Rio Bravo

by Leigh Brackett

  “He hasn’t,” Colorado said.

  “Some more blankets,” Stumpy went on, “and maybe some beer. Huh, Dude?”

  “Thanks,” Dude said.

  Chance checked the ammunition supply. It was ample, but he had nervous visions of running out at a critical moment. “I got a few boxes of shells in my room,” he said. “I’ll bring ’em along.”

  Stumpy said. “There’s one more thing.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Well, if we’re all going to spend three, four days in here together, kinda close like, it might be a good thing if a certain party was to clean himself up like he said he would. A horsebarn’s all right, but it ain’t no place for a man to roll around in.”

  “All right, all right,” said Dude good-naturedly. He had wanted sleep when he came in off the road and he had simply folded up and the hell with everything. Now he was anxious for hot water and soap. He was scratchy with caked dirt and he smelled of old horse.

  “I like roses,” Stumpy said, “but this fellow I’m talking about, he ain’t no rose.”

  “And don’t he know it,” Dude said. “Don’t worry, I’ll take a bath.”

  “I didn’t have no idea you wouldn’t, Dude,” Stumpy said. “I was just wondering when. I mind one time in the spring of ’74 I was trailin’ a herd up to Dodge and there was a feller with us hated water so bad he rode the top of the chuck wagon every time we had to cross a river, and he—”

  Dude groaned. “Come on, Chance,” he said. “The old bastard’ll keep talking till we get out of here. I’ll take a bath while you get the stuff gathered up.”

  “And yell when you come back,” Stumpy said as they went out. “You always look different when you’re clean.”

  They walked across the street. Time had gone by since the shooting. Even Bert Pegram’s light was out now. The saloons and cantinas were shuttered. A lone burro, perhaps the same one they had disturbed a couple of nights ago, wandered off toward the plaza, and that was the only thing that moved. Blown dust was already covering up the bloodstains on the road.

  Chance walked fast. An urge for haste was on him. He grudged every second it would take before he could shut the jail door securely on them all, locking out the deceitful and dangerous streets. He did not like the way Nathan had suddenly begun to pour it on. From here on he knew there would be one blow after another with no letup until finally there was one blow too many, and the only hope he could see of surviving was to ward off those blows with four thick adobe walls.

  He fairly ran up the steps and into the hotel, with Dude behind him.

  Carlos was waiting in the bar with Feathers. Otherwise the place was empty and not very cheerful with only one dim light burning and the window partly boarded up where the flowerpot had gone through it. A look of tremendous relief came into Carlos’s face when Chance told him what they were going to do.

  “I am glad,” he said. “I have been afraid that some evil thing would happen here. There at least you can sleep secure.”

  Chance glanced sidelong at Feathers, who was not saying anything, and then he gave Carlos a verbal list of the things he needed.

  “I’m going to stand watch while Dude takes a bath,” he said. “Let me know when the stuff’s ready.”

  “There is water still hot on the bathroom stove,” Carlos said. “I thought perhaps you would want it. I will get all ready for you.”

  Chance went upstairs with Dude, and Feathers came after them.

  Carlos locked the front door of the hotel with meticulous care, took the lamp, and went out through the dining room.

  “Consuela!” he called. “Consuela!”

  She did not answer him, but there was a light in the kitchen, showing through a two-inch crack in the door. He pushed the door open and went in.

  Upstairs, Chance was growling and grumbling at Dude. “Hurry it up now, will you?”

  “Keep your britches on,” Dude said. “I got to get some clothes. Feathers, you haven’t got any soap that smells like a rose, have you?”

  Feathers shook her head. “Mine smells more like lilacs.”

  “Can’t use it, then. Stumpy only likes roses.” He disappeared into Chance’s room.

  Feathers looked up into Chance’s face. She said softly, “I’ll miss you, but I’m glad you’re moving to the jail.”

  “I should have done it days ago. Guess it just made me sore to be run out of my own streets.”

  “Are you sorry you didn’t?”

  He knew what she meant. “No,” he said. “I’m not. Are you?”

