“What a strange thing to say. I’ve given every man I’ve ever been with his money’s worth. And I’ve never pushed any out of my bed.” Sweet Sally paused. “Except that prospector who hadn’t taken a bath in a year and a half, and whose teeth smelled like rotten meat.”
“We were talkin’ about me.”
Sweet Sally looked quickly away so he would not see her sudden smile. Composing herself, she faced him and said earnestly, “You claim that I don’t care about anyone. When was the last time you did?”
“What?”
“You heard me. Quit stalling. When was the last time you cared about anyone other than yourself?”
“I don’t care if I live or die,” Luke said.
“That’s not what I asked. When was the last time you cared about another person? Was it your parents? Your brothers?”
Luke averted his face. His hands, where they rested on his legs, became hooked claws. “What if it was?”
“Don’t you see? You let what happened to them change you. You let it twist you and break you. But you can change back. You don’t need to go on doing as you are. You can be nice.”
“There’s that word again. ‘Nice.’ ” Luke swiveled and his gray eyes peered intently at her from under his hat brim. “Is that what you think you are? Nice?” He said the last “nice” slowly, hissing it between his lips.
Sweet Sally did not take the bait. “I like to think I am, yes. I admit I haven’t made much of my life. A whore is a whore is a whore. But I have always been nice to everyone I meet. I make it a point to be.”
“That’s your purpose in life, is it?”
“There you go again, being mean. I don’t know as I have a purpose. A preacher once told me we all do, but for the life of me, I can’t figure out mine.”
“Maybe pokes are your purpose.” Luke’s grin was devious. “Maybe God put you on earth so every man you meet can poke you and go away happy at how nice you are about it.”
“Go to hell. Poking isn’t a purpose. It’s what I do for a living. Nothing more.” Sally quelled her anger. She reminded herself that he had a knack for getting her riled and she must not let him.
“I have a purpose,” Luke surprised her by saying.
“Really? Care to share what it is?”
“My purpose in life is to have no purpose. It is to go wherever I want to go, to do whatever I want to do. My purpose is to live as I please. To kill as I please. To beat and break as I please.”
“That’s not a purpose,” Sweet Sally said. “You’re just saying that to get my goat. If you tried, if you honestly and truly tried, you could find a better purpose.”
Luke returned her thrust. “That works both ways. What about you? Maybe you have a higher purpose than givin’ men pokes. But I don’t see you makin’ any effort to change.”
“Shows how little you know. If a decent man were to ask me to be his, I would give up this life in a heartbeat.”
“So that’s your purpose? To marry and have a passel of brats and live happily ever after?” Luke’s bark was brittle.
Forgetting herself, Sweet Sally countered by saying, “It was good enough for your parents, wasn’t it?”
“Quit bringin’ them up.” Luke fidgeted on the log, and scowled. “I don’t like to think about them.”
“Hurts you deep down inside, does it?” Sweet Sally said. “That shows there is hope for you. That you’re not as completely evil as I thought.”
Luke’s head jerked up. “Did you really? Think me evil, that is?”
Sweet Sally wanted to kick herself for her lapse in judgment. “Somewhat,” she hedged. “After what you did to those cowboys, what else was I to think?” She added meaningfully, “But I was mistaken. You’re not evil. You’re hurt and confused, a little lamb who has gone astray.”
Luke Deal clapped his hands and roared with robust mirth. He laughed longer and louder than he had before. He laughed so long and so hard, when he finally subsided, he had tears trickling from the corners of his eyes. “Oh my, oh my, oh my, oh my,” he exhaled.
“You tickle my funny bone more than anyone I have ever met.”
“Why, thank you,” Sweet Sally said, sincerely flattered.
“I would never have thought it.” Luke put a hand on her knee. “I’m glad I didn’t shoot you back in Whiskey Flats.”
Sweet Sally’s felt her cheeks grow red and her body tingle with unexpected warmth. “What a nice thing to say. See? You can do it when you try.”
Luke rose, his gray eyes twinkling. “Yes. This promises to be great fun. We’re bound to have a chance or two to test your notion.”
