Sunset Trail (15 page)

XX

Matt remained at his desk after Corrigan left the bank. He could do nothing except wait until it was time to take the $10,000
to the house. He had already moved it from the safe to his office. After the outlaws were gone and Jean was safe, and after
a little more time had passed so Bud would be released, Matt would help Jerry Corrigan gather a posse and they would go after
the outlaws.

But now the minutes dragged. He closed his eyes and leaned back in his chair, and found that he couldn’t relax. The pounding
of his heart seemed to jar his whole body. His head ached, too. It was the waiting, he thought, more than the blow he had
received on his head that caused it, the waiting and the uncertainty about Jean and Bud. If the outlaws did not keep their
word, and if his children were killed, he would blame himself the rest of his life for not bringing the whole thing to a head.

Suddenly he was aware that someone was arguing with Fred Follett outside his office. He rose and opened the door. Uncle Pete
Fisher was trying to get into his office to see him, and Follett was trying to keep him out.

When Fisher saw him, he bawled: “Get this pup off my neck, Matt! I’ve got to talk to you.”

“He’s drunk,” Follett said in disgust. “He’s drunk as a lord. Jerry ought to lock him up. I don’t know of anything that’s
worse than an old man who’s drunk.”

“Let him come in,” Matt said.

Follett threw up his hands and wheeled back into his cage. The men who were waiting in front of the cage laughed. One of them
said: “Nothing’s worse than an old has-been, is there, Fred?”

“Unless it’s a drunk one,” Follett said angrily. “Matt should have had me throw the old fool out.”

Matt shut the door, thinking that Follett might be right. Uncle Pete had been a problem for quite a while and he would probably
get worse as he grew older. Matt noticed that his beard and mustache were white, he was filthy, and he stunk with the secondhand
smell of cheap whiskey. Matt felt his stomach begin to churn, but he sat down, thinking Fisher wouldn’t be here long.

“What’s wrong, Uncle Pete?” Matt asked.

Fisher sat in the chair Corrigan had occupied a short time before, his head tipped forward, his gaze on the floor. Suddenly
he began to cry, sobs shaking his gnarled old body.

For a time Fisher couldn’t answer Matt’s question. Matt, as disgusted as Follett had been, decided he’d throw the old man out
himself, then Fisher swiped a dirty sleeve across his eyes. He looked up and swallowed, he opened his mouth to say something
and closed it and swallowed.

Finally Fisher was able to talk. He said: “Matt, do you know what it’s like to be a big man in a community like this, and
then drop to nothing?” Fisher wiped his face with both hands, then he went on: “I’ve sat right there at the same desk and
in that same chair you’re sitting in, and I’ve said to men who were in this chair that I’d save their hides by giving ’em
the loan they were asking for, or I’d say they couldn’t have it even if I knew I was going to break ’em. I was playing God,
Matt. You savvy that?”

Matt frowned. The old man was drunk, all right, but something had made him get drunk because he usually limited himself to
two drinks a day. Matt thought:
Whatever made him keep drinking brought him
here. I’d better keep him talking and find out what it is.
“I savvy,” Matt said. “Go on.”

“I’m still playing God,” Fisher went on. “Now you’ve got to help me ’cause it’s more’n I can handle. I hate
the governor and the Populists. It was Benjamin Wyatt who took me out of that chair where you’re sitting. I hate him and I
want to see him dead, but I just never knew how it was going to be, having him killed here in Amity on Dam Day.”

Matt froze. He stared at Fisher, unable to believe what he had heard, but the agony of hell that was twisting the old man’s
face told him he’d better believe it.

“Go on,” Matt said. “Tell me all about it.”

“I’m fixing to,” Fisher said. “It’s been eating on me and I kept drinking till now I guess I’ve got myself drunk enough to
tell you. I’m ashamed, Matt. I’m ashamed because I didn’t think that killing Ben Wyatt here in Amity on a day like this would
ruin the land sale and give us a black eye all over the state. I don’t want my friends hurt, you and everybody else that’s
worked hard on this whole business and put everything you had into it.” Fisher stopped.

