Sin Killer

by Larry McMurtry

  Charles Bent made an effort to sit up, only to fall back.

  “Steady now—just rest a minute,” St. Vrain advised, kneeling beside his partner. He turned to ask the young ladies for some water so he could bathe Charlie’s head, but the two Jaramillo girls were gone. He had to go all the way down to the kitchen to find someone to help him. The cook who brought the water clucked anxiously when she saw all the broken pottery.

  Charlie, by this time, was able to sit up, but his eyes were unfocused. St. Vrain washed the cut, which was not serious, and waited patiently for his partner to come back to himself. St. Vrain’s first suspicion had been that Charlie had surprised a thief in his apartment and been hit in a struggle—but no. He seemed merely to have angered his beautiful and volatile young bride-to-be. St. Vrain had suspected that Maria had a fiery temper, and here, all around, was the proof.

  “I don’t go in for this heavy pottery, myself,” he said, in order to make a little conversation while his partner was recovering.

  “If a woman decides to throw a pot and it’s a heavy pot, then heads could get broken,” he said.

  Charles Bent heard his partner’s voice, but the voice, though distinct, seemed to come out of a fog. The fog filled the room. It had been a fine, sunny day when Maria began to throw pots at him, actions which embarrassed Charlie considerably. He didn’t want to see his beautiful bride-to-be’s face contorted with anger; he had been trying to keep his own temper under control, and so had averted his eyes just as Maria threw the pot that hit him. Now the world seemed foggy, but at least Maria was not screaming at him anymore.

  “I expect I can guess why the fair Maria was so angry,” St. Vrain told his friend. “It was because of where we decided to put the English, when they arrive.”

  “How’d you guess?” Charles asked. Kit Carson had informed them that two of the Englishwomen were with child—it seemed in the best interest not only of the travelers but of Bent, St. Vrain and Company to rent the English party quarters for the winter months, rather than allowing them to wander on to Taos or Santa Fe. Kit mentioned that the English party’s kit was in bad order: they had few spare clothes, their guns needed attention, they would probably need a new buggy, perhaps a new wagon, blankets, winter coats, cookware, servants, and the like, all things that Bent, St. Vrain and Company could supply for a price. The only rooms yet finished where the English could be properly housed were the handsome second-floor rooms where Charles and Maria had intended to begin their married life. Charles Bent, as Maria should well know, was not a man to put personal convenience over profits. No doubt the English, tired and bedraggled from more than a year of trekking, would be happy to pay well for the lease of such handsome quarters—perhaps they would stay for four months, or even six, in which time, by supplying all their needs, Bent and St. Vrain could recoup a very large part of their expenditure on the post—a large sum made larger by Willy Bent’s habit of paying far too much to the laborers—a liberality that horrified Charles when he returned from a trip to Saint Louis and sat down to inspect the books.

  Fortunately, there were three small rooms off the stables which, Charles thought, would do quite well for himself and Maria. Willy could assist the firm’s economy by sleeping in a tent—and if he didn’t like it he could lump it.

  Maria Jaramillo knew quite well that she was marrying a merchant—surely, Charles thought, she would see the sense in vacating their domestic suites for a few months in order to take advantage of this God-sent opportunity to make money—lots of money—off the English party. Surely she appreciated that their position as traders was far from secure. The goods caravans they hoped to operate year-round from Saint Louis traveled at great risk. Any one of them might fall prey to Indians, drought, bandits. Their suppliers in Saint Louis had to be paid, and paid promptly. The concession they had obtained from the Mexican authorities had been expensive, and competition was steadily increasing. Boldness, industry, and economy were required, if Bent, St. Vrain and Company were to hold their position. St. Vrain, convinced that they must expand into untried territories, was already looking at the Platte River country. Their coffers, thanks to the building, were at the moment far from full. Playing hosts, for a price, to this English nobleman and his family was an opportunity that must not be missed. Surely a devoted wife would not object to starting married life in temporary quarters so that this chance for enrichment could be seized.

  “Maria was mad anyway,” St. Vrain reminded Charles. “She didn’t like it that Kit and Josefina included themselves in the wedding.”

