"Dave," she whispered. "Oh Dave, I'm sorry, what did I do?"
Dave tried once to get up, then collapsed forward on his face. The hole going into the front of him was small, but the one she was looking at now, the one coming out the back, was huge and hideous, all black and red and charred edges of cloth ... as if she had run him through with a blazing hot poker instead of shooting him with a gun, which was supposed to be merciful and civilized and was clearly neither one.
"Dave," she whispered. "Dave, I..."
"Susan look out!" Roland shouted.
It was Avery. He scuttled forward on his hands and knees, seized her around the calves, and yanked her feet out from under her. She came down on her bottom with a tooth-rattling crash and was face to face with him - his frog-eyed, large-pored face, his garlic-smelling hole of a mouth.
"Gods, ye're a girl," he whispered, and reached for her. She pulled the trigger of Roland's gun again, setting the front of her serape on fire and blowing a hole in the ceiling. Plaster dust drifted down. Avery's ham sized hands settled around her throat, cutting off her wind. Somewhere far away, Roland shrieked her name.
She had one more chance.
Maybe.
One's enough, Sue, her father spoke inside of her head. One's all ye need, my dear.
She cocked Roland's pistol with the side of her thumb, socked the muzzle deep into the flab hanging from the underside of Sheriff Herk Avery's head, and pulled the trigger.
The mess was considerable.
13
Avery's head dropped into her lap, as heavy and wet as a raw roast. Above it, she could feel growing heat. At the bottom edge of her vision was the yellow flicker of fire.
"On the desk!" Roland shouted, yanking the door of his cell so hard it rattled in its frame. "Susan, the water-pitcher! For your father's sake!"
She rolled Avery's head out of her lap, got to her feet, and staggered to the desk with the front of the serape burning. She could smell its charred stench and was grateful in some far comer of her mind that she'd had time, while waiting for dusk, to tie her hair behind her.
The pitcher was almost full, but not with water; she could smell the sweet-sour tang of graf. She doused herself with it, and there was a brisk hissing as the liquid hit the flames. She stripped the serape off (the oversized sombrero came with it) and threw it on the floor. She looked at Dave again, a boy she had grown up with, one she might even have kissed behind the door of Hockey's, once upon an antique time.
"Susan!" It was Roland's voice, harsh and urgent. "The keys! Hurry!"
Susan grabbed the keyring from the nail on the wall. She went to Roland's cell first and thrust the ring blindly through the bars. The air was thick with smells of gunsmoke, burned wool, blood. Her stomach clenched helplessly at every breath.
Roland picked the right key, reached back through the bars with it, and plunged it into the lockbox. A moment later he was out, and hugging her roughly as her tears broke. A moment after that, Cuthbert and Alain were out, as well.
"You're an angel!" Alain said, hugging her himself.
"Not I," she said, and began to cry harder. She thrust the gun at Roland. It felt filthy in her hand; she never wanted to touch one again. "Him and me played together when we were berries. He was one of the good ones - never a braid-puller or a bully - and he grew up a good one. Now I've ended him, and who'll tell his wife?"
Roland took her back into his arms and held her there for a moment. "You did what you had to. If not him, then us. Does thee not know it?"
She nodded against his chest. "Avery, him I don't mind so much, but Dave . . ."
"Come on," Roland said. "Someone might recognize the gunshots for what they were. Was it Sheemie throwing firecrackers?"
She nodded. "I've got clothes for you. Hats and scrapes."
Susan hurried back to the door, opened it, peeked out in either direction, then slipped into the growing dark.
Cuthbert took the charred serape and put it over Deputy Dave's face. "Tough luck, partner," he said. "You got caught in between, didn't you? I reckon you wasn't so bad."
Susan came back in, burdened with the stolen gear which had been tied to Capi's saddle. Sheemie was already off on his next errand without having to be told. If the inn-boy was a halfwit, she'd known a lot of folks in her time who were running on quarters and eighths.
"Where'd you get this stuff?" Alain asked.
"The Travellers' Rest. And I didn't. Sheemie did." She held the hats out. "Come on, hurry."
Cuthbert took the headgear and passed it out. Roland and Alain had already slipped into the scrapes; with the hats added and pulled well down over their faces, they could have been any Drop - vaqs in Barony.
"Where are we going?" Alain asked as they stepped out onto the porch. The street was still dark and deserted at this end; the gunshots had attracted no attention.