“How do you mean?”
“You’ll see,” Luke said enigmatically, then hollered to his companions, “Mount up! We’re headin’ out.”
Over the course of the next hour, Luke Deal gave voice to short bouts of laughter and slapped his thigh. The first time it happened, Grutt and Bronk looked at one another in bewilderment, and Grutt shifted in his saddle to say to Sally, “What in hell did you say to him back there?”
“We talked about being nice,” Sweet Sally revealed, “and he said he is going to give it a try.”
“You stupid cow,” Grutt said.
“What did I do?” Sweet Sally bristled. “If you’re going to talk to me like that, don’t talk to me at all.”
Bronk and Grutt slowed to put more distance between them and Luke Deal, and Bronk said quietly so Deal would not hear, “Damn her. This is goin’ to be El Paso all over again.”
“Ain’t it, though,” Grutt agreed.
A seed of doubt sprouted in Sweet Sally. She asked them to tell her about El Paso but neither would give her the courtesy. There was a new tenseness and unease in their posture and their manner. It took her a while to figure out that they were afraid, which made her afraid. For if Luke’s own friends were suddenly so scared of him, what would happen if they ran into someone else?
As if in answer, shortly thereafter a small cloud of dust appeared to the north.
“Riders, you reckon?” Grutt called out.
Luke Deal shrugged. “We’ll find out soon enough.”
It was a buggy, a black buggy with a two-horse team and a middle-aged man dressed all in black, with a black jacket and black pants and a small, round black hat. Only his collar was white. His face bore the weathered stamp of someone who was outdoors a lot. As he brought his buggy to a stop, he smiled warmly. “Greetings, brothers and sister.”
Reining up alongside, Luke asked, “Who have we here?”
“Reverend Tomlin, at your service, young man,” the minister said. He patted a Bible on the seat beside him. “I’m making my monthly rounds.”
Luke glanced up at the bright sky, and laughed. Then he smiled at the reverend and said, “Ask and ye shall receive. Isn’t that how it goes?”
“Why, yes, that is an exact quote,” Tomlin said. “Are you a student of the Lord’s Word, young man?”
“Only if that word is ‘nice,’ ” Luke replied.
“I’m afraid I don’t understand.” Reverend Tomlin nodded at Bronk and Grutt, then his kindly gaze alighted on Sweet Sally. “I never expected to come across a woman way out here. You must be very brave, sister. Put your faith and trust in our Lord and He will see you safely through.”
Luke said, “She puts her faith and trust in ‘nice.’ ”
“I still don’t understand.” Reverend Tomlin glanced from him to Sally and back again. “Perhaps you would care to explain?”
“Oh, she and I had a talk earlier about how we should all be ‘nice,’ ” Luke said. He continued to accent the word, and to smirk when he said it.
“Nice is fine but it is not enough,” Reverend Tomlin stated. “We must be spiritual. We must be loving. We must take the teachings of our Lord to heart, and live them.”
“Is that what you do?”
“Why, of course. I am a man of the cloth, am I not?” Reverend Tomlin smiled. “I live by the Word.”
“You’ve taken
all the teachin’s in the Bible to heart, have you?” Luke asked him good-naturedly.
“I like to think I have, yes,” the minister said.
“Does that include the one about turnin’ the other cheek?”
Sweet Sally’s insides churned. “Luke, please,” she said, but her appeal fell on stone ears.
“That one most of all,” Reverend Tomlin said. “It is one of the cornerstones of my faith.”
“You don’t say.” Suddenly Luke bent and grabbed the minister by the arm and flung him from the seat.
Taken utterly unawares, Reverend Tomlin tumbled into the grass. Rolling onto his back, he rose on his elbows, his black jacket and pants sprinkled with dust. He was not hurt, only shocked. “Hold on! What is the meaning of this?”
“We’re findin’ out if you practice what you preach.”
“But to do what you just did!” Reverend Tomlin sat up and brushed at his sleeves. “Really, young man. I must protest such cavalier treatment. You have proven nothing by your roughhouse.”
