Sin Killer

by Larry McMurtry

  “Better to be safe than sorry,” Jim said.

  High Shoulders did not agree.

  30

  . . . there was no sign of Mopsy.

  TASMIN WOKE TO WAILINGS, grief, six children awash in tears, with several whites also on the brink.

  “Oh no!” she cried, when informed that there was no sign of Mopsy.

  Even Major Leon had a weakness for the little mongrel. He dispatched his soldiers to search for clues—the soldiers rode in a wide circle but failed to find even a trace of the small dog.

  “Let me go, I can find him,” Monty pleaded. All six children tumbled out of their wagon, determined to locate their pet.

  “But I need him, where is he?” Petal inquired. Mopsy had been helplessly friendly. If he had an enemy it was only Cook, who found him too much underfoot when she was trying to make a meal under windy or gritty conditions. But even Cook was seen to weep.

  “What could have got him?” Petal questioned, when the search was abandoned and the trek continued.

  “An eagle, perhaps—he was quite small,” Mary suggested.

  “Or a wolf or a bobcat,” Piet added. “But I’m small and Petey is small and Elf,” Petal pointed out. “What if an eagle got me?”

  “It would soon spit you out—you’d be a difficult mouthful,” Tasmin said.

  “I think the eagle might get Elf next,” Petal concluded. “He’s the smallest.”

  Despite this reassuring thought Petal kept her eyes on the skies—she fled under her blankets with mouselike speed if a big bird showed itself.

  The country they had to cross grew increasingly bleak, harsher, in Tasmin’s opinion, even than the plains. She had begun to feel fearful for her children—anxiety, like a low fever, was never quite absent. She looked around her often, hoping to see Jim. Major Leon liked Tasmin—seeing that she was worried, he did his best to reassure her.

  “For now we have the Rio Grande,” he reminded her. “Water won’t be a problem until after we come to the Pass of the North.”

  “And after that?” “After that we will have to be careful,” the Major said.

  Tasmin felt a deepening anger at her father, who was grumbling and pettish because he was not allowed to hunt with his new guns. One of the things she liked about Major Leon was that he stood firm against Lord Berrybender’s complaints.

  “Your guns will be returned to you when you board the boat,” Major Leon insisted.

  “Board the boat—what nonsense,” Lord Berry-bender grumped. “What can I hunt from a boat?”

  “For that matter, what could you hunt in this desert?” the Major asked.

  When Tasmin needed to communicate with her father she did it through Juppy, who continued to drive the buggy.

  “I suppose you can tolerate him because you’ve only had to put up with him for a month,” she said. “We’ve had four years of this, and look where we are. In a desert. The sandstorm gave all the children nosebleeds and sore eyes. And I doubt that’s the worst we’ll have to put up with.”

  “You can’t hurry life—just got to wait it out,” Juppy remarked. “What are you going to do with Jim? Take him home?”

  “Oh, don’t ask me—I don’t know,” Tasmin said. “I think about it all the time, but I have no answer. He’s used to all this space. I fear he’d feel rather cooped up, on our little island.”

  Juppy looked over Tasmin’s head. He thought he saw a man, a very short man, half hidden behind some dry bushes. But when he looked again he saw only the bushes. Had he seen a man? None of the soldiers betrayed any anxiety. The peculiar thing about the country they were in was that there was so much light that it somehow made it harder to see things. A yucca might look like a man, or a man like a yucca. What at first seemed to be a deer might only be a bush. When he tried to peer into the far distance his eyes soon began to water, causing the horizons to blur. Only things that were close—the horses, the oxen, the soldiers—could be seen clearly. The strange hard light had a blinding effect. The greater the distances ahead, the less precisely it seemed one could see.

  Juppy had become a great favorite with the children—sometimes all six swarmed over him at once, like so many little raccoons. During their noon break, while he was playing with them, Major Leon came trotting over.

