A Century of Great Western Stories

by A Century of Great Western Stories (retail) (epub)

  I walked away from Doc, leaving him to knot the rope around the tree trunk. The crowd fell silent as I approached the man on the bay.

  “What’s your name?” I asked.

  “Dodd,” he said.

  “This your horse?”

  “Yep.”

  I walked around behind the horse and checked the right hind hoof. The shoe was cracked down the center. I dropped the hoof and walked back to face Dodd.

  I stared at him for a few minutes, our eyes locked. Then I turned to the crowd and said, “Go on home. Go on. There’ll be no hanging here today.”

  Rafe stepped out of the crowd and put his hands on his hips. “You nuts, Johnny? This is the guy who killed May. He killed your wife!”

  “We don’t know that,” I said.

  “We don’t know it? Jesus, you just saw the broken shoe. What the hell more do you want?”

  “He’s got blood all over his shirt, Johnny,” Doc put in. “Hell, he’s our man.”

  “Even if he is, he doesn’t hang,” I said tightly.

  An excited murmur went up from the crowd and then Jason Bragg shouldered his way through and stood in front of me, one hand looped in his gun belt. He was a big man, with corn yellow hair and pale blue eyes. He was a farmer with a wife and three grown daughters. When he spoke now, it was in slow and measured tones.

  “Johnny, you are not doing right.”

  “No, Jason?”

  Jason shook his massive head, and pointed up to Dodd. “This man is a killer. We know he’s a killer. You’re the marshal here. It’s your job to …”

  “It’s my job to do justice.”

  “Yes, it’s your job to do justice. It’s your job to see that this man is hanged!” He looked at me as if he thought I was some incredible kind of insect. “Johnny, he killed your own wife!”

  “That doesn’t mean we take the law into our own hands.”

  “Johnny …”

  “It doesn’t mean that this town will get blood on its hands, either. If you hang this man, you’ll all be guilty of murder. You’ll be just as much a killer as he is. Every last one of you! You’ll be murdering in a group, but you’ll still be murdering. You’ve got no right to do that.”

  “The hell we ain’t!” someone shouted.

  “Come on, Johnny, quit the goddamned stalling!”

  “What is this, a tea party?”

  “We got our man, now string him up!”

  “That’s the man killed your wife, Johnny.”

  Jason Bragg cleared his throat. “Johnny, I got a wife and three girls. You remember my daughters when they were buttons. They’re young ladies now. We let this one get away with what he’s done, and this town won’t be safe for anyone anymore. My daughters …”

  “He won’t get away with anything,” I said. “But you’re not going to hang him.”

  “He killed your wife!” someone else shouted.

  “He’s ridin’ the horse that made the tracks.”

  “Shut up!” I yelled. “Shut up, all of you!”

  There was an immediate silence, and then, cutting through the silence like a sharp-edged knife, a voice asked, “You backin’ out, marshal?”

  The heads in the crowd turned, and I looked past them to see Hawkins sitting his saddle on the fringe of the crowd.

  “Keep out of this, stranger,” I called. “Just ride on to wherever the hell you were going.”

  “Killed your wife, did he?” Hawkins said. He looked over to Dodd, and then slowly began rolling a cigarette. “No wonder you were all het up back there on the trail.”

  “Listen, Hawkins …”

  “You seemed all ready to raise six kinds of hell a little while ago. What’s the matter, a hangin’ turn your stomach?”

  The crowd began to murmur again, and Hawkins grinned.

  “Hawkins,” I started, but he raised his voice above mine and shouted, “Are you sure this is the man?”

  “Yes!” the crowd yelled. “Yes!”

  “Ain’t no two ways about it. He’s the one! Even got scratches on his neck where May grabbed at him.”

  I glanced quickly at Dodd, saw his face pale, and saw the deep fresh scratches on the side of his neck at the same time.

  “Then string him up!” Hawkins shouted. “String him higher ’n the sun! String him up so your wives and your daughters can walk in safety. String him up even if you’ve got a yellow-livered marshal who …”

  “String him up!” the cry rose.

