Carmody 5

by Peter McCurtin

  Garrison waved his dripping spoon at Carmody. “You couldn’t of come along at a better time. Once the pressure eases up a bit we’re going to make Marcus Yates wish he’d never come west.”

  The Yates girl was sitting by the stove, smoking a long-nine and drinking whisky. She looked at Carmody when her father’s name was mentioned. Carmody thought it was a safe bet that Katherine Yates didn’t like her father. That by itself wasn’t so unusual. The difference was—most people let it go at that.

  Garrison said to her, “You don’t mind me talking, do you, Katy?”

  “Do what you want. Just don’t call me Katy.”

  “Katy’s mother hung herself a while back,” Garrison explained. Carmody kept his eyes on his empty plate. “Seems old Marcus got a sudden craving for fresh meat. Brought a young girl to live right in the house. Tried to pass her off as one of those private secretaries every rich man is supposed to have. It worked for a while, then one night Miz Yates caught them working on a business problem that couldn’t be solved without the old feller taking off his pants. The next morning Katy here found Miz Yates hung in her room. Course these things happen in the best families, but Katy still can’t see her way clear to forgive her daddy.”

  Carmody felt like knocking Garrison through the wall, but he wasn’t there to play gentleman. Besides, Garrison might not be so mouthy another time, and everything he could learn about the Yates girl and her old man would be useful later.

  “The funny thing,” Garrison said. “Katy hates the old man’s guts, has told him so many times, and he’s still pining for his little, red-headed daughter. I surely wish I’d made that ransom a hundred thousand instead of fifty. Live and learn, I always say.”

  Carmody asked him about the big jobs he had in mind.

  Garrison told the girl to bring him some more stew. She told him to go to hell. “Ain’t she something, Carmody,” Garrison said.

  “Big jobs,” Garrison said. “What we’re going to do is rob old man Yates blind. We get the money and the old feller gets paid for dropping his pants at the wrong time. Before old Marcus brought in this secretary, Katy here helped daddy in the business. A right smart girl, Katy. There ain’t a goddamned thing she don’t know about daddy’s business. Used to write business letters. Could read a contract as good as any lawyer. Katy knows where the money is, when it comes in, when it goes out. Knows about schedules and gold shipments and payrolls. Got it all right here in her pretty, red head. By the time we hit old Marcus the second or third time, he’ll begin to figure it out. That won’t matter. By then we’ll be rich. I say Mexico City is the place to go. Katy keeps talking about Paris I don’t know about that. You ever been to Paris, Carmody?”

  “Yeah. Paris, Texas,” Carmody said.

  Garrison thought that was funny. The girl drank what was left in her cup and went into the other room and slammed the door. Garrison winked at Carmody and jerked a thumb toward the outside door.

  Carmody got up and put some of the long-nines in his shirt pocket. “Take the bottle, too,” Garrison told him. “It gets cold in these mountains. Sorry I can’t ask you to stay, as the man said. Maybe you can bunk down by the stove.”

  Carmody said outside would be fine. It was too damn hot in the cabin, and he’d had enough of Garrison and the girl for one night. Bunking down on the floor while they went at it on the other side of the door could make it hard for a man to sleep.

  Outside, the night was cold and clear. Some distance over from the cabin the other men were sleeping in a big Army tent. Carmody could imagine how it smelled in there. He dragged his bed-roll into a sheltered place between two rocks. The gravel underneath was fine and dry. Lying in his blankets, his head propped against his saddle, Carmody smoked a cigar and drank slowly from the bottle. Some small animal sniffed and rustled in the roots of a dead tree a short distance away. A pack rat, maybe a deer mouse.

  The light in the room where Garrison and the girl slept went out. Carmody had to admit that Frank had done all right for himself. There would be no end of hollering from Frank when he snatched her away. How he was going to do it wasn’t clear yet. But he had a few ideas. One thing was for damn sure; there would be no end of trouble from Frank and the girl. It was too bad she wasn’t a nice, frightened young lady just begging to go back to her old daddy’s loving arms.

