The shock of the cold water almost, but not quite, sobered him up. He grinned at the assembled company and closed his eyes.

  He slept in the trough all night, up to his neck in the fetid water.

  At sun-up, rough hands shook him, but these hands weren’t laughing at him. These hands were pitying him. They shook him and shook him until he felt his head was going to come off.

  Henry John awoke in his shelter. He was being shaken and a gun was inches from his mouth. Henry John blinked.

  The gun was still there, so was the leering Mexican face. He could see the black stubble on the man’s chin and he could smell his sour body odour.

  So, it wasn’t a dream.

  ‘Do not move a muscle, señor,’ the man said. ‘I should hate for this gun to go off accidentally.’

  Henry John looked past the man to see if he was alone or had company.

  He couldn’t see anyone else.

  Both the Colts were under the blanket behind Henry John’s head. It would be too obvious, he thought.

  The Mexican’s handgun was inches from his face. His breathing became laboured again, in through the nose, out through the mouth. Beads of sweat ran down his face and landed on his shirt.

  Henry John was panting like mad, his chest heaving. The Mexican didn’t even notice.

  ‘Now get out, señor, nice an’ eezy, an’ don’t make no sudden movements.’

  Henry John raised himself onto his elbows. His left hand, out of sight of the Mexican, rested on the sandy ground. He scooped sand into his palm and clenched his fist.

  As Henry John moved forward, the Mexican moved backwards, keeping the gun at arm’s length and the barrel aimed at Henry John’s face.

  ‘I jus’ want your money, señor, then I’ll ride out of here. You don’t have to worry.’

  Henry John stared the man in the eyes without saying a word. He could see that the man was lying; there was no way Henry John was going to get out of this alive – unless—

  He had to do something, and quickly. If only the pain in his chest would go away.

  ‘Put your hands in the air,’ the Mexican said.

  As Henry John did so, he threw the sand with his left hand and knocked the gun sideways with his right. The Mexican yelled as the sand went in his eyes. Then he yelled some more when Henry John’s fist busted his nose.

  As the Mexican fell backwards, Henry John picked up the gun and pointed it at the stricken man who was trying to stop his nose from bleeding.

  Before he could shoot, the Mexican was on him, splattering blood into Henry John’s face as the man lunged forward, fighting for his life.

  The two wrestled on the ground, rolling over and over, the gun in Henry John’s right hand was ineffectual as the Mexican had a vice-like grip on Henry John’s wrist.

  Henry John brought his knee up into the man’s groin. Eyes went skywards as the pain paralysed his muscles and he let go of Henry John’s wrist and lay in the foetal position, clutching his privates.

  The pain in Henry John’s chest was almost making him see double, his breath, what there was of it, was coming in laboured pants. There was not enough oxygen in him to keep him standing much longer.

  ‘Don’t shoot, señor,’ the man managed to say between clenched teeth.

  From the look on Henry John’s face, the Mex knew he was a dead man. He shouted for all he was worth. Too late, Henry John realized he was shouting for help from outside.

  From behind a dune, two more Mexicans emerged brandishing handguns. Henry John shot the man with the busted nose and dived into his shelter.

  Retrieving the Colts, he came out firing.

  The second Mex went down, the third, seeing his compadres already dead, made a run for it.

  Henry John took careful aim – then fired.

  The Mex flew forward and landed in a heap of tangled arms and legs. He didn’t move.

  Checking the other two first, Henry John walked across and checked the third man. They were all dead.

  So inured to death had he become that the first thing Henry John did was to check through his Wanted posters to see if they had money on their heads.

  To his major disappointment, they weren’t among the posters.

  He next checked out their horses, but there was nothing there that interested him. So he set them free to fend for themselves.

  The three dead men he left where they lay. He couldn’t see the point in burying them.

  Gathering up his possessions, Henry John mounted his horse and headed south again, leaving the bodies for the buzzards.

  With sudden realization, Henry John had become a killer.

