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Authors: Wayne D. Overholser
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town. He had been a successful
stockman and then a banker, but the Panic of 1893 had cleaned him out less than a year ago.
Now Fisher was a defeated and bitter man who smoked countless cheap cigars and lived off his wife’s money. Matt Dugan, who
had taken over his bank, felt the old man should have a part in tomorrow’s celebration, and had given him the job of planning
the activities of Amity’s brass band.
“Jerry!” Sam Elliott called from behind the bar.
Corrigan stopped, his gaze still on Fisher and the Owl Creek bunch who were, as usual, drinking too much. He knew them all:
Vance Yarnell, Zach Lup-ton, and Harry Mason. They ran shirt-tail spreads near the head of Owl Creek and raised hell every
time they came to town.
Corrigan turned to Elliott who owned the place. “Having any trouble?” he asked.
“Not yet, but you may have some tomorrow.” Elliott leaned over the bar and said in a low tone: “Jerry, you ought to listen
to those Owl Creek boys. They’re talking about shooting the governor tomorrow.”
Corrigan groaned. He had enough trouble keeping Corrigan groaned. He had enough trouble keeping the peace without having to
run herd on a bunch of trigger-happy cowboys who hated the Populist governor. Probably they were merely echoing what Uncle
Pete Fisher had been telling them. Fisher blamed the Populists and the governor in particular for losing everything he owned
and he had sulked ever since he’d heard that Matt Dugan had invited Benjamin Wyatt to speak.
“Probably just the whiskey talking,” Corrigan said.
“No, it’s more than that,” Elliott said worriedly. “They sold a jag of steers yesterday, and at today’s prices they got next
to nothing. They’re sore about that, and now they’re listening to Uncle Pete’s wild talk. Of course, he tells them that Wyatt
is to blame for the hard times, and tomorrow they’ll have a chance to take it out of his hide.”
Corrigan shook his head, feeling as if he had been caught in a great flood and was being carried far away from where he wanted
to go. “I’ll talk to them,” he said, and threaded his way through the crowd to where the Owl Creek men stood listening to
Fisher.
The old man was saying: “I tell you that, if Wyatt is re-elected in November, the sovereign state of Colorado will be bankrupt.
There will be rioting in the streets of every town from Denver down to little burgs like Amity. Blood will flow to our knees.
On the other hand, if Wyatt was to die suddenly between now and election day. . . .”
“I don’t want to hear anything about Governor Wyatt dying,” Corrigan said. “I’m surprised at you, Uncle Pete. The governor
is to be our guest for an hour or two tomorrow. It’s our job to treat him as a guest.”
Fisher turned slowly and glared at Corrigan. He had a mustache and beard that were black, although his hair and brows had
turned white long ago. There were those who were irreverent enough to say he used shoe blacking on his mustache and beard,
but no one had the temerity to say this to his face.
“You are a young squirt, Sheriff,” Fisher said sullenly. “You haven’t seen the things happen that I have. The Populists are
no better than Socialists or Anarchists. We built this country, these boys and me and Matt Dugan and some more. We hate like
hell to see it destroyed by a bunch of fools and crooks. Wyatt is the biggest crook and fool in the lot.”
“Matt is expecting you in the bank, Uncle Pete,” Corrigan said.
“Well, I ain’t ready to go,” Fisher snapped. “I was just educating these boys about the Populists and I ain’t finished. Look
at what they’ve already done. Brought about the worst panic in the nation’s history. Gave women the right to vote here in Colorado. Women’s
place is in the home tending to their babies, and not going to the polls and holding office and acting like they want to be
men.”
“Uncle Pete, if you’ll just go to
stockman and then a banker, but the Panic of 1893 had cleaned him out less than a year ago.
Now Fisher was a defeated and bitter man who smoked countless cheap cigars and lived off his wife’s money. Matt Dugan, who
had taken over his bank, felt the old man should have a part in tomorrow’s celebration, and had given him the job of planning
the activities of Amity’s brass band.
“Jerry!” Sam Elliott called from behind the bar.
Corrigan stopped, his gaze still on Fisher and the Owl Creek bunch who were, as usual, drinking too much. He knew them all:
Vance Yarnell, Zach Lup-ton, and Harry Mason. They ran shirt-tail spreads near the head of Owl Creek and raised hell every
time they came to town.
Corrigan turned to Elliott who owned the place. “Having any trouble?” he asked.
“Not yet, but you may have some tomorrow.” Elliott leaned over the bar and said in a low tone: “Jerry, you ought to listen
to those Owl Creek boys. They’re talking about shooting the governor tomorrow.”
Corrigan groaned. He had enough trouble keeping Corrigan groaned. He had enough trouble keeping the peace without having to
run herd on a bunch of trigger-happy cowboys who hated the Populist governor. Probably they were merely echoing what Uncle
Pete Fisher had been telling them. Fisher blamed the Populists and the governor in particular for losing everything he owned
and he had sulked ever since he’d heard that Matt Dugan had invited Benjamin Wyatt to speak.
“Probably just the whiskey talking,” Corrigan said.
“No, it’s more than that,” Elliott said worriedly. “They sold a jag of steers yesterday, and at today’s prices they got next
to nothing. They’re sore about that, and now they’re listening to Uncle Pete’s wild talk. Of course, he tells them that Wyatt
is to blame for the hard times, and tomorrow they’ll have a chance to take it out of his hide.”
Corrigan shook his head, feeling as if he had been caught in a great flood and was being carried far away from where he wanted
to go. “I’ll talk to them,” he said, and threaded his way through the crowd to where the Owl Creek men stood listening to
Fisher.
The old man was saying: “I tell you that, if Wyatt is re-elected in November, the sovereign state of Colorado will be bankrupt.
There will be rioting in the streets of every town from Denver down to little burgs like Amity. Blood will flow to our knees.
On the other hand, if Wyatt was to die suddenly between now and election day. . . .”
“I don’t want to hear anything about Governor Wyatt dying,” Corrigan said. “I’m surprised at you, Uncle Pete. The governor
is to be our guest for an hour or two tomorrow. It’s our job to treat him as a guest.”
Fisher turned slowly and glared at Corrigan. He had a mustache and beard that were black, although his hair and brows had
turned white long ago. There were those who were irreverent enough to say he used shoe blacking on his mustache and beard,
but no one had the temerity to say this to his face.
“You are a young squirt, Sheriff,” Fisher said sullenly. “You haven’t seen the things happen that I have. The Populists are
no better than Socialists or Anarchists. We built this country, these boys and me and Matt Dugan and some more. We hate like
hell to see it destroyed by a bunch of fools and crooks. Wyatt is the biggest crook and fool in the lot.”
“Matt is expecting you in the bank, Uncle Pete,” Corrigan said.
“Well, I ain’t ready to go,” Fisher snapped. “I was just educating these boys about the Populists and I ain’t finished. Look
at what they’ve already done. Brought about the worst panic in the nation’s history. Gave women the right to vote here in Colorado. Women’s
place is in the home tending to their babies, and not going to the polls and holding office and acting like they want to be
men.”
“Uncle Pete, if you’ll just go to
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