Sunset Trail (12 page)

XIV

Corrigan slept very little that night. He dropped off sometime before dawn, then woke an hour or so later. The sun wasn’t
up yet, but it would be in a matter of minutes. He couldn’t get breakfast at this hour, so he lay on his back and stared at
the ceiling as the dawn light steadily deepened.

He couldn’t go back to sleep. This was the biggest day in the history of Amity and he didn’t want anything to go wrong, for
his own sake as well as that of the community. For Matt’s sake, too.

He thought about the governor and wondered if he would be in any real danger after he arrived. In any case, it was too late
to stop him now. All that Corrigan could do was to keep moving through the crowd, keep his eyes open, and watch for anything
that might be a threat to the governor’s life.

Corrigan decided he would turn the Owl Creek men loose after he had breakfast and tell them to get out of town and stay out.
He’d need the cell space for drunks by evening and he didn’t think the threats he’d heard the night before were serious. Then
his mind completed the circle and returned to John Smith and Ross Hart, but he still had no answer, just the question.

No use to stay in bed any longer. The lumpy mattress had become unbearable. He put his feet on the floor and rubbed his eyes.
They felt as gritty as if they were full of sand. He shaved in cold water, the uneasiness in him growing. A phony John Smith
who claimed to be a relative and a man with an outlaw’s name staying the night in the Dugan house was enough to make a man
uneasy.

He strapped his gun belt around his waist, put his hat on his head, and went downstairs to the dining room that had just been
opened. No one else was there. Folks had celebrated too much the night before to get up early, he thought. When he finished
eating, he left the dining room and crossed the lobby to the street, which was deserted at this hour.

He turned toward the courthouse, thinking that the town would be jumping within an hour or so. For the first time since he
had pinned on the star, he wished he had a dozen deputies to patrol the town, particularly the area around the courthouse
where the crowd would soon be gathering. But he didn’t have even one deputy.

What happened this day would be Jerry Corrigan’s responsibility no matter what kind of tragedy took place or how it came about.
If he wanted to see Jean this morning, he’d better do it now or he’d be so busy he wouldn’t see her all day.

The day would be another scorcher, he told himself as he turned into the courthouse. Even inside the building the air had
cooled very little during the night. Outside the burning sun would add to people’s tempers. If the governor said the wrong
thing, with folks feeling the way they did. . . . Then he told himself that nothing bad was going to happen. Not today. He
wouldn’t let it.

He unlocked the big cell that held the cowboys he had jailed for drunkenness or disturbing the peace and told them they could
go, then advised them to behave themselves. This was a big day for the entire county and he didn’t want any more trouble.
They promised they’d be on their best behavior and scurried out of the courthouse as if afraid Corrigan might change his mind
and lock them up again.

After they were gone, he turned back to the cell that held the Owl Creek men. He stared at them through the bars, wondering
if he should keep them locked up. They were the meanest-looking trio he had ever seen in his life, and his conviction that
the threats they’d made the night before weren’t serious began to waver.

“The snot-nosed sheriff is back, boys,” Vance Yarnell said. “Ain’t he an ugly devil?”

“He sure is,” Harry Mason agreed. “I don’t see how he can stand hisself.”

“Ugly ain’t the right word,” Zach Lupton said. “He’s wearing a mask, ain’t he? That can’t be his real face.”

This kind of hoorawing was typical of them. He decided again that their tough talk last night had been the whiskey talking
and had not meant anything. He’d let them out and start the day with an empty jail.

“I’m laughing,” Corrigan said as he unlocked the cell. “Now I’m going to tell you a joke, but it ain’t funny. Not even a little
bit. You boys get on your horses and ride out of town and stay out all day. I’ll give you fifteen minutes. If I see any of
you after that fifteen minutes is up, I’ll throw you back into that cell and I’ll lose the key.”

“That’s a joke?” Yarnell asked as he followed Corrigan along the corridor into his office. “If it is, it ain’t funny, for
a fact.” He took his gun belt that Corrigan handed to him and strapped it around his waist, then he asked: “What did you hit
me with last night? Zach and Harry claims it was your fist, but I know damned well they’re lying. Nobody could hit me that
hard with just a fist.”

“Come on.” Mason was already through the door. “Vance, ain’t you had a belly full of this stinking hole?”

“More’n enough,” Yarnell said bitterly. “That star-toter will never get me in there again.”

Yarnell followed Mason and Lupton out of the courthouse. Corrigan watched from the window of his office until they rode out
of town. He still wondered if he had done right turning them loose, but he wouldn’t know the answer for sure until the governor
had made his speech and was safely back on the train at Burlington.

