by Jory Sherman
“No, he would not. And neither do I, but Caroline made me promise that I would cut off the eggs of this big bull so that he can sire no more calves for the grand herd of Martin Baron.”
“It is criminal,” Chato said. “It is a thing that is savage.”
“I agree.”
“Then why will you do this thing?”
Juanito smiled in the darkness as a screech owl hooted in the mesquite thicket beyond the pasture. Bullbats knifed the air, scouring the insects from the dark sky, and cattle lowed in the distance. As they neared the house, they heard a guitar playing a mournful song and the clucks of children in their casitas as they played after supper.
The Baron house was very dark, the only light from a lantern in Juanito’s casita shining bravely through the window, its pale golden glow no match for the blackness of the night. They walked to the corral where Tonto measured the distance between the corner poles with his endless pacing, and they could see the steam of his breath like silver cobwebs in the pale light of the moon just rising above the treetops.
Juanito and Chato stood just beyond reach of Tonto’s horns and the bull stopped pacing and looked at them with dark eyes that they could not see. They felt his steamy breath and heard him paw the ground and sensed him exude power as if he were some bovine god caught in man’s puny snare for only a moment.
“I would not like to see this bull lose his machismo,” Chato said.
“This bull will not lose his maleness. He will carry seed in his bag for as long as he lives.”
“But …”
“But you and I have much to do before the morning, Chato.”
“You are not going to castrate this bull?”
“No. We are going to castrate another bull in the morning.”
“Not this bull?”
“No.”
“But la senora knows this bull.”
“Yes, but there is another that resembles him.”
“I do not know this bull, Juanito. Where is this bull?”
“Do you know the bull with the big horns that we caught down in El Rincon some weeks ago? He is a very large bull, not so fat as this one, but he has the calico hide and the very long horns.”
“That is a skinny bull,” Chato said.
“When a bull has his balls cut off, he fights and loses much weight, is this not so?”
“Not so much weight, but some, I think.”
“But if you stand Tonto with this other bull, one would know which was which, would one not?”
“Claro. One would know which was Tonto and which was the lesser bull.”
“But if Tonto did not have the big horns he would look smaller, would he not?”
“Yes, I think Tonto would look smaller if his horns were cut short.”
“Then this is what we will do this night, Chato. We will take Tonto to the place where the lesser bull chews the grass and we will tie him up with ropes and snub him against a very large tree and we will saw off his horns so that he looks like a small bull. Then we will bring the lesser bull here and call him Tonto and in the morning we will tie him up and sit on him and slice his balls from his bag and show them to Caroline and she will be happy that I carried out her orders.”
“That is much to do in one night.”
“We will have little sleep this night, Chato.”
“Verdad. And if Caroline discovers what we have done …”
Juanito slapped Chato soundly on the back. “I do not think she will castrate us, my friend.”
Chato swallowed hard, the sound like a gurgle in a deep and swirling river.
“After all,” Juanito said, “she is nothing like María of Plata. She would not do such a thing.”
In the darkness, Chato crossed himself and murmured a small prayer to the Virgin Mary and Juanito laughed softly and walked toward the barn to get a saw that was used to dehorn the meanest of the longhorns on the Baron ranch.
42
ANSON LUNGED AT Cullers with a rattlesnake’s brittle sound clattering in his ears. At the same time, he heard the bone-shivering click of the cocking mechanism.
Cullers stiffened slightly at the sound of the rattlesnake’s burr, but continued to swing the rifle in Anson’s direction. He cocked the hammer back as the barrel arced at his waist, wondering if he would have time to shoot before Anson closed on him. He saw the knife in the young man’s hand, one of those split-second impressions that lodges incongruously in a man’s mind in the compressed instants of mortal combat, and cursed himself for his stupidity in not taking the knife away from the Baron boy.
Peebo brought his rifle up to his shoulder, cocked it and took dead aim on Cullers. Then two things happened: he saw a blurred figure to Culler’s right, coming out of nowhere, and Martin’s hand as it clamped onto his rifle barrel, forcing it down, even as Peebo was squeezing the trigger.
