They were armed with a variety of Winchester and Remington carbines and rifles and some carried Mausers and all manner of bladed weapons: knives, swords, and machetes. If indeed they were Dorados, they would attack. They always attacked.
Napoleon was kneeled and readied, awaiting the furious onslaught. But then he stood and faced his men. He stood straight as a ramrod, the stock of the Springfield tucked to his right side and the weight of it riding in the crook of his arm. The new men had not had the occasion to see him in battle and they were braced by what they saw.
“Gentlemen,” he said, turning to face them. “We have discovered the enemy,” and at this they laughed.
He wasn’t scared. It wasn’t that he was brave or smart or stupid; it was just it wasn’t worth a damn to be scared. Being scared killed you again and again before you died from what finally killed you. At least that’s what the poets and the old heads had to say on the subject. He lifted the field glasses. He recognized one of the men as the horse trader who was speaking to his brother that morning.
“What is your thinking?” Stableforth called out.
“I think pr’aps it could be time for us to die.” At this they laughed again.
“Right now?” Stableforth asked.
“Pretty near,” he said. Having been outwitted and out-flanked he understood how consequential his mistakes.
“Can we not do anything about it?”
“It’s too late.”
“Why?”
“It just is. If they pass against us, we lose,” and this time, if they thought him funny, they did not laugh.
“It looks like we have gone and gotten ourselves into a pickle,” Extra Billy chuckled.
He turned away from his men to face their pursuers. He lifted the field glasses and studied them again as he awaited their onslaught. He found the one woman and far distant he found the other. But they did not attack. They gathered within gunshot range and seemed to be deciding what to do. Although they had the overwhelming advantage, he trusted they knew they would pay a fearful toll in uprooting their fixed position.
“Now what’s entered your mind?” Stableforth called out.
The trouble right now, he thought, is that there is no trouble.
Napoleon watched them intently as they held their council. He could not divine what their game was. They fought or they did not fight. It was not like them to play around this way. Patience in battle was not one of their traits and the reason their ranks were so winnowed. They struck and they struck hard. He stepped out in front of his thin line of men and then raised a hand and stopped. He waited and they made the sign that they would talk.
Three riders came forward and he walked out to meet them. One of them, the horse trader, stopped and then it was two that came forward, a man and a boy. The man wore the gold insignia of the Dorados. He was an old man and wore an eye patch and silver conchas adorned his belt. There were so few of these men left in their ragged uniforms, their dirty Stetsons, their ranks broken and diminished by their audacious method of battle.
The boy was an American. He wore leather cuffs and batwing chaps buckled up the backs of his legs. He wore a vest and beneath his vest he wore an orchid-colored shirt with a placard front. A silk bandanna was knotted at his neck. Napoelon figured him a swamper on some remote and desolate ranch living alone in a line shack and fed up with the life and come south to seek his fortune. The boy had sharp clean features and maybe at one time a sweetness of nature, but in his face his eyes were those of a schemer and this he could not mask.
“I would speak a word with you,” the boy said.
“How’s wages?”
The boy leveled on him with a flat stare. His cheeks and lips reddened and his head suddenly seemed uncomfortable on his neck. The boy wasn’t much older than Bandy, but already he was ruined.
“I know my price,” the boy said.
“It’s some bloody business you’ve taken up,” Napoleon said, but he felt no particular hatred for the boy.
“That ain’t none of your business,” the boy said.
“I was just asking.”
“I follow myself,” the boy said.
The man said something to Napoleon and made a gesture, pointed to the .45 he wore in his shoulder rig. Napoleon knew some words in their language but he would not speak them. The man was interested in how the harness was strung that carried his holster. He then unholstered his own .45 and held it out. Its grips were inlaid with mother-of-pearl. He wanted Napoleon to take it in his hands and hold it and admire it.
“Very nice,” he said, nodding his head, and the man nodded his head, pleased with their agreeing. Napoleon admired the inlay and sighted down the barrel. Then he returned it to the man who was still nodding.
“It ain’t what you think with me,” the boy said.
“I have eyes to see.”
“Maybe you ain’t seen what I seen.”
“Maybe I ain’t,” he said. “Maybe I seen worse.”
“If you’re waiting for me to fall down on my knees and beg your forgiveness, it ain’t going to happen. I ain’t going to beg you. There’s nothing you have that I want from you.”
“I don’t want anybody begging.”
“That’s good because I have begged all my life. Begged men and begged God and begged the land.”
“Who are they?”
The boy looked back over his shoulder at those he represented and then back at him.
“They are their own selves,” he said.
“What do they want?”
“They want him, the tall one,” the boy said, pointing with his slow unmoving finger at the position in their line held by Preston.
“Him? What do they want him for?”
“I don’t know.”
“Ransom?”
“That’s what I’d do.”
“I can’t see myself doing that.”
“I already told them you wouldn’t.”
“Tell them I ain’t giving up nobody to them.”
“Like I said. I already told them.”
