by Len Levinson
The axle took longer to fix than Blakelock had predicted, and it was more like five days. There was no main trail to the Barrington ranch, and during that interval, several miles away, they were passed by outlaws led by Steve Culhane.
***
Often, instead of studying, Zachary and Gloria slipped out the back door of the main house. Carrying knapsacks and pistols, they soon were in the wilderness, free to explore or play. Snakes, bears, and cougars lurked about, but they believed they could outsmart anything. They brimmed with confidence and could not imagine themselves dead.
They pretended to be Indians, and practiced scalping each other. Then they played soldiers attacking Indians. Occasionally they kissed chastely, for they loved each other and intended to marry when older.
They explored behind the white cliffs, then paused to eat pinyon nuts, which Nathanial had taught them to identify. Sometimes children annoy each other as a means of displaying affection, and this caused Zachary to throw a nut at Gloria, whereupon she picked up a rock and winged it in his direction.
It bounced off his head, and he dived at her, but she skipped out of the way, kicking his butt as he passed. So he turned and attacked her again, estimated her dodge, and landed upon her, knocking her to the ground. But she was two years older, raw-boned and hardy, and twisted to the side, throwing him off balance. He pulled her down with him, they fell against a greasewood bush nestled against a wall of the Mule Mountain Range, but instead of crashing into stone, they fell through to a cavern hidden by greasewood leaves.
Astonished, they glanced around. The cavern was as large as their house, with drawings of horses and men carved into the walls. A shaft of light could be seen, and they followed it into the back of the cave, arriving at a natural rock passageway. Overcome with curiosity, the children drew guns and advanced toward the light at its end.
Cautiously, they crawled the final yards, then peeked outside. Across a valley, carved into the side of a white palisade, was an apparently deserted old white stone building, with windows and many flat roofs. The children were dumbstruck, because it looked like a castle that had sprung from the mind of Sir Walter Scott, and planted halfway up the side of the cliff.
They walked cautiously into the valley, holding their guns in their right hands. Upon closer inspection, the castle was a conglomeration of blocklike flat-roofed dwellings stacked together, with rectangular windows and an outdoor firepit. But nothing moved, no footprints could be seen, and the grass grew high in the meadow.
“Must've been old-time Injuns,” said Zachary. “They probably climbed up there on ladders, then pulled them in when attacked. I wonder what happened to them?”
“All we need is a pole and we could shinny up. Next time bring an ax.”
“Dad will love this place,” said Zachary. “But he's been acting loco lately, wearing his cougar cape and all.”
“That's ‘cause he's part Injun,” replied Gloria. “But he'll be all right once Clarissa gets back. She knows how to manage him.”
Construction at the ranch had stopped due to lack of nails, and the cowboys spent most of their time riding the farthest boundaries of the herd, driving back cattle. Nathanial participated in this activity, and while working with Manion, a one-quarter Papago Indian, he saw riders on the horizon. His first instinct was to check weapons, and his next, to remove the spyglass from his saddlebags.
He focused on Bastrop and Grimble coming at a gallop, and they wouldn't ride fast if there wasn't trouble. Nathanial turned in the direction of the riders and spurred his horse. Both groups rode toward each other at a fast pace, soon they met, Bastrop pulled back his reins and smiled broadly, wearing an four-inch scar on his right cheek, won in a saloon in Santa Fe. “The blessed event has arrived,” he said, for he was a defrocked Methodist minister. “Appears the new herd is here.”
“Just when half the cowboys are gone,” replied Nathanial. “It's not the best time, but we'll have to make the best of it. Round up the men, and help guide the herd in. I'll be at the ranch.”
Nathanial turned his horse in the direction of the main house, and worked the animal into a gallop. Wind whistled through the crease of Nathanial's wide-brimmed hat, while his cougar cape floated in the air behind him.
Sometimes, speeding in the desert, Nathanial found himself thinking like an Apache, as if the holy Lifeway had taken root in his soul and was crowding out western philosophy and theology. Sometimes he believed he had cougar eyes, for he saw more clearly, and at greater distances, or so it seemed. His sense of smell also had sharpened, the fragrance of greasewood was intoxicating.
