Chapter 18
Pokey looked at him, then at the train, then back at him. "But I got to git the train movin' again," he said in his thin, reedy voice.
"f.u.c.k the train!" the sheriff swore. "I'm bleedin' to death!" The sound of gunfire came from the signal shack. Then silence.
"Oh, Jesus!" the sheriff swore. He reached up and grabbed a loose slat in the side of the station and pulled himself to his feet. With one hand he pulled off his pants belt and tried to tighten it around his leg to stop the bleeding.
The train began to move again. Slowly it went out of the station. A yell came from across the tracks. "Sher'f!"
He looked up. Clint was standing there, his s.h.i.+rt covered with blood. "Y'all right, Chnt?" he shouted, forgetting his own wound for a moment.
Clint stood there for an instant as if making up his mind how to answer. 'They kilt me, Sher'f!" he cried, and tumbled face downward across the tracks.
''Oh, Jesus! Take it easy, there, Doc," the sheriff groaned, writhing on the table in Dr. John's treatment room.
"Stop wrigglin' 'roun' lak a baby," the doctor said. "Else how you expec' me to git that bullet out?"
"It hurts. Doc," the sheriff complained, staring up at the forceps in the doctor's hand.
"Of course it hurts," Dr. John said in a rea.s.suring tone. "But you're lucky the bullet's in the flesh part o' your thigh, that it didn' smash up your bone." He turned to the table behind him and picked up the bottle of whiskey. "Here, take another pull of this."
The sheriff swallowed a big mouthful.
"Now grab aholt o' the edge of the table," the doctor said.
The sheriff did as he was told. The doctor moved too fast for the sheriff to realize what he was doing. A white-hot flash of fire ran through his leg. Involuntarily, he yelled.
"You kin stop hollerin' now," the doctor said. "It's all over." He raised the forceps so that the sheriff could see the bullet held in its small p.r.o.ngs. "That's the li'l b.u.g.g.e.r that done it."
The sheriff leaned back on the table, his face white and sweating. "Oh, man," he said.
The doctor put down the forceps. "Now we'll git you bandaged up, an' in a few days you'll be good as new." He picked up a roll of bandage and began to work.
Sam Fitch and Clint's father, Mike Richfield, came over to the table and looked down at him. They had been waiting at the far end of the room until the doctor finished. "You swearin' in a posse to go after them that kilt my boy, Sher'f?" Richfield asked.
The sheriff looked up at him. "No."
Richfield stared at him. 'They kilt my boy, Sher'f."
**Clint was a horse's a.s.s," the sheriff said flatly. ''I tor him not to start nothin', but he knew better, he had to start shootin'. Ain't a jury in the world'll convict 'em. It was a clear case of self-defense, an' I got the bullet from outta my laig to prowc it."
''But they was comin' after him.''
'They didn' even know he was there until he fired that shot. All he had to do was sneak on that train an' there wouldn'a' been no trouble."
*'You got to go after 'em, Sher'f," Sam Fitch said. "It's your sworn duty."
The sheriff met Fitch's gaze. ''My sworn duty holds as fur as the county line," he said. "The Huggins place is ten miles past it."
"It don't matter," Fitch said. "You let 'em git away with it an' they got new heroes. The strike kin start up all over again."
"That ain't my problem," the sheriff said. "I done enough already that's goin' against my conscience. They's a pa.s.sel of children up there at the Huggins place. I ain't gonna be responsible fer no more kiUin'."
"My son's blood is cryin' out fer vengeance," Richfield said.
The sheriff looked at him. "Then maybe you kin understan' how Jeb felt when he looked at the body of his daughter," he said. He raised himself on his elbows. "You take my advice an' leave it alone."
"What are you goin' to do, then?" Fitch asked.
"Notify the state police," the sheriff said. "Let 'em do sometWn' else besides sendin' back forms to me because I writ 'em up wrong."
"You know they won't do nothin'," Fitch said.
The sheriff didn't answer.
"That's it," the doctor said. "You kin swing yer laigs ofTn the table now." He helped the sheriff into a sitting position and then to his feet. "How does it feel?"
"It hurts," the sheriff said.
''It'll do that fer a while," the doctor agreed. "Jes' don't put too much strain on it."
''We cain't let the strike start up again," Fitch said.
