"Why do you suppose Ryan went and shoved you the way he did before he


took off? " "Frustration, " Cole answered.




The sheriff grinned like a big cat sitting in a tub of cream. "You


wanted to hit him, didn't you? I saw you make a fist, andţyes, son, I


didţand I saw something else happening too, but never you mind about


that. You showed considerable restraint, " he added. "And Marshal


Ryan did apologizeţI heard it with my own earsţbut now I'm wondering to


myself if he was apologizing for shoving you or maybe something else


he'd done." Before Cole could ask him to explain what he was


chattering on about, the sheriff pushed the topic around to the badge


again.




"Will you stay on tonight? I'll treat you and Josey to supper at


Frieda's fancy restaurant, and if you ride out now, you won't get far


before dark hits. If I were you, I'd want to spend one more night


sleeping between clean sheets before I headed out on such a long


trip.




Come morning, I'll give you the directions you're wanting and you can


be on your way lickety-split. Course you'll probably want to go on


over to Rockford Falls first. It ain't too far away from here." Cole


raised an eyebrow. "Why would I want to go to Rockford Falls? "


Norton chuckled. "To get your compass back." The town of Rockford


Falls was reeling with shock. In the past two days, they had lost


eight of their finest citizens and one who wasn't quite so fine but who


mattered to all of them just the same.




Influenza was responsible for two deaths. The epidemic had been


gathering strength during the past week, striking down half the


population. The old and the young were hit hardest, Adelaide Westcott,


a spry seventy-eight-year-old spinster who still had all of her own


teeth and who never had a cranky word to say about anyone, and sweet


little eight-month-old Tobias Dollen, who had inherited his father's


big ears and his mother's smile, both died within an hour of one


another of what Doc Lawrence called complications.




The town mourned the loss, and those who could get out of bed attended


the funerals, while those who couldn't leave their chamber pots for


more than five-minute intervals prayed for their souls at home.




Adelaide and Tobias were buried on Wednesday morning in the cemetery


above Sleepy Creek Meadow. That afternoon, six men were brutally


murdered during a robbery at the bank. The seventh man to die and the


last to be noticed was Bowlegged Billie Buckshot, the town drunk, who,


it was speculated, was on his way from his dilapidated shack on the


outskirts of town to the Rockford Saloon to fetch his breakfast.




Billie was a creature of habit. He always started his day around three


or four in the afternoon, and he always cut through the alley between


the bank and the general store, thereby shortening his travel by two


full streets. Because he was found cradling his rusty gun in his arms,


it was assumed by Sheriff Sloan that he had had the misfortune to run


into the gang as they were pouring out of the bank's rear exit. It was


also assumed that the poor man never stood a chance.




Every one knew that until he had his first wake-up drink of the day,


his hands shook like an empty porch swing in a windstorm. Six hours


was a long time to go without whiskey when your body craved it the way


Billie's did. He wasn't shot like the others, though. A knife had


been used on him, and judging from the number of stab wounds on his


face and neck, whoever had done it had thoroughly enjoyed his work.




As luck would have it, no one heard the gunshots or saw the robbers


leaving the bank, perhaps because more than half the town was home in


bed. Folks who wanted to get out for some fresh air waited until the


sun was easing down to do so. Those few strolling down the boardwalk


certainly noticed Billie curled up like a mangy old dog in the alley,


but none of them gave him a second glance. It was a sight everyone was


used to seeing. They figured the town drunk had simply passed out


again.




Yet another precious hour passed that could have been used tracking the


killers. Heavy clouds moved in above the town and rumbles of thunder


were heard gathering in the distance. Emmeline MacCorkle, still weak


and gray-faced from influenza, was nagged by her mother to accompany


her to the bank to find out why Sherman MacCorkle thought he could be


late for supper. Sherman's wife was in a snit. She caused quite a


commotion banging on the front door of the bank, drawing curious


glances, and when it wasn't promptly answered, she dragged her daughter


around to the back door. Neither Emmeline nor her mother looked down


at the curled-up drunk. Their disdain evident, they kept their noses


in the air and stared straight ahead. Emmeline had to lift her skirt


to step over Billie's feet, which were sticking out from the filthy


tarp she thought he was using as a cover. She did so without giving


him so much as a fleeting glance. Once they had rounded the corner,


her mother unlatched her grip on her daughter's arm, flung the door


open, and marched inside shouting her husband's name. Emmeline meekly


followed.




