Rio Bravo

by Leigh Brackett

  He pulled the other sleeve on viciously and let the shirt hang. He did not bother to button it.

  “I’m good when I’m sober,” he said. “I’m awful good.”

  He raked one hand through his hair and looked at it and then made pawing motions as though to shake off the worst of the dirt, but it was only a gesture.

  “I oughta known better,” he said. “Man ought to have sense enough to know when he’s no good any more.”

  He started for the door. He did not look at Chance. Chance reached out and caught him.

  “Where you going?”

  “John,” said Dude, “will you get your hands off me?”

  Chance said harshly, “I asked you where you were going.”

  Dude stood rigid, flinching away from the touch on his arm. His head was bent. When he spoke his voice had no bitterness in it, no self-anger, nothing but a great emptiness. He said, “You got no use for a man you can’t depend on.” He waited until Chance let him go and then he went on. “I tried. I thought I could do it. But I can’t. I’m all through.” He held out his hands. They trembled like those of an old man. “What can a man do with hands like that?” He clenched them loosely and let them fall to his sides. “I’m through, John. I quit.”

  “All right,” Chance said. “Quit. I’m not holding you. Go on, quit. Run back to the bottle. Get drunk. Only one thing.” Chance was not talking loud but he was talking fast and every word had a sting in it like a whiplash. “Just one thing, El Borrachin—next time somebody throws a dollar in a spittoon, don’t expect me to do something about it. Just get down on your knees and go after it.”

  Dude hit him.

  For one long moment that flash of anger lasted, while Dude watched the blood break from the corner of Chance’s mouth and trickle in a thin line down his chin. Then Chance brushed it away with the back of his hand, and Dude’s shoulders sagged down and his head dropped and he turned away.

  Chance said slowly, “Last time you hit me you put me on the floor. Maybe you’re right. Maybe you’re not much good any more.” He walked over to where he had picked up the shirt, and he picked up the hat that was there. “Come on down to the jail. I’ll give you the money you got coming.” He thrust the hat at Dude. “Here, this ought to fit you.”

  “What’s the matter with my own?” asked Dude sullenly.

  “I shot the guy that was wearing it through the head.”

  Dude put the hat on and went out.

  His horse had come back in off the road and was standing with the one Chance had ridden under the shelter. The men mounted and rode back to town. Neither one of them spoke until they were in front of the jail. Then Chance spoke curtly.

  “Go on in and wait for me,” he said. “Tell Stumpy to give you a drink.”

  Dude climbed down stiffly from the saddle and went into the jail, not lifting his head. Chance rode on to the hotel.

  There was quite a crowd in front of it. Even Raton was there. So was Juanito. He beamed at Chance and cried, “Did I not say it, Señor? Many funerals!” He counted the dollars and the dead upon his fingers.

  Chance said, “Cuatro. There’s another up the road.” He said this as much to Bert Pegram the undertaker as he did to Juanito. Bert had been hunkered down beside the bodies, examining them, and now he straightened up and held out his hand so that Chance could see the bright yellow coins in it.

  “Look what they had on them, Sheriff. Each one—two shiny new fifty-dollar gold pieces.”

  “Well!” Chance said. “The price has gone up.”

  “Nice of them to bring their own burying money,” Bert said. “Saves the county having to pay for it. I reckon fifty will cover the lot, and you—”

  “Wait a minute, Bert,” Chance said. “They can afford a real good fancy funeral, let’s not scamp it. Come over here and I’ll tell you what I want.”

  He took Bert well out of earshot of the crowd and told him. Bert was kind of doubtful at first, but then he began to like the idea. “Short notice, but I guess I can do it. Hey, Juanito!” he shouted, and beckoned to the boy. They went off together.

  Chance shouldered his way through the crowd in front of the hotel. Some of Burdette’s men, the quiet ones who were only set to watch, were there and Chance gave them a hard smile as he went by. They did not look as though they liked it. He went on into the hotel and Carlos left the group and went with him.

  Colorado was at the bar. He pushed the bottle toward Chance. Chance poured himself a big drink and passed the bottle on to Carlos. He lifted the glass to Colorado and said, “Thanks.”

