Billy swore with surprised pain, as his gun exploded. The bullet, instead of catching Ann in the heart, was off to the side. She sprawled on the street. Billy, despite the blood spurting from his cheek, started to fire again, aware of only one thing now: to kill that girl.
But Hugh Stewart, in motion almost at the moment that Reverend Andrews had thrown the can, came over the counter, followed by a swift Reverend Andrews. Hugh Stewart knocked the gun from Billy’s hand.
But Billy, back to reality, suddenly squirmed away. Reverend Andrews dived at him. Billy reacted like a crazed jackrabbit. He was not thinking any more, but simply reacting in purely animal terms. He went straight for the front of the store and threw himself through the already punctured window, smashing through it with his broken arm, spinning on the snow outside, then scrambling to his feet and running straight down the street.
“Get him!” Sheriff-elect Jenkins breathed to Deputy Wade Miles.
And Wade Miles, with smooth and professional dexterity, flashed out from behind a car with machine gun in hand.
He danced to the side in beautiful rhythm in order to get Billy Quirter into a range where he would hit nobody else. Then he fired. He moved, fired, moved, fired, the staccato jerk of his gun matching the short crazy chops Billy Quirter, being cut to pieces, made with his legs.
Billy went sprawling as the bullets licked at him. And Deputy Wade Miles kept it up, reinserting one more clip and putting one final burst into the now motionless form of Billy Quirter, as Billy’s blood turned the snow red.
Wade Miles finally quit, standing just a few feet from the sprawled body. He wiped a hand across his mouth, eyes colder than the winter wind blowing in from the fields around.
Harvey Jenkins came up and put a hand on his shoulder. “Nice going, Wade.”
Wade Miles nodded briefly, then turned and walked evenly with the sheriff back to where Dr. Hugh Stewart knelt beside an unmoving Ann. A few seconds later, the doctor from Graintown, Dr. Edward Orwell, came up and bent beside Hugh Stewart. He examined the wound with Hugh Stewart and finally said, “Bad, I’m afraid.”
“That’s right,” Hugh Stewart said softly.
Dr. Orwell shook his head. “I’m not that good a surgeon.”
Hugh Stewart straightened. “I am.”
When the surgery was over, Dr. Hugh
Stewart stood in his office beside the still figure of Ann and smiled at Dr. Orwell. Dr. Orwell put out his hand and shook hands solemnly with Hugh Stewart. “I’m truly amazed. The finest work I’ve seen. Tremendous nerve and control—after what you’ve been through, knowing what you told me about how you feel about this girl. Perfect skill. You shouldn’t be here, Doctor. You should be somewhere where that kind of talent can be used every day.”
Hugh Stewart stood silent for a moment, then turned to look at the beautiful still face of the girl he loved. “I think,” he said, “we will be moving on, Doctor.”
Below, inside Bob Saywell’s store, Bob Saywell lay shaking on one of the tables, while his wife kept sniffling. One by one, the natives of Arrow Junction filed in, looking at the blood on the floor, at the shattered window, then quietly, respectfully, after a curious glance at the quivering Bob Saywell, shook the hand of a calm Reverend John Andrews—the word of his conduct had spread as quickly as any word had ever spread in Arrow Junction.
Reverend Andrews, sitting with Lottie, looked his subjects in the eye, knowing that never again would he feel insufficient in front of them and thanking the Good Lord for that knowledge. At the same time he was praying for the soul of Ted Burley, even for the soul of Billy Quirter, and hoping that some purification might sometime come to Bob Saywell before his time was up.
Sheriff-elect Jenkins drove back to Graintown with Deputy Wade Miles beside him. Just a mile out of town, as they watched the new Chrysler of Sam Dickens pull into a motel on the outskirts of town, Wade Miles said calmly, “I been thinking, what with you taking over now, and me behind you as deputy, this ain’t no county to fool with any more. What do you think, Harvey?”
Harvey Jenkins smiled briefly, feeling a tremendous calm. He nodded. “I think you’re right, Wade.”
And Sam Dickens, as he helped Gloria out of the car in front of the motel unit he’d just rented, looked at her with a tender, happy smile that was obliterated by the tape on his face.
She looked back at him, detecting the smile nevertheless and returning it rather shyly, dropping her lashes just a bit, just as she had when he’d first talked to her.
He felt awfully good, despite the cuts on his face. And he was no more worried about things coming up than Harvey Jenkins was. He was ready. Ready for anything, including Johnny Masters at the studio, or anyone else who came along after Johnny Masters.
They walked slowly up to the door. Then suddenly—just at the precise time Tony Fearon knew finally and totally that Billy hadn’t made it,
knew
it somehow, and started screaming his bitterness to the walls and bars—suddenly Gloria stopped Sam Dickens, looked up at him, blinked, and said, “Why don’t you carry me in, Sam? You know. Like we did the first time? Like the first time after we were married?”
Sam looked at her and nodded. “That’s not a bad idea, Glory. That’s not a bad idea at all.”