Chapter 17

           Hewalkedthemuleupthecenterofthestreet,hisbootssendingupsquirtsofdustHiswaterbagswerestrappedacrossthemule’sback.

           HestoppedatSheb’s,andAlliewasnotthere.Theplacewasdeserted,battenedforthestorm,butstilldirtyfromthenightbefore.Shehadnotbegunhercleaningandtheplacewasasfetidasawetdog.

           Hefilledhistotesackwithcornmeal,driedandroastedcorn,andhalfoftherawhamburginthecooler.Heleftfourgoldpiecesstackedontheplankedcounter.Alliedidnotcomedown.Sheb’spianobidhimasilent,yellow-toothedgood-by.Hesteppedbackoutandcinchedthetotesackacrossthemule’sback.Therewasatightfeelinginhisthroat.Hemightstillavoidthetrap,butthechancesweresmall.Hewas,afterall,theinterloper.

           Hewalkedpasttheshuttered,waitingbuildings,feelingtheeyesthatpeeredthroughcracksandchinks.ThemaninblackhadplayedGodinTull.Wasitonlyasenseofthecosmiccomic,oramatterofdesperation?Itwasaquestionofsomeimportance.

           Therewasashrill,harriedscreamfrombehindhim,anddoorssuddenlythrewthemselvesopen.Formslunged.Thetrapwassprung,then.Meninlonghandlesandmenindirtydungarees.Womeninslacksandinfadeddresses.

           Evenchildren,taggingaftertheirparents.Andineveryhandtherewasachunkofwoodoraknife.

           Hisreactionwasautomatic,instantaneous,inbred.Hewhirledonhisheelswhilehishandspulledthegunsfromtheirholsters,thehaftsheavyandsureinhishands.