  He needed that drink. It touched and pleased him to see that the kid was needing his, too. He was still a bit white around the gills. Chance liked that. If the kid at his age had helped to slaughter three men without turning a hair he would have pegged him as a wrong one, a born killer, almost as bad to have with you as against you.

  He said, “I don’t know why you did it, but I’m damned glad you did. I was clear over my head.”

  Colorado said, “Maybe I just got mad. Were you going to do what they said?”

  Chance grinned. He poured another drink and gulped it. “I don’t know. I was trying hard to make up my mind when you butted in.”

  “I know,” said Carlos. “You would have stood there, large and stubborn, until they shot you down.” He, too, poured another drink.

  “Don’t be too sure,” said Chance.

  Colorado said, “Consuela took the lady to her room. She wasn’t feeling good.”

  “Lady?” said Chance, not getting the connection.

  “Miss Feathers. She threw that flowerpot. Hadn’t been for her—”

  “She did it?”

  “Sure,” said Colorado. “She was fixing to run out the door and do something crazy, so I—”

  “Good God,” Chance said. “She might have got herself killed.” He went off upstairs, taking the steps three at a time.

  Colorado and Carlos smiled at each other. Carlos pushed the bottle to Colorado, who shook his head.

  “I don’t think I better have any more. I feel kind of swimmy.”

  “Have a cigarro, then,” Carlos said. “Have anything in the hotel. Have my right arm, if you wish.”

  “Think a lot of him, don’t you?”

  “Sí.”

  “I can see why,” Colorado said.

  He took the cigarro Carlos gave him and they smoked, not talking much. Outside in the street Bert Pegram and his assistants were busy cleaning up.

  Chance came back down again.

  “How is she?” Carlos asked.

  “She’s all right. I gave her hell.”

  “And what did she do?”

  “She gave me hell right back.” Chance grinned. “Said I was too damned dumb to save my neck by doing what they told me, so she and Colorado had to do it for me.” He turned and looked at Colorado. “Well?”

  Colorado said, “Are you offering me a job?”

  “Burdette’s going to be gunning for you anyway. You might as well get paid for it.”

  Colorado shrugged. “Might as well.”

  “Come on then. I’ll swear you in.”

  They started for the door.

  “I saw you come back with Dude,” Colorado said. “I’m glad he wasn’t badly hurt. The three of us ought to make a pretty good team.”

  Chance’s mouth closed like a steel trap and his eyes got cold again.

  “Dude’s quitting.”

  “Oh,” said Colorado, looking sidelong at Chance. He did not ask why.

  They went outside. The undertaker’s men were carting off the last of the bodies.

  “Don’t suppose any of ’em talked before they died?” Chance said.

  “No. They were gone before they hit the ground.”

  “Everybody shoots too good,” said Chance gloomily. “I’d like to get one that can talk.”

  They walked out into the street and Colorado had a squalmy sensation up and down his back. He looked at the man on the porch of the
Rio Bravo Saloon, and he looked up at the riders on the clifftop, and he looked out at the far reaches of the Silver Spur range where Nathan Burdette was waiting. For the first time Colorado knew what it was to feel like a target.

  TWENTY

  Inside the jail Dude sat and stared at his hands. They were on his knees and they were shaking. He could not stop them shaking. A bottle was on the desk beside him. Stumpy had brought it from somewhere and put it there but Dude had not touched it. He only sat and stared in dazed fascination at the dirty blood-smeared hands that jumped and quivered and would not be controlled.

  Stumpy was limping up and down the office brandishing his shotgun and shouting.

  “Why didn’t he let ’em come?” he demanded. “Why goddamn it, what did he think I’d do if he’d of walked in here with three strangers and told me to give up Joe? You know what I’d do. Dude, you ain’t listening.” He banged on the desk with his hand. “Listen, you know what I’d do. I’d start blasting.” He laughed. “That’s what I’d do. I’d blast ’em.” He stopped laughing and said bitterly. “That son-of-a-bitch.”

  “What son-of-a-bitch?” asked Dude absently. He shut his eyes and folded his arms across his chest, holding his hands under them.

