Gunsights

1

Janet Pierson felt left out. She was at ease with them, she liked them; but she didn't feel with them. Nor did she feel as close to Bren now. Bren and Dana Moon and his wife had shared something, had lived through an experience during another time that did not include her.

She was aware of the news reporters waiting outside the house, the crowd of them that had followed Moon and his wife here. She liked his wife, Kate; she felt she had known her a long time and the feeling surprised her. For some reason she could sympathize with her; though the young woman did not seem to need or want it. She could also sympathize with the news reporters and knew what they were feeling. She imagined-after Bren and Mr. and Mrs. Moon were gone-the reporters standing at the door asking her questions. What are they like? What did you talk about?

She imagined herself saying, Oh, they're very nice people. Polite, well-mannered.

But what did they talk about?

Nothing in particular. Old times mostly.

Did they get in a fight over the situation?

No, they're friends.

Come on, did they have words?

No. (Not exactly.)

Did they talk about any of the men they'd killed?

No, of course not.

Do you know how many those two have laid to rest?

They would get onto something like that and she would try to close the door.

Did Moon chew tobacco in the house?

Certainly not.

We hear his wife is a tough customer.

She's very nice.

Did she have anything to say?

Of course. She is not timid. She told me about their house.

Was there much tension between them, Early and Moon?

No, it was a very pleasant visit. Mr. Moon described his duties as an Indian agent. (“Through the office of Indian Affairs…handle all relations between the federal government and the Indians…direct the administration of tribal resources…supervise their ‘trust’ property…promote their health and physical welfare…guide their activities toward the attainment of economic self-sufficiency, self-government and the preservation of Indian cultural values.” Bren said, “And what exactly does that mean?” And Moon said, “Try to keep them from doing what is most natural to them, raiding and making war.”) While Mr. Early explained his responsibilities with the company. (“You get a big stockholder out here a thousand and some miles from home, what do you think is the first thing he wants to see?” “An Indian,” Moon said. “That's the second thing,” Bren said. “A whorehouse,” Mrs. Moon said. “Correct,” Bren said, and they had a good laugh over it.)

What else might be asked? Janet Pierson wondered if her name would appear in a newspaper or in Harper's Weekly. “In an interview with Mrs. Pierson, a close friend of the”…legendary, celebrated, renowned…famous…“the well-known figures who are playing important roles in the controversial land war…” What? “Mrs. Pierson stated they are very polite, well-mannered people.”

She said, “I don't understand it at all. I don't. How can you sit there like it's just another day and completely ignore what's going on?”

Bren put on a concerned frown. “Honey, we're just visiting; catching up's what we're doing. You know it's been over three years?”

“Yes, I know it's been three years. You date everything you talk about,” Janet Pierson said. “Sonora in eighty-seven. St. Helen's, some stagecoach station in eighty-nine. The wedding three years ago…”

There was a silence. They seemed content to let it go on, patient people, used to quiet; the Moons sitting together on the sofa could be on the porch Kate had described…Bren with a leg over the arm of his chair. Coffee cups on the end tables…News reporters outside dying of curiosity: Were they at each other's throats or plotting a way to kill Sundeen?

Bren said, you want some more coffee? The Moons said, no, thank you.

Janet Pierson, hands gripping the arms of her chair, said, “Would you like to hear about my past life, my marriage? How I came to live here? My husband, Paul, was a mining engineer. He designed and built the crushing mill up at the works that one day, when he wasn't feeling well and should have stayed in bed-I told him, in your condition you should not be walking around that machinery…”

Silence again.

Finally Kate Moon said, “Do you want them to talk about the situation? What do you want?”

“These two-” Janet Pierson began, almost angrily and had to calm herself. “These two, the heroic figures-some people must believe they're seven feet tall-what are they doing?”

“They're resting,” Kate Moon said. “Ask them. Dana, what are you doing?”

“Wondering if we shouldn't be going.”

“I'm sorry,” Janet Pierson said. “I'm the one acting strange. I'm sincerely sorry.”

Kate said, “Bren, what are you doing?”

“I don't know,” Bren said. “Passing time? It does seem funny sitting here like this.”

Moon looked at him. “What are you gonna do?”

