Oakley Hall - Warlock

The judge handed it to him. “We are a bunch of vile sinners,” he said in a blurred voice. “But I am damned if we deserve this. What about Doc Wagner, Keller? Does Peach mean to have him transported too?”

“Yep,” the sheriff said. “Now, you just sit down, Judge. There is not a thing in the world you can do. Johnny!” he snapped. “Don’t sneak that hand up there to be unpinning that star, or I will load you on my wagon first off and you will wait it out in the hot sun till I catch the rest, which might be a while. Now you just calm yourself. All the arguing and maneuvering to be done’s been done already. I have seen Peach take out after Whiteside with that sword of his, fit to take his head off. Don’t go trying to interfere with him.”

“He can’t do that to those poor damned—”

“He can,” the sheriff said. “What was you going to do to stop it, son?”

Peter Bacon stuck his head in the door. “Johnny, are you going to stand by and let those blue-leg sons of bitches—” He stopped, staring at the sheriff. “My God, are you here, Keller?” he said, incredulously.

“I’m here,” the sheriff said. “And how’s things going out there?”

Peter’s brown face wrinkled up as though he were going to cry. “Sheriff, they are rounding up those poor fellows from the Medusa like—”

“Going well, huh?” the sheriff said. “Well, drop in some later and see us again, Bacon. Pass me that bottle, Judge.”

Peter stared at the sheriff, and turned and looked Gannon up and down. Then he withdrew. Keller tilted the bottle to his lips. Gannon saw the sheriff’s hand, lying on the table before him, clench into a fist as there was a burst of shrill shouting down the street.

Gannon started toward the door.

“Don’t even look, boy,” the sheriff said heavily. “You might turn into a pillar of salt or something.”

“Salt’s not what I’m worth. Or you.”

“I know it, boy. I never said otherwise. But you can’t interfere with the cavalry, and the military governor. During maneuvers,” he added. “That’s what they are calling it; maneuvers.”

“And you are supposed to maneuver down to San Pablo?” the judge asked.

“Supposed to. I guess I won’t rush things, though.”

“You might do well to rush. From what we hear they are all down raiding the Hacienda Puerto range right now.”

“Rush,” the sheriff said, nodding. Then Keller looked at Gannon again with his sad eyes. “Nothing you can do, boy,” he said. “Nor any man. Just stand steady and let it go by. He’s put his big foot in it now, and who knows but things might change, maybe, because of this.”

“I have thought,” the judge said bitterly, “that things were so bad they couldn’t get any worse. But they have got worse today like I wouldn’t believe if I didn’t hear it going on. And maybe there is no bottom to it.”

“Bottom to everything,” the sheriff said, holding up the bottle and shaking it. Through the door Gannon watched a young lieutenant cantering past on a fine-looking sorrel, followed by a sergeant. He slammed his hand against his leg.

“Hold steady now,” the sheriff said.

“Yes, learn your lessons as they come your way,” the judge said. “And when you have learned them all they can stick red-hot pokers in your wife and babies and you will only laugh to see it. Because you will know by then that people don’t matter a damn. Men are like corn growing. The sun burns them up and the rain washes them out and the winter freezes them, and the cavalry tramps them down, but somehow they keep growing. And none of it matters a damn so long as the whisky holds out.”

“This here’s gone,” the sheriff said. “Go cut some of that corn and stir up some more mash, Judge. Say, did you people get any rain down this way?”

A rumble of bootheels came along the boardwalk. Old man Heck came in the door, his chin whiskers bristling with outrage, and Frenchy Martin and four others, of whom Gannon recognized only one named Daley, a tall, mild, likeable miner. Then he saw the doctor, with a trooper holding his arm. The doctor’s face was grayer than ever, but his eyes were bright. There followed two other troopers, a sergeant, and Willard Newman, MacDonald’s assistant at the Medusa, who shouldered his way inside past troopers and miners.

“Deputy, these men are to be locked up until the wagons get here.”

“Lickspittles, all of you!” the doctor said.

“Now, Doc, that don’t do no good,” Daley said.

“MacDonald is afraid to look me in the face so he sends his lickspittles!”

Daley thrust himself between the doctor and Newman, as Newman cursed and raised a hand. “You!” the sergeant said, to Newman. “You mistreat the prisoners and I’ll drink your blood, Mister!”

“That’s the sheriff!” one of the miners said, and Gannon saw Keller’s face redden. The doctor moved stiffly inside the cell, and the others followed him.

“I hope you soldiers are proud of your uniforms today!” the judge said, raising his voice above the shuffling of boots.

“You should be in here with me, George Holloway!” the doctor called, standing with the miners in the cell. “This is a thing every man who likes to think himself of a liberal persuasion should know for himself. We belong—”

“I will stay out and drink myself to death instead,” the judge said, with his head bent down.

“Lock them up, Johnny,” the sheriff said. He held the bottle up, studied it, and then handed it back to the judge.

Newman kicked the door shut.

“I’ll not!” Gannon said, through his teeth.

The sergeant turned to look at him; he had a sour, weatherbeaten face and thick graying sideburns. Newman glared at him. “Lock them up, Deputy!”

“By whose orders?”

“General Peach’s order, you fool!” Newman cried. “Will you lock these sons of bitches up before I—”

“Not in my jail!” He thrust between the sergeant and Newman, snatched the key ring from its peg, and retreated to stand against the wall where the names were scratched. He put his hand on the butt of his Colt. The sheriff stared at him; the judge averted his face.

The sergeant sighed and said, “Mick!” One of the troopers raised his carbine and started forward. Someone burst in the door behind him.

It was a miner Gannon didn’t know; he had gnarled, discolored hands and a stubble of beard on his long, young face. He stopped for a moment, panting; then he thrust one of the troopers aside and leaped forward to hit Newman in the face with a long, awkward sweep of his arm. Newman yelled and fell back the length of the room, while the sheriff came to his feet with surprising swiftness and slammed the barrel of his Colt down above the young miner’s ear. The miner crumpled and fell, just as Newman, cursing, regained his balance and pulled the six-shooter from his belt. “Here!” the sergeant bellowed, and there was an outcry from the cell. Gannon jerked his Colt free and stepped toward Newman. The trooper named Mick caught the miner by the collar as he scrambled to his feet, and, with the sheriff’s help, thrust him into the cell with the others.

Newman backed up, staring at Gannon’s Colt. The sheriff came toward Gannon, pushed the gun barrel down with his fat hand, and took the key ring. The sheriff shook his head at him reprovingly. Newman’s nose was bleeding.

“Let’s get on, Mr. Newman,” the sergeant said, and Newman cursed and replaced his own six-shooter in his belt. He stamped on outside, holding a handkerchief to his nose. Gannon leaned against the wall and watched in silence and despair as the sergeant detailed one of the troopers to guard the cell, and, with the others, followed Newman outside. The one who remained stood before the cell door, scowling uneasily. The sheriff put the key ring on the table, and the judge hung it over the neck of the whisky bottle and brooded down at it.