The Authentic Death of Hendry Jones

by Charles Neider

  After that there were the stairs—fourteen of them. What did anybody want to build stairs that steep for? A cowhand going down there could break his neck with his high heels. They were good stairs, though, solid planks, and had a banister. He had tried it several times, pretending he had to support himself on it because of his irons, and it had felt strong enough. Fourteen stairs. He knew that by gripping the banister and flinging himself up he could vault the first four in one motion. He could do five and probably six but four were enough. One more leap and he would have done eight, and after that there were two threes and he was at the top and racing for the gunroom door. Grip, vault, pause. The pauses were important and he must forget about Pablo and Pablo’s gun. Pablo had nothing to do with it.

  And after that there was the lock. If the lock didn’t give then things would take care of themselves. But if it gave then it was up to him to know what to do. They were damn fools not to have shot him in the back and gotten it over with. Lon was right. If you were going to kill a fellow it was no good playing with him, because the first thing you knew he might turn around and kill you first. He had gotten just one glimpse inside that gunroom but it was enough. He had been coming back with Pablo from the outhouse and had seen Lon fussing in there with something, the door wide open. Lon had seen him and said and done nothing and Pablo had said and done nothing too. It was funny how people, who usually claimed they took good care of their lives and put a pretty high price on them, got careless about the crucial things.

  What he had seen had whetted his appetite. Two fairly long and dusty brown tables, with guns and ammunition scattered on them and with gunbelts hanging from nails in the walls and rifles standing in corners, dusty, or set up on the walls, and shotguns here and there. All that junk for a motheaten town and a banged-up rusty county. The ends of the tables faced the door and there was an aisle between them. Very handy to step in and select what you wanted. And on the right of the door was where Lon probably parked his shotgun when he went over to Charley’s. He must remember that shotgun. Just two tables and some guns. And beyond the tables two windows, very dusty, and a couple of the panes gone and one of them badly splintered. One of the windows was close to his own cell. The other, the left one, was near the corner of the building. It would be a good place to get a bead on Lon from, dusty, the light pouring in on it, and commanding a view of the whole plaza and of Charley’s. What he wouldn’t give to be able to do it.

  He thought: When you get to that gunroom door ram your side against it. And if it doesn’t open do it again. Keep doing it even if you hear Pablo coming up to you. Keep doing it even if he shoves his gun into your back. Let him shoot, it will make no difference. But he won’t shoot. He’ll probably let you have it over the head with the butt. They’re aiming to hang you in this town on the fourth and not to let you go out with a hot bullet. But if the door opens leave it open. If you close it behind you he can ambush you or pin you down inside. You’ve got to surprise him, give him no time to think, get the drop on him and disarm him. That will give you your chance. With him as a shield you’re on your way. And whatever you do be sure to take your time in picking a gun. Get a good one and be sure it’s loaded. Remember, take plenty of time. Because once you’ve got that door open you’ve got the town at your feet and so there’s nothing to hurry about after that.

  *

  The rest of Wednesday passed quietly. When he was alone he exercised or lay on the bunk thinking of all the details on which his life would depend tomorrow, going over them until he felt he had actually lived them. Nika did not show up but he did not think much of her. If he succeeded tomorrow he would see her. When he lay down to sleep, sleep did not come. ‘That’s stupid,’ he thought and he went to the plaza window and looked at the night-covered town. Then he went over to the chamber pot and urinated. He had been urinating often this afternoon. He lay down on his back with the determination to fall asleep and, thinking what a nice fellow Pablo was and hoping that he would not have to kill him, he fell asleep and slept deeply all night, dreaming only once—a confused dream involving Nika and some people on the plaza and a fellow he had known back in Arizona territory.

  5

  The next morning passed the way the others had, except that Dedrick came in on him while he was exercising and said loudly, “What you think you’re doing?” holding the shotgun ready.

  “Exercising,” said the Kid mildly, sitting up.

  “What for?”

  Dad came in. “What’s up?”

  “He’s exercising,” said Lon angrily. “How about that?”

  “What for Kid?” Dad asked.

  “Feels good.”

