Influenza was responsible for two deaths. The epidemic had been
gathering strength during the past week, striking down half the
population. The old and the young were hit hardest, Adelaide Westcott,
a spry seventy-eight-year-old spinster who still had all of her own
teeth and who never had a cranky word to say about anyone, and sweet
little eight-month-old Tobias Dollen, who had inherited his father's
big ears and his mother's smile, both died within an hour of one
another of what Doc Lawrence called complications.
The town mourned the loss, and those who could get out of bed attended
the funerals, while those who couldn't leave their chamber pots for
more than five-minute intervals prayed for their souls at home.
Adelaide and Tobias were buried on Wednesday morning in the cemetery
above Sleepy Creek Meadow. That afternoon, six men were brutally
murdered during a robbery at the bank. The seventh man to die and the
last to be noticed was Bowlegged Billie Buckshot, the town drunk, who,
it was speculated, was on his way from his dilapidated shack on the
outskirts of town to the Rockford Saloon to fetch his breakfast.
Billie was a creature of habit. He always started his day around three
or four in the afternoon, and he always cut through the alley between
the bank and the general store, thereby shortening his travel by two
full streets. Because he was found cradling his rusty gun in his arms,
it was assumed by Sheriff Sloan that he had had the misfortune to run
into the gang as they were pouring out of the bank's rear exit. It was
also assumed that the poor man never stood a chance.
Every one knew that until he had his first wake-up drink of the day,
his hands shook like an empty porch swing in a windstorm. Six hours
was a long time to go without whiskey when your body craved it the way
Billie's did. He wasn't shot like the others, though. A knife had
been used on him, and judging from the number of stab wounds on his
face and neck, whoever had done it had thoroughly enjoyed his work.
As luck would have it, no one heard the gunshots or saw the robbers
leaving the bank, perhaps because more than half the town was home in
bed. Folks who wanted to get out for some fresh air waited until the
sun was easing down to do so. Those few strolling down the boardwalk
certainly noticed Billie curled up like a mangy old dog in the alley,
but none of them gave him a second glance. It was a sight everyone was
used to seeing. They figured the town drunk had simply passed out
again.
Yet another precious hour passed that could have been used tracking the
killers. Heavy clouds moved in above the town and rumbles of thunder
were heard gathering in the distance. Emmeline MacCorkle, still weak
and gray-faced from influenza, was nagged by her mother to accompany
her to the bank to find out why Sherman MacCorkle thought he could be