The sheriff didn't answer him. One of his deputies, who had been leaning against the wall, came over to help. He began hobbling to the door.
"Yer forcin' me to go to the Pinkertons ag'in," Fitch said. "Yer th'owin' away a good job, Jase. Yer makin' a big mistake.''
The sheriff stopped at the doorway. He put his weight on the deputy's shoulder. "It's not me who's makin' the mistake, Sam," he said coldly. "You do that an' you'll be makin' the biggest mistake o' yer life."
In silence, they watched him hobble out of the treatment room. They heard him swearing as he tried to maneuver his way down the stairs.
Sam Fitch turned to Richfield. "I kin have the Pinkertons here on the noon train."
Richfield was silent.
"One bullet an' the sheriff's turned yeller," Fitch said. "We'll meet at my store at one o'clock."
Richfield didn't meet his eyes. "I won't be goin' with you, Mr. Fitch. The sher'f's right. Enough blood has been shed. Makes no sense to begin another feud."
Fitch's voice filled with contempt. "Yer
For a moment there was silence in the room. Then Richfield turned to the doctor. "You'll take care of my boy?"
The doctor, who was also the coroner and the local undertaker, nodded. "I'll fix him up real good."
"Thank you. Dr. John," Richfield said.
didn't matter if she stayed awake a bit later. "Just a minute," she said quickly. "I'm awake now. You might as well come in. I still have some coffee made."
She pulled the bolt on the door and opened it. He stood there hesitantly. "Sure it's no trouble, now?" he risked "No," she said. "Come in."
He stepped into the house and she closed the door behind him. "You wait right here. I'll light the lamp."
The soft glow of the lamp on the table spilled through the room. She turned back to him. "I was wondering what had happened to you."
"I had to go to a meetin'," he said.
"A meeting? What about?"
He hesitated. "I don' know if I kin tell," he said. "I promised not to talk about it."
"It wasn't anything illegal, was it?" she asked, a sudden concern in her voice.
"No, ma'am, it wasn't anything like that."
"Then you don't have to tell me about it," she said. "You sit down. I'll go put a fire under the coffee."
When she came back into the room, he was still standing. She placed the coffeepot and the cups on the table. "Why didn't you sit down?" she asked.
"I jes' looked at your clock over there," he said. "It's after ten. I didn't realize it was so late. Mebbe I'd better go."
"Don't be silly," she said, filling a cup. She held it toward him, her loose robe parting with her gesture. She saw the sudden flush in his face as he took the cup with averted eyes. It took her a moment before she was aware of what had happened. She glanced down at herself. The thin cotton nightdress she wore was almost transparent. Suddenly a wave of heat ran through her and her nipples sprang into life, thrusting themselves against the sheer fabric.
Her legs felt weak and she put a hand on the table to support herself, but she made no move to close the robe. His eyes were still averted when she spoke. *'Daniel."
He looked at his coffee cup. "Yes, Miss Andrews?"
She felt her heart hammering inside her breast. "Why aren't you lookmg at me?"
He didn't answer for a moment. "Your robe..." He didn't finish.
"I want you to look," she said, her voice sounding strange in her e^s.
He raised his eyes slowly. She could see the sudden bulge in his tight-fitting pants. The coffee cup trembled in his hand.
She moved toward him, took the cup from his hand and placed it on the table. "Have you ever been with a girl?"
His eyes fell again. "No, ma'am," he whispered.
"Then what do you do when you get excited?" she asked.
He didn't answer.
"You must do something," she said. "You can^t walk around like that."
He still didn't look at her. "I jack off."
"Often?"
He shook his head, his face suffused with red. "In the morning an' at night. Sometimes at lunchtime, when it gits too bad."
She felt the flood of moisture running against her thighs. "What do you think of when you do it?"
He raised his eyes suddenly and looked at her. "You."
"I want to see you," she said.
He didn't move.
She placed a hand on his crotch. Her fingers felt the hard throbbing through the cloth. Quickly she unb.u.t.toned his fly. The rigid phallus, freed from its prison, sprang moistly into her hand. She pressed back the foreskin gently and looked down.
The blood-filled glans seemed to be on the point of bursting. As she looked down, the o.r.g.a.s.m shuddered through his body and the heavy white s.e.m.e.n came shooting from him.
