Magic Wagon Read online

"Draw if you got the guts," Billy Bob said.

  "What's that?" the sheriff said again.

  And Billy Bob pulled both of his revolvers and shot him.

  When he did, the fella who owned the mules, thinking that it might be open season, jumped off the sled on the other side and went facedown in the mud.

  The sheriff took a careful step forward, and sat down, his butt coming to rest on the edge of the sled.

  Billy Bob turned and watched Albert and me come up. He smiled.

  I went over to the sheriff, bent down beside him. His face was as white as a china plate. He looked at me.

  "I'm sorry," I said. "We wanted to stop him."

  "What's that?" he said.

  "I'm sorry."

  "Can't hear so good," the sheriff," said. He looked back at Billy Bob, who was still smiling, pushing his pistols into their sash.

  "Who in tarnation was that?" the sheriff said. "And what in hell have I done to him?"

  "It don't take a thing," I said.

  The sheriff's head rolled, his hat fell off, and he sagged against me. I put his hat back on, pulled him onto the sled.

  When I had him laid out, I seen that he'd been hit twice in the chest, about a hand's span apart. It looked as if his shirt were decorated with two big, wet buttons, and they were still growing.

  I turned to Billy Bob. "He didn't hear a word you said. He was darn near deaf."

  "That ain't so," Riley offered, helpfullike, pushing up to the front of the crowd. "Homer, he had a built-in instink for them things. He knew Billy Bob was going to draw, he just wasn't fast enough to match him."

  "He didn't even know what it was all about," I said.

  "Just saved me having to explain about Jack before I shot him," Billy Bob said, and he got his laugh from the crowd. And some crowd it was. Those folks were right flexible. If Homer had drawn on and beat Billy Bob, they'd have been standing next to him, patting him on the back, telling him what a great sheriff and gunfighter he was. They were nothing more than a kind of vulture, feeding themselves off the pride of whoever was riding high at the time.

  Billy Bob's head floated to his left and his eyes narrowed. When I looked, I seen he was staring at Skinny. I'd forgotten about him. He'd followed along behind Albert and me like a puppy, anxious to see what was going on. Way he was smiling, you figured he thought this whole mess had been put together for his amusement.

  "Hey, dummy," Billy Bob said, "you're still wearing my duds."

  Skinny smiled big and nodded.

  "I don't like that none," Billy Bob said.

  Blue Hat, who had been standing next to Billy Bob, said, "Make him take them off."

  Billy Bob smiled. "That's an idea. Take off them clothes, idiot."

  Skinny looked confused. He looked to me, then to Albert.

  "Leave him alone," Albert said to Billy Bob.

  "You ain't got no say-so at all in this matter, nigger," Billy Bob said.

  Albert walked slowly over to Billy Bob. "I said, leave him alone."

  Maybe Billy Bob would have shot Albert, I don't know. What happened was Blue Hat, who was standing a little to the side, jerked Jack's old pistol, and hit Albert a lick upside the head.

  Albert wheeled, grabbed Blue Hat, and jerked him into the muddy street. Before Blue Hat hit the mud, Billy Bob had drawn his pistols, and, whipping the barrels from left to right, he hit Albert about six times. He was real quick.

  Still, Albert didn't go down right then. It was when the crowd joined in, hitting and kicking, that he went down.

  I tried to get over there, but as I went I ran past where Blue Hat was getting up, and about the same time I stepped on his hat, he grabbed my ankle and pulled it out from under me. I went down in the mud and my head hit the edge of the boardwalk and I went on a short, dark trip.

  When I came out of it, I could hear Billy Bob saying to Skinny, "Take off them clothes, idiot, or I'm going to start shooting them off of you."

  I raised up some, looked to my left and seen Albert lying in the mud. Blue Hat had gotten up now, had his hat in one hand, and was kicking Albert in the head as hard as he could and as many times as he could.

  I tried to say, "Stop it," but a hunk of mud fell out of my mouth, and by then he'd quit kicking.

  I heard a pistol shot, and I rolled on my side and seen Skinny standing there, startled, holding his hand out to his side. He turned slowly and looked at it. His left little finger was gone. Billy Bob had shot it off.

