by Frank Yerby
10
FIRST in the morning, Wade Benton mounted the grey gelding and rode out to the Duprés’ cabin. But he was spared the trouble of poling a pirogue out into the bayou to reach it, for when he got there, he met Babette and Louis coming ashore.
“Good morning, sir,” he said politely, then: “Babs—”
But Louis cut him off.
“You stay away from my daughter, you,” he said. “Don’t want to have nothing to do with no more Bentons, yes. See her in a convent before I let her marry Tom Benton’s whelp. Know what’s good for you, you keep away.”
“You don’t have to worry about that, Papa,” Babette laughed. “I wouldn’t have that snivelling little puppy for a Christmas gift. I’ve told him that, me. Don’t know why he keeps on hanging around.
“Babs,” Wade got out.
“Don’t call me Babs,” she said cruelly. “When I marry, I want myself a man, and that’s one thing you’ll never be!”
“No,” Wade said acidly, “if you mean that I’ll never be like my father, you’re right. Don’t even want to be. All right, Mister Dupré, you won’t have no more trouble out of me. Not that you ever had. You been barking up the wrong tree all the time. It ain’t me you have to watch out for—it’s my pa.”
“What you mean by that, boy?” Louis said quietly.
“Ask Babs,” Wade spat. He was beyond all caution now. “She told me herself she was in love with him!”
“Why, you dirty little sneak!” Babs said.
“Dirty? I don’t go fooling around with other folks’ wives. And my pa’s my ma’s husband. Who’s dirty, Babs? I ask you! And right now I want to see you turn round and look your father in the face and tell him it ain’t so. Go on, I dare you!”
“Babette,” Louis said, and his voice was a blade half-drawn from its sheath.
“It ain’t so, Papa!” Babette said desperately. “Why, I ain’t never so much as talked to Mister Benton alone!”
“That ain’t the point,” Wade persisted. “Tell him you didn’t say you love my pa!”
Babette opened her mouth to speak, but then she saw her father’s eyes, and closed it again without saying anything at all.
“I see,” Louis whispered. Then: “You tell your father, you—that if I ever hear tell of his even saying ‘Howdy’ to ma Babette, I cut his liver out. Tell him that. And you, little fool, I take care of you when we get back from town! Pity I got to go there, yes; but I stripe you all over soon as we get back. Come on, now!”
“Now see what you’ve done!” Babette wailed.
“Go home, boy,” Louis said. “I don’t feel like looking at no Bentons too long!”
Wade turned and rode off then, out of the clearing. He was careful not to ride too fast. Like every Benton born, he had his pride.
He did not ride directly home, but made a long, circular detour, as if to cherish the savage misery that tore him. On the edge of the Ransom place he saw the small, forlorn figure of Mary Ann Barker. He knew her already, for during his father’s absence Jane Ransom had brought her to visit. They hadn’t been able to introduce her to Stormy, because at that time his sister had still been abed as the result of the savage beating Tom had dealt her.
Wade didn’t even like to remember that visit, for despite Sarah’s magnificent efforts at concealment, the strain under which they laboured hovered over them all like a suspended blade. Mrs. Ransom had not come back, perhaps attributing the strange atmosphere she had sensed at Broad Acres to a lack of friendliness—even to a degree of hostility on Sarah’s part. She was wrong, of course; but it wasn’t a thing anybody could explain.
Mary Ann came forward, smiling her shy, childish smile.
“Howdy, Wade,” she murmured.
“Oh, git out of my way!” Wade snarled. “I ain’t got no time for the likes of you!”
The child stepped back, her brown eyes wide with astonishment and pain.
“All right, Wade,” she choked, “if that’s the way you feel.”
“That’s the way I feel all right!” Wade snapped, and put spurs to his mount. But five minutes later he was sorry.
Why’d I do that? he thought miserably. Mary Ann’s a sweet little thing. She ain’t much to look at, but she’s nice. Be a heap better to be interested in somebody like her than that wicked, no-good Babette. Oh Lord, I just naturally always say the wrong thing at the wrong time.