  The crowd surged forward and Doc Talmadge brought his hand back to slap at the bay’s rump. I took a step backward and pulled my .44 at the same time. Without turning my back to the crowd, I swung the gun down, chopping the barrel onto Doc’s wrist. He pulled back his hand and let out a yelp.

  “First man moves a step,” I said, “gets a hole in his gut!”

  Jason Bragg took a deep breath. “Johnny, don’t try to stop us. You should be ashamed of yourself. You should …”

  “I like you, Jason,” I said. “Don’t let it be you.” I cocked the gun, and the click was loud in the silence.

  “Johnny,” Rafe said, “you don’t know what you’re doing. You’re upset, you’re …”

  “Stay where you are, Rafe. Don’t move an inch.”

  “You going to let him stop you?” Hawkins called.

  No one answered him.

  “You going to let him stop justice?” he shouted.

  I waited for an answer, and when there was none, I said, “Go home. Go back to your homes. Go back to your shops. Go on, now. Go on.”

  The crowd began to mumble, and then a few kids broke away and began running back to town. Slowly, the women followed, and then Jason Bragg turned his back to me and stumped away silently. Rafe looked at me sneeringly and followed the rest. Doc Talmadge was the last to go, holding his wrist against his chest.

  Hawkins sat on his sorrel and watched the crowd walking back to town. When he turned, there was a smile on his face.

  “Thought we were going to have a little excitement,” he said.

  “You’d better get out of town, Hawkins. You’d better get out damned fast.”

  “I was just leavin’, marshal.” He raised his hand in a salute, wheeled his horse, and said, “So long, chum.”

  I watched while the horse rode up the dusty trail, parting the walkers before it. Then the horse was gone, and I kept watching until the crowd turned the bend in the road and was gone, too.

  I walked over to Dodd.

  He sat on the bay with his hands tied behind him, his face noncommittal.

  “Did you kill her?” I asked

  He didn’t answer.

  “Come on,” I said. “You’ll go before a court anyway, and there’s no one here but me to hear a confession. Did you?”

  He hesitated for a moment, and then he nodded briefly.

  “Why?” I asked.

  He shrugged his thin shoulders.

  I looked into his eyes, but there was no answer there, either.

  “I appreciate what you done, marshal,” he said suddenly, his lips pulling back to expose narrow teeth. “Considering everything … well, I just appreciate it.”

  “Sure,” I said. “I’m paid to see that justice is done.”

  “Well, I appreciate it.”

  I stepped behind him and untied his hands, and then I loosened the noose around his neck.

  “That feels good,” he said, massaging his neck.

  “I’ll bet it does.” I reached into my pocket for the makings. “Here,” I said, “roll yourself a cigarette.”

  “Thanks. Say, thanks.”

  His manner grew more relaxed. He sat in the saddle and sprinkled tobacco into the paper. He knew better than to try a break, because I was still holding my .44 in my hand. He worked on the cigarette, and he asked, “Do you think … do you think it’ll go bad for me?”

  I watched him wet the paper and put the cigarette into his mouth.

  “Not too bad,” I said.

  He nodded, and t
he cigarette bobbed, and he reached into his pocket for a match.

  I brought the .44 up quickly and fired five fast shots, watching his face explode in soggy red chunks.

  He dropped out of the saddle.

  The cigarette falling to the dust beside him.

  Then I mounted up and rode back to town.

  Marcia Muller is the author of more than twenty novels and several dozen short stories, a number of which have Western themes. She shows her considerable talent in this field in “Sweet Cactus Wine,” one of the few Western stories about pioneer women and how they coped with the myriad problems of the frontier. Her other Western stories, including “The Time of the Wolves,” often feature strong, independent women making their own way in the West. In this wry-humored, ironic, and immensely satisfying story, we meet the widow Katy (or Kathryn, as she prefers to be called), a woman not to be trifled with. When a rejected suitor starts shooting up her cacti, why, she just naturally sets out to do something about it. Something very fitting, indeed …

  Sweet Cactus Wine

  Marcia Muller

  The rain stopped as suddenly as it had begun, the way it always does in the Arizona desert. The torrent had burst from a near-cloudless sky, and now it was clear once more, the land nourished. I stood in the doorway of my house, watching the sun touch the stone wall, the old buckboard and the twisted arms of the giant saguaro cacti.

