Here by the Bloods Read Free

with him to chase after the other.
    I glance over at the bank, squat down behind Sheriff. “Two geldings hitched up out front.”
    â€œAnd neither one spooked,” Sheriff says. “I suspect they have seen this before.”
    â€œNot much cover here with this wagon.”
    â€œNo, but it will have to do.” Sheriff turns his head toward me, but not all the way, keeping one eye on the door. “You best go on. Get over to the post office. Tell Bertram to wire the governor’s office. Tell him to send marshals. Then go fetch Doc. We are going to need him for sure.” Sheriff sees that I do not want to leave him so he says, “I will be all right, Harlan. Now go on.”
    I stay crouched and run off down the alley opposite the Loan and Trust. At the end of the building I turn left and flank Main Street from the alley behind the chemist’s. I enter the post office through the back door, all the while hoping I do not hear a gunshot, or worse, a scream. I arrive at the front of the post office but find no one behind the counter. “Anybody here?” I ask.
    â€œWe’re down on the dang floor and I suggest you do the same.” The voice of Bertram Merriman, the postmaster, sounds far away. I turn toward the window and see Jasper Goodhope on all fours behind the writing desk, still clutching the letters he came in to post. Through the window I have a clear view of Loan and Trust. The upturned wagon is off to the left and I can just see the edge of Sheriff’s boot behind it.
    â€œWho is it?” Jasper asks. “Is it the Snowman, you reckon?”
    â€œDon’t know.” I crouch down to where the glass meets wood. All at once a man kicks up a horse and a second later that same bandit who followed the safe outside comes barreling around from the back of the bank on a palomino he must have had tied up there. Clever thieves. Keep the horses spread out. He is at full gallop when he hits the street. He cuts hard to the left, rushing away from the sheriff. The bandit fires his Colt three times, hitting the wagon twice. He holds the booty in his rein hand. A fine rider. Even better with the gun. Sheriff rises and fires off two shots from his Spencer, but the palomino knows what guns mean and has her rider a hundred yards off before Sheriff can get a bead on him.
    I see the door of the Loan and Trust swing open, revealing darkness inside and little else. Sheriff swings the Spencer around toward the door. “You come out slow with your hands where I can see them.” Sheriff’s voice echoes through the window. Then silence. I hear Jasper Goodhope’s heart pounding beneath his clothes. Sheriff rises a little, which I do not like. But he might see something I cannot.
    The dark interior of the bank holds no clue, until a muzzle flash barks out from it, biting an apple-size chunk from the wagon’s flank. Sheriff falls to his side, hit, but not dead. He regains the Spencer, leans around the side of the wagon, pounds a half dozen rounds into the dark void and through the walls. The Spencer clicks empty and he grabs his right-side Colt. From the darkness comes a single shot that pierces the wagon like it was not there. Sheriff slumps.
    Two men charge out of the bank. The barefaced man fires deliberately toward the saloon, discouraging any vigilante sniping. The one covered in blue leaps from the railing and lands in the saddle of his gelding before positioning his compatriot’s horse for a similar mount. He calls out to the town, but I swear his eyes fall on me. “Anyone riding after us gets the same.” Then he kicks up the gelding and they are gone.
    I am already halfway to Sheriff. I turn him over—his green eyes seem to look through me. But then they focus, finding me, recognizing me.
    Sheriff touches my face for only the second time in my life. “It was the Snowman. I seen him with my own eyes. Snowman, sure as day.” He tries to say