He rode into the yard at Broad Acres and tossed the reins to Caleb. Then he went into the house, thinking: Pa’s home by now for sure. Ma got that letter four days ago. . . . In his present state of mind, nothing would have suited him better than to hurl Louis’ message into his father’s teeth. He put his hand on the knob; but at the last moment he did not turn it. For his mother’s voice came through, muffled a little by the wooden door, but speaking slowly, clearly.
“Yes, Tom,” she said, “I moved your things into the guest-room. If I had anywheres to go, I’d leave you. But I haven’t. Still, you can’t expect me to go on sleeping in the same bed with you, knowing where you’ve been and what you’ve been doing.”
“How do you know?” Tom said.
“I know, and that’s enough. If you think you can spend your time whoring around in New Orleans, and come back to me like nothing’s happened, you’re crazy. Visiting your woman and your unlawful brat . . .”
“How the devil did you know that?” Tom roared. “Randy! Why, damn his miserable hide—”
“Randy McGregor ain’t never let your name pass his lips. He don’t care that much about you. Besides, he’s a gentleman—lucky for you he is—Tom Benton!”
Tom let that pass.
“Then how did you know?” he growled.
Wade moved closer to the door, shaking, all his muscles tensed for flight. “Don’t tell him, Ma!” he breathed silently; “for God’s sake don’t tell him it was me who told you!”
“None of your business,” Sarah said. “Anyhow, I’m finished. First you get me in trouble. Then Lolette Dupré. God knows how many others. And now, to top it off, you’ve drove your only daughter away with your poison meanness.”
“Stormy’s gone?” Tom said. Even through the door Wade could hear the pain in his father’s voice.
“Yes,” Sarah said. “Drew two thousand dollars out of your account and disappeared—took not a stitch of clothes with her. I hired a New Orleans detective. He found out she bought things there—that’s how smart she was. Didn’t want folks to see her leaving with a bag. That detective traced everything she did. Seems she sailed North on a boat bound for Boston.”
Wade heard the scrape of his father’s chair.
“Tom,” Sarah said, “where’re you going?”
“Boston, where else?” Tom Benton said. “You get some of my things packed, Sary. I’ll go down to Alexandria to see about tickets and such-like. I’ll be back tomorrow.”
“All right,” Sarah said. “Time you did something what makes sense.”
Wade moved fast then—away from the door, rushing into his own room, leaving the door ajar so that he could see. He saw his father come out, his face frowning and intent, and go out on the veranda. A moment later he heard him call:
“Caleb! Saddle Prince Rupert for me. And hurry, damn your lazy black hide!”
Wade closed the door very quietly. He was free now—for a little while longer. For the time being, at least, he had escaped.
When the groom came with the horse, Tom vaulted into the saddle and started off at a hard gallop towards the town. At that time the telegraph-lines had not yet reached Benton’s Row. While it was possible to board a steamboat there, the village having already become an established stop, and pay one’s fare aboard for any distance as far north as Shreveport and as far south as New Orleans, Tom was obliged to go to Alexandria to wire ahead for accommodation aboard one of the coastal steamers which plied between New Orleans and the Northern ports. In i86o the only way to reach any major city in the United States from Louisiana was by water; exactly thirty-five mil
es of railways existed in that State.
It was only the tumult within him that caused Tom Benton to gallop the stallion; in actuality, he had plenty of time. The down-stream boat would not stop at Benton’s Row for another three hours, and no amount of haste would get him to Alexandria before the telegraph office closed for the night. He would, he knew, have to stay overnight there, get his message off as early as possible in the morning, and wait around for his reply.
So it was that he reached Benton’s Row with more than two hours to spare. Once there, he followed his accustomed habits: he went at once to Randy’s office to invite the doctor to have a drink with him. But Randy was away, out on calls. He was always busy now. More, since that day, five years before, that Doctor Muller had been gathered to whatever rewards awaited his ignorance and his bungling, Randy McGregor had been overworked to the point of exhaustion.
