Clifford Simak - The Thing in the Stone - And Other Stories

Parker hitched up his gun-belt, moved one step to the side to get out of the light that streamed from the door.

Betz broke the silence. “We’ve come for Luke,” he said.

The men still sat their horses, watchful, waiting, eyes and faces grim.

Sawyer called from the door. “We better let them have him, sheriff. We can’t buck—”

The look that Parker gave him silenced him as effectively as a slap across the mouth.

“Betz,” said Parker, speaking to the red-faced man, “as long as I’m sheriff of this county, Luke gets a trial, fair and square—and there won’t be no necktie party!”

The mob sat silently, unmoving, waiting for whatever would happen.

Betz stirred in his saddle, as if getting ready to dismount.

“Sheriff,” he declared, “we’d hate like hell to hurt you, but we’re coming in.”

Parker slid his hands to the butts of his guns, half lifted them from leather.

“You fellows are my friends,” he said quietly. “I’ve known you for years …”

A jeering voice interrupted. “We don’t want no speech, sheriff. All we want is Luke.”

“… but the first man that moves,” said Parker, “gets a bellyful of bullets.”

Hair trigger tension crackled in the air. One stir, one move, a single word, the flicker of an eyelash, Parker knew, would turn hell wide open in the street of Cedar City.

Betz was the man to watch. He was the one who would decide. Even now, behind the red face that glared at the sheriff, the cunning little brain was working, weighing chances …

Out of the corner of his eye, Parker caught a sense of motion, for a second he tore his gaze from the men before him.

Jack Kennedy had come out of the Silver Dollar, was standing unsteadily on the sidewalk, one hand groping for a non-existent post.

Parker’s eyes came back to the men bunched in the street before the jail, fists tightening on his sixguns’ grips.

A sudden note of warning rang inside his head and he moved swiftly, spinning on his heels, stopped in astonishment.

Kennedy was striding drunkenly up the street, sixgun in each hand and his face was twisted into a terrible scowl of hate.

“No,” Parker yelled at him. “Kennedy, you are crazy …”

But it was too late. The gun in Kennedy’s right hand came up and blasted, spitting flame and smoke. And then the gun in his left hand—and then the right again. Staggering, but plodding forward, Kennedy kept coming, first one gun, then another, firing point blank into a target where there was no chance of missing.

Pandemonium exploded in the street before the impact of the bullets. Frightened horses reared, fighting the bits, kicking up clouds of dust. One man screamed and another slumped from the saddle without screaming. A horse broke loose and rushed past Kennedy, his rider swaying in the saddle, fighting to keep his seat. Sixguns spat with vicious hate and one man cursed, a steady, terrible cursing that rose above the crack of guns, the shouts and screams, the sounds that frightened, fighting horses made.

The first bullet struck Kennedy and he stumbled, but his guns kept coming up. Then another bullet struck him and spun him half around and another smashed him to his knees. He fought to rise, mouth working into a mask of hate, but the bullets had their way, smashing into him, beating him down into the dust, tearing him to ribbons.

The guns were silent now, but the street was cloudy with kicked-up dust and the blue drift of powder smoke.

Betz spurred his frightened horse toward Parker, gun half lifted. Parker’s guns came out of the holsters, tipped up toward the Turkey Track foreman. Betz let his gun arm droop.

“Damn you,” he roared. “You had him planted on us. You had it all worked out.”

“Pick up your dead ones and get out of town,” snapped Parker. “And do it fast.”

For a moment Betz sat staring at him, slack mouth drooping.

“Leave the ones that aren’t dead,” said Parker, “and we’ll have Doc patch them up.”

Feet were pounding on the sidewalk and people were shouting.

“Get out,” Parker shouted, “before the whole town’s down here gunning for you.”

Betz swung his horse around, shouted to his men.

“Get moving, boys! Get moving fast!”

Feet thundered toward Parker and he swung around. Newman, the blacksmith, was pelting down the street, sawed-off shotgun tucked beneath his arm.

“Need some help, sheriff?” he bellowed, but Parker shook his head.

“The boys,” he told him, “are already leaving.”

Bunched together, the Turkey Track mob was getting out of town, horses at the gallop. In the street lay five motionless forms, huddled close together, and a little ways beyond lay another.

Slowly, Parker walked out into the street toward the body that was apart, stood for a moment looking down on the bullet-mangled man.

Sawyer spoke softly at his elbow, “Who in hell would ever thought that he had it in him.”

Parker said, “If he figured that he owed Luke anything, he sure has paid it now.”

Slowly he turned away. “Bob,” he said, “you take over here. Clear this mess up.”

A crowd was gathering and Parker pushed his way through it, went into the office.

Luke’s cell was dark and Parker called out softly.

Luke’s voice came out of the darkness: “What was it, Clint? Rope party?”

“That’s what it was, Luke. Betz and some of the boys from the Turkey Track. But it’s all right, now.”

“Got something to tell you,” said Luke. “But I don’t want to shout. Can’t you come in?”

Parker found the key, fumbled with it, hands shaking, finally got the door open.

“You’re running a lot of risk keeping me here,” said Luke. “Betz will try …”

Parker sensed the quick movement in the dark, started to duck, but he was too late. His head leaped to a sudden explosion of stars that burst within his brain and he groped endlessly through a darkness that poured in and overwhelmed him and pressed him down.

Slowly knowledge crept back and he grew aware of the dull ache that hammered in his head, remembered the blow that had sent him spinning into unconsciousness.

His groping hand found his hat where it had tumbled on the floor and put it on his head. Slowly, foggily, he gathered his legs beneath him and wobbled to his feet, clutching at the bars to keep his balance.

For a long moment, he stood there, mind groping back, piecing together the little bits of knowledge that surged to the surface of his brain.

Luke had tricked him into opening the door and then had slugged him, presumably to make his getaway.

Did this mean that Luke was guilty? Or did it simply mean that Luke would no longer place Parker, his friend, in the dangerous position of being his jailer? He was all confused.

Low voices came from the office and Parker felt his way along the bars to the cell door, stood there groggily, listening to the buzz of words that grew into sentences and had meaning.

Sawyer was saying, “… not a thing. He don’t suspect a thing. He feels Luke didn’t do the killing, but he’s not sure.”

Another voice said, “We got to sell him on the idea. Whether Luke did it or not, we got to make him think he did. This is the luckiest break we’ve gotten thus far.”

Gibbs’ voice—Gibbs in there talking to Sawyer. Gibbs, the man the big outfits wanted to be sheriff, talking with his deputy.

Parker’s hands became fists at his side as he stood stiffly, listening.

“I’ll do my best,” Sawyer said.

“He won’t help Luke make a break?”

“Nope, he’s too square a shooter for that. If it was his own brother, and Luke is damn near that, he’d hang him if he thought that he was guilty.”