Come the Spring (6 page)

As luck would have it, no one heard the gunshots or saw the robbers leaving the bank, perhaps because more than half the town was home in bed. Folks who wanted to get out for some fresh air waited until the sun was easing down to do so. Those few strolling down the boardwalk certainly noticed Billie curled up like a mangy old dog in the alley, but none of them gave him a second glance. It was a sight everyone was used to seeing. They figured the town drunk had simply passed out again.

Yet another precious hour passed that could have been used tracking the killers. Heavy clouds moved in above the town and rumbles of thunder were heard
gathering in the distance. Emmeline MacCorkle, still weak and gray-faced from influenza, was nagged by her mother to accompany her to the bank to find out why Sherman MacCorkle thought he could be late for supper. Sherman's wife was in a snit. She caused quite a commotion banging on the front door of the bank, drawing curious glances, and when it wasn't promptly answered, she dragged her daughter around to the back door. Neither Emmeline nor her mother looked down at the curled-up drunk. Their disdain evident, they kept their noses in the air and stared straight ahead. Emmeline had to lift her skirt to step over Billie's feet, which were sticking out from the filthy tarp she thought he was using as a cover. She did so without giving him so much as a fleeting glance. Once they had rounded the corner, her mother unlatched her grip on her daughter's arm, flung the door open, and marched inside shouting her husband's name. Emmeline meekly followed.

Their blood-curdling screams were heard as far away as the cemetery, and folks came running to find out what was happening. Those who saw the grizzly tableau inside the lobby, before Sheriff Sloan could get there and seal the doors, would never be the same. John Cletchem, the photographer the sheriff summoned to take pictures for posterity, became so sick at the eerie sight, that he had to keep running outside to throw up in the street. Two of the victims, Franklin Carroll and Malcolm Watterson, had been shot simultaneously and had fallen into each other. They were both still on their knees and appeared to be embracing, with their heads drooping over each other's shoulder.

Daniel Ryan had a near riot on his hands when he rode into town at five minutes past one the following afternoon. Because of a torrential downpour, the journey had taken longer than expected. Sheriff Sloan met him in front of the bank, gave him the
details, and then unlocked the door and followed him inside.

The bodies hadn't been removed from the lobby. If Ryan was sickened by the sight before him, he didn't show it. He slowly walked around the scene and stared down at the dead from every possible angle. There was only one telltale sign that he was affected. His hands were in fists at his sides.

In a strangled whisper, Sloan said, “I didn't know if I should let the bodies be taken out or leave them alone for you to see. Did I do the right thing?”

Before Ryan could answer him, the sheriff continued. “There was another body found in the alley next to the bank. His name was Billie, and he was the town drunk. They used a knife on him, and before I could tell the funeral men to leave him be, they carted him off and put him in the ground. I had pictures taken of these poor men, but Billie was already gone, so I didn't get any pictures of him.”

The stench was getting to him. Sloan held a handkerchief over his mouth and nose to block the smell. He couldn't make himself look at his friends, but stared at the ceiling instead. “I don't want the families of these men to see…” Sloan couldn't go on. He gagged, spun around, and clawed at the doorknob. Ryan had to turn it for him. The sheriff ran outside, doubled over in front of the crowd that had gathered, and threw up in the street.

Returning to his inspection, Ryan squatted down next to one of the bodies to get a closer look at a bullet he'd spotted half buried in the floorboard. He could still hear Sloan's retching outside when the door opened again, letting in another blessed whiff of fresh air. Cole came striding inside. Ryan turned to him and waited for a reaction.

Cole wasn't prepared for what he saw. As though he'd just run headlong into a stone wall, he staggered back and whispered, “Ah … Lord.”

“Are you going to run, or are you going to stay?” Ryan demanded.

Cole didn't answer. Ryan's eyes were blazing with fury now. “Take a good look, Cole. Any of these men could have been one of your brothers. Tell me, how often do they go into a bank? Or your mother? Or your sister?” he taunted in a voice that lashed out like a whip.

Cole shook his head and continued to stare at the two corpses on their knees leaning into one another. He couldn't look away.

“Don't you dare tell me this isn't your problem,” Ryan said. “I've made it your problem by getting you appointed marshal. Like it or not, you aren't walking away from this. You're going to help me catch the bastards.”

Cole didn't say a word. He was fighting the urge to join the sheriff outside, yet at the same time he could feel his anger fueling to a rage. No one should have to die like this. No one.

He wouldn't allow himself to be sick. If he turned his back on these men and ran outside, he would be committing a blasphemy. He couldn't reason his reaction. He just knew it would be wrong for him to be repulsed by them.

He shook his head as if to clear his thoughts, then slowly moved away from the door and walked around the circle of dead. Ryan watched him closely.

Another minute passed in silence, and then Cole said, “I don't know how many of them were in here, but I'm pretty sure several men did the shooting.”

“How do you figure that?” Ryan asked.

“Powder burns and the angle of the bullets.” He pointed to two of the bodies and whispered, “The bullet came through the back of this man's head, went out through his forehead and into the neck of the man facing him. The same thing happened with those two.
They were playing a game,” he added. “Trying to kill two with one bullet. You already figured that out, didn't you?”

Ryan nodded. “Yes.”

“The robbery was yesterday. Why weren't these bodies buried?”

“The sheriff thought he should leave them here for us to see. I have a feeling he hasn't been a lawman long.”

Cole shook his head again. “There's a funeral cart outside. These people need to be buried.”

“Then order it done,” Ryan challenged.