Matt said: “Go on, Pete. Tell me exactly what’s going to happen.”

“There’s some men in Denver who want Wyatt killed,” Fisher said, staring at the floor. “Rich men. They want him out of the
way so bad they’ll pay for getting him killed. They know that, if he stays governor, and it kind ’o looks like he’ll get re-elected,
Colorado will go broke and everybody’s gonna lose anything they’ve got left. The only way to save the state and for these
men to save what they’ve got is to see that Wyatt is rubbed out. I sent ’em information about you and your family and your
house. They picked three men to come here and move into your place and shoot Wyatt when he gets up to talk. All I done is
to tell ’em how it was here. The Denver men did everything else.”

Fisher’s Adam’s apple bobbed up and down as he struggled to swallow again. He went on: “The three men are supposed to tell
you they’re here to rob the bank, but that’s just an excuse they’re gonna give you. We figured you’d stand still for that
if it was a proposition of saving the lives of your kids, but you wouldn’t stand still for murdering the governor. I know
they’re in your house ’cause I looked in your barn this morning and I seen three strange horses. I ain’t seen Bud around the
courthouse and he was supposed to help Cole with the tables. I ain’t seen Jean, neither, and she’s not one to stay home on
a day like this. And Nora, she looks like a walking corpse.”

He began to cry again, but he managed to blub-ber: “I hated Wyatt so much I didn’t see how it would work out. All I could
think of was getting even with him. Now you gotta stop him. You gotta keep Dick Miles from coming into town with him.”

Matt got to his feet, so furious with Fisher he wanted to reach out and grab him by the throat and strangle him. He had heard
Fisher ramble on about how much he hated Wyatt and the Populists, and how everybody would be ruined if Wyatt was reëlected
governor, but he had never even dreamed the old man was actually capable of doing anything that would harm Wyatt. Now Matt,
thinking of the three men in his house, could and did believe everything that Fisher had said.

“You fool!” Matt said. “You old fool! Do you know what can happen to Jean and Bud because of your infernal scheming?”

Fisher didn’t answer. He was crying softly now, his head bobbing back and forth as the tears poured down his cheeks and ran
into his mustache and beard.

“There’s a hundred houses in this town,” Matt raged. “Why did you have to pick mine?”

“It had the best location,” Fisher mumbled. “Your upstairs window in Nora’s sewing room looks right at the platform where
Wyatt is to stand. Stop him, Matt. You got to stop him.”

“And I’ve got a girl and a boy they can use for hostages,” Matt said in a low tone. “They can kill them to save their hides
if it comes to that. I ought to beat you to death, Pete. I ought to drag you out of that chair and break your worthless neck.”

“I didn’t think,” Fisher moaned. “I got to talking to them rich men in Denver and I was tellin ’em about Wyatt coming here
and how easy it would be to shoot him from your upstairs window and the first thing I knew they had it all worked out. I hate
Wyatt ’cause he ruined me. I’ve got to beg my wife for money to even buy a drink. Beg her on my hands and knees because I’m
broke. I didn’t think about Jean and Bud getting hurt. Or about the dam, either.”

“My God, you didn’t think.” Matt wheeled to the door, knowing he had to find Corrigan and there was so little time. “You stay
right there. Jerry will take care of you. Don’t try to get away.”

Matt ran out of his office and past Fred Follett and the men lined in front of the teller’s cage. He raced on out of the bank
and into the street and pushed and jammed his way through the crowd. He had no idea where to find Corrigan. Probably around
the courthouse.

He asked several men if they had seen Corrigan. None had. Matt worked clear of the crowd and ran along the street toward the
courthouse. Then he saw Corrigan in front of the platform talking to Cole Talbot. Most of the band was here now, producing
noise but no music.

Matt yelled: “Jerry!” Again he started jamming his way through the crowd. He yelled-“Jerry!”-a second time, but there was
still too much racket for him to be heard. When he reached Corrigan, he grabbed his arm, saying: “I’ve got to see you, Jerry.”