Bren frowned again. “What do you mean, what am I gonna do?”

“Your man lynched my man.”

“He isn't in any way my man.”

“You both work for the same company.”

“I don't work. I told you that. I draw money for my claims, that's all.”

“All right, you're both paid by the same company.”

“I don't have anything to do with this situation. What do you expect me to do, quit? You want me to walk out with them still owing me seventy thousand dollars?”

“I'm not your conscience,” Moon said. “I'm not telling you what to do.”

“You bet you're not.”

There was a silence again.

Kate said to Janet Pierson, “You like it better now?”

“Please-I'm sorry,” Janet Pierson said. She was; though she did not feel guilt or remorse. She had to hear what they thought, if she was going to understand them.

Bren rose from his chair. “I'm going to the latrine-if it ain't full of newspaper reporters.”

“You still call it that?” Moon said.

Janet Pierson said she wanted to fix them something to eat and followed Bren out to the kitchen.

When they were alone, Moon said, “What are we doing here?”

“Be nice,” Kate said.

“I am nice,” he said. “That's all I'm doing, just sitting here being nice. I wonder what that son of a bitch Ison is doing. Probably having a drink and a good laugh with the judge and that other lawyer in his new suit.”

“You knew what was gonna happen,” Kate said. “Don't act so surprised.”

He patted her hand. “I'm glad you're so sweet and understanding. I hope Ison and Hough run again next year so I can vote against them, the asskissers.”

“Well, our old friend Sundeen would've got off anyway,” Kate said. “What did they have to convict him with? Nothing.”

“Let's go home.”

“If she's fixing something, we should stay.”

Moon looked toward the kitchen door. “Do you suppose he's living here with her?”

“It's his house,” Kate said. “He either bought it for her, or so he can say he owns a bigger house than yours-”

“Jesus Christ,” Moon said.

“I'm not sure which,” Kate said. “But she's a nice person, so don't look down your nose at her.”

“I'm not looking down my nose.”

“I like her,” Kate went on. “She's a feeling person, not afraid to tell you what she thinks.”

“Or what other people think,” Moon said. “You two should get along fine. You can tell us what's on our minds and save us the trouble of talking about it.”

“She's worried about Bren; can't you see that?”

“Bren? Christ, nobody's shooting at Bren. He isn't even in it.”

“That's what bothers her,” Kate said. “He won't take sides.” She looked up and smiled as Janet Pierson came into the sitting room. “We were just talking about you.”

“I don't blame you,” the woman said.

Kate made a tsk-tsk sound, overdoing it, shaking her head. “Why worry about what people think? You know what you're doing.”

“Sometimes I guess I say too much.”

“Sure, when you run out of patience,” Kate said. “I know what you mean.”

Moon's gaze moved from his wife to the woman, wondering what the hell they were talking about. Then looked toward the door at the sound of someone banging on it, three times. There was a pause. Janet Pierson didn't move. Then came three more loud banging sounds, the edge of somebody's fist pounding the wood panel hard enough to shake the door.

When Bren appeared again in the backyard, coming from the outhouse, the reporters on the other side of the fence in the vacant lot called to him, come on, just give us a minute or so. What were you talking about in there?…Debating the issues or what?…When's Moon going to meet Sundeen?

Then there was some kind of commotion. The reporters by the fence were looking away, moving off, then running from the vacant lot toward the front of the house. Bren went inside. There were onions and peppers on the wooden drain board in the kitchen, a pot of dry beans soaking. He heard the banging on the front door.

Janet Pierson was standing in the middle of the sitting room, saying, “They're not bashful at all, are they?”

Bren walked past her to the door, pulled it open and stopped, surprised, before he said, “What do you want?”

Deputy J.R. Bruckner stood at the door. Looking past Bren at Moon sitting on the sofa, Bruckner said, “Him. I got a warrant for the arrest of one Dana Moon. He can come like a nice fella or kicking and screaming, but either way he's coming.”

2

In Benson, Ruben Vega had to find the right church first, St. John the Apostle, then had to lie to the priest to get him to come from the priest house to the church to hear his Confession.