  “We have company,” he said. “Who? Where?” Tasmin asked. “You won’t see them, but they’re here,” the Major told them. “They may not be hostile but it’s best to take no chances. Just stay close to the wagons.”

  “I thought I saw a small man,” Juppy confessed. “I haven’t seen them but I feel them—they’re here,” the Major said.

  31

  Why must she look at him so scornfully?

  THE LARGE MULE DEER burst out of the brush so suddenly that the thoroughbred bolted and Julietta was nearly thrown. The fleeing deer almost ran into Joaquin’s horse, which threw him high. Joaquin came down in a jumble of rocks. He was a very bad rider—he had been thrown several times since leaving Santa Fe, but he was sturdy. The falls didn’t hurt him, although Julietta’s contempt, which she made no attempt to conceal, did hurt him. Why must she look at him so scornfully? He had helped steal the two horses, as she had asked. He could never go back to Santa Fe—he had lost his livelihood for her sake. Never again would he stir his forge in the morning. He knew nothing of horses, and the sorrel he had been assigned was nervous, shying even at rabbits. Joaquin didn’t know how to rein the horse properly; he was thrown and thrown again, and with each embarrassing debacle, Julietta grew more and more distant, more icy. At night she sat on the other side of the campfire, wrapped in a cloak. Her look was so haughty that Joaquin didn’t even try to approach her. He sat by himself, dumb, cold, miserable, unable to fix his mind on the future. They had a little jerky and a sack of hard corn—it was not much to eat, but Julietta seemed indifferent. All day she said not a word.

  After the scare with the mule deer Julietta walked the thoroughbred around a bit, to calm him. The sorrel had calmed down too; he was standing patiently not far from where Joaquin was thrown. Joaquin did not appear—Julietta began to wonder what could be wrong with the lout. Even if the fall had knocked the wind out of him it was time for him to get up. She was convinced that the Berrybenders were not far ahead. She wanted to catch them; she did not want to spend another cold night in the desert with Joaquin. The sooner she was rid of his company the better.

  Still, Joaquin did not appear—could the fool have been knocked out? She called his name but he didn’t answer. Annoyed, she dismounted and walked to the rocks where he had been thrown. And there he was, his eyes open, flat on his back. He made no move to get up.

  “Joaquin! Get up! Let’s go!” Julietta demanded. Still, Joaquin did not get up. He stared at Julietta helplessly, looking up into the sky. He had gashed his head on one of the rocks and his cheek was bloody, but the gash in his head was not the problem. The problem was that he couldn’t move. He felt no pain—he was glad Julietta had come. He wanted to do as she requested, but he couldn’t. He could see his legs but he couldn’t move them.

  He could not even raise his head—he lay as he was, staring, numb, helpless.

  Julietta suddenly realized the truth: Joaquin was paralyzed. He stared straight up into the empty sky. Julietta felt a moment of panic. Joaquin was not much help but he was somebody. She did not want to be entirely alone in this vast desert.

  “Joaquin!” she called again, sharply—perhaps the sharpness of her voice would break the spell, enable Joaquin to stand up. But her sharp tone changed nothing. Joaquin was helpless, rigid. What had happened was not correctable. Without another look she turned and went back to her horse. Both horses seemed nervous again—Julietta had to will herself to be patient and gentle as she approached them. She might need both of them— she could not afford to spook them. She forced herself to move slowly, to talk soothingly. She did not want to be left afoot.

  While she was talking soothingly to the horses Julietta noticed a curious thing. The mule d
eer that had frightened the horses had not run very far. It had stopped nearby. It seemed to be staggering. Then it fell. Julietta suddenly noticed two arrows sticking out of the mule deer’s side. Panic hit her like a blow. There were Indians near—she had to flee. But when she jumped to mount, the thor-oughbred shied and she missed the stirrup. Before she could catch the swinging stirrup, a swarm of small men began to clutch at her. She struck one of them in the face with her quirt, but the blow had no effect. The frightened horses fled, leaving Julietta captive of the swarm of men, who soon bore her down, the faces above her hard as hatchets.