  The suddenness of these downpours fascinated me, even though I’d lived in the desert for close to forty years, since the day I’d come here as Joe’s bride in 1866. They’d been good years, not exactly bountiful, but we’d lived here in quiet comfort. Joe had the instinct that helped him bring the crops—melons, corn, beans—from the parched soil, an instinct he shared with the Papago Indians who were our neighbors. I didn’t possess the knack, so now that he was gone I didn’t farm. I did share one gift with the Papagos, however—the ability to make sweet cactus wine from the fruit of the saguaro. That wine was my livelihood now—as well as, I must admit, a source of Saturday-night pleasure—and the giant cacti scattered around the ranch were my fortune.

  I went inside to the big rough-hewn table where I’d been shelling peas when the downpour started. The bowl sat there half full, and I eyed the peas with distaste. Funny what age will do to you. For years I’d had an overly hearty appetite. Joe used to say, “Don’t worry, Katy. I like big women.” Lucky for him he did, because I’d carried around enough lard for two such admirers, and I didn’t believe in divorce anyway. Joe’d be surprised if he could see me now, though. I was tall, yes, still tall. But thin. I guess you’d call it gaunt. Food didn’t interest me any more.

  I sat down and finished shelling the peas anyway. It was market day in Arroyo, and Hank Gardner, my neighbor five miles down the road, had taken to stopping in for supper on his way home from town. Hank was widowed too. Maybe it was his way of courting. I didn’t know and didn’t care. One man had been enough trouble for me and, anyway, I intended to live out my days on these parched but familiar acres.

  Sure enough, right about suppertime Hank rode up on his old bay. He was a lean man, browned and weathered by the sun like folks get in these parts, and he rode stiffly. I watched him dismount, then went and got the whiskey bottle and poured him a tumblerful. If I knew Hank, he’d had a few drinks in town and would be wanting another. And a glassful sure wouldn’t be enough for old Hogsbreath Hank, as he was sometimes called.

  He came in and sat at the table like he always did. I stirred the iron pot on the stove and sat down too. Hank was a man of few words, like my Joe had been. I’d heard tales that his drinking and temper had pushed his wife into an early grave. Sara Gardner had died of pneumonia, though, and no man’s temper ever gave that to you.

  Tonight Hank seemed different, jumpy. He drummed his fingers on the table and drank his whiskey.

  To put him at his ease, I said, “How’re things in town?”

  “What?”

  “Town. How was it?”

  “Same as ever.”

  “You sure?”

  “Yeah, I’m sure. Why do you ask?” But he looked kind of furtive.

  “No reason,” I said. “Nothing changes out here. I don’t know why I asked.” Then I went to dish up the stew. I set it and some corn bread on the table, poured more whiskey for Hank and a little cactus wine for me. Hank ate steadily and silently. I sort of picked at my food.

  After supper I washed up the dishes and joined Hank on the front porch. He still seemed jumpy, but this time I didn’t try to find out why. I just sat there beside him, watching the sun spread its redness over the mountains in the distance. When Hank spoke, I’d almost forgotten he was there.

  “Kathryn”—he never called me Katy; only Joe used that name—“Kathryn, I’ve been thinking. It’s time the two of us got married.”

  So that was why he had the jitters. I turned to stare. “What put an idea like that into your head?”

  He frowned. “It’s natural.”

  “Natural?”

  “Kathryn, we’re both alone. It’s foolish you living here and me living over there when our ranches sit next to each other. Since Joe went, you haven’t farmed the place. We could live at my house, let this one go, and I’d farm the land for you.”

  Did he want me or the ranch? I know passion is supposed to die when you’re in your sixties, and as far as Hank was concerned mine had, but for form’s sake he could at least pretend to some.

  “Hank,” I said firmly, “I’ve got no intention of marrying again—or of farming this place.”

  “I said I’d farm it for you.”

  “If I wanted it farmed, I could hire someone to do it. I wouldn’t need to acquire another husband.”

