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.