Sid Roman stood square in the middle of the street with his feet planted wide. There was a stubble of beard over the angular lines of his lower face and his eyes blinked sleepily. He jabbed another cartridge at the open cylinder of the Colt, and fumbled trying to insert it into one of the small openings. The nose of the bullet missed the groove and slipped from his fingers. Sid Roman was drunk, which wasn't unusual, though it wasn't evident from his face. The glazed expression was natural. Behind him, two men with their hats tilted loosely over their eyes sat on the steps of the Samas Cafe, their boots stretched out into the street. A half-full bottle was between them on the ramada step. A third man lounged on his elbows against the hitch rack, leaning heavily like a dead weight. Jimmy Robles moved off the boardwalk and stood next to the man on the hitch rack.
Sid Roman loaded the pistol and waved it carelessly over his head. He tried to look around at the men behind him without moving his feet and stumbled off balance, almost going down.
'Come on . . . who's got the money!' His eyes, heavy lidded, went to the two men on the steps.
'Hey, Walt, dammit! Put up your dollar!'
The one called Walt said, 'I got it. Go ahead and shoot,' and hauled the bottle up to his mouth. Sid Roman yelled to the man on the hitch rack, 'You in, Red?' The man looked up, startled, and stared around as if he didn't know where he was. Roman waved his pistol toward the high front of the saloon across the street. supreme, in foot-high red letters, ran across the board hanging from the top of the ramada. 'A dollar I put five straight in the top loop of the P. ' He slurred his words impatiently. Jimmy Robles heard the man next to him mumble, 'Sure, Sid.' He looked at the sign, squinting hard, but could not make out any bullet scars near the P. Maybe there was one just off to the left of the S. He waited until the cowman turned and started to raise the Colt.
'Hey, Sid.' Jimmy Robles smiled at him like a friend. 'I got some good targets out back of the jail.'
Aiming, Sid Roman turned irritably, hot in the face. Then the expression was blank and glassy again.
'How'd you know my name?' Jimmy Robles smiled, embarrassed. 'I just heard this man call you that.'
Roman looked at him a long time. 'Well you heard wrong,' he finally said. 'It's Mr. Roman.'
A knot tightened the deputy's mouth, but he kept the smile on his lips even though its meaning was gone. 'All right, mester. It's all the same to me.'
John Benedict said you had to be courteous. The man was staring at him hard, weaving slightly. He had heard of Sid Roman, old man Remillard's top hand, but this was the first time he had seen him close. He stared back at the beardgrubby face and felt uneasy because the face was so expressionless--looking him over like he was a dead tree stump. Why couldn't he get laughing drunk like the Mexican boys, then he could be laughing, too, when he took his gun away from him.
'Why don't you just keep your mouth shut,' Roman said, as if that was the end of it. But then he added, 'Go on and sweep out your jailhouse,' grinning and looking over at the men on the steps. The one called Walt laughed out and jabbed at the other man with his elbow.
Jimmy Robles held on to the smile, gripping it with only his will now. He said, 'I'm just thinking of the people. If a stray shot went inside, somebody might get hurt.'
'You saying I can't shoot, or're you just chicken scared!'
'I'm just saying there are many people on the street and inside there.'
'You're talking awful damn big for a dumb Mex kid. You must be awful dumb.' He looked toward the steps, handling the pistol idly. 'He must be awful dumb, huh, Walt?'
Jimmy Robles heard the one called Walt mumble, 'He sure must,' but he kept his eyes on Roman, who walked up to him slowly, still looking at him like he was a stump or something that couldn't talk back or hear. Now, only a few feet away, he saw a glimmer in the sleepy eyes as if a new thought was punching its way through his head.
'Maybe we ought to learn him something, Walt. Seeing he's so dumb.' Grinning now, he looked straight into the Mexican boy's eyes. 'Maybe I ought to shoot his ears off and give 'em to him for a present. What you think of that, Walt?'