Kneeling at the small window in the darkness of the confessional, Ruben Vega said, “Bless me, father, for I have sinned. It has been…thirty-seven years since my last confession.”

The old priest groaned, head lowered, pinching the bridge of his nose with his eyes closed.

“Since then I have fornicated with many women…maybe eight hundred. No, not that many, considering my work. Maybe six hundred only.”

“Do you mean bad women or good women?” the priest asked.

“They are all good, Father,” Ruben Vega said. “Let me think, I stole about…I don't know, twenty-thousand head of beeves, but only in that time maybe fifty horses.” He paused for perhaps a full minute.

“Go on.”

“I'm thinking.”

“Have you committed murder?”

“No.”

“All the stealing you've done-you've never killed anyone?”

“Yes, of course, but it was not to commit murder. You understand the distinction? Not to kill someone, to take a life; but only to save my own.”

The priest was silent, perhaps deciding if he should go further into this question of murder. Finally he said, “Have you made restitution?”

“For what?”

“For all you've stolen. I can't give you absolution unless you make an attempt to repay those you've harmed or injured.”

Jesus, Ruben Vega thought. He said, “Look, that's done. I don't steal no more. But I can't pay back twenty thousand cows. How in the name of Christ can I do that? Oh-” He paused. “And I told a lie. I'm not dying. But, listen, man, somebody is going to,” Ruben Vega said, his face close to the screen that covered the little window, “if I don't get absolution for my sins.”

He had forgotten how difficult they could make it when you wanted to unburden yourself. But now he was a new person, aware of his spurs making a clear, clean ching-ing sound as he walked out of the empty church-leaving thirty-seven years with the old man in the confessional-going to the depot now to buy a ticket on the El Paso & Southwestern, ride to Douglas, cross the border and go home.

He hung around the yards watching the freight cars being switched to different tracks, smelling the coal smoke, hearing the harsh sound of the cars banging together and the wail of the whistle as an eastbound train headed out for Ochoa and the climb through Dragoon Pass. He wanted to remain outside tonight in the fresh air rather than go to a hotel in Benson; so he camped by the river and watched the young boys laughing and splashing each other, trying to catch minnows. With dark, mosquitoes came. They drove him crazy. Then it began to rain, a light, steady drizzle, and Ruben Vega said to himself: What are you doing here? He bought a bottle of mescal and for ten of the sixty dollars in his pocket he spent the night in a whorehouse with a plump, dark-haired girl named Rosa who thought he was very witty and laughed at everything he said when he wasn't being serious. Though some of the wittiest things he said seriously and they passed over her. That was all right. He gave her a dollar tip. In the morning Ruben Vega cashed in his ticket for the El Paso & Southwestern, mounted his horse and rode back toward the Rincon Mountains standing cleanly defined in the sunlight.

3

R.J. Bruckner said, “Look. They give me a warrant signed by Judge Hough for the arrest of Dana Moon. I served it over all kinds of commotion and people trying to argue with me and those newspaper men getting in the way. It took me and four deputies to clear them out and put Moon in detention. Now you got a complaint, go see the judge or the county attorney, it's out of my hands.”

“Are you gonna drink that whole bottle yourself?” Sundeen asked.

He reached behind him to close the door, giving them some privacy in the deputy's little office with its coal-oil lamp hanging above the desk.

“I was having a touch before supper,” Bruckner said, getting another glass out of his desk and placing it before Sundeen. “Not that it's any of your business.”

“I see they all went home,” Sundeen said, “the judge, the prosecutor and John Slaughter, leaving you with a mess, haven't they?”

“I'm doing my job,” Bruckner said, pouring a short drink for Sundeen and setting the bottle within easy reach. “I don't see there's any mess here.”

Sundeen leaned close as if to pick up the glass and swept the desk clean with his hand and arm, sending bottle, glasses and papers flying against the side wall. It brought the deputy's head up with a jerk, eyes staring open at the bearded, bulletmarked face, the man leaning over the desk on his hands, staring back at him.

“Look again,” Sundeen said, “Listen when I'm talking to you and keep your hands in sight, else I'll draw iron and lay it across your head.”

