“What’s the matter? He a friend of yours?”
“Why you shit, he’s more a friend of mine than you are,” Dad said and continued up the stairs.
The Kid was thinking. Past the stairs on the ground floor you came to a corridor. The first door on your left was Dad’s office. The door on your right was another office. It was through this one you went when you went to the yard. Beyond Dad’s office was a cell. Across from it another cell. And if he remembered right there was a small one, rarely used, just back of the stairs.
When he reached the top of the stairs he followed Dad down the corridor, passing a door on each side, and stopped as Dad pushed open the last door on the left. He went inside and Dad followed him.
“Watch out for that son of a bitch,” Dad said in a low voice. “If it’s all the same to you I want you to be on hand Saturday morning.”
“Why don’t you get rid of him?”
“I can’t. The whole county’d be against me if I did. They’re already saying I got no business keeping a greaser on this job and that I was once a friend of yours and would like to see you escape. Don’t rile him. I’m going to get rid of him soon as this is over.”
“I’d like to stick around just long enough to kill old Lon.”
“Well see he doesn’t kill you first.”
Dad locked him in. The Kid went to the window and looked at the crowd. He watched the plaza and One-eyed Charley’s and the crooked streets beyond Calle de Estrada and the smoke rising from the white adobes. Then he went to the other window. A street, some houses, a couple of stray dogs, lots of morning sunlight. Bars on his windows. He turned to look at the room. Not much to look at. A bunk near the plaza window, an old scarred table, one chair, a fireplace on the right of the door as you came in. Between the two windows a brown chest with an ironstone pitcher and bowl and no doubt a chamber pot inside. An old unsilvering mirror above the chest, an oil lamp and an abalone shell ashtray on the sill. The floor of heavy oak planks, unevenly stained. The walls formerly whitewashed but now the gray and brown adobe showing through. A small square room where he would have a little more than four days to live.
He got up and stretched to get rid of the buckboard stiffness. The shackles clanked. Whatever he would do those shackles would clank. He lay down on the bunk and fell asleep, dreaming of Dad. Dad was helping him to escape, was giving him guns and horses and even a cannon.
*
A key was thrust into the lock, the lock was turned and the door opened into the room. The Kid awoke and saw Pablo standing in the doorway, covering him with his forty-five. Dedrick stood behind him in the corridor, the shotgun ready. Dedrick was a big fellow and heavy, with a large face and a bull neck, a short upturned nose and eyebrows that slanted down to meet at the bridge of his nose. He walked with a swagger, wore his dark hair long and wore two guns. Sometimes, seeing him ride, you’d think you were looking at a traveling arsenal. He’d be wearing his six-shooters, would have an extra one slung over his pommel, and would carry a Winchester rifle and a shotgun.
“What’s up?” asked the Kid.
“Lunch,” Pablo said.
He went and brought it: enchiladas, frijoles and coffee. The Kid ate it sitting on the bunk. Pablo sat on the chair opposite him while Dedrick stood in the doorway, watching.
“Hungry?” asked Pablo.
The Kid was silent.
“That’s all you get,” Pablo said.
“It’ll do.”
“Maria Jesús... she’s going to bring me mine soon. You want some?”
The Kid looked up at him. “She your wife?”
Pablo nodded.
“I got enough. Didn’t know you were married.”
“I got three kids,” said Pablo, smiling.
“Great,” said the Kid, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “I never married.”
“I know.”
“Now it’s too late—or is it?” The Kid threw his head back and laughed.
Pablo laughed too, tentatively at first. Dedrick glowered.
“What’s eating Lon?” asked the Kid.
“I tell you what’s eating me,” Lon said. “We ought to kill you now and save the county money.”
“What you got against me friend?”
Dedrick spat into the room.
The Kid sniffed and said, “I smell piss. You smell piss Pablo?”
Pablo laughed and glanced at Dedrick. Dedrick said, “You just wait.”
“Lon’s pissed on himself again I reckon,” said the Kid dryly.