  “Make him quit,” said Lon.

  “Hell do it if you want to,” said Dad, walking away.

  “I don’t think it’s right,” said Dedrick.

  “It’s very important what you don’t think,” Dad said and went away.

  “I’m going to be the first that throws dirt on you, so help me,” said Lon passionately.

  “If you live that long,” smiled the Kid.

  Pablo came in and watched.

  Dedrick drew a rough line across the floor with his heel and said, “That’s the dead line brother. You cross that and I’ll let you have it,” and he held the shotgun loosely hip-high, aiming it as usual at the Kid’s stomach. Glancing at Pablo, the Kid saw the dark eyes shining above the fine nose. Pablo’s right hand was poised loosely above his scabbard.

  The shotgun was ready, the wads were split, the hammers cocked. Lon had called the turn. His eyes were half veiled by lashes and his hands showed white with tension. The Kid looked at the two barrels staring at him, ready to rip him to shreds, and again he glanced at Pablo.

  “You’re a fourflusher,” he said dryly and placed his right foot across the line and laughed that strange laugh of his.

  Lon’s tan face went a little yellow. He sucked in air.

  “Hell,” he said, “I’d rather see you hang.” He turned and, with the shotgun in the crook of his arm, walked out of the room. But he came back immediately and pressed the muzzle of the gun against the Kid’s stomach, saying, “Go ahead, why don’t you make a break for it?” And he played with the triggers, the hammers cocked.

  The Kid looked down at the gun, took the barrel in his small hand and pushed it aside.

  “Look out that thing doesn’t go off,” he said.

  Lon, beside himself, shoved the gun into the Kid’s stomach and the Kid doubled over, gasping.

  The Kid straightened up and said softly, “I’m going to get you Lon.”

  Lon laughed and left the room.

  *

  The Kid had his lunch and then Lon went to Charley’s with the other prisoners. The Kid, wondering where Dad was, went to the outhouse, meaning to make his play. When he came out of the outhouse he raised his hands for the irons, glancing into Pablo’s eyes. But the eyes said nothing to him. Pablo shackled him and the Kid started walking toward the adobe.

  “Now’s the time,” he thought. But he kept thinking of Pablo’s eyes and of how he had seen nothing in them, which was unlike Pablo. And then he knew that if he made his play he would not live to reach the corridor. Pablo would not hesitate. He would draw fast, shoot straight and to kill. And the Kid knew this so surely that he walked into the adobe and up the stairs and into his cell.

  He would have to make his play tomorrow then or not at all. He must be cold in his mind tomorrow and around his heart he must be dead. Cold the way he was cold when someone had the drop on him. Yet he must not freeze up so that his muscles were slow. He hoped Pablo would be sensible when the time came.

  That afternoon, between siesta and dinner, Lon let himself into the Kid’s cell and said, “Start exercising,” holding the shotgun in front of him.

  The Kid smiled and said nothing.

  Lon walked to the fireplace near the door, set down the shotgun and whipped out a sixgun with his left hand. Walking over to the Kid, he hit him in the face with his fist. The Kid s
taggered and went into a crouch. Lon hit him again, in the shoulder, and then again in the face. Blood appeared on the Kid’s mouth and on Lon’s hand. The Kid ran his fingers across his mouth, looking at the blood, and smiled.

  “I’ll be seeing you,” said Lon, leaving.

  “Well now I guess you will at that,” said the Kid softly.

  The rest of the day passed quietly and the night passed quietly too.

  *

  Next morning after breakfast a team drove up and delivered some fresh-cut lumber from the lumberyard down near the Customs House. The Kid saw the parked team from the plaza window. Lon came in and, seeing him looking out, said, “You know what that’s for don’t you?” Even Dad came in and said, “How do you like the new wood Kid?” The Kid smiled and said nothing. Dad said he had to ride over to Salinas but would be back that night. Lon wanted to know where he wanted the wood. Dad said out on the plaza—the carpenters would be needing it that afternoon.