Irritated, Corrigan wheeled away from Talbot, saw who it was, and nodded. He turned back to Talbot. “I’ll help you later if
you need it, Cole.”

Using their shoulders and elbows to get through the crowd, they forced their way to the street. Matt told Corrigan what Fisher
had said, and added: “We’ll go ahead as planned. I’ll take the money at noon, but you’ve got to saddle up and ride out to meet
Dick Miles. I don’t care what you tell them, but keep them from coming into town. As far as anybody else goes, we’ll keep
mum about the assassination scheme.”

Corrigan’s pulse was pounding in his temples. He Corrigan’s pulse was pounding in his temples. He said: “Matt, Wyatt won’t
be easy to stop. He may give us a little extra time, but I don’t figure he’ll stay out of town all afternoon while we figure
out what to do.”

“I’m sure he won’t,” Matt said. “He’s a stubborn old man and he’s got more’n his share of guts. Make him give us half an hour.
I’ll have a gun when I go into the house. You be in the barn. I’ll start the ball if I get an opening, and you can give me
a hand from the back. I don’t know how it’ll work out, so we’ll have to play our cards the way they fall, but we can’t just
sit tight. We’ve got to get at ’em some way, and I can get into the house with the money without making a fuss.”

Corrigan didn’t like it and showed it in his face. He said: “They’ll kill you, Matt.”

“Then I’ll be dead,” Matt said irritably. “It’s a price I’m willing to pay to save Jean. The governor, too, but I don’t know
about Bud. I wish to hell I did, but we haven’t got time to find out about him.”

“All right,” Corrigan said, and wheeled and ran toward the livery stable.

Matt returned to the bank, walking slowly. He felt whipped, and he had little faith that his plan would do any good, but there
seemed to be nothing else he could do. Fisher had been right about his standing still for a bank robbery, but he couldn’t
stand still for the governor to be murdered.

He went into the bank and walked on back to his office, then he saw that Uncle Pete Fisher was gone.

XXI

I wait
, Bud Dugan told himself over and over.
I’ve got
to wait till that she-devil quits and runs for it.

She would, he knew. He watched her pace back and forth in the soddy, go to the door and look down the slope toward Amity,
then turn and pace some more. All the time her face and neck grew redder and redder, her breathing louder and louder until
she was practically panting.

She’ll blow up pretty soon
, Bud thought.
She’ll
scream like a stepped-on cat and go running out of here to
the shed. She’ll saddle up and hightail out of the country.

Still she stayed. He sat on the bed and watched every move she made, and all the time he was thinking of his mother and Jean
in the house with three killers. He knew his mother was scheduled to help Hannah Talbot with the sandwiches. If she told the
outlaws, they’d probably let her go and tell her to keep her mouth shut, but the chances were they’d keep Jean in the house
and he couldn’t bear to think what they might do to her during the morning.

In spite of all he could do, tears ran down his cheeks. He was remembering that he was supposed to help Cole Talbot with the
tables. Cole was kind of a mean man, and he’d be sore because Bud hadn’t showed up. He’d go to the bank and ask where Bud
was. Bud wondered what his dad would say.

Hard to tell what Jerry Corrigan would do, too. He was no fool. If he caught on to what was happening, and Bud figured he would,
he might let his temper go and sail into the house with his gun in his hand and start shooting. He’d get killed, and then
Jean would be killed.

Bud wiped a sleeve across his eyes. Here he was, sitting on the bed in Uncle Pete Fisher’s soddy. He could put a stop to the
whole business if he could get away. No, he couldn’t stop the whole business, but he could tell Jerry, and Jerry would know
what to do if he thought about it. He guessed Jerry would know what to do about anything as long as his temper didn’t make
him go off half cocked.

He wiped his sweaty face, his gaze never leaving Dolly as she prowled around the room like an oversize cat. Several times
he tensed his muscles to jump her if she came close enough to him, then he always relaxed, reminding himself that it would
be certain suicide. He wouldn’t free Jean by getting himself killed.

