Garrison was busy cursing the horse. When he finished he said, “No bank. The hell with the bank. I got something better than banks.”
Carmody wondered what it was, but he could let it wait. There was a chill wind coming down from the peaks. It knifed through the sheepskin coat. It used up the bourbon in his belly. This was cold country for a man who lived in the desert, and loved it, too. He was tired and didn’t feel like talking any more for awhile.
Garrison was feeling that way himself. No matter how much any man drank the chill sound of the mountain wind got to him after a while. The mountains loomed over a man, reminding him of how small he was, even a man like Frank Garrison who thought he was bigger and tougher and better than any man alive. It occurred to Carmody that Frank Garrison liked him, or had liked him a lot once so that he still liked him a little now. After what Frank had become over the years, whisky bad in the beginning, then sober mean as the killing got to him, Carmody thought a wounded snake would have been more welcome as a friend. At least, a dying rattler’s instinct to kill was natural. A snake was a snake and a man was supposed to be better than that. That was what they said about men and snakes. Carmody thought, not deciding the question because it was too old a question, too old to decide about—much too old.
As the horses climbed the mountain, the iron-shod hooves scratching on loose rock, ringing when the rock got hard again, and then crunching over rocky gravel, Carmody thought about the Yates girl and the ten thousand the fat man had promised if and when he brought her back, willing to go back with him, rescued as they said in the tales of long lost girls and Indian captives, or tied hand and foot—feet lashed under a horse’s belly and hands tied just enough to steer a horse.
Carmody thought of the ten thousand. There was nothing like money to make a man come hundreds of miles to country he didn’t like and didn’t want to like. He came to take a woman worth ten thousand dollars away from a man he once liked, and still liked in spite of it all.
Garrison was still watching Carmody. Carmody knew he was still thinking about him, still turning his story about the Raton bank over in his mind. Carmody knew that his old sidekick, Frank, didn’t believe him; not altogether, anyway. That was natural for Frank. It would have given him something extra to chew on if Frank had swallowed his story right-off.
“Here, you finish it,” Garrison said, slinging the bottle at Carmody. That could be the signal for the Hatten boys to wheel and start shooting. The bottle hit Carmody’s left hand. It wasn’t a signal for anything, he decided. He drank what was left in the bottle and tossed it into the air and yelled, “Luck!”
Garrison’s six-shooter yanked free of the holster and fired. He fired once. The bullet took the neck off the bottle. Carmody’s .44 broke the rest of the bottle. The Hatten boys wheeled about in their saddles, pistols ready to shoot. They were ready to shoot Carmody, and he laughed at them. Frank Garrison laughed, too. He laughed at them and then he roared at Carmody. Carmody put his gun away, still drunk but not sounding half as funny as Garrison when he laughed.
“Seems to me you’re getting a mite slow, Carmody,” Garrison yelled, feeling good again, shaking off the mountain cold. “If that bottle was a bushwhacker you’d of been dead. Lucky thing old Frank’s along to look out for you.”
Frank was testing him again, Carmody knew. Old Frank, it looked like, never stopped testing people. Frank was proud of his good looks with the ladies. With men it was the gun—always the gun.
Carmody said, “You got another bottle, Frank? If you have, throw it far this time. It appears to me any farm boy with a rabbit gun could of broke that last jug.”
The two Hatten brothers were still faced about in their saddles. They didn’t know what to make of the wild gun-play and laughter. Garrison pointed at the Hatten boys and yelled, “There’s two targets dead ahead! What do you say, Bud? Ready, Corey?”
Garrison’s gun jumped out of its holster into his hand. Carmody began his draw after him but his gun came out at the same time. Even if the Hatten boys had elected to draw they would have been dead. The way Frank was carrying on was too much for them.
“Bang!” Garrison said, pretending to shoot. “Bang! Bang! Bang!”
Carmody had his gun out, but he didn’t say “Bang!” Like the Hatten boys wouldn’t pick up that steak, he wouldn’t say “Bang!” That was something for Frank Garrison to do.
