Justice by Larry Watson Page A

he’d be a soldier someday and perform an act of heroism. Lying gravely wounded on the battlefield, Wesley would look up at the comrades whom he’d just rescued and say, “Friends, like old Iron Hail once said, ‘I’ve shot my last arrow.’” If he could have walked Beverly Tuttle home through the snow, he would have shaken her father’s hand and said, “Sir, I’m proud to know you.” Then Wesley’s thoughts cleared: If he would have walked Beverly home, he never would have landed in jail. And he wouldn’t know of the ceremony honoring Iron Hail.
    â€œWell, I guess the old Indian’s somebody around these parts,” Wesley said to his friends.
    â€œOh hell yes,” said Lester. “He’s a citizen.”
    â€œYou never know,” Frank said. “Maybe they got a shortage of citizens.”

    Sheriff Cooke swung open the door with such force that the heavy door banged against the wall and woke Lester, who had fallen asleep sitting on the floor. “Up and at ’em, boys,” the sheriff said. “Rise and shine.”
    Sheriff Cooke had his gloves and overcoat back on, buttoned to the throat. Behind him in the office was Deputy Rawlins, his gun once again cradled in his arms. Now, however, it was out of its scabbard, and Wesley and the others could see what kind of a weapon it was. Winchester .30-.30, lever action Model 94, just like the rifle Frank had brought on this hunting trip. Wesley couldn’t be sure—was his heart beating faster from jumping to his feet after Sheriff Cooke threw open the door or from the sight of the gun unsheathed?
    â€œFollow me, boys,” Sheriff Cooke said and led them from the cell area, through the office, and toward the jail’s front door. Just as he had done when they left the hotel, the deputy fell in behind the four boys.
    They walked past the bench where they had sat earlier, and Wesley saw something that frightened him more than the deputy’s rifle. There, lined up on the bench, was all their gear from the hotel—their hats and coats, their duffels and packs, sleeping bags, rifles, shotguns, and ammunition, everything they had brought in from the car. On top of the pile was the bright red and green box of La Playa cigars with the picture of the beautiful senorita smiling out from under her mantilla. Wesley guessed their whiskey was sitting in a drawer of Sheriff Cooke’s desk. Wesley was the last in line, and his brother was right in front of him. As they filed past their belongings, Frank turned around to
Wesley and said, “You stay close.”
    Outside the wind had died and now the night was so still you could hear a dog barking far off—asking, no doubt, to be let in. Much closer was the rhythmic scrape of someone shoveling snow.
    Wesley knew why none of them asked where they were going. Because as long as they didn’t know, they could pretend that everything would be all right once they arrived.
    The little troupe turned into a narrow alley between the jail and a brick building next door. As they entered the alley Wesley could see the sign painted on the side of the building, its black letters stenciled on a white background and lit by a single light hanging over the sign. “CHOICE LIQUORS. Beeler’s Liquor Store. Pool Hall in Connection. McCoy, No. Dak.” Wesley wondered how thickly the snow would have to fall, how hard the wind blow, before those words would be obscured. Could a blizzard be so strong that you could stand in this alley and be unable to read that sign?
    The shoveling came from halfway down the alley, where Cooke’s other deputy was clearing the snow from an area the size of a small room. As he shoveled, he stacked the snow into a large bank against the wall of the liquor store. A lantern sat on the ground nearby, and the light coming from below made it look as though the shoveler had uncovered something, under the first layers of