The Law at Randado

by Elmore Leonard

  But suddenly Tindal stopped. What was he thinking of? He was reasoning to the point that they needed Jordan here. But Jordan wasn’t one of them. Jordan was a gunman, a wanted outlaw, yet he had been wishing Jordan were here; missing the secure feeling of having him with them.

  My God…I think I’m going crazy!

  He slumped against the wall and wiped his face with his bandanna. Just take it easy. You’ve gotten along for forty-five years using your head. Just calm down. Keep your eyes and ears open, you’ll make out all right. He looked across the room at Stedman. George can go take a running jump to hell…and take Phil with him.

  He had made himself become calm and now he sucked at his teeth, the first time he had done this in five days.

  Sundeen appeared in the doorway, unexpectedly, and Tindal felt himself straighten against the wall. Sundeen hesitated, looking from Tindal to Stedman, then said, as if reluctantly, “They’re coming.”

  “Where!” Stedman was scrambling to his feet as he said it.

  “Just stay where you are!” Sundeen was inside the doorway now looking past the frame. He was silent, then said, “They’re coming up the road, just entering the canyon.”

  Stedman moved toward the window and Sundeen snapped, “I said stay where you are!”

  Against the wall next to the window, Tindal could see them now straggling in almost single file. The first ones were reaching the company buildings now.

  He heard Sundeen go over to the shelf along this side wall where his blankets were and slip his rifle out from between them.

  Then another sound—

  He looked back to see Stedman reaching the door and going out, stumbling as he started down the slope, then regaining his feet and running, sliding in the loose sand, shouting something to the men below—

  15

  In the directly above them sunlight of noon they entered the widening in the canyon that was the site of the mine. Frye and Danaher rode side by side a dozen lengths behind Merl White. The others were strung out behind them. Farther back, where there had been rock slides, the canyon was narrow and they had thinned out single file to pass through and had not closed up again before reaching the mine.

  The day before they had followed the tracks up the canyon and spent the night a mile below the mine site. But before dark Merl had gone on alone to study the deserted building through Danaher’s glasses. Just before dark closed in he saw the figure up by the assay shack. That was it. They would wait until morning to go in. It was Danaher who added that they would also wait for Frye. It was Frye’s party.

  Frye saw Merl White dismount in front of one of the company buildings and tie his reins to one of the support posts beneath the veranda. They can’t be too close, Frye thought. His eyes moved across the open area to the mine works, then lifted to the sandstone escarpment high above. He thought: Where would you hide?

  “John, where are they?”

  Danaher nodded, looking up the slope. “That shack way up there. They used to use it for assaying.”

  “I was wondering about us just walking in.”

  “We’re out of range.”

  “Unless Phil’s a dead-eye.”

  “Three hundred yards is long for anybody.”

  “Maybe they sneaked out during the night,” Frye said.

  “Merl was here with the sun this morning,” Danaher answered. “He saw movement up by the shack.”

  Merl White had the glasses to his eyes, now standing at the edge of the veranda shade studying the assay shack. They were up there and they might as well realize they were trapped. Maybe they would give themselves up and nobody would be hurt. Maybe. The trouble was you could not count on Sundeen to use reason.

  “Look!” Merl shouted it without taking the glasses from his eyes. “Coming out of the shack!”

  They could not see him at first, not until he came off the ledge and started down, a dark speck against the sand-colored slope, then dust rising in a cloud behind him. They saw him roll and slide head first and for a moment he was hidden by the dust. Then, on his feet again, running, pumping his legs to keep up with his momentum.

  A rifle shot cracked in the stillness and echoed thinly in the wide canyon. Then another and another and puffs of sand chased the running figure down the slope.

  Three shots before the men below had their rifles out of saddle boots, before they were scattering but moving their horses toward the slope to return the fire—aiming at the shack to cover the man coming down.

  Then he was past the cyanide vats, swerving to find cover behind the massive structure, and the firing stopped.