''My G.o.d!" she whispered, her legs no longer able to support her. She sank to her knees before him, her own o.r.g.a.s.ms wracking her loins. Frantically, she pulled at her gown with her free hand, exposing her b.r.e.a.s.t.s. The s.e.m.e.n spattered against her flesh. "Oh, my G.o.d!"
Half an hour later, they lay naked on her bed, her loins choked with him. She drifted in memory and sensation. It had never been like this. Somehow, before, she had always felt used; now she felt giving. She felt him moving again inside her, and a beginning tremble signaled the coming of his o.r.g.a.s.m. Quickly she slipped her hand down between them, cupping his large, round, stonelike t.e.s.t.i.c.l.es, and with her other hand moved his face down to her breast. "Not yet, Daniel," she whispered. "Slowly. Ever so slowly."
He held himself still for a long moment. When he began to move again, it was with the long gentle strokes she loved.
"That's better," she whispered, her body's rhythms matching his own.
She felt his lips moving against her breast. "You jes' tell me what to do, Miss Andrews," he murmured. "I'll learn."
Daniel had proved to be an indefatigable lover. A bom eroticist, strong, uninhibited once set free, he seemed never to tire. It seemed to take no effort for him to have four or five and sometimes more o.r.g.a.s.ms in the course of a night's lovemaking. More than once she had been surprised at his readiness. One time she had touched him by accident and found him hard. She laughed. "My G.o.d, Daniel, do you walk around like that all the time?"
He still hadn't lost the ability to blush. His face turned red, and he smiled. "Does seem like that at times. Miss Andrews. Don't it?"
The one habit she hadn't been able to break him of was his addressing her as Miss Andrews. Not even in their most intimate moments, when he was roaring like a bull and she was screaming at the top of her lungs in mutual o.r.g.a.s.m, had she been able to make him call her Sarah. After a while she gave up. Somewhere in the back of his mind she would always be his teacher.
Outside the bedroom he had never crossed the line. He read, studied the books and lessons she gave him. His increasing ability to learn and comprehend what she taught had surprised her almost as much as his lovemaking. The speed with which he absorbed ideas had begun to make her wonder just how well equipped she was to educate a mind such as his. Already they were working with the schoolbooks from her junior year in college. Soon he would have gone as far as she would be able to take him.
But the months they had been lovers had seemed to fly by like so many days, and she had stopped thinking about what would happen with the lessons. It was getting toward the end of May, and in a little while school would be closing and she would go home, perhaps never to return to the school. Or him. That too she would not let herself think about.
She closed her eyes when he slipped into his trousers and went outside. A few minutes later she heard the rmging sound of the axe, and she drifted off into a warm sleep.
It wasn't the sunlight coming through the open window that awakened her, It was the silence. She lay still for a moment until she realized she no longer heard the sound of the axe. She glanced at the clock near the bed. It was only a few minutes after eight. Usually he didn't finish before ten o'clock.
She rose from the bed and looked out the window. Daniel, the axe still in his hands. Was talking to a stranger. The man's back was to her, so she could not see what he looked like, but his clothes were torn and covered with dirt. While she was watching, Daniel put down the axe and started toward the house. The man followed. Quickly she grabbed for a robe, then went into the other room to meet them.
The door opened just as she got there, Daniel entered, the man right behind him. Daniel looked at her for a moment, his eyes strangely veiled, a grayish pallor under his skin. It was almost as if he hadn't seen her.
"Daniel," she said, suddenly aware of an unknown dread.
He blinked rapidly a few times. *'Miss Andrews." His voice seemed empty of life. "Miss Andrews, this is my friend Roscoe Craig."
She looked at the man. He was almost as tall as Daniel, but much thinner. Two or three days' growth of beard stippled his face, and there were dark hollows under his eyes. His s.h.i.+rt and pants were torn and dusty, and his shoes were covered with mud. He took off his sweat-stained mountain man's hat, revealing thin dark hair on a balding head. "Ma'am," he said.
"Mr. Craig," she replied. She turned back to Daniel. "Daniel, is there anything wrong?"
He didn't answer her question. "Mr. Craig's been travelin' fer three days an' two nights. Would it be all right if n we fix 'im somethin' to eat?"