Andromeda Gun (8 page)

Not once did he speculate about his unusual desire to read the Bible, because the unnatural act fitted well into his extraordinary day. Consciously, he knew only that he wanted to read something, anything. This morning he had been embarrassed to admit in the presence of a schoolteacher that he had read so little, and what reading he had done never led him to the opinion that it was dangerous, as Liza averred.

Still, Liza had a point. Billy Peyton’s dime novels and his jealousy toward Bacon had cost the Mormon a finger. Ian could not understand why John Milton would gun down the widow’s husband for reading a book—the widow, yes; John Milton, no—but he could understand that there might be indirect perils to the pastime. Reading in the half light of a cloudy afternoon might weaken a gunfighter’s eyes and eventually get him killed.

Above and beyond Ian’s educational embarrassment, which was accompanied by a sense of futility—he realized that at this late date any attempt to shore up his ignorance would be the equivalent of a limber finger in a very porous dike—he was impelled to the Bible by a peculiar interest which, somehow, seemed natural. Ordinarily, his interest in celestial beings was equal to, but did not exceed, his interest in hagiology. Winchester’s description of angels as beings of light had stirred his curiosity, and, in effect, he was unconsciously checking Winchester’s sources for the preacher’s report on the halo effect.

Now that he was getting the hang of reading, he skimmed through the “begats” of the Old Testament, finding few references to heaven and fewer to angels. In Genesis, however, he paused for a long moment to consider a passage:

And it came to pass… that the sons of God saw the daughters of men and found them fair; and they took them wives of all which they chose.

The man’s eyes had found a clue to a mystery the man was not even aware of, and Ian thought he paused over the passage to consider the mechanical problems involved in such an arrangement. From his very limited knowledge of angels, he did not think they were equipped for marriage, but he was not one to argue against the Bible.

Also, he did not know that he regarded the paragraph as a reliquary for an ancient truth.

With varying degrees of interest he read on through twenty-one books of the Bible until, as the still-clouded sun moved toward setting and the day waned outside the window, he came to Solomon’s Song. He muttered aloud, “No wonder this hombre had a thousand wives.”

Here was raw material aplenty for courting a schoolteacher, though some of it was a little too raw; he could never tell Gabriella his bowels were moved for her. Sometimes the language was a little too less or too much. Gabriella’s breasts were not like those of a young roe; she could give a few inches to any deer he had seen. And her face was not as terrible as an army with banners, not to a man who had lain behind the breastworks at Marye’s Heights and watched the blue-bellied Yankees climb the hill. Still, allowing for the lapses, Solomon was a master of sweet talk.

Reluctantly Ian closed the book and laid it aside. Further reading would strain his eyes, and a lighted lamp in the room might reveal him to some Mormon sharp-shooter outside with a rifle. Laying his pistol atop the Bible, he spread-eagled on the pallet, hearing the beginning tinkle of Bain’s piano with the “plonk” on the middle D and thinking of the breasts of women. Whoever Solomon sang to must have been more like Gabe than Liza, else Solomon wouldn’t have spent so many compliments on thighs and navels. The widow’s bosom would have hogged the works, for verily, her breasts were like melons, Stone Mountain watermelons.

Visions of watermelons flowed so naturally into Ian’s mind he found the thought no more unusual than his session with the Bible, or the after-feeling that he had been searching the Scriptures for something more definite than spiritual guidance or salvation. He yawned and stretched, thinking: Next to killing Colonel Blicket, there’s nothing I’d like better than a piece of watermelon.

At six in the morning Ian awakened, resolved to carry out Sunday’s plan; get deputized this Monday; bust a bronc, rob the bank on Tuesday; then ride out of the deserted town on the fastest horse in Wyoming. He drank half a glass of water for breakfast and walked over to the sheriff’s office. Following the sound of snores, he found Sheriff Faust asleep in a jail cell at the rear of the building.

Ian reached down and shook the man awake. Faust opened his eyes, raised himself on one elbow, and asked, “Huh?”

“Winchester sent me over to get deputized. You’re looking at your new deputy.”

Faust listened, lay back, and spoke with his eyes closed, “Go take an inventory of the armory, then look over the wanted posters on my desk. File them according to real name, not alias, and try to memorize the descriptions. Soon as I wake up, I’ll swear you in.”

Faust resumed snoring.