Frowning, Tom set out for Tim’s place alone. He had wanted very badly to talk with Randy. He’s my friend, he thought soberly. Reckon him and Hilton are just about the only two real friends I’ve got. Funny thing to be friends with a man who’s in love with your wife, but there it is. And, damn it all, it’s because Randy’s my friend—really my friend—that I don’t even have to worry about that. Level-headed, too. I could talk to him, and he’d give me some good advice. Randy ain’t often wrong. .
He saw, as he came up to Tim’s, that Babette Dupré stood on the sidewalk a few paces from the door. He knew at once what she was doing there. Louis had gone inside for a drink and, since females weren’t allowed in saloons, Babette had to wait outside for her father. He came up to her before she saw him.
“Howdy, Babette,” he said, “how’s everything? Had any more news from that there sister of yourn?”
She turned and all the colour drained out of her face.
“Mister Benton!” she got out. “Go away! Get away from me! Mister Benton—please!”
Tom stood there, staring at her.
“Now looka here, little lady,” he said. “Always thought that you and me was friends.”
“It’s not that,” Babette said, the edge of hysteria getting into her voice. “It’s Papa! Wade told him some awful lies, and please, Mister Benton, I can’t stand here talking to you—I just can’t! That would be all Papa would need. . . .”
He saw the shape of the words she had intended to speak on her lips; but the sound of them died somewhere deep in her throat, so all that was left was her lips moving, her face greying under its natural tan, and the look of utter terror in her eyes.
Tom turned slowly, half knowing what he would see. Louis Dupré was not a drinking man. He had had his one tall glass of sour red wine, and now he came out again through the swinging doors of Tim’s saloon.
He stopped dead, a yard from Tom.
“So,” he said. “Told that boy of yours to tell you to stay way from ma Babette. Told him I’d kill you if you didn’t. Didn’t listen, did you, Tom Benton? Going to kill you now, me. Going to kill you and get it over with!”
“What in hell-fire are you talking about, Louis?” Tom growled. “You out of your mind?”
“Your own boy told me,” Louis said. “You been after ma Babette, too. One of my daughters wasn’t enough, eh? You got to ruin ‘em both, you! Pray your bon Dieu, Tom Benton, ‘cause I’m going to kill you now!”
Tom saw then, incredibly, that Louis meant it. The small man fell into a crouch and brought his knife out, gleaming dull blue in the sunlight. Tom fell back and reached for his gun. But his hand came out of his coat empty. After years of peace, he had finally got out of the habit of carrying a gun.
Louis came in fast, in the instinctive crouch of the born knife-fighter. Tom stood there; then, with a roar, he charged the smaller man.
But Louis made no mistakes. He did not lift his knife and swing it downwards, making it easy for his opponent to catch his wrist. Instead, he held it low, the razor-sharp edge upward, waiting for an opening.
Tom hadn’t a chance, and he knew it; but he came on in, driven by the one thing in him that was really splendid, a courage bigger than he himself was, a profound, deep-seated conviction that it was better to die than to run away, and afterwards have to remember the fleeing. So it was that he smashed his left fist hard against Louis’ face, spinning him half around with the blow, and Louis, shaking his head, came out of the crouch, the blade flashing up and forward, one hundred and thirty pounds of wildcat bone, muscle and sinew behind the thrust.
Tom felt something hot and searing deep in his vitals. Then Louis stepped back, and the blade came out, leaving only the terrible burning, the hot gushing, the flooding warm wetness, and the awful weakness spreading. He pushed against himself hard, hanging there, seeing Louis’ yellow-brown eyes glaring into his, waiting for him to go down, to fall.
Then Babette started screaming. And Tom Benton stood there, hearing the sound of it, formless and wild, tearing the fabric of heaven itself apart, shrill, demented, terrible.
The doors of the saloon burst open, spilling a horde of men out into the street. They saw the bloody knife in Louis Dupré’s hand, and recoiled away from him in two waves on both sides, making a semi-circle, frozen into immobility, death-struck, silent.
They stood there, all of them, watching it. Babette was past even screaming now. And standing there like that, they saw the only true miracle that humanity is ever privileged to witness: the shining steel of a man’s will, standing up tall amid the rags of his flesh, moving him, one awful step after another, this man beyond human help, beyond even compassion, dying there very slowly before their eyes, still on his feet, still moving.