Garrison slid his six-shooter back in its holster. He was still able to shoot, but the whisky was getting to him. A doubtful look crept across his handsome face. The look was doubtful and mournful when it stopped being anything. The horse was stepping high again and he slapped it across the ears with his hat.
“You didn’t say bang, Carmody—you missed,” he announced, happy and gloomy at the same time.
Carmody figured his old sidekick, Frank Garrison, had gone that much farther along the road. It wasn’t what he would have figured to be an everyday situation. Garrison was ready to bring his gun out again. That was what didn’t make it every day.
Garrison figured it another way. That was how Garrison often was, but since his gun had always come out first, Carmody didn’t think more about it than anything else he’d thought about Frank Garrison.
Garrison wasn’t pretending to be drunk any longer. He was drunk. At another time Carmody would have welcomed that. Now it was just a problem. It could be a problem. “We could have taken them,” Garrison told him. “You and me, Carmody—we could have taken them. You could do it. I could do it. You didn’t even say bang!”
The Hatten brothers heard it all and kept going. As Carmody had figured, they were used to Garrison, like the horses coming up the cliff. Carmody was used to Garrison too—but not lately. There was no use trying to get used to Garrison as he was. There wasn’t time. Before that he’d be down the mountain with the girl. Or he wouldn’t be anything at all—he’d be dead. Or even if he got down off the mountain, with or without the girl, he might still be dead. Anything to do with Frank Garrison was a might and a maybe.
There was another man posted at the entrance to the long canyon. He was another of Carmody’s old friends, Emmett O’Bryan, an Alabama redneck who once stabbed a man to death at a crossroads dance. After that he went on killing and joined the cavalry long enough to desert. O’Bryan never said much of anything until he got drunk, and then he fought the Civil War all over again with anybody who happened to be handy, even though he wasn’t old enough to have served in the war, not even as a drummer boy.
O’Bryan had been in the West for about ten years, but he still looked like an Alabama poor white. That was what some people thought until they saw him use the single action Army .45 strapped about his waist.
O’Bryan stared at Carmody as they started into the canyon. Like the others, he didn’t like Carmody because Carmody had been with the gang, never a part of it. Carmody decided that outlaws were even touchier than lodge brothers and Grangers.
The mouth of the canyon was narrow, with high rock walls crowding in on both sides. They rode single file for a while. When there was room to do it, Garrison rode beside Carmody again. The liquor was wearing off. Garrison said, “The reason I’m not interested in that bank, I got better things frying on the fire. I tell you, Carmody, we’re going to bust the State of Colorado wide open. Old man Yates ain’t just big in copper. That old boy’s got his fat fingers in just about everything. Silver and gold, especially. Silver’s all right but it’s hard to carry. But we’ll talk about that later. You interested, Carmody?”
“You ain’t really asking me, are you, Frank?”
Garrison’s laugh sent waves of noise along the narrow canyon. “I guess not, old pard. You understand how it is. Riding off that first time was all right. Now it’s different. Now it’s big business and big money. That’s why I’d say—don’t even think about it. You’d never make it.”
“You don’t think so, Frank?”
“Well, old pard, that’s what I think. I got nine men and I got myself.”
&nb
sp; “You got eight men now, Frank. I had to kill Milo.”
That was the funniest thing Garrison had heard all day. It took a while for old Frank to pull himself together—he was laughing so hard. “Milo always said he’d kill you the next time you fellers met. Goes to show how good intentions ain’t enough. Only listen, Carmody, you got to stop killing my boys. We’re going to need all the help we can get for what I have in mind.”
It was getting dark now and the canyon narrowed again, turning and twisting over jagged rocks that made travelling hard and slow. Carmody knew Garrison could defend that canyon till kingdom come with the eight men he had, with half that number if he had to. By now Garrison’s men knew every twist and turn of the trail. They were still only part way through the canyon and he had stopped counting the places where a perfect ambush could be set up. Any attacking force with men to waste could still be stopped with a few sticks of dynamite. A charge of dynamite, well placed, would bring thousands of tons of rock crashing down. When the dust cleared men might well climb up and over the rock fall. It wouldn’t be easy with Garrison’s men picking them off as they reached the top, but it could be done. Men could climb over a rock fall like that, never horses.
