He was sliding down the gravel as Austin fell back into the brittlebush, reaching him then, knowing he was dead and concentrating on prying the revolver from the man’s fingers. Cable took both of Austin’s revolvers, both Colt Army .44s. He waited a moment, but there was no sign of Vern. He rose half crouched, expecting to hear Vern’s shot, expecting to feel it, then ran for the piñon pines.
He went down beneath a tree, feeling the sand and grass patches warm and the thick branches close above him, and now he listened.
Vern would be close. In the time, he could have come all the way up through the trees. Perhaps not; but at any rate Vern would have seen him running across the open. Probably he was just not in position for a shot. But now Vern knew where he was; that much was certain.
So move, Cable thought.
He pushed up to one knee and waited, listening, then was running again, keeping low and dodging through the brushlike trees. Almost immediately a rifle report whined through the grove. Cable dropped, clawing then, changing his direction and moving down the slope. The firing began again, this time with the sound of a revolver somewhere between fifty and a hundred feet away from him. Cable kept going and the .44 sound hammered after him, five times, until he dropped into a shallow gully.
Cable rolled to his stomach, holstered one of the Colts, and at once began crawling up the narrow wash, up toward the open slope. He moved quickly, using his knees and forearms, until he was almost to the edge of the trees, roughly thirty feet above the spot where he had entered the gully. He stopped then to listen.
There was no sound. Beyond the brush and rock shadows close in front of him, the slope glared with sunlight. He turned, looking back the way he had come, then removed his hat and rolled on his side, resting the Colt on his thigh so that it pointed down the length of the gully.
Minutes passed in dead silence. Then there was a sound; but not close or in the pines. It was the sound of horse’s hoofs, distant, still far out on the meadow.
More of them, Cable thought.
He would have to take Vern quickly, before they came. He would have to keep it even if he expected to come through this.
And if you knew where Vern was maybe you could.
But he didn’t. Vern could be close. Vern could even know he was lying here, and if he ran for the slope, Vern could very possibly drop him. Or even if he moved or stood up.
And if times if equals if, and there’s no getting out of this. No running. Only waiting and letting it happen. Even Forrest waited sometimes. He waited for them to make mistakes. But he would be waiting this time—God, yes, he would be waiting—whether they made mistakes or not.
The horse sound seemed nearer. He concentrated, listening, until he was sure that it was only one horse coming. One rider. One helper for Vern.
Cable pushed up with one hand, trying to see the meadow over the trees below him, but he could see only the far side of the meadow and the willows marking the river and the dark, quiet, cool-looking slope beyond. The rider would be close to this side by now.
Cable’s gaze fell, and held.
Vern Kidston was facing him. Vern not thirty feet away, one leg in the gully, half sitting, half kneeling at the edge of it and partly hidden by the brush. Vern with his revolver extended and watching him.
Neither of them moved. They stared in silence with cocked revolvers pointed at each other. Cable sitting with one hand behind him, the other holding the Colt on his thigh, his face calm and showing clearly in the sunlight that filtered through the trees. Vern’s expression, though partly shadowed and solemn with his mustache covering the corners of his mouth, was as relaxed as Cable’s. The tension was somewhere between them, waiting for one or the other to move. And as the silence lengthened, it seemed that even a spoken word would pull a trigger.
It was in Vern’s tone when finally he said, “Cable,” and waited, as if expecting a reaction.
“I could have killed you,” he said then. “I had my gun on you and you were looking away…. Why didn’t I?”
Cable said nothing.
“I could have ended it right then. But I didn’t. Do you know why?” He waited again. “I’m asking you.”
Cable shook his head, though he saw Vern as he had seen him two days ago—a small figure against the front sight of his Spencer—and remembered how he had not been able to pull the trigger. He had thought about it enough and knew the reason why he had held back; but it was not a clear reason; only a feeling and it might be a different feeling with each man. What did Vern feel? At the same time, what difference did it make? Vern had not been able to pull the trigger when he had the chance, and knowing that was enough. But it would be different with him now, Cable thought, just as it’s different with you. The feeling wouldn’t apply or hold either of them back at this point.
Tell him anyway, Cable thought; and he said, “I had my sights on you once. The same thing happened. Though I’m not sure I’d let it happen again.”
“When was that?”
“Two days ago. You were with Lorraine.”
“Why didn’t you shoot?”
“It takes some explaining,” Cable said. “And I’m not sure it makes sense when you say it out loud.”
Vern nodded faintly. “Maybe it’s called leaving it up to the other man.”
“I didn’t start this,” Cable said flatly. “I don’t feel obliged to keep it going either.”
“But you’ll finish what you can,” Vern said. “What about Austin—he’s dead?”
Cable nodded.
“I didn’t think you’d have a chance with him.”
“Neither did he,” Cable said. “That’s why he’s dead.”
“So you killed all three of the Dodd brothers, and Royce—”
“What would you have done?”
“You mean because each time it was them or you?”
“Or my family,” Cable said. “I’m asking what you would have done? Two choices. Run or stand?”
“All right.” Vern paused. “But Duane. That’s something else.”
