by Lauran Paine
“Look at that bunkhouse, Clement. This house’ll burn just as quick.”
Silence again, broken only by crackling flames. Zeke, with his head pressed flat against the wall, said: “They’re talking in there. I hear someone crying.”
Uriah nodded. “Clement! Come out and the young ’uns won’t be hurt. If we have to burn you out, I won’t promise nothing.”
Another interval of silence, then a woman screamed and over that unnerving sound there was a crash of furniture.
Uriah spun half around. “Zeke! Take Pete and Lee and go around back. If he comes out, shoot him.”
Lee trotted after his brother and grinning Pete Amaya followed them both. Behind the house the dog’s distant barking sounded louder. Amaya put his lips close to Lee’s ear.
“He’s got a golden-haired daughter in there, compadre.”
“Shut up!” Zeke hissed.
Amaya slunk back and squatted down to watch.
It was a brief and fruitless vigil. Gaspar Pompa came up excitedly and told them: “He open the door. Uriah got him around front.”
They stumped back through the rain-dappled dust where the others were crowding inside the house. From far back Lee could see over the other heads. Paxton Clement, shorter than Uriah, was backing across the room. There was no fear in his expression but his forehead was white and glistening. Behind a flung-back sacking curtain was a wide bed. From the farther side of it an elderly woman watched. She was swathed in rumpled bedclothes and her sleep-puffy face was coarse and ugly to look at. The fourteen men crowding into the room with gleaming guns were fearful to see. She made whimpering sounds deep in her throat.
Paxton Clement had on boots and trousers. His underwear showed where his shirt might have been; it was soiled and worn.
“Come outside,” Uriah said harshly, looking down straight into the cowman’s grizzled face.
“No,” the woman said thinly. “No. You can’t take him.” She was writhing in the bed, holding the covers around her with clenched hands. “You haven’t got the right. You get out of here.”
“Be still,” Uriah said with an urgent ringing in his voice.
Lee saw movement in a far corner. A tall blonde girl in a soiled wrapper and a boy no more than twelve years old were there. The boy was clinging to the tall girl who moved forward now. Her eyes were wide with fright and her full-lipped mouth was a red scar in the paleness of her face. “Get out of here!” she screamed at them. “Get out, get out, get out!”
George Fawcett moved toward her. His shoulders were braced forward. Lee could see only his back and the way he held his gun up across his body as though to push the girl and boy with it.
Uriah ignored everyone but Paxton Clement. “Walk out or get drug out,” he said with dull fire.
Clement stared in total silence, motionless but also without fear. The woman began to wail. She stormed in the bed, keeping the covers about her. Her bleating was the only sound in the candlelit room until Uriah put forth his hand to grasp Clement. Then the cowman found his voice. He swore at them with his legs planted widely and his hands knotted into fists, then jerked away from Uriah’s touch and cursed them savagely.
Beside Lee and slightly in front, Kant U’Ren made his mirthless, wordless smile again and slouched against the wall, waiting. Uriah’s hand dropped to his side. He moved aside and gestured for the others to do the same. There was an open lane between the sheepmen and the firelit yard beyond, where a cooling body lay halfway between the main house and bunkhouse. Uriah raised his arm, pointing. He was white to the lips from Clement’s cursing. For only a moment longer did Paxton Clement remain still. Then he started forward toward the yard and behind his sharply drawn shoulders and straight back the woman was crying: “No, no, no, no, no …!”
When Clement passed the youngest Gorman at the doorway, Lee saw in his face not the terror that should have been there, not fear or even desperation, only the terrible bitterness of a man who believed what was happening to him should be happening instead to his captors.
Lee moved out into the gusty heat of the yard with the others. Back by the door four men stood blocking the opening against the shrieking, gibbering girl, her brother, and their mother, whose screams rose keenly over the rattle of falling timbers and bursting flames from the bunkhouse.
Lee was rooted. Bulking shadows closed in around Clement where he stopped, looking down at his dead rider.
