A Time for Hanging by Bill Crider

minute, steadying himself with a hand on the wall.
    After a while the dizziness passed and he went on down the alley.   When he got to the end, he shaded his eyes with his hand. The street was not busy yet, but there were several wagons moving and some horses were tied to the hitching post in front of Danton's Saloon.   They stood there calmly, twitching their sides when flies landed on them.
    He stepped up on the walk and entered the saloon.   There was hardly anyone in there at this hour.   Lane Harper was behind the bar, and several men were leaning on it, talking to Harper in low voices.
    Aside from them, there was no one.   Roscoe, the piano player, would not be in until late afternoon, and few of the girls would be around before that time.   Willie didn't care.   He wasn't interested in music or women.   All he wanted was a drink.
    He walked over to the bar.   The conversation, which had been hushed to begin with, stopped altogether when he got there.
    He didn't give a damn.   He reached into the pocket of his ragged jeans and came up with a coin.  
    "Whiskey," he said, putting the coin on the bar.
    "Early, ain't it?" Harper said.   "Even for you."
    Willie didn't say anything.   Talking made his head hurt.   He just waited, and Harper poured him a shot in a grimy glass, took the coin, and left Willie's change on the bar.
    Willie knocked the drink back.   He felt better almost at once.    He knew the feeling would not last; it never did.   But it was enough to get him going for the day.
    He looked down the bar.   Turley Ross was there, and Len Hawkins.   Harl Case, too.   To Willie, they looked to be in bad shape.   Their eyes were as red as his probably were, and they were all scowling.   Come to think of it, Harper didn't look so good himself.
    "You fellas look like you could use a drink," Willie told them.
    "Just go on off and leave us alone," Ross said.
    "Don't think so," Willie said.   "Gimme another one, Lane."
    Harper poured another drink.   Willie took his time with this one, waiting to see if the men would resume their conversation.
    Finally they did.
    "Be a damn shame if he got away with it," Ross said.   "You never know what can happen in a trial."
    "You think we oughta do somethin' ourselves?" Harper said.
    "It ain't the time to be thinkin' of that," Harl Case said.   "He's in the jail now.   We got to let the law handle it."
    "Handle what?" Willie said.
    Ross gave him a speculative look, as if wondering whether to tell him.   "Paco Morales," he said.   "He killed a woman last night."
    "Paco did?   I can't hardly believe that," Willie said.   "He's just a kid."
    "Well, he killed her just the same," Len Hawkins said, running a hand over his bald head.   "We seen it."
    "Who'd he kill?"
    "That preacher's daughter, Lizzie Randall."
    Willie Turner's stomach contracted itself into a knot and he doubled over at the bar, dropping his empty glass and clutching at himself.
    "Sonofabitch is gonna puke," Harper said.   "Get him outta here before he does it."
    Turner was already coughing from deep within himself.   Turley Ross, who was closest to him, got him turned around and headed in the direction of teh door.   Then he planted his foot in the middle of Willie's backside and pushed.
    Willie went stumbling out the door, across the boardwalk, and into the middle of the street.   He stood there hunched over and retched, bringing up a thin green bile along with the whiskey he had just drunk. It splattered into the dust of the street and on Willie's boots.   It could have been worse, but Willie could not recall the last time he'd had a real meal.
    There was still hardly anyone on the street, and no one noticed Willie as he stood there heaving, bent over with his hands braced on his knees.
    Paco Morales had killed Lizzie Randall, he thought.   That wasn't right.   He was sure it wasn't right.
    He staggered back into the alley, into the shade.
    Lizzie Randall.   That was the bad thing