  As he rode south, he went over the killings of the three Mexicans. He had no remorse. He even remembered not thinking about what he was about to do. It didn’t even occur to him not to kill them, it had become automatic.

  What he needed now, he thought, was breakfast.

  The ocean to his right had lost its magic. He hardly glanced at it any more. It had become as much of the scenery as the desert or the mountains. All Henry John was interested in was earning enough money to send back to Sean.

  Another town loomed into view. This one was different. It was well kept, clean. To his left, outside town, he saw rolling plains. The desert had stopped its advance and the grass grew.

  He could see the herd contentedly grazing. There must have been a thousand of them, he thought.

  The sudden image of his second wife and children was so strong that for a moment, he thought they were standing in the pasture.

  He removed his Stetson and smiled. The smile faded as the images disappeared. He hung his head, chin resting on his chest. Tears formed and attempted to run down his cheeks, but he blinked them back. He wasn’t going to cry any more.

  The smiling face of his wife looked up at him, and he smiled back.

  Dismounting, Henry John led his horse into town. He felt the eyes of the townsfolk on him as he walked down the street, but no one caught his eye.

  Both sides of the street had boardwalks and they were clean. The buildings were brightly painted and stained, windows clean. A whole variety of stores displayed their wares, from dress shops to hardware, a milliner’s window was full of bonnets, the sort of bonnets he would have liked to buy his wife.

  The hotel was painted a bright yellow, so bright it hurt his eyes as the sun reflected off it. The windows were adorned with flower boxes full of bright red and bright blue flowers that Henry John had never seen before.

  Blue drapes framed the windows, and the red double-doors gleamed in the sunlight.

  He tethered his animal to the hitching-post, that was also painted bright yellow. Henry John looked down at his dust-covered clothes and for once, was ashamed to be walking into a hotel in such a mess.

  Looking around, he caught sight of the red, white and blue barber’s pole. He walked across the street and entered the shop.

  It too, was brightly decorated. The barber, a short man in his fifties, Henry John guessed, was standing on a wooden box, clipping someone’s hair.

  He stopped when Henry John entered, and smiled.

  ‘Won’t keep you a minute, stranger,’ he said amicably.

  ‘Thanks,’ John Henry replied.

  ‘Take a seat. There’s a newspaper there if you want it.’

  ‘Don’t like to get the seat dirty,’ Henry John said.

  ‘Don’t you worry, it’s only dust, we’ll soon have you looking spic and span.’ The barber laughed and continued clipping.

  Henry John sat on the padded seat that ran down the entire length of one wall. He picked up the newspaper and scanned through it. His reading wasn’t all that good, but he knew enough to get the gist of the stories.

  He looked at the pictures first, small advertisements showing brushes or guns or ploughs. On page three, there was an engraving of the town done by a local artist. It sure looked pretty, Henry John thought, and smiled into the newspaper.

  ‘Plan on staying long, stranger?’ the man who sat in the chair asked.

  ‘Nope. Jus’ passing through, I guess,’ Henry John replied. ‘Sure is a pretty town you got here.’

  ‘Sure is, the prettiest and the best in southern California. We pride ourselves on that,’ the man said.

  The barber finished the man’s hair and began to brush the floor. The man in the chair stood and left a silver dollar on the table, then put his hat on and, saying goodbye to both the barber and Henry John, he left.

  ‘What can I do for you, mister?’ the barber said.

  ‘Shave, cut and a tub, if ’n you have one.’

  ‘Sure have. Take a seat, I’ll get the tub ready.’

  Henry John sat in the ornate barber chair. He rested his head back on the soft leather and continued to read the paper.

  The sound of shouting and people running along the boardwalk broke Henry John’s concentration. Standing, he walked towards the window and looked out into the street.

  Opposite the barbershop, the brick-built edifice of prosperity, the Cattleman’s Bank, stood in all its splendour.

  He could see the sheriff, gun out, running towards it. Two men emerged from the bank door, both wearing bandannas to cover their faces. They were carrying money bags. Henry John knew the money was not theirs.

