about that Nigra,” said McAffee self-righteously. “Shiftless no-good if I ever saw one. Came into town on a horse that’s got at least nine brands on it.”

  Dinwiddie said, “Maybe that just shows there were a lot of unsatisfied horse-buyers. Are you trying to make him out a thief?”

  “That Nigra insulted me, sir,” said McAffee. “On the street in broad daylight.”

  “He seems to have insulted everyone in town,” Shoumacher observed.

  “He’s not what you’d call retiring,” said Dinwiddie.

  McAffee said, “I told him then, and I’ll tell you now, that Nigra hasn’t been in this town long enough to talk to a white man like that.”

  “How long does it take?” Dinwiddie asked insinuatingly. “What?”

  Dinwiddie passed it off with a hand wave. “Never mind. The fact is, for some reason of his own, Farris has gone out on a limb to look out for the colored boy—maybe because? he’s a friend of Clay’s. Anyhow it’s stirred up a lot of people. Folks don’t like it.”

  “As far as we’re concerned,” Shoumacher said, “it couldn’t have happened at a better time.”

  Clyde Littlejack said, “Farris ain’t the kind you can cotton up to close, but I used to respect him. But I got no use for nigger lovers. He done lost my vote. I don’t mind telling you I can’t figure it. Seems like he’s just forgot his place, Farris has. I mean, we got plenty nigger cowhands around the valley, but he never took up for none of them before.”

  McAffee said, “None of them ever overstepped the bounds before. They know their place, even if the sheriff doesn’t.”

  “The ex-sheriff, let’s call him,” Shoumacher said with a dry smile.

  Chapter Twelve

  The sheriff’s wife turned into the alley, studied the buildings curiously, and selected a door. She went up the steps, holding up her skirts, and knocked firmly.

  Hannah Early answered the door. “Good evening.” If she was surprised, she didn’t show it.

  Susan Rand looked her up and down with distaste. It made Hannah grin with one side of her mouth. “Looks like you ain’t pleased.”

  “May I come in?”

  “It’d be better if you didn’t. You know that.”

 

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