Thatcher fought his way toward the door. Harold, he realized, was following in his wake, apprehending the people Thatcher shoved back toward him.
When Thatcher reached the door, he bolted outside and tried to catch sight of Landry. Mad confusion was made even worse by the darkness, and by the sudden blinding glare of headlights as people made it to their cars and peeled out in every direction.
A car without headlights came speeding out of the darkness, missing Thatcher by a hair. Thatcher saw two autos collide in their haste to leave the area. Some drove over ground in the opposite direction of the road, leaving clouds of dust that further obscured vision.
He didn’t catch sight of either Chester Landry or his automobile, which Thatcher probably couldn’t have identified anyway. But one vehicle did catch his eye, and it caused his heart to lurch. He ran over to it; no one was inside.
He replaced the Colt in his waistband and ran full-out back into the building, where the chaos continued. The deputies and Sheriff Amos were trying to restrain those still bent on escaping and to keep corralled those they’d halted. Above the cacophony, Gert was bellowing profane threats. Lefty was swinging a full bottle of whiskey at the head of a man he was calling a goddamn snitch, which his victim was frantically denying as he ducked each hazardous arc of the bottle.
On his first sweep of the room, Thatcher didn’t see whom he sought, but there were several men down, lying on the floor either wounded or dead of gunshot. He rushed over to the first, who was cursing and clutching his thigh.
He yelled, “I’m shot!”
Thatcher squatted down and took a look. “It would be spurting if it had clipped an artery. You have a handkerchief?”
The man nodded.
“Use it as a tourniquet. Tie it tight. You’ll be all right.”
“I’m dead,” he wailed.
“You’re not going to d
ie.”
“Hell I ain’t. My wife’s gonna kill me.”
Thatcher left him and moved to another person lying motionless nearby. He was on his side, facing away from Thatcher. Fresh blood was spreading a dark blotch on the back of his shirt.
There was no mistaking the bald pate, as round and shiny as a cue ball, fringed by wiry gray hair. Thatcher knelt and eased Irv Plummer onto his back.
His eyelids fluttered open, but when he saw Thatcher, he scowled. “Did you shoot me?”
“Where’re you shot?”
“Under my arm.” He raised his left arm, or tried to. But pain drained his face of color and he gnashed his teeth. “Hurts like a son of a bitch.”
“Put your right arm around my neck.”
“I can make it my ownself.”
Thatcher swore at him, then hooked Irv’s right arm around his neck, put his shoulder to Irv’s middle, and stood up with Irv draped over him. He felt the old man go limp. He’d fainted.
Thatcher wove his way through the overturned tables and chairs toward the door, but it was slow going. The floor was littered with broken glass, and slick with spilled liquor and blood. He’d almost reached the exit when, “Thatcher!”
He turned to face Bill Amos, who asked, “Irv Plummer? Is he dead?”
“No, but he’s been shot.”
“How bad?”
“I don’t know. I’ll take him to a doctor.”
“Put him in my car.”
“His truck is outside. I’ll drive him in that. Can’t leave it here, it’s his livelihood.”
“Thatcher, he—”