Long before Carmody started out for Silver City, he’d thought about dynamite. He hadn’t brought along the dynamite for the same reason he’d burned the picture of the Yates girl provided by the fat man. It would be kind of hard to explain what he was doing with either. More than likely there was some dynamite up at the hideout. It was something to think about. He knew Garrison wasn’t just talking when he said it wouldn’t be easy to get out. It wouldn’t be easy, even by himself. With a girl along—a girl who might not want to go—it would be hell.
The trail widened and the rock walls dropped away. There was a light up ahead. It was full dark now. The moon was up, throwing strong, yellow light. On the trail it was still dark. A guard Carmody couldn’t see challenged them and one of the Hatten brothers said who they were. Even this far up, old Frank wasn’t taking any chances. Frank knew his business sure enough, Carmody had to admit. He would have worked it the same way himself.
Out of the canyon, they rode into the small valley Carmody remembered so well. There was the sound of water and willows moving in the wind.
Before they reached the old Dutchman’s house the door opened and a woman stepped out on to the porch, outlined against the light.
Chapter Seven
Garrison swept the girl up in his arms and kissed her. So much for old man Yates’ theory, Carmody thought. The girl looked at Carmody suspiciously and then gave her attention back to Garrison. It seemed to Carmody as if she wasn’t as enthusiastic as Garrison; that could be shyness because other men were watching.
The old Dutchman had packed in a real cast-iron cook stove. It heated the two room cabin better than any fireplace. There was a pot of stew cooking on it now. To Carmody, who always put first things first, it smelled like son of a bitch stew, and that was better than mulligan, and that was pretty good. He wondered where a girl like Katherine Yates had learned to cook son of a bitch stew. Polite folks sometimes called son of a bitch stew by nicer names. Some of them called it son of a gun. Katherine Yates might be shy about some things, but he knew she wasn’t mealy-mouthed. You just had to look at her and you’d know that right away.
After Garrison stopped pawing her, he turned her about to face Carmody. Garrison was proud of her, proud of himself because he had her. Carmody decided that Frank hadn’t done her any kind of justice by comparing her to Tessie Betz who worked in Lady Shack’s sporting house in Fort Griffin. Tessie had been all right, but she was nothing like this girl. This girl’s hair was a deeper red. It was long and held up with combs, but some of it had come loose, spilling down about her face in fiery strands. This girl didn’t care; she didn’t have to care. With hair up or down, combed out or tangled, dirty or clean, she didn’t have to care. She knew what she looked like and what she had to offer. She was worth ten thousand, Carmody decided—and cheap at the price.
The heavy wool shirt, Levis and kid boots couldn’t have been her Denver clothes. They looked better on her than a ball dress did on most women. Eager for Carmody to see, Garrison slapped her on the rump and spun her out at arm’s length. The girl didn’t seem to like being slapped on the rump in front of another man. For a moment, Carmody thought she was going to slap Garrison’s face.
“Say howdy to Miss Yates,” Garrison roared, feeling good. “Ain’t she something though? Ain’t that a fact?”
The girl’s eyes were cold and deep green. There was anger and arrogance in them. The arrogance was natural, the anger was something more recent. Carmody didn’t think anything he could say would make her feel less angry. He said, “Where did you learn to cook stew like that?”
Garrison roared. He pulled the girl back to him and his arms closed about her in a bear hug. A hard hand slapped her rump. “Oh, Jesus—stew!” he roared. He picked up the girl and swung her around. The girl struggled a bit.
Carmody grinned at her, at Garrison. The stew did smell good, he wasn’t about to change his mind. He said so again. The girl didn’t grin back.
That set Garrison off again. Laughing the way he did, he nearly dropped the girl. All he could think of was the goddamned stew. “You are something, Carmody,” he bellowed. “You are something, and I don’t know what it is. I introduce you to the best looking woman in Colorado and you talk about stew.”
Carmody looked around for a bottle. There had to be one. They were having such a good time, if not the girl, then him and Frank—it was a shame not to have a drink, too. He was ready to kill Garrison at any time, and it was still goddamned funny.
“Don’t you like stew, Frank?”
