We waited fifteen minutes for him, the Swede with patience and me with growing anger, but he didn’t come out. I had decided by that time that I wanted a cigar very badly, and was about to march into the back room after Bradson, but the Swede took my arm and quietly said, “Let’s be going.” I looked up into his broad face, and I knew at that moment that he had heard Bradson’s remark, too, but had chosen to ignore it. This told me that he was sharper than I’d thought, but I was still mad, and finally he took my arm and said again, gently, “Let’s go.”
I went then, but I came back after the Swede’s death, and I found Bradson where I’d hoped I would, in the back room of his store. It was after dark and the store was closed, but the lamp was lit on his little desk and he sat doing accounts. He didn’t hear me slip open the front door and come in, and he didn’t hear anything again after I cocked the butt of my Colt across the back of his ear and laid him out on the floor. I put a bullet in his heart, at the top, where the top of a circle might be, the start of a circle, just the way the Swede had been killed. There was a cigar humidor on a shelf behind the counter in the front of the store, and I filled my pocket with coronas before I left.
It was a dark night and stayed quiet after my shot into Bradson, and it stayed quiet after two more single shots, each continuing to advance a circle around two more hearts, rang out. There was the liveryman, Polk, who put up some fight and was strong but not strong enough, and the telegraph man, Cooper, who had a beard and was said to abuse his wife. He was in his office, too, with a bottle of whiskey instead of his wife for company, and I left him sprawled next to his telegraph, a bullet in the right of his heart, his spilled bottle inches from his cooling hand.
I hit the hills for a while after that, because I knew they’d be after me the next day. And I was right. I went high up, where it was cold and even colder at night, but I had the Swede’s coat to warm me. Just as it had that first night in the freight car, and I made camp where they couldn’t see a small fire and where I could hear the echo of their horse’s movements a mile off. I waited two days and gave them enough time to get close, and then I fell in behind them and waited for them to splinter off, as I knew they would when they found the false clues I’d left for them that told them I’d gone one of two ways.
They split off just as I’d wanted them to. The two toughest stayed together, and the two weakest, who I wanted to take together, rode off down what they thought to be the least likely trail, which was where I waited for them. I had the Swede’s rifle, and I waited in the
The two I took out were Maynard and Phillips, the bar owner and the fat banker, and I know I shot Maynard below the heart where I wanted, but I wasn’t so sure that my shot into Phillips continued the circle up toward the eight-o’clock position, because he didn’t go down right away and almost made me shoot again. But his horse was only carrying the dead body, and when momentum failed and Phillips fell, I took the time to check the body and found I had indeed hit him right on the eight.
I had a bit of a rough time of it for the next twelve hours. It turned out that Jeppson and Baker, the two remaining, were closer than I’d thought. Baker even got a shot off at me as I rode off, and he was a good shot and took part of my right earlobe off, which only added to my resolve.
They hunted me well, and for a while I thought they had me, but then they made a few blunders and I was able to play fox again. I left my trail in a stream, then falsified it on the other side, circling back to the water and running back past their position to fall in behind them. I was not stupid enough to try to pick them off then, but contented myself with letting them lose me, and I went back to the Swede’s farm.
His body was long gone, buried out behind the farmhouse in the beginnings of his tilled field, but there was a bed to sleep in and a stable to hide my horse and some food in the larder to drive the hunger for real food from my belly. I even smoked a cigar after my meal, remembering the Swede, and took out the picture of his wife and daughter and looked at it for a while before I went to sleep for a couple of hours.
I was up before sunrise. I had breakfast, and then I went out and fed the horse so he wouldn’t get hungry, and then I walked into town. It was Sunday. The moon was a thick crescent, waxing, much the same as it had been that night on the train when the Swede and I had looked to the west.
The cock was crowing when I reached Jeppson’s church. It was small and empty, and I let myself into the back room where Jeppson bunked and waited. He had a nice collection of guns, and a bowie knife, and I admired the couple of Comanche scalps he had hanging on hooks over his shaving mirror. Services started at eleven, so I expected him around ten. I was disturbed once, about eight o’clock, but it proved to be a dog scratching at the door. I found a scrap bone for him and he went away.
There was a Bible on the desk, which I began to read, and I was so absorbed in my reading that I didn’t hear the Reverend Jeppson enter his church a little while later and open the door to his office. He froze, and so did I, but he was more startled than I was, and that gave me enough time to get my gun up and drill him in the heart. His Colt was halfway out of his holster, and it fell to the floor as he dropped. He said, “Oh, God,” which I thought appropriate. I walked over to him and was pleased to see I had hit him just where I’d wanted, around the eleven- o’clock mark.
I figured that if Jeppson was home, then so was Baker. He had the biggest house in town, because he was the biggest man, and naturally leader of the town elders, and the best shot. I had my healing earlobe to attest to that.
I figured rightly. I found him at breakfast with his family, ranged round their big oak table as if nothing had happened. His wife, a pretty little thing with dark red hair, was dishing out potatoes and eggs to three boys and a little girl, and there was Baker at the head of the table, dressed in his churchgoing best. I saw all this through the picture window. I could have broken the window, but I thought it would be better to go in the front door and make sure of my shot.
Again he proved to be the sharpest of the seven. He must have seen me move away from the window, because he was waiting for me behind the stairway banister when I pushed the door open. He winged me in the left shoulder, but I did the same to him, and then he panicked and ran for the stairs. I heard his wife and children screaming in the dining room as I mounted the steps after him.
We went through the upstairs of the house, and I got him to empty his revolver. I found him cowering in the room of his little girl, squeezed down in the corner next to her crib. He had his six-shooter on his lap, with the empty chambers out so I could see it. A scatter of unloaded bullets spilled from his shaking hand. “Please, don’t do this to my family,” he begged, but I took careful aim at his flushed face and then lowered the gun to his chest and put the last bullet into his heart at the twelve-o’clock spot, completing the circle I’d started with Bradson.
~ * ~
I was tired then. I told Baker’s wife to leave with her children and get the rest of the town together for a meeting at three o’clock. Then I bolted the doors and slept in Baker’s big, comfortable bed. The Colt was loaded under my pillow, but I didn’t think I’d need it, and I was right.
At three o’clock I got up and shaved and took one of Baker’s fine cigars from his study and lit it and walked out into the street to have my say.
They were all waiting for me out there. I showed them the Swede’s Colt, and his Winchester, and I told them how I had killed the Swede and the seven town elders. I told them about the story they would tell in Baker’s Flats about how all this had happened, and I told them what would happen to any of them if they got it wrong. They were farmers and women and children, and they all knew what I meant. They knew there wasn’t any other law for three hundred miles.
Just to be sure they understood me I told them about the man I had murdered in New York, throwing him from the scaffolding of the Statue of Liberty when he laughed when I told him that no man can be free under the thumb of any other man or government, that a man can only achieve true liberty by controlling all other men around him.
I knew they understood me, because they went home when I told them to. I stood on the porch of my new house and watched them go, and then I took out the picture of the Swede’s beautiful wife and daughter and thought I’d write, in the Swede’s name, to tell them to hurry out here, that there was a fine life waiting for them.
For the first time in my life I felt true liberty.
In Baker’s Flats, they tell my story still.