Jimmy Robles's smile had almost disappeared. 'I think I had better ask you for your gun, mester.'
His voice coldly polite.
Roman's stubble jaw hung open. It clamped shut and his face colored, through the weathered tan it colored as if it would burst open from ripeness. He mumbled through his teeth, 'You two-bit kid!' and tried to bring the Colt up. Robles swung his left hand wide as hard as he could and felt the numbing pain up to his elbow the same time Sid Roman's head snapped back. He tried to think of courtesy, his pistol, the law, the other three men, but it wasn't any of these that drew his hand back again and threw the fist hard against the face that was falling slowly toward him. The head snapped back and the body followed it this time, heels dragging in the dust off balance until Roman was spread-eagled in the street, not moving. He swung on the three men, pulling his pistol. They just looked at him. The one called Walt shrugged his shoulders and lifted the bottle that was almost empty.
When John Benedict closed the office door behind him, his deputy was coming up the hall that connected the cells in the rear of the jail. He sat down at the rolltop desk, hearing the footsteps in the bare hallway, and swiveled his chair, swinging his back to the desk.
'I was over to the barbershop. I saw you bring somebody in,' he said to Jimmy Robles entering the office. 'I was all lathered up and couldn't get out. Saw you pass across the street, but couldn't make out who you had.'
Jimmy Robles smiled. 'Mester Roman. Didn't you hear the shooting?'
'Sid Roman?' Benedict kept most of the surprise out of his voice. 'What's the charge?'
'He was drinking out in the street and betting on shooting at the sign over the Supreme. There were a lot of people around--' He wanted to add, 'John,' because they were good friends, but Benedict was old enough to be his father and that made a difference.
'So then he called you something and you got mad and hauled him in.'
'I tried to smile, but he was pointing his gun all around. It was hard.'
John Benedict smiled at the boy's serious face.
'Sid call you chicken scared?'
Jimmy Robles stared at this amazing man he worked for.
'He calls everybody that when he's drunk.'
Benedict smiled. 'He's a lot of mouth, with nothing coming out. Most times he's harmless, but someday he'll probably shoot somebody.' His eyes wandered out the window. Old man Remillard was crossing the street toward the jail. 'And then we'll get the blame for not keeping him here when he's full of whiskey.' Jimmy Robles went over the words, his smooth features frowning in question. 'What do you mean we'll get blamed?'
Benedict started to answer him, but changed his mind when the door opened. Instead, he said, 'Afternoon,' nodding his head to the thick, big-boned man in the doorway. Benedict followed the rancher's gaze to Jimmy Robles. 'Mr. Remillard, Deputy Sheriff Robles.'
Remillard's face was serious. 'Quit kidding,' he said. He moved toward the sheriff. 'I'm just fixing up a mistake you made. Your memory must be backing up on you, John.' He was unexcited, but his voice was heavy with authority. Remillard hadn't been told no in twenty years, not by anyone, and his air of command was as natural to him as breathing. He handed Benedict a folded sheet he had pulled from his inside coat pocket, nodding his head toward Jimmy Robles.
'You better tell your boy what end's up.'
He waited until Benedict looked up from the sheet of paper, then said, 'I was having my dinner with Judge Essery at the Samas when my foreman was arrested. Essery's waived trial and suspended sentence. It's right there, black and white. And kind of lucky for you, John, the judge's in a good mood today.' Remillard walked to the door, then turned back. 'It isn't in the note, but you better have my boy out in ten minutes.' That was all.
John Benedict read the note over again. He remembered the first time one like it was handed to him, five years before. He had read it over five times and had almost torn it up, before his sense returned. He wondered if he was using the right word, sense.
'Let him out and give him his gun back.'
Jimmy Robles smiled, because he thought the sheriff was kidding. He said, 'Sure,' and the 'John' almost slipped out with it. He propped his hip against the edge of his table-desk.
'What are you waiting for?'
Jimmy Robles came off the table now, and his face hung in surprise. 'Are you serious?'