The thing you noticed about Dedrick was that he smelled of urine. I don’t know what caused it. We none of us bathed too often but we had no urine smell on us. Lon almost always did. I reckon it was some trouble he had with his kidneys or bladder.
“How your brothers?” asked the Kid. “Still live on the hill with them?”
Lon didn’t answer.
“Lon’s mad at me,” said the Kid. “When’s your wife coming?”
“In a little while,” said Pablo. “Why should I pay to eat over at Charley’s?”
“Where you live?”
“Calle de Estrada.”
“Lucky. Save you money.”
“You bet.”
The Kid wiped his mouth on his sleeve. As he did so he struck the tin coffee can with his elbow and spilled it. Pablo had to go for a rag to wipe it up.
“Why don’t you help him?” the Kid asked Lon.
Lon spat into the room again.
“I’m sorry,” said the Kid when Pablo returned.
“That’s all right.”
“It’s the irons.”
“Sure.”
Dad called Lon and Lon disappeared. Pablo went to the window and said, “Play lots of cards hey Kid? Kill time.”
“Why not.”
“Friend Nika Machado was here.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Dad said no visitors today. But she can come tomorrow. I thought—”
“She coming?”
“I don’t know.... One thing I do know. Dad’s worried.”
“What about?”
“That lynch mob.”
“Fourflushers,” said the Kid.
“No. I know them. Dad says they may come tonight. If not tonight then tomorrow.”
“What’s he aiming to do?”
“You got me.”
“Three kids... Nice?”
“The best.”
“Too bad I’ll never see them.”
“You can if you want. They’d like— Be all right?”
“Sure.”
“This afternoon?”
“Sure.”
“Been bothering me about it. All the kids in town want to meet you.”
“I’m a shining example.”
“Lon’s taking the prisoners over to Charley’s.”
The Kid stood up and they looked at the plaza and watched Lon and the three men. Pablo’s hand was on his gunbutt, ready for trouble. He was a small fellow but dangerous, fast on the draw and a good shot, much better with a sixgun than a rifle.
“You don’t have to do that,” the Kid said.
“You’re wrong,” said Pablo. “A man will do anything to save his life. I like you... but I can’t trust you. Not now. It’s my life against yours.”
He had dark shiny hair and dark eyes with whites that seemed dark too and a small face with fine features and a satiny brown skin. Small-hipped, partly bowlegged, with almost no bottom at all. A neat fellow in tight black trousers, high-heeled black boots and soft gray shirt.
“I reckon you’re right hombre,” said the Kid. He sat down on the bunk while Pablo carried the board with its dishes out into the corridor and locked the door.
*
The Kid lay on his bunk, smiling, thinking of nothing, enjoying his lunch. He rose and rapped on the door.
“Hombre!”
Pablo asked, “What’s up?”
“Outhouse.” Pablo opened up and followed the Kid down the corridor and down th
e stairs and through the little office into the yard.
“You know your way around,” he said.
“Been here a couple of times.”
“Good memory.”
The Kid laughed. He held out his wrists. Pablo unshackled them. Then he went inside and sat down. When he came out Pablo shackled him again. The Kid looked around the yard. An old adobe wall more crumbling than not, the outhouse on the right, the stable on the left. An untended yard, the weeds, grass and shrubs growing wild. Near the stable an old wooden gate, and in the back of the yard a larger gate, or what had once been a gate, for now only some old planks remained, hanging on to large rusty hinges. A man could not hope to escape by either gate if he wore irons and was on foot. With a horse, however, he might have some kind of a chance.
He returned to his cell. As he sat down on his bunk Dad poked his head into the room to take a look around, then disappeared, and Pablo locked the door on the outside. In a little while he opened it again to let a woman in. She carried a straw bag. She was small and a little plump and had a clear brown skin, large eyes, a flat nose and beautiful black hair which she wore in a bun on her nape.
“My wife,” said Pablo.
“Maria Jesús,” said the Kid, standing up.
She smiled and showed good teeth. Pablo locked the door on the inside.
“I brought you some food,” she said. “And Pablo his lunch.”
“What you got? Pablo told you I just had my lunch?”