It was the beginning of a long night for R.J. Bruckner. First this one coming in and saying he wanted Moon released from jail. What? How was he supposed to do that? You think he just set a person free when somebody asked? Sundeen said he was not asking, he was telling him. He wanted Moon, but he was not going to stick a gun through the bars to get him. He wanted Moon out on the street. Bruckner would send him out and he would take care of it from there.

Ah, now that didn't sound too bad.

Except that Bruckner was looking forward to having Moon stay with him awhile. He owed Moon, the son of a bitch, at least a few lumps with a pick handle but had not gotten around to it yet.

Bruckner sat back thinking about it, saying, “Yeah, like he was shot down while trying to escape.”

“Jesus, it does't take you long, does it?” Sundeen said.

Bruckner did not get that remark. He was thinking that he liked the idea of Moon being shot down even better than taking a pick handle to him…especially if it turned out he was the one pulled the trigger and not this company dude with the silver buckles.

“Yeah,” he said, nodding, “let me think on it awhile.”

Then was pulled up short again as Sundeen said, “You bag of shit, the thinking's been done. He walks out of here tonight at…let's say eleven o'clock, after you show him a release form.”

“A release form? I don't have anything like that.”

“Jesus, you show him something. A wire from the county clerk saying the charge's been dropped. Eleven o'clock, open the door for him to walk out and duck,” Sundeen said. “You do anything else, like try and back-shoot him, you'll see fireworks go off in your face.”

First Sundeen-

Then Bren Early walking into the office, looking at the mess on the floor where the bottle had knocked over the spittoon and the papers lying there were stained with tobacco juice and whiskey.

“Come to see your old partner?”

“In a minute,” Early said, looking down at Bruckner from where Sundeen had stood a little while before. “You owe me a favor.”

“For what?”

“Not killing you three years ago. That would be reason enough to do what I ask, but I'm gonna give you another one.” Early brought paper scrip from his inside coat pocket and dropped it on the desk. “Being practical-why was he arrested in the first place?” Early watched Bruckner pick up the money and begin to count it. “Because he admitted in court trying to shoot somebody. But how're they gonna convict him if he stands mute at his trial? Moon being an agent of the federal government and all-”

“Five hundred,” Bruckner said, looking up.

“Since he'd get off anyway-all you'd be doing is cutting a corner, wouldn't you?”

Bruckner folded the money into his shirt pocket and sat back, getting comfortable, big nose glistening in the coal-oil light. “I would need to do a little preparing, make it look real, you understand.”

“I was thinking, in a few days when you take him to the county seat,” Early said. “Out on the road someplace-”

“No, it's got to be tonight,” Bruckner said.

“Why is that?”

“Because I'm on duty tonight and if I'm gonna do this I want to get it done, over with.” Bruckner paused. He had to think, picture it, without taking too much time. If Sundeen and Early were both waiting outside…If they saw each other as Moon came out…If they went for each other, there'd be guns going off, wouldn't there, and he could maybe have a clear shot at Moon going out and then, what if he put the gun on Early, if Early was still standing up?…Shoot the accomplice…Jesus Christ, shoot Sundeen if he had to, if he saw the chance…Shoot all three of them during the confusion…Shoot those big names in the newspapers, God Almighty, gun them down, all three of them shot dead by Deputy Sheriff R.J. Bruckner…Oh yes, that's Bruckner, he's the one that gunned down Moon, Bren Early and Phil Sundeen, the Yuma terror, during a daring jailbreak…Wiped them out, all three of them. Jesus.

“What're you nervous about?” Early asked him.

Bruckner pulled out a handkerchief to wipe his forehead and down over his nose and mouth. “Goddamn dinky office is like a hotbox. I'm gonna get out of here pretty soon, run for the job in Tomb-stone next year. Shit, if I can't beat Fly, with my experience in law enforcement-”

“Let's get this done first,” Early said.

Bruckner nodded, mind made up. “Tonight, eleven o'clock… No, five minutes before eleven. You come, leave a horse for him in front. Step inside and give me a nod. I'll go back and get your partner, lock myself up in his cell.”

“Why not the back door?” Early said. “In the alley.”

“That door don't open. It's bolted shut.”

“All right, let me talk to him now.”

“Tell him five minutes before eleven,” Bruckner said.

