Justice

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Authors: Larry Watson
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turned to face Frank and Wesley. Tommy was rubbing his arms up and down, shivering, and his face, pale with cold and anger and shame, glowed in the dark. Through his chattering teeth he said to the brothers, “You lucky fuckers.”

    They crested the last of a series of hills leading to Bentrock, still a good five miles from town but close enough to see the tiny scattering of lights in the valley that meant they were almost home. But this early morning, in the predawn dark, it was not the lights of town that caught their attention but the glow of a fire burning brightly just this side of the Knife River bridge, the last border separating Bentrock from all the wild country hemming in their town on every side.
    â€œWhat the hell is that?” Wesley asked from the front seat.
    Tommy leaned forward from the back. “What’s what?”

    Wesley pointed. “Out there.”
    â€œA fire?” Tommy asked. “Is that a fire?”
    Lester had not spoken since they left McCoy, and in fact had slept for most of the trip, but he roused at this announcement. “What’s on fire?” His voice was thick and nasal because his nostrils were packed with gauze, medical treatment that Deputy Rawlins administered back in Sheriff Cooke’s office.
    â€œJesus,” Wesley said. “What’s burning?”
    â€œNever mind,” Frank answered. “I know.”
    â€œWhat? Can you see?” asked Tommy.
    â€œIt’s Dad.”
    They waited then, keeping their eyes on the fire, letting its enlarging flames and brightening glow signal their progress through the night.
    When they were close enough they could see, exactly as Frank had predicted, Sheriff Hayden and his deputy Len McAuley. They were parked by the bridge, their cars still partially on the road to avoid getting stuck in the deep snow drifted in the ditch. And they had built a fire, a blaze of brush and scrub wood.
    Frank pulled in behind his father’s car as if there was nothing unusual about parking on this empty snow-packed stretch of highway where no car had passed for hours.
    Before Frank turned off the motor, Wesley saw in the glare of their headlights the silver flask his father passed back to Len McAuley. Len dropped the flask into the pocket of his mackinaw.
    Sheriff Hayden, in the great bulk of his buffalo coat, walked toward their car, twisting his head down to see into
the car’s interior. His hands were in his pockets, and not just from the cold, Wesley guessed. His father often jammed his hands into his pockets when his temper was about to explode, when he couldn’t be sure what he might do with his hands.
    Frank was out of the car before his father came around to the side. “What did you think,” Frank asked his father, “we wouldn’t see you without the fire?”
    Sheriff Hayden shook his head vigorously. “That is not the tone you want to be taking. No. No sir. Not after Len and I stood out here half the night, worrying and freezing our asses. No. You best start over.”
    â€œHell, I half expected to see you coming our way. Every time I saw a pair of headlights I wondered if they were yours.”
    â€œWe thought about it. Believe me, we talked about it.” He looked in at Wesley. “How are you boys?”
    â€œI think Lester’s nose might be broke,” Wesley answered. “It’s swelled up pretty bad.”
    â€œCome on out of there, Lester. Let Len take a look.”
    As Tommy slid out of the car with Lester behind him, Mr. Hayden said, “Thomas Salter. If I didn’t know you were a part of this, I would have guessed.”
    â€œWhen did you talk to Sheriff Cooke?” Frank asked his father.
    â€œThe first time? Late afternoon. Around 5: 30, I reckon.”
    â€œThey got more snow over that way,” Wesley said, getting out of the car.
    Both his father and brother looked at him but said nothing.
    Len gently led Lester over toward the

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