“Was it enough?”
“It was all right.”
“I have tortillas and some soup with meat.”
“The county’s paying to feed me. I get enough. Sit down?”
He offered her the chair and she accepted it, setting the bag on the floor beside her. She used her eyes freely while talking and her voice was husky and a little flat and nasal.
“Charley’s food is garbage,” she said. She turned to Pablo. “How would you like to eat that food?”
“Lon likes it,” Pablo said.
“That slob would like I don’t want to say what,” she said, frowning.
The Kid laughed. “This is funny,” he said.
“What?” asked Maria Jesús.
“You bringing me food.”
“You want to insult me?”
“Who? Me?”
“Then why you say that? I know how they feed you fellows. I’ll bring you more tomorrow. Pablo comes home for dinner so I can’t bring you dinner but he can bring you something. At least I can bring you lunch. Tomorrow a little wine. It will make you happy.”
“This hombre’s always happy,” said Pablo.
The Kid laughed. “Why not? One life. Or is there another?”
“Don’t talk like that,” she said.
“No? Teach me. Pablo’s a deputy. He’ll watch me hang on the fourth. You coming to the show?”
The Kid laughed.
“You ought to be ashamed,” she said, frowning.
“Why? It’s public.”
“When they bring the priest will you be kind to him?”
“Sure. But I won’t listen.”
“You must.”
“No,” he said dryly, turning partly away from her, “it’s not for me. I’ve lived without them and I can die without them.”
“It’s terrible to go like that.”
“One way’s as good as another.”
“It’s because you never married and had children.”
“I’d still not mind the going.”
“You’ll try to escape?”
The Kid smiled and glanced at Pablo.
“If I get the chance.”
“If you try—don’t hurt Pablo. He’s a good man. And you must listen to the priest.”
“Sure. Sure.”
“I’m sorry for you.”
“What’s there to be sorry about?”
“Your soul.”
“No better be sorry for this body. There’s at least another year in it.”
“You’re joking. I hope I have not disturbed you. Will you take my food?”
“Thanks.”
“I’ll leave it here in the bag.”
“Thanks.”
“Goodbye. May God forgive you.”
“God has nothing to do with it. Goodbye Maria Jesús.”
*
It was about one o’clock now, a little past siesta time. The Kid fell asleep. He slept deeply, without dreaming, awoke in about an hour, got up, rummaged in the bag Maria Jesús had left, found a jar of soup, lifted it to his mouth, fished some pieces of meat with his fingers and ate them, wiping his hands on his trousers. As the soup and meat settled he began to feel sleepy again. He rolled a cigarette and lit it. The window was partly open. He went to it and opened it wide. No one on the plaza. He breathed in the air and tested the bars. They were set firmly. He returned to the bunk and soon fell asleep again. Again he did not dream.
When he awoke he judged it to be about three. He rapped on the door. No answer. Then Dedrick’s voice said sleepily, “What you want?” “Outhouse.” Dedrick opened the door and followed him out of the house into the yard. When the Kid lingered Dedrick shoved the muzzle of his shotgun into his back. The Kid spun around to face him and saw Dedrick grinning at him, aiming the gun at his stomach and playing with the triggers.
“Why don’t you make a break for it?” Dedrick said softly.
The Kid smiled. “I’m not aiming to make it easy for you Lon boy.”
“Go ahead. You’re so brave.”
“No you’re the one.”
“They’re coming for you tonight.”
“Let them,” said the Kid. He held out his wrists for Lon to unshackle them.
“Don’t stick your paws at me,” growled Lon. But he unlocked the shackles and removed them, doing it with one hand while holding the shotgun with the other.
The Kid went inside the outhouse. He did not really have to go. He had made the trip for the exercise and to see what he could learn, but mainly he had made it to establish a pattern of going there several times a day.
When he returned to his cell the door was open. Pablo and his three boys were waiting for him, Dad with them. They were young, the oldest being about eight. Thin and brown and short-haired, with their mother’s large eyes. They wore cheap white shirts and blue cotton trousers. Pablo introduced them. The oldest boy asked, “You afraid?”
