The Law at Randado

by Elmore Leonard

  For the second time this day Frye settled down to wait. He knew Dandy Jim would do the same. He was Apache and would not rush into something that could be solved with patience. Dandy Jim has it figured out better than you, Frye thought. He’s done this more times than you have. Let the quietness work on Jordan. Let him realize he’s alone and there’s nothing he can do about it. Let him think until he’s tired of thinking. Then he will do something. He might even give himself up. If he does, wrap fifty feet of rope around him and still don’t trust him. But it won’t be that way, will it?

  Frye waited and the time passed slowly.

  It was less than two hours later, though it seemed longer, when Jordan started to do something.

  “Frye!”

  Frye looked up at the unexpected sound of his name. He could not see Jordan, but he knew it was Jordan who had called. He watched, feeling the stock of the carbine against his cheek, and did not answer.

  “Frye!”

  He waited.

  “Goddamn-it that’s your name, isn’t it!”

  I didn’t think you knew it, Frye said to himself.

  Then—“Frye! Come on out and we’ll talk it over!”

  Silence.

  “You hear me!”

  For a few minutes it was quiet.

  “Listen…I turned my ankle and can’t get out of this goddamn hole!”

  Let’s see you try, Frye said to himself.

  “Come on over and we’ll talk this thing out!”

  You’re doing all right as it is, Frye thought.

  Silence again, but suddenly Jordan called, “Frye, you son of a bitch, come on out!”

  Frye smiled, thinking: He’s getting warmer.

  “What kind of a law man are you!”

  Silence.

  “You’re such a brave goddamn law man walk on over here!”

  Keep talking, Frye thought.

  “Frye…I’ll make you a bet!”

  Silence.

  “I’ll bet all the money I got you’re not man enough to stand up the same time I do!”

  What about your ankle?

  “You hear me!”

  I hear you…but I’m not buying in.

  “I’m counting three and then standing up!”

  Frye looked down the Winchester.

  “One!”

  Silence.

  “Two!”

  There was a longer pause.

  “Three!”

  Frye saw the crown of a hat edge hesitantly above the rocks. He was ready to fire. But the hat tilted awkwardly and he knew it was being held by a stick. His finger relaxed on the trigger.

  The hat disappeared.

  “You yellow son of a bitch!”

  Work yourself up—it went through Frye’s mind—till you can’t stand any more.

  “I gave you credit before…but you’re nothing but a goddamn woman!”

  I hope Dandy Jim can understand some of this, Frye thought.

  Now there was a long silence that lasted for the better part of an hour. Then Jordan called for the last time.

  “Frye…you win! But you’re not taking me!”

  Silence. Then a single revolver shot.

  Frye smiled, hearing the shot die away. Clay, you should have been on the stage.

  Throughout the long afternoon there was no sound from the pocket. Frye’s eyes stayed on it. He shifted positions as his body became cramped and he smoked cigarettes to help pass the time. As dusk settled, coming quickly between the steep slopes of the valley, he removed his boots, his hat and cartridge belt. Then he cupped his hands to his mouth and whistled the call of a verdin.

  He waited until it was darker, then moved on hands and knees a dozen yards to the left and imitated the call again.

  Dandy Jim would know that he was moving. And if he was moving it meant only one thing. Close in and get Jordan.

  He waited a longer time now, until the moon—what there was of it—appeared above the eastern slope; then Frye began to crawl forward, his Colt in his right hand, watching the rocks ahead of him pale gray in the moonlight.

  Thirty yards to go.

  All right, let’s feel him out. Frye picked up a stone that filled his hand and threw it forward but to the left of Jordan’s position.

  He heard it strike and instantly the revolver answered.

  Frye smiled in the darkness, even though he could feel the tension inside of him. He’s good in a saloon fight, he thought, but he’s not worth a damn at this. All right. Now you know for sure.

  He inched forward a dozen yards and stopped. His hand groped for a stone. Finding one he threw it backhanded toward Jordan.