Anson reached up and grabbed the barrel of the rifle in Cullers’s hands as it swung toward him and felt a jolt as Cullers pulled the trigger and powder exploded lead and fire through the muzzle. He winced as hot powder peppered his side and the ball cut a furrow in the flesh of his hip.
Peebo’s rifle cracked a split second later and the ball dug harmlessly into the ground. But the sound startled both Anson and Cullers as Anson pulled the rifle from Cullers’s hands and it fell to the ground. Off balance, the pain searing his hip, Anson slashed the air with his knife a few inches from Cullers’s belly.
Cullers grunted and clawed for Anson’s pistol, which he’d stuck in his own belt. He pulled it upward, but the front blade sight caught on his waistband and he was unable to snatch it up.
Anson regained his footing and crouched as he came toward Cullers, holding the knife away from his body, ready to slam it into Cullers’s body.
Peebo quickly reloaded his rifle with powder and ball, then spun around and raised the weapon. He swung the rifle in a wide arc and Martin ducked. The barrel made a whooshing sound as it completed the arc. Martin reared up suddenly and rammed his head into Peebo’s belly, knocking the wind from his lungs and sending his rifle sailing lazily through the air into the brush.
Both men fell to the ground, Peebo pinned there for a gasping moment by the weight and force of Martin’s body. Peebo gulped for air as Martin’s hands groped for his throat. The small man thrashed wildly, flailing with his arms to knock Martin off his belly and to keep those hands from strangling him to death.
Cullers cursed and grabbed the handle of his knife, jerked it from its scabbard. Anson grappled with the man, trying for an opening. Cullers slipped away from the younger man, agile as a cat and bent to a fighting crouch.
“Come on, you young pup, just come on,” Cullers said, his words a breathy rush.
Anson said nothing. The two men circled each other, each looking for a chance to charge in and cut the other. They both heard the thrashing in the nearby brush, but neither would look over to see what was making the noise.
Cullers feinted with the knife and Anson danced sideways. Cullers feinted again from another direction, and again Anson bounced out of harm’s way. He made a feint of his own, but Cullers did not react. Instead, the older man stalked closer, holding his knife waist-high and at an angle.
Anson backed away and jabbed with his knife as if to show Cullers he was ready for him.
Peebo and Martin rolled through the brush, neither gaining the advantage, and came to rest against a large tree. Peebo grabbed Martin’s left arm and slammed it into the tree. A stinging pain shot up Martin’s arm from the wrist to the elbow.
“Damn you, Baron,” Peebo whispered, “what in hell are you tryin’ to do?”
“You damned near shot my son.”
“I had a clear shot at Cullers.”
“Like hell you did.”
“Like hell I didn’t. He’d be wolf meat by now if you hadn’t grabbed my damn rifle.”
“I couldn’t take that chance.”
“Don’t you never touch my rifle again, Martin.”
“Let
me go, Peebo. My boy needs help.”
“Like as not you’ll get him and the both of us killed.”
But Peebo released his grip on Martin’s arm. Martin grabbed his elbow and massaged it to lessen the pain shooting through his arm. The two men got up and dashed back to where their rifles lay, picked them up and ran to the place where Anson and Cullers were fighting.
They witnessed a grim scene, a dance of death played out in eerie silence in that small clearing near the trail where Anson’s horse stood, no longer hipshot, but stiff and rigid, staring at the tableau with wide eyes and ears cocked forward, twitching like the tips of cats’ tails.
Martin cocked his rifle. “You draw one drop of blood from my son, Cullers, and I’ll blow you to kingdom come.”
Cullers said nothing.
“Too risky to shoot,” Peebo whispered.
“Damn it, I know it is,” Martin said. He stood there with Peebo, watching as Anson and Cullers circled and feinted and changed position, both very close to each other now, both breathing so loud they could be heard, but neither winded.
“We should rush Cullers,” Martin said under his breath.
“He’d cut you before you could lay a hand on him. Might cause Anson to make a mistake and get himself killed.”