  Frye’s men walked their horses back toward the company building where Frye and Danaher stood with Merl White as the man came across the open area toward them—every few steps looking back over his shoulder, up toward the assay shack.

  Then as he became aware of the silent, grim-faced men waiting for him, he seemed to hesitate, walking more slowly now and he began to brush the sand from his clothes. He was breathing heavily and his face, gray with dust, bore a pained expression.

  “I’m giving myself up,” Stedman gasped.

  No one spoke.

  His eyes, suddenly wide open, went over the line of men, hesitating on Haig Hanasian before they came to rest on Frye.

  “Kirby, I’ve wanted to give myself up…I couldn’t with that madman!” He looked at Danaher, then back to Frye, waiting for one of them to speak. “I pleaded with him…I said, ‘Phil, let’s go on home and face up to it.’ I tried everything humanly possible, but he’d just grin or else start cursing and there was nothing I could do about it.”

  Frye stepped toward him. “That’s all right, Mr. Stedman.” He opened Stedman’s coat almost gently and saw that he was not armed. “You come on in here,” Frye said, taking his arm, “in the shade and sit down.”

  “Kirby,” Stedman murmured, “the man’s crazy.”

  Frye nodded leading him by the arm under the veranda. “How many are up there now, Mr. Stedman, just the two of them?”

  “Phil and R.D.”

  “How’s Mr. Tindal doing?”

  Stedman hesitated, but he said, “He’s all right.”

  “Did Phil harm either of you?”

  “He like to drove us out of our mind.” Stedman was perspiring and his fingers pulled at his collar loosening it.

  “Did he harm you?”

  “Not like you probably mean.”

  “Or Mr. Tindal?”

  “No…but you never know what he’ll do. He picked a fight with Jordan. But Jordan had a gun. He wouldn’t take any of Phil’s airs and he left.” Stedman added almost grudgingly, “He was smart to get out while he could.”

  Frye nodded, “Yes sir,” and asked, “how are Phil’s supplies?”

  “Water and food for two days. No, that was for three of us. They could make what they have go four or five days if they had to.”

  “You said Mr. Tindal’s all right?”

  Stedman nodded. “He’s all right.”

  “How do they get along?”

  Stedman was calmer now and he said, “They quit sleeping together,” and grinned. But he saw Danaher’s cold stare and looking back at Frye he explained, “They’re not getting along. But R.D.’s too goddamn scared to do anything about it.”

  Danaher smiled. “Not the man of action you are, George.”

  “Well, I thought why should I sit up there and—”

  “Shut up!” Contempt was in Danaher’s eyes and in his voice when he said, “Prisoners speak when they’re asked a question. No other time!”

  Frye said, “Sit down for a while, Mr. Stedman,” and turned following Danaher out into the sunlight. Frye made a cigarette and stood next to Danaher looking up at the assay shack.

  “That’s a long open stretch up that slope,” Frye said after a minute.

  Danaher nodded. “Going up the off side of those ore tails we’d be covered all the way up to the ledge. But you still have to go in the front door of the shack once you g
et there.”

  Frye was looking at the sandstone heights that towered above the shack. “Phil might be just the one to try climbing his way out.”

  “He might at that,” Danaher said. “But it would have to be at night else we could run up close and knock him off.”

  “If he wanted to do it,” Frye said, “Phil wouldn’t let a little thing like nighttime stop him.”

  “Well, we better have somebody get around there,” Danaher said. “It would probably take a while.”

  Frye called over Dandy Jim and told him what they had been talking about. The Coyotero looked up at the heights, picturing the country behind it and the roundabout trail it would take to reach it, and then he told that it would be near dark by the time a man arrived there.

  Yes, he would be willing to go. Merl White agreed, and when he volunteered so did Goss and Tobin and in less than ten minutes the four of them were riding back down the canyon.

  “That,” Danaher said, “closes the back door.”