  “We’d be company for one another.”

  “We’re company now.”

  “What’re you going to do—sit here the rest of your days scratching out a living with your cactus wine?”

  “That’s exactly what I plan to do.”

  “Kathryn …”

  “No.”

  “But …”

  “No. That’s all.”

  Hank’s jaw tightened and his eyes narrowed. I was afraid for a minute that I was going to be treated to a display of his legendary temper, but soon he looked placid as ever. He stood, patting my shoulder.

  “You think about it,” he said. “I’ll be back tomorrow and I want a yes answer.”

  I’d think about it, all right. As a matter of fact, as he rode off on the bay I was thinking it was the strangest marriage proposal I’d ever heard of. And there was no way old Hogsbreath was getting any yesses from me.

  HE RODE UP again the next evening. I was out gathering cactus fruit. In the springtime, when the desert nights are still cool, the tips of the saguaro branches are covered with waxy white flowers. They’re prettiest in the hours around dawn, and by the time the sun hits its peak, they close. When they die, the purple fruit begins to grow, and now, by midsummer, it was splitting open to show its bright red pulp. That pulp was what I turned into wine.

  I stood by my pride and joy—a fifty-foot giant that was probably two hundred years old—and watched Hank come toward me. From his easy gait, I knew he was sure I’d changed my mind about his proposal. Probably figured he was irresistible, the old goat. He had a surprise coming.

  “Well, Kathryn,” he said, stopping and folding his arms across his chest, “I’m here for my answer.”

  “It’s the same as it was last night. No. I don’t intend to marry again.”

  “You’re a foolish woman, Kathryn.”

  “That may be. But at least I’m foolish in my own way.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “If I’m making a mistake, it’ll be one I decide on, not one you decide for me.”

  The planes of his face hardened, and the wrinkles around his eyes deepened. “We’ll see about that.” He turned and strode toward the bay.

  I was surprised he had backed down so easy, but relieved. At least he was going.<
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  Hank didn’t get on the horse, however. He fumbled at his saddle scabbard and drew his shotgun. I set down the basket of cactus fruit. Surely he didn’t intend to shoot me!

  He turned, shotgun in one hand.

  “Don’t be a fool, Hank Gardner.”

  He marched toward me. I got ready to run, but he kept going, past me. I whirled, watching. Hank went up to a nearby saguaro, a twenty-five footer. He looked at it, turned, and walked exactly ten paces. Then he turned again, brought up the shotgun, sighted on the cactus, and began to fire. He fired at its base over and over.

  I put my hand to my mouth, shutting off a scream.

  Hank fired again, and the cactus toppled.

  It didn’t fall like a man would if he were shot. It just leaned backwards. Then it gave a sort of sigh and leaned farther and farther. As it leaned it picked up momentum, and when it hit the ground there was an awful thud.

  Hank gave the cactus a satisfied nod and marched back toward his horse.

  I found my voice, “Hey, you! Just what do you think you’re doing?”

  Hank got on the bay. “Cactuses are like people, Kathryn. They can’t do anything for you once they’re dead. Think about it.”

  “You bet I’ll think about it! That cactus was valuable to me. You’re going to pay!”

  “What happens when there’re no cactuses left?”

  “What? What?”

  “How’re you going to scratch out a living on this miserable ranch if someone shoots all your cactuses?”

  “You wouldn’t dare!”

  He smirked at me. “You know, there’s one way cactuses aren’t like people. Nobody ever hung a man for shooting one.”

  Then he rode off.

  I stood there speechless. Did the bastard plan to shoot up my cacti until I agreed to marry him?

  I went over to the saguaro. It lay on its back, oozing water. I nudged it gently with my foot. There were a few round holes in it—entrances to the caves where the Gila woodpeckers lived. From the silence, I guessed the birds hadn’t been inside when the cactus toppled. They’d be mighty surprised when they came back and found their home on the ground.

  The woodpeckers were the least of my problems, however. They’d just take up residence in one of the other giants. Trouble was, what if Hank carried out his veiled threat? Then the woodpeckers would run out of nesting places—and I’d run out of fruit to make my wine from.