“Yeah, sure.” The nondescript shifted uneasily, licked his lips. “I’ll get your horse up, too.”
As in a dream, Mr. Devereaux followed, patted the nickering stallion’s sleek jet neck. “This is a time for travel, boy,” he heard himself say. “We’ll give this groom our double eagle for his gun and be on our way.”
“One o’ Park’s boys come huntin’ …”
One of Park’s men had come hunting, to tell an honest marshal where a wanted man was hiding. Only it wasn’t true. He, the hunted, hadn’t been there.
In his mind’s eye he pictured Alonzo Park with his bull neck and meaty, flushed face. Yes, Park would use a fugitive’s name to bait a trap for an honest marshal.
“Did Park’s man find Adams?” he asked, and in spite of all his efforts he could not make it sound quite casual.
“Uh-uh. He’d already left.”
For a long, wordless moment Mr. Devereaux stood there. Slowly drew in a deep, full breath. His lips felt stiff, unreal.
The groom shuffled his feet. “If you’ll just lemme get there …”
Ever so faintly, Mr. Devereaux smiled. Again he patted the stallion’s neck. He replaced the gold piece in his pocket.
“That won’t be necessary now. I’ve had a change of plans.” And then, after a second: “If the marshal asks for me again, you can tell him I’m at the El Dorado.”
ALONZO PARK SPRAWLED in the self-same chair he’d occupied the night before, back to the bar, red-eye whiskey at his elbow.
“You scared me, Devereaux. I was beginning to be afraid you wouldn’t come.”
Mr. Devereaux raised his brows, allowed his curiosity to show. “You expected me, then?”
“Expected you? Of course I expected you.” Park laughed. “You’ve got a rep for being a sentimental fool, Devereaux. They tell stories about it all the way to Montana. Last night Adams backed your play, so I knew you’d come when you heard he’d bought himself some trouble.”
“And so?”
“So now we wait till Adams shows up to pinch you. Both of you’ll turn up dead. Then I’ll tell it that you forced me to hide you out at gunpoint. You killed Adams, and I killed you. The town will give me a vote of thanks.” Again he leered. “Nice, eh?”
Wordless, Mr. Devereaux shrugged. It had seemed such a good idea this check on Park. Interception by the cross-eyed, shotgun-toting barkeep was another story. They’d nailed him cold, overlooked nothing save the derringer in their search. They’d have found it, too, except that he’d transferred it to a new hideout within his flat-crowned Stetson after the stable groom’s comment on the sleeve-rig.
So, now he stood here before Alonzo Park in the echoing, dim-lit El Dorado. The scattergunner still covered him from behind the bar—grim incongruous against the background of mirrors and pyramided bottles. Two other Park gunmen crouched by the street-front windows at the far end of the room, eyes glued to cracks in the shutters.
One of the men by the windows sang out, low, tense. “It’s Adams! Here he comes!”
Park grinned wolfishly. “Well, Devereaux?”
A chill rippled through Mr. Devereaux in spite of his control. He had to fight to keep his tremor from his face. “I bow to superior talent, sir!” He took off the Stetson, mopped his brow. His sweating fingers closed round the derringer’s butt. His knuckles showed white.
“He’ll be here in ten seconds, Lon!” the gunman said.
Mr. Devereaux turned a trifle, stared straight into the bartender’s crossed eyes. The shotgun’s barrels loomed like a cannon. Desperately, he tried to give his voice the right inflection.
“These maneuverings raise a thirst. Make mine Mill’s Blue grass please.”
For the fraction of a second the bartender’s gaze wavered toward the bottles stacked behind him.
Mr. Devereaux brought the derringer up past the Stetson’s brim, fired once. A black spot the size of a dime appeared just above the man’s left cheekbone.
Chill, rock-steady now, Mr. Devereaux swiveled.
Park snarled, clawed a pistol from beneath his coat.
Mr. Devereaux fired the other barrel. He watched two of Park’s bared teeth disappear, the man himself totter over backwards.