  “I’m mad about that myself—it’s a nuisance,” Charles told him. But of course, as both Kit and Josefina emphasized, it would save on expense, and Kit promised to make himself useful in various ways until the wedding. Maria, when she heard the news, yelled and screamed at her little sister, but Josefina, long used to such displays from Maria, ignored her.

  When Maria rushed to Charles to complain, he had little to say. After all, Maria’s parents were amenable to the plan—getting two weddings for the price of one seemed sensible to them. Charles refused to contest the decision, which is when Maria’s rage flowed through her and pots began to fly.

  “I never thought Maria would get so mad she’d hit me,” Charles confessed.

  St. Vrain, a bachelor, merely smiled. “Women like to throw things. One threw a hammer at me, but it missed.”

  ’� hammer?” Charles asked.

  St. Vrain nodded—he did not elaborate.

  “Where’d Maria go?” Charles asked.

  “I don’t know, but I’ll find out,” St. Vrain promised. “You rest, my friend.”

  He strolled out onto the balcony just in time to see Maria Jaramillo, mounted on the fine gray mare Charles had given her as a wedding present, go racing off through the great gates of the fort.

  Charlie Bent had followed St. Vrain. He stumbled out just in time to see his bride-to-be running away.

  “Uh-oh, where’s she going?” he asked. “She said she was going home to Taos—but it’s in the other direction.”

  “She won’t go very far—let’s just go about our business and let her have a nice ride,” St. Vrain suggested. “I imagine she’ll be more friendly when she comes back.”

  “If she’s any less friendly we’ll all be in trouble,” Charlie observed.

  St. Vrain put his arm around his partner, but did not try to offer advice as to his domestic situation.

  “These English won’t stay forever,” Charlie remarked. “It’ll just be a few months we have to live by the stables. What’s a few months?”

  St. Vrain took a cigar out of his pocket and offered it to his friend, but Charlie shook his head. He didn’t smoke and rarely drank to excess. Indeed, he had so few of the common vices that St. Vrain found it worrisome rather than reassuring, since it left Charlie vulnerable to the most dangerous vice of all, an attraction to difficult women—such as the one just racing away on her gray mare.

  “Now I’ve got a dern headache—did you finish those inventories?” Charlie asked.

  St. Vrain shook his head. “I would have, but your little bride started screaming so loud she scared the sheepherders,” St. Vrain told him. “Then she said she had killed you. I figured the inventories could wait.”

  “Not for long, they can’t,” Charlie insisted. “We need to know where we stand—those English will show up soon.”

  He started for the stairs, meaning to go finish off the inventories himself—but after a step or two he stopped and turned back. His fiancée was now almost out of sight—she was only a dot, far off on the plain.

  “Don’t you think I should go after her? What if she gets lost?” he asked.

  “Don’t go after her—she won’t get lost,” St. Vrain assured him.

  Charlie nodded and turned away again, only to stop a second time.

  “What if she ran into some Pawnees?”

  “There are no Pawnees around. Your bride will return, I assure you. She’s just riding off her f
it.”

  Reassured, Charlie Bent went back to work. St. Vrain stayed on the balcony, smoking. What he had not thought wise to suggest to his partner was that the worst threat to their partnership was not Indians, or the bandits, or blizzards, drought, grizzly bears, or any of the other normal dangers of the frontier. The worst threat to the company was an unsettled woman, the very one his sober partner was so in love with: Maria Jaramillo, belle of Santa Fe. If only she would get lost, St. Vrain thought. Then our business might have a chance.

  51

  In a cluster near the gate . . .

  “JIM can do as he pleases—I’ll be damned if I’ll winter in a tent again,” Tasmin declared. “Why should I, when we’ve been offered these fine spacious rooms?”

  She stood with Mary and Buffum on the wide balcony of the big stockade, while below them various workmen went about their tasks. In a cluster near the gate the mountain men seemed to be in a serious discussion with the Bent brothers and St. Vrain. Jim Snow had informed Tasmin only that morning that he didn’t believe he could tolerate the noisy bustle inside the walls—nor could Jim Bridger or the Broken Hand. Their intention was to make a separate camp a little distance downriver, a plan Tasmin made no effort to oppose. In any case, Jim hadn’t come to her for permission; he came to tell her what had been decided. Of course, if she and Monty wanted to bunk indoors, where it was warmer, that would be all right with him.

