“Landry!” Thatcher yelled. “Let go of her!”
Seeing Thatcher bearing down on him, and recognizing the hellfire he represented, Landry immediately released Laurel and ran for his life, disappearing into the woods on the other side of the road.
Over his shoulder, Thatcher hollered to Harold, “Go after him.” The deputy took off running.
Thatcher ran to close the remaining distance between him and Laurel, but she was on an undeterred path toward the truck, and she was in a crazed state.
Thatcher overcame her and grabbed hold of her arm with his free hand. She turned her head and looked up at him, wild-eyed and frantic. “That’s the twins’ truck. I heard the shooting.”
She jerked free of his hold and continued on. Thatcher called her name, and, when he caught her again, they engaged in a tussle not unlike the one she’d been in with Landry.
“Laurel, stop it. Laurel!” He finally got her to stand still. “One is wounded but alive. The other is gone.”
It took several seconds for the message to sink in, then she threw back her head and wailed, “Nooooo.”
He tried to draw her to him, but she took in the badge, the gun belt around his hips, the rifle he still carried. When it all registered, she threw off his hands to free herself. “Damn you!” she yelled as she ran backward. “Stay away from me.”
Realizing the conclusion she’d drawn, he said, “No, Laurel. It wasn’t me. Wasn’t us. This was—”
But he was talking to the empty space where she’d been standing. She knocked onlookers aside as she plowed through them to get to where Bill still knelt beside the wounded man. She gave another wail when she saw him and dropped to her knees.
Harold huffed up to Thatcher. “He was too fast. I lost him in the dark.”
With cold determination, Thatcher said, “Don’t worry. I’ll find him.”
* * *
Hiram Johnson sat in a filthy, upholstered armchair with his bare, bloated right foot propped on a stool. An open jar of moonshine was on the windowsill, along with a flyswatter, both within easy reach. A Bible lay open on his lap.
Mayor Bernard Croft had never seen such a disgusting sight in his life and doubted he ever would. The old man’s rotting foot stank to high heaven. It was as though the walls of this house seeped the rancid odor of generations of Johnsons. The unmoving air smelled of dirty hair, dirty feet, decayed teeth, tobacco-laced expectorant, and baby shit.
The foulness of it all sickened Bernie. He could barely keep his dinner down.
Of course he’d known more or less what he was letting himself in for when he’d requested this meeting. He’d sent Hennessy to parley with Hiram, requesting an assemblage of the clan so that Bernie could address them collectively. Hennessy had been instructed to stress that Bernie would be assuming all the risks, because the meeting would take place on Hiram’s turf.
Bernie would be walking into the lion’s den, but the goal was to end the strife between his faction and the Johnsons. Give and take. Negotiation. Compromise. A fair division of territories. The goal being to end this silly and counterproductive war.
They had congregated. The house was overflowing with representatives of the myriad branches of the family. They had listened to Bernie’s impassioned speech. It was time to make his final pitch and close the deal.
He stood before Hiram. “This feud would eventually play itself out, Mr. Johnson. You’ve lived long enough, been a businessman long enough, to know that ultimately things work themselves out and life returns to the way it was before.
“But in the meantime, this destructive bickering costs us both revenue. People get hurt. People die. It’s a waste. If we stop fighting each other, we can devote ourselves to fighting our common enemy, which is this new goddamn federal law.” He ended on a high note that elicited guffaws from many.
Not, however, from the old man, who spat into his coffee can. “You can have Ranger,” Hiram said. “But I want Breckenridge and any other boom towns that spring up between here and the Red River. You can have anything south of here.”
“There won’t be any boom towns south of here because there’s no oil south of here. Not for hundreds of miles. As you well know.”
“West then,” Hiram said. “Show him the map.”
A man in greasy overalls stepped forward and passed Bernie a faded map. He studied the lines that had been drawn on it to demarcate territories. “This is attractive to me. They’re already drilling out there west of Abilene, around Odessa.”
“So more than fair, I think. Take it or leave it.” He spat again.
“If I take it, it amounts to a cease-fire. Agreed?”
“Agreed.”
“And it goes into effect immediately?”