Their blood-curdling screams were heard as far away as the cemetery,


and folks came running to find out what was happening. Those who saw


the grizzly tableau inside the lobby, before Sheriff Sloan could get


there and seal the doors, would never be the same. John Cletchem, the


photographer the sheriff summoned to take pictures for posterity,


became so sick at the eerie sight, that he had to keep running outside


to throw up in the street. Two of the victims, Franklin Carroll and


Malcolm Watterson, had been shot simultaneously and had fallen into


each other.




They were both still on their knees and appeared to be embracing, with


their heads drooping over each other's shoulder.




Daniel Ryan had a near riot on his hands when he rode into town at five


minutes past one the following afternoon. Because of a torrential


downpour, the journey had taken longer than expected. Sheriff Sloan


met him in front of the bank, gave him the details, and then unlocked


the door and followed him inside.




The bodies hadn't been removed from the lobby. If Ryan was sickened by


the sight before him, he didn't show it. He slowly walked around the


scene and stared down at the dead from every possible angle. There was


only one telltale sign that he was affected. His hands were in fists


at his sides.




In a strangled whisper, Sloan said, "I didn't know if I should let the


bodies be taken out or leave them alone for you to see. Did I do the


right thing? " Before Ryan could answer him, the sheriff continued.




"There was another body found in the alley next to the bank. His name


was Billie, and he was the town drunk. They used a knife on him, and


before I could tell the funeral men to leave him be, they carted him


off and put him in the ground. I had pictures taken of these poor men,


but Billie was already gone, so I didn't get any pictures of him. "


The stench was getting to him. Sloan held a handkerchief over his


mouth and nose to block the smell. He couldn't make himself look at


his friends, but stared at the ceiling instead. "I don't want the


families of these men to see . . . " Sloan couldn't go on. He gagged,


spun around, and clawed at the doorknob. Ryan had to turn it for


him.




The sheriff ran outside, doubled over in front of the crowd that had


gathered, and threw up in the street.




Returning to his inspection, Ryan squatted down next to one of the


bodies to get a closer look at a bullet he'd spotted half buried in the


floorboard. He could still hear Sloan's retching outside when the door


opened again, letting in another blessed whiff of fresh air. Cole came


striding inside. Ryan turned to him and waited for a reaction.




Cole wasn't prepared for what he saw. As though he'd just run headlong


into a stone wall, he staggered back and whispered, "Ah . . . Lord. "


"Are you going to run, or are you going to stay? " Ryan demanded.




Cole didn't answer. Ryan's eyes were blazing with fury now. "Take a


good look, Cole. Any of these men could have been one of your


brothers.




Tell me, how often do they go into a bank? Or your mother? Or your


sister? " he taunted in a voice that lashed out like a whip.




Cole shook his head and continued to stare at the two corpses on their


knees leaning into one another. He couldn't look away.




"Don't you dare tell me this isn't your problem, " Ryan said. "I've


made it your problem by getting you appointed marshal.




YO Like it or not, you aren't walking away from this. You're going to


help me catch the bastards." Cole didn't say a word. He was fighting


the urge to join the sheriff outside, yet at the same time he could eel


his anger fueling to a rage.




No one should have to die like this. No one.




He wouldn't allow himself to be sick. If he turned his back on these


men and ran outside, he would be committing a blasphemy. He couldn't


reason his reaction. He just knew it would be wrong for him to be


repulsed by them.




He shook his head as if to clear his thoughts, then slowly moved away


from the door and walked around the circle of dead. Ryan watched him


closely.




Another minute passed in silence, and then Cole said, "I don't know how


many of them were in here, but I'm pretty sure several men did the


shooting."




"How do you figure that? " Ryan asked.




"Powder burns and the angle of the bullets." He pointed to two of the