  That was the morning of the third, a hot drowsy morning, with a thin fog which neither cooled the town off nor let the sun through. The fog made the air hot and clammy and half the town was still sleepy. Lon went out to deal with the load of lumber and the Kid and Pablo took to playing cards. They played draw poker and the Kid kept losing steadily, winning only a hand now and then and with poor pots. Pablo offered to play stud but the Kid said draw would do. Pablo, although sleepy, was excited. And then the Kid bet his forty-four and Pablo’s luck held good.

  “I’ll tell Dad you won it,” said the Kid.

  “The cards are speaking to me today.”

  “Yesterday too.”

  “Today better.”

  “It’s not in the cards for me,” said the Kid. He had been deliberately losing to Pablo.

  Time passed and the Kid had his lunch and then Lon took the other prisoners to Charley’s. The Kid could hear the talking downstairs, the shuffling, then Lon’s voice saying up the stairway, “I’m taking them to One-eye’s.”

  “I got you,” Pablo said.

  “Keep a good eye on that bastard.”

  “Right.”

  “I’m going to see him hung tomorrow morning.”

  Pablo winked at the Kid and said, “Take your time. It’s hot today.”

  “Hot as shit,” said Lon and he and the prisoners shuffled out of the jail. While Pablo dealt the cards the Kid rose casually and glanced out of the window. He saw Lon and the prisoners enter Charley’s place.

  Pablo was thinking, It’s a shame he’s got to hang. A nice kid. But he’s not a kid any longer. They’d better stop calling him Kid. Well he won’t get any older than tomorrow, that’s a sure thing. The cards have been speaking to me today. When the cards speak to you there’s nothing can stop you. I wonder what it’s like down in Ensenada now.

  And he thought of Ensenada in old Mexico, where he had been born and raised, and remembered the wide dirt streets, the sick dogs lounging in the shade, the bay, the fishing, the smell of cooking in the shacks, the hills outside of town, barren, dusty, the horsemen, the women in their cotton dresses, the long way over the mountains to Tijuana, the sand dunes, the lonely beaches, the shacks now and then.

  I’ve come a long way, he thought. Me a poor Mexican kid. The cards are speaking to me today. Pablo you got yourself a winning streak. Don’t change your luck boy.

  “Hombre it looks as if I’m finished,” said the Kid.

  Pablo glanced at him. “Sorry hombre.”

  “So am I.”

  “What a life,” said Pablo.

  “Better than hanging,” said the Kid. He shrugged. “I think I’ll go to the outhouse.”

  “Sure,” Pablo said.

  *

  The Kid preceded him to the outhouse. While he was inside Pablo stood in the hot yard, his gun out of its scabbard, casually pointing at the half-open door. When the Kid came out Pablo clamped the shackles on his wrists and they returned to the house. Then, near the door, the Kid tripped and stumbled and half ran and half fell into the house and before Pablo realized it he was out of sight. But Pablo was not frightened, for where could the Kid go and what could he shoot with? Maybe it was a little joke. Still, he Pablo would have to stop it.

  He jerked his gun and ran toward the door. Just before he made it he tripped, just as the Kid had done, and almost fell on his face. While he was on his hands and knees he remembered the broken lock on the gunroom door and then he was frightened, for what if the Kid knew that a good push would fling the door open? What if the Kid was making for it now and had in mind to grab a gun? The Kid with a gun was a terrible thing. He could shoot your eye out at many paces. Almost any gun, he knew them all, they spoke to him.

  He fumbled with the door, his hands trembling, and ran through the little office, thinking as he ran: Maybe he’s not after the gunroom at all. Maybe he’ll run out the front door onto the plaza. But there’s nothing out there but all that sun and we’ll shoot him down like a dog. Then he fumbled with the other door and heard the Kid clanking up the stairs and he thought, He’s shackled, I’ll catch him before he gets to the top. What have I got to be worried about? Only damn him I ought to kill him for doing this to me. And then he heard the Kid fling himself against the gunroom door and he went cold from his groin to his feet, running as he was down the corridor to the stairhead.