Behind him, the street end of the room reverberated gunfire. He swung. Park’s gunmen were already down, Charlie Adams coming forward stiff-legged, a smoking .45 in his hand. The marshal bent, twisted the pistol away from the dead Park.
“A .31. That’s what Doc Brand said shot me,” Adams said.
Other men were crowding through the door now, bug-eyed, excited men with loud voices. Mr. Devereaux ignored them, held his own tone steady. He even managed to inject a faint, ironic note. “You were looking for me, Marshal?”
The other’s freckled face froze. “I still am. You’re wanted back in Texas.”
“And duty’s duty?” Mr. Devereaux sighed. All of a sudden he felt very old, very weary. “So be it, Marshal. A man must play it as he sees it.” Then: “Dry work, Marshal. If you don’t mind, I’ll have a drink.”
Very carefully, he rounded the end of the bar, stared down at the fallen, cross-eyed barkeep.
“Dead.” He bent, as if to move the man away. Then, instead, he snatched up the scattergun and straightened fast. “Buckshot means burying, gentlemen. Do I have any takers?”
No one moved. Then Adams let out his breath, scowled.
“Damn you, Devereaux!”
Somehow, to Mr. Devereaux, it sounded like a benediction.
Wordless, he backed through the El Dorado’s open doorway, whipped loose the reins of a big, snake-eyed bay at the rail, and led the beast out of view beside the building. He fired the scattergun into the air as he booted the bay across the rump, hard.
The horse let out a snort second cousin to a Comanche war whoop and took off with a thunder of hooves. Mr. Devereaux ducked back into the shadow and stood stock-still.
The rush of feet in the El Dorado came like an echo to the big bay’s thunder. Shouting, cursing, the marshal and his men boiled out the door, forked saddles and raced off in wild pursuit.
Mr. Devereaux waited till they were out of sight. He’d pick up the black stallion at the livery barn according to plan and head off south. There’d be plenty of time. Yes, plenty of time …
Again Lettie Lauck’s shop caught his eye. It was lighted. We could see a tall young woman moving about inside.
The doll was still there, a big one, even bigger than the one Charlie Adams had carried. The eyes were wide and blue, the hair shimmering gold, the gown of silk. It was a beautiful doll.
The price tag was there, too: twenty dollars.
Almost without thinking, Mr. Devereaux reached into his pocket, fingered the double eagle. His last double eagle, still.
With a start, it came to him that the sky had cleared. The stars were out and the wind no longer blew. For an instant he almost thought he could hear Charlie Adams’s shouts as he spurred his riders on. He smiled …
Still smiling, he stepped inside the shop. He doffed the flat-crowned Stetson politely as the tall young woman came forward.
“The doll in the window, please,” said Mr. Devereaux.
Rodeo performer, rancher, miner, Max Evans, who was born in 1925, was able to experience life as it was frequently lived in the Old West … and to write about it. Evans is one of the genre’s superstars, a one hundred percent original talent. Nobody is foolish enough to try to imitate him. He is his own man in every respect. Evans works in the most difficult yet most rewarding of all literary forms, the tragicomedy. One of Western fiction’s true stylists, he’s as good at making you cry as he is at making you laugh. He is also, in his own sly way, a fine reporter, setting down with no false romance the West as it really was, and really is. His novels, which include The Rounders, The Hi-Lo Country, and The Mountain bark, roll over, wag their tails, and leave you begging for more.
Candles in the Bottom of the Pool
Max Evans
Joshua Stone III moved
along the cool adobe corridor listening to the massive walls. They were over three feet thick, the mud and straw solidified hard as granite. He appeared the same.
The sounds came to him faintly at first, then stronger. He leaned against the smooth dirt plaster and heard the clanking of armor, the twanging of bows, the screams of falling men and horses. His chest rose as his lungs pumped the excited blood. His powerful hands were grabbing their own flesh at his sides. It was real. Then the struggles of the olive conquerors and the brown vanquished faded away like a weak wind.
