The first sound he heard was a horn blowing a military call. It was faint, but clear and precise in the thin air — as out of place and improbable as though a forest with stream, moss, and ferns had showed itself suddenly in the white dust of the street. He did not move, holding his breath, as though he had mistaken the sound of his breathing for that other sound. After a while it came again, a bugle call signifying what, rallying or commanding what, he did not know. The brassy notes hung in the air after the call had ended. He rose and moved to the doorway. A Mexican woman with a black rebozo over her head came down Southend Street, and Goodpasture’s mozo appeared, broom in hand, to speak to her as she passed, and then turned and leaned on the broom and stared east up Main Street.
He went back inside the jail and sat down again. Once he thought he heard the sound of hoofbeats, but it was faint, and, when he listened for it, inaudible, as though it had only been some kind of ghostly reverberation along his nerves. He began to think he had heard the bugle only in a half-dream, too. Immediately the brassy, shivering call came again, close now, a different call this time, and now when he hurried out the door there were many people up and down the street, all staring east.
Back of the Western Star he could see the cloud of tan dust rising, and he could hear the hoofs clearly as the dust rolled nearer. Preceding it, riders wheeled into Main Street on the road from Bright’s City. There were ten or twelve of them, in dusty blue and forage caps, one with the fork-tailed pennon on a staff. They came down Main Street at a pounding trot, looking neither right nor left as men hurried out of the street before them, the leader with three yellow Vs on the sleeve of his dark blue shirt, and a dusty-dark, mustachioed face beneath the vicious-looking, flat-vizored cap; the second man holding the pennon staff, and, next to him, the bugler with rows of braid upon his chest. He watched them pass him, and another group appeared, far up the street. The first group trotted to the end of town, wheeled about, and halted. The second turned south down Broadway. A third did not come into Main Street at all, but trotted dustily on past it. Another bugle sounded and more cavalry appeared, this time a much larger body and a mixed one, for there were civilian riders in it. Frozen into his eye for an instant was the image of a huge, uniformed man in a wide, flat hat with one side pinned up, and a white beard blown back against his chest.
Pike Skinner came running across Main Street toward him, shoving his shirttails down into his pants. “What the hell is this, Johnny?”
He could only shake his head. The main body came slowly down Main Street, to halt before the burnt shell of the Glass Slipper. One of the civilians rode on toward him; it was Sheriff Keller. He reined up and dismounted, heavily, and dropped his reins in the dust. Grunting, he mounted the boardwalk, and with a sideways glance at Gannon stamped on into the dimness of the jail. There he slumped down into the chair at the table as Gannon followed him inside. The sheriff wiped his face and the back of his neck with a blue handkerchief and squinted at Pike, who stood in the doorway.
“Glad to’ve seen you, hombre,” he said blandly, and made a slight movement with his head.
Pike started to speak, but changed his mind and went out. Down the street someone was yelling in a brass voice that was drowned in another sudden pad of hoofs.
Gannon felt a sudden wild and rising hope that this was to be some kind of ceremony investing a new county. “What’s the cavalry down here for, Sheriff?”
The sheriff rubbed his coarse-veined red nose. The plating was worn from his sheriff’s star and the brass showed through. “What we forget,” he said slowly, staring at Gannon with his flat eyes. “We get to thinking the general runs things. But there is people to run him too.”
The hope burst in him more wildly still; but then the sheriff said, “Gent named Willingham. Porphyrion and Western Mining Company, or some such. There is a flock of wagons coming down.”
“Wagons?”
“Wagons for miners to ride in.”
“Miners?” he said, stupidly.
“Over to Welltown to the railroad,” the sheriff said. He sucked on his teeth. “And out,” he said, jerking his thumb east. “Out of the territory. Troublemaking miners,” he said, nodding, pursing his lips, scowling. “Ignorant, agitating, murdering foreigners, and a criminal conspiracy, what the general’s general says. Willingham, that is.” He sighed, then he scowled at Gannon. “This Tittle a friend of yours too, son? That was what tore it.”
A crutch-tip cracked on the planks. Judge Holloway came in, red-faced and panting. “Oh, it’s you, Keller!” the judge said. “Oh, you have come down to Warlock at last, have you?”
“Uh-huh,” Keller said. “Sit,” he said, vacating the chair grudgingly, and moving his bulk to the other. The judge sat down. His crutch got away from him, and clattered to the floor.
“Will you tell me what damned dirty devilment is going on here, Keller?”
“Run out of Apaches,” the sheriff said. His fat face looked tired and disgruntled. In the street Gannon saw a man running, looking back over his shoulder. He started out. “Here!” Keller barked. “Come back here, boy! You are going to have to pay this no mind.”
“Pay what no mind?”
“What are you saying about Apaches, Keller?” the judge said.
“Why, they are all cleaned out, so now it is Cousin Jacks to take out after. New flag; it has got Porphyrion and Western wrote on it. Wagons coming. All those striking ones are going to get hauled up to Welltown and a special train is going to haul them back east somewheres and dump them.”
“MacDonald,” the judge whispered.
“Why, surely, MacDonald. Only he has got his big brother along, name of Willingham. Out from Frisco. Willingham has thrown a scare into old Peach something terrible.”
The judge began to hawk as though he would strangle. The sheriff rose and pounded him on the back. “Son,” he said to Gannon. “You should have snatched down on that Tittle, what you should have done. You let me down, boy, and I got ordered down here the same as some tight-britches trooper.” He pounded the judge on the back once more, and then reseated himself. Gannon leaned back against the wall.
“They can’t do it!” the judge cried. “He is crazy!”
“Didn’t you people down here in Warlock know that? But he can surely do it. Colonel Whiteside was arguing and stamping around, how he couldn’t do it; and Willingham giving it to him he had damned well better. I heard Whiteside telling him Washington’d have his ears for it. But when Peach gets a bee in his bonnet he moves and if you think he can’t do it, you just watch him.”
Keller took off his hat, ran a hand back over his head, sighed, and said, “Whiteside is a nice old feller for a colonel, and thinks high of Peach too. He says all he wants is for Peach to go out well thought of, which he is near to doing — and this will ruin him for sure. But Peach thinks how Willingham can do him some good in Washington some way, and anyway Willingham is claiming this is armed rebellion against the U.S. down here, and up to Peach to stop it. Why, they are going to round up these jacks like a herd of longhorns and ship them out in cattle cars, and it is a crying shame.” He extended a long, spatulate finger. “But judge,” he said, “and boy: there is nothing to do about it.”
The judge slid the drawer open against his belly and worked his bottle of whisky out of it. He cracked it down on the table before him. He said, “We are overrun with Philistines!”
“Save some of that for me,” the sheriff said. “I rid drag all the way down here.”
Gannon leaned against the wall and stared at the sheriff’s face. “What are you here for, Sheriff?”
The sheriff took the bottle the judge handed him, and drank. His belly began to shake; he was laughing silently. He handed the bottle back and winked. “Why, I am to clean things out down here,” he said. “You and me, son. Why, we are to fill up one of those wagons ourself. Road agents, rustlers, murderers, and such trash; we are to round up a bagful. Old Peach heard somewhere that things’ve got a little out of hand down here.”