BAWA'S LAW

Chapter 4-6

Big Doug Short was the sheriff of Little Rock at that time, and his deputy was Phil Mortimer.

Doug Short was an immense man, known more for his great protruding belly than any personal achievements. He was a decent enough fellow, able to keep the law most times.

Everybody knew, however, that the backbone of the team was Phil Mortimer.

Mortimer had drifted into Little Rock five years back. He had walked right into the middle of a nasty scene involving Sheriff Short and some three bad killers.

He had helped the sheriff to kill the killers, and he had been offered the job of a deputy sheriff, which he had eagerly accepted.

Both the Sheriff and his deputy were at the Little Rock Park for the festivities, and so the five killers marched down the street of Little Rock without being stopped.

 The killers came to the end of the main street, and promptly took the track that led to Little Rock Park. People who were on their way to the park and people who were returning from the festivities made way for them and stared after them with various expressions of fear, curiosity and trepidation.

There was something about them that clearly said they were bad men. Their hard eyes missed nothing, and the expressions on their faces sent chills down the hearts of all who beheld them.

Rock Park was a huge expanse of flat land. It had formerly been overgrown with wild grass, but had been cleared and stamped down to provide a wide space for games and picnics. The sparkling Yumany River ran through one end of the park, providing an atmosphere for many a romantic tryst.

Little Rock Day was celebrated annually.

 It was a day for making friends and for sharing gifts. Each ranch brought food and drinks. There were music and friendly competitions between various ranches. Also, there were shooting, arm-wrestling and horse-riding competitions. There was even a cooking competition to determine which ranch had the best cook.

By the time the five killers got to the celebration grounds, most of the competitions were over. The centre of attraction, at that moment, was the cooking competition. There were cheering and hooting as the six judges moved from table to table, sampling various dishes of sweet-tasting food.

And where there was sweet food, there definitely would be Uncle Chad.

 As usual, he was in charge of the Circle T table and had whipped up an array of mouth-watering dishes within an incredibly short time. Of course, everybody knew that he would be adjudged the best. Uncle Chad's wizardry with cooking had already won him the trophy three times in a row. He was dressed in his proverbial grey corduroy trousers and grey flannel shirt, with a white apron tied loosely around his waist and neck.

His old face bore an expression of innocent delight as the judges swooped on his dishes and proceeded to gulp down mouthfuls.

“Now look here, folks!” he said with a good-natured chuckle. “You are supposed to taste the food, see, and not gulp it down your parched throats like famished desert rats!”

This brought hurrahs and applause from the crowd.

Among the judges, of course, was the pot-bellied Sheriff Short.

 He had taken a small plate and forked out long slices of tender beef from a huge pan containing hot soup. He proceeded to pick up three slices of cheesecakes and attacked his food, smacking his full lips with obvious relish.

The sheriff had joined up as a judge simply because he wanted to have a great meal at Uncle Chad’s table.

The old man was a devil when it came to cooking, and many a time the Sheriff’s ‘official’ rounds had taken him to the Circle T ranch around mealtimes just to gulp down some of Uncle Chad's food.

That day the sheriff was munching contently on his beef, cleaning the last traces of soup on the plate with a cheesecake, when he noticed that the atmosphere around him had become quite tense. At first, he had been enjoying the sensation on his palate, lost in the sweetness in his mouth, and thus he had not been aware of the gradual decline of the sounds around him.

 It was only when the silence had become somewhat oppressive and loud enough, that he did look up slowly from his plate, and that was when he saw Uncle Chad’s face holding an expression he had never seen before.

The man’s usual jovial face was now quite still, and in the depths of his eyes was a steely glint no one in Little Rock had ever witnessed. His hands were hanging beside him, and being the nearest to him, the Sheriff saw that the man’s fingers were curled like claws, hidden from the view of the other people.

Sheriff Short carefully put the plate down, and with equal care, he turned around and saw the five gunslingers for the first time.

They had dismounted and tied their horses to the hitching rails at the entrance to the park.

 Sheriff Short noticed that they had fanned out, standing almost lazily, eyes almost hidden by the crowns of their hats.

