Brian Garfield grew up surrounded by pulp authors such as Nelson Nye, Elliot Arnold, and Luke Short—not just their fiction, but the writers themselves. He began writing at the age of twelve, and sold his first novel when he was eighteen years old. Although he has written many Westerns, he’s probably best known for such major historical novels as Wild Times. The trouble with this assessment is that it overlooks some equally fine work he did with the traditional western in the early seventies, Sliphammer, Valley of the Shadow, and Gun Down being particularly effective.
It was hot. A gauze of tan dust hung low over the street.
Matt Paradise rode his horse into Aztec, coming off the coach road at four in the afternoon, and when he passed a drygoods store at the western end of the street a lady under a parasol smiled at him. Matt Paradise tipped his hat, rode on by, and mutters sotto voce, “A friendly face, a sleepy town. Don’t I wish.”
He was a big-boned young man. He took off his hat to scrape a flannel sleeve across his forehead, and exposed to view a wild, thick crop of bright red hair. He had a bold face, vividly scarred down the right cheek. His eyes were gold-flecked, hard as jacketed bullets. There was the touch of isolation about him. He carried a badge, pinned to the front of his shirt.
An intense layer of heat lay along the earth. He found the county sheriff’s office, midway down a block between the hardware store and the barbershop; he dismounted there and climbed onto the dusty boardwalk with legs stiffened from a long day’s hot ride.
He rested his shoulder against the frame of the open door and waited for his eyes to accustom themselves to the gloom inside. A voice reached forward from the dimness: “Something I can do for you?”
“Sun’s pretty strong this time of year,” Matt Paradise said. “I can’t make you out yet. Sheriff Morgan?”
“I am.”
Matt Paradise took three paces into the office. As his pupils began to dilate he took in the office—not very much different from a dozen other sheriffs’ offices in Arizona Territory—and its occupant.
Sheriff John Morgan was stripped down to a faded pink undershirt. The empty right sleeve was pinned up at the shoulder.
Morgan was middle-aged. His shoulders were heavy, and his belly was beginning to swell out over his belt line. His face was craggy and weathered, topped by a sidewise slash of hair that was going thin and of salt-and-pepper color.
And so this—this—was the legendary Morgan, the peace officer who had cleaned up Coyotero County single-handed. This tired man, getting older, with his chin softening up. Morgan’s eyes were pouched. His left hand drummed nervously on the desk. Matt Paradise masked his shock behind squinted eyes. The years had reduced John Morgan to a kind of bookmark, which only marked the place where a great lawman had been. The disappointment of it made Paradise guard his voice:
“Name’s Paradise. Arizona Rangers.”
Morgan touched his stiff mustache. He seemed to notice Paradise’s badge for the first time. He tried to make his voice sound friendly: “Glad to see you.”
Paradise wanted to turn around and ride out of town and not look back.
Morgan said, “Business or just traveling through?”
Just traveling through, Paradise wanted to say. But he fastened his will around him. “Business, I’m afraid.”
“Afraid, Ranger?”
Matt Paradise inhaled deeply. Better get it over with. Why beat around the bush? You poor, tired old man. He said, almost harshly, “Your house isn’t in order, Sheriff. I’ve been sent down here to help you clean it out.”
He saw color rise in Morgan’s cheeks, and he wanted to look away, but he held the sheriff’s sad glance.
“You’re just a kid,” Sheriff Morgan said. “I don’t want any amateur help, Ranger.”
“Afraid you’ve got it, Sheriff, whether you want it or not.”
He saw an abrupt touch of sullenness in Morgan’s glance, and he thought, I pity you, Morgan, but I’ve got to lay it on the line so there’s no mistake. He said, “You’re getting fat—where you sit and where you think.”
Instantly, Morgan’s eyes showed cruel hatred. Paradise walked forward to the desk and spoke flatly. “Doc Wargo has been in this town for two weeks and you haven’t done anything about it.”
“That’s right,” Morgan said evenly. “Wargo’s broken no laws in this county. I can’t touch him.” His eyes gleamed brutally.
“The Territory wants him for murder, Sheriff, and you know it. You’ve received two wires from our headquarters, to arrest Wargo and deliver him to Prescott for trial.”
Morgan sighed out a long breath. “Ranger, you’re young and impatient and there are certain things you’ve got to learn. This country isn’t easy on anybody, young fellow, and if you want to survive very long, you learn that certain stones are better left unturned. There’s a difference between making a stand and rocking the boat. Now, with this business, I’m alone in this office, no deputies, and I had my right arm shot off a year ago in a fight. What kind of chance do you think I’d stand if I went after Wargo and his gang?”
