Chester giggled. A silly thing to do, him just being shot, but the whole situation was silly. Here he was, he had never harmed another soul in his life, and he was buying time for the most notorious killer in the territory. What kind of sense did that make? he asked himself. To make it even sillier, Glickman had gone and shot him.
Then Chester peered past the pants and out the front door and beheld his wife lying dead and cold in the street. Suddenly he did not feel like giggling. Suddenly he was boiling mad. All he ever wanted was to make a success of the town he helped found. But no. Dodge City destroyed any hope Coffin Varnish had. Dodge City had killed Coffin Varnish. Now that he thought about it, Dodge City had killed Adolphina, too. “Damn Dodge, anyhow,” he said aloud.
“Did you hear something?” Seamus asked his men. He had, but then he was next to the open door.
“What was it?” Lafferty inquired from the safety of the water trough.
“A voice,” Seamus said. He leaned out, wondering if it had been the person behind the clothes.
Chester frowned when his view of Adolphina was unexpectedly blocked by the head and shoulders of the undersheriff. By the very man who, in Chester’s estimation, was most to blame for her untimely passing. A man from
Seamus cried out as lead tore through his shoulder. He went down on one knee, then immediately threw himself clear of the doorway so he would not be shot a second time. Gritting his teeth against the agony, he realized he had dropped his revolver. Hands seized him, and he was half-carried, half-dragged over to the water trough and deposited next to Lafferty, who reluctantly made room.
“How bad it is, Sheriff?” a cowboy asked.
“If you die can I have that fancy revolver of yours?” Winston inquired.
Seamus would love to shoot him with that fancy revolver. Instead, he said, “This is what we get for not doing our job. If we had rushed him like I wanted a minute ago, I wouldn’t be shot.”
“First you didn’t want to rush, then you did,” Winston said. “If anyone is to blame, it is you for not making up your mind.”
“There is no predicting being shot,” a clerk added.
“One of you go fetch the rest from the saloon,” Seamus commanded. “I have had enough. We are ending this and getting me to a sawbones.” He was not bleeding a lot, which was a good sign, but he had to watch out that infection did not set in. More people died of infected gunshots than from actually being shot.
“Fetch everybody?” Winston said.
“And while you are at it, send two or three around to the back so the bastard can’t get away.” Seamus realized he should have thought of that sooner.
Deputized citizens scurried to obey. Seamus twisted and dipped his hand in the water trough. The water was lukewarm and had a smell to it that discouraged him from splashing it on his wound.
Lafferty was writing away, and grinning. “I can see the headlines now! Gun battle in Coffin Varnish! Undersheriff Glickman shot! Is there any chance you will die?”
Seamus examined his shoulder. The slug had gone clean through and missed most blood vessels and the bone. “I expect to live.”
“That is too bad.”
“How is that again?”
“We would sell more papers if you died.”
“It would please me no end if you were kicked in the head by a horse,” Seamus said.
“Don’t take it personally,” Lafferty said. “I would be tickled pink if it was Wild Bill Hickok who was shot.”
“Hickok is already dead. He was shot in Deadwood a few years ago.”
“He was? Well, that was before my time. To me, you are the story, and although you are not anywhere near as famous as Hickok and never will be, you will have to do.”
The batwings were flapping. The rest of the posse was hurrying from the saloon.
Seamus eased up high enough to sit on the edge of the water trough. Several men were keeping an eye on the store window and the doorway.
“Men,” Seamus began when they were all gathered, “I have good reason to suspect that Jeeter Frost is holed up in that store. We are going to rush him. Or, rather, you are, since I can’t hardly rush anything in the shape I am in.”
From out of the group came a muttered “How come only us? Your legs still work fine.”
“Who said that?” Seamus demanded, and when no one responded, he swore. “Where is your sense of duty? Of civic pride? You are sworn to uphold the law, and that should count for something.”
“Only if the upholding doesn’t get me killed,” another man said.
“As a posse, you would make a fine sewing circle,” Seamus chastised them.
“We fought the Hasletts, didn’t we?” Winston retorted. “You could at least give us our due.”
Seamus slowly rose, his shoulder a welter of pain. “What I would like to give you is a good swift kick in the britches. But if you won’t do this without me, then by God I will show you that one of us has sand!”
