“About Pa,” I said. “I want to know how it happened.”
“The police, like I said,” Horner shrugged. “There must have been about a dozen of them, according to your ma. They started pushin' your pa around, tryin' to make him tell where you'd gone, and one of them hit him with the barrel of his pistol. That, I guess, was the way it happened.”
“The funeral was yesterday,” Cy Clanton said. “We buried him in the family plot, in the churchyard at John's City. There wasn't a better man that your pa, Tall. If the police want a war, that's what they're goin' to get.”
The anger was like a knife in my chest. The other men drifted over one and two at a time until I was completely surrounded now. Their eyes regarded me soberly.
I said, “Does anybody know the one that did it? The one that swung the pistol?”
Pat Roark, a thin, sharp-eyed man about my own age, said, “I heard it was the captain of the Hooker outfit. It seemed like he was a friend of that carpetbagger you gun-whipped a while back. Name of Thornton, I think.”
I knew what to do then. I turned to Bucky Stow, who had sidled in with the group of men. “Bucky, cut out a fresh horse for me, will you? I guess I'll be riding into John's City.”
There was a murmur among the men. A sound of uneasiness. “Don't get us wrong, Tall,” Jed Horner said. “We're behind you in whatever you decide to do about this. Like I said, there wasn't a better man than your pa. But I think you ought to know it would be taking an awful chance riding right into town that way. Police are o thick as lice on a dog's back.”
I turned on him. “You don't have to go with me. It's my job and I can take care of it myself.”
“Tall, you know we don't mean it that way. If that's what you want, why, I guess you can count on us to be with you.”
The other men made sounds of agreement, but a bit reluctantly. Then a man I hadn't noticed before pushed his way to the front. He was a small man with a ridiculously large mustache, and dark, intelligent little eyes peering out from under bushy gray eyebrows. He was Martin Novak, Ray Novak's father.
“Don't you think you ought to think this over, Tall?” he asked quietly. “Is it going to settle anything if you and the other ranchers go riding into town, looking for a war?”
“I'm not asking anybody to go with me,” I said.
He regarded my two pistols, and I wondered if Ray had told him about Pappy Garret. But those eyes of his didn't tell me a thing. Then he seemed to forget me and turned slowly in a small circle, looking at the other men.
“Why don't you break it up?” he asked quietly. “Go on home and give things a chance to straighten out by themselves. It'll just make things worse—somebody else will get killed—if you all go into town looking for trouble.” Then he turned back to me. “Tall, you're wanted in these parts by the law. These other men will be breaking the law, too, if they tie up with you in this thing. Sooner or later there'll be real law in Texas. When that happens, this man Thornton will get what's coming to him. I'll give you my word on that.”
He actually meant every word of what he was saying. He had lived law for so long that anything that walked behind a tin badge got to be a god to him.
“Do you expect me to do like your son?” I asked tightly. “Would you want me to give myself up to the bluebellies, after what they have just done here?”
He started to say something, and then changed his mind. He looked at me for a long moment, then, “I guess it wouldn't do any good to tell you what I think, Tall. You'd go on and do things your own way.”
He turned and walked through the circle of ranchers. I heard Pat Roark saying, “Well, I'll be damned. I never figured the marshal would back down on his own people when it came to a fight with the bluebellies.”
Then Bucky Stow came out of the barn leading a saddled bay over to where we were. Slowly, the circle begin to break up and the men went, one and two at a time, to get their horses.
I said, “Thanks, Bucky,” as I took the bay's reins. “Take good care of Red. I'll want him when I get back.”
Bucky shuffled uncomfortably. He was a quiet man who never said much, and I'd never known him to carry a gun, much less use one. He said, “Tall, I guess you know how I felt about your pa. I'd be glad to...”
“You stay here, Bucky. You look after the womenfolks.”
His eyes looked relieved. I led the bay over toward the corral where the ranchers were getting their horses cinched up. I hadn't taken more than a dozen steps when Laurin came out on the front porch.
“Tall?”
I wasn't sure that I wanted to talk to Laurin now. There was only one thing in my mind—a man by the name of Thornton. But she called again, I paused, and then I went over to the end of the porch. Her eyes had that wide, frightened look that I had seen in Ma's eyes a few minutes before.
“Tall,” she said tightly, “don't do it. They'll kill you in a minute if you go into town looking for trouble.”
I tried to keep my voice even. “Nothing's going to happen to me. You just stay here and take care of Ma. There's nothing to worry about.”
She made a helpless little gesture with her hands. Even through all the bitterness that was in me, I thought how beautiful she was and how much I loved her.
“Tall, please, for my sake, for your mother's sake, don't do anything now.”