  “I know an easy way of telling you,” she said, and kissed him.

  Dude came out. He had taken off his hat, his gunbelt, and boots, and he carried clean clothes and a towel. “Excuse me,” he said, and grinned, and Chance said, “Get the hell in there and get busy, will you?”

  Dude went into the bathroom and shut the door.

  Feathers said, “Bend your head down, John T. I want to finish what I was telling you.”

  Downstairs in the kitchen Carlos was not making any trouble at all while two men bound and gagged him. The reason he did not make any trouble was because Consuela was already bound and gagged, propped up against the kitchen wall with her great eyes staring at him while a man beside her held a knife point delicately against the skin of her cheek. Carlos had been given to understand what would be done with the knife if he so much as breathed too loudly. Carlos was a brave and honorable man, and he could have given his life if he had to with no more than normal regret, but he could not give Consuela’s beauty. He stood and let them take the lamp away from him and bind him. The four other men in the room watched, one beside the back door through which they had come, another beside the door into the dark dining room, the other two whispering to each other. Carlos did not know any of them. One of the two whisperers, a tall young man with consumptive cheeks and bright pale eyes, appeared to be the leader. He had an evil smile. Carlos’s heart contracted in his chest with a deep, sick anguish.

  The gaunt bright-eyed man nodded once, and the man by the inner door went quietly out into the dining room.

  In a minute he came back.

  “The one guy’s in the bathroom. The sheriff’s standing guard and talking to a girl. He’s got his rifle.”

  One of the men grunted. “I don’t want to be the one to go up and get him.”

  The first man said, “Who does? But Burdette wants him alive, doesn’t he, Varney?”

  The gaunt bright-eyed man said in a snarling whisper, “Yes he does, and if you go on talking so goddamned loud he’ll hear you and come charging down with that rifle, and—” He broke off. His eyes became even brighter and he smiled in a way that froze Carlos’s bones.

  “Why,” he said, “of course we will. That’s just exactly how we’ll do it.” He looked around the kitchen, his gaze pleased and excited as a child’s, probing into every corner.

  “Nick,” he said, pointing, “gimme a piece of that rope.”

  The upstairs hall was dim and peaceful. Dude was sloshing water beyond the closed bathroom door. Chance was holding Feathers as tight as he could, thinking that it would be a long time before he held her again, anything from four days to eternity.

  “Could I come by once in a while,” she was saying, “to see if you needed anything?”

  “I don’t want you anywhere around there.” Her hair smelled sweet. All of her did. Maybe it was that lilac soap. He found the rifle to be much in his way and he set it aside against the wall.

  “I was afraid of that,” she said. “Then I won’t see you for—”

  “Three or four days is all.”

  “Yes,” she said. “Three or four days. I’ll miss you.”

  “You’ll live through it.”

  “Sure.” Her arms tightened around him so hard they hurt. “You do too,” she said, and went away from him and into her room and shut the door.

  In the bathroom Dude had begun to sing.

  Chance picked up his rifle and l
eaned against the wall beside the door, where he could see all the way down the hall to the stairhead. He wondered what the hell it was about Feathers. In the course of a very active life he had had his share of women and maybe a bit over, but the idea of taking on a permanent one had horrified him, like taking on a permanent set of hobbles. Now here he was thinking that if he lived through this business …

  Maybe, he thought, it was because everything had been kind of queer and unnatural these last few days, and the girl had popped up and got herself right in the middle of it in the damnedest way. Maybe after it was over and everything had calmed down she would look different to him, and the same thing might go for her. He thought they were probably both a little bit crazy right now.

  On the other hand, he thought, maybe it was part of what he had told Feathers about why he was sheriff—he was getting lazy and ready to settle down a bit, and so the idea of a wife fitted kind of naturally into the picture for the first time. He brooded about that, smiling a little. She was awfully young but he was certainly not going to quarrel with that, and being married might not be bad in a lot of ways.

  Down in the kitchen Varney had taken the gag from Consuela’s mouth. “Now,” he said, “we want you to call the sheriff down here.”