  For a long time, as the sun shone in his face and arched toward its setting, Joaquin lay in the rocks and listened to Julietta scream: terrible screams and high at first, but then less high as she weakened. In time Julietta screamed herself out and could only produce rough, grunting, gutteral moans. She had fallen silent altogether when one of the Apaches found him and pulled him out of the rocks. It soon became apparent to the men that this new captive could neither move nor feel. The entertainment was over, the boy useless. They merely cut his throat.

  32

  He too was still warm . . .

  WHEN JIM AND HIGH SHOULDERS found Julietta Oli-varies her body was still warm—the arrow that killed her fired into her chest at close range only minutes before. A great pool of blood had gushed from the blacksmith’s cut throat. He too was still warm, though dead. High Shoulders, fearful that the Indians might do to Buffum as they had done to Julietta, could not be restrained. He rushed recklessly into the desert, brandishing Bill Williams’s rifle and yelling his Ute war cries. And yet all his rushing and yelling produced nothing. Neither he nor Jim, who had ridden to the top of a nearby ridge, saw anything except a few wheeling hawks.

  “I doubt there was many of them,” Jim told High Shoulders, when the latter gave up and came back. The Indians had not taken time to butcher the large mule deer, suggesting that they had seen Jim and High Shoulders coming and probably feared attack by men with guns.

  They scratched out shallow graves for Julietta and the blacksmith, butchered the mule deer themselves, and pressed on south beside the river.

  Jim was not especially worried about the Berry-benders. Five or six Indians were not likely to attack a well-armed body of soldiers. The girl and the blacksmith had been unlucky. He regretted that his skills as a tracker were so modest—his tracking was better than his birdcalls, but not by much.

  Just before dusk Jim came upon the remains of the horses Julietta and the blacksmith had been riding. These had been thoroughly and carefully butchered, which suggested that there was a band somewhere near. Jim thought it best to hide, once night fell. He made no fire, hobbled his horse, kept his hand on his rifle. He remained alert but did not try to bore holes in the darkness, watching. Staring hard into darkness only made one see things that were not there. He dozed, but went un-challenged. What awakened him was a strange sound: bugle calls. An incompetent bugler was attempting to play reveille. Ahead Jim saw a bend of the Rio Grande and a troop of soldiers—perhaps about twenty. He also saw the Berrybenders. Cook was bustling around over a big pot of porridge. Jim was hungry; he felt like riding in and having a big bowl. But he felt he couldn’t afford to be rash. If he rode in, would he be arrested? Or would the Mexicans welcome an extra gun? Then he saw High Shoulders, who had rushed ahead—he was moving about freely, unchained. That was enough. He loped on into camp—it was time to have himself some grub.

  33

  Small people living in small groups in difficult country . . .

  SMALL PEOPLE LIVING in small groups in difficult country could not behave like mighty conquerors and hope to survive. There were only twenty-two in the band, counting babies and old men. Only eight were active warriors, and of those, only four were experienced and reliable. The others were boys, impetuous as boys are. Eight men could not attack armies of soldiers and hope to win. These things Cibecue explained over and over to the young men, though he knew that none of them wanted to heed him. The boys had heard that to the west there were bands of one hundred warriors or more, bands that had no fear of Mexicans and killed them where they found them.

  “That may be true, but we don’t live in that place,” Cibecue explained. “We live here, and there aren’t many of us. We have to be careful.”

  The boy named Ojo was particularly intolerant of Cibecue’s words of caution. Ojo was convinced they could easily beat the Mexicans who were guarding the family of whites.

  “They have guns—we don’t,” Cibecue pointed out. It was an argument that convinced the older warriors but it didn’t convince Ojo or his three friends.