  “But there’re two side doors,” Frye said, meaning up and down the canyon. His eyes roamed over the deserted mine works. “And enough good places to hide right here in the house.”

  “Well, Kirby, that just takes it out of the commonplace.”

  He looked at Danaher. “I think you’re enjoying this.”

  “Kirby, if I didn’t like my job I’d get the hell out.”

  “I can’t picture you in anything else.”

  “Which makes it all the easier.” Danaher said then, “Aren’t you having a good time?”

  “I don’t know if you’d call it that.”

  “Would you rather be back trading horses?”

  Frye shook his head. “No.”

  “Then get to work and figure a way to pry that crazy bastard out of there.”

  “We might go up and talk to him,” Frye said. “Maybe he’s calmed down. Take a white flag to show we’re friendly.”

  Danaher thought about it before nodding. “So we can say we tried.” He took a handkerchief from his pocket and smoothed it out before tying it to the end of his Henry rifle.

  Frye leaned his carbine against a support post and they started across the open area, Danaher motioning his men to follow. When they had crossed to the cyanide vats, the sheriff motioned again. They strung out in a line, their rifles ready, as Frye and Danaher started up the slope.

  They kept their eyes on the shack, going up slowly in the shifting sand, climbing abreast but with a few yards separating them. The shack seemed deserted: the boards bleached gray by years of sun and wind and there was not a sign of life in the dark opening of the doorway or in the windows.

  They were fifty yards up the slope—

  “If he doesn’t show in the next minute”—Danaher’s breathing was labored—“we’re gettin’ the hell back.”

  Frye’s eyes remained on the shack. “What would you give to know what he’s thinking?”

  The answer came from the shack. On top of Frye’s question the rifle shot whined down kicking up sand almost directly between them. Danaher’s men were ready; they began firing, keeping it up as Frye and Danaher dove in opposite directions and rolled. Danaher came up firing the Henry, then turned and ran. As they reached the bottom of the slope the firing stopped.

  Walking back, Frye said, “Now we know what George felt like.”

  Danaher was untying the white cloth. “I burned my best handkerchief.”

  “That’s what you get for carrying a live truce flag.”

  Danaher grumbled something, then looking back up the slope he said, “With a clean conscience, Kirby, we can say we tried. Now we sit back and wait for Mr. Sundeen.”

  “And judging by his short patience,” Frye answered, “that shouldn’t be too long a wait.”

  Haig Hanasian warmed up their meat and made coffee on the stove inside the company building. The stove was almost beyond use and there was no stack on it to take out the smoke, but it didn’t matter because they ate their meal outside under the veranda, watching the assay shack. Through the afternoon they played poker with matchsticks for chips or just sat smoking and talking, waiting for something that they knew would come sooner or later. As darkness settled they moved across the open area and paired off taking up positions along the base of the slope, then settled down again to wait. By Danaher’s timepiece it was a little after eight o’clock. Haig Hanasian was told to remain at the company building and watch Stedman. It was to keep him out of the way. They knew Stedman would not try to escape.

  At ten, Danaher ground the stub of his cigar into the sand, handed his timepiece to Frye, and rolled up in his blankets to sleep. Frye would watch the first part of the night; Danaher would then be up until daylight. He had instructed his men to do it the same way.

  Frye sat in the darkness listening to the wind high up the canyon. It would moan softly, then rise to a dull hissing sound and he would hear the sand being blown against the deserted buildings. It kept going through his mind: What would you do if you were Phil Sundeen?

  He smoked cigarettes thinking about Tindal up there with him; and from Tindal his thoughts went to Milmary. What would Mil be doing right now? He would light a cigarette and as the match flared look to see what time it was.

  Eleven o’clock passed. Then twelve.

  It was shortly before one (the way he figured it later) when he heard the revolver shot from up on the slope, and the first thing he thought of was Jordan—

  Twice in two days!

  Danaher was up, shaking off his blankets. Wide awake.

  “What is it!”