This time it was Moon in the cell and Early looking through the bars.

He said, “I talked to John Slaughter before they moved their show out of here. John says they didn't have a choice, you shot three men in that yard. They'll hold your trial at the county seat. Now, considering everything, the company'll turn on the pressure to get a conviction. See if they can send you to Yuma.”

“It's a lot of country from here to there,” Moon said. “Kate visits tomorrow, I'll talk to her about it. You don't have to get involved in this.”

“I already am,” Early said. “Sundeen was here about a half-hour ago. The way I see it, he doesn't want you in here either. He's been keeping quiet, but that business in Sonora's still eating him.”

“I know that,” Moon said.

“I talked to Bruckner and he was already there waiting. Had the time set and everything.”

“What'd you pay him?”

“Not much. He owes me a favor. But wouldn't it make his heart glad to shoot you going out the door and me standing there? Or Sundeen. He paid a visit-something's already been arranged here, I can feel it.”

“I can smell it,” Moon said. “But this isn't any of your business. If he's gonna open the door, I'll take my own chances.”

“What was it you said the time I was in there and you were out here?” Early paused before reciting the words from three years ago. “‘You might see it coming, but I doubt it.’ Well, you'll probably hear me three blocks away.”

“Drawing your sword and yelling, ‘Charge,’” Moon said. “It should be something to watch.”

4

The parlor was semi-dark with only one lamp lit, turned low. When Kate came down the stairs, Janet Pierson turned from the front window.

“Did you rest?”

“A little. I didn't sleep though.”

Kate walked over to the hall tree and took down her husband's suitcoat and holstered revolver. (They had taken him out of the house in his shirt-sleeves, hurrying to get him past the throng of newsmen.)

Watching her, Janet said, “I envy you. I'm not sure why, but I do.”

Kate draped the coat over the back of a chair. Holding the shoulder holster, she slipped the Colt's revolver in and out of the smooth leather groove, then drew the gun and looked at the loads in the chambers as she said, “You don't have to envy anyone. You can do whatever you want with your life.”

“But you know what you want.”

“This minute I do,” Kate said. “I want my husband. If I have to shoot somebody to get him, I will. It's not something I have to think about and decide.” She looked toward the kitchen, at the sound of the back door opening and closing, then at Janet again. “This doesn't mean anything to you personally. Why get mixed up in something just for the sake of taking sides?”

The question was left unanswered. Bren Early came in from the kitchen with saddlebags over one shoulder.

“I haven't seen a soul in front,” Janet said to him.

“Tired of waiting around,” Bren said. “They're in the saloon telling each other stories.” He took the holstered revolver from Kate and slipped it into the saddlebag that hung in front of him. “I still think it'd be better if you waited here.”

Kate shook her head. “I'll be out on the road. If you won't let me any closer-”

“You might hear shooting,” Bren said. “This man wants to make it look real. Stay where you are till Moon gets there. But for some reason he doesn't-he gets delayed or has to ride out the other way, you come back here.”

“What do you mean, gets delayed? I thought it was all arranged.”

“It is. I'm talking about if something happens to change the plan…somebody comes along doesn't know about it. That's all.”

“You're not telling me everything,” Kate said. “What is it?”

“Believe me,” Bren said, “Dana's gonna walk out. But you have to be patient and not spook if you hear a lot of noise. All right? Wait'll I'm gone a few minutes before you leave.”

“I'll be out there before eleven,” Kate said. “By the first bend.”

Janet watched Bren pick up Moon's coat, then lean toward Kate and kiss her on the cheek. Turning he looked at Janet. “I'll be back in a little while.” And went out through the kitchen.

The room was quiet again.

“I don't know what to say to him.” Janet turned to the window to watch for him. He'd ride past the front of the house leading Moon's horse.

“Then don't say anything,” Kate said, walking over to her, her gaze going out the window to the dark street.

“I feel-I don't feel part of him or what any of you are doing.”

“Well, you can come up the mountain for a visit, except I don't think it's a very good time.” Kate paused and put her hand on Janet's shoulder. “Why don't you just marry him and quit thinking about it?”

“You sound like Bren now.”