He returned to the ranch, where he found little Natalie playing with a doll in the backyard as Rosita strung wet clothing on the line. Nathanial made his way to the office and sat at his desk. Additional cattle meant more worries, and he wanted to run off with the Apaches, but he doubted Clarissa would follow him.
He loved Clarissa, but she was too conventional, in his opinion, and perhaps that's why he often thought of Jocita, the warrior woman of the Mimbrenos. Nathanial felt torn between Clarissa and his memories of Jocita, but he was an ex-officer resolved to do his duty. If I suggested running off with the Apaches, Clarissa would leave me, he believed. He wondered if he'd ever be happy, because new desires continually appeared. He wanted to be everything and visit everywhere, although he was only one person.
Rosita knocked on his door. “Here come the cowboys.”
He checked the position of his gun belt, then emerged from his office, still wearing his cougar cape. Rosita looked at him skeptically. “Why do you have that thing?” she asked. “What is wrong with you?”
He could not explain the ineffable, so continued out the front door. His cowboys rode into the yard, accompanied by three strangers, one of whom tipped his hat and smiled.
“Howdy,” he said. “My name's Harriman, and I brung yer cattle.”
“Any trouble along the way?”
“Not yet.”
“You don't sound like you're from South Carolina.”
“The herd was transferred to me and the boys in Texas, and the original cowboys returned home. You got the money?”
“Sure thing, but I'll need to see the herd first.”
“Already looked,” said Thorne, half of whose left ear had been chewed off in a saloon brawl. “I counted 183 head in pretty fair condition gen'rally.”
“That's good enough for me,” said Nathanial. “Come with me, and I'll pay you, Mr. Harriman.”
Nathanial led the smiling stranger into his home and down the hall to the office. “Have a seat.” Then Nathanial opened a drawer, rustled papers, and removed a check.
“What the hell's ‘at?” asked Culhane.
“I'm going to write a draft drawn on my New York bank.”
“Sorry, but I need cash.”
“The agreement was for a check. I've already negotiated this with the broker.”
Culhane appeared surprised. “I was told to collect hard cash on the barrelhead, and I ain't givin’ up the herd till it's in my hand.”
“I suggest you take this draft to the cattle broker.”
“I suggest you give me some money.” As the last word spit out of Culhane's mouth, he drew his gun quickly, taking Nathanial by surprise. “Mister,” said Culhane, “I'll kill you and I'll kill yer kid—I don't give a damn, if you don't pay me my money down.”
Nathanial thought of making a lunge, but a bullet travels faster than a cougar's claw. “You can kill me and everyone else, but that won't get your money.”
“You don't think yer a-gonna cheat me, do you?”
“There's something fishy about you,” said Nathanial. “I think you rustled this herd—am I right?”
“Start walkin’ to whar yer kid is, otherwise I'll shoot you whar you stand.”
Nathanial planted his feet firmly. “I'm not leading you to my daughter.”
“Okay with me,” said Culhane, aiming the pistol at the center of Nathanial's chest.
“You'll never get out of here alive,” said Nathanial quickly, his heartbeat increasing. “My cowboys may not be outlaws, but they've got a stake in this ranch, and they're crazy sons of bitches. Mr. Harriman, or whoever you are, there's still time to put down that gun and be on your way. Take the herd, I don't give a damn. Or die. The choice is yours.”
Culhane paused to think over the offer, and Nathanial noticed his lack of attention. Leaping forward suddenly, he grabbed the gunbarrel with one hand, the trigger pulled, and Nathanial felt the warmth of a bullet passing two inches above his head. Then Nathanial delivered a right to Culhane's jaw, and it was a solid shot, with Nathanial's forward motion behind it. Culhane's head snapped back, his eyes rolled into his head, and he collapsed onto the floor.
Nathanial heard Rosita's frightened voice in the parlor. “What ees going on!”
“Take the baby to your room, and get under the bed. Don't come out until I say so.”
"Dios mío!"
She picked up Natalie and ran to the bedroom as Bastrop shouted from outside, “What happened, boss?”
“I'll be right out.”