He opened his eyes, relaxing slightly, and stepped back, staring intently at the wall. Where was she? Would she still come to him smiling, waiting, wanting? Maybe. There was silence now. Even the singing of the desert birds outside could not penetrate the mighty walls.
Then he heard the other song. The words were unintelligible, ancient, from forever back, back, back, but he felt and understood their meaning. She appeared from the unfathomable reaches of the wall, undulating like a black wisp ripped from a tornado cloud. She was whole now. Her black lace dress clung to her body, emphasizing the delicious smoothness of her face and hands. The comb of Spanish silver glistened like a halo in her hair. His blue eyes stared at her dark ones across the centuries. They knew. She smiled with much warmth, and more. One hand beckoned for him to come. He smiled back, whispering, “Soon. Very soon.”
“YES, YES, YES,” she said, and the words vibrated about, over, through, under, and around everything. He stood, still staring, but there was only the dry mud now.
He turned, as yet entranced, then shook it off and entered through the heavily timbered archway into the main room. The light shafted in from the patio window, illuminating the big room not unlike a cathedral. In a way it was. Santos and bultos were all over. The darkly stained furniture was from another time, hand hewn and permanent like the house itself.
He absorbed the room for a moment, his eyes caressing the old Indian pots spotted about, the rich color of the paintings from Spain, the cochineal rugs dyed from kermes bugs. Yes, the house was old; older than America. He truly loved its feeling of history, glory, and power.
Then his gaze stopped on the only discord in the room. It was a wildly colored, exaggerated painting of himself. He didn’t like the idea of his portrait hanging there. He didn’t need that. He allowed it only because his niece, Aleta, had done it. He was fond of her.
Juanita, the aged servant, entered with a tray. It held guacamole salad, tostados, and the inevitable Bloody Marys. He asked her in perfect Spanish where his wife, Carole, was.
She answered in English, “On the patio, señor. I have your drinks.” She moved out ahead of him, bony, stiff, bent, but with an almost girlish quickness about her. She’d been with them for decades. They’d expected her demise for years, then given up.
Carole lounged in the desert sun, dozing the liquor away. He couldn’t remember when she started drinking so heavily. He had to admit that she had a tough constitution—almost as much as his own. It was usually around midnight before alcohol dulled her to retire. She removed the oversized sunglasses and sat up as Juanita placed the tray on a small table by her. The wrinkles showed around the eyes, but her figure was still as good as ever. She rubbed at the lotion on her golden legs and then reached for her drink. At her movement, he had a fleeting desire to take her to bed. Was that what had brought them together? Was that what had held them until it was too late? Maybe. She pushed the burnt blonde hair back and placed the edge of the glass against her glistening lips. He thought the red drink was going down her throat like weak blood to give her strength for the day. He gazed out across the green mass of trees, grass, and bushes in the formal garden beyond the patio. He heard the little brook that coursed through it, giving life to the oasis just as the Bloody Marys did his wife.
It was late morning, and already the clouds puffed up beyond the parched mountains, promising much, seldom giving. It was as if the desert of cacti, lizards, scorpions, and coyotes between the mountains and the hacienda was too forbidding to pass over. It took many clouds to give the necessary courage to one another. It rarely happened.
He picked up his drink, hypnotized by the rising heat waves of the harsh land.
“I’ve decided,” he said.
“You’ve decided what?”
“It’s time we held the gathering.”
She took another sip, set it down, and reached for a cigarette. “You’ve been talking about that for three years, Joshua.”
“I know, but I’ve made up my mind.”
“When?”
“Now.”
“Now? Oh God, it’ll take days to prepare.” She took another swallow of the red drink. “I’m just not up to it. Besides, Lana and Joseph are in Bermuda. Sheila and Ralph are in Honolulu.”
“They’ll come.”
“You can’t just order people away from their vacations.” She took another swallow, pulled the bra of her bikini up, walked over and sat down on the edge of the pool, and dangled her feet in it. Resentment showed in her back. He still felt a little love for her, which surprised him. There was no question that his money and power had been part of her attraction to him. But at first, it had been good. They’d gone just about everywhere in the world together. The fun, the laughs, the adventure had been there even though some part of his business empire was always intruding. What had happened? Hell, why didn’t he admit it? Why didn’t she? It had worn out. It was that simple. Just plain worn out from the heaviness of the burdens of empire like an old draft horse or a tired underground coal miner.