  “Chance,” said Stumpy. “He had to shoot ’em all himself.”

  “Colorado helped.”

  “That makes two sons-of-bitches then. Hey,” said Stumpy suddenly, “who the hell’s hat have you got on? That ain’t the one I—”

  “Chance gave it to me,” Dude said. “For a souvenir.”

  “Well, that’s real helpful,” Stumpy said, and swore. “Nobody ever tells me nothin’. If the jail was to burn down over my head I’d be the last one to know about it. Stay back in your hole, stay back in your hole, that’s all I ever hear. What happened out there? How’d you get beat up so bad? And how’d you get wet? It ain’t rained since spring. What did you do, fall in a horse trough?”

  Dude said without opening his eyes, “Will you shut your everlasting goddamned mouth.”

  Chance shouted from outside. Stumpy told him to come ahead. Chance unlocked the door and came in with Colorado. He made the kid bolt the door so he would not forget it in the future. Dude opened his eyes but he did not say anything to Chance or to Colorado. He did not move. He sat looking off into a corner while Chance rummaged around and found a badge and swore Colorado in and pinned the badge on his shirt.

  Stumpy shook his head and groaned. “Another poor idiot that didn’t know when he was well off.”

  Colorado looked down at the badge, polishing it with his sleeve. “What do I do now?”

  “You start taking orders,” Chance said.

  “Okay, Sheriff. Give me one.”

  “Get your stuff out of the hotel and bring it here. I’ll cover you across the street.”

  “Sure,” said Colorado. “Right away.” Suddenly he laughed and shook his head.

  “What’re you laughing at?”

  “Me,” said Colorado. “Thinking what I let myself in for.”

  He went out and Chance watched him through the window, his rifle poked out through the bars.

  “Well,” said Stumpy, “he’s cheerful about it, anyway.”

  There was a silence. It went on quite a while. Stumpy opened his mouth two or three times but decided not to break it. Chance stood by the window covering Colorado. Dude sat and stared at nothing.

  Finally Dude said, “How good is he?”

  “He’s all right,” Chance said.

  “As good as Wheeler said he was?”

  “Yeah.”

  There was another silence.

  Chance said, “Pretty close. I’d hate to have to live on the difference.”

  “Then you got the best of it,” Dude said, standing up. “Him for me.” He took off his badge and threw it down.

  Stumpy’s jaw dropped. “What’re you talking about? What do you mean, him for me?” He turned to Chance. “What’s he mean, Chance? Nobody ever tells me anything.”

  “You heard him,” Chance said. “He’s quitting.”

  Stumpy stared at Dude. “What’s got into you? You lost your wits? You—”

  “Look at me,” Dude said. He held out his hands. “Look, isn’t that pretty? What can I do with hands like that? You tell me.” He rammed them into his pockets. “You want to know did I fall into a horse trough. Ask Chance. He’ll tell you.”

  Chance continued to look out the window. He did not say anything. Stumpy looked at his uncompromising back and then at Dude.

  “For God’s sake take a drink,” he said. “You said Chance told you to. You did tell him, didn’t you, Chance?”

  Chance said, “He can take the whole goddamn bottle.”

  Dude stood looking at the bottle the way a man stands on the edge of a precipice, deciding whether to jump.

  “Oh, hell,” said Stumpy. “Somebody’s got to do something. I can’t take any more of this. It’s too …”

  Dude reached out and took the bottle in his hands. He uncorked it and poured liquor into the clay cup from the olla. He poured a lot of it. The bottle and the cup rattled together and the whisky slopped over and spilled onto the desk. Dude’s face was set in deep twisted lines. He set the bottle down and put both hands around the cup.

  The piano in the Rio Bravo Saloon, which had been silent while Raton mingled with the crowd after the shooting, started up again. The Deguello came harsh and thunderous through the windows.

  Dude turned his head.

  Stumpy started toward the window and Dude said, “Don’t close it.”

