The Warriors (20 page)

He tried a machine gun against flashing lights that were supposed to be Jap and Kraut pilots. He fired at a light that flickered across a board which was meant to be a plane in the sky. There was a loud-speaker by his side and he heard the sound of machine guns and the dive-roar of pursuit planes, but it sounded as if it came from far away and it was unsatisfying, even though he had shot down a lot and made a high score: the gun didn't even make his hand shake. He left it and moved around the arcade, eating candies, wondering why he was still hungry. He couldn't stop eating. People hung around, giving him the hard look-over, sizing and figuring, trying to see if he was fish for their catching. He didn't dare to linger anywhere too long. He tried to keep looking cool, as cool and hard as he could, in spite of his clothes, showing that he was preyer, not prey. They eyed him and they eyed his pin. He knew the pin was a come-on, a
cause to fight. Everyone saw you belonged, had something, were something; it made them mad and they wanted to take it from you and make you the way they were. He couldn't take off the pin because it would reduce him to the others.

He passed a booth. Someone was standing at the end of a narrow aisle, watching him, and he turned around. The cowboy was about six feet two, wide-shouldered, and his arms were perpetually crooked into the fast-draw position. His face was young, manly, clean; the eyes were blue and innocent; the hat was tilted low over his eyes; the cowboy wore a fancy blue-checked Western shirt with white piping, a scarlet silk bandanna, a white ten-gallon hat, and the holsters on his flanks held low-slung forty-fives, big and menacing. He wore a badge. He was the sheriff.

The sheriff was set back about ten feet from a counter and a sign announced, T
RY YOUR LUCK WITH THE FASTEST DRAW IN THE WEST
—
ONLY
10¢. There was a town painted around three sides of the sheriff; his wide stance blocked the main street. The lights from above beat down like sunlight on the nearest part of the yellow-painted town; it looked hot and Western. Behind the sheriff it was cooler, green, inviting. There was a railing in front of the booth, a coinbox on the railing, and a stiffened ammunition belt curved to step into as if you were wearing it. There were two holstered guns attached to the belt with electric wire.

Hinton thought it over while he ate a fruit bar. He could smell burning coffee; the waves of grill-heat became like the heat from sunbaked rocks, or off the hot building planks. Beyond the sheriff, it looked cool; there would be a bar there; you could get a drink and rest a long while. The figure gazed back at him; the blue eyes were lifeless, staring everywhere. If that sheriff were alive, how tough he would be, Hinton thought, how much tougher than any headbuster, in spite of the bland face.

Hinton knew all about it; he had seen The Duel, the Fair One, ever since he had been an infant. He had seen it in the movies,
seen it on the streets, seen it in the newsreels; they told about it in school; he had acted it out a thousand times. And it only took a dime to make the sheriff live. Of course the bullets weren't real; the risk was a fake one, Hinton told himself. But still . . . Hinton fished a dime out of his pocket and stepped into the belt. It was lowslung so he could clear the holster without trouble. He put a dime into the coinbox.

The eyes lit up. The face menaced. The sheriff lived. The lights beat down harder, making the tired scene-paint more real and unbearable, and the land the sheriff blocked more inviting. The hot lights began to make the figure of the sheriff misty, hard to see in the sunglare. The sheriff spoke; “I'm the Law of this here town and I'm here to protect it. And if you think any varmint like you is a-goin' to ride in here, a-makin' trouble, why mister, you've got another think comin', because you're a-goin' to have to get past me.”

The words made Hinton angry—they were so scornfully spoken—putting him down when he hadn't even done anything.

“Now, I'm a-goin' to count to three and when I do, I want you out of this town. But if you're not gone, you just better come out firin'. You draw them pistols. You cock 'em. And when I say to fire; you fire. And we'll see who wins the showdown in three shots.

“Y'ready?” the sheriff asked and then, louder, angrier, “There's no room for your kind on the streets of El Dorado. This is a law-abidin' town and we aim to keep it that-a-way. Clear out, you polecat, or I'm a-goin' to run you in. You won't? All right then, One. Two. Three.” And the sheriff's arms drew the pistols out of the holsters and moved them up and pointed them at Hinton. The eyes blazed. He looked at the two barrel circles. It was enough to make him shaky. He was almost ready to turn away; for a second he forgot to draw. “Fire,” the sheriff said.

