The town mourned the loss, and those who could get out of bed attended
the funerals, while those who couldn't leave their chamber pots for
more than five-minute intervals prayed for their souls at home.
Adelaide and Tobias were buried on Wednesday morning in the cemetery
above Sleepy Creek Meadow. That afternoon, six men were brutally
murdered during a robbery at the bank. The seventh man to die and the
last to be noticed was Bowlegged Billie Buckshot, the town drunk, who,
it was speculated, was on his way from his dilapidated shack on the
outskirts of town to the Rockford Saloon to fetch his breakfast.
Billie was a creature of habit. He always started his day around three
or four in the afternoon, and he always cut through the alley between
the bank and the general store, thereby shortening his travel by two
full streets. Because he was found cradling his rusty gun in his arms,
it was assumed by Sheriff Sloan that he had had the misfortune to run
into the gang as they were pouring out of the bank's rear exit. It was
also assumed that the poor man never stood a chance.
Every one knew that until he had his first wake-up drink of the day,
his hands shook like an empty porch swing in a windstorm. Six hours
was a long time to go without whiskey when your body craved it the way
Billie's did. He wasn't shot like the others, though. A knife had
been used on him, and judging from the number of stab wounds on his
face and neck, whoever had done it had thoroughly enjoyed his work.
As luck would have it, no one heard the gunshots or saw the robbers
leaving the bank, perhaps because more than half the town was home in
bed. Folks who wanted to get out for some fresh air waited until the
sun was easing down to do so. Those few strolling down the boardwalk
certainly noticed Billie curled up like a mangy old dog in the alley,
but none of them gave him a second glance. It was a sight everyone was
used to seeing. They figured the town drunk had simply passed out
again.
Yet another precious hour passed that could have been used tracking the
killers. Heavy clouds moved in above the town and rumbles of thunder
were heard gathering in the distance. Emmeline MacCorkle, still weak
and gray-faced from influenza, was nagged by her mother to accompany
her to the bank to find out why Sherman MacCorkle thought he could be
late for supper. Sherman's wife was in a snit. She caused quite a
commotion banging on the front door of the bank, drawing curious
glances, and when it wasn't promptly answered, she dragged her daughter
around to the back door. Neither Emmeline nor her mother looked down
at the curled-up drunk. Their disdain evident, they kept their noses
in the air and stared straight ahead. Emmeline had to lift her skirt
to step over Billie's feet, which were sticking out from the filthy
tarp she thought he was using as a cover. She did so without giving
him so much as a fleeting glance. Once they had rounded the corner,
her mother unlatched her grip on her daughter's arm, flung the door
open, and marched inside shouting her husband's name. Emmeline meekly
followed.
Their blood-curdling screams were heard as far away as the cemetery,
and folks came running to find out what was happening. Those who saw