Ian walked forward between twin rows of cells, four cells on each side with one bunk to the cell, and his mind continued to attack the problem he was not yet committed to solving. If he were to build the road for Shoshone Flats, a jail housing eight men would not be big enough for the twelve or fourteen men he would need on the work gang, unless some of the prisoners slept on the floor.

Ian looked into the armory, an upright cupboard without a lock. On a side shelf was a box of shells for a sawed-off shotgun, the only modern piece in the gun rack. There was a muzzle loading flintlock without rifling in the barrel such as he had first been issued when he joined the C. S. Army and a chain with sixteen leg irons which had probably been used for transporting slave coffles before the war. He took the padlock from the coffle chain, tested the hasp, and locked the armory, dropping the key in his pocket. He decided to keep the cupboard locked. The shotgun would be immobilized for Tuesday’s operation, and the rest of the equipment might be of value to a museum.

Piled high on a corner of the sheriff’s desk, the wanted posters were covered with dust, the bottom ones yellowed with age. Sheriff Faust had not looked at the circulars for years, but Ian was interested in the law’s comments on his friends. He riffled through the top layer and tossed three of the first ten posters into the wastebasket. They were badly in need of updating.

Billy the Kid had been killed by Pat Garrett down in Mexico, Joe Burke lay in the Tombstone, Arizona, boothill. Ian himself had killed Frank Casper in Mexico, when Frank paid Ian’s favorite girl an extra peso for her services. Casper’s death was not officially known since the
rurales
were lax about records; but it would become officially known as soon as Ian was deputized, so he tossed Casper into the wastebasket.

In the second segment he lifted from the pile, he found one he tore up in a sudden spasm of anger.

WANTED—$50 REWARD

Ian McCleod, alias Johnny Loco. Gray eyes, sandy hair, medium weight, medium height, medium build. This man’s nondescript appearance makes him hard to identify. The alias, Loco, was given to him because in playing poker he always draws to an inside straight. Wanted for questioning in several petty thefts and for the murder of his accomplice, Jesus Garcia, a Mexican vagrant.

The poster went as far wrong as it could go. His last name was not spelled right, and he was called Loco because he killed any man who fooled around with his women. Colonel Blicket, with the sergeant, had killed Hey You Garcia—his first name was not spelled right either—and their holdup of a cavalry train guarding the Army payroll had not been petty theft. After the heist and before they split—Ian to decoy the horse soldiers up a draw—Hey You reckoned the pouch he carried contained over $6,000 in greenbacks.

The colonel had taken Ian’s cash and the law his credit.

Ian was still riled when he came across a poster which charged him with greater anger.

$5,000 REWARD—DEAD OR ALIVE

Jasper Blicket, alias the Colonel, alias Rawhead. Wanted for murder, robbery, horse theft, arson, rape and pillage. Approximately 6′6″ tall. Weighs about 170. Very skinny. Completely bald. Black eyes sunk deep in sockets. Teeth shows when he grins. Former colonel in Quantrill’s Guerrillas, he plans and executes his forays in a military manner while wearing the uniform of a colonel, C.S.A. Rides a giant gray. (See Morley, Joe)

Ian smiled an ironic smile as he riffled through the posters, looking for Morley, Joe. A man worth $50 himself was soon going to kill a man whose official value was ten times as much.

$3,000 REWARD—DEAD OR ALIVE

Joe Morley, alias The Sergeant, alias the Monk. Wanted for murder, robbery, horse theft. Short, 5′5″, broad, with low, sloping forehead and sloping shoulders. Hair black, almost kinky, and close cropped. Extremely long arms and short legs. No visible neck. Member of Colonel Jasper Blicket’s gang. Wears Confederate kepi with sergeant’s chevrons.

Ian filed the live posters in the cabinet except for those of Blicket and The Sergeant which he took to the front of the building and nailed on the wall next to the ordinance forbidding the discharge of firearms inside the town limits. Ian considered his act an idle gesture of goodwill toward a town which entrusted him with office. He did not know that within him another was laying longer-ranged plans.

Ian’s pounding awakened the sheriff, who came into the office hitching his galluses. He took a leather-bound Bible out of his desk and a tin star.

“Hold up your right hand… You swear to uphold the laws of Shoshone Flats? Say, ‘I do.’ ”

“I do.”

