A Century of Great Western Stories

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

  They touched glasses across the desk, and he said, almost jubilantly, “To the Gods, goddamn them!”

  CAROLE INSTRUCTED JUANITA in the cleaning and preparing of the house. She put old Martin the head caretaker and yard man, and his two younger sons, to trimming the garden. This last was unnecessary because old Martin loved the leisure and independence of his job. He kept everything in shape anyway. It did, however, serve its purpose. Carole felt like she was doing something. In fact, an excitement she hadn’t felt for some time came upon her. She remembered the first really important entertaining she’d done for Joshua after their marriage. He was on a crucial Middle East oil deal.

  It was in their New York townhouse in the days they were commuting around the world to various homes and apartments. She had really pulled a coup. Carole had worked closely with the sheik’s male secretary and found what to her were some surprising facts. At first she’d intended to have food catered native to the guests’ own country and utilize local belly dancers of the same origin. But after much consultation she served hamburgers and had three glowing, local-born blondes as dancing girls. The sheiks raved over the Yankee food they’d heard so much about and were obviously taken with the yellow-topped fair-skinned dancing girls. They were also highly captivated by Carole herself. The whole thing had been a rousing success. Joshua got his oil concessions, and she had felt an enormous sense of accomplishment.

  Today, as she moved about the vast hacienda, she felt some of that old energy returning. There was something different though. Her excitement was mounting, but it was more like one must feel stalking a man-eating tiger and knowing that at the next parting of the bushes they would look into each other’s eyes.

  Joshua checked out the wine cellar. He loved the silence and the dank smell. He touched some of the ancient casks as he had the history books in the study. He was drawn to old things now, remembering, recalling, conjuring up the history of his land … the great Southwest. He lingered long after he knew the supply of fine wines was more than sufficient. He moved the lantern back and forth, watching the shadows hide from the moving light. Carole had long wanted him to have electricity installed down here, but he’d refused. Some things need to remain as they are, he felt. Many of the old ways were better. Many worse. He’d wondered uncounted times why men who could build computers and fly to distant planets were too blind, or stupid, to select the best of the old and the best of the new and weld them together. He knew that at least the moderate happiness of mankind was that simple. An idiot could see it if he opened up and looked. It would not happen during Joshua’s brief encounter with this planet. He knew it and was disgusted by it.

  He set the lantern on a shelf and stood gazing at the wall ending the cellar. It was awhile before the visions would begin coming to him. He didn’t mind. Time was both nothing and everything. Then he heard the hooves of many horses walking methodically forward. It was like the beat of countless drumsticks against the earth. A rhythm, a pattern, a definite purpose in the sound. Closer. Louder. The song came as a sigh at first, then a whisper; finally it was clear and hauntingly lovely. He felt thousands of years old, perhaps millions, perhaps ageless. Colors in circular and elongated patterns danced about in the wall. Slowly they took form as if just being born. Swiftly now, they melded into shape, and he saw Cortés majestically leading his men and horses in clothing of iron. From the left came Montezuma and his followers in dazzling costumes so wildly colored they appeared to be walking rainbows. They knelt and prostrated themselves to the gods with four legs. Beauty had bent to force.

  Joshua was witnessing the beginning of the Americas. The vision dissolved like a panoramic movie, and the song seeped away.

  Then Oñate appeared, splashing his column across the Rio Grande at the pueblo of Juárez, and headed north up the river. The cellar suddenly reverberated with the swish of a sword into red flesh, and there was a huge, moving collage of churning, charging horses, and arrows whistling into the cracks of armor, and many things fell to the earth and became still. Oñate sat astride his horse surveying the compound of a conquered pueblo.

  The song came again suddenly, shatteringly, crescendoing as Joshua’s Spanish princess stood on a hill looking down. She came towards him, appearing to walk just above the earth. As she neared, smiling, with both arms out, he moved to the wall. As they came closer, he reached the wall with his arms outspread, trying to physically feel into it, but she was gone. He stayed thusly for a while, his head turned sideways, pushing his whole body against the dirt. For a moment he sagged and took a breath into his body that released him. He turned, picked up the lantern, and zombied his way up to the other world. The one here.