She splashed the water over her body, knowing from his silence there was no use. “Well, we might as well get on with it. When do you call?”
He finished the drink, stood up, and moved towards the house, saying, “As I said, now.”
JOSHUA ENTERED THE study. His secretary for the past ten years looked up, sensing something in his determined movement.
“All right, Charlotte.”
She picked up the pad without questioning. He paced across the Navajo rugs, giving her a long list of names. Occasionally he’d run his hands down a row of books, playing them like an accordion. He really didn’t like organization, but when he decided, he could be almost magical at it. There was no hesitation, no lost thought or confusion. He was putting together the “gathering” just as he’d expanded the small fortune his father had left him. It kept growing, moving.
When he finished dictating the names, he said, “We’ll have food indigenous to the Southwest. Tons of it. I want for entertainment the Russian dancer from Los Angeles, Alfredo and his guitar from Juárez, the belly dancer what’s-her-name from San Francisco, the mariachis from Mexico City, and the brass group from Denver.”
His whole huge body was vibrating now. A force exuded from Joshua—the same force that had swayed decisions on many oil field deals, land developments, cattle domains, and, on occasion, even the stock market—but never had Charlotte seen him as he was now. There was something more, something she could not explain. Then he was done. He pushed at his slightly graying mass of hair and walked around the hand-carved desk to her. He pulled her head over to him and held it a moment against his side. They had once been lovers, but when she came to work for him that was over. There was still a tenderness between them. She was one of those women who just missed being beautiful all the way around, but she had a sensual appeal and a soft strength that was so much more. She had his respect, too, and that was very hard for him to give.
He broke the mood with, “Call Aleta and Rob first.”
She took the book of numbers and swiftly dialed, asking, “Are you sure they’re in El Paso?”
“Yes. Aleta’s painting. She’s getting ready for her show in Dallas.” He took the phone. “Rob, is Aleta there?”
In El Paso, Rob gave an affirmative answer and put his hand over the phone, “Your Uncle God is on the horn.”
Aleta wiped the paint from her hands and reached for the receiver. “Don’t be so sarcasti
c, darling; he might leave you out of his will.”
The vibrations were instantaneous down the wire between the man and the girl. She would be delighted to come.
When the conversation was over and Aleta informed her husband, he said, “The old bastard! He’s a dictator. I’d just love to kill him!”
He finished with Lana and Joseph Helstrom in the Bahamas with, “No kids. Do you understand? This is not for children.”
The husband turned to his wife, saying, “We’re ordered to attend a gathering at Aqua Dulce.”
“A gathering?”
“A party. You know how he is about labeling things.”
“Oh Christ, two days on vacation and he orders us to a party.”
“I could happily murder the son of a bitch and laugh for years,” Joseph said, throwing a beach towel across the room against a bamboo curtain.
Finally, Joshua was finished. Charlotte got up and mixed them a scotch on the rocks from the concealed bar behind the desk. They raised their glasses, and both said at the same time, “To the gathering.” They laughed together as they worked together.
Suddenly Charlotte set her glass down and, not having heard the phone conversations, stated almost omnipotently, “Half of them would delight in doing away with you.”
Joshua nodded, smiling lightly. “You’re wrong, love, a good two-thirds would gladly blow me apart, and all but a few of the others would wish them well.”
“Touché.”
“They do have a tendency to forget how they arrived at their present positions. However, that’s not what concerns me. All are free to leave whenever they wish, but most don’t have the guts. They like cinches but never acknowledge that on this earth no such thing exists. Even the sun is slowly burning itself to death.”
“Another drink?”
“Of course. This is a moment for great celebration.”
She poured the drinks efficiently, enjoying this time with him. Sensing something very special happening. Thrilled to share with him again.
A Century of Great Western Stories Page 52