Hinton drew, cocked, but the pistols of the sheriff fired before
he got them halfway up. Hinton flinched and he shot. There was a sound of bullets ricocheting close.

And the sheriff's voice was saying, “Got you, you varmint. Winged you, didn't I? What? Need another lesson? Well then prepare to draw again.” The arms were returning the guns to the holsters. Hinton stuffed his guns back and crouched to fire again. People were watching from the side and behind him. He paid them no mind, concentrating on his draw, looking hard, watching for the sheriff's play.

The sheriff's tough, angry eyes tried to stare Hinton down: Hinton faced up to him. The voice droned at Hinton: Hinton pressed his lips tightly. He wouldn't let himself be put down. The sheriff said, “Now.” Hinton drew, cocked, shot, and hoped the bullet entered the sheriff's heart. Body would jerk back, chest would rip apart, blood of the man who put Hinton down would gush out. He heard the report of the guns. The voice of the sheriff mocked Hinton, telling him that he hadn't done it again. He had one shot left.

Hinton slid the guns into the holster. His whole body tensed now. He forgot the heat. He forgot the tiredness. He forgot his bad heel. He set his hat low on his forehead; he touched his pin; he straightened his war cigarette. He hunched his shoulders quickly once, twice, and pulled his sweaty pants free from his balls. Around him, he could see the distorted faces, the glistening eyes, hungry to see a good man put down. A fat-shouldered fairy was making remarks about him. Crazy kids, all weirds watched. He saw them out of the side of his eyes. He leaned forward. He drew at the command, cocked, and fired. Who could fast-draw better than Hinton? Bullets whistled by again and ricocheted. The mocking voice of the sheriff was telling him to get out of town, to keep on moving along. He had lost the fight.

He straightened out. His muscles were stiff from holding that
tense posture. Of course. They always rigged it against you. They always put you down and you had to teach them a lesson, but good, to show them. But you couldn't do it if you did it their way. He stuck the guns back into the holsters regretfully. They felt heavy and satisfying and he was sorry to let them go. He wished they were real—then he'd show them. He reached into his pocket and took out a small box of chocolate-covered raisins and lifted his head high and poured the whole packet into his mouth. He limped slowly away, chewing his mouth clear of them.

He thought he should go back to the station platform to see if the Family had made it back. He walked around the arcade and looked at the other shooting galleries and the pinball games. Flipheads hung around; the Other hurried through, never seeing it. He passed the newsstand where he had bought all the candy. The headlines said something about a gangland-style killing. Another paper's headline said that there had been a big rumble uptown where thousands had been involved. He turned the page to read about it, but it took him too long to make out what it said. The man told him to leave the paper alone and move on if he wasn't going to buy. Hinton yawned and wondered if he should buy some more candy.

A seven-year-old kid came up to him and asked him for a dime, but he ignored the punk. He walked past a window with man-sized pictures of naked girls and he stopped to stare at them. Underneath was a pile of dusty astrology magazines, five cents apiece. His mother was always looking up her horoscope to figure out what was a good omen and what was evil any day, so she could know what she should do and what she shouldn't. Hinton put no faith in these things. Norbert, he was always saying that if he knew what the future held for him, man, what couldn't he do, what races couldn't he win. A silly dream. Hinton turned back to the naked girls, looking at their big, slick-paper
breasts, shining. The kid came up again and asked Hinton to give him a dime so he could go home because he was stranded. He looked down at the kid but saw the wise, conning look; that kid didn't need any money to go home, Hinton decided: He was home—here. The kid seeing Hinton's skeptical look, said to him that he really needed the money for a drink. Hinton shook his head. The kid acted twitchy and said he needed a fix. Hinton shook his head. Then the kid looked at him, and looked up at the pin in Hinton's hat, and wanted to know if Hinton wanted to have him, because for a dollar, he would do anything Hinton wanted. Hinton was about to smack the kid, but he saw one of those wild ones looking at him, waiting for the action, and he turned away instead. He walked till he came back to the sheriff, standing under the hot lights, blocking the dusty street, waiting for Hinton.

