Faustino hollered and gestured to the others to keep fighting the fire, and then he ran to tend to his brother. The other men resumed the heavy work of slapping the burning grass.
Tommy decided he would carry down a wet bag of his own and join the fight. He turned around and was pushing off to run to the water tubs when he stopped short, blocked by the large form of Vinch Cushman.
Like a huge raven from the world of dreams, Cushman towered over him, a broad, dusky figure with his back to the sun, looming in his dustcoat and floppy-brimmed hat. His dark pistol pointed at Tommy, and though his face lay in shadow, his beak-like nose and yellowed eyes were prominent and terrible. Spit flew as his deep voice pierced the air. “Stop right there, you pissant!”
Tommy stopped, almost paralyzed. Fear had jolted him in the stomach, and his mouth had gone dry as cotton. Beyond Cushman, he saw Fred Berwick holding Milena, Gabriel, and Anita at gunpoint. The ultimate traitor, Tommy thought. The Judas goat.
Cushman’s voice rumbled out of his cavernous chest. “Give me your gun.”
Tommy was so dazed that he felt detached from himself.
Cushman moved a step closer and shoved his pistol into Tommy’s cheekbone. “I said give me your gun, or I’ll pull this trigger.”
Tommy’s hand was shaking as he handed over his six-gun.
“Good. Now get over here with your friends.” Cushman put the gun in the pocket of his coat.
When Tommy reached the group, Fred Berwick gave him a dead-wall expression and stepped back. Cushman shoved Tommy so that he ended up in the midst of the other three.
The deep voice grated on Tommy and made him shiver. “This is better than I thought. Got four all at once, like rats in a cage. And two of ’em are breeders.” Sunlight fell on Cushman’s face as his head hung forward, and his eyes, one larger than the other, looked over his prize. The corners of his mouth went down, and his nostrils flared. Then the vile expression subsided. He said, “Here’s how we’ll do it, Fred. We’ll put these four away, and then we’ll pick off the others as they come up the hill.” He pointed his pistol at Tommy. “Start with this one first.”
Tommy backed up a short step and was jostled by Anita. He could feel Milena’s hands pressing him, giving him support. Gabriel was on his left. Fred Berwick was standing four feet away and would not look at any of them. His spectacles glinted in the sunlight, and his blue eyes looked sick with worry.
“You said not to shoot unless they shot first,” he said. “Don’t fire until fired upon. We can’t just shoot these four.”
Cushman’s voice blared. “What the hell? They’ve already shot at us today. For all I know, they got Arlen or Lew. This is no time to pussyfoot.”
Fred’s mouth was screwed up, and his chin was working back and forth. “This isn’t the way we’re supposed to do it.”
“Don’t tell me how to do it. We get it done. I told you to shoot this little maggot. Don’t waste time thinking about it.”
Fred shook his head. “I can’t. I can’t.”
Cushman pointed his pistol at Fred. “Don’t cross me now, you son of a bitch. Do what I say.”
Tommy was frozen, and time seemed to draw out. His heart was racing as he expected something to happen. Then he felt Milena nudging him with a solid object. He put his hand in back of him, and the metal cylinder of a pistol touched his fingers. He kept his eyes glued on Cushman. He wondered why Cushman was forcing Fred into firing the first shot—whether he wanted Fred to share the guilt, or whether he, Cushman, had some hesitation himself. Tommy thought it was the latter. As soon as Fred took part, Cushman would blaze away.
Fred’s eyes had a lost expression, and his voice quavered. “I can’t. Not like this.”
“Well, you’re as bad as the rest.” Cushman’s six-gun blasted, tearing a ragged red spot in Fred’s clean tan shirt. His hat fell forward onto his spectacles as his head snapped backward. He still held his pistol as he stumbled and his feet went out from under him.
Cushman held him in a hard gaze for a couple of seconds, long enough for Tommy to get his hand into position on Walt McKinney’s revolver. He brought the gun around and cocked it, found the biggest part of the middle of Vinch Cushman, and shattered the afternoon as he pulled the trigger.
Cushman’s arms went up like wings, and he seemed to rise in his boots, his eyes wide in surprise and rage. He leaned back, almost floating, and he fell as if he had stepped backward over a cliff. After he hit the ground, his cape-like coat settled like a layer of feathers, and his body went still. A seam of blood formed on his lips and at the corners of his mouth.