“I just can’t stand by and watch him murder Anson.”
“Anson’s holding his own. You keep that rifle ready, and if you get a chance, shoot Cullers. I’ll finish him off before he can do any serious harm to your son.”
“Anson,” Martin called, “just run away and we’ll take care of Cullers.”
“Can’t,” Anson said with a slight breathlessness. “Leave me be, Daddy.”
“Damned if I will,” Martin said, but there was no conviction in his tone.
But Martin saw no chance to shoot Cullers. Instead, he looked on in horror as his son kept circling, circling, Cullers a mirror image of him, round and round, both moving closer, each gazing hard into the other’s eyes, looking for a sign of weakness, any hesitation, any doubt.
Anson dug deep inside himself for a way to outwit Cullers. Nothing in his experience had prepared him for such a life-and-death struggle. Fear rose up in him like a cloud, suppressing his normal senses, heightening others. He had never felt so alive, yet never been so close to death. Cullers seemed like some monster risen from the earth, bent on killing him. The knife Cullers held in his hand looked deadly, was deadly. And no doubt Cullers had used that same knife to murder Jerry Winfield. Perhaps others had fallen victim to that same killing knife.
Cullers seemed a towering figure, and he was so close now that Anson could smell his breath, the stink of his clothes. Still they circled, coming ever closer to each other in this macabre ritual that seemed so ancient and primitive. Anson fought the fear inside him and his senses quickened.
Could he kill Cullers? The question kept cropping up in Anson’s mind. Could he stick his knife in him so deep the blood poured out onto the ground? Would Cullers kill him first, cut his throat so that his very life gushed like a fountain from the open wound?
Cullers swiped the air in front of Anson’s face with his knife. Anson bent over backwards and Cullers moved in closer, switching the knife to his other hand. Back and forth, Cullers changed knife hands until it was like some hypnotic dance, puzzling, confusing. Anson knew he could not do such a thing. He was right-handed and that’s where his knife would stay.
His eyes, Anson thought. Like a snake’s eyes. Cold and black. Meanness in them. The eyes of Cullers were chilling, but Anson stared into them, looking for any warning flicker, any blinking.
“Look inward,” Juanito had told him once. “Depend upon yourself. If you can do that, you will have no fear.”
The words popped into Anson’s mind as Cullers slowed down his circling, as each man got closer to striking distance of the other. All motion slowed. Anson was just barely aware of his father and Peebo standing a few yards away, watching, waiting.
“I am not afraid of you,” Anson told himself silently. “I am not afraid.”
Was that what Juanito meant by going within? Talking to himself? Building his courage with brave talk? Maybe not, but he kept saying it to himself and he felt stronger, slightly stronger, than he had before. Now he looked at Cullers as a stone in his path, not human, but just an obstacle. Maybe it was better that way. Cullers’s eyes did not seem so threatening now. They were just holes in a rock.
And Anson saw himself strong and muscular, able to push the rock away and go beyond it. Push it away, he thought, and the cave opens. I can get out. I can get out alive.
Cullers suddenly stopped circling. Anson, surprised, stopped also, and then Cullers made a small jump, thrusting with his knife. Anson did not jump back this time, but crouched lower and watched Cullers’s eyes for any shift of light, any flicker of intent. Cullers jumped again, like a wolf spider, a short hop that brought him almost within range of Anson’s knife.
“Say your prayers, boy,” Cullers said.
Anson glared at the man, rankled at his arrogance. The rock in the road. The obstacle. He saw that Cullers was steeling himself for a charge, that at any moment he would rush toward him, slashing with his knife.
“I’m not afraid of you, Cullers,” Anson said aloud and the words put iron in his muscles, steel in his resolve to defeat this killer of men. He looked at places where he might strike with his knife and keep himself away from Cullers’s own blade. He looked at the neck of the man; it was too small. The chest was too full of rib bones. The stomach seemed soft and vulnerable. His abdomen was the closest, the softest, the most reachable.
