Oakley Hall - Warlock

Carl passed bowls of meat and potatoes into Calhoun. Pony threw his to the floor. “Go hungry then,” Carl said.

Pike took a steak in his hand and wolfed it down, and Carl attacked his hungrily too. Gannon set his plate on the floor beside him. There was another round of shouting outside, with one voice rising above the rest. The words were lost in the uproar. The faces at the window had vanished.

“Bud,” Billy said. Pony and Calhoun had retreated into the darkness. Gannon felt Pike Skinner watching him. “What the hell would you do, Bud?” Billy said. “People after you and throwing lead all over the landscape. What the hell would you’ve done?”

“I don’t know,” he said. Carl was pretending not to listen.

Pike said, “You might’ve thought how come there was a posse after you in the first place.”

Gannon saw Billy’s face twist, and something in him twisted with it. Another yell went up outside, and Pony appeared at the cell door again.

“Sit there and lap your supper!” he shrilled at Carl. “They are coming! Can’t you hear them coming?”

“We’ll stop them,” Carl said, “if they come. You can quit wetting your pants.”

“Bud,” Billy said again.

“Never mind it now, Billy,” Gannon said tightly. Pike glowered at him from the chair beside the alley door. Carl sat hump-backed at the table, forking food into his mouth.

“Long ride to Bright’s,” Carl said, over a mouthful. “You boys in there better get some sleep.”

“We’ll never get to Bright’s!” Pony cried.

“Oh, hush that!” Calhoun said.

Bud —Gannon could hear it, repeated and repeated, although Billy hadn’t spoken again. Reluctantly he turned his head to look at Billy again, and he saw Billy’s lips tilt beneath the pitiful young mustache. “Go ahead and say you told me what I was heading for,” Billy whispered. “Go ahead, Bud.”

“What good would that do?”

“No good,” Billy said, and disappeared. The cot springs creaked. Gannon could hear them whispering in the cell. “Why don’t you tell him?” he heard Calhoun say; then the tumult outside grew suddenly louder, and faces were pressed against the window again.

Someone beat on the door with the flat of his hand. “ Carl! ”

Carl grunted and rose. He wiped his mustache, hitched at his shell belt, and glanced significantly at Gannon and Skinner. He took up the shotgun and nodded at Gannon to unbar the door.

Gannon did so, and leaped back, jerking his Colt free as the door burst inward. Two men hurtled in, to stop suddenly as they saw Carl’s shotgun. There was a knot of others jammed in the doorway, and behind them Gannon could feel the whole huge and violent thrust of the mob. Pike leaped forward with his Winchester in his hands. Outside they were whooping steadily again.

“You are going to have to give them up, Carl,” Red Slator said loudly, as he and Fat Vint backed up to join the others in the doorway. Close behind these two, Gannon could see Jed Smith, a foreman at the Thetis, Nate Bush, Hap Peters, Charlie Grace, who was one of Dick Maples’ bakers, Kinkaid, a cowboy from up the valley, several miners, and Simpson and Parks, who were both macs for some of the crib girls. Their faces were grim. Fat Vint looked drunker than usual.

“Get out of here, you miserable sons of bitches!” Carl said.

“You can’t stop us!” Charlie Grace shouted, and cheers went up from the dark, featureless mass behind them.

“See if I don’t,” Carl said. “If you think a bunch of pimps and drunk bullprods is going to bust this jail, you are mistaken. Get out of here!”

“We will tramp you down!” Vint yelled blusteringly. “You hear, Pike?” He looked at Gannon with his bloodshot pig-eyes, and sneered, “And you’ll keep out of it if you know what’s good for you, Johnny Gannon.”

“Get out of here!” Carl said, in a level voice.

“We’ll get out of here taking them with us!” Slator said. “We are going to hang the murdering bastards and bust over you if we have to, Carl Schroeder. You know what’ll happen at Bright’s; by God, everybody knows. They’ll get off sure as hell, with McQuown to send up lying hardcases by the dozen and scare the jury green too. You know that, Carl!” The men in the doorway began all to shout at once, and the shouting gathered power outside until the whole world seemed to be shouting.

Carl waited until the noise had subsided a little; then he said, “Red, I’d like to see them hang as much as you. I caught them and lost Ted Phlater doing it.” His voice rose. “And we went out and caught them while you and this bunch was sitting on your slat-asses drinking whisky. So I will be damned if you will take them off us now the hard work is done! Now get!”

He jammed the shotgun against Slator’s chest and Slator backed up. Vint grabbed at the shotgun and Gannon slammed the barrel down on the fat hand. Vint yelped. Pike started forward, and, feinting blows with the butt of the Winchester, drove them all back through the doorway.

“Tromp them down! Tromp them down, fellows!”

“Christ, give us something to help stand them off with, Bud!” Calhoun cried.

They pushed the mob leaders before them out the door, and the crowd in the street gave way. Then it surged forward again with a wild yelling. Hands caught Carl’s shotgun and pulled him forward. He stumbled to his knees, then fought and scrambled back away from the men crowding in on him. Gannon fired twice into the air. Someone yelled in terror and the mob fell back again.

The three of them stood close together before the jail door. Carl was panting.

“They won’t shoot!” a hoarse voice yelled from the rear of the mob. “They know better than to shoot!”

“Give us a God-damned iron, Carl!” Calhoun shouted.

“Good Christ, Carl, for Christ’s sake, give us a gun to hold them off with! Bud!”

“Don’t be a damned fool, Carl!” Slator said.

“Get the hell out of the way, Johnny Gannon! You two-way son of a bitch!”

“What the hell are you doing, Pike? Leave us take them!”

Slator, Vint, and Simpson started forward again; Vint was grinning. “You dassn’t shoot, Carl!”

“One step more,” Carl panted.

“Give us a chance, Carl!” Pony screamed.

“One step more, you bastards!” Pike said, and Gannon started to swing his Colt at Simpson’s head.

There were three shots in rapid succession from Southend Street, and then silence, sudden and profound. Craning his neck, Gannon saw men hurrying to get off the boardwalk, and Blaisedell appeared, walking rapidly, the Colt in his hand glittering by lanternlight. A whisper ran through the crowd. “The marshal!” “Blaisedell!” “Here comes the marshal!” “It is Blaisedell!”

Blaisedell joined them before the jail. “Need another man?” he said.

“Surely do,” Carl said, and let out his breath in a long, shaking, whispering laugh. “We surely do, Marshal.”

“We are taking those road agents out to hang, Marshal!” someone cried from across the street.

“You are not going to stop us, Marshal!” Fat Vint blustered. “We will tromp you with the rest. We are—”

“Come here and tromp me,” Blaisedell said.

Vint stepped back. Those around him retreated further.

“Come here,” Blaisedell said. “Come here!” Vint came a step forward. His face looked like gray dough.

“This is none of your put-in, Marshal!” someone yelled, but the rest of the mob was silent.

“Come here!” Blaisedell said once more, dangerously. Vint sobbed with fear, but he came on another step. Blaisedell’s hand shot up suddenly, the Colt’s barrel gleaming as he clubbed it down. The fat man cried out as he fell. There was silence again.