“Don’t, Paw. For Christ’s sake what are you doing?”
“Be still,” Zeke said, at Lee’s side. The others had not heard, but Zeke, coming up close, had caught each word. Now he stopped and Lee saw the iron set of his jaw and the bloodless straining of his mouth. “He’s got it coming.”
Uriah was talking again, his voice flat-sounding and scornfully cold. Red light flickered over them all and out beyond, where earth and sky merged in dawn’s sickly light, lay a sea of grayness.
“You started it, Clement. You kept them at it. You led their night riders. If you want to make your peace, make it.”
Clement, shorter than most of them, looked up unflinchingly. He glared into each face before he said: “You goddamned bastards! You sheep-stinkin’ scum! D’you think you’ll get away with this …?”
“You’d better quit cussing and pray,” Uriah said, stepping back and raising his rifle to hip-height, cocking it, and curling one pink-scarred finger around the cold trigger.
Clement twisted his face into a bitter grimace. “Pray? You’d like to see me get down and pray, wouldn’t you, Gorman … you filthy Secesh scum? Well, shoot and be damned to you … every one of you’ll hang for this. Every one!”
Uriah fired first, from a distance of less than ten feet. Clement spun half around. Then the others fired and Clement staggered in agony but he did not go down quickly. His underwear reddened as he swayed. Then Pete Amaya leaped forward nimbly, put a revolver against the dying man’s head, and pressed the trigger. There was a sound of breaking bone, of tearing flesh, and Paxton Clement’s eyes bulged crazily and he broke over backward.
They stood above him unaware of the wild shrieks beyond the blocked door of the house, looking down. Blood as black as ink oozed out over the yard, a shiny red from the firelight.
“Come on,” Uriah said finally, turning away. “There’s no time to lose.”
Kant U’Ren spoke up. “What about the kid and girl and the old woman?”
Uriah stopped in his tracks looking around. “What about ’em?”
“They’re witnesses. They can hang every damned one of us.”
Uriah was shaking his head before U’Ren finished. “No, they saw nothing. The only witness to who shot Clement is lying back there with half his damned head blown off. Now come on … and hurry.”
He led them back along the stone fence through a falling drizzle that was growing stronger all the time, back through the timber to the erosion slash and to their horses. There, as they were fumbling anxiously with their mounts, he spoke again, from the saddle.
“Every one of you go back to your camps. Clean your guns, turn out your horses, and eat breakfast. When the law comes, remember that you haven’t seen any of the others since the time we met before this. You know nothing about Clement’s death. Blot this morning out of your memories.” He shortened his reins. “One more thing. You may be arrested … don’t resist. They won’t be able to hold you long and the rest of us’ll fight to help you. Now then, they’ll likely take me first. If they do … Zeke’ll take my place as your leader. Do what he says … Now ride!”
They left the gully with an increasing rain making the ground underfoot treacherously slippery. The first one to break off was Kant U’Ren. He left them while they were still in the trees. The next to go was Pete Amaya. He was followed by Gaspar Pompa and George Fawcett. By the time the plateau was in view through the drenching water, only Lee and Zeke were riding with Uriah.
Zeke built a small fire in clamp-jawed silence just beyond the lean-to’s opening. When it was blazing bright and sending forth heat, he went back into the shadows to clean his gun. From time to time he looked out where Lee was unsaddling with numb fingers. He had his gun wiped clear of tell-tale stains and smell when the younger man came in under the shelter. Zeke got the black coffee pot, filled it, and put it over the fire. He laid out three tin cups, put rye whiskey into two of them with a grudging measure but poured generously into the third cup, then, when the coffee was hot, he filled each cup to the brim. Uriah got one cup; he nodded and put it aside. Zeke kept the second cup and Lee got the one that was nearly half rye whiskey. He drank it without a pause; water poured into his eyes; he coughed and spat and sat down, cross-legged, to clean the rifle he had not fired.