  Consuela was terrified. But she shook her head stubbornly, her mouth shut tight.

  Varney shrugged. There was a bottle on the kitchen table near at hand. He picked it up by the neck, broke it against the table edge, and started for Carlos with the jagged glass.

  Consuela screamed. Varney stopped his forward lunge and tossed the broken bottle aside. “It’s nice when people love each other,” he said, smiling. “Makes things so easy.”

  He hurried out soft-footed to join his men.

  Consuela kept on screaming.

  Chance was already running down the stairs. The dim light from the hall only went about halfway to the bottom. He did not see the rope that was stretched taut across his way. The rope caught him over the ankles and he flew outward like a great ungainly bird and came crashing to the floor at the foot of the steps. He felt dimly that he was sliding down the slope of a tilted world and his rifle slid ahead of him out of reach. Then three separate mountains fell on his back and he went spinning over the edge of the world, carrying the mountains with him into the endless dark.

  TWENTY-THREE

  The darkness did have an end. The dawn came with a deluge of rain. Chance moaned and rolled his head. A second torrent hit him. This time his mouth was open and the rain poured in and choked him. He went into a paroxysm of coughing and pushed himself up off the ground.

  The ground was hard. It was a board floor and the rain was not rain at all but water out of a bucket that somebody was throwing in his face. The dim lamp was back on the desk. He sat for a moment, dizzy and blowing, and he saw Dude coming downstairs between two men. The two men had guns. Dude did not.

  Dude looked at Chance sitting on the floor, dripping from the water, and Chance said, “This time it was my turn. Feel better now?”

  A tall young man with hollow cheeks nudged Chance with his foot, not too gently.

  “All right, Sheriff. Get on your feet.”

  Chance got up. He thought he was going to fall down again. He did not, and after a minute or two the room steadied.

  “Can you walk?” the tall man said.

  Chance blinked at him. A name came drifting sluggishly up into his mind and he said it. “Varney. Luke. Murder, bank robbery …” He stumbled over the remembered list of offenses from the Wanted bill and Varney smiled.

  “We don’t have time for all of ’em,” he said.

  “Where’d you come from?”

  “The other side,” Varney said, nodding in the general direction of the border.

  “Oh,” said Chance. “Friend of Joe Burdette’s, I’ll bet.”

  “A good friend,” Varney said. “The best.”

  “What’s the market price on friends now?” Chance asked. “The last batch came at a hundred and fifty. Is it still going up?”

  Varney reached out and slapped him across the face while a couple of men jammed guns in his ribs to make sure he did not hit back.

  “I think I asked you a question,” Varney said. “Can you walk?”

  “Depends on where we’re going.”

  “You have a full, free choice,” said Varney kindly. “You can walk over to the jail with us and let Joe go—”

  “Maybe you didn’t hear, Varney. That’s already been tried.”

  Varney shook his head. “No it hasn’t. They never got that far. You can walk over to the jail with us and let Joe go, or you and Dude can both come with us to a quiet place and wait while we work out a trade with the old man.”

  “You won’t make any trades with Stumpy. You’ll just get Joe killed.”

  “Not unless Stumpy wants all three of you dead. I’m willing to gamble he won’t.”

  Dude said quietly, “What’s the use, Chance? We’re licked. Take ’em over to the jail. Tell Stumpy to open up and let Joe go.”

  Chance stared at him.

  Dude looked at the floor. He began to shake. “I’m telling you,” he said, his voice getting harsh and shrill. “What the hell’s the use of us getting killed? Stumpy couldn’t hold out. He’s alone. He’s got no food or water and nobody to—”

  Varney said sharply, “Where’s the kid?”

  “Slid out,” said Dude. “After that business tonight, what would you expect of a kid?” He yelled at Chance. “Well, are you going to stand there like a damned dumb ox? They’re going to get Joe anyway. Why make it tough for us?”

  Varney looked at Dude with disgust. “He sure looks like the original broken reed, don’t he?” he said to Chance. “But he’s talking sense.”

