And the Hills Opened Up by David Oppegaard Page B

stay in the bar and bear witness to what he saw as a breakdown of discretion and leadership.  The Hayes Gang had moved to a table on the opposite side of the bar, about as far as they could possibly get from the coach guards within the confines of the building, but they could still hear enough to put them off their drink.
    “I’d like to shut them all up for good.”
    Elwood turned to his younger brother, now sitting at his elbow.
    “That right?”
    “Yeah.  Sure, they lost one of theirs, but they don’t have to act so sore about it.  They probably didn’t even like the fella.”
    Elwood took a drink of whiskey and rolled it along his tongue.  “They’re blowing off steam,” Clem Stubbs said, picking at the table with his pocket knife, his bushy red beard sweeping across the tabletop as he worked.  “By the end of the night, they’re likely to open that box up and dance their man across the bar, just to make the whores laugh.”
    Roach Clayton crossed his arms.
    “Who cares?  We’ll be gone by then, with their money in our pockets.”
    The saloon door creaked open and Hayes looked up, hoping it was the head guard, the one who’d stayed back with the Dennison accountant after the payroll delivery.  Instead, two other men entered the bar, a gray-haired priest and a smooth cheeked lawman who couldn’t have been older than twenty-five.  They glanced around the room, nodded to the bartender, and went directly toward the stagecoach guards, who got to their feet as a group.  The sheriff asked them something and they all looked at Johnny Miller, tied and gagged on the floor.
    The preacher circled round the men and stopped at the foot of the coffin.  He lowered his head and clasped his hands, praying over the body.  The sheriff and the other men fell silent for a moment and looked at the coffin, too, as if they could all see through its cheap pine lid.
    “Maybe they’ll bury them side to side,” Owen said.  “The killer and the killed.”
    “Now, isn’t that a sweet notion,” Stubbs said, digging a deep new furrow into the table and filling the air with the scent of wood shavings. 
    Hayes shifted in his seat, the weight of his revolver pressing against the small of his back. 
    “Whatever the hell they do, I wish they’d take the whole circus outside.”
    The sheriff looked over at their table, frowning.  One of the shotguns jawed in the lawman’s ear.  Finally, after he’d been jawed at enough, the sheriff broke away and ordered the others to take the coffin outside along with Johnny Miller.  The guards did as they were told, three of them lifting the coffin between them while the fourth grabbed Miller by his ropes and dragged him to his feet.  Johnny shouted through his gag, his words unintelligible and distressed.  One of the guards punched Johnny in the stomach, knocking the wind from him, and a moment later Miller was dragged quietly from the saloon, his feet as heavy as if they’d been filled with wet clay.  The preacher followed behind the prisoner, head bowed and hands clasped.  The sheriff walked toward their table with a pained looked upon his boyish face. 
    “Evening, gentlemen.”
    Hayes nodded and removed his hat.
    “Evening, Sheriff.”
    “That was your friend who shot the National man?”
    “Yes, sir.  His name is Johnny Miller.”
    The sheriff took a notepad from his pocket and a pencil and scribbled something down.  Stubbs and Roach glanced at Elwood, who kept his face blank. 
    “They wanted to hang Mr. Miller straight off, but I convinced them to hold up and send him to Rawlins for a proper trial.”  The sheriff glanced up from his notepad.  “This isn’t the lawless Old West anymore, even out here.  Mr. Dennison expects Red Earth to run smoothly and he pays my salary to make sure that happens.”
    Elwood nodded, keeping his eyes focused on the sheriff’s.  He expected the kid to flinch and look away, but he looked right back.  He’d be one to deal with