  "Take off the clothes, dummy," Billy Bob said. "Or the next one's in your head."

  "Go ahead and shoot him," I heard Blue Hat say. "He ain't good for nothing. Ain't got nobody but this nigger and that fool."

  "Take the clothes off." I croaked at Skinny.

  Blue Hat kicked me in the back of the head and I rolled forward some, got to a knee and said it again, "Take them off, for Heaven's sake, Skinny, take them off."

  Blue Hat must have come up behind me and clubbed me with his pistol then. I don't know, but I went down in the mud again.

  "Take off the clothes, dummy. Take off the clothes, dummy. Take off the clothes, dummy," echoed again and again, and when I looked up, I knew why. It was Skinny, mocking Billy Bob perfect.

  "You stop that," Billy Bob said.

  But Skinny was smiling again. He was still holding his hand out to his side, and it was dripping blood, but he wasn't paying it any mind. He had a new game to play. "Take off the clothes, dummy," he said, and started to wave his right hand around like he had a pistol in it.

  "You hear me?" Billy Bob yelled. "You stop that."

  "You hear me?" Skinny said. "You stop that."

  "Damn you," Billy Bob said, and he shot Skinny right through the heart.

  I don't remember seeing Skinny fall. I must have passed out again about then. It was the fever, the beating, and the gal-darned sorriness of it all did me in, I reckon.

  Next thing I knew my head was floating up from the mud and there was light in my eye.

  When the light got so it wasn't hurting, and everything around me quit spinning, a voice said, "You dead, boy?"

  It was the fella that had been driving the sled, and my head wasn't floating. He was holding my head out of the mud by the hair.

  "I'm peachy," I said.

  "You don't look peachy." He got his arms under mine and got me to my feet. When I was standing, I wobbled over to Albert, fell down on my knees beside him. "Albert," I said. "Albert, you with us?"

  His hand fluttered and I took hold of it. "God, Albert. Say you're okay."

  "Most of them licks he got was in the head," Sled Driver said. "Nigger has a hard head. That idiot fella's dead as a rock."

  "Albert," I said again.

  "Here . . . Little Buster. Here."

  "Help me," I said, looking up at the fella.

  Sled Driver got an arm, I got the other, and we pulled Albert over to the boardwalk and propped his back against the general store wall.

  "I'm going to be okay," Albert said. "Things has quit spinning around. I don't think I'm busted inside."

  "Cause you got most of it in the head," Sled Driver said kindly. "You people can take a lick to the head."

  Albert turned his swollen face slowly upwards, looked at the man with the badger's butt for a face. I thought maybe he was going to try and get up and smash the man's head, but he didn't. He said, "You take a message to the saloon for me?"

  "Hell no," the sled driver said. "That crazy fella and his circus is over to the saloon."

  "We'll pay you," Albert said.

  "What message?" I said.

  "How much?" Sled Driver said.

  Albert pushed a hand in his pants and fumbled out six bits.

  Sled Driver looked at the six bits in Albert's palm. "No way. Not chancing getting myself made into a lead sandwich for no six bits."

  Albert turned his head to me.

  "I got some," I said. I dug out all I had. Together it was about four dollars.

  "That enough?" Albert asked.r />
  "Well now," Sled Driver said. "Four dollars is four dollars."

  "Just asking you to take a little message. You let me and Buster here get back down to that wagon at the end of the street, then you tell him this. His uncle, Private Albert C. Moses, United States Cavalry, is coming to see him. And I ain't bringing presents. Tell him I ain't coming for no fast draw. I'm coming to do a bit of business."

  "That don't make no sense," Sled Driver said.

  "It will to him," Albert said. "Little Buster. Get me on my feet."

  I did.

  "Is he going to shoot me?" Sled Driver asked.

  "Not if you tell him that dumb, crazy nigger he beat up sent the message. Then you can cuss me some. He likes that."

  "Well," Sled Driver said looking at the money in his hand, "four dollars is four dollars."

  * * *

  We carried Skinny back to the wagon and put him on Billy Bob's stoop. Albert pulled the rack of Cure-All aside, and underneath it was a trap door.