He had known the Owl Creek men for a long time. They were a no-good lot, but they had never made any trouble worse than getting
drunk and fighting and making nuisances out of themselves. He hoped they’d take his advice and stay out of town and he thought
they would.

As he left the courthouse and turned toward the Dugan house, he heard someone call: “Jerry! Wait a minute, Jerry. I want to
talk to you.”

Corrigan turned and swore softly. Uncle Pete Fisher was hurrying toward him as fast as he could make his rheumatic body move.
He was the last man in town Corrigan wanted to talk to. He’d had enough of him last night.

He couldn’t handle the old man in the rough way he’d handled the Owl Creek bunch. Fisher was almost a legend in the community.
He had done a great deal for the town and the county in his time, and he deserved respect, but it was difficult to respect
a man who had become as crotchety and perverse as he was.

Now, watching Fisher as he approached, Corrigan realized he was a little drunk. That was surprising this early in the morning,
but far more surprising was the fact that his beard and mustache were white with just a trace of black shoe polish or dye
or whatever he used.

“I’ve got to talk to you.” Fisher placed his gnarled hands on Corrigan’s wide shoulders and gripped them as hard as he could,
his whiskey-sour breath turning Corrigan’s stomach. “You’ve got to do something. You’ve got to keep the governor out of Amity. I
don’t know how you can do it, but you can figure something out.”

Corrigan jerked free of Fisher’s grip and stepped back. “Uncle Pete, you’d better go to bed. I’ll bet you haven’t slept any
all night.”

“By glory, that’s right,” Fisher said. “You know I hate that damned Ben Wyatt for what he’s done to me and my town and the
whole state of Colorado, but I don’t want anything to happen that will hurt Amity. That’s why I ain’t slept, and it’s why
I’m telling you that you’ve got to do something . . . anything . . . to keep him out of town.

“I just turned the Owl Creek bunch loose,” Corrigan said. “Are you trying to tell me I should have kept ’em in jail?”

“No, no, no.” Fisher wiped a hand across his eyes. “Everything will be all right if you keep Wyatt from making his speech.
You’ve got to keep him out of town. That’s all. Just turn him around and head him back to the railroad.”

Fisher was almost crying. The corners of his mouth were trembling and his voice was barely audible. Corrigan backed up another
step, not wanting to quarrel with Fisher, but he didn’t have all morning to stand here and argue with an old man who had lost
every nickel he had and, blaming the governor for it, hated him with a passion that was almost insanity.

“Look, Uncle Pete,” Corrigan said, “I’ve got to run “Look, Uncle Pete,” Corrigan said, “I’ve got to run over to Matt’s house.
I want to see Jean a minute before the shebang starts. I’d like to oblige you, but this has gone too far. There’s nothing
I can do to keep Wyatt out of town.”

Fisher began to shake. He tried to say something, but the words wouldn’t come for a time. Finally he blurted: “Damn it, Jerry,
when a man makes a mistake . . . I mean, there must be some way to stop. . . .”

His throat seemed to close up and he wiped a hand across his eyes again. Then he had control of himself. He hurried on: “Jerry,
you’re the only man I can turn to. Matt won’t do anything. Seems like nobody will even listen to me. I reckon I’ve had a drink
or two more’n I should, and I know I’m old and I don’t amount to much any more, but I know what I’m talking about. You’ve
got to keep Ben Wyatt off that platform. If you don’t, you’ll be sorry as long as you live.”

“Uncle Pete, this is going to be a long day,” Corrigan said kindly. “Now, why don’t you go home and get a little sleep, and
then, when you wake up, take care of your beard and mustache. I guess you’re awful worried about something because they’ve
turned white in just the last few hours.”

“No,” Fisher said sharply. “It’s going to stay white from now on. I’m tired of trying to be something I’m not. All right,
you go see your girl, but you think about what I’ve told you. Talk to Matt about it. Between you, I guess, you can think of
some way to stop Wyatt.”

“I’ll think about it,” Corrigan said.

Turning from Fisher, he strode away toward the Dugan house. He wondered what had changed the old man. He hadn’t talked this
way last night. Then Corrigan put Fisher out of his mind. He had greater worries than the warnings of an old exbanker who
was just drunk enough to kick up a cloud of dust trying to keep a man he hated out of town.

XV

Matt Dugan did not sleep during the long night. He’d had his share of worries as a husband, a father, a rancher, a lawman,
and finally as a banker, but in his active and sometimes turbulent life he had never had to face anything like this. He felt
helpless. That was a new feeling and one he didn’t like.