  ALL WAS READY. The tables were filled with every delicacy of the land from which Joshua, his father, and grandfathers twice back had sprouted. The hacienda shined from repeated dusting and polishing. A cantina holding many bottles from many other lands was set up in the main room, and an even greater display was waiting for eager hands, dry throats, and tight emotions in the patio.

  Carole moved about, checking over and over that which was already done. Joshua had one chore left.

  “Martin, drain the pool.”

  Martin looked at his master, puzzled. “But sir, the guests will …”

  “Just drain the pool.”

  “Well … yes sir.”

  When Carole saw this, she hurried to Martin and asked in agitated confusion what in hell’s madness possessed him to do such a thing.

  “It was on orders of Mr. Joshua, madam.”

  “Then he’s mad! We cleaned the pool only yesterday!”

  She found Joshua in the study and burst in just as Charlotte finished rechecking her own list and was saying, “Everything has been done, Joshua. The doctors are even releasing Grebbs from the hospital so he can make it.”

  “Of course, I knew you’d taken care of …”

  “Joshua!”

  He turned slowly to her.

  “Have you lost all your sanity? Why did you have Martin drain the pool?”

  “It’s simple, my dear. Pools can become hypnotic and distracting. We have far greater forms of entertainment coming up.”

  She stood there unable to speak momentarily. She pushed at her hair and rubbed her perspiring palms on her hips, walking in a small circle around the room, finally giving utterance, “I know you’re crazy, but do you want everyone else to know it?”

  “It will give them much pleasure to finally find this flaw in my nature they have so desperately been seeking.”

  She turned and cascaded from the room, hurling back, “Oh, my God!”

  Forty-eight hours later they came from all around the world. They arrived in jets, Rolls-Royces, Cadillacs, Mercedes, and pickup trucks. They moved to the hacienda magnetized.

  The greetings were both formal and friendly, fearful and cheerful. Carole was at her gracious best, only half-drunk, expertly suppressing their initial dread with her trained talk. But there was a difference in the hands and arms and bodies that floated in the air towards Joshua. These appurtenances involved a massive movement of trepidation, heat, and fatherhood.

  Joshua took Aleta in his grand and strong arms and lifted her from the floor in teasing love and respect. Her husband, Rob, died a little bit right there. His impulse of murder to the being of this man was intensified and verified. Rob wanted in desperately. He craved to become part of the Stone domain; craved to be part of the prestige and power. Marrying the favorite niece had seemed the proper first step. It hadn’t worked. Joshua had never asked him, and Aleta absolutely forbade Rob to even hint at it. His lean, handsome face had a pinched appearance about it from the hatred. He had dwelled on it so long now that it was an obsession—an obsession to destroy that which he felt had ignored and destroyed him. It was unjustified. Joshua simply didn’t want to see Rob subservient to him—not the husband of his artist niece. Aleta had never asked Joshua for anything but his best wishes. He felt that Rob must be as independent as she or else they wouldn’
t be married. He was wrong. Being a junior partner in a local stock brokerage firm didn’t do it for Rob. And their being simply ordered here to Aleta’s obvious joy had tilted his rage until he could hardly contain it.

  Others—who were in—felt just as passionately about Joshua, but they all had their separate and different reasons.

  Lana and Joseph Helstrom certainly had a different wish for Joshua. Joseph just hadn’t moved as high in the organization as swiftly as he felt he should, and Lana had a hidden yen for Joshua. In fact, she often daydreamed of replacing Carole.

  And there was the senior vice president, Grebbs, who wanted and believed that Joshua should step up to the position of chairman of the board and allow him his long overdue presidency. He had lately been entering hospitals for checkups, which repeatedly disclosed nothing wrong—but then x-rays do not show hatred or they would have been white with explosions all over his body.