  Frye was standing now looking up the dark slope. The moon was behind the clouds and he could see nothing. “Up there, John!”

  “That was a shot, wasn’t it?”

  “A handgun.”

  In the stillness they heard one of the men down from them lever a shell into his rifle.

  “John…Jordan pulled one that could be just like this.”

  “What?”

  They heard a voice calling from up on the slope and there was no time to explain.

  Then the sound of the voice came to them clearly—

  “He’s dead!”

  Still they could not see him, but now they knew it was Tindal standing out in front of the shack.

  “He shot himself!” The voice echoed in the canyon.

  Momentarily there was silence.

  “John, it could be a trick.”

  Danaher cupped his hands to his mouth. “Tindal, you come down!” To Frye he said, “Let’s get him out of the way first.”

  “I can’t!”

  “I said come down!”

  “I can’t!” It came as a hoarse scream.

  “We better go up,” Danaher said. He waved to the men over on his right to start up the slope.

  “John—” Frye hesitated. “Something’s wrong.”

  They heard Tindal scream again, “He’s dead!”

  Danaher called again, “I said come down!”

  “I can’t!”

  Danaher was suddenly at the end of his patience. He said roughly, “Come on!” and started up the slope.

  Frye looked to the left, toward two of the men. He ran a few steps toward them. “One of you stay down…keep your eyes open!” then turned going up the slope after Danaher. The other man followed him.

  Halfway up Danaher called, “Tindal!”

  No answer.

  Danaher muttered, “Damn him—”

  They could make out the ledge now as the clouds passed from in front of the moon and suddenly Tindal was screaming again—

  “He’s getting away!”

  They heard the muffled sound of hoofs somewhere off to the left.

  “He’s getting away! Stop him!”

  The horse whinnied, over beyond the hump of the ore tailing closest to them.

  “Phil’s getting away!”

  Danaher bellowed, “Shut up goddamn-it!”

  He wheeled then, almost sliding in the sand, and called down to
his men below, “Get him!”

  Now they were running down the slope as firing broke suddenly from below—three shots…a fourth. Then the firing and the echoes of it dissolved to nothing and in the stillness they could hear the hoofbeats of the horse dying away up canyon.

  They knew without going any farther. Sundeen had gotten away.

  16

  Now there was nothing they could do until morning.

  They waited for Tindal to come down and he described what had happened as they walked back to the company building.

  Sundeen had fired the revolver shot, he told excitedly, then had made him yell out that he was dead. “He had to get you all part of the way up the slope before he could make a break. He led one of the horses out of the mine entrance, then held his gun on me while I yelled…that’s why I couldn’t move. He’d a cut me down!”

  As they brought Tindal under the veranda they heard three shots spaced apart and sounding far off, coming from beyond the escarpment.

  “That’s the others,” Frye said.

  He walked out to the middle of the open area leading his horse. Then he fired three shots into the air at ten-second intervals. That would tell the Coyotero there was no hurry. Then he mounted and rode up canyon almost half a mile and fired three times again. That would be the direction they would take. He knew the Coyotero would understand. If there was no hurry then they would leave in the morning, traveling up canyon.

  He returned to the men in front of the company building after unsaddling and picketing his horse—cigarette glows in the darkness and low murmurs of sound as they talked about what had happened. He saw Tindal sitting against the wall next to Stedman, neither of them talking, and Haig Hanasian standing over them. Danaher stood off by himself near the end of the veranda.

  He thinks it’s his fault, Frye thought. Well, let him be. Don’t interrupt a man when he’s giving himself hell.

  With first light they were saddled and making their way up canyon. The sandstone walls seemed to shrink and become narrower as they followed the road that was almost overgrown with brush and in less than an hour they were out of the canyon, descending a long sweeping meadow toward distant timber. Coming out of the rocks they saw riders far off to the right following an arroyo down out of the high country and by the time they reached the timber they were joined by Dandy Jim, Merl White, Goss and Tobin.