“This is your’n,” Faust said, tossing the star across to Ian. “Pin it on and go over to Abe Bernbaum’s to get measured for a suit. I got to go down to Bain’s. He got in a shipment of beer late Saturday. It’s got that skunky smell, but it’s beer.”

Feeling he should show an interest in his job, Ian asked, “What’s the crime situation around here, sheriff?”

“I ain’t made an arrest in six weeks. Biggest trouble comes from stray Indians getting drunk and pilfering from clotheslines , stealing pigs, and such. Them Indians just don’t grasp property rights. But they won’t be giving us trouble much longer. Government’s rounding them up and sticking them on a reservation southeast of here. Mormons don’t give us no trouble. They don’t smoke, drink, or cuss. Some say it’s their religion. I say it’s because they got so many young ’uns they can’t afford to smoke and drink and don’t have time to cuss.

“If some Gentile steps on their toes, the Mormons don’t bother us. They go straight to the Gentile. Got their own law enforcement, Bryce Peyton and his Avenging Angels. You already got trouble with Bryce over Billy, but Billy’s the worst of a passel of Peyton’s children, so the old man might let you off with just a horsewhipping. Course, now you’re a lawman, he might want to set an example and string you up. A Gentile lawman would make a better example than a Gentile clodbuster.

“Most of my trouble, next to Indians, comes from young Gentile galoots getting drunk and getting into fights. Last week Jackie Cannon kicked Hal Murad in the mouth during a fight at Bain’s saloon. Hal lost six teeth and been eating soup ever since. Good thing Jackie’s a farmer. If he’d been wearing a cowpoke’s pointed boots, Hal would have lost his eyeteeth.

“Don’t never arrest anybody in Bain’s place. It’s bad for his business, and he’s the biggest taxpayer in town. Besides, he gives me free beer.

“Reckon that just about covers the crime situation. I’ll mosey on over to the barroom and get my breakfast beer. Would ask you along, but I know you done took the pledge.”

“What do you want done around the jailhouse, sheriff?”

“Just keep the place swept out and the wanted posters filed. Ain’t many set duties. Once a month, we ride shotgun for the Territorial Stage Lines from Wind River to here when the stage is hauling the payroll for the Old Hickory Mine, up near Jackson City. The Jackson City deputy picks it up here and rides it on in. Since our run lasts from sunset to breakfast, the stage line pays us fifty cents for the night’s work.”

Ian became alert at the mention of a payroll. “When’s our next run?”

“About three weeks or a little longer.” Faust glanced at a wall calendar. “Next run’s November third.”

The being inside stored the information as Ian asked, “After I get measured, can I borrow your nag to ride up to Hendricks’ horse ranch? The mayor said I could pick up a horse.”

“Sure, son. But you don’t need to bring my horse back. Long as you’re taking over the riding duties, I’ll be handling the administrative work, and there’s no place around here I want to go to that I can’t walk. What horse are you getting?”

“The one Hendricks calls Midnight.”

“Well,” the sheriff said, scratching the stubble on his chin, “if you’re riding Midnight, might be a good idea not to get measured up for that suit. No use wasting Abe’s time, and the clothes you got on are good enough to get buried in… Well, I’ll be seeing you, deputy, but I don’t think you’ll be seeing me.”

Faust was sidling toward the door as he bade Ian farewell. Outside, he made a casual beeline toward Bain’s saloon.

Ignoring the high sheriff’s advice, Ian closed the jailhouse and walked five buildings down the boardwalk to Abe Bernbaum’s tailor shop. He almost felt compassion when he entered to find the little man with the big head sitting on his heels atop a high stool, bent under his load of care, sewing a seam in a cloth he had stretched over his widespread knees.

At Ian’s entrance, Abe did not move his body but swiveled his head and turned his face to his visitor. His eyes held no welcome for a potential customer, and only sadness was in his low-pitched voice. “So, Mr. McCloud, you are the new deputy? To you, who are about to die, greetings.”

“Faust sent me over to get measured for my official suit.”

“Black, the color of death. Always I am sewing black.”

“Yes, sir,” Ian said, trying to fall in with the mood of the tailor. “I intend to wear it to a lot of funerals.”

“Yes,” the tailor agreed, “there will be many funerals when the Avenging Angels sweep down on Shoshone Flats.”

“At least six, Mr. Bernbaum”—Ian tried to cheer the man—“which ought to give you a lot of business making shrouds.”