Hinton put another dime into the slot and had another round with the sheriff and lost again. Well, he thought, drifting along out of town, it was expected—fixed. Everyone understood that. His scraped palm hurt from holding the knurled butt of the pistol. He ate some more candy and then had another hot dog and French-fries, and leaned against the counter of the stand and sipped iced tea with seven heaped teaspoons of sugar stirred into the tea, and chewed pieces of sweet candy. He looked as if he was staring at the passing people, but he was really looking over that old sheriff. No one else tried the game. That meant everyone knew it was fixed. Then he had an idea. When he finished eating he went over to try again.

Wounded Hinton, bruised Hinton, tired and drifting Hinton, Hinton the outcast, set himself against the town and its sheriff. He fought for his Family; he fought for his pin; he fought for himself. While the sheriff was sounding him and boasting and making his rep big—hadn't he put down a thousand pitiful outlaws—Hinton drew the guns and cocked them. And when the
word came, he fired just a fraction of a second ahead of the sheriff. This time the voice cried out in pain and told him, all right, he had won it this time. But there were two more chances and it was best out of three.

The figure stood there. Did it lean a little to the side? Did blood ooze from a hole in the shoulder, staining the front of that fancy western shirt? Did a look of pain make that impassive face a little whiter? Did it twitch? Hinton's guns were cocked and he was waiting before the word came to drawcockandfire. He won a second time because the gun leaped in his hand and it spurted fire first; hot lead sprung across the gap, and crumpled the man who had shot him down and moved him on and wouldn't let him live. Was there a new hole ripped into that flesh? The yelp of pain was joyful to Hinton and he grinned. The little kid pulled at his coat, asking him for a dime again, and he put the smoking gun down, dug, gave the kid a dime, and got ready for the third shot. He won that one too; he got the sucker right in the eyeball.

Hinton, very tired, straightened slowly in spite of his wounds, sucked in air, and felt new now—a man. He had faced up to and beaten the sheriff. He could have won another round, but he had the sense to put the guns away now, even though he was entitled to a free fight. He turned and walked away, began to strut through the arcade, and out; it was time to go and see if the Family had made it back.

The fag sounded him one more time and he wondered if he shouldn't go with the fag and have a kick or two and then deck the fag and take his money. But the fag was no slender boy himself, but big enough, able to take care of himself, and that simpering, pleading look ambushed something hard. He moved on, paid another token, and went down to the station. A couple leaned in a corner; he couldn't tell if they were men or women, but they were shielded by a spread-out raincoat and doing something.
People passing didn't stop them. A transit bull standing nearby didn't see a thing.

When he got there, Dewey and The Junior had come and were looking around nervously, ready to cut out. They wanted to know where the others were. He didn't know; everyone had been separated. He told them that they would make it home by the next Coney Island train. They looked a little uncomfortable, as if they were deserting, but they were really glad enough to go. He gave them the order feeling good now, feeling strong, and they took his command because that took the responsibility away from them. They sensed his new strength now and they were under
him
now, even though Dewey was Hinton's elder brother.

When their train came, they got on, sat down. Hinton almost fell asleep. The Junior opened his comic book, but his eyes kept shutting as—though he had read it before—he tried to begin again.

It was only a matter of coasting home. Exhaustion relaxed them. But two more things happened on the way home.

The train, as always at this hour, was slow. It had gotten well into Brooklyn. Dewey, sitting between Hinton and The Junior, fell asleep. They sat in a corner, under one of those D
OES SHE OR DOESN'T SHE
ads, where a young, beautiful woman leans over a little boy, almost kissing him on the mouth. The ad says it's about hair dye. The Family always had fun with that one.

Hinton kept dozing off. The Junior was blearily reading again, the part about where the big battle had taken place in front of Babylon and the leader of the Rebel army had been slain and the Greek heroes were trying to decide what they would do now. Two couples got on the train, blond-hair crew-cuts and their doll-eyed
girls. They were wearing fancy evening clothes as if they had just come from a dance—a prom maybe. They were big boys, football-player types, and they gave the three men a hard look even though they hadn't done anything. Hinton half-saw and woke up to those cold, contemptuous stares. What right did those squares have to look at them that way? What had the Family done to them? They were minding their own business, weren't they?