The Kid laughed and said, “I sure am.”
The boy looked puzzled. Pablo said, “He’s not. He’s joking.”
“That true?” the boy asked.
“Your father’s the one who makes the jokes. A great hombre your father.”
“Where’s your gun?” the middle boy asked.
“They took it away.”
Dad smiled and winked. Pablo was grinning. Lon shuffled out of the room and down the stairs.
“You killed many men?” the oldest boy asked.
“No. Not any.”
Pablo laughed. “You believe everything he tells you?”
“They’re going to hang you Saturday,” the middle one said. “Can we shake hands?”
“Sure,” said the Kid, and he shook hands with each of them.
“All right kids let’s go,” Pablo said. And he hustled them out of the cell, leaving with them.
“You expecting trouble this evening?” the Kid asked Dad.
“Maybe.”
“What you going to do if they come?”
Dad scratched his head. “I don’t know.”
“Look out you don’t get yourself lynched.” The Kid laughed.
“What you got to be laughing about?”
“It’s funny.”
“What?”
“Everything. Where’s your sense of humor?”
“I must have lost it somewhere.”
“Now don’t go and get sour on me.”
Dad eyed him. “You sure are a card,” he said and left the room, locking him in.
*
The two prisoners in the cel
l below were arguing loudly. The Kid went to the plaza window and looked out, rolling a cigarette. The two-story adobe cast its shadow onto the lawn. Suddenly he stamped his heel several times against the floor. The noise below stopped at once. A little later he heard whispering down there. He went to the door and tried the knob. Strong. The door heavy. He returned to the window. The afternoon light was growing yellow. He thought of Nika Machado.
There was a rap on the door and Dad opened it. Lon stood in the doorway, the shotgun ready. Dad sat down, the Kid standing with his back to the window. Dad said there was a fellow downstairs, a merchant he called himself, who wanted to know if the Kid had anything to sell. He wanted to buy the Kid’s forty-four, his rifle if any, his gunbelt, and any odds and ends he had left. He would buy the clothes too, at a fair price.
“He wants the gun with the notches,” Dad said, grinning. “He was sure disappointed when I told him you never notched your gun. What do you want me to tell him?”
“Tell him—”
“Me? That kind of language?”
“Your own then.”
“I’m clean-mouthed—”
“Sure... What you want to get married for?”
“You can’t go on living alone forever.”
“Who wants to live forever?”
“I do,” said Dad.
“Well I won’t be around to see you when you’re old and gray.”
“You should have got married yourself.”
“To slow me down?”
“How long you aim to keep running?”
“Another year or so.” The Kid laughed.
Dad shook his head. “Your running days are over Kid... A little poker tonight?”
“Sure. Why not?”
“Anything you want?”
“Yeh.”
“Name it.”
“A double-barreled shotgun and Lon in here alone with me.”
Dad laughed and stood up.
“You hear that Lon?” he asked.
Lon made a face. They locked the Kid in and clattered in their high heels down the corridor and down the stairs.
*
He lay down on the bunk, then sat up and tried the leg irons. Could he get hold of a file? How? What was next door? Another cell? In what room did they keep their guns? Every jail had a gunroom. What was in the room across the corridor? And in the small one opposite the stairs?
He studied his white shirt. Dirty. His black woolen trousers, which fitted snugly around his hips, were dirty too. He had had a handkerchief. Had lost it somewhere. He was beginning to stink. His sombrero was streaked with dust. He must ask Pablo to have Maria Jesús brush it and must ask Nika to bring him a fresh shirt and trousers. He must have somebody polish his boots. He went to the pitcher and washed his face and hands in the bowl and dried them with a towel he found hanging on a nail inside the low chest, beside the chamber pot. Having to urinate, he got out the pot and went to the corner on the left of the door, farthest from the windows. He washed his hands again and flicked the towel at his boots and at his sombrero. Sitting down on the bunk, he rolled himself a cigarette with one hand and lit it with a sputtering sulphur match.
The Authentic Death of Hendry Jones Page 3