The bedroom did not cool much during the night even with the windows open. By the time it was daylight he felt as if the last
bit of oxygen in the room had been used. He had to get out of here and into some other part of the house.

Nora was still sleeping. She lay on her back breathing regularly, her mouth slightly open. He slipped out of bed, being careful
not to wake her, and, picking up his boots, tiptoed out of the bedroom.

Sammy Bean was sprawled out on the couch, snoring loudly, his parted lips fluttering with each breath. Ross Hart had called
him an idiot, and now with a vacant expression on his face he looked like one. Smith sat in a chair across the room from Bean,
his eyes as bright and sharp as they had been the night before.

Matt sat down on a chair and pulled on his boots. Smith smiled and said pleasantly: “Good morning. Did you sleep well?”

“No,” Matt answered.

He got up and went into the kitchen, expecting Smith to follow him. He built a fire in the range and filled the teakettle
and set it on the front of the stove. Smith didn’t appear. Matt made coffee, filled the wash basin, and scrubbed his face and
hands and combed his hair, but still Smith did not leave the front room.

He didn’t need to, Matt thought bitterly. Nora was in the bedroom. Jean was asleep upstairs. Bud was being held as a hostage.
Sure, Matt could walk right out through the back door and go after a gun or he could fetch Jerry Corrigan and a dozen other
men; he could prevent the money in the bank from being stolen and thus save the dam. All three outlaws would be killed or
captured, and in the process Matt would lose everyone in his family.

Matt stood beside the range, listening to the wood
snap
and
pop.
He had told Nora they would play it out, and now, hours later, he knew that nothing had changed. It was still the only thing
they could do. He filled the firebox with coal and set the scuttle on the floor, and then he was aware that Smith was standing
in the doorway.

“Is your wife asleep?” Smith asked. “Or is she reluctant to wait on her guests under the circumstances?”

“She was asleep when I got up,” Matt said.

“Wake her,” Smith said. “We want our breakfast. You want yours, too. You’ll soon be going about your business as usual. Don’t
forget that for a minute.”

Smith stepped back and Matt walked through the door and went on into the bedroom, his pulse pounding in his temples. It would
help relieve his tension if he gave Smith a verbal cursing, but that was a luxury he could not afford.
Play it out
, he told himself again.
Wait for them to make a mistake. Don’t do anything
to make the situation worse.

Nora woke when he came into the room. She didn’t move or speak. She looked at him, her eyes questioning. He said: “I built
the fire and started the coffee. Smith wants you to get up and cook breakfast. I guess it’s time. I have to get to the bank
and you have to be at the Methodist church at eight to help Hannah Talbot make sandwiches.”

Nora got up. She didn’t say anything as she turned to the bureau and started brushing her hair. Matt watched her a moment,
sensing that she was close to the breaking point. He wasn’t sure she could hold up through these next five or six hours, listening
to the excited chatter of a dozen women while they made sandwiches and not be able to do or say anything that would give away
their secret. That was up to her. He would have his own problem trying to carry on the bank’s business.

He left the bedroom, closing the door behind him. Sammy Bean was sitting up on the couch, yawning loudly and rubbing his eyes.
Matt said to Smith: “She’ll be along in a minute.”

He went into the kitchen, found that the water in the teakettle was hot, and decided he had better shave. He’d get out of
the house as soon as breakfast was over. Everyone would be safer if that were the case. He realized that his nerves were tightening
and that he was about as close to losing his self-control as Nora was.

His right hand, which held the razor, was shaky and he nicked himself on the cheek. By the time he finished shaving and had
washed the lather from his face, the bleeding had stopped. Nora came into the kitchen, glanced at him, and opened her mouth
to say something, then closed it and went on into the pantry. Smith stood in the doorway watching, smiling as if he found
this an amusing situation.

“Get the girl up,” Smith said. “I want her dressed and ready to entertain the sheriff if he comes in.”

Matt nodded and went upstairs. Ross Hart was not in sight. He was probably still in bed in Nora’s sewing room. Matt opened
Jean’s door and stepped into her room. She woke at once, startled, and sat up. Seeing who it was, she sighed and rubbed her
eyes.

“Are they still here?” she whispered.

“They’re still here,” Matt said. “The next four or five hours will be the hard ones. Smith wants you to get dressed and come
downstairs. You’ll have to entertain Jerry if he stops, and he probably will.”

Matt hesitated, thinking about Corrigan’s temper. If he caught on to what was happening, he’d blow everything wide open. He
added: “You’ve got to fool Jerry into thinking that nothing’s wrong. It’ll take the best job of acting you ever did.”