“I’m just gettin’ started.” Luke slowly drew his Remington. The nickel-plating gleamed in the sunlight.
“No!” Sweet Sally slapped her legs against the bay but Bronk caught hold of the bridle.
Grutt seized her wrist. “If you like breathin’,” he whispered, “stay right where you are and keep your big mouth shut.”
Reverend Tomlin was frozen in disbelief. “Surely you don’t intend to shoot me, young man?”
“Surely I do,” Luke Deal mimicked him.
“But—but—” the minister stammered, and looked around in incredulity. “This can’t be happening.”
“It is.”
Tomlin asked the question that would be uppermost on anyone’s mind. “Why, in heaven’s name? What have I ever done to you that you should abuse me like this?”
“Not a thing,” Luke admitted.
“Please. I want to comprehend. Enlighten me. What is going through your head? What purpose does shooting me serve?”
Sweet Sally realized the man of the cloth was desperately stalling. She also knew it would do him no good. Frantic, she tugged at the bay’s reins but Bronk and Grutt would not let go.
“You haven’t been payin’ attention, Word-man,” Luke Deal said. “You claim to always turn the other cheek. Let’s find out if you do.” He slowly thumbed back the Remington’s hammer.
“Please!” Reverend Tomlin said.
Luke squinted up at the sky. “Strange. There aren’t any bolts comin’ out of the blue to stop me, so I reckon the Almighty must approve of what I’m about to do.” Quick as a striking sidewinder, he leveled his right hand and shot the minister in the leg.
Bucking upward, Tomlin cried out in agony and clasped his hands to his calf. He thrashed wildly from side to side, his teeth clenched. Blood seeped between his fingers. It was several minutes before he stopped and lay limp on his side. Then, weakly lifting his head, he said, “I forgive you your trespass.”
Luke cackled. “If that’s not turnin’ the other cheek, I don’t know what is. But what’s one little bit of lead in the leg?” He took deliberate aim and shot Reverend Tomlin in the right shoulder.
The minister could not help himself; he screamed and thrashed more wildly than before, one hand to the new wound, the other over the hole in his leg.
As nonchalantly as if he were target shooting, Luke began replacing the spent cartridges. “Are you mad as hell yet? Do you want to bring the wrath of the Lord down on my head?”
Reverend Tomlin could not have replied if he’d wanted to. His face contorted from the torment, he quaked and groaned. But not for long. He abruptly clasped his hands and raised his eyes in appeal to the heavens for succor. Then he fainted.
“I’ll be jiggered,” Luke said. “He doesn’t have enough sand to fill a thimble. “Should we leave him here for the buzzards, Sally, or test his cheek turnin’ a few more times?”
Sweet Sally unleashed a torrent of obscenities. Burning with fury, she used every cuss word she knew. She blistered Luke Deal’s ears as they had never, ever been blistered, and when she was done, she glared and held her head high as if defying him to punish her.
Instead, he laughed.
It triggered another outburst. Sweet Sally tried to get close to him but Grutt and Bronk still would not let go of her horse’s bridle. With supreme effort she regained her self-control and said, “Leave that poor man alone. You have done enough. It’s me you’re mad at, not him.”
Luke turned to her in surprise. “Why, Sal, that’s not true. I’m not mad at either of you.”
“Then why are you doing this?” Sweet Sally wailed. “What does it prove? He’s unarmed, defenseless. A preacher, for God’s sake!”
“That he is.” Luke nodded. “Ever notice how his kind always think they are better than us lowly sinners?”
“You don’t know him! You don’t know he’s like that!” Sally was nearly beside herself again. “He could be the gentlest, kindest person who ever lived!”
“Then you don’t want me to shoot him again?”
“No! Please, no!”
“You would be upset if I shot him in the knees, say, or the elbows? Or between his legs?”
“I’m begging you! Think of how much pain you’ve caused him! Don’t make him suffer any more!”