The tallest amongst them moved forward a couple of steps.

Already the crowd had withdrawn itself to a safe distance.

Hurriedly the other judges made way, all of them except the sheriff vanishing into the crowds.

Sheriff Short could feel the familiar cold lump in his guts.

 Already he was wondering if this would be the dreaded day, the day that death had chosen to say hello to him. His throat felt dry, and the beef in his mouth now tasted like dry leather soaked in vinegar. He swallowed quickly, trying hard not to wipe the sweat off his forehead.

Desperately his eyes scanned the crowd, and his relieved sigh was almost like a gunshot when he noticed Phil Mortimer pushing his way through the throng of bodies and walking briskly toward the visitors.

The tall visitor, obviously the leader of the group, did not even glance at the sheriff.

His eyes were fixed on Uncle Chad.

He reached into his breast pocket, took out a rectangular object and flung it on the table. It hit one of the pans with a dull thud and ricocheted onto the table. It was a golden cigarette case. Uncle Chad glanced at it, and then a terrible expression of shock and sudden pain crossed his face.

“Your fat friend squealed like a gutted bull when I put a bullet in his guts,” the tall man said, his face contorted with raw hatred. “I watched him die. Of course, he refused to tell me where you were, but when I put a gun to his son’s head he readily sang a new song. He told me what I wanted to know. So, here I am. Today, we settle this once and for all.”

Uncle Chad’s eyes were fixed on the cigarette case. His frail body shook, and when he looked up the evil on his face was palpable.

 “I sent that case to him on his sixty-fifth birthday, two years ago. You killed a defenceless old man, you son-of-a-b***h! Did you kill his wife and son too?” Uncle Chad asked softly.

The tall visitor smiled; it wasn’t a very nice smile.

“We’re not murderers like you, Chadwick,” the stranger said. “They’re alive. Our beef is with you and your deputy. I told you I’ll come back for you, didn’t I? Well, he’s dead, and today you’ll join him.”

Ted Bawa and his older son and a few of his riders had been eating in the roughly erected tent, but now they came out just as Phil Mortimer planted himself squarely in front of the five men.

“What’s going on here, Chad?” Ted Bawa asked, his voice filled with the power of the rich – authoritative, confident and final.

 Uncle Chad barely acknowledged his employer; he spoke without turning his head.

“Stay out of this, Mr Bawa,” he said, and his voice was filled with such raw fury that it caught many present unawares.

It made Ted Bawa flinch with shock.

Uncle Chad, the nicest old man they all knew, had always been so soft-spoken, gentle and meek.

A man who had always intrigued the town with his complete lack of guile and violence; a man who, seemingly, did not have any traits of anger in his make-up.

He was transformed now; the fury and violence were coming off him in waves, tangible enough to touch.

This was a new Uncle Chad no one had seen before!

 His cold gaze shifted slightly and rested on Mortimer’s back.

“The same goes for you, Phil. Stay out of this!”

Phil Mortimer gave a short bark of a laugh. His face was flushed, as usual, as he felt the familiar rush of adrenaline coursing through him. This had always been the life he wanted.

“Well, Uncle Chad, this thing here sure is my business, if you ask me,” Phil Mortimer said with a little chuckle. “Now look here, strangers. This town is a peaceful place, and we sure don’t want trouble. Way I see it, you’re not welcome here. Now, be good and turn yourselves out of here and beat a nice retreat back to whatever hole you crawled out of before it is too late.”

There was a low murmur of approval from the crowd.

 It dawned then on Sheriff Short that he was in the process of earning himself the title of a coward just at that moment if he failed to act.

With a little shiver, he moved forward and stood beside his deputy. His face was ashen though he tried hard to appear as brave as Mortimer.

The tall man in the middle fixed his eyes on them.

“Do your worst, lawmen,” he drawled, his lips curled up with a scornful leer.

To Phil Mortimer, it was like being a child all over again, being chased by bullies straight into an alley, being stamped and kicked, being spat on and humiliated.

 His eyes narrowed, and his hand flashed downward for his gun.

“Phil, no!” Uncle Chad screamed, pushing the low table away from him, sending dishes of food plummeting to the ground.