  Stumpy stopped. Dude stpod listening while the music talked about hate and vengeance and death. He listened for quite a long time and Chance turned to look at him and so did Stumpy, but he did not see them. His face had taken on a closed and distant look, his eyes narrowed down until they could only see inside of him. Finally he shivered a little bit and picked up the bottle again and poured the liquor back into it, frowning with concentration as though that was the most important act he had ever done. He did not spill a drop. He set the bottle and the cup down carefully and replaced the cork. Then he moved away from the desk and stood with his back to the others and said in a low embarrassed voice.

  “Funny. And I never did have any ear for music, either.”

  He held out his hands. They were steady.

  “I guess if they keep on playing that thing I’ll be all right,” he said. “It kind of reminded me of—well, it don’t matter. A lot of things.” He turned around and for the first time he met Chance’s eye squarely. “If it’s all right with you, Stumpy can put that bottle away.”

  Chance said to Stumpy, “Put it away.”

  Dude smiled. Once again he seemed embarrassed, going quickly to the desk and recovering his badge, taking a great deal of time to pin it on. Stumpy grabbed up the bottle.

  “Bring it out, put it back,” he said angrily. “Nobody asks me if I need a drink. All right, I won’t wait to be asked. I do need a drink. I need a hell of a drink. You two drive a man to it.” He tilted his head back and sucked at the bottle.

  “I’m going on watch again,” Dude said, “unless you got something else for me to do.”

  “No,” said Chance, “I ain’t. Except you could get cleaned up a little.”

  “You sure could,” said Stumpy. “I’d hate to tell you what you look like.”

  “I’m better’n I look,” Dude said, and there was something curiously humble in the way he said it. “Better’n I been acting, too. I think. Anyway, I can get cleaned up tonight.” He went to the door. “By the way,” he said, “if you think of it, send me some lunch. I feel like I could eat.”

  He went out. Chance and Stumpy watched him get on his horse, moving stiffly and wincing a bit. He rode off down the street.

  “Nothin’ in his stomach but guts,” Stumpy said, and went back for the bottle. “But I’m glad he found it out. That was close. Too close.” He gulped whisky. “Funny what a little bitty thing will nudge a man to
go one way of the other. Now here’s that damned music got Dude all prodded and on his feet again, and I’m takin’ to the bottle. You better stop worrying about him, Chance, and start worrying about me. This tastes mighty good.”

  Chance started for the door.

  “Where you going?” Stumpy demanded.

  “To send Dude some lunch. And you better—”

  “I know, I know,” Stumpy grumbled. “Get back in my hole.” He slapped the cork in the bottle.

  “No, you better watch out when Colorado comes back. I forgot to tell him how trigger-happy you are. We get a good man, he’s got to watch you to keep from getting shot full of holes.”

  He went out feeling happy, feeling good. He didn’t know what had happened, but for the first time he was not worried about Dude any more.

  Out on the road a couple of men were throwing the body of the fourth man over a horse to bring it into town. Dude stopped them long enough to recover his guns. The men asked him what the hell had happened to him and he told them matter-of-factly. One of them said the old stable was a good place for a man to get bushwhacked, and Dude said not if he was careful. He said he would be careful in the future. The other man asked Dude how come the four hadn’t killed him, and Dude said, “They were going to on the way out. They just didn’t get around to it.”

  He looked without emotion at the man who would have pulled the trigger on him when one shot more or less would no longer have mattered. Then he went and searched the stable thoroughly before he sat down again on his rock. He felt tired and physically sore from the beating, but he was strangely calm inside. He was neither exhilarated nor depressed, but was on what might be called a dead level, grimly able to cope with whatever might come along. He did not know how that had happened. Maybe he had just worn out all his emotions in one wild binge starting from when he had hit Chance with the chair in the Rio Bravo Saloon. All he knew was that he had stood there with the cup in his hand, realizing perfectly well that if he began drinking again it was the end of him, and all of a sudden the Deguello started up and it was quite easy to put the cup down. The Deguello was like a personal insult from Nathan, a jeering slap in the face. It made every cut and bruise on him ache with fury, and it reminded him that there were other things and other people to think about beside his own emotions, which were beginning to bore the hell out of him. Things kind of jarred around into a different perspective. He was ashamed that he had made such a fool of himself but he no longer felt obliged to beat himself and everybody else over the head with it. It was done, and he would go on from there.