Pale Horse Coming by Stephen Hunter Page B

panic, but a breath of air passed with a hiss from his lips.
    Jesus Christ, he thought. Who could—
    The flashlights from the window came on, several of them. Then, from the other side too. Men moved swiftly toward him, and he heard the creaking of leather boots and belts.
    “Mister, you in plumb bad deep dark trouble now,” said Sheriff Leon Gattis. “Boys, git this Yankee cuffed. We done caught us a murderer.”

TWO
     

Earl’s Journey

8
     
    E ARL called the town up through blur by focusing his binoculars, and watched as it swarmed into clarity. What he saw was of no surprise in the piney woods, a slatternly place in the mud, with its ruined waterfront, its closed sawmill ruin off to one side, and the residential zone, its warren of jumbled cabins, and the listless people who populated it.
    He saw also the men on horses, six, seven, then eight of them on the big steeds, in the dark uniforms, lords and masters, rulers of all. He watched them thunder through the town when it so moved them, and could read terror in those they stopped to talk to. There were no easy encounters in Thebes; all confrontations were charged and difficult.
    Earl therefore set out to do what he knew he absolutely must. He set out to draw a map.
    He was across the river, possibly one hundred yards from the town, and he lay there, hour by hour, his binoculars focused, his handwriting steady and clear, the lines growing in his notebook. He noted also the times of the mounted patrols, the officers involved, the routes they took. He noticed the officers themselves, the fat ones, the quick ones, the mean ones. He wrote it all down.
    He watched early in the morning as the Negro ladies all left. These, Earl guessed, were the prison cooks and seamstresses and whatnot, who picked up after the white men who ran the prison and, Earl also knew, provided comforts as they were needed. He knew at night men on horses would stop at certain houses in the town, enter, then leave an hour or so later. He didn’t care to speculate on the drama of favor and fury that took place inside the cabins; down here, it was an ancient pattern, and maybe that’s why so many of the children who roamed the wild streets during the day had a yellowish cast to them.
    Earl’s approach had been different than Sam’s. Earl was no lawyer like Sam; he presumed, as Sam had not, the existence of no set rules of order and regulation, no rational system that would entertain inquiry with fairness and due deliberation and cough up, ultimately, a response, rational and complete. Earl was a policeman, but not really; he was still a Marine in his mind, and any territory was enemy territory until he knew otherwise. He acted deliberately and decisively.
    For example, on the day that he and Sam agreed upon as the last day by which Sam could be expected back, Earl called Sam’s wife and made his inquiry.
    “No, Earl, I haven’t heard a thing. I’ve begun to worry. Should I contact the authorities?”
    Earl thought not, for who knew by what compass the authorities in swamp-water Mississippi steered?
    “Did he tell you so?”
    “He said no such thing about it.”
    “Then, Mary, I’d wait. You know how Sam hates a fuss.”
    “Earl, it’s been long enough. What he had to do oughtn’t to have taken this long.”
    “Well, ma’am, these little towns, you just can’t tell how they operate. As I understand, it’s swamp country and communication might be tricky.”
    He then called Sam’s other closest friend, Connie Longacre. Earl knew the two had a private relationship, though its nature was neither clear to him nor curious to him.
    “Miss Connie?”
    “Earl, have you heard from Sam? I’ve begun to worry.”
    “No, ma’am. I thought possibly you had. You know how that man enjoys a good talk.”
    “Not a word, Earl, strange on its face for Sam. Earl, what should—”
    “I will do something.”
    “Earl, I—”
    “Miss Connie, I will.”
    Then Earl made another phone call. It was to