  “Why can’t we sneak in and steal some guns?” Ojo asked. “I would like a gun, myself, and I would like to catch one of those white women and do what we did with the Spanish girl.”

  Catching the Spanish girl had been a huge stroke of luck—the boys were all still excited by the memory of the things they had done to her— they had all been following the wounded mule deer and out of nowhere this girl appeared. They also found a boy with a broken back, farther up in the rocks. It had been a fine afternoon, but it was also a fluke. Cibecue was not young and yet never before in his life had the band caught a Spanish woman.

  Catching a lone white woman who happened to be in the wrong place was one thing—attacking a column of Mexican soldiers quite another. Cibecue kept trying to explain to Ojo that luck was never constant. One day it might be good, the next day bad. The fact that they were able to kill the two horses was even luckier than having the girl to rape and torture. The women had done a thorough job with the horses; for once they had an abundance of meat. It was a time of plenty, but it wouldn’t last forever. What Cibecue had to make Ojo understand was that he couldn’t risk four young hunters in a foolish attack on some Mexican soldiers.

  “Suppose they kill three of you?” he speculated. “You are all good hunters and you will get better. You raped that Spanish girl pretty good. You can make the band some babies when we need babies. If I let you go and they kill three of you, then we lose three hunters and three fathers too.”

  There was a silence. The older men weren’t really listening. They were watching an eagle soaring over a good-sized butte to the west. They were thinking the eagle might have a nest there: they might be able to catch some young eagles, which would be a thing of power. They thought Cibecue was wasting his time, lecturing Ojo and the other boys. Young men never believed they could die— even less were they able to grasp that the whole band might die if they lost too many hunters. The band was small and poor, but at least the women were energetic, constantly at work gathering seeds and roots, growing a little corn, and snaring rabbits, which were unusually numerous just then. The boys were not men yet; they didn’t want to think ahead. The band had always been there—in their immature heads it would always be there.

  “Can’t we just follow the Mexicans?” Ojo asked. “We can stay out of sight. The women have to make water sometimes. I bet we could catch one.”

  Cibecue decided it was hopeless. No matter what he said these boys were not going to be restrained unless he took them far from the source of temptation. They had been too excited by what they had done to the Spanish girl. He did not want to be sharp with them—they were good boys. He didn’t want to flatly lay down the law, either. Boys were apt to feel that their pride demanded independence. Tell them not to do something and they would just be that much more apt to do it.

  Cibecue was the leader, but he had to lead delicately—he didn’t want to make Ojo and the other boys too puffy with rebellion. The simplest thing to do was just go west for two or three days, until the temptation of the white women was not so immediate.

  “Are you counting eagles?” he asked old Erzmin, the oldest warrior in the band.

  Erzmin had always been unusually attentive to the ways of birds. Once, in a bad time, when deer seemed to have vanished from the country, Erzmin had kept them from starving by collecting the eggs of various birds he
had managed to follow to their nests.

  “Just two, so far,” Erzmin replied. “I think they may be a pair—they might have a nest over there but it’s too early for there to be eggs.”

  “Let’s go look anyway,” Cibecue suggested. “Keeping up with eagles’ nests is a good thing to do.”

  “The women are still cutting up that jerky— those were fat horses,” Erzmin reminded him.

  “We don’t want the women with us,” Cibecue said. “We can go hunt eagles’ nests for ourselves.”

  He started west at a brisk pace—Erzmin and the older warriors right behind him. Erzmin knew what Cibecue was trying to do. He didn’t want Ojo or the other boys getting themselves killed trying to steal a white woman.

  Ojo and his three companions were bitterly disappointed by this development—but, alone, what could they do?

  After a minute or two they fell in behind the older men.

  34

  . . . Major Leon did not have the aspect of a joker.

  MAJOR LEON LAUGHED genially when Jim politely inquired about his status—that is, whether he could expect to be arrested at some point down the trail. Jim thought it best to be clear on that point—he did not mean to be arrested.