  None of these things bothered Joshua now. The gathering grew in momentum of sound, emotion, and color. The drinks were consumed along with the food, and the talk was of many things. People split up into ever-changing groups. Those who had been to the hacienda before remarked about this alteration or that. Those who were new to its centuries made many, many comments about all the priceless objects of art and craft. Whether they hated or loved the master of the house, they were somehow awed and honored to be in this museum of the spirit of man and Joshua himself.

  Alfredo, the guitarist from Juárez, played. His dark head bent over his instrument, and the long delicate fingers stroked from the wood and steel the tenderness of love, the savagery of death. It seemed that these songs, too, came from the walls. Maybe somehow they did.

  The music surged into the total system of Joshua. He felt stronger, truer than ever before. He was ready now to make his first move—the beginning of his final commitment. He looked about the room, observing with penetration his followers. His eyes settled on Charlotte. And then, as if knowing, unable to resist, she came to him. She handed him a new scotch and water, holding her own drink with practiced care. He turned, and she followed at his side. They wandered to the outer confines of the house—to his childhood room. She did not question. He turned on a small lamp that still left many shadows.

  “My darling,” he said softly, touching the walls with one hand, “this is where it all started.”

  She looked at him, puzzled, but with patience.

  “I think I was five when I first heard the walls. It was gunfire and screams, and I knew it had once happened here. You see, this, in the days of the vast Spanish land grants, was a roadhouse, a cantina, an oasis where the dons and their ladies gathered to fight and fornicate. They are in the walls, you know, and I hear them. I even see them. I had just turned thirteen when I first saw into the walls.”

  Joshua’s eyes gleamed like a coyote’s in lantern light. His breath was growing, and there was an electricity charging through all his being. Charlotte was hypnotized at his voice and what was under it. His hand moved down the walls as he told her of some of the things he’d seen and heard. Then he turned to her and raised his glass for a toast.

  “To you, dear loyal, wonderful Charlotte, my love and my thanks.”

  “It has all been a fine trip with you, Joshua. I could not have asked more from life than to have been a part of you and what you’ve done. Thank you, thank you.”

  He took the drink from her hand and set it on the dresser. Taking her gently by the arm, he pulled her to the wall. “Now lean against it and listen and you, too, will hear.” She did so, straining with all her worth. “Listen! Listen,” he whispered, and his powerful hands went around her neck. She struggled very little, and in a few moments she went limp. He held her a brief second longer, bending to kiss her on the back of the neck he’d just broken. Then with much care he picked her up, carried her to the closet, and placed her out of sight behind some luggage. He quietly closed the door, standing there a while looking at it. He moved, picked up his drink, and returned to his people.

  IN THE PATIO, Misha, the Russian dancer from Kavkaz on Sunset Boulevard, was leaping wildly about, crouching, kicking. A circle formed around him, and the bulk of Joshua Stone III dominated it all. He was enjoying himself to the fullest, clapping his hands and yelling encouragement. The dance had turned everyone on a few more kilocycles. They started drinking more, talking more and louder, even gaining a little courage.

  The gray, fiftyish Grebbs tugged at Joshua, trying to get his true attention. He kept bringing up matters of far-flung business interests. He might remind one in attitude of a presidential campaign manager, just after a victory, wondering if he’d be needed now. He rubbed at his crew cut hair nervously, trying to figure an approach to Joshua. His gray eyes darted about slightly. His bone-edged nose presented certain signs of strength and character, but weakness around the mouth gave him away. He was clever and did everything that cleverness could give to keep all underlings out of touch with Joshua. He had hoped for a while that this gathering had been called to announce Joshua’s chairmanship, and the fulfillment of his own desperate dream.

  Joshua motioned to Lotus Flower, the belly dancer, and she moved gracefully out into the patio ahead of the music. Then the music caught up with her. The Oriental lady undulated and performed the moves that have always pleased men.

  As Grebbs tugged at Joshua again, he said, without taking his eyes from the dancer, “Grebbs, go talk business to your dictaphone.” Just that. Now Grebbs knew. He moved away, hurting.

  Lana stood with Carole. They were both watching Joshua with far different emotions.

  Lana spoke first, about their mutual interest. “Has Joshua put on some weight?”