  The stone rattled over the rocks and this time he saw the flame spurt as the revolver went off.

  He’s not taking any chances.

  Now, off beyond Jordan’s position he heard the hoot of an owl that he knew was not from an owl. Dandy Jim was closing in. Frye crept forward.

  He heard the owl again much closer and this time Jordan’s revolver answered it. Frye moved quickly and he reached the rocks that rose in front of the pocket as Jordan’s shot echoed to nothing.

  Now Frye could hear him: a boot scraped in the loose gravel. He could picture Jordan on the other side of the rock moving around the pocket trying to pierce the darkness, trying to see where they were hiding. Frye pressed close and shifting his Colt to his left hand, edged in that direction along the smooth side of the rock.

  If he has one gun there are two bullets left in it. No, he thought then, hurriedly, you can’t count shots. He’s had time to reload.

  Wait for Dandy. The next time is the one. In his mind he hesitated and he told himself: Just do it. Do it and get it the hell over with.

  God…help me—

  It came suddenly, just beyond the pocket, not an owl sound as he had expected, but the shriek of a coyote, the howl cut off abruptly at its peak as the revolver went off.

  Frye moved around the smooth turn of the rock bringing up his Colt.

  “Jordan—”

  In the moonlight he saw Jordan turning, saw his eyes wide open for a split second before he felt the Colt jump in his hand. Close on the explosion he fired again and five feet away from him Jordan went down, his hands clutched to his face.

  Frye called out softly into the darkness, “He’s dead,” and a moment later Dandy Jim was standing next to him. Frye took Jordan’s billfold for identification and gave the dead man’s gun and holster to Dandy Jim.

  “He died poorly,” the Coyotero said strapping it on.

  They buried Jordan in the pocket and at first light climbed the slope and ran their horses again the way they had come. It was still the early part of the morning when they descended the slope to the clearing where they had left Danaher. They would water their horses here, then pick up Danaher’s sign. But as they crossed the stream they saw Ford Goss standing next to his horse waiting for them.

  “You got him?”

  Frye nodded. “Last night.”

  “I’d like to’ve seen that.”

  “What about you boys?”

  “I came back to find you. We got the others holed up.”

  “Where?”

  “Up a ways. Danaher wanted to wait for you.” Ford grinned. “They’re hiding up in an old mine works and don’t know we know it.”

  14

  From the window of the assay shack, looking down the slope, Tindal could see most of the deserted mine works: the ore tailings, furrowed gravel piles that stretched down the slope in long humps, and just behind the first tailing he could see the top part of the mainshaft scaffolding. Where the ore tailing petered out into the canyon floor he could see the crushing mill and giant cyanide vats, five of them, cradled in a rickety wooden frame.

  He remembered the time he had visited here, a guest of—he could not think of the man’s first name—something Butler. Butler had lived in Randado and had owned a small interest in the mine. They had not climbed the slope to the assay shack, but had stayed over there across th
e canyon where the company buildings were: now dilapidated and two of the four were roofless and you could see the framework of studs that the roof planks and tar paper had been nailed to.

  The houses were built at the base of the slope and the verandas were supported on stilts. Butler standing on the steps, a cigar in his mouth, explaining the operation—

  “…it’s got to be dry-crushed to pass a twenty by sixteen mesh…loaded into them vats…two hundred and fifty tons of ore, mind you, and leached in cyanide…strength of the solution is…to the ton of water…damn good thing we got water…right now the average tenor’s thirty dollars to the ton and mister, that’s pay dirt!”

  It was the first and last time Tindal had visited the mine—“The Big Beverly,” they’d called it—for months later the tenor dropped to two dollars and fifty cents a ton and from then on it was not worth working.

  The shack he was in right now—

  He remembered looking up the slope, up past the cyanide vats and the crushing mill, to the left and even higher than the main shaft scaffolding, and seeing the shack perched on a ledge that was almost halfway up the escarpment. Just sandstone above it; long, towering pinnacles of sandstone.

