A Time For Hanging (8 page)

He wasn't fond of trouble, and it was time that he was leaving Sharpsville anyway.
 
These two wouldn't have anything good to say about him when they woke up, and it was for sure they wouldn't tell anyone the truth of the matter.
 
Most likely they would lie and say that he had been the one who attacked them and took all their money. It would be easier for them to admit that than to say they had lost it all gambling.

He'd just go over to the livery and get his horse, head on down the road.
 
It was late, but that didn't make much difference.
 
He'd gone without sleep before.

He'd move on down to Dry Springs, trim a few suckers, and maybe ride down into Mexico for a spell.
 
He'd heard the Mexicans were big gamblers, and it was high time he found out for himself.

He whistled tunelessly as he walked on down the street, not looking back to the two who lay in the alley.

He had forgotten them already.

The sun woke Willie Turner, shining under the brim of his hat and hitting him right in the eyes.

It had been doing that a lot more lately, and he was a little worried about it.
 
A man of his age ought not to be sleeping outside all night without even a blanket.
 
Wasn't good for the bones.

It took Willie a while to get accustomed to the light and to get his eyes open, but when he did he looked around him.
 
He was behind Danton's saloon, sort of leaned up against the wall.
 
There was a rain barrel propping him up on one side, and he could see the outhouse a few yards away, not far from the shacks where one or two of the saloon girls lived, the ones Danton didn't allow to have rooms upstairs.

Willie closed his eyes again.
 
The sun was giving him a terrible headache, on top of the one he already had.
 
He felt like there was a bucking broncho inside his head, kicking him right behind the eyes, and he wondered just how much he'd had to drink the night before.

It scared him a little that he couldn't remember.

It was getting to be that way more and more.
 
He'd wake up somewhere, and he couldn't remember how he got there or where he'd been before he got there.

He thought about it for a few minutes, his shoulder rubbing on the barrel, but it didn't do any good.
 
He was there, but that was it.
 
How much he'd drunk or where he'd been the night before were as blank as the blue sky that hung over Dry Springs.

Something almost came to him then, something that made his head slump suddenly forward and his knees jerk up as if he were going to jump up and run.

Something had happened last night, something bad.

Really bad.

Willie hugged himself tightly as if he were cold and rocked gently back and forth, moaning.
 
He was scared spitless.

After a minute or two, however, he recovered himself.
 
What was there to be scared of?
 
Something had happened, and it had been awful, but he could not for the life of him recall what it had been.
 
What was wrong with him?
 
Why couldn't he remember?

He sat a little straighter and pulled his had brim down so the sun didn't bother him quite so much.

Hell, why should he worry about not bein' able to remember?
 
That was why he'd taken up drinkin' in the first place, wasn't it?
 
So as not to remember?

Trouble was, he could remember all the things he didn't want to.
 
He could remember Laura Lee just fine, see her face shinin' and smilin' and see her brown hair hangin' around it.
 
He could see their baby, too, a little girl, it was.
 
Laughin' and takin' on, grabbin' at her daddy's finger.

That was theyway they'd been before the fever took 'em, and the only blessing in Willie's life was that he could remember them that way and not as they had been in the last days of the fever, just before they'd died.

What was it the preacher had said?
 
Randall, that was his name.
 
"Ashes to ashes, dust to dust?"
 
Somethin' like that.
 
And somethin' about the sun also arising and going down and generations passing away, not one bit of which made a damn bit of difference to Willie.

If it was meant as a comfort it missed the mark by a long sight, and since that time the only comfort Willie had found was in a bottle.

He could afford it.
 
He'd sold his little farm and was determined to drink up the proceeds.
 
He figured he'd be able to drink himself to death before he ran out of money, and he hoped he could.
 
He was too much of a coward to shoot himself, though it would have been a good bit quicker and probably cleaner in the long run.

Clean was one thing that Willie was not.
 
He couldn't recall his last bath, but he had slept out in the rain a time or two and so he figured that counted as a wash.

He hadn't changed clothes in quite a spell, either, and he knew he smelled to high heaven.
 
Well, it didn't bother him, and to hell with anyone it did.

Using the wall, he pushed himself up.

He knew exactly what he needed.
 
He needed a drink.

He moved away from the wall.
 
His first step was somewhat unsteady, but by the time had gone four or five steps he was getting the hang of it and was walking almost normally.
 
He entered the alley beside the saloon, appreciating the cool shade it offered.
 
Feeling a wave of dizziness, he rested for a minute, steadying himself with a hand on the wall.

After a while the dizziness passed and he went on down the alley.
 
When he got to the end, he shaded his eyes with his hand. The street was not busy yet, but there were several wagons moving and some horses were tied to the hitching post in front of Danton's Saloon.
 
