When the light got so it wasn't hurting, and everything around me quit spinning, a voice said, "You dead, boy?"
It was the fella that had been driving the sled, and my head wasn't floating. He was holding my head out of the mud by the hair.
"I'm peachy," I said.
"You don't look peachy." He got his arms under mine and got me to my feet. When I was standing, I wobbled over to Albert, fell down on my knees beside him. "Albert," I said. "Albert, you with us?"
His hand fluttered and I took hold of it. "God, Albert. Say you're okay."
"Most of them licks he got was in the head," Sled Driver said. "Nigger has a hard head. That idiot fella's dead as a rock."
"Albert," I said again.
"Here… Little Buster. Here."
"Help me," I said, looking up at the fella.
Sled Driver got an arm, I got the other, and we pulled Albert over to the boardwalk and propped his back against the general store wall.
"I'm going to be okay," Albert said. "Things has quit spinning around. I don't think I'm busted inside."
"Cause you got most of it in the head," Sled Driver said kindly. "You people can take a lick to the head."
Albert turned his swollen face slowly upwards, looked at the man with the badger's butt for a face. I thought maybe he was going to try and get up and smash the man's head, but he didn't. He said, "You take a message to the saloon for me?"
"Hell no," the sled driver said. "That crazy fella and his circus is over to the saloon."
"We'll pay you," Albert said.
"What message?" I said.
"How much?" Sled Driver said.
Albert pushed a hand in his pants and fumbled out six bits.
Sled Driver looked at the six bits in Albert's palm. "No way. Not chancing getting myself made into a lead sandwich for no six bits."
Albert turned his head to me.
"I got some," I said. I dug out all I had. Together it was about four dollars.
"That enough?" Albert asked.
"Well now," Sled Driver said. "Four dollars is four dollars."
"Just asking you to take a little message. You let me and Buster here get back down to that wagon at the end of the street, then you tell him this. His uncle, Private Albert C. Moses, United States Cavalry, is coming to see him. And I ain't bringing presents. Tell him I ain't coming for no fast draw. I'm coming to do a bit of business."
"That don't make no sense," Sled Driver said.
"It will to him," Albert said. "Little Buster. Get me on my feet."
I did.
"Is he going to shoot me?" Sled Driver asked.
"Not if you tell him that dumb, crazy nigger he beat up sent the message. Then you can cuss me some. He likes that."
"Well," Sled Driver said looking at the money in his hand, "four dollars is four dollars."
We carried Skinny back to the wagon and put him on Billy Bob's stoop. Albert pulled the rack of Cure-All aside, and underneath it was a trap door.
"Madonna and I built this in here," Albert said. "Billy Bob didn't never know about it."
He opened the trap. Inside was a crate. He took the crate out and opened it. There was an old Army uniform, a cap, a. 45, an old. 44, and a Springfield rifle, some shells for all of them.
"Now," Albert said, "I got this thing to do. You ain't no part of it. You go over to the livery, get the mules, hitch them up, and get out of here."
"What about you and Rot Toe?"
"I'll come on to the next town later. Hang around a day or so here and see if I can find Rot Toe. I don't come, you just keep on without me."
"I can't do that."
"You're a good boy, Little Buster, but you don't know a thing about fighting men. I used to make a living at it."
"You can't go after him alone. He'll have Blue Hat with him. Maybe someone else. This ain't no dime novel, Albert."
"I don't plan to have no straight draw with him, Little Buster. I'm just going to kill him. I owe that much to Jasmine. I said I'd watch after her boy, and I done all I could. This is the last thing I got to do for her. Get him out of the way. He can't carry on her blood and be the way he is. Ain't right."
"Can't let you go alone, Albert."
"You got no choice. You look plumb sick anyway, Little Buster. You ain't up to it."
"I'm up to it. I'll just follow you if you don't let me go."
Albert sighed. "All right," he said.
He put on the soldier suit. It was a little tight, but still fit him. He stuck the. 44 in his belt, put the extra shells for it and the Springfield in a pocket. He gave me the. 45. "That kicks," he said. "Use two hands. And remember. You're just the backup, so stay out of it best you can."
I nodded.
We went out of there down the street, and the woods, the buildings, even the sky, seemed to be pushing down on me. It was the fever made it seem that way, I guess. Even the. 45 in my hand seemed unreal. The barrel two yards long, the hammer as big as a cucumber. I kept blinking until I brought things into focus, but it didn't stop the throbbing and rushing in my head.
The storm had turned something fierce, and my cap brim had gone soggy and was slapping in my face like the flap on a union suit.
When we got to the saloon, Albert sent me around back. I hoped the door wasn't locked. I wondered if Albert had sent me back there just to get me out of the way.
Jack was still out back. They hadn't gotten around to burying him yet. Even in the wind and rain he had him an aroma. He was all swollen up too. So big, in fact, his shirt had rolled up under his arms and his pale belly looked like a polished, white boulder. Ants and such had been at him. Maybe a stray dog.
I stepped over Jack, put a hand to the door and eased it open. There wasn't a sound in there. No one took a shot at me.
I pushed it open some more and stepped inside, and then I seen why it was so quiet.
Albert had already come in, big as a brass band, the rifle over his left shoulder, the. 44 in his right hand.
Everyone was just staring, not quite believing it.
"Nice day, ain't it?" Albert said.
"You got a lot of sand, nigger," Riley said, easing to the middle of the bar.
I stepped in where everyone could see me and said, "You stay away from under there, Mr. Riley," I said. "That Mex's pistol will just get you killed. In fact, you just take it by the barrel and put it up easy on the bar, slide it down to the far end out of the way."
He did.
Albert had the rifle level now, waving it toward Riley and the pistol toward the crowd at the tables. They were all looking very friendly, and every hand was in plain sight, least there he a mistake.
"Where's Billy Bob?" Albert asked.
"Gone to church," Riley said. "He didn't trust no nigger to come here and fight fair. He said to meet him there."
"Anybody with him?"
"Just the kid, Noel. Billy Bob figured you'd bring your boy here. He wanted to even things up."
"Guess that means you had to give Noel back them bullets, huh?" I said.
Riley didn't look at me.
Albert grinned at Riley. "We'll have a whisky, Riley. Set us up a bottle."
"I don't serve niggers. Ain't never. Ain't going to."
Albert whipped the Springfield around and fired. The shot hit the sign that said: WE DONT SERVE NIGGERS, FREED OR OTHERWISE, and knocked it off the wall.
The crowd found places under tables and Riley turned several shades of white, including one that matched Texas Jack's belly.
Riley swallowed, turned, got a bottle and two glasses, put them on the bar, and stepped back.
"No, you pour, Riley," Albert said. "In fact, get you a glass and have one with us."
Riley's face did all manner of tricks, but he got another glass and put it on the bar. Albert went over to the bar and motioned to me. Riley poured us all a drink.