“I thank you,” he said, formally, when Brookshire offered him a cup of coffee.
After that, he merely sat by the fire in his old greasy clothes, saying little.
“The weather’s cold, ain’t it?” Pea Eye said, rather at a loss as to how to address the big man.
“It could be colder—I’ve seen it colder,” Olin said. He regretted letting Famous Shoes tempt him into making camp with the travelers. They were pleasant enough and generous with their coffee, but on the whole, he felt he did better camping alone. The necessity of making conversation didn’t arise, since no conversation was required when he camped by himself. Making conversation with perfect strangers was to Olin an irksome task. Pea Eye wasn’t a perfect stranger, of course, but neither was he someone Olin felt he could easily talk to. The only two people in the world he could talk to easily were Maria and Billy Williams, and even when alone with Maria, he rarely said that much. He usually just sat and listened as Maria talked, or he watched her brush her little girl’s hair.
At such times he wished that life was different, and that he could marry Maria and be a settled man. It was not possible, of course—Maria had no interest—but if matters had been different, Olin felt he would have been a happier man. There was no one who touched him as deeply as Maria, though he had never been her husband or a member of her family and had not had the pleasure of watching her with her children as a steady thing.
“Been anyplace special?” Pea Eye asked. The Captain had appointed him the leader of the group, which made him more or less the host; and as host, he felt he ought to try to prompt at least a little conversation.
“Well, Piedras Negras,” Olin said.
“I’ve heard that was a rough town,” Deputy Plunkert said.
“No, it ain’t,” Olin replied. “Of course, Wesley Hardin’s there now. Any town he unsaddles his horse in is rough. But he just came for whores. I imagine he’ll move on soon.”
“Why, we heard he was in Crow Town,” Brookshire said.
“He was, but Maria took the whores and left,” Olin said. “That’s when Hardin left. He likes places where there’s whores.”
After that, conversation lagged.
Brookshire couldn’t think of a thing to say. He was wondering if the fire would last the night.
Olin thought the group was rather odd. In his years of travel, mostly in Mexico, he had grown used to having odd groups turn up—Englishmen or Germans, prospectors, gunrunners, schemers of various kinds.
But this group was Woodrow Call’s posse, it seemed; they were the men who were after Joey Garza. They seemed like harmless fellows, and it was difficult to believe that any of them were gifted manhunters. The Yankee mostly shivered. Pea Eye was an old Ranger who should have retired from the business long ago. The other man Olin didn’t know; he had introduced himself briefly, but had mumbled his name so low that Olin didn’t catch it. Even with old Famous Shoes to track for them, there was little likelihood they would ever get within fifty miles of Joey Garza, and if they did, it would only be worse for them.
Joey had a cold nature. There was no accounting for it, either. His mother was generous and warm. But wherever he got it, Joey had a cold nature. If the men did happen to stumble on him, Joey would make quick work of them.
“What’s the news from down the river, then?” Deputy Plunkert asked. It seemed to him that he had been gone from his home for years. He suddenly had a hunger to hear the news from Laredo. The large man had been down the river as far as Piedras Negras, and perhaps he had heard something from Laredo. A bank robbery or a lynching might have occurred since he left, or a store might have burned down, or one or two of the older, more famous ranchers might have died.
“I didn’t stay in Negras long enough to gossip,” Olin said. “Having Hardin in town makes me uneasy. He don’t look like much, but he’s a wild one.”
“Any news from Laredo?” Deputy Plunkert said. “That’s where I hail from.”
“Yes, they put that damn Sheriff Jekyll in his own jail,” Olin said. “I hope they hang the rascal. There’s no excuse for forcing a woman.”
“Bob Jekyll’s in our jail?” Ted Plunkert said, very startled. “I’d say that’s news.”
The first part of Olin’s comment had startled him so much that he hadn’t quite taken in the second part. The thought of Bob Jekyll locked in their jail was so astonishing that he hadn’t yet started thinking about the nature of his crime.