  “Frontiersmen cannot seem to accept any kind of enclosure—I suppose they’re too used to wandering around where it’s open,” Buffum said.

  “High Shoulders was raised in the open, just as they were, and yet you don’t see him camping out—the man hardly leaves your side.”

  Buffum merely smiled.

  “Soon we’ll have our babe, and you yours, and Vicky hers,” she said.

  “I wouldn’t call it soon—we’ve the damn winter to get through,” Tasmin reminded her. “I intend to be comfortable, myself—I can tell you that.”

  The Berrybenders had been lodged with the Bents for a week. After such a long time spent outdoors, all of them, at first, had found even the spacious rooms provided for them rather stifling; but soon, once again, they had become used to the comfort of roofs and walls, of bedding that was clean, if rather coarse by English standards, and ample meals, wine, and even a set of small, quick, dark women assigned to them as servants. A buggy had been put at Lord Berry-bender’s disposal, with a nice pair of mules to pull it and a skilled hunter—an ancient fellow named Lonesome Dick—to help him locate game. Amboise d’Avigdor, his boss presumably dead, was being trained as a valet. All the old patterns of aristocratic life were swiftly resumed; once again Lord Berrybender, restored by claret, made frequent demands on his wife. Cook soon took command of the post’s big kitchen, scattering the small women like quail and instructing them, by means of signs, how to prepare the various dishes. Mutton was frequently served. Cook’s only vexation was the chilis, which the dark women insisted on putting in every dish; but the Berrybenders turned out to like the chilis—well-spiced food had ever been a Berrybender favorite— only Father Geoffrin complained. Icy winds were blowing from the north, the plains were often powdered with thin snow, and the group as a whole were only too happy to be provided with warm housing and ample food.

  Mary Berrybender had quickly made friends with Josefina, although not with her haughty sister, who refused absolutely to have anything to do with the English party.

  “Josie likes us but that one hates us,” Mary said, nodding toward the tall beauty who stood with her sullen aunt outside the low adobe buildings where the Jaramillo girls now resided. Every time Maria saw one of the Berrybenders enjoying what had been her quarters, her black eyes flashed with scorn.

  “I suppose it’s normal,” Tasmin remarked. ‘After all, we’ve taken over her bridal suite and kicked her down to the stables.”

  “But it was her own husband-to-be who proposed it,” Mary said. “I find him rather venal. No need to hate us—Charles Bent himself suggested it.”

  “Still, here we are and there she is, breathing the odors of the stables,” Tasmin replied. “No doubt these Mexican beauties have their pride.”

  “You didn’t mind stables when Master Tobias Stiles was tupping you in ours, back home,” Mary reminded her, wickedly.

  “Why should you remind me of those ancient efforts?” Tasmin asked. The time when she had eagerly offered up her innocence to the vigorous Master Stiles seemed very distant indeed. Now she was attached to a husband who lived by his own rules, not her rules, and she was in love with Pomp Charbonneau, a calm man who lacked Master Stiles’ s lusty enthusiasm. The one thing that struck her, on reflection, about her early connection with Master Stiles was how uncomplicated it had been. She had been a happy young woman then, being had by a servant in the stall of her father’s stailion . It had not seemed wicked at all. That her virginal little sister kept bringing it up was annoying.

  “It’s time you stopped talking about such things, Mary” she said. “Here we are, comfortably quartered, and we’re likely to be here all winter. It’s time you and Piet got down to it—just do it!”

  “I will try, but Piet is sadly reluctant,” Mary admitted.

  “Once you wean him from flagellation I’m sure he’ll do well enough.”

  “He fears inadequacy,” Mary confided. “He is only a short, fat botanist—and he’s not a man of our class.”

  “Ha—does he suppose my husband, Jim Snow, or Buffum’s finely made Ute are men of our class?” Tasmin asked. “We’re in a raw trading post on the American frontier. Who knows what horrors await us? Since you obviously love him, who cares whether he’s a man of our class?”

