“Even if she's hurt!” Elec said.
After a tense moment, Beulah said, “All right, I guess I'd have to tell sooner or later, anyway.”
“You don't have to talk if you don't feel like it,” her husband told her.
“Damn it, Wirt!” the marshal exploded. “You stay out of this!”
By this time a good-sized crowd had gathered in the bank building, tensely waiting for what Beulah Sewell had to say. “My head hurts,” she said weakly. “It must have been a gun he hit me with.”
“Who hit you?” Elec put in quickly.
“I'll have to tell it my own way, Marshal. You see, Jed was locking up when I got to the bank. He let me in and was about to make me a receipt when the door opened again and in came this—”
“What did he look like?”
“He told me not to turn around,” Beulah went on, as though she hadn't heard the question. “But I did. He didn't want me to look at his face; that's why he hit me. It didn't do him any good,” she added grimly. “I got a good look at him. I stared right to the bottom of his mean eyes before he hit me. I guess he thought he'd killed me. He wouldn't have run off the way he did if he'd known I was alive to tell about him.”
The marshal sensed that she had reached the end. “Mrs. Sewell,” he said gently, “who was it?”
“May the good Lord help him,” Beulah said grimly. “It was my own brother-in-law, Nathan Blaine.”
Chapter Eight
A SOUND OF AMAZEMENT rose inside the building. Elec Blasingame had been prepared for almost anything—but not this. When he spoke, his voice held the rasp of urgency. “Mrs. Sewell, are you absolutely certain?”
“Of course I'm certain. I looked right at him.”
“You also told me that it must have been a gun that he hit you with,” Blasingame shot at her. “Seems to me that you'd have known it was a gun if you were looking at him.”
Beulah's small eyes bored into the marshal's face. “You're not calling me a liar, are you, Elec Blasingame?”
“You know better than that, ma'am. I just wonder if you actually turned and looked at this man, or if you merely thought you did. Put a person's mind under a strain and it sometimes plays funny tricks.”
The look she gave him chilled the marshal like a cutting rain. “My mind wasn't playing tricks!” she bit out. “I turned and looked at Nathan Blaine, and that's why he tried to kill me.” She raked the crowd with her anger. “You think I wouldn't recognize my own brother-in-law? You think I like dragging my family's name in the mud? And the boy Wirt and I raised like our own—do you think I'd hurt him like this if I didn't have to?”
“All right, ma'am,” Elec said heavily. “I just wanted to make sure.” He turned to Bert Surratt, who was standing at his elbow. “Nate Blaine couldn't have been in your place while the bank was being robbed, could he?”
Bert shook his head. “Funny thing. Blaine started drinkin' the minute he come in from your office. He left the saloon before the shootin'. Said he needed some air.”
Elec watched Beulah's face carefully, but it was set like iron and told him nothing. He turned shortly and headed for the door. “It looks like Nate Blaine's our man.”
As soon as school let out Jeff headed for the bank corner where Nathan usually waited for him. His pa wasn't there today. Instead, there was a scattering crowd of angry-eyed men, most of them carrying shotguns or rifles. There was a hoarse yell from the far end of the street, near the public corral, and old Seth Lewellen came hobbling out of the bank building and said, “By golly, it sounds like they found him!”
Not since the cattle trade had quit Plainsville had Jeff seen so much excitement in the town. He pushed up to the door of the bank, trying to see what was going on. He almost ran into his Uncle Wirt and Aunt Beulah, who were just coming out.
“Jeff,” Wirt said roughly, “what are you doing here?”
“The academy just let out,” Jeff said, puzzled. “I always come this way. What's all the excitement about?”
“Never mind that,” Wirt said. “Help me get your Aunt Beulah home; she's had an accident.”
“What kind of an accident?”
Wirt looked at him, and Jeff had never seen such fire in those usually mild eyes. “Stop asking questions,” he said shortly, “and take your aunt's arm.”
Aunt Beulah looked kind of funny too, Jeff was thinking. She was leaning on her husband, her eyes almost closed, her face as pale and bloodless as bone china. She hardly even looked at Jeff as he got on her left side and took her arm.
“I want to go home,” she almost whimpered.
“It's all right, Beulah,” Wirt said gently. “Do you feel like walkin'?”
“I guess so.”
“I can hustle down to the corral and rent a hack of some kind.”
“No,” Beulah said weakly, “I can walk all right. Don't joggle me like that, Jefferson; it hurts my head.”
Jeff held her steady by the elbow. “What happened, Uncle Wirt?” he asked again, bursting with curiosity.
His uncle's voice turned harsh. “Never you mind!”
Together, they helped Beulah down the steps and began moving slowly along the walk. Jeff kept looking back at the gathering crowd at the far end of the street. It was growing larger and had a mean, rough sound to it. There was something in that sound that started a chill at the base of Jeff's spine.
They crossed the street, took short cuts toward home, and finally got Beulah to the house. Wirt made his wife he down on the couch in the small parlor and sent Jeff to draw a bucket of cold water from the well. Wirt dipped a towel in the water and wrapped it around Beulah's head.
“How does that feel?” Wirt wanted to know.
There was a strange emptiness in her eyes. “I'm all right,” she said lifelessly.
“I think I ought to see what's happened,” Wirt said. “Jeff will be here if you want anything.”
Jeff wanted to cry out in protest. He was crawling with curiosity and nobody would tell him anything. But he couldn't miss the urgency in his uncle's voice when Wirt turned to him and said, “You watch after her, Jeff. I won't be long. If anything comes up, you hightail it after Doc Shipley, understand?”
Reluctantly, Jeff nodded. But how could he be expected to do anything when he didn't even know what was wrong with his aunt? After Wirt was gone Jeff took a chair on the other side of the room and began his uneasy vigil. Aunt Beulah didn't do a thing but stare up at the ceiling.
This wasn't at all like his aunt; there was something about the way she lay there, motionless as a corpse, that gave him a spooky feeling. Soon he looked away and tried to fix his mind on something else.