“Gang?” Matt Paradise murmured. “He’s got one man with him, the way I hear it.”
“Ernie Crouch isn’t one man, Ranger. He’s a crowd.”
“So you’re not lifting a finger.”
“I am not,” Morgan told him. “You can do whatever you like, Ranger, but I hate to see you come so far just to get killed. Those two haven’t made any trouble in my county. And until they do, I leave them alone. That’s my policy.” He shook his head. “Go on home, son. You can’t fight Wargo and Crouch.”
“How do you know, Sheriff?” Paradise said softly. “You’ve never tried.”
He expected Morgan to explode, but Morgan just sat and looked at him as if he were slightly crazy. Then Morgan said, “The only times lawmen have tried to close Doc Wargo down, he’s closed them down. Do you understand what I’m telling you, boy? You ever handled anything like this before?”
“Maybe.”
“And you think you can handle Wargo and Crouch, do you?”
“If I didn’t,” said Matt Paradise, “I wouldn’t be here.”
Morgan scrutinized the hang of Paradise’s twin revolvers. “How good do you think you are with those things?”
“Good enough. Nobody’s killed me yet.”
“Suit yourself, then.”
It made Paradise lean forward and plant both palms on the desk. He brought his face near the level of Morgan’s. “Don’t you care, Sheriff? Don’t you care at all? All the legends about John Morgan—are they all lies?”
Morgan’s left hand reached the desk and gripped its edge. “Legends are for the far past, boy. That was a lot of miles ago. Let me tell you what a smart man does. When the likes of Doc Wargo takes over your town, you just hunker down and take it like a jackrabbit in a hailstorm. Because sooner or later the hailstorm moves on. Wargo will move on too, and if he’s not prodded, he won’t hurt anybody in the meantime.”
“And you’re willing to take the chance on that, are you?”
Morgan sat back and studied him. “Tell me something. What do you do with all your time, Ranger? Just ride around hunting up trouble for yourself?”
“Trouble and I are old friends,” Paradise said. “We understand each other.”
“Sure.”
“I’m arresting Doc Wargo,” Paradise told him. “Do I get your help or not?”
“I’ll think about it,” the sheriff said, and turned away in his chair to reach for a newspaper.
“You’ve got five seconds.” Paradise said flatly.
The sheriff looked up angrily, but before he could reply, a figure barred the door, blocking out the light. Paradise turned and his eyes fixed themselves on the girl.
She had long eyes. Smooth dark hair gracefully surrounded her face. Looking at the rich warm tone of her flesh, Paradise knew she was the most stunning human creature he had ever seen.
He stared at her until she blushed. Suddenly she gave him a blinding smile. Her smile was as good as a kiss.
Morgan said in a cranky tone, “You want something, Terry?”
She had a smoky voice. Her eyes did not stray from Paradise when she answered the sheriff. “Nothing important, Dad. I didn’t know you were busy. I’ll see you later.”
Her body turned away before her head did. She gave Paradise a last, level glance, and was gone.
“My daughter,” Morgan said unnecessarily. He grunted getting out of his chair. “I’ll go down to the Occidental with you. That’s where Wargo’s putting up.”
“You’ll back my play?”
“I don’t know,” the sheriff said. He put on a severe, flat-crowned hat. “Come on.”
When they reached the street, the girl Terry was a block away, just turning a corner. She wore riding trousers and a cotton blouse that hugged her at waist and breasts. She went out of sight and around the corner. Morgan said, “That your horse?”
“Yes.”
“Nice-looking animal. What’ll I do with it if you get dead?”
“Give it to your daughter,” Paradise said, and walked away.
Morgan caught up and they went down the street together. The merciless orange sun burned wherever it struck. Heat clung to the street like melted tar.
THE OCCIDENTAL WAS the biggest building in town. The sign on the tall front was painted in a crescent shape: Gaming Tables—SALOON—Dancing. It looked as though there were hotel bedrooms on the second floor.
It was four-thirty. The sun burst through the west-facing windows upon an almost deserted, long, low-ceilinged room. An aproned bartender polished glasses at the backbar. Three men sat playing cards at a table. That was all.
