The Winston Affair by Howard Fast Page B

it. Johnson switched on the light by his bed, and there was Winston standing over Quinn, holding his revolver at Quinn’s head, and cursing him. Before Johnson could gather his wits, Winston began to shoot. His first bullet killed Quinn—took him directly in the face. Three other bullets entered his body. Winston emptied his revolver—two bullets went wild. Before he finished shooting, there were men in the doorway to the main part of the barracks. So you see there were sufficient witnesses.”
    â€œDid they take Winston then?”
    â€œNo, he held the gun on them and backed out into the night. Men waked out of sleep don’t count shots. They didn’t know the gun was empty. Johnson sent one of the men to telephone me. Then they dressed and went to look for Winston. Just before I arrived, they found him in the goods depot, but they waited outside until I had examined Quinn. Of course, there was nothing I could do for him. I went over to the depot then. All of the men were outside waiting for me—your men and ours. It’s to their credit that they worked very well together.”
    â€œThere was no antagonism?” Adams asked curiously.
    â€œOh, no. There had been friction. Saints would snap at each other, holed up in a place like this. But this night, they all worked together and took their orders from Sergeant Johnson. They seemed to share a sense of tragedy—tragedy beyond the fact that two wretched men had destroyed each other.”
    â€œDid Winston resist?”
    â€œNo. No, he didn’t. I went into the goods depot alone—not because I’m a brave man. I assure you, I am not. But a physician carries a shaky kind of immunity with him, and I was also quite certain that I was in no danger. I felt that I knew what had happened—and that Winston’s play of violence was over. I was right. Winston was sitting on a box. The gun had fallen to the floor. His hands hung by his sides, and his eyes were open and staring blankly at nothing at all.”
    â€œDid he recognize you, Major?”
    â€œNot at first. But after I spoke to him several times, he began to answer.”
    â€œWhat did he say?”
    â€œAt first—only, Hello, Major Kensington.”
    â€œDid you ask him what had happened?”
    â€œI tried and kept trying. I got only fragments—the bits about the drinking session.”
    â€œDid he know that he had killed Quinn?”
    â€œNo. He didn’t remember that.”
    â€œYou’re certain?”
    â€œQuite certain.” Now the major turned his head and looked out of the window. “Rain’s over,” he said. “Are you sure you won’t have a bit of gin, Adams? A man can’t drink alone at this hour of the day, and I want a drink.”
    â€œI think I do, too,” Adams said.
    Kensington took a bottle and two shot glasses out of the desk. They swallowed the gin neat. Outside, the ground steamed in murky yellow sunlight. Kensington looked at Adams thoughtfully.
    â€œIt’s none of my business, I suppose, but what made you come out here to Bachree?”
    â€œI thought I made that clear.”
    â€œDid you?”
    â€œI thought so.”
    â€œI don’t know. There’s nothing here or anywhere else that could change the fact.”
    â€œWhat fact? That Winston is a murderer?”
    â€œNo. That he must die,” Kensington said.
    â€œHe is going to be tried.”
    â€œOh, my eye, Adams. You’re no fool, and I’m not the worst judge of men. You are by no means the tintype you make yourself out to be.”
    â€œThank you, Major.”
    â€œNow don’t go and take all kinds of umbrage over that. I bore with you very patiently. I’m isolated here, Adams, but not so isolated that I don’t know what a cause célèbre this Winston business has become. I read a few things, and the jungle is no barrier to gossip. As a matter of fact, I get the Times . A bit