“Then tell them again,” he said, and turned and walked away from them.
He had little doubt the boy was capable of shooting him in the back, but he did not think he would do so. The boy answered to others and he took him to be realizing he’d gotten in over his head when he signed on with the company he traveled in. His life would be a short one.
“What do they want?” Stableforth asked.
“Surrender,” he barked.
“What are we going to do?”
“Not surrender,” he said with all serenity.
He did not know if it were now to die, but like the ancient Greeks they would man their small citadel of wind-guttered rocks and congregated sands. They would stand and hold to the end. There was no alternative.
He went to the wall where Bandy was positioned in the rocks. The boy’s eyes were enormous and filled with ghosts. He was gripping his collar and his thumb was in his mouth. A band of white freckled skin showed at his throat.
Napoleon thought to explain their situation but knew how long the explanation would have to be before the boy understood. It needed to be understood by instinct and even with time he knew the boy was incapable of acquiring all that was necessary. He knew how grave and that was enough. Whether or not he’d do as he was told, that was another matter. He took the boy’s rifle as if to inspect it.
“Have you quit yourself?” he asked him so only he could hear.
“I’m praying.”
“What are you praying for, or can’t you tell me?” He spoke softly to the boy lest he should come unstrung and fly away in pieces.
“Prayers ain’t wishes,” Bandy said, and began to hiccup.
“Then you can tell me?”
“Peace and quiet,” Bandy said, trying to arrest the spasms. “I’m praying for peace and quiet.”
“I sometimes wonder if heaven is open to our kind. Do you have any thoughts on that you’d want to share?”
> “They’ll take you,” he said. “They take everyone.”
“They don’t sound too particular,” he said. “I don’t know if I’d want to be in such company as that.”
To this, Bandy’s face colored and he smiled, an emotion suspended in time and then he asked, “What’s going to happen?”
“I think things could get bad very soon,” he told him.
“What are they going to do?”
“Well, there’s going to be some noise real quick and then we are going to be in trouble.”
He held the boy’s attention with gentle eyes the boy had not seen before. He spoke quietly, softly, adamantly. In almost a whisper he told him if he saw an opportunity he was to go up that wall and over the top without being seen. He was to run some but not far and then he was to burrow down inside the earth and rock and hide until the stars came out and even then he was to wait a good long time. From his trouser pocket he removed the compass and handed it to the boy. He told him to follow the needle north by northeast.
“Don’t look up,” he said sharply. He did not want anyone to see him do that and draw conclusions. “It ain’t easy, but I have already looked up there and I know it can be done. I know you can do it.”
“What about you?”
“If I am not back before you then you will come look for me.”
“Yessir.”
“Don’t let me down.”
“Nossir,” the boy said, and with his swollen mouth he made a crooked grin.
Then he returned to the boy his rifle. The boy nodded and Napoleon let him back into the rocks where they would all close after the first skirmish.
“Don’t kill no one yet,” Napoleon told them when he returned from the wall.
“I will if I can,” Turner said.
“No you won’t,” he said. “You will god damn kill when I tell you to god damn kill and not before.”
Then they waited.
His concern was not that these men would shoot, but that they wouldn’t shoot when the time came. Getting a man to shoot another man, however much he was threatened, was not a thing you took for granted. If men could kill with their mouths, there would be a lot of dead, but when it came to pulling the trigger on another man, Napoleon had seen men stare in awe as they were run over and slaughtered.
He kneeled on one knee in the sand, the Springfield resting in the cradle of his arms. He could hear the separable sounds of their gathering in the silence. The deal was he could give up one man and save four. Given the circumstances, it was a good deal. But how could he trust the deal and if the deal was trustworthy, who would ever trust to ride with him again?
Eventually we all die, Napoleon thought. Sooner or later, what does it matter? The moment of death is not important. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He told them there’d be a show, there was always a show, and to keep their heads down. At that correct moment a confirming bullet cut the air above him and then he heard the all but silent report of the distant gun. From long distance, a desultory fire began. He knew if they wanted him dead they would have shot him by now.
The Rattler horse raised its head and eyed him. It sneezed, convulsing its body and then it lay back down and blew a gust of breath scattering the sand and grit at its nostrils.
Another bullet passed him by. There is a sound a bullet makes when it cuts through the air. It’s a zip that sings and whoops and each is different. That one was a Spitzer, a round fired from a Mauser. Napoleon knew because he had heard them before. To hear them you have to be very close. Having been that close, close enough to hear, he never forgot what he’d heard.
“Those bastards,” Turner said.
“Keep your god damn heads down or you’ll stop one for sure.”
“But the bastards are shooting at us.”
“You are not being shot at personally,” he told the man. He could not remember when he stopped hating those who were trying to kill him. After all, he was trying to kill them too. He’d abandoned hatred somewhere on the plains of Montana or the jungles of the Philippines. He wasn’t sure, but no matter, it wasn’t good to hate. It always seemed to get in the way of doing the job, always seemed to take more than it ever gave back, always seemed to get the hater killed sooner than he otherwise might have been killed.