“I guess some little gal came in asking about her husband, and the damned scoundrel forced her,” Olin said. He had seen an Apache girl forced once, during the Indian times, and the sight had sickened him. Over the years whenever he thought of it, it sickened him. He knew that Maria had suffered something like that about the time that Joey started killing. From time to time, he considered going to Texas and taking vengeance on her attackers. The men who used the Apache girl had shot her when they were through. Maria hadn’t been shot, at least. But the thought of her suffering troubled him whenever he remembered it. Maria was the only woman he had tender feelings for. She should be exempt from such abuse, and if he did encounter the cowboys who attacked her, he planned to take their lives.
Suddenly Deputy Plunkert got a bad feeling.
“A woman asking about her husband . . .” he repeated. Who but Doobie, of all the young women in Laredo, would go to Bob Jekyll to ask about her husband?
“Do you recall her name?” he asked; of course, there were other young women in Laredo. Other husbands might have strayed. In fact, husbands strayed fairly often. Most of them just got drunk and fell in a ditch to sleep it off. Maybe it was another woman with a stray husband, who Bob Jekyll had forced.
“Why, no,” Olin said. “I don’t recall hearing her name. The poor thing took rat poison and died. They’re trying the sheriff for murder, but I doubt he’ll hang, myself.”
“Oh, Lord!” Ted Plunkert said. Something gripped him more powerful than the cold: the fear that it had been Doobie. He had been Bob Jekyll’s deputy until he’d quit and gone off with Captain Call. Who but the deputy’s wife would be going to the jail to inquire?
“She died?” he asked, in a weaker tone.
To everyone’s amazement, Deputy Plunkert suddenly sprang up and went stumbling over to the horses. He looked like a crazy man.
“It was my wife. . . . I fear it was her. . . .” he said, and then he mounted and went racing off in the darkness, to the south.
“Now, that’s bad luck,” Brookshire said. “I believe I saw his wife as we were leaving Laredo. She was a pert young thing.”
“Ted oughtn’t to run his horse at night, not in this rough country,” Pea Eye said. “There’s bluffs down the river that a horse could go right off.”
“I always despised that sheriff,” Olin said. They heard the clatter of the deputy’s horse, receding to the south. Olin felt embarrassed. Inadvertently, he had informed a man that his wife was dead. He more and more regretted letting Famous Shoes talk him into joining the camp. Now he had been the bearer of tragic news. If he had just gone on and made his own camp, the poor deputy would still be in ignorance of the fact that he no longer had a wife. Boy, he wished he had made his own camp, and built his own fire! He did not like to cause trouble, and yet he just did.
“Why, that’s the devil,” Brookshire said. They could scarcely hear the deputy’s horse. What did the man think he was going to do, run the horse all the way to Laredo? It was hundreds of miles to Laredo. And what could he do when he got there? The poor young woman was no doubt long since buried.
Then Brookshire remembered that Katie, his own wife, was dead. Of course, her death had been normal; she had taken sick and died. There had been no abuse, and no rat poison. But still, his own wife was gone, and like Deputy Plunkert he would be returning to nothing, if he returned. The cold wind was blowing. It was always blowing.
Brookshire began to get a worse feeling even than the blowing-away feeling. It struck him that the expedition was cursed. He ha
d lost his wife while on the trip, and now the same thing had happened to the young deputy, who should never have been hired in the first place. All Deputy Plunkert had done was ride pointlessly around Texas and Mexico, while his young wife was despairing and dying.
The search for Joey Garza was being pressed at a high price, and they hadn’t come anywhere near the bandit yet. Now they were in Mexico, and Captain Call was in Texas. All that was being accomplished was that the wives were dying. He knew Pea Eye had a wife, too—when would the messenger appear to tell him that his wife was dead? Pea Eye’s wife was a schoolteacher, he recalled. What if the manburner eluded Captain Call, as Joey Garza had, and burned up Pea Eye’s wife along with some of the schoolchildren?