“If you have to be absolutely sure before you make a move,” Kate said, “then forget it. Else you're gonna be sitting here with cobwebs all over you.”

5

LaSalle street was quiet: first-shift miners in bed for the night, the second shift still up at the works where dots of lantern light marked the shaft scaffolding and company buildings; the crushing mill was dark, the ore tailings black humps running down the slope.

Sundeen, mounted, came down out of that darkness into the main street, holding his horse to a walk past the store fronts and evenly spaced young trees planted to grow along the sidewalk. The porch of the Congress Hotel was deserted. Lights showed in the lobby and in saloons and upstairs windows down the street. It was quarter to eleven. At the sound of gunfire they'd pour out of the saloons-most of them who were sober or not betting against a pot-the news reporters coming out of their hangout, the Gold Dollar, which was on the northeast corner of LaSalle and Fourth streets. The jail was on the southwest corner, the cellblock extending along Fourth toward Mill Street. On the corner across Fourth from the jail was the Maricopa State Bank. On the corner across LaSalle-where Sundeen now dropped his reins and stepped down from his horse-was the I.S. Weiss Mercantile Store.

Sundeen, looking at the jail and its two lighted windows-the one to the left of the door Bruckner's office-did not see the dark figure sitting on the steps of the bank, catty-corner from him.

When the figure got to its feet Sundeen caught the movement and knew who it was: yes, crossing Fourth Street toward the jail with something dark draped over his shoulder and carrying a short club or something in his left hand. No, not a club. The object gave off a glint and took shape in the light from the jail window and Sundeen saw it was a stubby little shotgun.

Early stopped. He half turned to look across toward the Mercantile Store.

“It isn't gonna be as easy as you thought.”

“What is?” Sundeen said. Shit.

“Where's all your men at?”

“I didn't think I'd need them this evening.”

“Well,” Early said, “you better decide if you're gonna be there when we come out.”

“God damn Bruckner,” Sundeen said. “I think he has got cow shit for brains.”

“No, he's not one to put your money on,” Early said. “Well, I'll see you if you're still gonna be there.” He moved past the jail window toward the front door.

There was nobody to trust, Bruckner had decided. Not a friend, not one of his four deputies. Not in something like this. The chance, if it came, would be there for him alone and he would have to do it himself if he wanted to reap the benefits. And, oh my Lord, the benefits. Both at hand and in the near future, with a saloon-full of news reporters across the street to begin the spread of his fame which would lead to his fortune. All he had to do, at the exact moment when he saw the chance, was pull the trigger three times-at least two times-and in the coming year he would be the Fighting Sheriff of Cochise County…working angles the mine company and the taxpayers never knew existed. Being ready was the key. Here is how he would do it:

Early sticks his head in the door, gives him the nod.

Unarmed, he goes back to the lockup, thanking the Lord he had put Moon in a cell by himself.

He steps in, Moon steps out, locks him in. As soon as Moon is through the door, into the front part of the jail…

He unlocks the cell with a spare key, goes through to the front, gets the loaded shotgun and peacemaker from under the cabinet…

Runs to the door-maybe hearing Sundeen's gunfire about then-and opens up on them with the shotgun, close behind, while they're busy with Sundeen.

Then, as Sundeen comes across the street-and before anybody is out of the Gold Dollar-blow out Sundeen's lights.

If Sundeen's fire turns them back in the jail, which was possible, he'd bust them as they came through the door. Then step out and shoot Sundeen with the Peacemaker, saying later the man had fired at him after he'd told him to drop his gun, so he'd had no choice but to return fire. (He could hear himself telling it, saying something about being sworn to enforce the law, by God, no matter who the armed men were he had to face.) Killing the two should buy him the ticket to the county seat; but he would like to notch up Sundeen also, long as he was at it.

In case of an unexpected turn-if he somehow lost his weapons and found himself at close quarters, he had a two-shot bellygun under his vest, pressing into his vitals.

At a quarter to eleven Bruckner stopped pacing around the front room of the jail, moving from the railing that divided the room to the front window and back, went into his office and sat down, wishing he had just a couple swallows of that Green River drying on the floor.