The rain continued steadily and monotonously. Zeke’s fire sizzled and its orange flames showed brightly in under the lean-to’s dripping cover. Uriah sat like stone, gazing outward over the drowning land. His profile, bearded and pharaoh-like, was sharply chiseled. Every plane and angle stood out clear to see. Zeke refilled the tin cup and drank deeply. His gaze rarely left Lee’s bowed shoulders. Finally Uriah drew up and looked around him. It was as though he was emerging from a trance. He cleared his throat and spat, then he stood up, raw-boned and hard-cut in the wavering light.
“I’m going to the creek,” he said dully, and moved off.
The rainfall was like distant drumming. Through its constant roar came the occasional bleat of sheep. Zeke tossed the tin cup aside, pushed long legs far out, and spoke. “That’s only the beginning,” he said, watching Lee’s shoulders quicken with movement at the sound of his voice. “There’ll be more. They got in their licks first, then we got in ours … now it’s their turn again.”
“But, Zeke … not in cold blood,” the bowed head said in a muffled way. “Not like they’re varmints.”
“Make you a little sick, did it, boy?” Lee’s head rose and fell. Behind him Zeke wore a curious expression. He could remember the strong feeling they’d had between them as children; it had been strongest in the moments when their father had seemed the most remote to them. It had never atrophied, that feeling. Zeke understood his brother. Knew him far better than the old man did and probably better than their mother had. But they were men now and they were committed to Uriah’s ways.
Zeke looked at the tin cup for a moment, then gathered in his legs and got up, taking the cup to the jug and sloshing whiskey into it. “Here,” he said, thrusting it over Lee’s shoulder. “Drink it down.”
Lee did not turn or take the cup. He heard Zeke’s teeth strike the tin. He heard him swallowing. Then he felt him hunkering close and saw his big arm go out to stir the sputtering fire.
“Boy, I’ll tell you what. You saddle up and go see Ann.”
Lee looked around, then.
“Sure, go on. I’ll tell paw you’ve gone looking for strays.” Zeke made a slightly drunken gesture. “’S’all right. I can handle him. Saddle up and go see Ann.” Zeke’s green eyes were dark-ringed and cloudy-looking. “Someone in this goddamned family ought t’have a woman. A decent honest true woman. It’s never going to be me … I can tell you that right now.” His lips pulled up in a bleak grin. “It’s sure Lord not going t’be Paw.” He croaked a hard laugh. “Can you picture the old man with a woman …? Holy hell!” The harsh laugh grew louder for a moment, then stopped short. “Go on, Lee. Go see Ann. Get the poison out of you with her. Come back when you’re good and ready.” Zeke’s huge hand moved swiftly, caught Lee in an iron grip, and gave him a savage shove. “Go on, damn you!”
Lee went. He saddled up and rode down through the rain and he hadn’t covered a quarter mile before the black poncho he wore was shiny with water. Once, far out, he looked back. The plateau was dimly discernible but neither his brother’s hulking figure nor the little fire was visible. He pushed on, and behind him the world faded into slate-gray opaqueness. Everything was blotted out—the bodies, the burning bunkhouse, the keening shrieks that were the last echoes to leave his mind, and finally his recollection of Uriah sitting there behind the fire under the lean-to, staring outward farther than anyone could hope to see.
Chapter Five
Where he crossed Cottonwood Creek was a shoal, but even so his horse had to brace against the pulsing might of a heavily heaving current, swollen now and chocolate-brown.
A spiral of bluish smoke rose straight up beyond a long swell of land between the creek and the Foster place. Lee rode toward it. When he topped out over the rise, the Foster place was huddled in a millrace of mud and water below. His horse was reluctant to descend and when forced to do so he placed each hoof well down before moving the next one. They only slipped once, and that was where the land flattened out not far from the rough-hewn log barn.
He rode in and instantly saw the bending figure below a smoking lantern near the hen roost. The fullness was familiar; the wealth of tumbled black hair shone obsidian-like with raindrops.