  And Butler saying—“…why would anybody want to build a shack way up there? Man, that’s where the assaying is done. See those two dark spots on either side of the shack…the original mine shafts…in the shack they got shelves on the walls and bags of concentrates are stored there to be tested…you don’t want to go up there…nothing to see…”

  And there’s nothing to see looking down from there, Tindal thought now. My God, it’s funny what you can remember from even a long time ago. About fifteen years…but last week is a long time ago, too. It’s how you look at it.

  Last week—

  Earl Beaudry coming into the store and saying that he’d seen Phil Sundeen and that Phil wanted to talk to them. Why in hell had Earl and George been so eager to stick their noses in another man’s business! Sundeen’s run-off cows were his own worry. My God, a man can change!

  He was thinking of Phil Sundeen then, comparing how he was before with what he was like now. The difference was in Tindal’s mind.

  He had looked up to Phil Sundeen as everyone did, because Phil was an important man. He had always laughed when Phil started to cut up. When Phil did something that was genuinely funny, Tindal’s eyes would water as he laughed and he would feel closer to Phil then, laughing without having to pretend that he was laughing. Those were the times when Tindal would feel justified for all the excuses he continually made for Phil, and the defending him to Milmary, who said he was a rowdy and wouldn’t have anything to do with him. “Mil, a man of his stature is entitled to be a little eccentric.” “Eccentric! Riding his horse into people’s living rooms! Thinking he can do anything he pleases just because he owns a few cows!” “A few thousand.” “I don’t care how many!” “He’s young yet, that’s all.” “Well, it’s about time he grew up!”

  He had even made an excuse for Milmary: you can’t tell a woman anything. But always in the back of his mind was the hope that someday Milmary would change her attitude and marry Phil. Marrying into the biggest spread in Pima County! For some things it was worth being a little extra nice. Hell, it didn’t require much more of an effort. But, my God, the times when you had to laugh and it wasn’t funny—

  Everything in life isn’t a bed of roses. It’s just good business to put up with a few minor displeasures in order to make a profit in the end. Once in a while he would view his association with Phil Sundeen this way. Most often though, he would simply justify their association by making excuses for Phil’s character. Either way Tindal kept his conscience clean and his pride intact. Doubts did not count.

  But now—

  Suddenly inside of only a few days there was nothing to gain and everything to lose and he could no longer make excuses for Phil Sundeen. He saw Phil as he actually was, the way Milmary had described him: a rowdy who thinks he can do anything he pleases. He blamed Beaudry and Stedman for getting him into this, but far less than he blamed, and hated, Sundeen now. It would come into his mind: Why can’t we just start all over. No, not start over, but go back to the way it was and I swear to God I won’t have anything to do with him. The two Mexicans were caught stealing…hell, that part’s all right. But everything that happened after, Sundeen did. I got no cause to be hiding out. I haven’t done anything! And the son of a bitch just sits there like God smoking a cigarette!

  He glanced from the window to Sundeen, who was lounging in the open doorway, his back against one side and a booted leg propped up on the other knee. George Stedman was sitting cross-legged against the opposite wall. Stedman’s head was down and he was staring at his hands, looking closely at his fingernails clenched against the palm, then with the thumb of the other hand he would work at the dirt wedged beneath the nails.

  “Phil.”

  Sundeen did not look up. He was studying his cigarette, watching the smoke curling from the tip of it.

  “Phil,” Tindal said again. “Why don’t we just go back home and see what happens?” Trying to keep his voice mild it sounded shaky and nervous.

  Sundeen’s eyes remained on the cigarette, but he said, “I told you to quit that talk.”

  “We can’t stay forever.”

  “Why not?”

  “Phil, we got rights. We don’t have to stay out here like hunted animals.”

  “We do if I say we do.”

  “You’re not being reasonable!”

  “Nothing says I have to.”