“I didn’t shoot your brother.”
“There’s no one else would have reason to.”
“Stay with one thing,” Cable said. “I didn’t shoot him.”
“Even after he rawhided you?”
“If I’d wanted to get back at him for that, I’d have used fists. I never felt a beating was a killing thing.”
“That could be true,” Vern said. “But how do I know it is?”
“Whether you believe it or not,” Cable answered, “your gun’s no bigger than mine is.” But he said then, “I told you before, I didn’t leave the house last night.”
“And if you didn’t do it—” Vern began.
“Why couldn’t it have been one of your own men?”
Vern shook his head. “Everybody was accounted for.”
Then it was Janroe, Cable thought, without any doubt of it. He said to Vern, “I can ask you the same kind of question.”
“You mean about your house? I never touched it.”
“Then it was Duane.”
“I know for a fact,” Vern said, “it wasn’t anyone from my place.”
“But you put Royce and Joe Bob on me.”
Again Vern shook his head. “They came on their own.”
“What about Lorraine?”
“I knew about that,” Vern admitted. “I should have stopped her.”
“What was the point of it?”
“Lorraine said wedge something between you and your wife. Split you up and you wouldn’t have a good reason to stay here.”
“Does that make sense to you?”
“I said I should have stopped her.”
“Vern, I’ve lived here ten years. We’ve been married for eight.”
Kidston nodded then, solemnly. “Bill Dancey said you had more reason to fight than I did.”
“What did you say?”
“I don’t remember.”
“Do you believe him?”
“I’ll tell you this
,” Vern said. “I’d like to have known you at a different time.”
Cable nodded. “Maybe we would have gotten on. Even worked out this land thing.”
“Even that,” Vern said.
“I would have been willing to let you put some of your horses on my graze,” Cable said, “if it hadn’t started the way it did.”
“Well, it doesn’t matter now,” Vern said.
But it could matter, Cable thought. “We were going to wait each other out,” Cable said. “But Royce and Joe Bob got into it. Then your brother. I wonder how this would have turned out if he were still alive.”
Vern was watching Cable closely. “I wish I could understand you. Either you had nothing to do with killing Duane, or else you’re some actor.”
“Like trying to understand why you brought Wynn and Austin with you,” Cable said. “You’re big enough to make your own fight.”
“When a man’s killed,” Vern said, “it’s no longer a game or a personal contest. It was time to get you, with the best, surest way I had.”
“When the man’s your brother,” Cable said. “When Royce and Joe Bob were killed you went right on waiting.”
“I’ve been wrong,” Vern said, “maybe right from the beginning. I let it get out of hand too. I admit that. But there’s nothing I can do about the ways it’s developed.”
“Then in time you would have backed off,” Cable said, “if nothing had happened to Duane.”
“Well, with the war on I could look on you as an enemy. Kick you off your land and tell myself it was all right. But now that it’s over, I’m not sure about anything, not even my horse business. Though I might probably get a contract from the stage-line people when they start up—”
Cable stopped him. “What did you say?” He was staring at Vern intently. “About the war?”
“It’s over. You knew that, didn’t you?”
“When was it over?”
“A few days ago.”
“You knew it then?”
“We learned yesterday.” Vern seemed to frown, studying Cable’s expression. “Luz knew about it. She mentioned it when I talked to her a while ago.”
“Yesterday,” Cable said.
“She would have learned it yesterday.” Vern nodded.
And if she knew it, Cable thought, so did Janroe. Yesterday. Before Duane was killed. Janroe would have known. He must have known. But still he killed Duane. Could that be?
You could think about it, Cable thought, and it wouldn’t make sense, but still it could be. With anyone else there would be a doubt. But with Janroe there was little room for doubt. This was strange because he hardly knew the man.
But at the same time it wasn’t strange, not when he pictured this man who had lost his arm in the war and who had killed over a hundred Union prisoners. Not when he heard him talking again, insisting over and over that Vern and Duane should be killed. Not when he remembered the feeling of trying to answer Janroe. No, it wasn’t strange, not when he put everything together that he could remember about Janroe.
It could have been Janroe who tore up his house. It occurred to Cable that moment, but at once he was sure of it: Janroe trying to incite him, trying to make him angry enough to go after the Kidstons. Janroe wanting to see them—the enemy, or whatever they were to him—dead, but without drawing blame on himself.
Janroe could even be insane. Something could have happened to him in the war.
No, don’t start that, Cable thought. Just take it at its face value. Janroe killed a man you are being accused of killing. He did it, whether he had reason or not; though the war wasn’t the reason, because the war was over and you are almost as sure as you can be sure of something that he knew it was over. So just take that, Cable thought, and do something with it.
He sat up, raising the Colt, then turned the cylinder, letting the hammer down gently on the empty chamber. Vern did not move; though when Cable looked up again he knew Vern had been taken by surprise and was puzzled.
“We’re wasting our time,” Cable said. “There’s a man we ought to see.”
He began to tell Vern about Janroe.