Anson turned his blade over in his hand so that the cutting edge was topside. He knew what he must do and how he must do it.
Cullers saw the shift of the blade in Anson’s hand and then made his move. He hopped to one side and then charged in at an angle, his blade held throat-high close to his chest.
Anson drew in a quick breath, held it. He wanted to close his eyes, but resisted the impulse. Cullers came at him so fast he thought the man would run right into him, stick his knife deep in his throat.
Anson came out of his crouch and met the charge head-on. At the last moment he ducked and jabbed at Cullers’s abdomen, exerting all the force he could muster, keeping his eyes on that one spot just below his attacker’s gut.
Anson felt a searing burn in his right shoulder, a fire that traveled down his back and flooded his brain with the bright light of pain. At the same time he felt his knife sink into Cullers’s abdomen, felt the flesh yield to the blade. He drove in deep and felt the tip of the knife strike bone. He twisted the knife and slashed away from the solid object he had struck and the knife broke free and bloody in his hand.
Cullers cried out in agony as his abdomen opened and coils of intestines bulged from the open wound.
Anson staggered away and whirled instinctively to meet a second charge from Cullers. His shoulder buckled and throbbed and he felt a wash of blood down his back. He saw Cullers reach down and try to stuff his intestines back inside his gut. The sight sickened him, made bile rise up in his throat, made his stomach wrench with the sudden sickness of revulsion. There was a look on Cullers’s face of stark surprise, the contortion of disbelief.
“You got him,” Peebo yelled. “You stuck him good, Anson.”
“Holy Christ,” Martin murmured.
Anson stood there shaking, his knife still at the ready. He looked at the pathetic sight of Cullers trying to stuff his intestines back inside his abdomen, the slippery gray coils writhing and twisting like snakes in his gory hands. The strands of intestines kept falling farther and farther, getting longer, and longer and blood and other things seemed to drop through the large gash in Culler’s abdomen as if the man was emptying himself out all over the ground.
Cullers’s face went from red to gray and he opened his mouth in a silent scream as he slipped to his knees, trying still to gather up his insides and put them back in order. He began to sob as none of his g
uts would stay inside him, and then he lifted up his head and screamed: “For God’s sake, Baron, shoot me!”
Anson turned to his father.
“I’m not going to shoot him,” Martin said.
“Me neither,” Peebo said.
“Don’t let me die like this,” Cullers pleaded. “Not even a dog should die like this. Kid, shoot me quick.”
Anson stood there, transfixed by the sight of the once-powerful man reduced to a kneeling mendicant, his gore-stained hands holding a pile of ruptured and stinking intestines, blood pouring out of his abdomen and pooling up on the ground.
Everyone froze as Cullers dropped the slithering intestines in his hands and reached for Anson’s pistol, still stuck in his waistband. His crimson fingers closed around the butt and he pulled the pistol free, held it in both of his slick hands. He pointed the weapon straight at Anson and slid a finger inside the trigger guard.
“Anson, look out,” Peebo shouted.
Martin’s throat filled with a pulpy lump of phlegm and the sound he made did not come out of his mouth. His feet seemed rooted in quicksand and his arms froze as if he had been suddenly paralyzed.
Anson stared into the dark barrel of the pistol without fear. Whatever he had felt before Cullers had attacked him was gone now. He was shaking from emotion and physical exertion, not from temerity. Cullers was no longer a threat to him, despite the fact that the thief had a loaded pistol pointed at Anson’s face.
“I’m not afraid of you, Cullers,” Anson said.
“You … you …” Cullers gasped, his voice very weak now.
“You got what you deserved.”
“Ah … ah …” Cullers’s hands began to shake and the barrel wavered like a shadow seen under moving water.
Anson knew Cullers was dying. The killer’s legs were bathed in blood and his intestines kept sliding away, uncoiling like a nest of serpents, gray-blue lengths of his guts strewing the ground. The man’s face was contorted with pain and his eyes were glazing over with the frost of impending death.
Martin stood there in a frozen state, staring at the pistol in Cullers’s hand.