  “Piet cares. After all he is a European, brought up to show due respect for his betters.

  “I’m afraid I’m one of his betters,” Mary said, rather sadly. “I don’t know what to do.”

  “If you can get the man alone I’d suggest undressing,” Tasmin advised. “You’ve a pretty little body. It might be that thoughts of class will recede.”

  “Possibly,” Mary allowed, “but my new friend Josefina reports the same problem with Kit. She wants to start right in making babies, but Kit won’t cooperate.”

  “Kit was mine, you may recall,” Tasmin mentioned. “He used to respond to my every whim—now he’ll scarcely look at me.”

  “Selfish Tasmin—you already have two men,” Mary chided. “It is certainly only fair that you surrender Kit.”

  “I prefer to decide what’s fair,” Tasmin told her. “Go make a man of Piet and leave me alone. It’s only to a limited degree that I have any man. Even Monty, on the whole, prefers Little Onion.”

  “That’s because you scare him, Tassie,” Mary said, as she left the balcony.

  Tasmin stayed where she was, reflecting on Mary’s charge. When in a bad temper, she did scare Monty; when in a lustful state, she embarrassed Pomp; and when generally out of sorts in a demanding way, she exasperated Jim. Three men, and yet not one that really knew what to do about her.

  Annoyed by that conclusion, she stared insolently down at Maria Jaramillo and her aunt, who, no less insolently, stared back. Tasmin didn’t flinch from these hateful looks. Here at least was direct emotion, one she could meet just as directly; no need to peer into the shadows or examine complications where Maria was concerned. Hate, Tasmin could readily understand; it was hesitancy she could not tolerate, particularly the hesitancy of men.

  As usual when she was filled with hot annoyance, Father Geoffrin appeared at her elbow—angry vibrations seemed to draw him.

  “Now’s there’s a fine enemy you’ve made,” he remarked. “That girl would cheerfully see you dead.”

  “So what? I’d rather have an open enemy than a sneak like you, Geoff,” Tasmin told him. “What do you think of Monsieur St. Vrain?”

  “Very handsome, if somewhat cynical,” Father Geoffrin declared. “What are you thinking, my sweet?”

  “I ain’t your sweet and I’m
not thinking, I’m merely looking,” Tasmin said.

  52

  . . . he felt that few of their rivals . . .

  LOOK at Charlie,” Kit told Jim. “His face is red as fire—I think he’s about to throw a fit.”

  “Let him—it won’t be his first or his last,” Jim Snow said. He had secured an awl and some tough sutures of deer gut, and was repairing his moccasins. Charlie Bent’s hot temper didn’t interest him.

  “Charlie’s had at least one fit every day when I’ve been around him,” Jim Bridger observed. “He was never taught to control himself.”

  “How would you teach a fool like Charlie to control himself?” Kit wondered.

  “By beating the tar out of him every time he acts up,” Jim Bridger suggested. “Willy’s not big enough to get the job done.”

  “I’ll whop him, if he throws one with me,” Jim Bridger assured them. “I won’t waste no time.”

  “Well, he’s had a setback—you can’t blame him for being a little hot,” Jim Snow reminded them. “He’s got eight wagons ready to go east and now he’s lost his best guide. At least, he has if Hugh Glass is telling the truth.”

  Hugh Glass had appeared only that morning, wandering off the prairie minus the Sublette brothers, whom he had been scouting with. Hugh had passed through Taos on his way to the post, where, by pure chance, he witnessed the abrupt end of Teddy Tombali, Charlie Bent’s head caravanner—a man who had safely guided several commercial expeditions to Saint Louis, with the loss of only one man and a few horses.

  “Teddy was dancing with a plump seftorita,” Hugh reported. “Some fool had left a rifle leaning against the wall and a caballero kicked it and it went off. The dern bullet went right through Teddy’s heart.”

  Charlie Bent, on hearing the bad news, suspected conspiracy—he felt that few of their rivals would scruple at murder.

  “I wonder who that caballero was working for,” he said.