  He put his Stetson on and opened the barbershop door. People were running every which-way, trying to get to cover before the shooting started. The sheriff stood in the middle of the street as the robbers emerged, he raised his gun and loosed off a shot. It was wild, went nowhere near the two men, who steadied themselves and shot the sheriff where he stood.

  Henry John stepped into the street. Cool. Concentrated. The two bank robbers were tying the money bags to the pommels of their saddles, confident that no one else would challenge them in this pussy-foot town. They hadn’t counted on Henry John being there.

  ‘Hold it, right there,’ he shouted.

  The two men, still with handguns out, turned to see who’d done the shouting. They saw the tall man in the street and were so cock-sure, they finished tying on the money bags before turning around to face him.

  Henry John stood his ground. His silver Colts were still in their holsters.

  The two men re-holstered their weapons and smiles appeared on their faces.

  ‘Well, well, lookie-here,’ one said to the other. ‘We got ourselves a regular hero.’

  Both men laughed. They’d seen enough towns and enough sheriffs in this backwater to know they were safe. The long arm of the law wasn’t quite long enough for them.

  The two bank robbers separated, putting at least ten feet between themselves, and they faced Henry John.

  They looked the man over and thought he posed no threat to them. He looked just like what he was, a saddle-bum.

  ‘Get smart, mister,’ one of the men said.

  ‘Yeah, get back to your chicken farm, or whatever it is you do,’ the other man said and they both laughed.

  ‘I can’t see no chickens,’ Henry John said in a deep voice that hushed the town. ‘Less o’ course I’m lookin’ at two.’

  The smiles left the faces of the two young men.

  ‘What you say? You callin’ us out, mister?’

  ‘Seems to me you’re already out, boy,’ Henry John said.

  The coolness of his voice and attitude made both men wary. They stepped further apart; the three men now formed a perfect triangle.

  Simultaneously, the two men went for their guns. They were quick, but not quick enough.

  Henry John had the two Colts out, levelled, cocked and firing long before the two bank robbers knew what hit them.

  The town, which had gone deathly quiet before the shooting, was even quieter now. There was no movement. The bodies of the bank robbers lay in the dirt where they’d fallen.

  Henry John walked across to them, guns still out and ready to shoot again.

  He needn’t have worried. Both men were dead.

  Slowly, the townsfolk emerged. They stared at Henry John in wonder and fear, but they went straight to the sheriff first.

  He was still alive. The bullet had lodged in his upper-left chest and he was hurt, but he was still breathing.

  One of the men ran off to get the doc, another the undertaker. Henry John thought the tub might be ready now, so he turned and walked back to the barbershop.

  The barber, all five-feet one inch of him, was standing open-mouthed as Henry John entered.

  ‘That was just about the best bit o’ shootin’ I ever did see,’ the man said.

  Henry John sat back in the chair and waited for his shave.

  ‘Yessiree,’ the man went on. ‘It’s a privilege to shave you, mister, a real privilege.’

  Still Henry John said not a word.

  The door burst open and three men entered. One, in a charcoal-grey suit, rushed straight up to Henry John and grabbed his hand and started pumping away as he babbled his gratitude.

  Henry John realized that he was the bank manager, and when the man had dang-near shook his arm off, Henry John said, ‘No problem.’

  ‘No problem! Did you hear that, boys?’ the bank manager said.

  ‘Sure did.’

  ‘Mister, that was the bravest thing I ever did see. You saved me a lot of embarrassment and the town a whole lot of grief. An’ on behalf of the town council, I want to thank you most sincerely.’

  Henry John nodded. ‘You know who those men were?’ he asked.

  ‘Nope. We never seen ’em in these parts afore,’ a man who turned out to be the mayor, answered.

  He went on: ‘Mister, for what you done today, the town is mighty grateful, if’n you decide to stay awhiles, everythin’ is free. Hotel, saloon, hell, everythin’.’

