wanted to run. Jump up, and run. He just sat there.
“Why don’t you go back to Florida?”
“I don’t know. I’ve sure thought about it. Maybe one day I will. Meantime …” He stared. “I’m responsible for doing this job the best I can.”
Bob Siringo stared right back for what seemed forever. Then:
“Barkeep? What time is it now?”
“Twenty-five to six.”
Lou Hand coughed. “The coach is almost never late. We’ve got to get back to the main discussion.”
In a flat, mean voice, Siringo said, “Subject’s closed, sheriff.”
“No. You’re going.”
“That’s it?”
Hoping he wasn’t shaking, Lou Hand looked him in the eye and said, “That’s it.”
“Well, shit.” Flurried motion outside the window caught his eye; whipped him around in his chair. “Get away. Get away, you little fuckers,” he shouted, gesturing at the shadows lurking on the other side of the steamed-up glass. Two of the boys ran. The other, Will Pertwee, simply darted back to the edge of the walk and hovered there, captured by the spectacle of the adversaries facing each other across the table.
Slowly, carefully, Lou Hand pushed aside his coat. Freed the butt of his gun. His heart pounded like surf in his ear. Bob Siringo eyed his Army Colt gleaming there, then suddenly wriggled in his chair.
“Damn, some kind of vermin in this place. Bit me.”
Angry, he reached under the table. Alarms rang in Lou Hand’s head. “Siringo, keep your hand up where …” Then, the small popping shot. Lou Hand felt the bullet hit his foot and stiffened with a cry. He tried to draw, but there was sudden pain, and a feeling of warm blood in his boot, to distract him. Before he could act, Bob Siringo had a small two-barrel hideout pistol above the table, aimed right at Lou Hand’s brain.
“You draw on me, sheriff, you’re guaranteed dead. Hands flat on the table. Flat!”
Lou Hand obeyed. He was sweating despite the cold. Cringing behind the bar, Clarence looked embalmed; he gestured wildly toward the lobby door, where, apparently, the clerk had rushed. “Stay out, Sid, stay out!”
Bob Siringo blew a whiff of smoke off his little pistol. Then he managed a tense smile.
“One of my bad faults is a weakness for big-busted females, but the other one is lying, sheriff. I lie right, left, and Sundays. I lied about my hogleg. This is true, though. If I placed that bullet right, your left foot won’t be much good any more. A gimpy sheriff, a sheriff who isn’t agile, who can’t run, that kind of sheriff’s not much use to anybody. I’d say it’s time for you to go back home.”
He jumped up suddenly, overturning his chair, sweeping his hat onto his head, then switching the hideout pistol to his left hand and snatching up the fearsome long Army Colt with his right.
“You bastard, you really fucked things up for me,” he said, spitting it like a little boy robbed of his candy and the privacy to enjoy it. “By God I’m not too sure why I didn’t kill you, so you damn well better speak some good about Bob Siringo after this. Don’t say he never did anything but bad to folks.”
And he ran, straight back past the bar, brandishing his weapons and screaming venomously at Clarence, “What are you looking at, shit-face?”
Clarence dropped to his knees, out of sight. Bob Siringo ran through the penumbra of lamplight and down the hall and out into the wintry dark with a slam of the back door, and was never seen again.
Still seated, with his boot full of blood, Lou Hand was gripping the table’s edge while trying to keep from fainting.
He failed.
Four mornings later, Jesse Thorne called on Lou Hand in his room at 11 A.M. She brought him a mug of hot beef broth, which she’d been doing ever since the shootout at the Congress saloon bar.
“Here’s the weekly,” she said, showing him the four-page single-sheet tabloid paper. “The editorial calls you the town’s hero.”
“Oh, yes, sure,” he said, turning his face
“Why don’t you go back to Florida?”
“I don’t know. I’ve sure thought about it. Maybe one day I will. Meantime …” He stared. “I’m responsible for doing this job the best I can.”
Bob Siringo stared right back for what seemed forever. Then:
“Barkeep? What time is it now?”
“Twenty-five to six.”
Lou Hand coughed. “The coach is almost never late. We’ve got to get back to the main discussion.”
In a flat, mean voice, Siringo said, “Subject’s closed, sheriff.”
“No. You’re going.”
“That’s it?”
Hoping he wasn’t shaking, Lou Hand looked him in the eye and said, “That’s it.”
“Well, shit.” Flurried motion outside the window caught his eye; whipped him around in his chair. “Get away. Get away, you little fuckers,” he shouted, gesturing at the shadows lurking on the other side of the steamed-up glass. Two of the boys ran. The other, Will Pertwee, simply darted back to the edge of the walk and hovered there, captured by the spectacle of the adversaries facing each other across the table.
Slowly, carefully, Lou Hand pushed aside his coat. Freed the butt of his gun. His heart pounded like surf in his ear. Bob Siringo eyed his Army Colt gleaming there, then suddenly wriggled in his chair.
“Damn, some kind of vermin in this place. Bit me.”
Angry, he reached under the table. Alarms rang in Lou Hand’s head. “Siringo, keep your hand up where …” Then, the small popping shot. Lou Hand felt the bullet hit his foot and stiffened with a cry. He tried to draw, but there was sudden pain, and a feeling of warm blood in his boot, to distract him. Before he could act, Bob Siringo had a small two-barrel hideout pistol above the table, aimed right at Lou Hand’s brain.
“You draw on me, sheriff, you’re guaranteed dead. Hands flat on the table. Flat!”
Lou Hand obeyed. He was sweating despite the cold. Cringing behind the bar, Clarence looked embalmed; he gestured wildly toward the lobby door, where, apparently, the clerk had rushed. “Stay out, Sid, stay out!”
Bob Siringo blew a whiff of smoke off his little pistol. Then he managed a tense smile.
“One of my bad faults is a weakness for big-busted females, but the other one is lying, sheriff. I lie right, left, and Sundays. I lied about my hogleg. This is true, though. If I placed that bullet right, your left foot won’t be much good any more. A gimpy sheriff, a sheriff who isn’t agile, who can’t run, that kind of sheriff’s not much use to anybody. I’d say it’s time for you to go back home.”
He jumped up suddenly, overturning his chair, sweeping his hat onto his head, then switching the hideout pistol to his left hand and snatching up the fearsome long Army Colt with his right.
“You bastard, you really fucked things up for me,” he said, spitting it like a little boy robbed of his candy and the privacy to enjoy it. “By God I’m not too sure why I didn’t kill you, so you damn well better speak some good about Bob Siringo after this. Don’t say he never did anything but bad to folks.”
And he ran, straight back past the bar, brandishing his weapons and screaming venomously at Clarence, “What are you looking at, shit-face?”
Clarence dropped to his knees, out of sight. Bob Siringo ran through the penumbra of lamplight and down the hall and out into the wintry dark with a slam of the back door, and was never seen again.
Still seated, with his boot full of blood, Lou Hand was gripping the table’s edge while trying to keep from fainting.
He failed.
Four mornings later, Jesse Thorne called on Lou Hand in his room at 11 A.M. She brought him a mug of hot beef broth, which she’d been doing ever since the shootout at the Congress saloon bar.
“Here’s the weekly,” she said, showing him the four-page single-sheet tabloid paper. “The editorial calls you the town’s hero.”
“Oh, yes, sure,” he said, turning his face
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