shut of the whole shebang, for at heart Wilson was not a bad man, only he was where bad company and bad liquor had taken him.
He talked about things clear back to Pawnee Rock, and we took that deposition in front of seven witnesses, three of them Mexican, and four Anglos. When the trial came up I didn't want it said that we'd beaten it out of him, but once he started talking he left nothing untold.
On Wednesday night I went to see Fetterson for I'd been staying away and giving him time to think. He looked gaunt and scared. He was a man with plenty of sand but nobody likes to be set up as Number-One target in a shooting gallery.
'Fett,' I said, 'I can't promise you anything but a chance in court, but the more you co-operate the better. If you want out of this cell you'd better talk.'
'You're a hard man, Tyrel,' he said gloomily. 'You stay with a thing.'
'Fett,' I said, 'men like you and me have had our day. Folks want to settle affairs in court now, and not with guns. Women and children coming west want to walk a street without stray bullets flying around. A man has to make peace with the times.'
'If I talk I'll hang myself.'
'Maybe not ... folks are more anxious to have an end to all this trouble than to punish anybody.'
He still hesitated so I left him there and went out into the cool night. Orrin was out at the ranch and better off there, and Cap Rountree was some place up the street.
Bill Shea came out of the jail house. 'Take a walk if you're of a mind to, Tyrel,' he suggested, 'there's three of us here.'
Saddling the Montana horse I rode over to see Dru. It was a desert mountain night with the sky so clear and the stars so close it looked like you could knock them down with a stick. Dru had sold the big house that lay closer to Santa Fe, and was spending most of her time in this smaller but comfortable house near Mora.
She came to the door to meet me and we walked back inside and I told her about the meeting with Romero and St. Vrain, and the situation with Fetterson.
'Move him, Tye, you must move him out of there before he is killed. It is not right to keep him there.'
'I want him to talk.'
'Move him,' Dru insisted, 'you must. Think of how you would feel if he was killed.'
She was right, of course, and I'd been thinking of it. 'All right,' I said, 'first thing in the morning.'
Sometimes the most important things in a man's life are the ones he talks about least. It was that way with Dru and me. No day passed that I did not think of her much of the time, she was always with me, and even when we were together we didn't talk a lot because so much of the time there was no need for words, it was something that existed between us that we both understood.
The happiest hours of my life were those when I was riding with Dru or sitting across a table from her. And I'll always remember her face by candlelight ... it seemed I was always seeing it that way, and soft sounds of the rustle of gowns, the tinkle of silver and glass, and Dru's voice, never raised and always exciting.
Within the thick adobe walls of the old Spanish house there was quiet, a shadowed peace that I have associated with such houses all my years. One stepped through the door into another world, and left outside the trouble, confusion, and storm of the day.
'When this is over, Dru,' I said, 'we'll wait no longer. And it will soon be over.'
'We do not need to wait.' She turned from the window where we stood and looked up at me. 'I am ready now.'
'This must be over first, Dru. It is a thing I have to do and when it is finished I shall take off my badge and leave the public offices to Orrin.'
Suddenly there was an uneasiness upon me and I said to her, 'I must go.'
She walked to the door with me. 'Vaya con Dios,' she said, and she waited there until I was gone.
And that night there was trouble in town but it was not the trouble I expected.
Chapter XIX
It happened as I left my horse in front of the saloon and stepped in for a last look around. It was after ten o'clock, and getting late for the town of Mora, and I went into the saloon and stepped into trouble.
Two men faced each other across the room and the rest were flattened against the walls. Chico Cruz, deadly as a sidewinder, stood posed and negligent, a slight smile on his lips, bis black eyes flat and without expression.
And facing him was Tom Sunday. Big, blond, and powerful, unshaven as always these days, heavier than he used to be, but looking as solid and formidable as a blockhouse.
Neither of them saw me. Their attention was concentrated on each other and death hung in the air like the smell of lightning on a rocky hillside. As I stepped in, they drew.
With my own eyes I saw it. Saw Chico's hand flash. I had never believed a man could draw so fast, his gun came up and then he jerked queerly and his body snapped sidewise and his gun went off into the floor and Tom Sunday was walking.
Tom Sunday was walking in, gun poised. Chico was trying to get his gun up and Tom stopped and spread his legs and grimly, brutally, he fired a shot into Chico's body, and then coolly, another shot.
Chico's gun dropped, hit the floor with a thud. Chico turned and in turning his eyes met mine across the room, and he said very distinctly into the silence that followed the thundering of the guns, 'It was not you.' He fell then, fell all in a piece and his hat rolled free and he lay on the floor and he was dead.
Tom Sunday turned and stared at me and his eyes were blazing with a hot, hard flame. 'You want me?' he said, and the words were almost a challenge.
'It was a fair shooting, Tom,' I said quietly. 'I do not want you.'
He pushed by me and went out of the door, and the room broke into wild talk.
'Never would have believed it. ... Fastest thing I ever saw. ... But Chico!' The voice was filled with astonishment. 'He killed Chico Cruz!'
Until that moment I had always believed that if it came to a difficulty that Orrin could take care of Tom Sunday, but I no longer believed it. More than any of them I knew the stuff of which Orrin was made. He had a kind of nerve rarely seen, but he was no match for Tom when it came to speed. And there was a fatal weakness against him, for Orrin truly liked Tom Sunday.
And Tom?
Somehow I didn't think there was any feeling left in Tom, not for anyone, unless it was me. The easy comradeship was gone. Tom was ingrown, bitter, hard as nails.
When Chico's body was moved out I tried to find out what started the trouble, but it was like so many barroom fights, just sort of happened. Two, tough, edgy men and neither about to take any pushing around. Maybe it was a word, maybe a spilled drink, a push, or a brush against each other, and then guns were out and they were shooting.
Tom had ridden out of town.
Cap was sitting in the jail house with Babcock and Shea when I walked in. I could see Fetterson through the open door, so walked back to the cells.
'That right? What they're saying?'
'Tom Sunday killed Chico Cruz ... beat him to the draw.'
Fetterson shook his head unbelievingly, 'I never would have believed it. I thought Chico was the fastest thing around ... unless it was you.'
Fetterson grinned suddenly. 'How about you and Tom? You two still friends?'
It made me mad and I turned sharply around and he stepped back from the bars, but he was grinning when he moved back. 'Well, I just asked,' he said, 'some folks never bought that story about you backin' Cruz down.'
'Tom is my friend,' I told him, 'we'll always be friends.'
'Maybe,' he said, 'maybe.' He walked back to the bars. 'Looks like I ain't the only one has troubles.'
Outside in the dark I told Cap about it, every detail. He listened, nodding thoughtfully. 'Tyrel,' Cap said, 'we been friends, and trail dust is thicker'n blood, but you watch Tom Sunday. You watch him. That man's gone loco like an old buffalo bull who's left the herd.'