“I have to do something,” I said. “Don't you see that?” “I just know that there's going to be more trouble, and more killing. It will be the start of a war if you go into town bent on revenge.”
I tried to be patient, but there was something inside me that kept urging me to strike out and hurt. I said, “What do you want me to do, turn yellow like Ray Novak, and turn myself over to the bluebellies?”
“It wouldn't be turning yellow, Tall.” Her voice was breathless, the words coming out fast, stumbling over each other in their haste. “Tall, can't you see what you'll be starting? If you can't think of yourself, think of others. Of me, and your mother.”
The ranchers were waiting. They had their horses saddled, and the only thing holding them up was myself. I started backing away. “This is man's business,” I said. “Women just don't understand things like this.” Then I added, “Don't worry. Everything's going to be all right.” But the words sounded flat and stale in my own ears.
We rode away from the ranch house with me in the van, and Pat Roark riding beside me. There was about a dozen of us, and we rode silently, nobody saying a word. I concentrated on the thud of the bay's hoofs, and the little squirts of powdery red dust that rose up, and a lazily circling chicken hawk up above, cutting clean wide swaths against a glass sky. I didn't dare to think of Pa. There would be time enough for that.
We traveled south on the wagon road that we always used going to Garner's Store, across the arroyo and onto the flats. We reached Garner's Store, a squat boxlike affair made of cottonwood logs and 'dobe bricks, about an hour after leaving the ranch house. It set in the V of the road, where the wagon tracks leading from the Bannerman and the Novak ranches came together. As we sighted the store, we saw two Negro police leave in a cloud of dust, heading south toward John's City.
There was no use going after them. A dozen armed men couldn't very well ride into town and expect to surprise anybody. We pulled our horses up at the store and let them drink at the watering trough. After a while Old Man Garner came out looking vaguely worried.
I said, “Those were Davis police, weren't they, the ones that fogged out of your place a few minutes back?”
The old man nodded. “I guess they was kind of ex-pectin' something out of your pa's friends, Tall. Anyway, they stayed here until they saw you comin', and then they lit out for town.”
Pat Roark said, “Did they mention what outfit they was out of?”
The old man thought. “They mentioned Hooker's Bend. I reckon they come from around there.”
Pat looked at me. “You ready to ride, Tall?”
“I'm ready.”
Chapter 5
&nbs
p; AS WE RODE, Pat Roark seemed to be the only man in the whole group who was completely at ease. He rode slouched over to one side of his saddle, grinning slightly, as if he was looking forward to the excitement. He's just a kid, I thought. Nothing but a damned green kid who doesn't know what he's getting into. But then I realized that he was as old as I was. Maybe a few months older. I'd never thought of him before as being a kid.
“Cavalry,” Pat Roark said, as if he had been giving it considerable thought. “They're the ones we've got to watch out for. The police don't amount to a damn.”
“How much cavalry is there?” I asked.
He shrugged. “There's a detail up north somewhere, about a half a troop, I think. They come and go in John's City, but they've got too much territory to cover to stay there all the time.”
“But the police will be there,” I said.
He looked at me. “They'll be there. This Thornton I mentioned—Jake Thornton, I think his name is—probably we'll find him in the City Bar. It's the only place in town that caters friendly to carpetbaggers.”
I kept my voice level. “Do you know this Thornton when you see him?”
“I know him. I'll point him out to you when the time comes. It'll be a pleasure.”
I knew then that Pat Roark was the only one I could really depend on when things got down to shooting. The others, mostly, were just coming along because they didn't have the guts to stay back. They were all good men, and I didn't have anything against them, but this was my fight, not theirs, and they knew it better than anybody.
When we sighted the town, Pat took out his pistol to check the loading. I said, “Do you mind if I look at that?” He grinned and handed it over.
It wasn't much of a weapon—an old .36-caliber Gofer revolver. It was mounted on a brass frame and had a naked trigger without any guard. I recognized it as one of the guns that the Confederacy had bought from some outlaw arms dealers before the war, probably because the Yankees were afraid to shoot them and they were cheap. Across the top of the frame and barrel there was the mark: T. W. Gofer's Patent, Portsmouth, Va. I figured it was about an even bet that the cylinder would explode before you could get off the third shot.
I handed the pistol back to him. Then, on impulse, I drew one of those new, deadly .44's that Pappy had given me and handed that over too.
“You'd better take this,” I said, “in case you need a pistol.”
He took it, admiring its velvety finish and fine balance. Then he grinned again and shoved it into his waistband. “Thanks, Tall. I guess with a pair of these between us, we haven't got anything to worry about.”
In Pat Roark, I knew that I had one good man on my side. And one good man was all I needed.
