Justice by Larry Watson Page B

snow, that gave off a strange glow.
    Sheriff Cooke called out, “That’s sufficient, Clarence.”
    The sheriff marched the boys down the alley until they came to the cleared area. “Right here,” he said, indicating that they should line up facing the snowbank. “This’ll do fine.”

    Wesley peered down to the other end of the alley. It looked like a car was parked there, blocking the space between the buildings. Was that their car? He glanced back in the direction from which they had just come, to the opening in the alley. Now that too seemed further away. Sometimes snow could trick you about distances. Blowing, it could make even close objects look far away. Stacked up deep, snow could make walking even a hundred yards seem as tiring as a mile.
    If he ran—no, no, when he ran—Wesley wondered which way he would go: toward the light or toward the car.
    â€œWho’s going first here?” Sheriff Cooke asked as cheerfully as a schoolteacher searching for volunteers in the classroom.
    The man who followed them out of the jail now faced them, a man with a gun and a man with a shovel each standing to one side of the snowbank.
    A firing squad, Wesley thought. That’s what this is. They’re going to line us up and shoot us one by one and let our bodies fall back onto the snow. And with that thought a strange calm came over him. He hadn’t done anything to deserve being shot. None of them had. Not today in McCoy. Not ever. That didn’t lessen his conviction that they were going to be shot, but it made it easier to bear. Sheriff Cooke was going to have them executed, and he was wrong for doing it. They weren’t wholly innocent, but in death they would be redeemed, victims of this great injustice.
    â€œLooks like you’re the one,” Sheriff Cooke said, pointing to Tommy for no other reason than that he was at the end of the line and closest to the sheriff. Tommy, Lester, Frank, Wesley.... Wesley counted off as if he were in Sunday
School trying to determine how many others would have to recite the Bible verse before Mrs. McDougall called on him.
    â€œWhat for?” asked Tommy.
    â€œWhat for? That’s the wrong question, young man. We’re out here now, and we’re going to proceed. You can get us started here by pulling down your pants. Both your trousers and your drawers.”
    Whether from cold or fear or both, Wesley began to shiver. Once the shaking began it would soon take him over completely, and Wesley was afraid he would have no control over any part of his being—not his voice, his breath, his bowels. He tried something else. He relaxed his jaw and set his teeth chattering as fast as they would go. If his body wanted to tremble, he would allow it this much. And as long as his teeth kept up this machine-gun clatter echoing inside his skull, he still had some control.
    â€œI ain’t dropping my drawers out here,” Tommy said. “Not in this cold.”
    â€œThat’s exactly what you’re going to do. And then we’ll proceed from there.”
    â€œNo sir.”
    â€œOr we can cut them off you. And I can’t promise you we can see any too well where the knife’s going in out here in the dark.”
    â€œWhat’re you going to do?” Tommy asked as he reached for his belt.
    Wesley heard the clink of Tommy’s heavy metal belt buckle. Wesley didn’t have any idea what Sheriff Cooke had in mind either, but he knew he’d rather be shot than have
something done to him with his pants down.
    â€œI told you,” the sheriff said. “Drawers too.”
    â€œJesus,” Tommy said, and now his voice was trembling.
    â€œAll right,” the sheriff said, as if someone had finally come up with the right answer. “You came to town looking to stick your pecker somewhere, you can stick it in that snowbank.”
    â€œThe hell .”
    â€œGo on. Jump in there. There’s no