Nathanial disarmed Culhane, grabbed the back of his shirt, dragged him out of the house, and if Culhane's head bumped a chair along the way, Nathanial had no regrets. He continued to the yard, where his cowboys aimed pistols at Culhane's two partners. Nathanial lifted Culhane and threw him like a rag doll in the direction of his friends. Culhane landed in a clump and didn't move.
“What you do to him?” asked Bascombe with a frown.
“He's got a date in court, and so do you. I am arresting you for cattle rustling, robbery, and murder.”
Bascombe wrinkled his nose. “Who the hell're you to arrest anybody? You ain't no lawman.”
“I'm a citizen, and you'd better pray I don't have a hanging this afternoon. What happened to the South Carolina cowboys?”
“I don't know what in hell yer talkin’ about.”
“You kill them?”
“Yer plumb loco, mister. All we want is to git paid fer the herd.”
Nathanial turned to Manion. “Tie ‘em up.”
Bascombe said, “You got no right . . .”
Grimble slammed him over the head with the barrel of his gun, and the rustler collapsed onto the ground.
On their way back to the ranch, Zachary and Gloria spotted riders in the distance. “It must be the cowboys,” said Zachary. “Maybe we can ride with them.” He waved his arms and shouted, “Over here—give us a ride!”
He saw three cowboys turn in his direction and was happy that he didn't have to walk back. Even Gloria slouched along, a branch in her hand, which she used to whack the occasional stone. Scowling, she peered from beneath her cowboy hat and said, “They ain't our cowboys.”
Zachary studied them as they approached, feeling a faint shiver of fear. “They ain't injuns either. Wonder what they're doing here.”
“Maybe they're outlaws.”
“Not everybody is an outlaw, Gloria. You're afraid of your own shadow sometimes.”
“I don't want to have anything to do with cowboys I don't know,” she said. “Especially out here.”
She ducked behind chaparral, leaving Zachary alone. The cowboys worked their horses into a gallop as soon as they saw her run, and Zachary was frozen by terror, then fled in a direction opposite Gloria.
“Don't let ‘em git away!” shouted one of the new cowboys.
Zachary dived inside a rosemary-mint bush, burst out the other side, and ran fast as he could. Never had he felt so frightened, but the horse and rider were gaining. His only hope was to hide in the thickets, so he covered himself with leaves and lay still.
“He's somewhar in hyar!” shouted a voice nearby.
“I see his tracks,” said the other.
Zachary had to get moving, but he knew it was futile, there was no place to hide, and he prayed a hole would open miraculously in the ground.
“Thar he goes agin'!” shouted the cowboy.
Zachary heard hoofbeats behind him, then panic came on. He wanted to drop to his knees and cry, but all he could do was reach for his Colt, turn around, and make his last stand. Before he could thumb back the hammer, a lasso dropped over his head. He was pulled off his feet, the gun fired, and he was dragged about twenty yards through the chaparral. Finally, bruised and scratched, he came to a halt, then was roughly jerked to his feet by a black-bearded man with breath like horse manure. “What's yer name, l'il feller?”
“Zachary Barrington, and you'd better let me go. My father is a former army officer, and he's the wrong man to make mad.”
Dunphy grinned. “He can git mad all he wants. Hell, I'm a-gonna kill ‘im anyways.”
Culhane was struck in the face with a bucket of cold water, opened his eyes, and found himself tied to the corral, alongside his two partners Bascombe and Curry, under the guns of Barrington's cowboys.
“How many men do you have?” asked Nathanial.
“You'll be meetin’ ‘em soon enough,” replied Culhane. “They'll burn this place down around yer ears.”
“You'd better hope they don't come around, otherwise I'll plant a bullet in your head.”
“You got no right to treat me this way,” protested Culhane. “I'm an honest man, and all I want is my money down.”
“Let the judge decide,” said Nathanial. “Hell, I might even shoot you myself and save the cost of a trial.”
Nathanial made himself sound defiant, but had no idea how many outlaws were behind the next rise, and worst of all, didn't know the whereabouts of Zachary and Gloria. He decided if outlaws attacked, he and his men would fight from the corral, protecting the horses. He plotted his defense like a former army officer and felt strangely comfortable doing so.