  "Madonna and I built this in here," Albert said. "Billy Bob didn't never know about it."

  He opened the trap. Inside was a crate. He took the crate out and opened it. There was an old Army uniform, a cap, a .45, an old .44, and a Springfield rifle, some shells for all of them.

  "Now," Albert said, "I got this thing to do. You ain't no part of it. You go over to the livery, get the mules, hitch them up, and get out of here."

  "What about you and Rot Toe?"

  "I'll come on to the next town later. Hang around a day or so here and see if I can find Rot Toe. I don't come, you just keep on without me."

  "I can't do that."

  "You're a good boy, Little Buster, but you don't know a thing about fighting men. I used to make a living at it."

  "You can't go after him alone. He'll have Blue Hat with him. Maybe someone else. This ain't no dime novel, Albert."

  "I don't plan to have no straight draw with him, Little Buster. I'm just going to kill him. I owe that much to Jasmine. I said I'd watch after her boy, and I done all I could. This is the last thing I got to do for her. Get him out of the way. He can't carry on her blood and be the way he is. Ain't right."

  "Can't let you go alone, Albert."

  "You got no choice. You look plumb sick anyway, Little Buster. You ain't up to it."

  "I'm up to it. I'll just follow you if you don't let me go."

  Albert sighed. "All right," he said.

  He put on the soldier suit. It was a little tight, but still fit him. He stuck the .44 in his belt, put the extra shells for it and the Springfield in a pocket. He gave me the .45. "That kicks," he said. "Use two hands. And remember. You're just the backup, so stay out of it best you can."

  I nodded.

  We went out of there down the street, and the woods, the buildings, even the sky, seemed to be pushing down on me. It was the fever made it seem that way, I guess. Even the .45 in my hand seemed unreal. The barrel two yards long, the hammer as big as a cucumber. I kept blinking until I brought things into focus, but it didn't stop the throbbing and rushing in my head.

  The storm had turned something fierce, and my cap brim had gone soggy and was slapping in my face like the flap on a union suit.

  When we got to the saloon, Albert sent me around back. I hoped the door wasn't locked. I wondered if Albert had sent me back there just to get me out of the way.

  Jack was still out back. They hadn't gotten around to burying him yet. Even in the wind and rain he had him an aroma. He was all swollen up too. So big, in fact, his shirt had rolled up under his arms and his pale belly looked like a polished, white boulder. Ants and such had been at him. Maybe a stray dog.

  I stepped over Jack, put a hand to the door and eased it open. There wasn't a sound in there. No one took a shot at me.

  I pushed it open some more and stepped inside, and then I seen why it was so quiet.

  Albert had already come in, big as a brass band, the rifle over his left shoulder, the .44 in his right hand.

  Everyone was just staring, not quite believing it.

  "Nice day, ain't it?" Albert said.

  "You got a lot of sand, nigger," Riley said, easing to the middle of the bar.

  I stepped in where everyone could see me and said, "You stay away from under there, Mr. Riley," I said. "That Mex's pistol will just get you killed. In fact, you just take it by the barrel and put it up easy on the bar, slide it down to the far end out of the way."

  He did.

  Albert had the rifle level now, waving it toward Riley and the pistol toward the crowd at the tables. They were all looking very friendly, and every hand was in plain sight, least there he a mistake.

  "Where's Billy Bob?" Albert asked.

  "Gone to church," Riley said. "He didn't trust no nigger to come here and fight fair. He said to meet him there."

  "Anybody with him?"

  "Just the kid, Noel. Billy Bob figured you'd bring your boy here. He wanted to even things up."

  "Guess that means you had to give Noel back them bullets, huh?" I said.

  Riley didn't look at me.

  Albert grinned at Riley. "We'll have a whisky, Riley. Set us up a bottle."

  "I don't serve niggers. Ain't never. Ain't going to."

  Albert whipped the Springfield around and fired. The shot hit the sign that said: WE DONT SERVE NIGGERS, FREED OR OTHERWISE, and knocked it off the wall.

  The crowd found places under tables and Riley turned several shades of white, including one that matched Texas Jack's belly.

  Riley swallowed, turned, got a bottle and two glasses, put them on the bar, and stepped back.

