The Magic Wagon (18 page)

"Now," Albert said, "I got this thing to do. You ain't no part of it. You go over to the livery, get the mules, hitch them up, and get out of here."

"What about you and Rot Toe?"

"I'll come on to the next town later. Hang around a day or so here and see if I can find Rot Toe. I don't come, you just keep on without me."

"I can't do that."

"You're a good boy, Little Buster, but you don't know a thing about fighting men. I used to make a living at it."

"You can't go after him alone. He'll have Blue Hat with him. Maybe someone else. This ain't no dime novel, Albert."

"I don't plan to have no straight draw with him, Little Buster. I'm just going to kill him. I owe that much to Jasmine. I said I'd watch after her boy, and I done all I could. This is the last thing I got to do for her. Get him out of the way. He can't carry on her blood and be the way he is. Ain't right."

"Can't let you go alone, Albert."

"You got no choice. You look plumb sick anyway, Little Buster. You ain't up to it."

"I'm up to it. I'll just follow you if you don't let me go."

Albert sighed. "All right," he said.

He put on the soldier suit. It was a little tight, but still fit him. He stuck the .44 in his belt, put the extra shells for it and the Springfield in a pocket. He gave me the .45. "That kicks," he said. "Use two hands. And remember. You're just the backup, so stay out of it best you can."

I nodded.

We went out of there down the street, and the woods, the buildings, even the sky, seemed to be pushing down on me. It was the fever made it seem that way, I guess. Even the .45 in my hand seemed unreal. The barrel two yards long, the hammer as big as a cucumber. I kept blinking until I brought things into focus, but it didn't stop the throbbing and rushing in my head.

The storm had turned something fierce, and my cap brim had gone soggy and was slapping in my face like the flap on a union suit.

When we got to the saloon, Albert sent me around back. I hoped the door wasn't locked. I wondered if Albert had sent me back there just to get me out of the way.

Jack was still out back. They hadn't gotten around to burying him yet. Even in the wind and rain he had him an aroma. He was all swollen up too. So big, in fact, his shirt had rolled up under his arms and his pale belly looked like a polished, white boulder. Ants and such had been at him. Maybe a stray dog.

I stepped over Jack, put a hand to the door and eased it open. There wasn't a sound in there. No one took a shot at me.

I pushed it open some more and stepped inside, and then I seen why it was so quiet.

Albert had already come in, big as a brass band, the rifle over his left shoulder, the .44 in his right hand.

Everyone was just staring, not quite believing it.

"Nice day, ain't it?" Albert said.

"You got a lot of sand, nigger," Riley said, easing to the middle of the bar.

I stepped in where everyone could see me and said, "You stay away from under there, Mr. Riley," I said. "That Mex's pistol will just get you killed. In fact, you just take it by the barrel and put it up easy on the bar, slide it down to the far end out of the way."

He did.

Albert had the rifle level now, waving it toward Riley and the pistol toward the crowd at the tables. They were all looking very friendly, and every hand was in plain sight, least there he a mistake.

"Where's Billy Bob?" Albert asked.

"Gone to church," Riley said. "He didn't trust no nigger to come here and fight fair. He said to meet him there."

"Anybody with him?"

"Just the kid, Noel. Billy Bob figured you'd bring your boy here. He wanted to even things up."

"Guess that means you had to give Noel back them bullets, huh?" I said.

Riley didn't look at me.

Albert grinned at Riley. "We'll have a whisky, Riley. Set us up a bottle."

"I don't serve niggers. Ain't never. Ain't going to."

Albert whipped the Springfield around and fired. The shot hit the sign that said: WE DONT SERVE NIGGERS, FREED OR OTHERWISE, and knocked it off the wall.

The crowd found places under tables and Riley turned several shades of white, including one that matched Texas Jack's belly.

Riley swallowed, turned, got a bottle and two glasses, put them on the bar, and stepped back.

"No, you pour, Riley," Albert said. "In fact, get you a glass and have one with us."

Riley's face did all manner of tricks, but he got another glass and put it on the bar. Albert went over to the bar and motioned to me. Riley poured us all a drink.

I needed that shot of whisky like I needed a railroad spike in the head, but I drank it. Albert lifted his with Riley, making sure it went down about the same time as the bar-keep's.

"Now wasn't that good?" Albert said. "Me and my old friend, Riley, taking a drink together. We'll do it again, won't we?"

Riley's lip jumped a little.

"Well, it's been fun, but we got to go shoot us some boys," Albert said. He went down the bar, got the Mex's gun, put it in his belt.

We backed out of the bar and through the bat wings, stood out on the boardwalk looking at the storm and the street. Across the way I could see Sled Driver. He'd given the message and got out of there. He was leaning against a building looking at us. I reckon he wanted to see how it all came out, and still be a distance from it. When he seen I was looking at him, he gave me a little wave from the hip, like maybe I ought to be glad to see him.

Why not? He did help me out of the mud. I waved back.

"Well," said Albert, "it's going to take the edge off things if we have to go back in there and ask where the church is."

"I know where it is," I said.

We didn't talk as we walked down the boardwalk. In fact, it was about all I could do to stand. I felt like someone was building a brush fire inside me.

Across the way, pacing us step for step, was Sled Driver. Once I looked back and seen that the crowd from the saloon was following us.