She nodded. “I’ll do the best I can, but you know how Jerry is.”

“Yes, I know,” Matt said.

He returned to the kitchen. Nora was frying bacon and eggs, and making toast in the oven. When they were done, she said: “Butter
the toast, will you, Matt?”

He nodded. As soon as he finished, Smith said: “Put Ross Hart’s breakfast on a plate. He’s staying upstairs. Sammy will take
it to him.”

Nora obeyed and Sammy Bean left the kitchen with the plate and a cup of coffee. Nora motioned toward the table. “Sit down,”
she said.

“Aren’t you going to eat with us, Missus Dugan?” Smith asked with feigned solicitude.

“A cup of coffee is all I want,” Nora said.

She poured her coffee and stood at the stove, sipping it, her gaze on Smith as if he had hypnotized her. Smith laughed softly
as he sat down and filled his plate. He said: “I hope it’s not my company that blunted your appetite, Missus Dugan. You would
find me quite charming if you gave me a chance.”

“I’ve read that in Ceylon they make pets out of cobras,” Nora said, “but I wouldn’t do it.”

Smith frowned. Matt kept on eating, but he covertly watched the outlaw. He wished Nora would keep her mouth shut. There was
nothing to be gained by insulting Smith and for a moment Matt thought the man was going to take Nora’s remark as an insult. Then
he shrugged and smiled.

“I believe she’s complimenting me,” Smith said. “A cobra is dangerous, so I assume Missus Dugan is aware that I am dangerous.”
He reached for the toast, glancing at Nora, then he brought his gaze to Matt. “See to it that your sheriff doesn’t hang around
here all morning. If he hasn’t showed up by the time you leave, tell your girl.”

“He won’t stay,” Matt said. “He’ll have plenty to do downtown and around the courthouse.”

He hesitated, thinking of a question that had been in and out of his mind from the time Jerry Corrigan had got him out of
bed during the night. Smith probably wouldn’t answer it, but he decided to ask anyway. “What was bothering Corrigan last night
when he asked me about Ross Hart? Does he know anything about Hart?”

Smith grinned. “Sure he does. At least the name meant something to him. You see, the real Ross Hart was twenty-one, he was
small and red-headed, and he was a killer. I suppose your young sheriff either remembered that much about him or he went through
his Reward dodgers and read his description. The man upstairs is not really Ross Hart, but we’ll call him that. Not that it
makes any difference, but his first name is Ross.”

“I don’t savvy,” Matt said. “Why did you pick that name?”

“The real Ross Hart was killed a few days ago in a gunfight in Nogales,” Smith said, “but it wasn’t in the papers, so I was
sure nobody up here would have heard about it. The idea was that you and your family would recognize the name and be properly
intimidated.” Smith grinned wryly. “I was wrong. The name didn’t mean a damned thing to any of you, so it wasn’t a good idea,
after all.”

Matt rose as Jean came into the kitchen. He said: “I’d better get along to the bank.”

“Yes, I think you had,” Smith agreed. “I’ve got one more thing to tell you. I want your daughter to hear it, too. The man
upstairs is as much of a killer as the real Ross Hart. Don’t let what I told you change anything.” He nodded at Jean. “He
would kill a woman as soon as he would a man.”

“Damn it,” Matt shouted, “have you got to keep piling it on? We’ll play your game and we’ll go on playing it until we get
a chance. . . .”

He stopped and took a long breath. Smith was baiting him, he thought, and he had let his temper run away with him for a few
seconds. All he had done was to give Smith a little satisfaction.

“You won’t get a chance at anything, Dugan,”Smith said, smiling again. “We do have to keep piling it on. We don’t want you
to forget, not for even one small part of a minute.”

Matt turned to Nora. “You ready to go?”

Nora was looking at Jean. Smith nodded as if he understood. “She’ll be quite safe, Missus Dugan, as long as you remember what
your husband said about playing the game.”

“I couldn’t forget if I tried,” Nora said, and, snatching an apron off a nail behind the stove, ran out of the room.

Matt caught up with her in the hall. She stopped to wait for him, her gaze on him as he put his battered Stetson on his head.
She asked in a low tone: “Will they rape her and kill her? Will she be alive when we come home at noon? And if she is, will
she be a babbling idiot?”

“We have to believe she’ll be all right,” he said.“It’s the only way we can keep her and Bud alive.”

White-faced, Nora nodded, and walked out of the house, her head high. Matt followed her, suddenly proud.
She’s going to be all right
, he thought.
This was
the front she would show Hannah Talbot and the rest of
the women through the morning as they made sandwiches
in the Methodist church.