“Ann?”
She turned and straightened up slowly. “Lee …” Both hands were full of eggs. “Whatever are you doing riding out on a day like this?”
He dismounted, led his horse to a tie stall, and made it fast to a manger of grass hay before he turned back to face her. She had put the eggs into a basket and had moved across to where he was.
“I had to see you.”
She waited, saying nothing. There was a strong pulse beating in her throat. Her tilted face was as clear as marble in the barn’s gloom.
He moved away from the horse, shook his head, and flicked water from nose and chin. “I just had to see you again is all …”
She continued her silence, staring into his eyes. Hot blood ran into his neck and stained his cheeks. He fought against looking away from her. His voice grew rough edged.
“Well, shouldn’t I have … Ann?”
“Take your slicker off, Lee.”
He obeyed. Beneath, his clothing was dry. For a second he thought he smelled a residue of smoke rising from his shirt and pants. Then he forgot again when she had her head against his breast, her arms tightly wound around him, and the full length of her pressing into him burning like fire.
“I knew you’d come,” she said, low and husky. “You had to … I knew you would.”
“Your paw might come out …”
“No. Some fellers came by a while back and he rode off with them.”
She released him and stepped back. There were tears in her eyes and her lips were trembling. She seemed to be balancing a thought in her mind. Then she said: “Up in the loft. Come on.”
He followed her hand over hand up the pole ladder to where a heavy grass hay fragrance filled his nostrils. She kicked at the hay, making places, then sank down and drew him down beside her. For a moment longer the ecstatic look lingered, then, seeing his dulled expression, her face changed. The expression went flat, almost ugly, before it altered finally into a set, bitter small smile and she lay back with her head propped on one hand. Wisdom as old as time itself was in her eyes, intuitive female wisdom.
“I know why you came, Lee.”
He heard the huskiness, saw the steady kindling hotness in her face, and would have shook his head at it because that was not basically why he had come at all. But she put out one hand, touched his flesh with her fingers, and his ears roared. He reached for her. There was a sob in his throat for the unresolved conflicts inside his head. She responded with an abandon that left him without breath.
She kissed his face, his throat, his mouth, in a tempest of agony and tenderness. Her jet hair fell across him and her hands went under his shirt.
&nbs
p; “I love you, Lee. You know that. But you don’t know how much I love you.”
“Ann …”
A wetness came to his eyes. A tear ran under his lashes. His head rocked slowly from side to side until her damp palms held it, then his body went loose and languor came. He did not know whether he was awake or asleep but he knew he was exhausted, that his body was loose in every joint and muscle and if he’d had to leap up suddenly to save his life, he couldn’t have.
She lay there beside him with his right hand on her breast. The heartbeats were uneven and sledge-like. They jarred her entire body.
“Ann … we killed Paxton Clement this morning.”
“What?”
He told her, his voice liquid-soft, words flowing in cadence to the diminishing power of the storm outside. She raised up and his hand fell away. She was staring down at him with her eyes suddenly enormous and her full lips lying, open and slack.
“Lee!”
The wrenched-out, stunned, and thick way she said his name did not alleviate his breathless condition. He continued to lie there motionlessly with his eyes tightly closed and his head filled with the slackening beat of raindrops overhead. Then she was moving briskly in the hay, kicking it away from her. When next she spoke all trace of passion was gone.
“Get up, Lee.”
He opened his eyes. She was standing over him, big-eyed and ashen.
“Get up!”
He stirred, pushed up on his elbows, and continued to stare at her.
“Those men Paw rode off with … when they came up, they called him out. They talked for a spell, and then he got his gun and a horse and raced off with them. Don’t you understand … now?”
He should understand, he knew, but his mind was lethargic. Like Sampson he had been shorn. He was as weak now as a cat.
She caught at him, dragged him upright. “I’ll go make us a bundle. You saddle another horse and wait for me.” Her hands moved agitatedly across his rumpled shirt front. “Hurry!”