But time was running out. From inside the soddy he couldn’t see the sun, but it had to be close to noon. Whatever was going
to happen would be happening before very many more minutes passed. He couldn’t wait any longer.

“Uncle Pete Fisher used to tell us kids about the lynchings he had seen in Denver,” Bud said, his voice high-pitched and excited.
“He said their necks got real long as their bodies fell. . . .”

“Kid, I told you to shut your big mouth.” Dolly “Kid, I told you to shut your big mouth.” Dolly wheeled on him, her big fists
clenched, her face going ugly from the fury that swept over her. “You keep that up and I’ll bust you a good one.”

“And their faces turned purple,” he went on. “He said their tongues were sticking out of their mouths something awful. He
told us it made him throw up, it was so horrible. I got to thinking about you. . . .”

She rushed toward him and hit him on the side of the head, a powerful blow that knocked him flat on his back across the bed.
She grabbed up the thongs she had used to tie him early that morning and yanked both hands in front of him. She tied his wrists,
then lashed the other thong around his ankles. She was trembling, her face so red it was almost purple.

“I’m going to the shed and saddle my horse, so I’ll be ready to get out of here as soon as they come!” she yelled as she picked
up the shotgun and revolver from the table. “Maybe you’ll get loose again, but you’d better stay right here if you do. I’ll
blow your damned head off if you don’t.”

She ran out of the soddy. He told himself she was bluffing. She wasn’t staying here waiting for the men to come, but knowing
that didn’t help much. He strained at the thong that bound his wrists, but he couldn’t get enough slack to free his hands.

Time, he kept telling himself. He didn’t have time to lie here all day, but he couldn’t untie the knot with his teeth. He
tried. He just couldn’t get a solid bite on the thong to pull the knot loose, then he realized that the rawhide was stretching,
that he had more slack than he’d had a moment before.

Within two or three minutes his hands were free. It took only a few more seconds to untie his ankles. He ran to the door, thinking
he would get his horse and light out for town, then he stopped. Maybe the woman was out there at the shed. He hadn’t heard
her ride away, but it didn’t prove anything because he’d been so intent on getting free that he probably wouldn’t have heard
a company of cavalry ride past.

He slipped along the front of the sod house, reached the corner, and peered around it, showing as little of himself as possible.
Dolly wasn’t in sight. Neither were the horses. She had taken his horse, too.

Dolly wasn’t on the slope above the shed, so she must have made it over the brow of the hill to the north. He glanced at the
sun. It wasn’t quite noon, he thought, but it was close. He started to run down the slope toward Amity, sick with the paralyzing
fear that he would not be in time.

He heard the band playing “Turkey in the Straw” before he reached the first house. He was out of breath; he staggered and
fell, and for a short time lay motionlessly on the ground, laboring for air, then he got back on his feet and ran more slowly
toward his house.

He didn’t know where to look for Jerry and he didn’t have time to run all over town. He still didn’t know who was to be murdered;
he didn’t know what he could do to get Jean out of the house, but maybe he could do something. Then a thought sent a chill
down his back. Maybe he was too late. Maybe it was all over by now.

He reached the barn behind his house and slipped inside quickly. If any of the outlaws had been looking out of the kitchen
window, they would have seen him, but it was a chance he had to take if he was going to get into the barn, and it was the
only place where he could hide and still watch the house.

Bud pulled the door shut. The three horses were in the first three stalls, so it wasn’t over with, but he couldn’t guess how
much time was left. Now he was here, he didn’t know what to do. He had no weapon. What could an unarmed fourteen-year-old
boy do against three killers?

He had been stupid even to dream that he might think of something. He had to go after Jerry whether he had time or not, had
to find him and bring him here. He would think of something. Jerry would get Jean out of the house.

He started back toward the door, then stopped to glance through the cobweb-covered window. He froze. He was too late. They
must have seen him.

Sammy had stepped through the back door and was crossing the yard toward the barn.