The Road Gives Way

“You can point those rifles at me,” the Man With No Phlegm called, “or you can point them at the wagon. Choose before the man in the sling falls out.”

Nobody lowered a gun.

The roadblock had been built from a freight wagon and two sawhorses. Behind it stood a dozen residents, most with rifles and all with the tight, pale look of people who had heard a frightening story and decided to bring ammunition. The wagon carrying the sick riders waited on the road, its wheels sunk in ruts. Dr. Barlow held the reins. The man in the sling lay across the back, wrapped in a blanket, his face shining with sweat.

Bulbous Bob stood beside the Man. “They’ve got enough guns to shoot the same mistake twelve times.”

“Keep your voice down.”

“I did. They heard me anyway.”

The broad-shouldered fellow at the center of the roadblock rested his rifle across one arm. “We heard they’re sick. We heard there are six of them.”

“Both things are true,” said Dr. Barlow. “I’m their doctor.”

“Then keep them out of town.”

The Man looked past him. There were children behind the adults, peering around coats and elbows. A woman clutched a little boy’s hand so hard the boy kept trying to pull free. The rifles were not all aimed at the wagon. Yet enough barrels were, and a frightened man with a gun didn’t need to mean harm for harm to happen.

“Where do you expect them to go?” the Man asked.

“Back where they came from.”

“One of them can’t sit up. You want him bounced along the road until he dies?”

The broad-shouldered man’s jaw tightened. “I want them nowhere near our houses.”

Barlow spoke without raising his voice. “The livery yard is walled off from the street. I can tend to them there. Nobody needs to approach the wagon.”

“We’ve got sick men in there already,” someone called from the crowd.

“Those men are under the doctor’s care,” said the Man. “They’ve been there since yesterday. The town hasn’t fallen into a hole.”

A nervous laugh broke out and died at once. The broad-shouldered man shifted his weight. His gaze stayed on the wagon’s canvas cover.

“I’m Tate Weller,” he said. “My family lives here. I won’t gamble with them because you want to look brave.”

“I’m trying to keep those men alive.”

“Then take them somewhere else.”

The Man had no useful answer that would make Weller trust him. He could promise that the riders wouldn’t touch anyone. He could promise he’d stand watch. He couldn’t promise what the sickness was, or how it worked, or whether the town had cause to fear it. Barlow couldn’t promise those things either.