At five to eleven he thought he heard voices outside. He turned to the window, but came around again as he heard the door open and close. Bren Early appeared in the doorway to his office wearing his .44's, saddlebags over his shoulder and carrying a sawed-off shotgun. At this moment Bruckner's plan began to go all to hell.

“O.K.,” Bruckner said, getting up and coming out to the front room as Early stepped back. “You got his horse?”

Early nodded.

“I'll fetch him. Go on outside.”

Early looked at Bruckner's empty holster, then over at the gun rack, locked with two vertical iron bars. “Where the keys?”

“Don't worry-go on outside.” Bruckner took a ring of keys from the desk in the front room, walked to the metal-ribbed door leading to the cell block and unlocked it before looking back at Early.

“What're you waiting on?”

Early moved toward him, making a motion with the sawed-off shotgun.

Early coming back with him wasn't in the plan. But maybe it wouldn't hurt anything. It could even make it easier, having the two right together.

Bruckner glanced over his shoulder walking down the row of cells. He raised his hands as one of the prisoners, then another, saw them and pushed up from their bunks. A voice behind Early said, “Hey, partner, open this one. Let me out of this shit hole.”

Moon stood at his cell door. He stepped aside as Bruckner entered, made a half-turn and came around to slam a fist into the side of Bruckner's face. The deputy hit the adobe wall and slid to the floor. Moon stood over him a moment, seeing blood coming out of the man's nose. He said, “Don't ever put your hands on me again,” and gave him a parting boot in the ribs, drawing a sharp gasp from Bruckner.

Early held the lockup door open as Moon came through, then slammed it closed, cutting off the voices of the prisoners yelling to be let out.

“Sundeen was out in front. Just him I could see, but it doesn't mean he's alone,” Early said.

From the saddlebags Moon took his folded-up coat and shoulder rig and slipped them on, saying, “How far you going in this?”

“See you get out of here, that's all. But Sundeen's a different matter. I mean if he wants to try.” Early paused. “If he doesn't, maybe we should go find him, get the matter settled.”

Moon was smoothing his coat, adjusting the fit of the holster beneath his left arm. He took the sawed-off from Early. “I ain't lost any sleep over him. Least I haven't yet.”

“No, but he's gonna bother you now, he gets the chance. I'd just as soon finish it.”

Moon seemed to study him, forming words in his mind. “Is it you've been sitting around too long, you're itchy? Or you just wanted to shoot somebody?”

“I can go home and leave it up to you,” Early said, a cold edge there.

“Yes, you can. And I'd probably handle him one way or the other.”

Early stared at Moon a moment, turned and walked toward the door.

Moon said, “You understand what I mean? I want to be sure about him.”

Early pulled the door wide open and stepped aside. “Go on and find out then.” Still with the cold edge.

Shit, Moon thought. He said, “Get over your touchiness. You sound like a woman.” And walked out the door past him-the hell with it-out into the middle of the street, looking around, before he saw his horse over by the side of the bank. He didn't see any sign of Sundeen and didn't expect to; the man wasn't going to shoot out of the dark and not get stand-up credit for his kill.

Early came out to the board sidewalk, pulling the door partly closed behind him. He said, “Go on home, sit on your porch. Kate's waiting up by the bend.”

“Thanks,” Moon said, glancing over, already moving toward Fourth Street.

“You don't have to thank me for anything,” Early said. “We're even now, right? Don't owe each other a thing.”

Jesus, Moon thought. He should hear himself.

He saw the light in the half-closed doorway behind Early widen. He saw a figure, Bruckner, and yelled, “Bren!” and had to drop the sawed-off with Bren in the way and the door too far; he had to drop it to pull the goddamn saddlebags off his shoulder and come out with the Colt's, seeing Early throwing himself out of the way as Bruckner's shotgun exploded and Moon's revolver kicked in his hand and he saw Bruckner punched off his feet as the .44 took him somewhere in the middle of his body. Bren was up then, yelling at him to go on, get out of here, waving his arm.

You better, Moon thought, picking up the sawed-off. He could see Bruckner's feet in the doorway, beyond Early. And sounds now from across the street, people starting to come out of the Gold Dollar, standing there, looking this way. Moon reached his horse and stepped up; he pointed toward Mill Street and was gone in the darkness.