"Nowhere to ride off to, son. Them days is gone."
When Zebulon tried to hold him back, Elijah slammed the stock of the rifle into his chest, sending him to the floor. "This dance is mine. I started the ball rollin' and I'll see it through. We all be pilgrims slidin' down life's chute, but now is my time to howl. Your turn will come soon enough."
Elijah took off his otter cap and dropped it on Zebulon's lap. "Elk's elk and meat's meat, son, and nothin' matters, and to hell with the rest of it. I seen air whistle through rocks, and water turn to fire. I lived hard and wasn't afraid to look straight at the misty beyond. I don't give a damn who or what is waitin' for me on the other side. I'll deal with that party when it happens. Or not."
He leaned down and kissed his son on the head, then hobbled to the door, returning to his death song:
There was a moment when Zebulon wanted to join the old bastard, to go out the old way, both of them straight up with their socks on. But there was a deeper pull that kept him on the floor, watching Elijah stagger out the door, firing his Sharps with one hand, the pistol with the other, yelling out a last mountain cry: "Waaaaaaaaagghhhaaahh!T'
Every weapon in Greasy Springs fired back, the bullets slamming Elijah through the door and across a table, and then to the floor where he landed on top of Zebulon.
None of the crowd looking through the saloon windows spoke until the doc was untied and Zebulon was carried over to the billiard table.
After the doc tore open Zebulon's shirt, the Sheriff handed him his medical bag and a bottle of whiskey; together they forced a slab of cowhide between Zebulon's teeth and poured whiskey over his wound. Then the doc took a knife out of his bag and probed for the bullet.
"I'll be damned," he said. "There's a slug in there all right, but it's an old one."
The bartender, convinced that he was witnessing a miracle, poured drinks for the Sheriff and the doc, as well as for the photographer and the rest of the town, who had lined up cheek to jowl at the bar.
"We'll need proof about what happened," the Sheriff said. "Otherwise people will think we made it all up."
Opinions flew back and forth:
"A slug tore through him."
"It was the old man that shot him."
"It was the artist. He shot him."
"Hell, we all shot him. Every last one of us."
"Three bullets right through his pump."
"He ran out, then he was hit. Twice."
"Then the other one got hit. The one that went in to get him."
"Do you people know who's lying on the billiard table?" the doc asked after the crowd quieted down and were concentrating on their whiskey. "Zebulon Shook, that's who. I saw his picture in Sacramento. You're lookin' at the biggest damn outlaw in the entire state of California. There's a five-hundred-dollar reward on his head, dead or alive."
As his name rippled through the saloon and out to the street, the photographer rushed outside to get his camera.
The Sheriff shook his head, trying to understand. "You're sayin' he's that same outlaw that broke out of jail in Sacramento?"
The doc nodded. "That's what I'm sayin'."
"I don't care who he is," said a voice from the bar. "The man's a goddamn hero."
"He saved us and saved the town," voices shouted.
The doc turned to the Sheriff. "If he pulls through, then what?"
"Lock him up. What the hell else can I do?"
"You'll be run out of town," the bartender said. "Or worse."
"All right," the Sheriff said, backing down. "We'll take care of him until he's ready to leave. We owe him that. We'll give him a room upstairs and three squares."
The crowd cheered.
The photographer placed his camera in front of the billiard table and lined up a shot of Zebulon, who had been propped up, his arms arranged around his dead father.
The camera's flash was followed by the largest celebration Greasy Springs had ever experienced.
EBULON WAS AWAKE WHEN HE SLEPT, AND SLEEPING WHEN he was awake, his mind dissolving into dreamy shadows and visitations that he had no control over. Voices whispered and echoed around him. During the day, rays of light circled him. At night, dark shapes crouched by the foot of the bed. There was a bear and a two-headed eagle and a croaking frog sitting underneath a one-eyed goat. Mountain lunatics appeared, sitting cross-legged beneath the window, spinning windy tales of disaster and deliverance. Sioux, Comanche, and Crow drifted by with faces decorated in war paint, their lances and tomahawks raised. Greasers, red niggers, and Chinese celestials showed up. And Delilah, sitting on the edge of the bed, rubbing his heart. Pigs rooted for turnips beneath the bed and curved-beaked shorebirds flew over the windowsill. And there, right in front of him, were his Ma and Pa and Hatchet Jack, arguing about separation and loss and how to stand your ground. Behind them, gamblers and outlaws drifted by wearing long canvas dusters and scarves pulled over their faces. Did they know there was a price on his head? Dead or alive.
he doc probed a finger into Zebulon's chest. "Everything I learned about gunshots says you should have been dead a long time ago. Your scar is old. If I open you up to bone out the slug, I might slice into an artery. Best thing is just to go on. There are plenty of men walkin' around with enough lead inside 'em to fill a saddle bag."
He pushed harder. "Pain?"
"No."
The doc reached for his scalpel and pressed it into Zebulon's leg. "Feel that?"
"No."
"Odd." He probed harder. "How about that?"
"Nothin'."
"Do you remember getting shot?"
"I recall yesterday, and not much of that."
"The only cure is not thinking about it," the doc said, and left the room.
avs later, or maybe it was that afternoon, Zebulon stood in front of the photographer and his camera, wearing a clean shirt and pair of pants and a leather vest, all of which had been donated by a special fund of well-wishers.
"I guess you're aware of your reputation," the photographer said. "Everyone's talking about you. They might even appoint you mayor.
The camera's flash left Zebulon momentarily blind.
Working quickly, the photographer handed Zebulon a tomahawk. "Raise it like you're about to scalp someone."
When the camera's flash went off, Zebulon threw the tomahawk into the wall, missing the photographer's head by a few inches.
The photographer handed him a Mandan war club.
"Think about how many men you've killed, and how many want you dead."
Zebulon slammed the war club at a pillow, sending feathers flying around the room.
For his last shot, the photographer handed Elijah's rifle to Zebulon.
"Aim at the camera the way your Pa did when he came through the saloon door."
Another flash.
Zebulon lay back on the bed, closing his eyes, imagining that he was soaring over the town.
"Beautiful. Don't move." The photographer set up another shot of Zebulon sleeping. "Remain as still as a mountain. We're not only gonna make history, we'll make more money than you can imagine. More than any gold strike! I'll sell these pictures to newspapers, picture books, magazines. Seventy for me. Thirty for you."
Zebulon shook his head. "I want nothin' to do with that. All I want is to ride off and be forgot."
"Too late," the photographer said. "Your horse is out of the barn. There's a price on your head and they're singing songs about you from here to New York City If it was me, I'd make a dash for the cash."
"Fifty-fifty."
"Sixty-forty"
"All right," Zebulon agreed.
The photographer shook his hand, closing the deal, and went out the door.