  Carmody finished the whisky and lay back, the long-nine tilting from the side of his mouth. Once he got the drop on Frank and took the girl, there was the problem of getting out through that narrow canyon. Now that he was there, Frank would most likely post extra men along the trail. That would cut down on the men in camp, but it would make it that much harder to get out. All the guards had to do was sit back in the rocks and kill him as he rode by with the girl. Of course, he could threaten to kill the girl. There was no way of knowing how Garrison would take that. That was one of the big troubles with Garrison; you never knew what in hell he was going to do.

  There was only one way in, one way out. That’s what they said about the Dutchman’s place. Behind the hideout the mountains rose up jagged and cold, a wilderness of canyons that went nowhere. Except for a few trappers in the old days, nobody had ever gone in there. It was fifty miles of some of the worst country in the world. There were grizzlies in there, wolves, too. Still, Carmody thought, drawing peacefully on the end of the cigar, if a man could make it across the mountains he’d be home free. If they didn’t get him before he got out of the mountains, then they’d never get him at all.

  The cigar stub hissed as he dropped it into the empty whisky bottle. Warmed by hot food and whisky, he felt pretty good. If they went over the mountains, it would have to be on foot. There was no other way. There was plenty of water in the mountains, plenty of game, too. So much game that a man would find it hard to starve to death, provided he could take his time and use a gun to shoot his food. In the mountains a gunshot travelled for miles, so there couldn’t be any shooting. It was easy enough to trap game if you had the right traps. Homemade traps could be made to work if you had time and patience. With Garrison breathing down his neck, if he didn’t manage to kill old Frank, time would be the last thing he’d have to spare.

  Going over the mountains was just a little less bad than trying to make it through the canyon and back down to Silver City. The one big advantage was that Garrison wouldn’t expect him to try it that way. Not in a thousand years.

  Carmody stopped thinking about it. He listened to the pack rat scratching in the bushes. Then he fell asleep.

  Chapter Eight

  Carmody woke up thinking about dynamite. He was glad to wake up at all, considering the situation; Garrison was damn touchy about old friends who walked out on him. Though he slept with a gun in his hand, they could have killed him anyway.

  The mountain cold had seeped through the blankets. All night he had been aware of the cold; but it wasn’t enough to keep him awake. The sun was up, but it was still too early to see it from the bottom of the canyon. The light was cold and gray, and the birds twittering in the clump of willows by the stream didn’t sound too enthusiastic.

  The fumes of last night’s whisky were stale in his mouth. It was easier to wake up after drinking whisky in the high country. In the desert you woke up to a splitting skull and the stink of sweat.

  The hard cases in the tent weren’t up yet. Somebody was moving about in the cabin. That would be the Yates girl. There was smoke curling from the chimney and he thought he could smell fresh coffee cooking on the stove.

  After he rolled and tied his blankets, he stepped out on to a rock in the middle of the stream. The water was from high up, from melting snow. He stooped and splashed water in his face, shivering in the harsh, gray light as he washed his face first, then took off his hat and rubbed the freezing water into his hair and around the back of his neck. The water in that stream never warmed up, not even in the middle of summer.

  He dried his face with his neckerchief. The wet cloth made him shiver when he tied it around his neck agai
n. Scooping up a double handful of water, he drank it. After the water, the smoke he rolled and lit tasted good in the early morning chill. He sucked in the brown-tasting tobacco smoke, let it curl in his lungs before sending it out again in long, pleasant mouthfuls.

  The cabin door banged open and Katherine Yates came out and looked down at him from the porch. There was a tin basin of soapy water in her hand. Carmody knew he was too far away to be hit by it. Even so, she pitched it close enough. She didn’t say anything about how nice a morning it was, and neither did he. The girl’s hair was damp and tied up with a scarf, and there were damp patches on her Levis and wool shirt.

  Katherine Yates had the kind of skin that didn’t tan. Now it was scrubbed and fresh; angry, too. Maybe it was true that red-headed women were always close to losing their temper. Women like that were dangerous, bothersome as well, but always interesting. Women like that hated men or liked them a lot. Sometimes they did both.