“Jesus, Carmody,” Garrison roared. “You’re giving me a pain in the side.”
The girl broke loose. The crazy mood was getting to her. The anger helped it along. “You told me you liked son of a bitch better than anything else,” she said. “That’s what you said today.”
Carmody expected Garrison to start laughing again. He didn’t. Instead, his mood changed suddenly as it always did. Carmody wondered how the Yates girl liked old Frank’s sudden changes of mood. It was one thing to see Frank when he was at his best, showing his white teeth. When the mood changed Frank could be like a mad dog.
Garrison looked at the girl as if the kidding hadn’t gone before. The voice was quiet. “A drink is what we want now, honey. Go fetch us a drink and make it quick. Me and my friend’s had a long, cold ride.”
Carmody thought there was a little fear mixed with the anger in the girl’s eyes. Eyelids dropped heavily over the cold, green eyes as she went to a cupboard and brought out a bottle of bourbon and three tin cups.
“Cigars too, Katy,” Garrison ordered, not looking at her, like a man with a serving girl, not rough but casual, as if he expected her to do everything he said without thinking about it.
The cigars were long-nines, thin panatelas with a twist at the end. Garrison reached out for his, but the girl handed Carmody a cigar before she handed one to Garrison. Garrison looked at her and smiled. She smiled back but it wasn’t a smile that was eager to please.
Katherine Yates lit Carmody’s cigar first. She came close as she did it. The cold, green eyes looked into his. Carmody was interested, but not flattered. Old Frank was no Christmas surprise, but he could see that this girl was hard on her men. Getting her down off that mountain was going to be harder than he thought.
The girl sat down at the table with them and poured drinks all round. The green eyes grew colder, more hostile after she put away two drinks. Garrison was still moody, pouring and knocking back full cups of liquor. There was something about Frank that could never be satisfied, Carmody thought. Here he was with a girl like the Yates girl and most of fifty thousand, and the old meanness was still gnawing on him.
Garrison looked up from his drink, when the girl said, “Who is he, Frank—this Carmody?”
“What?”
he said.
“I asked you about Carmody,” she said.
Carmody didn’t think that was polite. The grin he threw at the girl didn’t reach her—she was looking at Garrison, an empty cup in her hand. She looked ready to throw the cup if there had been liquor in it. She looked ready to throw it anyway. Carmody began to wonder why he had let the fat man in Salida talk him into this. The Yates girl was a bitch, not just a red-haired, green-eyed bitch with money. Her daddy’s money had made her a bitch, but not altogether. Katherine Yates was a natural bitch, full-bodied and feisty, smart and mean when she wanted to be. From the way she acted, that was a good part of the time. The thought of taking her to bed made Carmody reach for another drink.
Garrison got the bottle first. He poured Carmody a full cup and said, “That ain’t no way to be, honey. Carmody’s a friend, sort of. Didn’t they teach you no manners back in Denver?”
Carmody said, “If you want to talk about me I’d just as soon leave.”
The girl said to Garrison, “There’s something about this man I don’t like.”
The bottle was closer to Garrison than to the girl. He snapped his fingers at her and she poured a drink for him. “You don’t like my friends, honey, you can always go back to that gold-plated mansion in Denver.”
The talk was loose now and Carmody was listening. The girl looked quickly at Carmody. The eyelids dropped, to cover what she was showing in her green eyes. Carmody’s long-nine wasn’t burning right. There was a small crack in the middle. He dropped it on the plank floor and ground it out. The girl handed him another one, struck a match, too. The way she was talking, Carmody didn’t know what that was supposed to mean.
“I don’t want to go back to Denver,” the girl said.
“Fine,” Garrison said. “Then shut up and dish out some of that stew.”
The girl dipped out two plates of stew. Garrison said the hell with bread; he didn’t want any goddamned bread. Carmody shook his head. The girl wasn’t hungry, or else she didn’t like son of a bitch, though she’d cooked it just right. Carmody could understand how a girl or a dude might not like son of a bitch the first time out. Tongue, liver, melt, sweetbreads, boiled with onions, thickened with flour, strengthened with lean beef—that was son of a bitch stew.
Carmody 5 Page 5