Luke Deal scratched his chin with the tip of the Remington’s barrel. “I suppose you’re right. He shouldn’t suffer.” Extending his arm, he shot the minister in the head. Once, twice, three times, the Remington cracked, then he turned to Sally and said with the most charming air, “There. I put him out of his misery like you wanted. Are you happy with me now?”
Tears streamed down Sally’s cheeks. Her whole body slumped and her arms sagged and she cried and cried until someone nudged her, and she looked up into twin fiery pits of molten gray.
“You haven’t answered me. Was I nice enough for you?”
16
Cutters
The Atascosa. Indian Lakes. The Concho River. The course of a trail was dictated by its waterways. Cattle could not go long without water. So herds that followed the Western Trail went from one river or stream or lake or water hole to the next, always by the shortest route. There were a few stretches where geography dictated the cattle had to go without water for two or three days, and those were the stretches punchers dreaded because those were the stretches where cattle became irritable and uncooperative. Those were the stretches where stampedes were likely to occur.
Owen and the hands with him were lucky in that regard. Instead of a herd of three thousand head, they had one bull and four cows. A stampede was the one problem they need not fear.
Big Blue and his harem could still bolt if sufficiently startled: a flash of lightning, the boom of thunder, any other sudden loud noise, a scent they did not like. So the Bar 40 boys treated the five longhorns as they would three thousand head, and took all the ordinary precautions. They sang to the longhorns at night. They avoided firing a gun close to them, or doing anything else that might startle them. They let the longhorns think they were choosing the direction of travel by merely nudging them north each morning and then watching that the longhorns did not stray.
The four hands had it easy, and they knew it. There was a lot less work, a lot fewer worries. After the incident with the Indians, or, as Lon came to call it, “our red silliness,” they had one uneventful and pleasant day after another. Which was exactly how they liked it. No problems, no calamities, nothing to concern themselves about except ensuring that Big Blue and the cows were hale and happy.
By now they were nearly through the Concho River country. Water was plentiful, grass was abundant. The longhorns grazed to their bovine hearts’ content and had not lost any weight. In fact, the opposite had happened: Big Blue and the cows had gained pounds.
To Alfred Pitney, everything seemed to be as ideal as they could ask. So he was considerably puzzled when he noticed the cowboys were riding in that extra-vigilant manner they some
times adopted, their eyes always scanning the countryside, their hands on their revolvers. He let three days go by before his inquisitive nature compelled him to turn to Owen and ask why.
“Trail cutters,” the foreman said.
“I beg your pardon?”
Owen nodded at the lush hills they were wending through. “This is rustler country. A lot of outfits have lost a lot of cattle hereabouts to hombres who pretend to be cuttin’ cows for other outfits.”
Pitney breathed deep of the sweet, humid air. “What makes this country more prone than other parts we have been through?”
Owen had a litany. “It’s as far as anywhere can be from a town. If they have to throw lead, and kill someone, it can take weeks for Rangers or a federal marshal to get after them, and by then they are long gone. With all the grass and water, they can keep the cows they steal fit. There are a lot of places to hide out.”
“I get the idea,” Pitney said. “But we are well armed. I wouldn’t think these cutters you speak of would dare confront us.”
“They travel in packs, like wolves. Upwards of ten to twenty at a time. They won’t think twice about attackin’ a small outfit like ours.”
Now Pitney was on edge, too, and that evening, along a narrow creek, as they were bedding down the longhorns and Benedito was preparing supper, Cleveland came over to where Owen and Lon were stripping their horses.
“Better have a look at what I found.”
Cleveland went across the creek at a point where cattle normally crossed. The earth had been churned by the passage of countless heavy hooves, leaving dirt where grass had once grown, and there, clear in the fading light of the setting sun, were the fresh prints of shod horses.
“I make it as a couple of hours ago,” Cleveland said, “but you gents are savvier at reading sign so I leave the exact time to you.”
Owen went to one knee and ran his finger over several of the tracks. “Not half an hour,” he corrected the puncher from Ohio.
“Do you reckon they know about us?” Lon wondered.
“Could be,” Owen said. “Or it could be they are huntin’ other herds and don’t know we are behind them.”
By the Horns Page 18
