“Why, it isn’t worth anything and you know it. Two bits’ worth of forgiveness would cancel it out. To see a man that never meant to do you or yours any harm brought low! You a Catholic, with your Virgin to pray to and your candles and all — do you think you can go up there and when they ask you what reason you had for being alive, say it was to see a man dishonored and killed? It won’t pass, Kate.” He began to laugh. “They will send you to a lower part of hell than me. Wouldn’t that gripe your everlasting soul!”

He shouted with laughter and beat his hand upon his leg. He tried to suck the laughter back at the sight of her face, but he could not. “Oh, that would be hell!”

“Stop it!”

He stopped. He put his feet down and leaned toward her, and said, seriously again, “Kate, do you think I would give a rap for Clay if I could tell him to go out and shoot down a randy son of a bitch that was after my girl?”

He watched her fighting uncertainty. She shook her head and the feather on her hat swooped and swung; he could make her believe the truth a lie, he knew, but not a lie the truth.

“Wait!” he said, as she started to speak. “Let’s try to work it out. Maybe I see how it went, come to think of it. You had a few rolls in bed with Clay, didn’t you?”

“I did not!”

“Are you sure, now?” he said, grinning, feeling hate of himself like black bile rising in his veins. “Because I thought you did, Kate. Wait now! I was just wondering if Cletus might’ve got wind of it too. Was he a jealous kind? Maybe that was why.”

She clutched her hands to her face and he thought he had won; he wondered what he thought he had won. He said softly, “Maybe that was why Cletus called out Clay, Kate. Do you think that might’ve been why? You knew him better than I did.”

“It’s not so!” she said, through her hands. “That I— Tom, I knew he was your friend. I—”

“Well, lots of things that aren’t so get fought over all the same.”

She leaned forward, her hands on the table, her swollen eyes fastened to his. “You—” she whispered. “You—”

“I’m just saying that somebody could have told him that,” he said easily. “And if he was a jealous fellow. I’ve heard—”

“I don’t believe you!” she cried. “You didn’t. You are just trying to— I can’t believe you, I can’t ever believe you! Get out of here, Tom!”

All at once he was very shaken by the sight of her face, and he picked up his hat and started for the door. He had only meant to try to take her off Clay’s back a little and let her sit his own. He thought of the times he had seen her in anger, the times in grief; it occurred to him, now, that he had never felt sorry for her before. He turned and said, “Kate—”

“Oh, please get out!”

He went on outside, where his eyes recoiled from the brightness of the sun. He could hear her sobbing behind him. Why couldn’t he tell her the truth? Why wouldn’t it be easy? He almost turned to go back to her, but, after a moment’s reflection, he did not. He could not, he thought, ever go back.

40. BRIGHT’S CITY

BRIGHT’S City lay just to the east of the Bucksaws, along Bright’s Creek. There was a heavy traffic of wagons across the rumbling wooden bridge over the creek, where, straight ahead, on Main Street, lay the Plaza. To the right, half a mile down Fort Street, was Fort Jacob Collins, with its flag rippling and colorful in the wind, and, to the left, the three-storied red-brick courthouse, its tall windows shuttered against the sun, its copper-sheathed cupola raised like a helmeted dragoon’s head.

Soldiers from the fort paced the streets or stood upon corners. There were many women in Bright’s City, and many men in store suits among the more roughly dressed ranchers and cowboys. Townsmen and housewives kept to the north side of Bright’s City’s Main Street, while sporting women in their finery passed in promenade on the south side, accompanied by the whistling of cowboys and soldiers.

The delegation from the Warlock Citizens’ Committee exited from the Jim Bright Hotel. A Bright’s City deputy, chewing on a toothpick, greeted them pleasantly as he sauntered on his rounds.

“How enviable it is,” Will Hart said, “to see the same deputies on hand every time you come in here.”

“I wish we’d see a different sheriff,” Buck Slavin said irritably.

“Well, let’s go see what sheriff there is,” Goodpasture said, and they proceeded to the sheriff’s office, which adjoined the courthouse. Sheriff Keller was visible through the dusty glass of the window. He sat at ease with his scrolled boots propped up on his pigeon-holed desk, his fine, white, sugar-loaf hat tipped over his eyes.

Keller rose ponderously as they entered, a bull-necked, heavy man with the face of a jolly bloodhound, a tobacco-stained mustache, and a gold watch chain with links like barbed wire strung across his massive midsection. Behind him the cell doors stood open, and in one of them a number of prisoners were playing cards.

“Why, it’s some gentlemen from Warlock,” Keller said, removing his hat and smiling in greeting. Then his face turned sad as he said, “I certainly was distressed to hear about old Carl Schroeder. A good man.” He shook his head sadly, and clucked.

The prisoners dropped their cards and crowded into the door of the cell. “What’s happened?” one cried.

“Blaisedell throw down on McQuown yet?”

“You boys hush, now!” the sheriff roared. “You! Get back in there!” The prisoners moved back inside, and Keller went over to slam the door on them. “I’ll have a little peace and quiet in here!” he said severely, and turned back to the delegation again. Another deputy came in.

“Branch, you run for Jim Askew,” the sheriff said. “Here is some more news from Warlock and he’ll apoplexy sure if he gets gone to press before he hears it. Now; what’s up now, gentlemen?”

“We want some law in Warlock, Sheriff!” Slavin said. “The Citizens’ Committee has sent us up here to insist—”

“Well, now, hold on,” Keller said. “You people are all right. That young Gannon come up here ahead of you people, and told me he was going to resign, but I have talked him out of it. Anyway, you have got Blaisedell still, haven’t you?”

“Damn,” Slavin said.

“Well, we wanted to get rid of Gannon, Sheriff,” Will Hart said. “I must say we are a little sorry to hear you talked him out of resigning.

The sheriff sat down, frowning heavily. “Well, now, gentlemen; he said people was kind of down on him, thinking he had swore false over Curley Burne. Maybe he did too, but it come right in the end, now, didn’t it?” He eyed them each in turn. “You people down there have got to realize it is hard to get a decent man to deputy in Warlock. You don’t just chuck one out when he does something you don’t like once or twice; no, sir.” He scowled at the deputy, who had not left yet. “Run along now, Branch. Get Jim Askew here, boy.” The prisoners were whispering together excitedly.

“Like I say,” Keller went on. “It came right anyway what with Blaisedell cutting down Curley Burne, so I can’t see what you people are so excited about.”

“We insist that you fire Gannon!” Slavin said. “The Citizens’ Committee has sent us up here to tell you—”

“Huh!” Keller said. “Now, I mean! Who is the Warlock Citizens’ Committee to tell me who I am to fire? I mean, I like to get along with you folks, but it is hard to hire a man for that place down there.”

“What did he want here, Sheriff?” Goodpasture asked.

The sheriff leaned back in his chair, his face crinkling with amusement. “Why, he didn’t really want to resign. He was just trying to blackguard me with it. He wanted four more deputies down there. Four!” He held up four fat fingers. Well, he’s young, but he is all right. I promised him if he’d wait over a day or so, I’d get him a new sign made for that jail down there, though.”