The Blight Way Read Free Page A

my life,” Tully said. He had to admit, though, that a real murder might be a nice change of pace.
    He turned the Explorer out onto the highway and headed north toward Famine.
    The valley stretched away on either side of the highway with the Blight River meandering a parallel course far off across mildly undulating grasslands. The river banks were lined with cottonwoods, their fall leaves now only tatters dancing in the wind. Tully thought of the leaves as Cadmium Yellow Light. Beyond the river, to the east, the Snowy Range of the Rockies surged up abruptly from the valley floor. To the west, the ragged granite peaks and ridges of the Hoodoo Range protruded above the banks of morning fog.
    The old man pointed to a small patch of yellow high up on the evergreen slopes of the Hoodoos.
    â€œGrove of aspen,” he said. “Aspen mean there’s water nearby. Don’t mean the water’s easy to get, though.”
    â€œYou had a mine up near those aspens,” Tully said. “You and Pinto Jack. Back in the fifties. One time a bear got in your cabin.”
    â€œPinto Jack and me had a mine up there,” the old man said. “This was back in the fifties. Had us a little gold mine up there and a cabin tucked back in that grove of aspen. Well, one time a bear got in our cabin and . . .”
    Tully sighed and stared off into the distance. Pap’s ten thousandth repetition of the bear story had sent the speedometer to eighty-five. He snapped on the flashers on the light bar.
    After Pap had run out the bear story, Tully told him more about Batim’s phone call.
    â€œI reckon old Batim’s telling the truth,” Pap said. “Hard even to guess how many people the Scraggs have killed, but I can’t imagine a shrewd old fox like Batim reporting one of his own murders to you. He and those two boys of his probably filled half the prospect holes in the Hoodoos with their victims. No reason I can think of he’d report one of his own killings.”
    â€œYeah,” Tully said. “Maybe Lem or Lister might pull a stunt like that just for laughs. Can’t imagine Batim doing it, though.”
    The old man pulled out a pack of tobacco and cigarette papers.
    â€œNo smoking in the car,” Tully said.
    Pap laid down a line of tobacco in a folded paper, rolled it into a skinny, crooked little cigarette, gave the paper a lick and stuck it in his mouth. He punched in the lighter on the dashboard and watched for it to pop out. “You know your great-granddaddy Beauregard Tully was the sheriff who hung Batim’s great-grand-daddy, Rupert Scragg?” The lighter popped out. Pap lit his cigarette, stuck it in his mouth, inhaled, then replaced the lighter. He blew a stream of smoke at Tully. The smell was terrible. “Now, Rupert might or might not have been the fella who robbed the stage and killed the driver and a passenger. Beauregard said it didn’tmake too much difference either way, because even if Rupert hadn’t done any robbing or murdering yet, he’d get around to it sooner or later, because that’s what Scraggs did. So it was kinda what you might call a preemptive hanging.” Pap smiled.
    Tully shook his head. “Ah, for the good old days. I don’t imagine a preemptive hanging ever occurred to you, did it, Pap?”
    The dark little eyes hardened. “Can’t say it never did. I might have hung a few juries, too, given the opportunity.”
    Tully glanced over to see if the old man showed signs of having committed a pun, but he seemed dead serious.
    â€œWorst thing ever invented,” Pap went on. “Trial by a jury of your peers. What does that mean, anyway? You try a bank robber, you got to round up twelve bank robbers for a jury? Ha! Ain’t no such thing as a jury of your peers, unless, of course, you happen to be an idiot. Then there’s a pretty good chance you’ll get a jury of your peers.”
    Tully laughed.