We rode into Main Street in no particular formation, Pat and myself still in the van, and the others strung out in the rear. The town was ready for us. Everything that a bullet could hurt had been taken off the plank walk and dragged inside. The street was almost deserted, with only two or three horses standing at the block-long hitching rack. The last buckboard was just pulling out of the far end of the street as we came into town.
“We hit it right,” Pat Roark said out of the side of his mouth. “The cavalry's not in town.” He was moving his head slowly from side to side, not missing a thing. The thumb of his right hand, I noticed, was hooked in his cartridge belt, close to the butt of that new .44. When his head turned in my direction again he said, “You want to try the City Bar first?”
I nodded. The bar was a two-story frame building standing on the corner, at the end of the block. When we reached it, I motioned for Pat to pull in, and I waited for the others to come up.
“Look,” I said, as they grouped up around me, “I know this is none of your fight. I'm not asking you to come in with me, but I'll appreciate it if you keep watch outside here and see that nobody has a chance to get me and Pat in the back.”
The men looked as if they wanted to object and join in on the fight, but nobody did. Jed Horner was the only one to say anything.
“Tall, we don't want you to get the idea that we're not with you. It's just like I said...”
I left him talking and looped the bay's reins over the hitching rack. Pat was waiting for me on the plank walk, his back against the building.
“I guess we might as well go in,” I said.
“I guess so.”
We kicked both batwings open at the same time and stepped inside. I was ready to draw from the first. I half expected a rifle, or maybe a shotgun, to be looking at us from over the bar. But there was nothing out of the way. Business was going on as usual. A couple of Davis policemen were having beer at the bar, a handful of turncoats and scalawags were in the back of the place where the gambling tables were. A roulette ball rattled like dry bones as the wheel spun, then the rattling stopped abruptly as the ball went into a slot. “Black, twenty-three,” I heard somebody say.
“He isn't here,” Pat said under his breath.
The bartender and two policemen were watching us carefully, but nobody made a move. There was something about the whole setup that I didn't like. I knew the bartender recognized me, and probably the two policemen as well. Then why didn't they do something? I was the one they wanted.
I went over every inch of the place with my eyes. There were nine men in the place, counting the bartender, a croupier, and a blackjack dealer. In the back of the place there were some stairs leading up to a small gallery jutting out over the gambling area, but there was nobody up there that I could see.
Without turning his head, Pat said, “You want to try the marshal's office?”
That would be the logical thing to do, but there was still something about this place that I didn't like. I walked over to the bar, and Pat stayed where he was, by the door. The roulette ball didn't rattle any more. The blackjack dealer paid off, raked his cards in, and waited. Everybody seemed to be waiting for something.
The bartender moved away from his two police customers and came down to the end of the bar where I was.
“What'll you have, Tall?” he asked easily. Maybe a little too easily.
“Information,” I said. “I'm looking for a man. A man by the name of Thornton.”
He thought it over carefully. “You ought to try the marshal's office,” he said finally. “That's his headquarters, not here.”
He started to reach under the bar for something. A bar rag maybe, or some fresh glasses. But it could have been a shotgun.
I said, “Just keep your hands where I can see them.” The two policemen were watching us, but so far they hadn't made any move toward their guns. One was short and big around the belly and hips. The other was big all over, maybe six feet tall and weighing around two hundred pounds. I called down the bar.
“You down there, where's your captain?”
The big one set his glass down. He looked at the short, fat one, and they both grinned quietly, as if they were enjoying a secret little joke just between the two of them.
“Down at the marshal's office, I reckon,” the big one said.
He was lying. I was sure of that without knowing how I was sure. I could have killed him right there, both of them, with no regrets, no feeling at all. It could just as easily have been one of them, I thought. I'd never be able to look at a policeman again without thinking that, without feeling that sick anger blaze up and burn again.
And the two of them stood there grinning. The bartender and the others didn't do anything.
I heard myself saying, “Do you know who I am?”
The big man shrugged. The short one had another go at his drink.
“The name is Cameron,” I said. “Tall Cameron. I hear you Davis police are looking for me.”
They didn't even blink. I was hoping that they would make a move for their guns, but they didn't move at all.
The big man spoke mildly. “You must of heard wrong, kid. We don't want you.”
“You're a goddamned liar,” I said.
That jarred them for a minute.
I watched the grins flicker and fade. They looked like they might go for their guns after all, and I was hoping they would. I was praying that they would give me an excuse to put a bullet... But that was as far as the thought went. Pat Roark stopped all thinking, all action that might have taken place, with:
“Tall, look out!”
I wheeled instinctively. I vaguely noticed that the bartender's hands had darted under the bar again and I caught the glint of a brutish sawed-off shotgun. And I was aware of the two police clawing for their own side guns —but all that was in the back of my mind. It was the gallery that held my attention.
The Desperado Page 8
