Episode 42

Rage and Fear

Joe Wiley, Ben Temple, and Len and Seth Dugan sat around the small jailhouse in the shuddering light of an oil lamp. They were sharing the last pot of coffee Coolie Taylor made in his lifetime. The contemplative silence was finally broken by Ben Temple who swallowed down another mouthful and winced.

“He made a lousy pot of coffee, but I wish he were around to make more of it.”

Joe nodded and moved to the jailhouse window. He looked out on the dark town illuminated by a smattering of oil lamps strung up along the street. A fog hung over the street from the smoldering remains of the Paradise.

“We’ll have to find someone to take his place. More than one maybe. Three or four. We’re going to have a lot of men moving against us,” Joe said.

“How about ‘Pepper Belly’ Santos? He’s a pain in the ass Mex but he’s a wildcat in a fight,” offered Seth.

“That Englishman Reginald Wells-Upson is in Abilene. He’s a crack shot when he’s not drinking,” Len suggested.

“How about we get out before you make any more new enemies?” Ben reasoned. Hoping against hope that Joe would heed his suggestion.

“You know I can’t do that, Ben.” Joe shook his head and moved to his desk where Ben was seated.

“And why the hell not?” Ben asked staring into nothingness.

Joe sat on the edge of the desk, contemplating his cup and the black sludge inside it.

“I don’t leave a job unfinished. I don’t run from a fight. I don’t take the law lightly. Nor my word once given. And I mean to not have Coolie Taylor to have died for nothing,” Joe said, voice low almost as if in prayer.

“Well, you’re a fool. Always have been,” Ben said.

Joe straightened. He dashed the contents of his cup to the floor and strode over the board to stand before Ben Temple.

“You’re free to leave any time, old man. You say the word and I’ll get the Texas and New Orleans boy to take your arm and lead you to the station,” he said.

“You know I won’t. You count on that, lean on that. Only I’m telling you that you’re leading us all down the path to Perdition,” Ben said. His unseeing eyes locked on where he believed Joe’s face to be.

“You’d know a thing or two about that,” Joe said, the edge coming off his voice.

The blind man made no reply to that. But Ben Temple knew, as he figured the Dugans did as well, that Joe Wiley’s main reason for staying in Mercury Wells was Sister Adeline Tibbets—despite what he said. But that entered personal territory that one man doesn’t enter into with another man, even one that’s been like a son to you.

Len Dugan moved to take his turn to look out the window and witnessed Mayor Geoffrey Tuchman and Bob Miller approaching the jailhouse. They were in the lead of a phalanx of townsmen.

“Heads up. The mayor and that milksop constable is headed this way with some sore headed citizens,” Len warned.

“Let ’em come,” Joe said.

The mayor arrived at the jailhouse door and reached out to bang on it angrily. He was robbed of that satisfaction by Len Dugan opening it even as the mayor’s fist fell on open air.

“Evening, Your Honor.” Len insincerely doffed his bowler.

The mayor glared at Len and then Seth and then walked past them to Joe Wiley with Miller on his heels. The remaining men waited on the boardwalk or scattered in the street.

“Do your duty, Constable,” the mayor said hotly. He stabbed at Joe Wiley with a trembling finger. Rage maybe. Or fear. Or both.

Bob Miller strode up to Joe Wiley like a peacock ready to spread his feathers.

“I am charging your two goons for murder and I am riding to the county seat to bring back constables to see that they answer to those charges,” Miller threatened.

“I reckon you can’t do that six feet under the ground,” Seth said as he moved toward Miller.

“Seth! Don’t you do it!” Joe ordered.

Seth considered it for a moment and then receded but looked Bob Miller in the eyes. It was the look a predator has when gazing on his next meal.

“I want you to know, Bob Miller, that Joe Wiley just saved your life. For now,” Seth Dugan said, voice level and cold.