Ellison, Harlan - The End of the Time of Leinard

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The End of the Time of Leinard

by Harlan Ellison

Fictionwise Publications

This ebook is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and

incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used

fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons,

living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Sheriff Frank Leinard felt the creeping cold of the grave—his or the

old man's—riming his body. Every inch of his skin; but not the flesh

of his right hand. He stood ready, right hand warm and loose, poised

in limbo above the gun. His belly was drawn in tightly, his legs well-

planted, body half-turned to present the narrowest target.

“I don't want to draw on you, Gus ... don't make me,” he said softly.

But his voice carried down the street to the old man.

The breeze coming in from the west end of town ruffled his lank

brown hair. The breeze whispered of holy rain for which the town

had hoped, and it bore the metallic scent of the barranca, miles

away. The breeze also stirred the shirttail hanging from Gus

Tabbert's pants. The flap of cotton shirting over the old man's

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holster.

Tabbert swayed. It was obvious he was drunk. “’N I ain't gonna

make ya draw, Sher'f. But you ain't gonna take me t'no jail,

neither...”

The Sheriff's hard, square face grew even tighter. “We don't like

drunks that make noise and shoot up the Palace, Gus. You know

that. Now just settle back and don't make me draw on you.”

There was a staggering movement from Tabbert, and he fumbled

awkwardly past the shirttail, trying to get his fingers around the old,

heavy Colt Walker.

Frank Leinard's right hand became invisible for an instant, and

reappeared with the big Colt Army .44 free of the holster; and the

August peace of the town was shattered by two sharp, quick reports,

like a bull-whip snick-snickering.

Gus Tabbert took a tentative step, felt at himself and twisted

forward, face-first into the dust. He was dead before he hit. He lay

there with the revolver halfway out of its holster, his legs crushed

up under him.

The breeze ruffled his gray hair.

* * * *

“Look, Frank, you gotta understand somethin'.”

Pete Redallo, who ran the livery, and was also the spokesman for

the City Council—what there was of it—stood with his sweat-

stained hat in his hand. He stood before Frank Leinard's desk in the

Sheriff's office with three of his fellow councilors. He had come to

ask Frank Leinard to resign.

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“You gotta know Bartisville ain't the same as it used to be. Things is

changed, Frank.”

Leinard was a big, rangy man, with small, deep-set eyes of black

and a full, gray-flecked mustache. He wore heavy lumberjack shirts

and no vest, and he sweated a great deal: there were always two

heavy, dark semicircles under his armpits. He wore the .44 low on

the right side, with the concho thongs tied down on his thigh. There

was a quiet competence about him, a strength, an assertiveness. He

was the kind of man youngsters followed around with knives and

whittle-sticks, begging for a little attention. He was the Sheriff, bred

in the bone, anywhichway you looked at him, awake or on the nod.

His voice was soft, but never wheedling. Stronger than ever now, as

he said, “How do you mean, Pete? Changed?”

Redallo twisted the hat. He looked to his friends for aid. They

nudged him with their eyes, to continue.

“Well, like this, Frank. Ya see, before, when Bartisville was just

gettin’ started, when we was the end of the trail drive for everybody

in this territory, we was a pretty wild town. Now we ain't belittlin’

what you done here; you made this a decent town for our wives and

kids, Frank.”

“But you got to understand something, Frank,” Morn Ashley said,

with that sweet voice of his. “You gotta understand that those days

are behind us. Hell, Frank, it's comin’ up on the Turn of the

Century. New times! New ways of doin’ things diff'rent from

before. Why, I can run the bridge across the Shawsack without no

trouble't'all nowadays. Used to be that I'd have to drop down every

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man thought he could pass without payin’ my toll. But things is

calmed down quite a lot, and there ain't no call for all the

gunslingin’ you do.”

“Like I was sayin', Frank,” Pete Redallo continued, asserting his

position as spokesman with slight belligerence, “this was a wild

town, and you came down from Kansas, and cleaned it up. Now we

ain't belittlin’ you at all. It was what we hadda have done, and you

done it. We're mighty grateful for that. But, well, we, uh—”

“What're you tryin’ to say, Pete?” Frank asked. His gaze was

steady, without guile.

“Well, uh, well, there was just no call to shoot up poor old Gus

Tabbert that way.”

“He was drunk and disorderly. He drew on me.”

Redallo dropped the hat, a flush hitting his cheekbones. “You know

Gus was always drunk, Frank. And the little bit of shootin’ he did

was nothin’ compared to what used to happen when Con Farlow's

boys used to hit town. Tabbert oughtn't to be dead. It's just not right,

is all.”

Morn Ashley moved up beside Redallo.

“Look, Frank, I'll be honest ’bout this.

“You've gotten to be more than just Sheriff ’round here. The way

some folks feel, you're the law entire. The mayor, and the Council,

and whatall. And that ain't right, Frank. This is as much your town

as ours, but you don't act the way we figger a Sheriff should, no

more.

“We're lots quieter now. The frontier days are gone, Frank. When

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