Caleb sat down on the opposite side of the desk. 'Now you're talking,' he said.
Matt started to pour the whisky. He filled one shot glass, and as the first splash went into the second, he hesitated. There was a fly in the bottom.
'I see it, and don't let it stop you,' Caleb said.
Caleb reached out, put his hand over Mart's, and poured the shot glass full. He took the glass and sipped. Matt frowned.
'When I lived with the Indians,' Caleb said, 'may they all die off terribly and may God's people take their places— when a fly lit in the stew that was just extry meat. You just stirred that rascal in. Ain't lost the habit yet. What makes me healthy.'
'God almighty, Caleb. Why do I stay around you?' 'I reckon it's my natural charm.'
Caleb took a big gulp of the whisky, wiping it and the fly out.
'Do her again ' Caleb said. Matt poured.
When the glass was full, Caleb raised it in toast. 'Here's to women with legs just like I like 'em. Feet on one end, pussy on the other' They drank.
'You know,' Caleb said, wiping his mouth with a filthy sleeve, 'tonight reminds me of the night we hung that Injun. It's great hanging weather out there. Crisp and cool.' 'Don't start it, Caleb.'
Caleb reached into his shirt and pulled out a pair of female ears on a strand of leather around his neck. 'Put it away,' Matt said. 'Getting squeamish in your old age?' 'Sick of seeing it, that's all.' Matt stood. 'I'm going to make my rounds.' Matt took his hat from a wall peg.
'You do that,' Caleb said. 'Me, I'm going to sit right here and keep this bottle company.'
'Good place for you. You might even catch a fresh fly or two. And Caleb, do me a favor.
Don't drink out of the bottle.'
Matt went out.
Caleb picked up the bottle and took a long, deep swig.
VI
Standing in front of his office, Matt looked down the street. Caleb was right. For some odd reason this night did remind him of the night the Indian was hung. He should have killed Caleb that night. He couldn't understand what it was about the man that had him buffaloed. Why he even treated him like a friend. He was scum. Ate flies, had no manners—and what he had done to the Indian's woman.... He was glad he hadn't been there to see it. In fact, he had tried to stop it.
Matt squinted his eyes and looked down the street. That night came back to him clearly.
He was standing right there where he was standing now when they came for the Indian and his woman.
Caleb was in front of the pack, holding a bowie knife. 'Let us by, Matt,' he said. 'This ain't none of your affair. We want that Indian and his nigger, and we aim to have them.'
'I can't do that' he had said.
And that was when David Webb stepped forward. He looked a total wreck. He had been crying. 'He killed my little girl,' Webb screamed. 'He's a murderer. You're supposed to be sheriff. Mud Creek's sheriff. If you know what justice is, let us have him.'
And Matt had stood firm for a while, his hand on the butt of his revolver.
But then he had looked at Caleb and Caleb had said, ''You're protecting a murdering Indian and a nigger. Where's your guts, Matt? Step aside!' And he had.
They had entered the jail, taken the keys from the wall, and pulled the Indian and his mulatto wife from the cell.
And when the crowd came out of the jail, they were practically carrying the Indian and the woman, and the Indian, held tight as he was, turned his head toward Matt and said almost casually, 'You'll not be forgotten.'
The crowd pushed into the street, tossed the man and woman into a wagon, bound them hand and foot. The driver clucked to the horses, and the wagon was off, the crowd running behind it.
Except for Caleb. He walked over to Matt and tossed the keys at the lawman's feet. 'You did the right thing, boy.'
Then Caleb was off at a trot behind them.
…
The night of the hanging faded before him, and Matt stepped off the boardwalk and began his rounds.
VI
Matt liked the night rounds. It was his favorite part of the job. It made him feel as if he owned the town. He nodded at people he passed, though as usual, there were few out.
Most were home or at Molly McGuire's or The Dead Dog Saloon.
He came to the saloon and looked in over the bat wings. It was a small crowd. They all looked hot and tired.
Zack, the bartender, looked bored and crabby at the same time. There was a drunk asleep under the table at the back, and the Dead Dog's only saloon girl was leaning against another drunk at the bar. The bar drunk had his head on the counter and was asleep. The girl looked sleepy and downright sick of the whole mess. At a table, four men played a lackluster game of cards.
Zack saw Matt at the doorway, cupped his hands in a come-hither wave.
Matt smiled, shook his head, and went on.
Matt went down the street, checking locked doors, making sure everything was sound.
When he came to the alley that led back to Molly McGuire's, he hesitated. He heard a sound, like something meddling in the trash boxes out back.
Probably that damned dog again.
Matt pulled his revolver. This time, he'd get that bastard. He started to creep down the alley. A moon shadow became visible. It was the slanting shadow of a huge man wearing a broad-brimmed hat. It looked uncomfortably familiar.
Matt froze.
He cocked the revolver and stared at the shadow.
'Who's there?' he said. 'This is the sheriff—Who's back there?'
Silence. But the shadow did not move.
Matt inched forward.
'You are not forgotten ' came a voice. Or was it a voice? It had almost sounded like the wind.
But there was no wind.
'Who's there, I said?'
And then the shadow quivered and melted and reformed. It was no longer the silhouette of a big man with a broad-brimmed hat. It was the shadow of a wolf.
Matt blinked, started backing up the alley, holding the revolver before him. The shadow moved and swelled in size.
Matt broke and ran out of the alley, turning too quick to dart into Molly McGuire's, but going up the street as fast as his legs would carry him.
And then he felt stupid.
He stopped. He didn't look back. He just stood in the street. He had not heard a voice.
That had been the wind and his imagination. There was no man-shape becoming a wolf-shape. He had seen the shadow of the dog all along, the dog that had troubled the town for a year now. He was getting jumpy. Maybe Caleb was right. He was getting squeamish.
But then he heard something behind him like the padding of feet.
All I have to do, he told himself, is turn, and there will be that big yellow dog, and I will shoot his brains out, and it will be over.
But he found he could not turn. He was afraid of what he would see—and deep down, he knew it would not be the big yellow dog, or for that matter a true wolf. It would be something else.
He started walking briskly up the street toward the church.
The padding behind him had stopped momentarily, as if examining him, but now it had picked up again. Whatever it was, it was big. And he could hear the sound of breathing.
Matt broke into a run.