  The fresh coffee smell came out through the open door. Instead of asking if he could have some, Carmody started to fool with the already-tied blanket roll. He could feel the girl’s green eyes glaring at him. He didn’t see why a bad-tempered woman like that didn’t tire herself out by mid-morning. Shaking the basin free of water, she turned and said over her shoulder, “The coffee’s hot. If you want it, get it. If you don’t...”

  What she said he could do with the coffee if he didn’t want it would make a saloon girl blush. Even Tessie Betz who worked in the Fort Griffin whorehouse would have blushed. Carmody decided that Katherine Yates had been hearing too much about those bad-mouth, pants-wearing, cigar-smoking Women’s Rights people back east.

  He went into the cabin. Katherine Yates was sitting at the table drinking a mug of coffee. The cigar burning between her fingers didn’t seem to please her. She threw it on the floor. Carmody, always obliging, stepped on it. The Yates girl made a face.

  Carmody poured a mug and sat down on the other side of the table. It was as good as coffee could get for him, loaded in heavy and cooked quick, then set back from the heat to bubble even blacker than it was.

  Carmody drank his coffee without saying anything. There wasn’t much he could say that would make this girl behave like the lady she had been brought up to be. It was too bad that a girl who could make such good coffee couldn’t be taken out of there peaceful-like.

  Katherine Yates thought he wanted her to make breakfast. Carmody was thinking about breakfast but not with any pressing interest. To get hold of a stick of dynamite, just one stick, was what he really wanted. He thought the job could be done without the dynamite; the dynamite would make it easier.

  Carmody was surprised when the girl got up and poured him the second mug of coffee. He hoped she’d surprise him even more by fixing some salty ham with four or five eggs. He was ready to settle for steak and eggs, though steak in the cow country was what you had with everything.

  Katherine Yates started another cigar, trying to stare him down as she did it. He didn’t much care what she did up to the moment he handed her back to her daddy in Denver. The mean looks didn’t bother him at all.

  She cursed at the second cigar and put it out by dipping it in the coffee. “Fix me a cigarette,” she said. Carmody rolled the smoke and handed it to her. In the other room Garrison said something in his sleep and rolled over in the bed.

  The wood match flared and she sucked on the harsh, blue smoke. It seemed to rest her nerves without improving her temper. Carmody fixed a smoke for himself. The whisky taste had gone from his mouth. He sat back and grinned at her.

  The Yates girl wanted to be nasty. “Any cooking,” she said, “you do it yourself. No matter what you want, you get it yourself.”

  Carmody let her go on. Just one stick of dynamite would give him an edge, he decided. Unless something real drastic or real lucky came up to change his mind, he would go over the mountains with the girl.

  “You hear me?” she said.

  Carmody didn’t even nod. He hoped Katherine Yates didn’t talk so much all the time. It would be awful to gag her as well as tie her.

  Garrison was mumbling again in the next room.

  “Don’t say much, do you?” Katherine Yates said. When Carmody didn’t answer, she said, “I told Frank I didn’t trust you. I don’t like you, either.”

  “And I was hoping we could be friends,” Carmody answered. Being this girl’s friend didn’t interest him at all. The ten thousand came first, and after that he wanted to throw this Katherine Yates down on a bed, or anywhere, and bull the life out of her. If not the life, then some of the meanness. He wanted her to say she liked what he was giving her and wanted more. Much more.

  The green eyes glittered. Carmody thought that was funny. Women had such nerve. All they had to fight with was what they threw at you, their eyes first, then their bodies. After that—if it didn’t work—they were like a gunslinger with an empty gun.

  Katherine Yates called Carmody a son of a bitch. The door opened and Garrison came out, yawning and scratching. Carmody had never seen Frank’s red-flannel underwear look so clean. The love of a redheaded woman. There was a gun belt buckled on over the red-flannels.

