As the man left, James sat back down.
“Now what?”
“They’re not leaving us any choice,” Shaye said. “I want that telegram.”
“Well,” Thomas said, “I guess we better just go out and get it.”
12
As they stepped outside, Shaye said to his sons, “Thomas, I want you to stand to my right and James, you stand to his right.”
“There’s four of ’em, Pa,” James reminded him.
“You’re right,” Shaye said. “Thomas, you’re the fastest. You stand center and take the two in the middle. Remember, son, pick out the leader and kill him first.”
“I got you, Pa.”
“Are we gonna try to do this first without guns, Pa?” James asked.
“We are, James,” Shaye said. “I’ll do the talking, but keep an eye on their hands and their eyes. Remember, use all of your vision. We’ll know real quick if we’re gonna need our guns.”
“Okay, Pa.”
Shaye looked at his sons. Thomas looked rock steady, James nervous. That was only natural. James was the youngest, Thomas—bigger, older, more confident—he had gunplay in his blood. Shaye wasn’t proud of that fact, but he had to admit it had come in handy in the past—and would come in handy now.
“Okay,” Shaye said, “Thomas goes out the door first and we follow right close behind. Are we ready?”
“Ready, Pa,” James said.
Thomas just nodded and stepped through the batwing doors.
When Giffiths saw Thomas Shaye exit the saloon, followed by his father and brother, he pushed his partners and said, “Spread out. I’ll take the middle one, Thomas Shaye.”
“Who do I take?” Paul hissed.
“Shut up and spread out!”
The other three men obeyed. Shaye, Thomas, and James remained on the boardwalk in front of the saloon.
“One of you has something of mine,” Shaye said.
Griffiths reached into his pocket with his left hand and came out with the telegram.
“Do you mean this?” ’
“That’s it,” Shaye said. “Hand it over and you and your friends can leave.”
Griffiths laughed and put it back in his pocket.
“If you want it, you’re gonna have to take it…if you can.”
“Oh, I can,” Shaye said. “My only problem will be taking it without getting blood on it. Thomas?”
“Yes, Pa?”
“When you kill that man, make sure you don’t shoot him in the heart,” Shaye instructed. “That would soak the telegram with his blood.”
“Yes, Pa.”
“You’re Thomas Shaye?” Griffiths asked.
“That’s right.”
“You killed Seth Langer?”
Thomas flinched. It was a sore point between him and his father that he had not killed Seth Langer.
“I brought him to justice,” Thomas said. “He’s in prison…and a cripple.”
“My name is Griffiths, George Griffiths.”
“Never heard of you.”
“Some people have,” Griffiths said. “More will, after I kill you.”
Thomas laughed.
“You think killing me will give you a big rep?”
“We’ve heard of you—and your father,” Griffiths said.
“I feel insulted,” James said.
“And your brother,” Griffiths added.
“Gee, thanks,” James muttered.
“Enough talking,” Shaye said. “Hand over the telegram or we’ll take it.”
“Take it, the—”
Before Griffiths could finish his sentence, Thomas drew his weapon and fired. George Griffiths never knew what hit him. The bullet plowed into his chest dead center, missing the telegram. Griffiths was knocked off his feet and onto his back in the street.
The other men, stunned by Thomas’s speed, turned out to be easy pickings for Shaye and James, who both drew very deliberately—not sharing the speed Thomas possessed—and fired accurately. Only one of the other men even cleared leather and his gun ended up in the street next to his body.
All three of the Shaye men ejected the spent shells from their guns, replaced them with live loads, and holstered their weapons. Even though he knew they were dead, Shaye stepped down into the street and walked among the fallen men to make sure. He nudged each one with his boot, then picked up their weapons and tossed them away from him.
“Hold it!”
He turned and saw Sheriff Adam Kennedy approaching him, gun in hand.
“Take it easy, Sheriff,” Shaye said. “It’s all over.”
“What the hell happened here?” Kennedy asked, looking down at the dead men.
“We didn’t have a choice,” Thomas said, stepping down into the street.
Kennedy turned, trained his gun on Thomas. Shaye took two quick steps and placed his hand on the lawman’s gun.
“Holster it,” he said.
Kennedy hesitated, looked around, and then obeyed. Slowly, men began to leave the saloon to have a look. People came from other directions as well and stared.
“We stayed in town too long,” Shaye said. “That’s what happened.”
“And are you staying any longer?” Kennedy asked.
“I don’t know. I guess that depends on what my telegram says.”
“What telegram?”
Shaye leaned over the dead Griffiths, reached into his pocket, and removed the telegram. There was a bit of blood on one corner, but that was it.
“This one.”
“What does it say?” Kennedy asked.
Shaye unfolded it, read it, and looked at the lawman.
“It says we’re leaving town tomorrow.”
13
The guard opened the door to allow Jeb Collier to leave Yuma Prison.
“Thanks,” Jeb said.
“I got three months,” the guard said.
“What?”
“The guards are all bettin’ on when we’ll see you in here again. I got three months. I mean, I figure you gotta get caught, then tried, and then they’ll ship you over here…yeah, three months is about right.”
“You got it wrong, Lane,” Jeb said. “I ain’t never comin’ back here.”
“Well,” Lane said, “don’t tell me you’re goin’ straight?”
“Straight?” Jeb frowned, as if he didn’t know what that word meant.
“Yeah,” Lane said, scratching his grizzled gray cheek, “like I figured. I been a prison guard for a lot of years…nigh on to thirty, I think, here and other prisons, and you’re the worst I’ve seen.”
Jeb looked back at the prison, and then at Lane. “I been in worse places, Lane.”
“You got this place wired, that’s for sure,” Lane said. “Everybody doin’ your work for you…guards workin’ for you…”
“Not you, though, huh?”
“No,” Lane said, “not me. Like I tol’ you. I been at this too long. You’ll be back, Jeb.”
“I don’t think so, Lane.”
Lane laughed.
“I’ll keep your cell clean.”
Jeb tried to think of a good response, but then decided that the best response would simply be to never return there.
He walked out the door.
Ben Collier watched as his brother walked out the front gate of Yuma Prison, a free man after two years.
“There he is,” Clark Wilson said.
“I see him,” Ben said.
Wilson and Dave Roberts exchanged a glance, but remained silent. They were both glad to see Jeb Collier leaving Yuma Prison. The past two years had been lean ones under Ben Collier. Jeb was always the brains of the two brothers.
However, Ben was the mean one, so they kept quiet.
Ben Collier moved forward to meet his brother with open arms.
“Hey, Ben!”
Jeb grabbed his larger, though younger, brother and hugged him tightly. Ben put his older brother in a bear hug and lifted him off his feet.