The Midnight Men and Other Stories by Lee Moan Page A

grabbed the stranger’s elbow, spinning him a half-turn until their faces were only inches apart.
    “If you make any trouble,” he said in a level tone, “if you harm one person in my town . . .”
    “What?” the stranger cut in. “What will you do, little sheriff?” The man’s eyes, up close, were red-rimmed and cloudy, cataracts blooming in both pupils. Behind their diseased sheen there was a black heart beating like a drum. “You gonna kill me, sheriff? Is that what you’ll do?”
    It took all Wade’s strength just to hold the man’s gaze. Words escaped him.
    “Don’t you know the laws of inheritance?” the stranger said in a harsh whisper. “I discovered a while back that those like you and me, those who’ve inherited souls, we have a little ‘problem’. See, I met an Injun on the crow roads near Salvage a while back. He was a big, fearsome buck - Sioux, I think, I can never tell. And I could see he had a trio of kills to his name, I counted each one. He saw me coming and musta fancied adding me to his tally. But I took him down first, because I’m quick like that. Mighty quick. Know what? Next morning, not only do I have Mister Lightfoot attached to my ever-loving hide, but the three souls he owned were tagging along for company, too.
    “That’s how inheritance works, Sheriff. That’s what you got to look forward to if you decide to take me down. And I don’t think you’re the kind of man who can live with this much burden.” His eyes fell on the solitary shape at Wade’s side. “Looks to me like yer struggling with just the one.”
    He patted Wade on his free shoulder, and with a braying laugh, disappeared through the batwing doors of the saloon.
    Wade pivoted slowly on his heels, looked out into the sea of stunned faces. He felt delirious, blinded by panic. Everyone was staring at him, judging him . . .
    Slowly, he pushed his way through the crowds, looking for somewhere to go, looking for a way out.
    ***
    In the shadows of the sheriff’s office, Wade leaned against the bars of a cell, staring into the empty space. The cells were always empty, as if no one in Perseverance dared break the law for fear of spending a night with the haunted lawman.
    No, he decided, the people of Perseverance were good folk. They respected the law, at least.
    But this stranger . . .
    Occasionally, Wade caught the sound of the man’s guttural laughter, carried through the town by the treacherous wind.
    The stranger acted with absolute disregard for human life and the laws which govern it. No lawman was going to want to gun him down. And it was clear he would not let them take him alive. So where did that leave him as sheriff of this town? Sit here and pray the stranger didn’t do anything ‘too bad’ before passing on as promised to become someone other town’s problem? Watch the stranger closely in the hope that he would make himself so drunk he could be imprisoned whilst asleep? That’s a lot of hoping and praying there, Wade told himself. And where did that ever get him?
    Wade rested his forehead against the cold bars of the cell. After a moment, he turned to face the spectre. He tried to focus on the face, to find the eyes of the spirit that had once been a Native American named Far Rider. But there was only shifting smoke.
    “What the hell should I do?” Wade said aloud.
    The spectre said nothing.
    A gunshot pierced the night.
    Then screams, angry shouts coming from the saloon.
    Wade’s chest burned with sudden white-heat. He rushed out into the street.
    Light spilled from the saloon doors onto the street. A crowd of people had gathered on the walk outside. A figure broke away from the main group and came running towards him, skirts swaying.
    “Louise?”
    “Jeremiah!” she cried. “Come quickly!”
    She grabbed his arm and half-dragged him back to the group of people outside the saloon. In the centre of the group, Randy lay on his back, blood splattered across his shirt and neck. Thick rivulets