Paradise recognized Wargo right away, from the reward flyer portraits. Wargo was a neat, slight, lizard of a man; his hair was Indian black. He wore sleeve garters and celluloid collar and cuffs; no coat, no hat. Cigar smoke trailed from Wargo’s mouth and nostrils. He watched the two newcomers come forward.
At Wargo’s right sat a slope-chinned card player, evidently a house gambler. At Wargo’s left sat an enormous shape, the biggest man Paradise had ever seen. That would be Ernie Crouch. Ernie Crouch isn’t one man, Ranger. He’s a crowd. All Crouch’s fat looked hard; hard as granite. He had a placid bovine face, but his deep-slit eyes were shrewd and he was festooned like a gun collector after an auction: knives and guns bristled all over—at his boot tops; at his waist; in sheathes sewn to his butternut trousers. Paradise could have walked around inside one leg of Crouch’s trousers.
Crouch was sitting on two chairs, side by side, one under each buttock.
He looked like a puppeteer, with Doc Wargo his marionette. But actually, Paradise knew, it was the other way around.
Doc Wargo spoke, in a voice surprisingly deep for his small body. “Hello, Sheriff. Where’ve you been keeping yourself?” His face was amused. When Morgan made no answer, Wargo murmured, “I hear you’re getting old.”
Morgan’s eyes flickered when they touched Wargo’s. Paradise took a pace forward, and seeing the look on Paradise’s face, Wargo started to rise.
“Keep your seat,” Paradise said coolly.
Wargo’s eyes, triangular like a snake’s, became wicked. A mustache drooped past the edges of his mouth. “What’s this—what’s this?”
Sheriff Morgan had stepped back, and suddenly Paradise felt the cold muzzle of a revolver against his back ribs. Morgan said gently, “I changed my mind. I’m sworn to keep the peace. It wouldn’t be peaceful if you let these two men kill you, would it?”
Paradise’s jaw muscles rippled. “You’re all through, Sheriff, as of right now.”
“Maybe.”
Wargo was smiling gently. “What’s this all about?”
Paradise ignored the gun in his back. He spoke to Wargo: “What happened to Carlos Ramirez?”
“I killed him.”
“Why?”
“I forget,” Wargo murmured. He halved his smile. “You’d better beg your pardon and get out of here.”
Ernie Crouch spoke without stirring on his chairs. “He’s one of them Rangers, Doc.”
“I can see that for myself,” Wargo snapped. “Ramirez was a Ranger, wasn’t he?”
“He was,” Paradise said bleakly.
“Go on,” Wargo told him. “Clear out of here before you do something that’ll make me have to kill you.”
Paradise glanced over his shoulder at Morgan. The sheriff had backed away, but his gun was leveled on Paradise. Paradise said, “This badge of mine won’t die, Wargo, any more than Ramirez’s died. It will get up and come after you, on another man’s shirt.”
While he was talking, he took a pace back, and whipped his elbow around behind him. It jarred against the gun in Morgan’s fist, turning the gun away. Paradise whipped his left hand around and down, yanked the gun out of Morgan’s grip, and pushed the surprised sheriff back. Morgan windmilled his single arm and almost lost his footing.
Paradise wheeled, starting to talk: “You’re under arrest—”
But Crouch, as soundless as he was enormous, was on top of him. Crouch batted the gun away as if it were paper; he swatted Paradise contemptuously across the cheek and Paradise caromed back against the edge of the bar. The scar on his face went ghostly white. A half-full tumbler of whiskey stood on the bar. He made a grab for it. Crouch was shifting forward; Paradise could hear Wargo’s husky chuckling in the background. Crouch began to swing.
Paradise flung the whiskey in Crouch’s fleshy face.
Crouch yelled and clawed at his stung eyes. Paradise stepped in and brought the heel of his left hand up under Crouch’s pointed nose. The blow smashed in: he heard the crush of cartilage, felt the spurt of blood on his palm. Agony exploded in his wrist—it was like pounding a concrete wall—but Crouch backpedaled in pain.
Paradise still had the empty tumbler in his right hand. He smashed it, edge first, down on top of Crouch’s head—smashed it down once and again. Crouch sagged against the bar and began to slip to the floor.
Paradise didn’t wait. He turned, dropping the glass, reaching for his gun.
But Doc Wargo had him covered with a nickel-plated revolver. Wargo was still in his chair; he looked slightly amused. “Nice job,” he remarked.