They saw him unhitch the reins with his left hand; but to mount, he had to use both, and the red tide of his life pumped out of him faster. But he got Incredibly, miraculously, into the saddle, using almost the last of his gigantic strength in the doing, driven by his unshakable belief in himself, his refusal to accept even death; and held up by these things and his iron will, he rode away from there, down the street towards the plantation.
Babette started screaming again, seeing that. Louis wiped the knife on his trouser leg and thrust it back into the scabbard. Then he came over to her and slapped her five or six times very hard across the face until she stopped screaming.
He did not look at the men who had come out of the saloon. Instead, he walked diagonally across the street and into the court-house where Sheriff Brighton’s office was. No one moved, no one followed him.
John Brighton was sitting in his big chair, his feet on his desk, reading a three-day-old Picayune. He looked up when Louis entered and smiled.
“Howdy, Louis,” he said. “Got troubles, old man?”
Louis took out his knife and dropped it on the desk.
“Came to give myself up,” he said quietly. “Done killed Tom Benton, me. You find him ‘bout half-way ‘twixt here and his place, yes. Sorry I had to do it; but I had to. Well, John, reckon you better lock me up now.”
Louis had underestimated Tom Benton. For when Prince Rupert, the black stallion, came into the gates at Broad Acres at two o’clock that afternoon, Tom was still in the saddle. The horse moved slowly up to the hitching-rail and stood there, trembling. And Tom Benton sat there upon him, and made no move to dismount.
Seeing him lolling there in the saddle like a drunken man, Caleb, the groom, came running. When he was close, he stopped dead, his jaw dropping open, staring.
“Closer, boy,” Tom muttered through clenched teeth, “come closer, give me a hand.”
Caleb put up his arms, and his master slumped out of the saddle, loosening all over suddenly, falling into the negro’s arms.
“Miz Sarah!” Caleb screamed. “For God’s sake, Miz Sarah, come out here! Somebody done ‘most kilt Marse Tom!”
Sarah came out of the house with Wade at her heels.
“What ails you, Caleb?” she snapped, “yelling that way! Wade’s got an awful headache and . . .”
Then she saw what Caleb held in his arms.
/>
“Oh, Good Lord Jesus!” she whispered. “Not again!” Then, very quietly: “Bring him inside, Caleb. Wade—go get Jim Rudgers. He’s down in the south section. I’ll send Caleb for Doctor McGregor. Careful, Caleb! Don’t drop him—now.”
When Wade got back with Jim Rudgers, she had already dressed the wound. The three of them stood by the bedside, looking at him. His eyes were closed, and his breathing was laboured, with now and again an ugly, gurgling sound.
“He’s dying,” Sarah said, her voice taut against the hysteria rising within her. “I asked him why he didn’t stay in town—get help. He said—he said—he had to come home—to me.”
She turned to her son.
“He asked for you, Wade. Said there was something he wanted to tell you—something he had to say—”
At the sound of his son’s name, Tom Benton’s eyes came open.
“Wade,” he got out; but then his voice failed him. But he didn’t need to speak. His eyes held steady, filled with icy fire, and Wade, standing there, whiter than death, heard inside his own heart the rolling, thunderous, measured curses, his own consignment to eternal damnation that his father’s lips formed but which he had no strength to say.
When, a few minutes later, Sheriff Brighton and Randy McGregor reached the house, he was lying there, still staring at his son. Wade was powerless to move; he had to stand there, had to take it.
Randy came over to the bed. He kneeled very quietly beside the big man, but he did not open his satchel. Instead, he put up his hand and, as tenderly as a woman, drew down the lids over the bright blue eyes. He stayed there a long moment, saying something, his words so low that not even Sarah, who stood beside him, could hear what they were.
“What are you saying, Randy?” she said.
“ ‘He was my friend, faithful and just to me,’ ” Randy said harshly. “A quotation, Sarah—from Shakespeare.”
Something in his tone caught her, and it was then that, peering closer, she saw the tears, hot and bright, and sudden, in his eyes.