  ‘Thank you kindly, mister,’ Henry John said, ‘but right now I’d like to get a shave, my hair cut and relax in a nice, hot tub.’

  ‘God-dang,’ one of the men said. Everyone was so excited they couldn’t do enough for William Henry John.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Sheriff Henry John dropped his cigar in the tub.

  ‘Yep. Town council were unanimous,’ the barber said.

  ‘I’ll have to think about that,’ Henry John said.

  ‘You still get the thousand dollars anyways.’

  ‘That reward or bounty?’

  ‘Reward from the bank.’

  ‘Any Wanted posters out on those two?’

  ‘Not that I know of, but then again, I’m jus’ the barber.’

  Henry John sat and pondered in the hot tub. He’d been riding the range for more than fifteen years. Maybe it was time to settle down. Hell, he didn’t even know the name of this place, yet after the attempted bank robbery, they voted him in as sheriff!

  The cigar had been replaced with another. Try as he might, Henry John couldn’t get the peace and quiet he craved. Every time he settled back in the tub, someone came in and congratulated him, or asked if there was anything he wanted, when all he wanted was to be left alone. He gave up.

  He’d soaked in the tub for twenty-minutes, he’d been shaved and his hair had been cut and there, on the back of a chair, were the clothes he unpacked from the small case.

  He towelled himself off quickly, in case someone else decided to visit, and got dressed.

  Now he felt like a drink. The only drawback was, he wouldn’t be able to have a quiet beer, he knew that.

  He walked in through the bat-wing doors and the saloon erupted into spontaneous applause. Henry John had never been so embarrassed in his life. He blushed from head to toe and broke out into a sweat. Then his chest started up again.

  He felt the tightness that heralded the shortness of breath. He heard the wheeze as he began to pant, his lungs whistled as he tried to fill them with the life preserving oxygen. Again, he was surprised that no one seemed to hear him pant or wheeze. They were all too busy slapping him on the back and offering to buy him drinks.

  Henry John stayed for three beers. He would have liked more, but the attention was too much for him. These well-meaning folk were scaring the daylights out of him. He wanted to tell them that being alone out on the range or the plains or the desert, a man got used to his own company. While he could tolerate a one-on-one, the people who thronged around him, trying to touch him or catch his eye, was just too much.

  He made his excuses, thanked them for the hospitality and neighbourliness, fended off questions about being the next sheriff, and, eventually, managed to get outside.

  His breathing became slightly better, the sweat began to slow down and the pain in his chest ebbed away to nothing.

  He’d forgotten to check in at the hotel and he went back to the yellow-painted rail outside, but his horse was gone. Panic set in. All his possessions were on that animal; without it, he had nothing.

  The large man with the leather apron settled his fears. The animal had been fed, watered and groomed and was now in a stall with fresh straw and was being well looked after.

  Henry John thanked the man and entered the hotel. The clerk was seated behind the desk, wearing a suit and shirt and tie. He was the smartest clerk Henry John had ever met.

  The man knew who he was and told him his room was ready, first floor, best room in the hotel. Then he told Henry John what a privilege it was for both he and the hotel to have him come stay there.

  Henry John was again embarrassed, but thanked the man and quickly climbed the stairs.

  What he needed now was peace and quiet and sleep. Stopping halfway up the carpeted staircase, he turned and said, ‘Please don’t let anyone up for at least two or three hours. I gotta get some shut-eye.’

  ‘Sure thing, sir. You can rely on me. No one will disturb you.’

  Henry John thanked the man and entered his room.

  It was big. Too big for one person. Underneath the huge window opposite was the largest bed he’d ever seen. The room was fully carpeted, it had two wardrobes, three chests of drawers, two jugs and bowls, a desk and two armchairs.

  Henry John whistled through his teeth. He’d never seen anything like this before.

  He took his jacket off and hung it in the wardrobe. Then he removed his boots and lay down on the bed. There were small tables either side of the bed, each with an oil-lamp on top. The one nearest him also had a carefully-folded newspaper.

 

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