Brookshire remembered all his happy years with Katie, and began to sob. Ordinarily, he didn’t cry in front of people, but this time, as when he first received the news about Katie, he couldn’t help it. Sobs shook his shoulders. It embarrassed Pea Eye and Olin, but Brookshire didn’t care. He couldn’t stop. He was freezing, his wife was dead, and now the deputy’s wife was dead. He was in a cold place, in a strange, forbidding country, hunting a bandit. How could it all have happened? He was an accountant in Brooklyn. Somehow a chain of events had got started, and now the events were less and less sensible, less and less like events that should be occurring in his life. For a week or two, he had enjoyed the adventure; he had even flourished. He mastered new skills, such as building fires. But the pleasure had all ended once he got the telegram informing him of Katie’s death. Now it was all cold, fatigue, and pain. Where would it lead?
Brookshire remembered his first impression of Captain Call. He had felt that the man was too old for the mission he was charged with. He had looked too old that first morning in Amarillo. Brookshire had quickly gained confidence in the Captain, but now it was beginning to seem that his confidence had been misplaced, and that his first impression had been accurate. The Captain had pursued no clear plan. He had let himself be distracted by another killer. They had ridden through Mexico and then through Texas, without coming even within a hundred miles of Joey Garza, as far as he knew. It didn’t add up, and Colonel Terry would be quick to point out how erratically things had been managed.
But there was more at work than just cold and inconvenience and tactical mistakes. At home, behind them, the wives were dying.
“How far is it back?” he asked. He felt that he was in the grip of a sickness of some kind. He was in a place where nothing was rational and civilized, as it had been in Princeton College, or as it was in Brooklyn. He was in a place where people killed regularly, where killing was a day-to-day part of life. Of course, there were killings in Brooklyn, but very few. In Texas and Mexico, killing seemed to be almost constant. Brookshire had the feeling that he might go crazy if he didn’t get back to a place and a form of life that were more familiar.
“Back where?” Pea Eye asked. He saw that the man was upset. Deputy Plunkert’s departure had startled them all. It was terribly bad luck that Deputy Plunkert had to receive such news when he was hundreds of miles from home. The fact that it was rat poison that had killed his wife, not to mention what had happened with the sheriff, were facts that Pea knew must be hard to bear. If anything like that happened to Lorena, he himself would start racing off in the night, ready to shoot the first man he saw.
But he was not in a position to take Mr. Brookshire back to anywhere. They had to go on to Presidio, where the Captain expected them to be. That was a clear order.
“I expect we’ll get to Presidio in about three days, if we don’t have trouble,” he said.
Brookshire didn’t answer. He scooted closer to the fire and sat with his hands held over the flames. He was shivering and crying.
Famous Shoes didn’t enter into the white men’s talk. He was beginning to tire of white men, something that had happened often in his life. They pursued their business in strange ways, and got upset about things he didn’t grasp. He had begun to doubt that he would stay with Pea Eye long enough to find his wife. He would like to learn about the tracks in books, but he was old, and the white men’s habits were boring. Now one of the men had run off into the night, like a crazy thing. There were only two white men left; if he tracked Joey Garza for these two men, Joey would immediately kill them both. Famous Shoes thought he might tell his friend Pea Eye that his wife could teach him about the little tracks in the spring, when he went traveling on the Rio Rojo.
Famous Shoes didn’t think Joey was in Mexico, and he was getting bored. He thought he might leave in a day or two and go back to the Madre. Eagles were more interesting than white men. It would be more interesting to go home and watch the eagles for a while.
3.
GOODNIGHT WAS COMING across the sand through the sandhills when he saw a solitary rider coming from the south. Crow Town was fifteen miles to the west; he could see a speckling of crows in the sky when he looked toward the winter sunset.
Coming across this particular stretch of country awakened quite a few memories. Until he noticed the rider Goodnight had been lost in reverie, for he was crossing his own trail, the trail he and his old partner, Oliver Loving, had laid out many years before. In fact, he was on the exact spot where they had rested the cattle on the second afternoon of their ninety-mile waterless drive. A horse had died inexplicably, while they were resting. He had cut into the horse in an effort to determine what had killed it, but his work was to no avail. The horse had just died.
Goodnight had not expected to be crossing the trail so many years after Oliver Loving’s death, and at dusk on a cold winter night to boot. But so it was.