Paradise’s hands became still. He glanced at Morgan. Morgan was looking at the floor. Wargo’s glance flicked casually to the crumpled mountain of the dazed Ernie Crouch, and then his face hardened. He said in an acid voice, “I’m in a charitable mood, which is why I’m not gut-shooting you here and now. But remember this, Ranger. The next time you call me, I’m going to see you.”
“You’ll see me all of a sudden,” Paradise replied grimly.
“I’ll see you,” Wargo answered, “in Boot Hill with dirt in your face. You’ve got till dawn tomorrow to ride out of here. After that you’re fair game for me and Ernie.”
Paradise massaged the soreness in his left hand. “I’ll see you at sunup, then. If you’re smart, you’ll be on the run.”
“From one man?”
“From the badge, Wargo.”
“Get out of here,” Wargo said softly.
His gun lifted.
Morgan came across the floor and touched Paradise on the arm. “Come on. You can’t fight the drop.”
They went outside and Paradise stood on the walk looking back at the saloon, half-expecting Wargo to explode out the door with a gun blazing. Morgan said, “He won’t come after you. Not till morning. He’s a skunk, maybe, but he keeps his word. You’ve got twelve hours. Get on your horse and use it.”
Sweat rolled freely along the sheriff’s flushed face. He spoke earnestly: “You don’t have to finish the job, Paradise. Nobody cares.”
“I care.”
“You can’t win it, man!”
Paradise said, “You can’t always go by that. Doesn’t that badge mean anything at all to you?”
Morgan looked away. Fear had robbed him of his dignity. Fear: it quivered in his eyes. Paradise said, “You don’t want to hear this, and I don’t particularly want to say it, but you’d better sort yourself out fast, Sheriff. Because if you don’t back my play in the morning, you’ll be out of a job and behind bars.”
Morgan did not meet his eye. “I’m dead, Paradise. I just haven’t got the guts to lie down.” The one-armed sheriff turned, then, and walked away slowly.
HIS WIFE SAID, “Do you like my dress?”
“It looks good with your hair.”
“John, you haven’t even looked at it.”
Sweat dripped from Morgan’s scarlet face. He was staring vacantly out the window of the bedroom. Heat pressed down on the desert from the burning sky; the sun was about to go down.
She said, “Being frightened is a natural human reaction, like breathing.”
“Will you please shut up?” he demanded. He turned in his chair; his voice dropped. “I’m sorry, Kit. You don’t deserve that. You don’t deserve any part of me.”
“Come sit by me. Please, John.”
He crossed to the loveseat and put his arm around her shoulders. She dropped her head against him. She said, “You’re not cast in bronze. You can do anything you want.”
“Sure.”
“The Ranger,” she said. “Does he have any chance at all?”
“I’m a sheriff, not an oracle. He handled himself pretty well against Ernie Crouch. Maybe he can do it. He doesn’t look like the type to come out last in a gunfight. But then, neither does Doc Wargo.”
He got up, restless. He passed the mirror and stopped in front of it. “I barely recognize that man,” he said, looking at his image in the glass; he turned to face her: “Take a look at me, Kit. Take a good look.”
His mouth twisted. “I lost a lot more than an arm in that fight last year.” His face was sweat-drenched and greenish. “My guts spilled out with the arm.” His voice climbed, pitched to a driving high recklessness: “Let the fool get himself killed. Let him die, to prove some stupid pride. Let him—”
“John! Pull yourself together. You’ve got to get hold of yourself!”
“Why?” he asked miserably. “Why?” He looked at her, and curbed his tongue.
AT EIGHT O’CLOCK, in the residue of the day’s torpid heat, Matt Paradise presented himself at the door of the sheriff’s house. He was wearing a clean shirt and string tie, and a black, dusty coat that had become shiny with long use.
The sheriff’s daughter answered the door. For a moment their eyes locked. Paradise regarded her gravely, saying nothing. She said, “My father is in the back. I’ll get him.”
“I didn’t come to see your father, Terry.”
She wore a dove-gray dress. Her dark hair was swept back, pinned with a bow. She said, “You came courting,” and he could see that she was laughing quietly.
He smiled and put out his hand. She considered it for a little while before she put her slender hand into his big fingers. He said to her, “You are the promise I made to myself when I was a kid.”
“That must have been a very long time ago.” She was still laughing at him. He pulled her forward. She closed the door behind her, and they walked down the road, hand in hand. Her head was at his shoulder. They did not speak until they reached the turning in the road, where the wagon tracks swung into the head of the town’s main street. Here a cluster of tall heavy cottonwood trees surrounded the bubbling of a spring, and there was grass on a precious half acre of earth. With a finger Matt Paradise brushed back a stray lock of her hair. He watched for her quick, slanting smile.
