“Rosy is just guessing.”
“Sure Rosy is just guessing. But it makes sense to hear him tell it.”
“If it’s true,” said Charley, “think of all the people, the millions of people …”
“That’s what I’m thinking of,” said Joe. “Rosy took a chance in calling us. They’ll crucify him if they find out about the call.”
“They’ll find out. There’ll be a record of it.”
“Maybe none that can be traced to him. He called from a phone booth out in Maryland somewhere. Rosy’s scared. He is in it up to his neck, the same as us. He spent as much time with Ernie as we did. He knows as much as we do, maybe more than we do.”
“He thinks, spending all that time with Ernie, we might be carriers, too?”
“No, I guess not that. But we know. We might talk. And no one can talk about this. No one will be allowed to talk about this. Can you imagine what would happen, the public reaction …”
“Joe, how long did you say Ernie spent in that neighborhood of his?”
“Four or five years.”
“That’s it, then. That’s the time we have. You and I and all the rest of us, maybe have four years, probably less.”
“That’s right. And if they pick us up, we’ll spend those years where there won’t be any chance of us talking to anyone at all. Someone probably is headed here right now. They have our itinerary.”
“Then let’s get going, Joe. I know a place. Up north. I can take the family. No one will ever think of looking.”
“What if you’re a carrier?”
“If I’m a carrier, my family has it now. If I’m not, I want to spend those years—”
“And other people …”
“Where I’m headed there aren’t many people. We’ll be by ourselves.”
“Here,” said Joe. He took the car keys out of his jacket pocket and tossed them across the room. Charley caught them.
“What about you, Joe?”
“I have to warn the others. And, Charley …”
“Yeah?”
“Ditch that car before morning. They’ll be looking for you. And when they miss you here, they’ll watch your family and your home. Be careful.”
“I know. And you, Joe?”
“I’ll take care of myself. As soon as I let the others know.”
“And Ernie? We can’t let him—”
“I’ll take care of Ernie, too,” said Joe.
Cactus Colts
Cliff Simak’s journals do not mention a story named “Cactus Colts.” I suspect that it is the one named “Boothill Brothers Talk with Bullets”—an ugly title, but that kind of thing was common in the pulp westerns of those days. But I am not too confident of that conclusion due to a discrepancy in dates. At any rate, “Cactus Colts,” which first appeared in Lariat Story Magazine’s July 1944 issue, is shorter than most of Cliff’s westerns, meaning that it’s a terse, taut creation.
Jeff Jones stumbled when a loose board on the steps in front of the Silver Dollar buckled beneath him. Snarling huskily, he reached out and grabbed a porch post to save himself from falling. Savagely, he wrenched his foot free of the broken board and glanced around, waiting for the yell of laughter that would greet his stumble.
There was no laughter. There was no one to laugh. This Cactus City street drowsed dustily in the silent afternoon. The air was heavy with the heat, and the sunlight was something that came pouring from the molten bowl of sky, so brilliant it hurt one’s eyes. Jeff’s pony stood with drooping head beside the hitching post, the only living thing in sight.
Beyond the town marched the glassy plains, tan with sun-scorched grass.
Jeff strode across the narrow porch and through the batwing doors. For a moment he stopped, blinking in the shade that seemed almost like darkness after the sun-washed street.
A bartender, flour sack for an apron, mopped moodily. Three men were lined against the bar. At one of the tables a bearded drunk was sleeping. His battered hat had fallen from his head and lay canted on its brim.
Jeff moved to the bar and flipped a dollar down. The barkeeper set a bottle out and Jeff poured a drink. The liquor slashed down his throat, cutting the dust. His left cheek, the one with the scar, twitched nervously. He poured another drink.
A savage voice snarled behind him.
“Jones!”
Jeff spun around, hand to gun.
One of the men at the other end of the bar had stepped out into the room, stood spraddle-legged, hands above his butts.
Eyes still unadjusted from the blaze of sun outside, Jeff could not see the other’s face. It was no more than a smudgy blue of white. But there was no mistaking the meaning of the hands above those guns.
There was no time for thought, no space for wondering. Jeff’s mind clicked blank with sudden concentration, everything else wiped out but that spraddle-legged figure set for a double draw.
Chill silence had seeped into the room. The two men at the bar were rigid. The drunk was awake, clutching for his hat.
Jeff felt the breath rasping in his throat, wished for one wild moment that the light was better. Then the other man’s hands were moving and his guns were coming out.
With a swift flip of his wrist, Jeff brought his own gun free.
Twin eyes of red twinkled for a moment almost straight into Jeff’s face and he felt his own gun kicking against his arm, its muzzle drooling fire. Behind him glass crashed and tinkled like little silver bells.
The white smudge face twisted in sudden pain and the two guns clattered on the floor.
Jeff flipped his gun toward the silent figures at the bar.
“Anyone else?” he asked and his voice was so brittle he hardly knew it for his own.
One of the men stirred. “It ain’t our fight, stranger.”
The man out in the center of the room had made no move to pick up the fallen guns. He was bent over, like someone with the stomach ache, moaning softly, left hand clutching right wrist.
The man who had spoken stepped away from the bar and paced slowly forward.
“I’m Owen,” he said.
Jeff stabbed the gun at him. “Your name,” he said, “don’t mean a thing to me.”
Owen stopped short. He was a big man, a bear of a man, a sleek bear with shiny black coat and a black cravat in which a stickpin gleamed.
“I own the place,” he said. “Can’t imagine what got into Jim. One minute he was there talking with us. Next minute he was out there calling you.”
The wounded man straightened up. “He’s Peaceful Jones,” he screamed. “I’d know him anywhere by that scar across his face.”
Jeff slid the gun back into its holster. “Meaning which?” he asked.
“You know damn well what I mean,” yelled Jim. “Back in Texas …”
“Shut up,” snapped Owen. “By rights, you should be buzzard bait.”
“I don’t kill no man without he has his guns,” said Jeff.
“You, Buck, pick up them guns,” said Owen, “and put them on the bar. Jim, you better hightail it for the doc and get that wrist fixed up.”
The wounded man mumbled, started for the door, still holding his wrist, fingers stained with red. Buck picked up the guns, grinned wolfishly at Jeff.
“So you’re Peaceful Jones,” said Owen.
Jeff hesitated. His name was Jones, all right, but he wasn’t Peaceful Jones. Leastwise, he’d never been called that anywhere before.
“I been waiting for you,” Owen told him. He eyed Jeff speculatively. “Thought maybe we could talk some business.”