1
Just off the sidewalk
there was a huge oak, one with roots like claws, and beneath it
stood Ryan. On so hot a day he appreciated the shade, though
curiously he left his vest and suitcoat on. Hanging loose from his
left hand was his Winchester.
For the past ten
minutes, Ryan had kept his brown eyes fixed on the small, white
cottagelike house and the large barn that loomed over it directly
behind. Griff and Carlyle were back there now, talking.
Ryan set the
Winchester against the tree then took out a cigar and lighted it.
Even on a day this hot, the fifty-cent Cuban tasted good, heady as
wine the first few puffs.
A small boy pulling a
small red wooden wagon inside of which sat an even smaller girl
came by, followed by a yipping puppy. Ryan said hello to the boy
and smiled at the puppy. The girl, even though she said hello,
received nothing from Ryan, not even a glance. He knew better than
to look at pretty girls.
As the kids and the
wagon and the dog rolled past, Ryan looked down the street and saw
Carlyle coming up the walk, moving fast. He looked agitated.
Carlyle didn’t seem
to see Ryan until he was a few feet from the tree.
Ryan hefted the
Winchester then stepped out into the middle of the walk.
Carlyle, sensing
rather than seeing somebody moving into his way, stopped abruptly
and raised his head. “Shit,” he said when he saw who it was.
“Kind of a hot day to
be moving so fast, Mr. Carlyle,” Ryan said.
Carlyle’s eyes had
dropped to the new Winchester slung across Ryan’s chest.
Ryan said, “You know
who I am, don’t you?”
“Yessir.”
“And you know why I’m
here.”
“Yessir.”
Ryan patted the
Winchester. “And you know why I brought this.”
Carlyle said, “It was
an accident, sir, what happened to your daughter.”
“You know, I’ve tried
to console myself with that notion every once in a while. But then
I start to thinking-if those three men hadn’t gone to the bank that
day, then the accident would never have happened. My little Clarice
would have gone in there and made her deposit and Mr. Dolan would
have given her a mint and then she would have walked back to my
store and it would have been a regular, normal day.” Now the tears
came, but more in his voice than in his eyes. “She would have
graduated from school this past spring, Mr. Carlyle. Her mother and
I would have been so proud.”
“We didn’t mean for
it to happen, Mr. Ryan. Honest.”
“You know what
happened to her mother?”
“No.”
Ryan drew himself up
and sighed. “Whooping cough.” Carlyle’s eyes dropped back to the
Winchester.
Ryan said, “You can
always go to the sheriff here, Mr. Carlyle.”
“Yessir.”
“You can always tell
him you were the men who robbed that bank and killed that little
girl.”
“Yessir.”
“Because if you
don’t-” Now it was Ryan who looked at the Winchester. “Because if
you don’t, you’re going to have to worry about me.”
“Yessir.”
“And you know
something?”
“What, sir?”
“I’d sure as hell
rather have to worry about the law than worry about me. Because
maybe in a court of law you’ll convince a jury that what you did
was an accident-but you’ll never convince me. You understand
that?”
Carlyle didn’t even
have time to respond before Ryan raised the Winchester and slammed
the butt of it into Carlyle’s mouth.
Carlyle moaned,
putting his hands to his mouth. He sounded as if he didn’t know
whether to puke or cry or what.
Ryan said. “That’s
just the start of things, Mr. Carlyle. Just the beginning.”
But Carlyle wasn’t
paying any attention. He was looking at the tiny white stubs of
teeth he’d just spit out bloodily into the palm of his right hand.
He looked shocked and confused and terrified.
“Just the beginning,”
Ryan said, and walked off down the street toward town again.