  Get out of here, he thought. His legs wanted to run back into the yard. Run out and call Lon. That slob, eating. Burn the house down. Riddle it. No you stay out of this. You know what Maria Jesús will say. White man’s business. Know what’s good for you Pablo. You’re only a greaser and don’t forget it. Get out of this pronto. If you get yourself killed what will Maria Jesús care about the reasons?

  Then he thought: But how did he know about that door? A thing like that can get me killed. I told Lon we ought to fix that lock and he said, What for? What the hell for? I told Dad about it and he said, Sure we’ll get a man up here one of these days to take care of it. Damn them they ought to know it’s bad luck to let a lock run down like that. And then he heard the Kid throw his weight against the door a second time and he thought he heard the door fly open. If the Kid made a getaway he Pablo was through in this town. How could he explain to Maria Jesús? And to his kids when they grew up? He had better run up those stairs and stop the Kid before there was any trouble. It was better to stop him before Lon over in Charley’s knew anything had happened. It was better to stop it now and keep it a secret that it had ever happened at all.

  At the head of the stairs he met the Kid. The Kid was just coming out of the gunroom, a forty-five in his right hand.

  “Drop it,” he said.

  Pablo was paralyzed. He was not really aiming his gun.

  He could not make his arm move. But the Kid was aiming well. Pablo could see the muzzle pointing at his stomach. He could see the Kid clearly—the small blond head, the slatecolored eyes, the invisible lashes, the pinched white nose, the strong small hands, the small feet, the black trousers, the soft white shirt and the smile around the purplish lips.

  “Drop it Pablo,” the Kid said softly.

  But Pablo could neither raise the gun nor drop it. Then he remembered his streak of good luck, how the cards were speaking to him today and how he, a greaser, was a trusted deputy in this town, and he thought of the new-cut wood and of how he had won the Kid’s forty-four and he remembered Maria Jesús and the kids and he whirled at the stairhead and ran down the stairs, taking them two at a time, careful however not to fall, meaning to get around the corner and wing the Kid from there.

  “Hombre!” cried the Kid.

  Then Pablo went flying and he thought he had tripped. His face struck the stairs and his legs windmilled in a clatter and he fell into the vestibule and against the jamb of the front door, striking the jamb so hard that the Kid felt the vibration in the stairway. He lay with the small of his back against the jamb, his head and shoulders outside, the sunlight brilliant on his dark skin and white shirt. His black hair looked rich and thick and his ears we
re clean and small, but for the rest his head was bloody. Blood was running from his nose and mouth and had covered his black mustache. His eyes looked into the sun without blinking. The Kid turned to go about his business.

  Then Pablo heard the shot and he knew the ball had hit him. He tried to rise but couldn’t, there were chains and shackles on him, pinioning his arms and legs, and great weights holding him down. There was no pain but he knew he was dying and he wanted to get outside to die out there. So he got to his hands and knees and, like a blind bear, crawled and scuttled on to the grass, saying nothing, not even groaning, not even feeling the hot flow of blood across his chest, hardly seeing anything, and he scuttled out of there to avoid a second shot, but the second shot did not come, and he scuttled out onto the plaza which was so full of golden light. But the plaza looked as though evening had come on it and he thought it was night in Ensenada and that the fishing was good and that Maria Jesús was visiting her sister and he crawled a little way south in the direction of his house on the Calle de Estrada on the way to the mission, leaving blood on the long grass, and when he had gotten about as far as the first window it occurred to him that it ought to be morning and that there ought to be plenty of light on the plaza and he wondered if this were the plaza and why he was lying down and then suddenly he thought: They ought to use some of that lumber to make my coffin, and it seemed to him important that he tell somebody that and he tried to crawl as far south as he could, going diagonally across the plaza, and suddenly he saw the mission and the altar and the sun blinded him and, sobbing “Dios me perdone!” he died.

  *

  In the outhouse the Kid had known that this was his last chance, the one in a million. The load of lumber had convinced him of it. He was not exactly surprised to see the lumber and yet he had not thought of it in just that way. He had not thought clearly of the gallows but only of the hemp noose and the jerking and the crowds and the jeering and the possibility of urinating in his trousers. But now he knew that the gallows would be built and that this was his only chance for his life. He knew what he had to do.