  Chance said, “We’ll go over to the jail.” He did not look again at Dude. His face was dark, hard, without expression.

  Varney nodded, pleased. “Take the shells out of his gun,” he said to one of the men. Then he beckoned to a small weasel-faced man and went aside and talked to him briefly. The weasel-faced man nodded, very alert and capable. He said something and laughed silently, and Varney laughed too. The weasel-faced man went and stood with Dude and the two men who were holding him. Varney came back to Chance, pausing on the way to pick up Chance’s hat.

  He gave Chance the hat and the unloaded rifle. “We’re going out of here easy and natural,” he said. “Carry your gun and act the way you always do. We’re going to put up our guns, but don’t let that make you feel rash.”

  Chance nodded.

  Varney went to the door. He unlocked it and looked out. “All right,” he said, and Chance went out with Varney and three men into the deserted windy street.

  They walked together in a close group, not hurrying but not lagging either, their spurs ringing. Chance held himself tight. He held his mind blank, nor daring to think about why Consuela was screaming or what might have happened upstairs to Feathers. He shut out everything in the world but the jail door, straight ahead and coming closer with every step.

  He knew what Dude was up to.

  He went up the two cracked wooden steps to the porch, and the planks gave back a hollow thumping under his boots, under the spurred heels of the men around him.

  “Don’t forget to call out,” Varney whispered, smiling, and he drew his gun.

  The unloaded rifle felt like a straw in Chance’s hand. He transferred it to his left and took the key out of his pocket.

  “Stumpy!” he called. “Hey, Stumpy, it’s me, Chance.”

  Stumpy answered, “Come ahead.”

  Varney stood directly behind Chance. The muzzle of his gun pressed lightly against Chance’s back. He nodded to one of the men, who dropped aside to wait on the porch. The others bunched behind Varney, ready to move in fast.

  “Go ahead, Sheriff. And tell that old man to be careful.”

  Chance turned the key in the lock. “Stumpy,” he called. “Stumpy, there’s somebody with me. It’s all right
.” He turned the knob of the door and felt the latch click free. “They’re coming in with me—”

  He flung the door open and himself through it, dropping flat on his face with his feet still outside, dropping fast as a stone drops but not quite fast enough to beat Varney’s trigger finger. He felt something like a red-hot running iron drawn swiftly across his back, and then even before he hit the floor he heard Stumpy’s shotgun blast once, and twice, and the room was full of powder smoke and the scattering chunk! of shot, and behind him in the doorway there were the uglier sounds of men dying.

  Chance rolled and scrambled on all fours for the gunrack.

  Colorado had come from somewhere. Stumpy was shouting and Colorado’s gun went off. Chance got his hands on a rifle and whirled around. Colorado was in the doorway. Outside the man who had been left on the porch was kneeling on the ground at the foot of the steps. Colorado had shot a leg out from under him as he ran. Now he was trying to get his gun up for a shot at Colorado and Colorado put a hole through his forearm. He dropped the gun from his right hand. Crying tears like a hurt and raging child, he groped around for it with his left. Chance came through the door, tramping over the bodies, knocking Colorado aside. He went down the steps in a blind rush, and as he passed the man he hit him with the rifle, not even pausing long enough to break his stride, just swinging the barrel as he went. He ran toward the hotel.

  Stumpy came to the door. He glanced at what the two barrels of his shotgun had accomplished, and then at the unconscious man below, and then at Chance running up the street.

  “Go with him,” Stumpy said to Colorado. “I can handle this one.”

  He limped down the steps and grasped the man strongly by the shoulders.

  “Take care of him good,” Colorado said. “He’ll talk.” He looked proud and happy. He ran quickly after Chance, looking back once or twice to make sure Stumpy got safely inside and closed the door.

  Chance did not look back at all. Colorado heard horses running like the devil on the back street, going away. Chance plunged into the hotel. He must have gone through it like a bolt of lightning, because when Colorado caught up to him he was clear outside the back door and staring after the fast-fading sound of horses that were already out of sight.