  Tindal calmed himself. Getting excited wasn’t going to help. “What about your cattle?”

  “What about them?”

  “You’d let your ranch go just because of this?”

  “They know how to graze without my help.”

  “They’ll be scattered all over the territory!”

  “Then I’ll hire me some men to bring them back.”

  “When?”

  “When I get ready.”

  “Phil, here’s the thing. If we give ourselves up, then Finnerty will let us off for coming in on our own accord.”

  “Who says so?”

  “It stands to reason.”

  Sundeen looked up now, faintly grinning. “R.D., you old son of a bitch, you telling me we’re wrong?”

  “I’m facing the facts!”

  “Facts don’t mean a thing.”

  “They do when you’re faced with them!”

  Sundeen’s glance went down the slope. “I don’t see ’em facing me.” He looked at Stedman then. “George, you got any facts facing you?”

  Stedman’s head jerked up. “What?”

  “Phil—”

  Sundeen cut him off. “R.D., you’re a sad-looking old son of a bitch, but if you don’t shut up I’m going to put you out of your misery.”

  Sundeen stood up stretching, then walked outside and away from the doorway.

  Now he’s going to look at the horses, Tindal thought. They were kept saddled in one of the old mine shafts that was on the ledge with the assay shack.

  He doesn’t worry about a solitary thing. Just piddles around like he was at home looking for some trouble to get into. You can see he’s restless, but he puts on the act he’s having a good time…like a spoiled kid who’s got to have his own way and even when he’s wrong won’t admit it. Hell, that’s what he is, a snot-nosed kid, who should have had his ass kicked a long time ago.

  He glanced at Stedman, then leaned head and shoulders out of the window and looked both ways along the ledge. Sundeen was not in sight.

  “George.”

  Stedman’s head lifted and he looked at Tindal almost angrily. “What do you want?”

  Tindal glanced at the doorway, then moved closer to Stedman. “George, there must be a way out of this.”

  “You knew the way in,” Stedman said, “you ought to know the way out.”

  “Me!”

  “Who the hell else!”

  �
�Now wait a minute, George. It was you and Earl who got me to talk to Sundeen.”

  Stedman’s eyes narrowed and he said angrily, “You got a short goddamn memory is all I can say.”

  “You think I’m enjoying this!”

  “I don’t know why not. Finally you’re in something with Phil Sundeen.”

  “Keep your voice down.”

  “You don’t want him to hear you talking behind his back.”

  “George, make sense.”

  “Always shining up to him—”

  “Don’t talk so loud!”

  “Always ready to kiss his hind end any time he bends over.”

  Tindal shook his head wearily. What was the sense of talking to him.

  “Listen.” Stedman lowered his voice and the sound of it seemed edged with a threat. “I’m getting out of here. I’m not taking any more off of him; no more of this goddamn obeying orders like we were his hired hands. I’m waiting for the chance and soon as it shows, I’m getting out. You can stay married to the son of a bitch if you want, but I’ve got a stomach full of him. A man can stand just so much. You wouldn’t know about that, would you?”

  “What do you mean—”

  “Just stay out of my way from now on!”

  Tindal felt his temper rise and he was about to curse Stedman and tell him to…to do something! But he was too enraged to speak. He turned his back on Stedman and returned to the window.

  Imagine him saying that to me. Of all the goddamn spineless, yellow—Tindal gritted his teeth. He’ll be sorry. Manager of a bank—If any two-bit illegitimate idiot couldn’t be manager of a branch bank! Well, we’ll see. We’ll get home and see how much business Mr. George S.O.B. Stedman gets after this.

  He’s so panicky he doesn’t even know who to trust. Blames me! He’s as bad as Phil. Every bit as crazy!

  Like that business with Jordan.

  We’re not bad off enough, Phil has to get in an argument with Jordan and Jordan leaves. Jordan said it was pointless to come back this way and be hunted like animals—the only one who had anything to say that made sense!