She said, “You want to kiss me, don’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Why don’t you stop looking at me and do it?”
Her arms were folded. She leaned against him, moved her face up; he kissed her. Her arms did not stir. He put his hands softly on the gloss of her hair, holding her without pressure. It was a gentle kiss; yet it rocked him.
She smiled and laid her head on his chest. She made him feel drunk. She whispered, “Does everyone feel like this, or are we very special?”
“Don’t ask any questions.”
“Then I won’t.”
He said, “I’m crazy in love with you.”
“I know.” She was smiling. “A woman knows when she’s loved.” Abruptly, she walked away from him. She said, “I can’t breathe when I’m with you.”
HE WAS GOING to leave her at the door, but her mother came from the parlor into the doorway. “Won’t you come in?”
“No, thank you,” Paradise said.
“Do you mind terribly if I insist?” The woman stepped aside to make room. She was handsome; she had not begun to thicken up.
John Morgan was striding back and forth in the parlor. He became still when they entered. “Well, then,” he said.
Terry said, “I’m going to marry him.”
Morgan said, “Then you’d better do it fast, because he’s likely to be dead in the morning.”
“I can live a lifetime in one night,” she said, looking at Paradise.
Morgan uttered a monosyllabic curse. Trembling in anger, he raised one arm. His hand was formed into a fist. His wife stepped in front of him. “She’s a woman, John.”
“I know that. She’s grown.”
“Yes. And she needs what every woman needs.”
His wife turned to Paradise. He had not spoken. Now he said, “You have a wonderful daughter.”
“Yes, I think so.”
“That doesn’t just happen,” Paradise said.
“Thank you,” said Mrs. Morgan.
“For Pete’s sake,” Morgan exploded. “Terry! Do you have any notion what it’s like to marry a Ranger? He spends his life from town to town, from fight to fight—”
“I know,” she said calmly.
“How long have you thought about this? How long did take you to make this decision? Two hours? Ten minutes?” He was roaring.
She said, “I’ve had all the time I need. And all the advice.” She stood her ground and met her father’s glance. She cried joyously, “Do you know what it feels like to love?”
“I knew your mother for years before I married her.”
“That’s not what I asked you.”
“How do you know he’s any better than the fly-by-night cowhands around here? One night’s fling and then gone? How do you—”
She said, “Maybe he is just toying with my affections. All right. Maybe I’m just in a mood to have my affections toyed with!”
Morgan’s sight was blurring. “I don’t believe any of this,” he muttered. “It’s all a bad dream. It can’t be happening. It’s a nightmare.” He swung his arm up in a gesture of frustrated anger, toward Paradise. He said bitterly, “Just the kind of moth-eaten son-in-law I’ve always wanted. What kind of a coffin do you want, Paradise?”
Mrs. Morgan pulled her husband’s arm down. She said to him. “You’ve lost your nerve, John, and that’s no crime. But you can’t stand to see another man face up to the things you’re afraid of.”
She turned to her daughter and begged, “I made him into what he is, Terry. It’s my fault. I washed him up because I wouldn’t stop harping at him, trying to get him to hang up his guns. I kept trying to talk him into turning his back and running away.”
She bowed, beaten. “I succeeded all too well. Don’t make the same mistake, Terry. Follow your man to the ends of the earth, but never tell him to turn back.”
THE SUN WOULD be up in a little while. Matt Paradise stood within the darkened, empty sheriff’s office. Waiting laid a frost on his nerves. For the tenth time he took out his guns and checked their loads.
Someone came down the street, tramping on heavy feet. Paradise moved close to the door.
Morgan came in, weaving slightly. He carried a whiskey bottle by the neck. His eyes were stained with a bleak darkness. He put the bottle down and hitched his gun around. “You need help.”
Paradise looked him in the eye. “And where am I going to get it?” He turned away. “You’re drunk.”
“Not really. I haven’t done the bottle much damage yet.”
“I didn’t think you’d have the guts to come.”
“I didn’t either,” Morgan admitted. “But I didn’t have the guts not to.”
After a moment he added, “You don’t start a life over again, I guess. You just try to do the best you can with what’s left of it. But maybe that’s enough. Whatsoever thy hand findeth to do, do it with thy might.” He moved back into the office, an amorphous shape in the poor light. “If you survive this, you really mean to marry her?”
“I do.”