  “Coffee smells good, honey,” Garrison said to the girl. To Carmody he said, “Howdy, deacon. Sorry I’m late for breakfast.”

  “What breakfast?” Carmody said.

  Garrison stopped rubbing his eyes. “Yeah,” he complained, looking at the empty table. “What breakfast?”

  The girl said, “I was just telling your friend here.”

  Garrison’s big hand reached out and took her by the throat. He didn’t squeeze. “Fix breakfast and do it quick. There’s a good girl.” Garrison patted her cheek. “But first the coffee and keep it coming.”

  Garrison adjusted his gun belt and sat down across from Carmody. His blue eyes were smeared red with too much whisky. The girl gave him the coffee and he drank it, making sounds of enjoyment and pain as the hot coffee scalded his lips and burned on the way down. He handed the mug back to the girl and built a smoke with Carmody’s fixings.

  At the stove, Katherine Yates chopped off a piece of lard and dropped it into an iron skillet. The lard and the other stuff were kept outside on the porch to keep better in the cold. The lard was frozen hard and the girl hacked at it viciously. The ham and eggs began to sizzle in the skillet.

  “Just like old times, Carmody,” Garrison said.

  Carmody nodded. There had been some good times with Garrison, but not many.

  “Got to go back down to Silver City this morning,” Garrison said. “Halsted’s got a couple of new boys coming in. Got to look them over. We’re going to need more than a few extra men for the jobs I have in mind. There’s no sense bringing them all the way up here.”

  “Want me to go along?” Carmody asked.

  “No call for that,” Garrison said. “You just lay about camp and take your ease. Eat and drink your fill. Plenty of grub and liquor.”

  Carmody knew that wasn’t just a suggestion. Right then it was exactly what he wanted to hear. It would give him some sort of chance to look around.

  Garrison was like a stubble-faced baby when he smiled. “The Hatten boys’ll stick around so’s you don’t get lonesome. They ain’t much on conversation but they’ll have to do.”

  Carmody didn’t answer that. He wasn’t supposed to.

  The girl dished up the ham and eggs without looking at them.

  “Why don’t you come along, honey?” Garrison told the girl. It didn’t sound like an invitation.

  “All right,” she said.

  Garrison went after the ham and eggs in a vengeful way, stopping now and then to slurp some coffee. For a man decently raised by a God-fearing family in East Texas, Frank had about the worst table manners of any man Carmody had ever met. They would be surprised in Paris, if he ever got there.

  Garrison chased a scrap of egg around his plate. After he captured it, he said to Carmody, “Stay close to camp, old pard. You wander off down that ca
nyon and you’ll most likely get shot. Those boys don’t know you like me. They might just figure you was trying to skedaddle.”

  Carmody didn’t even nod his head. No threat had been made, at least, not directly. Garrison knew better than to threaten Carmody out straight. If he did Carmody would have to do something about it. They both knew that.

  Carmody had an idea. “Where’s the whisky?”

  Garrison pointed to a cupboard built on to the wall of the cabin. “There’s enough to kill a man. Get drunk if you want to.”

  Garrison wiped his mouth and stood up. “Come on, honey,” he told the girl. “I’ll get dressed and we’ll go.”

  Carmody watched them from the window as they saddled their horses and rode off toward the mouth of the canyon. Before they went, Garrison spoke to the Hatten brother named Bud. Garrison must have figured Carmody would be watching, because he didn’t jerk his shoulder toward the cabin, or point, or anything.

  Gradually, the echo of iron-shod horses clattering over rock died away. Carmody gave himself about thirty minutes after that. Bud Hatten had gone back into the tent. After a while the two Hatten brothers came out and stood staring at the cabin. When they got tired of that they built a fire and started to cook some grub.

  Carmody walked out on to the porch with the whisky bottle in one hand, a mug in the other. He set down the bottle and mug, then went back inside for a chair. To make it look even better, he took a fistful of Garrison’s cigars and stuffed them in his shirt pocket. He sat down, poured a drink, and fired up a cigar. With the chair tilted back against the wall of the cabin, he began to whistle.