Cole turned to go outside, but stopped with his hand on the doorknob. “Whenever I'm away from the ranch, I work alone.”

“You don't work alone any longer.”

“I should warn you. I do things different … Some of it won't be legal.”

“I figured as much,” Ryan replied.

He followed Cole outside and stood by him on the boardwalk while Cole ordered the crowd to back away so the funeral cart could be pulled closer. The body collector, a moonfaced man with hunched shoulders, stepped forward. Cole told him that he wanted the bodies covered with sheets before they were carried out.

The reporter for the Rockford Falls newspaper objected to the order. “We want to see them,” he shouted. “Why do they have to be covered with sheets?”

Cole wanted to punch the ghoulish curiosity seeker. With effort, he resisted the impulse and said, “They wouldn't want to be remembered this way.”

The reporter wouldn't let up. “They're dead,” he shouted. “How do you know what they want?”

A woman in the crowd started crying. Cole looked at Ryan, waiting for him to answer, but the marshal
ignored him and kept his gaze directed on the men and women in the street.

“Yes, they're dead,” Cole shouted back. “And now the law becomes their voice. Get the damned sheets.”

Ryan nodded his agreement. He pulled the compass out of his pocket and handed it to Cole. “You just became a lawman.”

Six
 

It took over an hour to remove the six bodies. Because of the heat, rigor mortis had set in rapidly, and the owner of the funeral parlor had a hell of a time getting the two men who had died on their knees wrapped up and carried out.

The men who were assisting him whispered while they worked. Cole wasn't certain if they kept their voices low out of respect for the dead or if they were just plain spooked, but one of them started gagging and had to run outside when the funeral director worried out loud that if the families wanted to bury the men that day, he would have to either build two special coffins to accommodate the bent knees, or cut off their legs. One day's delay would ensure that the troublesome rigor mortis would have worn off. And if he sealed the coffins tight, no one would notice the smell.

The floor near the center of the lobby where the bodies had knelt was black. Blood had seeped into the
dry wood, and it was there to stay. Not even lye would remove the stains.

Ryan questioned Sloan for a while before he searched through the president's office and behind the tellers' counter. He collected the papers, put them in a box he'd found, and carried them over to an old, ink-stained desk in front of the windows. While Cole roamed around the bank, trying to figure out exactly how, why, and when it all happened, Ryan sat on the edge of the desk and began to read.

Sloan stood by the door, fidgeting.

Ryan finally noticed him. “Is something bothering you, Sheriff?” he asked, without looking up from the document he was scanning.

“I was thinking I ought to get another posse together and go looking for the gang again. We had to disband last night when it got so dark. The trail's going to get cold if I wait much longer.”

“That's a good idea,” Ryan said. “Why don't you take charge and see to it.”

“I figure I should pick the men I want to ride with me, like I did yesterday before you got here.”

Ryan shrugged. “You know these people better than I do. I don't want to hear you did anything stupid though, like stringing someone up because you think he might have been involved. If you catch anyone, you bring him back here.”

“I can't control an entire posse. Folks know what happened here. Someone might—”

Ryan cut him off. “You
will
control them, Sheriff.”

Sloan nodded. “I'll try.”

“That isn't good enough. No one takes the law into his own hands. You got that? If any of your friends thinks otherwise, you shoot the son of a bitch.”

Ryan expected Sloan to leave, but he stayed where he was. His face turned bright red, and he shuffled from foot to foot as he stared down at the floor.

“Was there something else?” Ryan asked.

“It seems to me … and a lot of folks in town … that I ought to be in charge of this investigation.”

Ryan cast Cole a quick glance to see how he was reacting to the sheriff's claim.

“How do you figure that?” Ryan asked.

“I'm the sheriff in Rockford Falls, so this is my jurisdiction, not yours. Like I said before, I ought to be in charge and you two should be taking orders from me.”

“You think you could do a better job?”

“I maybe could.”

“You can't even look at the stains on the floor,” Ryan said. “What makes you think you can—”

“It's my jurisdiction,” Sloan stubbornly insisted.

Ryan's patience was all used up. “Marshal Clayborne and I are here by special appointment, and I don't particularly care if you've got a problem with that or not. Stay out of our way,” he ordered harshly. “Now, go get your posse together.”

Cole listened to the exchange without saying a word. He waited until the sheriff left, then crossed the lobby to the windows and opened one. A clean, sweet breeze, tinged with the scent of pines, brushed over his arms and neck. He took several deep breaths to rid himself of the metallic smell of blood inside the bank, and then turned around and leaned against the ledge.

He stared at Ryan's back. “It rained hard last night and most of this morning,” he remarked.

“Yeah, I know. I got soaked.”

“There isn't going to be a trail this afternoon. It's been washed away.”

Ryan glanced over his shoulder. “I know that too. I just wanted to get rid of Sloan.”

Cole folded his arms across his chest and leaned back. “The men who did this are long gone.”

Ryan nodded. “Wires were sent to every lawman in the territory yesterday. By now all the main roads are
being watched. There are also men at the train stations and the river. The bastards will still get through the net, though. They're slick, real slick.” He let the paper he'd been reading drop down to the desk and turned around to face Cole. “You know what I used to be worried about?”

“What's that?”

Ryan's voice lowered. “That they'd stop and I wouldn't be able to catch them.”

Cole shook his head. “They aren't going to stop.” Nodding toward the bloodstains, he added in a whisper, “They're having too much fun.”

“Yeah, I think you're right. They've developed a real taste for killing.”