Time passed with sporadic and errant fire but without any sign of them. He cast an expectant look in their direction and as if called forth they suddenly appeared. Riders shook out and began working their way in. They paused to fire and then moved closer. They were not in a killing mood. There was something they wanted and would rather not die in getting it. He set his jaw and held his position. Keep a good heart, he told himself, an eye full of light. Show no fear. Be free of dangerous passion. Let nothing confuse the natural instinct toward violence.
The skirmishers moved closer, a Dorado on a magnificent white horse out in front. He wore pistols at his waist and rode in a graceful position, as if standing upright in his seat. The hilt of a saber showed from a scabbard on the right of his saddle. He wore cartridge belts strapped across his chest. That he was holding himself and his horse in reserve was clear to see. The horse was uncommon and he could not help but admire it, the arched neck, the swing of the back, the flexion and extension of the hindquarters. The horse moved as if touching the earth was not necessary, but pleasure and whimsy, as it danced from one diagonal to the other.
Kill the brave one, he thought, and let the others go home. The mere presence of his death in the ranks would sew discontent and they would learn fear.
The men who rode with the Dorado spread out to fill the canyon ground but followed close behind. Their horses were compact, not tall and leggy like his but full form and set low on their legs. Their pace was that of a forced walk. The men shot across their horses’ necks but placed their shots so as not to kill. They plowed the earth and chipped stone and flattened their lead against rocks and ledges. The bullets hissed by like spit into a fire, and still he did not move his exposed position.
Then the Dorado fell forward onto the neck of his white horse, shot through the heart, the blood pouring from his wound. Then came instant the flat cracking report of a rifle that was not a Springfield or Winchester or Mauser. It was Preston’s custom-made English rifle and he was standing upright and still holding the butt tight to his shoulder, his cheek pressed to the wood.
For some reason the animal did not break but stopped and would not move and stood stock still on the center ground. Runnels of blood seeped from beneath the man and down the horse’s shoulders. The heart pumped steadily, emptying the man’s blood onto the horse’s shoulders and legs until its white hide was caped red. The horse pawed and shrugged and the man slid to the ground, slowly at first and then all in a rush as if desperate to meet the rising earth and the forever that was waiting for him.
11
THE SOUND OF the shot echoed in the hollow air, seeming time without end, rebellowing off the rocky walls, and when finally diminished it was a sound like the sift and drag of sand. Men on both sides paused and were shocked at its event.
“You witless bastard,” Napoleon said. “You have just kilt us.”
But Preston seemed indifferent. He’d wanted to demonstrate his courage and this he would do, no matter how thoughtless, uncharitable, and condemning. What he would have and what was required made no difference to him.
“Don’t fly at me,” Preston said. “It’s done and there’s no undoing it.”
“No. I’d say you are right on that account. There is no undoing it.”
In the old days he’d have shot Preston on the spot for such insubordination and not even have been questioned. You only led by the consent of those you would lead. You only commanded because there were those who agreed to be commanded and he knew Preston was his failure. Napoleon wondered about himself. In how many battles had he fought on the side of murderers? How many times in his life would he have willingly changed sides?
With the death of the Dorado was the death of
possibility. Now it was time come for them to encounter their fears. They would have to reach down and fetch up what was inside them, knowing they would surely die and there would be little time to spend hoping for deliverance and the wondering was it a Godless world.
His mind was quickened and was without doubt. Fire would now answer fire. There was no reality beyond this reality and all time was now. His green men would have their baptism in the desert. He knew Extra Billy had the murderous spirit, but would the rest of them? Being a long-range killer was one thing, but this would soon be a different matter. The lowness of their professional competence he’d experienced before. But this day they’d drop their blood because of it and if they knew anything they knew this.
With the westering sun the shadows lengthened and deepened. Overhead the sky was still light, but where they held was darkening. He recalled words his father read to him when he was a boy: Stiffen the sinews, summon up the blood, . . . lend the eye a terrible aspect; . . . set the teeth and stretch the nostril wide, hold hard the breath and bend up every spirit.
Suddenly the air sang and the rocks and ground stitched as if an iron needle driven by a great treadle and then was sound—the clatter of a machine gun. The bullets flashed overhead and ripped against the canyon walls and a thousand shards of stone flew in the air.
He threw the binoculars to Stableforth and instructed him to find the gunner and to do it now. The machine gun continued its clattering, lurching, stuttering, coughing, and the bullets continued to fly in all directions. The gunner had no apparent experience as the first bullets went into the ground and then climbed and swung wildly left and right and shot their holes in the sky.
He lay prone and perched on his elbows he wove his left arm through the sling of the Springfield. With Stableforth’s directions he found the gunner in the crosshairs. The man was squatting and bouncing behind the weapon that controlled him. He timed the shot to the beating of his heart, squeezed the trigger ever so gently and absorbed the kick.
Far Bright Star Page 6