“She’s a wildcat.”
“I know.”
“Just thought I’d better warn you,” Morgan muttered absently. “It’s getting to be time.”
“Yeah.” Paradise pulled the door open and stepped out onto the walk. His eyes were ominous. Morgan came out beside him, and they stood there watching the dawn pink up. Morgan said, “Going to be another hot one today. Hot as blazes.”
“There they are,” Paradise said. “Spread out a little.”
Morgan shifted three paces to his left. On the porch of the Occidental, half a block away to the southwest, the little shape of Wargo and the big shape of Crouch came out off the boardwalk onto the street, cuffing up dust.
Wargo’s bass voice rolled across the hundred feet separating them. “You’re all through, Ranger. Last chance—get on your horse and ride.”
“I guess the cards are dealt,” Paradise said. “Play your hand, Doc, or throw it in.”
Crouch looked like a granite block set to motion. He waddled, lumbering out to a point in the exact center of the street. The pink dawn caught him on one cheek and threw that side of his face into blood-colored relief. He was carrying so much armament that it was possible he might get confused as to which gun to reach for.
Wargo’s nickel-plated revolver hung at his right hip, and his right hand was inches from it. He said, “You in this, Sheriff?”
“I’m in it.”
“Too bad,” Wargo murmured. “All right, then—”
He didn’t finish the sentence; his gun came curling up.
Paradise whipped his Colt forward; as it settled in his grasp he heard the sharp crack of Wargo’s revolver: The little gunman was fast, amazingly fast. The fist-sized blow of the bullet smashed Paradise half around in his tracks. He didn’t know exactly where he was hit, didn’t have time to care; he was still on his feet and as he turned his gun back toward target, he heard a mushroom roar of sound from his left.
The old sheriff was fast, too: That was his gun roaring. Morgan’s bullet punched a hole in the front of Ernie Crouch’s shirt. Dust puffed up. Crouch hardly stirred. He had guns in both hands, rising, but Paradise had no time for that; all in the space of this tiny split second, Wargo was cocking his gun for another shot, taking his deliberate time about it.
Paradise fired.
In slack-jawed disbelief, Doc Wargo shuddered back. His body went loose, and he fell down and began to curl up like a piece of bacon in a hot frying pan.
Morgan’s gun was booming methodically, and every shot found a place in his ample target; but none of it seemed to trouble Ernie Crouch. Both guns lifted irrevocably in his ham fists and both guns went off, once each, before Crouch finally tilted like an axed redwood tree and crashed to the earth with a blow that seemed to shake the town.
The stink of powder smoke was acrid in Paradise’s nostrils. He had only fired one shot; the wind drifted Morgan’s smoke past his face. He looked down at himself and saw the long ugly bleeding slice, curving around his ribs, and he thought, If the damn fool had used something bigger than that .38, he’d have killed me with that bullet. The slug had been deflected by his rib.
Wargo was dead and Crouch was down, evidently dying, coughing blood into the street. Five bullets in his chest, Crouch still found the energy to yank back his trigger and pour lead into the street. Then, finally, the guns were stilled.
Paradise turned to look for Morgan.
The sheriff was walking backward with slow little steps. He swayed back against the wall and came away, leaving behind a red smear; he eyed Paradise petulantly and sat down, clumsy.
Paradise ran to him. Morgan looked up and said, “I guess that’s all.”
“You’ll be all right, Sheriff.”
“Not with two slugs in my lungs. So long Paradise. Like I said,” he grinned weakly, “the kind of son-in-law I always wanted.” He passed out, and Paradise knew he would never awaken.
The crowd was gathering, gingerly coming closer, gathering boldness. When he looked up the street he saw the two slim women there, and he knew they had seen the whole thing. They walked forward now, breaking into a skirt-flying run.
Paradise put his gun away in the holster and waited for them. They knelt over Morgan, and Paradise said, “I tolled him into this. It was my fault. If it didn’t sound hollow, I’d say I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry,” Mrs. Morgan told him. “Don’t ever be sorry. He’s all right now. Nothing can hurt him any more.”
Terry’s tears were glistening in the dawn light. Paradise lifted her by the shoulders and walked away with his arm around her. There was nothing that needed saying. She pulled his arm down off her shoulders and grasped him by the hand, and turned against him; he held her close and said, “Cry it out.”
She said, “He died well?”
“Yes.”
She reached up and pulled his shaggy red head down. Her cheeks were wet. He held her silently while the sun came up.