  "No, you pour, Riley," Albert said. "In fact, get you a glass and have one with us."

  Riley's face did all manner of tricks, but he got another glass and put it on the bar. Albert went over to the bar and motioned to me. Riley poured us all a drink.

  I needed that shot of whisky like I needed a railroad spike in the head, but I drank it. Albert lifted his with Riley, making sure it went down about the same time as the bar-keep's.

  "Now wasn't that good?" Albert said. "Me and my old friend, Riley, taking a drink together. We'll do it again, won't we?"

  Riley's lip jumped a little.

  "Well, it's been fun, but we got to go shoot us some boys," Albert said. He went down the bar, got the Mex's gun, put it in his belt.

  We backed out of the bar and through the bat wings, stood out on the boardwalk looking at the storm and the street. Across the way I could see Sled Driver. He'd given the message and got out of there. He was leaning against a building looking at us. I reckon he wanted to see how it all came out, and still be a distance from it. When he seen I was looking at him, he gave me a little wave from the hip, like maybe I ought to be glad to see him.

  Why not? He did help me out of the mud. I waved back.

  "Well," said Albert, "it's going to take the edge off things if we have to go back in there and ask where the church is."

  "I know where it is," I said.

  * * *

  We didn't talk as we walked down the boardwalk. In fact, it was about all I could do to stand. I felt like someone was building a brush fire inside me.

  Across the way, pacing us step for step, was Sled Driver. Once I looked back and seen that the crowd from the saloon was following us.

  Albert pulled the Mexican's pistol out of his belt and shot at the boardwalk in front of them a few times, and they disappeared down it, and into the saloon like rabbits being chased by a hound.

  "They just like to watch," Albert said. "They ain't so much for getting shot at."

  "Me neither," I said.

  We passed the sled with the horseless carriage on it. The mules had been taken away, but the sheriff was still there, though someone had gone to the effort to set him in the seat of his rig. His head was slumped, and he just looked like he was resting in the rain.

  By the time we come to the end of the boardwalk and the overhang, there wasn't nothing but rain and wind and darkne
ss, and that big yellow lightning cutting now and then, and once when it flashed bright we saw the church.

  We were almost on top of it. It was small with a cross on the steeple, shutter doors at the top, and a white picket fence around it. At the gate, holding two pistols, was a man.

  Albert pushed me away with his elbow, out of the line of them pistols, and the Springfield fell off his shoulder and into his hands, neat as you please, and he fired.

  The shot hit the man in the head, and the head went to pieces, like a sack full of straw. It caught on the wind and was whirled away.

  The headless man did not fall.

  We eased over there, and seen what we should have known. It was Wild Bill Hickok. Billy Bob had tricked us. We had announced ourselves and come into pistol range.

  The shutters at the top of the church flung open, and there was Blue Hat. I seen him good in the lightning flash, just before everything went dark, and in that instant he fired, and I jerked my pistol up and fired at where I thought he was.

  Blue Hats shot was a good one. It hit Albert in the shoulder and he dropped the Springfield and went to his knees with a groan.

  When lightning flashed again, I seen that I had missed Blue Hat. I probably hadn't even hit the church.

  I tried to fire again, but before I could, Albert had pulled that Mex's pistol and took a shot.

  Blue Hats head popped back, his hat tossed off, then he rocked forward out the window, his pants legs catching on the sill, keeping him hanging until they ripped and he dropped on his head with a sound like a washer-woman slapping out wet laundry on a rock.

  The wide, double doors were kicked open then, and there was Billy Bob, looking just like one of them jaspers in a dime novel. He had a pistol in either hand and he was blazing.

  Albert had just got back on his feet, and now he was hit a bunch of times. He went backwards, dancing on one foot before he fell in the mud. As he fell, the pistol flew out of his hand and hit me in the side of the head,

  I did a little crawfish shuffle, and it was like that lick woke me up, made me crazy.

  When lightning flashed again and I seen Billy Bob, I yelled, "Wild Bill," and jerked a shot at him.

  Then things went dark again. I stood there with my pistol pointing it where he had been, waiting, and when there was another flash, I seen him. He was lying on the ground. Somehow, I'd hit him.