The cowboys piled furniture, bales of hay, the plow, and other bulky objects around the corral, while Culhane hung from the post, muttering and splitting blood. He was a sensitive man who had been humiliated, and tried to plot revenge, but found no hope. As a longtime outlaw, he thought his partners might desert him. He stared morosely at a piano being carried out the main house, to provide part of the barricade.
Meanwhile, Nathanial sat on the barn's roof with his spyglass, scanning territory surrounding the ranch. Where are those damned kids? he wondered. He realized that he had been too lenient with them, but they were curious and needed to roam.
“Zachary!” he hollered at the top of his lungs. “Gloria! Come home immediately!”
His voice echoed off white cliffs, trailed along desert byways, and disappeared into gullies. He feared what might happen if the outlaws found them first, and now that he thought of it, he realized he hadn't seen them since morning.
I've got to teach them discipline, he told himself. If Clarissa were here, she would have watched them for me. I should not have let her go, but I appear unable to control my family. It was easier to command a company of dragoons.
He noticed movement from the east, and focusing his spyglass, saw riders. “Here they come!” he shouted to his cowboys. “Take your positions!”
Nathanial straddled the roof as he peered at the newcomers. There were five, but then he realized some rode two to a horse. His jaw dropped with dismay, his heart beat faster, and he broke into an icy sweat. The extra riders were small, either midgets or children. His worst nightmare had come true. “They've got Gloria and Zachary!” he hollered. “We can't fire at the bastards.”
Culhane's voice rose from the corral. “You can trade ‘em fer me.”
Nathanial climbed down from the roof, entered the main house, tore a sheet off his bed, tied it to the end of a broomstick, and carried it outdoors, where he raised it high and waved from side to side. Meanwhile, the outlaws rode closer with their hostages. Nathanial gave the truce flag to Grimble, who wore a hook where his left hand should be, blown off at Chapuletepec. Then Nathanial peered through his spyglass again.
He could see his children more clearly, and it appeared that both had been beaten. A wave of fury
swept over him, but he held himself under strict control. The rustlers stopped about two hundred yards from the corral. “Whar's Harriman?” called one of them.
Nathanial cupped his hands around his mouth. “Your rustler friends are here, and I'll trade them for the children!”
There was silence for several seconds, then, “No deal! We want the money!”
Culhane went red, and thick cords appeared on his throat as he screamed, “Make the trade—you stupid son of a bitch!”
The outlaws huddled for a time, then one said, “We'll turn the kids loose, and you turn my friends free at the same time.”
Nathanial moved behind Culhane, untied the knots, and unwrapped the rope. Culhane rubbed his wrists, a wolfish grin on his face. “You ain't seen the last of me, son of a bitch.”
“If I ever run into you again, I'll kill you,” replied Nathanial, who then called out, “We're ready!”
“Let ‘em go!” replied the spokesman for the outlaws.
“Get walking,” said Nathanial.
Culhane paused a moment, studying Nathanial's face. “You caught me when I wasn't lookin’, but this game ain't over. I'll never ferget you as long as I live.”
“The next time you see me will be the last day of your life.” Nathanial raised his right hand. “So help me God.” Then he delivered a swift kick to the seat of Culhane's pants. “Get moving.”
Culhane was so angry, he thought his brains might explode out his ears. “Yer gonter pay fer that.”
The outlaw spokesman shouted, “What's the holdup!”
“He's coming right now,” said Nathanial, who drew his gun and aimed at Culhane. “Walk.”
Culhane turned toward his outlaw friends; the children were released. They broke into a run, heading toward their father as Culhane limped onward, his joints aching from being tied to the corral. The children approached, Culhane provided his sleazy smile, but they passed without looking. Maybe I'll chop off their heads before their daddy's eyes, thought Culhane. Then I'll chop his off too.
Culhane reached his outlaw friends, climbed onto a packhorse, and with one last look at the ranch, to fix the terrain in his mind, rode toward the stolen herd. The buildings receded into the distance, and his mind boiled with fantasies of kicking Nathanial Barrington in the face, or gouging out his eyes with a knife.