They stood there calmly, twitching their sides when flies landed on them.

He stepped up on the walk and entered the saloon.
 
There was hardly anyone in there at this hour.
 
Lane Harper was behind the bar, and several men were leaning on it, talking to Harper in low voices.

Aside from them, there was no one.
 
Roscoe, the piano player, would not be in until late afternoon, and few of the girls would be around before that time.
 
Willie didn't care.
 
He wasn't interested in music or women.
 
All he wanted was a drink.

He walked over to the bar.
 
The conversation, which had been hushed to begin with, stopped altogether when he got there.

He didn't give a damn.
 
He reached into the pocket of his ragged jeans and came up with a coin.

"Whiskey," he said, putting the coin on the bar.

"Early, ain't it?" Harper said.
 
"Even for you."

Willie didn't say anything.
 
Talking made his head hurt.
 
He just waited, and Harper poured him a shot in a grimy glass, took the coin, and left Willie's change on the bar.

Willie knocked the drink back.
 
He felt better almost at once.
  
He knew the feeling would not last; it never did.
 
But it was enough to get him going for the day.

He looked down the bar.
 
Turley Ross was there, and Len Hawkins.
 
Harl Case, too.
 
To Willie, they looked to be in bad shape.
 
Their eyes were as red as his probably were, and they were all scowling.
 
Come to think of it, Harper didn't look so good himself.

"You fellas look like you could use a drink," Willie told them.

"Just go on off and leave us alone," Ross said.

"Don't think so," Willie said.
 
"Gimme another one, Lane."

Harper poured another drink.
 
Willie took his time with this one, waiting to see if the men would resume their conversation.

Finally they did.

"Be a damn shame if he got away with it," Ross said.
 
"You never know what can happen in a trial."

"You think we oughta do somethin' ourselves?" Harper said.

"It ain't the time to be thinkin' of that," Harl Case said.
 
"He's in the jail now.
 
We got to let the law handle it."

"Handle what?" Willie said.

Ross gave him a speculative look, as if wondering whether to tell him.
 
"Paco Morales," he said.
 
"He killed a woman last night."

"Paco did?
 
I can't hardly believe that," Willie said.
 
"He's just a kid."

"Well, he killed her just the same," Len Hawkins said, running a hand over his bald head.
 
"We seen it."

"Who'd he kill?"

"That preacher's daughter, Lizzie Randall."

Willie Turner's stomach contracted itself into a knot and he doubled over at the bar, dropping his empty glass and clutching at himself.

"Sonofabitch is gonna puke," Harper said.
 
"Get him outta here before he does it."

Turner was already coughing from deep within himself.
 
Turley Ross, who was closest to him, got him turned around and headed in the direction of teh door.
 
Then he planted his foot in the middle of Willie's backside and pushed.

Willie went stumbling out the door, across the boardwalk, and into the middle of the street.
 
He stood there hunched over and retched, bringing up a thin green bile along with the whiskey he had just drunk. It splattered into the dust of the street and on Willie's boots.
 
It could have been worse, but Willie could not recall the last time he'd had a real meal.

There was still hardly anyone on the street, and no one noticed Willie as he stood there heaving, bent over with his hands braced on his knees.

Paco Morales had killed Lizzie Randall, he thought.
 
That wasn't right.
 
He was sure it wasn't right.

He staggered back into the alley, into the shade.

Lizzie Randall.
 
That was the bad thing that had happened.
 
He could see the blood.
 
It was all over her.
 
He leaned a shoulder against the wall and heaved again, but nothing came up.

Lizzie Randall.
 
Jesus, he was scared.

He had to have a drink.
 
No, not a drink.
 
That wasn't what he needed right now.
 
What he needed was a bottle. A full bottle.

Maybe two.

"She wasn't stabbed," Bigby had told Vincent when the sheriff had arrived at the doctor's office.
 
Just cut real bad, slashed, you might say.
 
That's why there was so much blood.
 
What killed her was the beatin'."
 
He wasn't smiling as much as he usually did.

Vincent found it hard to believe that there was anyone in Dry Springs who could do a thing like that, and he said so to Bigby.

"Anybody can do anything," Bigby said, shaking his head.
 
"You put them in the right place at the right time, they can do anything."

"Where's the body now?"

"I called Rankin.
 
He came and got it."

Rankin was the undertaker.

"Think he can do anything with her?" Vincent said.

"You mean make her look better?
 
Maybe a little."
 
Bigby didn't sound as if he held out much hope.

"The Randalls might be comin' by here.
 
You send 'em on to Rankin's," Vincent said.

"They took it pretty hard, I guess."