Albert pulled the Mexican's pistol out of his belt and shot at the boardwalk in front of them a few times, and they disappeared down it, and into the saloon like rabbits being chased by a hound.

"They just like to watch," Albert said. "They ain't so much for getting shot at."

"Me neither," I said.

We passed the sled with the horseless carriage on it. The mules had been taken away, but the sheriff was still there, though someone had gone to the effort to set him in the seat of his rig. His head was slumped, and he just looked like he was resting in the rain.

By the time we come to the end of the boardwalk and the overhang, there wasn't nothing but rain and wind and darkness, and that big yellow lightning cutting now and then, and once when it flashed bright we saw the church.

We were almost on top of it. It was small with a cross on the steeple, shutter doors at the top, and a white picket fence around it. At the gate, holding two pistols, was a man.

Albert pushed me away with his elbow, out of the line of them pistols, and the Springfield fell off his shoulder and into his hands, neat as you please, and he fired.

The shot hit the man in the head, and the head went to pieces, like a sack full of straw. It caught on the wind and was whirled away.

The headless man did not fall.

We eased over there, and seen what we should have known. It was Wild Bill Hickok. Billy Bob had tricked us. We had announced ourselves and come into pistol range.

The shutters at the top of the church flung open, and there was Blue Hat. I seen him good in the lightning flash, just before everything went dark, and in that instant he fired, and I jerked my pistol up and fired at where I thought he was.

Blue Hats shot was a good one. It hit Albert in the shoulder and he dropped the Springfield and went to his knees with a groan.

When lightning flashed again, I seen that I had missed Blue Hat. I probably hadn't even hit the church.

I tried to fire again, but before I could, Albert had pulled that Mex's pistol and took a shot.

Blue Hats head popped back, his hat tossed off, then he rocked forward out the window, his pants legs catching on the sill, keeping him hanging until they ripped and he dropped on his head with a sound like a washer-woman slapping out wet laundry on a rock.

The wide, double doors were kicked open then, and there was Billy Bob, looking just like one of them jaspers in a dime novel. He had a pistol in either hand and he was blazing.

Albert had just got back on his feet, and now he was hit a bunch of times. He went backwards, dancing on one foot before he fell in the mud. As he fell, the pistol flew out of his hand and hit me in the side of the head,

I did a little crawfish shuffle, and it was like that lick woke me up, made me crazy.

When lightning flashed again and I seen Billy Bob, I yelled, "Wild Bill," and jerked a shot at him.

Then things went dark again. I stood there with my pistol pointing it where he had been, waiting, and when there was another flash, I seen him. He was lying on the ground. Somehow, I'd hit him.

He got up on his knees and started screaming at me, something about the head of his father and death to all niggers.

Then, before it could go dark again, there came a cut of lightning so thick and long, it was darn near bright as high noon.

I shot at him again.

And missed.

But he didn't.

He fired twice, and had he not been hurt, I don't figure they'd have been wounds but kill hits. One shot tore my right shoulder and the other hit me low and in the left side. I sort of melted to the ground,

That long chain of lightning finally played out, and while it was dark, I wallowed around in the mud, trying to get turned back toward the church, and trying to find my pistol or the one Albert had tossed.

Then there was lightning again.

Billy Bob wobbled to his feet, staggered for the gate. He was coming to finish me at close range. It seemed just as well to me right then. I hurt something awful.

The storm turned wilder and the lightning did like before, only really noisy this time, sizzling like bacon in a hot pan, and it was so bright it hurt my eyes.

And then there was someone beside Billy Bob. I didn't see where he came from, probably out of the woods and leaped the gate, but I thought at first it was a man in a buffalo coat. But it was Rot Toe.

Rot Toe hooted and slapped his chest with both hands, stretching tall as he could. Billy Bob stepped back, shot the ape in the chest.

Rot Toe didn't even slow down. He ran at Billy Bob and grabbed him in a hug, pinning Billy Bobs arms and pistols to his sides.

Finally the light went away, and it was dark for some time before it flashed again, and now it came in short bursts, one right after the other.

Rot Toe had Billy Bob by the back of the collar now, and was dragging him. He reached the vine-covered latticework beside the door and started up it, dragging Billy Bob with him.

Wild Bill Daniels still had his pistols, and he was trying to turn and get a shot at Rot Toe, but the way the ape was holding him, he couldn't get twisted for it.

When the ape had him halfway up the church, Billy Bob finally managed to get turned enough to shoot Rot Toe in the foot.

Rot Toe went wild, scuttled on up the latticework, some of it cracking beneath him, then he jumped for the open loft doors, hit with one foot on the sill, and caught the roof with his other hand. He never let go of Billy Bob with the other, and Billy Bob never let go of them damn pistols.

Rot Toe swung hard and up onto the roof, cranking Billy Bob up after him. When Billy Bob's boots touched the roof, he tried to get them under him, but he couldn't. Rot Toe, using one arm and his feet, started climbing the steeple.

They reached the top, and hanging by one hand to the cross. Rot Toe began to flap Billy Bob against the steeple with all his might, screeching all the while. The wind was so high, I reckoned it would blow them off, but Rot Toe held.

The sky got full of lightning again, that long-lasting, sizzling kind, and the wind howled louder than Rot Toe could screech.