  “No, it’s the same old stomach.”

  “He’s always amazed everyone with his athletic abilities.”

  “Really?” This last had a flint edge to it.

  “Well, for a man who appears so awkward, it is rather surprising to find how swiftly and strongly he can move when he decides to. Carole, you do remember the time he leaped into Spring Lake and swam all the way across it, and then just turned around and swam all the way back. You must remember that, darling. We all had such a good time.”

  “Oh, I remember many things, darling.”

  Rob was saying to Joseph Helstrom, “There’s something wrong here. I feel it. Here it’s only September, and he’s already drained the pool.”

  Joseph touched his heavy-rimmed glasses and let the hand slowly slide down his round face. “Yeah, he demanded we all come here on instant notice, and he’s not really with us.”

  “The selfish bastard.” Rob exhaled this like ridding himself of morning spittum.

  The dancer swirled ever closer to Joshua, her head back, long black hair swishing across her shoulders. He smiled, absorbed in the movement of flesh as little beams of hatred were cast across the patio from Grebbs, Rob, Joseph—and others. Joshua didn’t care—didn’t even feel it. As the dance finished, Rob walked out into the garden and removed a small automatic pistol from the back of his belt under his jacket. He checked the breech and replaced the gun.

  Joshua worked his way through the crowd, spoken to and speaking back in a distracted manner. His people looked puzzled after his broad back. He made his way slowly down the stairs towards the wine cellar, one hand caressing the wall. He stopped and waited. The song came from eternities away, soft, soothing, amidst the whispers of men planning daring moves.

  The whole wall now spun with colors slowly forming into warriors. Then, there before Joshua’s eyes was Esteban, the black man, standing amidst the Pueblo Indians. Joshua had always felt that Esteban was one of the most exciting and mysterious—even neglected—figures in the history of America. It has never been settled for sure how or why he arrived in the Southwest. However, his influence would always be there. He had started the legend of the Seven Golden Cities of Cíbola, which Coronado and many others searched for in vain. He was a major factor in the Pueblo Revolt of 1680, afterwards becoming the chief o
f several of these communities. He became a famous medicine man and was looked on as a god. But, like all earthly gods, he fell. A seven-year drought came upon the land of the Tewas, and when he could not dissipate it, he was blamed for it. They killed him, and the superstitious Zuñis skinned him like a deer to see if he was black all the way through.

  Now, at last, Joshua was looking upon this man of dark skin and searing soul, as he spoke in the Indian tongue to his worshippers. He talked to them of survival without the rule of iron. They mumbled low in agreement. Maybe Joshua would learn some of the dark secrets before this apparition dissolved back to dried mud.

  Joshua watched as up and down the river the Indians threw rock and wood at steel in savage dedication. Men died screaming in agony, sobbing their way painfully to the silence of death. The river flowed peacefully before him now, covering the entire wall and beyond. Then the feet splashed into his view, and he saw the remnants of the defeated Spanish straggle across the river back into Mexico.

  Joshua’s Spanish lady in black lace sat on a smooth, round rock staring across a valley dripping with the gold of autumn. She was in a land he’d never seen. She turned her head toward him and gave a smile that said so much he couldn’t stand it. He reached towards the wall, and she nodded her head up and down and faded away with the music. Silence. More silence. Then, “Joshua.”

  He turned. It was Lana. She moved to him, putting her hands on his chest. “Joshua, what is it? You’re acting so strangely.”

  “Did you see? Did you hear?” he asked, looking over her head.

  “I … I … don’t know what you mean, darling. See what?”

  “Nothing. Nothing.” He sighed.

  “Can I help? Is there anything I can do?”

  He pulled her against him and kissed her with purpose. She was at first surprised and then gave back to him. He picked her up and shoved her violently against the wooden frame between two wine barrels.

  “No, no, not here.”

  “There is no other time,” he said. “No other place.” As he reached under her, one elbow struck a spigot on a barrel. He loved her standing there while a thin stream of red wine poured out on the cellar floor, forming an immediate pool not unlike blood.