Luz reached Cable’s dead sorrel before she saw the two horses grazing along the mesquite at the foot of the slope. These would belong to Vern and the one called Austin. She slowed the dun to a walk now, her eyes raised and moving searchingly over the piñon-covered slope. The firing had come from up there, she was sure of it.
But there had been no shots for some time now. They could be hunting for him among the trees. Or it could already be over.
When she saw the two figures coming down through the trees, in view for brief moments as they passed through clearings, she was sure that it was over, that these two were Vern and Austin coming back to their horses. They left the piñon and were down beyond the mesquite for some time. Finally they appeared again and it was not until now that she saw the second man was not Austin but Cable.
She watched them approach with the strange feeling that this could not be happening, that it was a dream. They had been firing at one another; but now they were walking together, both armed, not one bringing the other as a prisoner.
Questions ran through her mind and she wanted to ask all of them at once; but now they were close and it was Cable who spoke first.
“Luz, did Janroe leave the store last night?”
The question took her by surprise. Without a greeting, without an explanation of the two of them together, without wondering why she was here, Cable asked about Janroe. The question must be so important to him that he skipped all of those other things.
She said, hesitantly, “He went to see you last night. But he said you weren’t home.”
“Where is he now, at the store?”
“He was a little while ago.” She remembered him jumping down from the platform, trying to stop her from leaving. “But he’s acting strangely,” she said. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen him the way he was.”
Vern was looking at Cable. “Your wife and kids are there?” When Cable nodded, glancing at Luz again, Vern said, “I think we’d better go see Mr. Janroe.”
Janroe watched Luz until she was almost out of sight. He turned, pausing to brush the dust from his knees, and was aware of Martha in the doorway. He looked up at her; from her expression he knew she had heard Luz.
“Well?” Janroe said.
“I would like to borrow a horse,” Martha said tensely.
“You can’t do anything.”
“Just let me have a horse,” Martha said. “I don’t need anything else from you, least of all advice.”
“And you’ll take your kids with you?”
“I’d like to leave them here.”
Janroe shook his head. “I don’t have time to watch your kids.”
Martha came out on the platform. “You would stop me from going to my husband? At a time like this you would stop me from being with him?”
“You couldn’t help him,” Janroe said. “Neither could I. Luz is wasting her time whether she thinks she’s doing something or not. I tried to stop her, tried to talk some sense into her, but she wouldn’t listen. That’s the trouble with you women. You get all het up and run off without thinking.” He had moved to the platform and was now mounting the steps. “If Vern’s there to talk to your husband, there’s no sense in stopping him. If he’s there for any other reason, none of us could stop him if we tried.”
“You won’t let me have a horse?”
“Sit down on your hands, you won’t be so nervous.”
“Mr. Janroe, I’m begging you—”
“No, you’re not.” He moved her into the store in front of him. “You want to do something, get out in the kitchen and do the dishes.”
Martha didn’t want to back down—he could see that—but there was little she could say as she turned abruptly and walked away, down the length of the store counter.
Janroe said after her, “Don’t leave the house. You hear me? Don’t even open the door less I say it’s
all right.”
He waited until she was in the next room before he moved around behind the counter that extended along the front of the store. From under the counter he took a short-barreled shotgun with Hatch & Hodges carved into the stock—it dated from the time the store had been a stage-line station—checked to see that it was loaded, then laid it on the counter.
From a peg behind him he took his shoulder holster with the Colt fitting snugly in it, and looped it over his armless shoulder. He wound the extra-long leather thong, which held the Colt securely, around his chest and tied the end of it deftly with his one hand.
Just in case, he told himself; though you won’t need them. You can be almost absolutely sure of that.
Everything will go all right. Luz would be back within an hour. She would ride in slowly this time, putting off telling Martha what had happened. Then behind her would come Vern and Austin, probably both of the Dodd brothers, with Cable facedown over his horse. Vern would tell it simply, in few words; and if Martha cried or screamed at him, he would say, “He killed my brother.” Or, “He should have thought about his family before he killed Duane.” Or words that said the same thing. Then they would dump his body. Or let it down easy now that it was over and the anger was drained out of them, and ride away.
Then what? Then he would listen to the woman cry, the woman and the kids. There was no way of avoiding that. Afterward, he might even offer his services to the new widow….
Then what? Kill Vern? No, forget about that for now.
Then think about it when the time comes. There was no hurry. He could go back to St. Augustine. Or he could stay here. That would be something, to stay here and be a neighbor of Vern’s. Talk to him about Duane every once in a while, and Cable, and all the trouble Cable caused. That would be something; but the staying here, the living here and letting the time pass, might not be worth it. He would have to weigh that against the once-in-a-while satisfaction of Vern talking to him and not knowing he had killed Duane.
No, there was no hurry. There would be time later on to think of what he would do. With two arms he would have stayed in the army; even though the war was over.
Janroe caught himself. Is it over?
All right, it’s over. You’ve had no word, he thought. But if they want to say it’s over, then it is. It was a good war, part of it was; but now, as of right now, you can say it’s over. You can’t fight people who won’t fight back.
Last Stand at Saber River Page 17
