Some men had left the saloon and others had entered during the past hour, but apparently no one had gone for the sheriff. There was no lawman in sight. Paul still wondered how Griffiths knew that the drunk had been heading for the sheriff’s office.
“Somebody comin’,” Dolner said.
They all turned to take a look. Griffiths recognized the white shirt and sleeve garters of some kind of clerk. The visor on his head meant he was probably from the telegraph office.
“Interestin’,” Griffiths said. “He’s in a hurry.”
The clerk hurried to the front of the saloon, but as he prepared to enter, Griffiths blocked his path.
“In a bit of a hurry, ain’tcha?”
“I got a telegram to deliver,” the clerk said.
“Who to?”
The clerk was not going to answer the question, but the other three men closed rank around him.
“Uh, it’s for Mr. Shaye.”
“Which one?” Griffiths asked.
“Uh, Daniel Shaye.”
“I’ll take it.”
Before the clerk could move or say a word, Griffiths had grabbed the telegram from his hand.
“Hey…well, uh, you’ll give it to him?”
“No,” Griffiths said. “You go inside and tell him I have it. Tell him he’ll have to come out and get it.”
“Um…if I do that, he’ll be mad.”
“I’m countin’ on it.”
The other men moved out of his way and the confused clerk entered the saloon.
“What’s the telegram say?” Paul asked.
“Who cares?” Griffiths said and put it in his shirt pocket, unread.
“Finally,” Shaye said as the telegraph clerk entered the saloon. The man stopped just inside, looked around, spotted their table, and hesitated. “Something’s wrong. James, get him.”
James reacted immediately, got to the clerk before the man could make a move. He grabbed his arm and walked him across the room to the table. The other patrons and Abner all watched, but Shaye didn’t care anymore that they were the center of attention.
“Do you have my telegram?” Shaye asked.
“Well…”
“Come on, man, speak up!”
“Some men outside took it from me,” the clerk said. “They told me to tell you that if you want it you have to go and get it.” Hurriedly, he added, “It wasn’t my fault, Mr. Shaye—”
“I know that,” Shaye said. He took some money out and handed it to the man without looking to see how much it was. “You can go.”
“I—I don’t wanna go back out there…”
“Go to the bar and have a drink.”
“Yessir.”
As the man left, James sat back down.
“Now what?”
“They’re not leaving us any choice,” Shaye said. “I want that telegram.”
“Well,” Thomas said, “I guess we better just go out and get it.”
12
As they stepped outside, Shaye said to his sons, “Thomas, I want you to stand to my right and James, you stand to his right.”
“There’s four of ’em, Pa,” James reminded him.
“You’re right,” Shaye said. “Thomas, you’re the fastest. You stand center and take the two in the middle. Remember, son, pick out the leader and kill him first.”
“I got you, Pa.”
“Are we gonna try to do this first without guns, Pa?” James asked.
“We are, James,” Shaye said. “I’ll do the talking, but keep an eye on their hands and their eyes. Remember, use all of your vision. We’ll know real quick if we’re gonna need our guns.”
“Okay, Pa.”
Shaye looked at his sons. Thomas looked rock steady, James nervous. That was only natural. James was the youngest, Thomas—bigger, older, more confident—he had gunplay in his blood. Shaye wasn’t proud of that fact, but he had to admit it had come in handy in the past—and would come in handy now.
“Okay,” Shaye said, “Thomas goes out the door first and we follow right close behind. Are we ready?”
“Ready, Pa,” James said.
Thomas just nodded and stepped through the batwing doors.
When Giffiths saw Thomas Shaye exit the saloon, followed by his father and brother, he pushed his partners and said, “Spread out. I’ll take the middle one, Thomas Shaye.”
“Who do I take?” Paul hissed.
“Shut up and spread out!”
The other three men obeyed. Shaye, Thomas, and James remained on the boardwalk in front of the saloon.
“One of you has something of mine,” Shaye said.
Griffiths reached into his pocket with his left hand and came out with the telegram.
“Do you mean this?” ’
“That’s it,” Shaye said. “Hand it over and you and your friends can leave.”
Griffiths laughed and put it back in his pocket.
“If you want it, you’re gonna have to take it…if you can.”
“Oh, I can,” Shaye said. “My only problem will be taking it without getting blood on it. Thomas?”
“Yes, Pa?”
“When you kill that man, make sure you don’t shoot him in the heart,” Shaye instructed. “That would soak the telegram with his blood.”
“Yes, Pa.”
“You’re Thomas Shaye?” Griffiths asked.
“That’s right.”
“You killed Seth Langer?”
Thomas flinched. It was a sore point between him and his father that he had not killed Seth Langer.
“I brought him to justice,” Thomas said. “He’s in prison…and a cripple.”
“My name is Griffiths, George Griffiths.”
“Never heard of you.”
“Some people have,” Griffiths said. “More will, after I kill you.”
Thomas laughed.
“You think killing me will give you a big rep?”
“We’ve heard of you—and your father,” Griffiths said.
“I feel insulted,” James said.
“And your brother,” Griffiths added.
“Gee, thanks,” James muttered.
“Enough talking,” Shaye said. “Hand over the telegram or we’ll take it.”
“Take it, the—”
Before Griffiths could finish his sentence, Thomas drew his weapon and fired. George Griffiths never knew what hit him. The bullet plowed into his chest dead center, missing the telegram. Griffiths was knocked off his feet