Tommy held the gun forward with both hands. His body was shaking, but he exerted control out through his arms and held the gun steady. After a long moment, he lowered the weapon.
Anita and Gabriel stood wide-eyed and silent.
Milena said, “Está muerto.”
Tommy knew those words. He’s dead. Tommy nodded his head, taking in the magnitude of what he had done. Clubbing Walt McKinney had been almost a reflex, but this had been a deliberate, focused action that he could reconstruct in steps. It had all happened in an instant, but it had its separate parts with no turning back. He had risen to action, and it was done. “Sí,” he said. “Está muerto.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
The caravan had just pulled out of camp and was heading west when Bill Lockwood came riding back. He had left ahead of the group in order to carry the news to Fenton that someone should ride out to verify the scene and take care of the bodies. Now he had returned already.
He rode up to Raimundo’s wagon where Tommy poked along on his good horse, Pete. “I found Lew Greer,” he said. “About a mile west and a little ways south. So there’s five to report. Just thought I’d let you know.”
Raimundo said, “Thanks, Bill. We’ll see you later.”
Lockwood and Tommy stood on the downstream side of the earthen dam, while Raimundo and Faustino stood on the upstream side. Each one had a shovel, and they were cutting a channel to meet in the middle of the mound of dirt. None of the men seemed to be in a hurry, but no one lagged. They all dug at a steady pace. The sooner they cut into the reservoir, the sooner the creek would regain its flow.
Tommy wondered if he was the only one to feel excitement. Even the presence of the water seemed filled with energy. And getting to this moment had taken a great deal of resistance and fighting back on the part of the whole group. For his own part, he was surprised he had risen to the challenge, and yet he had done what had seemed like the only way out. It had made a difference. He was no longer a boy in the eyes of these men. He was one of them. They had chosen him to be part of the small crew for what amounted to a ceremony.
Behind the men, on the slope above the dry creek bed, the rest of the villagers waited. Men, women, children, goats, burros, and horses seemed to hold their collective breath as only a light murmur floated on the air. Tommy could feel Anita’s attention. He knew that she, like the others, was waiting to see the water flow, and he felt a great pride in knowing that she saw him working with her father and the other men.
The two trenches were getting closer, and there was not enough room for four shovels. Lockwood stood back, as did Faustino. Raimundo stood poised with his shovel as he left the last barrier of dirt for Tommy to scoop away. Tommy made his cut and lifted out a shovel full of dirt.
“Ahí va,” said Raimundo. There it goes.
The first rush of water came rolling an inch deep across the dry dirt in the trench. The water was muddy, and foam gathered on the surface. The water rose and fell across the tiny ridges in the bottom. At last the murky tide flowed all the way through the channel and spread out to sink into the dry creek bed. Raimundo scraped the length of the trench with the point of his shovel, and the flow increased. He scraped again and again, dragging mud out to the lower end, until the water ran three inches deep and the width of a shovel head. Now the water was flowing in the creek.
Raimundo stood back and raised his shovel i
n victory. Tommy did the same, as did Lockwood and then Faustino. The crowd cheered and whistled and hollered. Tommy felt his eyes moisten as he saw Anita smiling and clapping.
“That’s good,” said Lockwood in his usual calm manner. “Let ’er flow. It’ll take a while to clear the mud out, but there’s enough water backed up to push it through. When it gets down to its normal level, it’ll run clear.”
Faustino said nothing. All this time he had been working as if in a silent truce, and even raising his shovel had seemed to be a reluctant concession.
Raimundo nodded in agreement, then looked across the ditch, smiling. “What do you say, Tommy?”
Tommy’s foremost thought was about how happy he was to have Anita watching him, but he appreciated having a say. Gathering his repose, he leaned on his shovel and watched the water flow. He said, “I think it’s moving all right. By this time tomorrow, we should have good water.”
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
John D. Nesbitt lives in the plains country of Wyoming, where he teaches English and Spanish at Eastern Wyoming College. He writes western, contemporary, mystery, and retro/noir fiction as well as nonfiction and poetry. John has won many awards for his work, including two awards from the Wyoming State Historical Society (for fiction), two awards from Wyoming Writers for encouragement of other writers and service to the organization, two Wyoming Arts Council literary fellowships (one for fiction, one for nonfiction), two Will Rogers Medallion Awards, and three Spur awards from Western Writers of America. His most recent books are Dark Prairie and Justice at Redwillow, frontier mysteries with Five Star.
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