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I walked him to the door, and spoke directly into his ear. I gave him an errand, and told him to do it as fast as ever he could. He nodded and
slipped out into the stormy afternoon. Or perhaps by then it was early evening.
“Where’s he off to?” Wegg asked.
“That’s nonnies to you,” I said, and turned to the men with the blue tattoos on their ankles. “Line up, if you please. Oldest to youngest.”
“I dunno how old I am, do I?” said a balding man wearing a wrist-clock with a rusty string-mended band. Some of the others laughed and nodded.
“Just do the best you can,” I said.
I had no interest in their ages, but the discussion and argument took up some time, which was the main object. If the blacksmith had fulfilled his
commission, all would be well. If not, I would improvise. A gunslinger who can’t do that dies early.
The miners shuffled around like kids playing When the Music Stops, swapping spots until they were in some rough approximation of age. The line
started at the door to the jail and ended at the door to the street. Luka was first; Wrist-Clock was in the middle; the one who looked about my age—
the one who’d said they were always afraid—was last.
“Sheriff, will you get their names?” I asked. “I want to speak to the Streeter boy.”
* * *
Billy was standing at the bars of the drunk-and-disorderly cell. He’d heard our palaver, and looked frightened. “Is it here?” he asked. “The skinman?”
“I think so,” I said, “but there’s no way to be sure.”
“Sai, I’m ascairt.”
“I don’t blame you. But the cell’s locked and the bars are good steel. He can’t get at you, Billy.”
“You ain’t seen him when he’s a bear,” Billy whispered. His eyes were huge and shiny, fixed in place. I’ve seen men with eyes like that after
they’ve been punched hard on the jaw. It’s the look that comes over them just before their knees go soft. Outside, the wind gave a thin shriek along
the underside of the jail roof.
“Tim Stoutheart was afraid, too,” I said. “But he went on. I expect you to do the same.”
“Will you be here?”
“Aye. My mate, Jamie, too.”
As if I had summoned him, the door to the office opened and Jamie hurried in, slapping alkali dust from his shirt. The sight of him gladdened me.
The smell of dirty feet that accompanied him was less welcome.
“Did you get it?” I asked.
“Yes. It’s a pretty enough thing. And here’s the list of names.”
He handed both over.
“Are you ready, son?” Jamie asked Billy.
“I guess so,” Billy said. “I’m going to pretend I’m Tim Stoutheart.”
Jamie nodded gravely. “That’s a fine idea. May you do well.”
A particularly strong gust of wind blew past. Bitter dust puffed in through the barred window of the drunk-and-disorderly cell. Again came that
eerie shriek along the eaves. The light was fading, fading. It crossed my mind that it might be better—safer—to jail the waiting salties and leave this
part for tomorrow, but nine of them had done nothing. Neither had the boy. Best to have it done. If it could be done, that was.
“Hear me, Billy,” I said. “I’m going to walk them through nice and slow. Maybe nothing will happen.”
“A-All right.” His voice was faint.
“Do you need a drink of water first? Or to have a piss?”
“I’m fine,” he said, but of course he didn’t look fine; he looked terrified. “Sai? How many of them have blue rings on their ankles?”
“All,” I said.
“Then how—”
“They don’t know how much you saw. Just look at each one as he passes. And stand back a little, doya.” Out of reaching-distance was what I
meant, but I didn’t want to say it out loud.
“What should I say?”
“Nothing. Unless you see something that sets off a recollection, that is.” I had little hope of that. “Bring them in, Jamie. Sheriff Peavy at the head of
the line and Wegg at the end.”
He nodded and left. Billy reached through the bars. For a second I didn’t know what he wanted, then I did. I gave his hand a brief squeeze. “Stand
back now, Billy. And remember the face of your father. He watches you from the clearing.”
He obeyed. I glanced at the list, running over names (probably misspelled) that meant nothing to me, with my hand on the butt of my righthand
gun. That one now contained a very special load. According to Vannay, there was only one sure way to kill a skin-man: with a piercing object of the
holy metal. I had paid the blacksmith in gold, but the bullet he’d made me—the one that would roll under the hammer at first cock—was pure silver.
Perhaps it would work.
If not, I would follow with lead.
* * *
The door opened. In came Sheriff Peavy. He had a two-foot ironwood headknocker in his right hand, the rawhide drop cord looped around his wrist.
He was patting the business end gently against his left palm as he stepped through the door. His eyes found the white-faced lad in the cell, and he
smiled.
“Hey-up, Billy, son of Bill,” he said. “We’re with ye, and all’s fine. Fear nothing.”
Billy tried to smile, but looked like he feared much.
Steg Luka came next, rocking from side to side on those tree-stump feet of his. After him came a man nearly as old, with a mangy white
mustache, dirty gray hair falling to his shoulders, and a sinister, squinted look in his eyes. Or perhaps he was only nearsighted. The list named him
as Bobby Frane.
“Come slow,” I said, “and give this boy a good look at you.”
They came. As each one passed, Bill Streeter looked anxiously into his face.
“G’d eve’n to’ee, boy,” Luka said as he went by. Bobby Frane tipped an invisible cap. One of the younger ones—Jake Marsh, according to the
list—stuck out a tongue yellow from bingo-weed tobacco. The others just shuffled past. A couple kept their heads lowered until Wegg barked at
them to raise up and look the kiddo in the eye.
There was no dawning recognition on Bill Streeter’s face, only a mixture of fright and perplexity. I kept my own face blank, but I was losing hope.
Why, after all, would the skin-man break? He had nothing to lose by playing out his string, and he must know it.