If the rider he glimpsed was headed for Crow Town, he was likely to be the sort of man it would behoove a person to avoid. On the other hand, once you started avoiding people, you were apt to lose a lot of time. Even in the remote stretches along the Pecos River, a surprising number of people were apt to turn up. Decisions as to whether or not to go around a particular traveler needed to be made almost constantly.
Going around people had never been Goodnight’s practice, and he decided he was too old to change. It was nearly dark, and the weather bleak; he was almost upon the man before he could make out much about him. When the rider was only thirty yards away, Goodnight saw that it was John Wesley Hardin. A second later, Hardin hailed him.
“Why, Charlie, dammit, you’re out late,” Hardin said.
“Out late, and far from home,” Goodnight admitted. He himself had never had any difficulty with Wesley Hardin, but Hardin was a nervous man who was known to kill from whim. It wouldn’t do to get too jocular with him. If you didn’t manage the jocularity to suit John Wesley, he might flare up and yank out a gun.
“Are you still in the cattle business?” Hardin asked.
“Yep,” Goodnight said. “Still in it. Why?”
“Thought you might want to switch to the crow business,” Hardin said, in a whinny of a laugh. “There’s a lot of fine crows around here, and they’re going cheap. The best crow in Crow Town wouldn’t sell for more than a penny.”
“In fact, I’m looking for Woodrow Call,” Goodnight said. “Any news of him?”
“Yes, and I’m the only man that’s got it,” Hardin said. “I ought to charge you for it, Charlie, since I’ve got a monopoly, but being as it’s you, it’s free. Woodrow Call done for Mox Mox.”
“Now that’s news, all right,” Goodnight said. “Are you sure?”
“Sure as daylight,” Hardin said. “I went down to Piedras Negras to whore, because the Garza boy’s mother took the women out of Crow Town. I’m coming from Mexico, and I’m heading for Denver. I believe I can do better in Colorado than I’m doing in Texas.”
“Where is Mox Mox?” Goodnight asked. “I want to see his body.”
“I’m surprised you’d doubt my word, Charlie,” Hardin said, with a touch of irritation.
“I don’t doubt it, John,” Goodnight said. “But I am determined to see the man’s body. He burnt four of my cowboys, on the
Purgatory River, and I want to be sure it’s him, so I can stop chasing him in my head.”
“Well, the sonofabitch froze to death in a gully about a hundred miles south of here,” Hardin said. “Call killed all but one of his men about twenty miles farther on. All of them were laying there dead, except that quick Cherokee boy. Him and Mox Mox made a run for it, but Mox Mox was shot in the lights. He played out and froze. I expect the Cherokee is still running.”
“Let him run,” Goodnight said. “Call done a good day’s work.”
“No, he done a sloppy day’s work,” John Wesley said. “He’s lucky he got the men down, shooting as bad as he was. He knocked them over, but they were still kicking, and if any one of them’d had any fight they’d have got him. He had to finish them off with his pistol, which is a disgrace if you’re in good range and have a decent rifle to shoot.”
“The fact that he gave Mox Mox a mortal wound makes it a good day’s work, in my opinion,” Goodnight said.
“Mox Mox was just a mean bandit, Charlie,” Hardin said. “I wouldn’t call him a man of talent. The sonofabitch should have been a cook, since he liked fires so much. I could have killed him in a blink, and all his men, too.
“I wonder where that Cherokee boy has run to?” he added. “That Cherokee boy is quick, and he ain’t wasteful. He didn’t leave Mox Mox even so much as a match.”
“I’d appreciate it if you’d direct me to that gully,” Goodnight said. “I’d like to see the body before some varmint drags it off.”
“Backtrack me for two days, and you’ll run right into it, Charlie,” Hardin replied. “It ain’t more than twenty-five miles south of the railroad.”
Goodnight was anxious to get going. He had been thinking about his old partner, Oliver Loving, a man he had cared for greatly, and with whom he had camped on the very spot where he was conversing with John Wesley Hardin. Oliver Loving, a fine cattleman, had been dead for many years; John Wesley Hardin, a pure killer and a man who respected no one, was still alive and still brash. It was not justice, it was just life.
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