He watched her, careful not to touch her, careful not to say a word while she wept. She sniffled, wiped her face with her rebozo and turned and went away. He thought he heard her sobbing. He slowly followed her, sighing. What did he want to get mixed up with a brown girl for? Weren’t there enough white ones around? He shrugged and forced the thought out of his mind.
*
He joined us down at Francesca’s.
“Kid what’s this I hear about you?” she asked.
“I don’t know Grandma what do you hear?” he said, dismounting.
“You know what.”
“Do I?”
“Sure.”
“Suppose you tell me,” he said, facing her.
“This business of sending word to Longworth you’re back.”
“What about it?”
“You crazy? Chivato what’s got into you? You don’t have enough to do. Why don’t you find yourself a nice girl? What you want to bother Longworth for?”
“Oh so you’re in love with him,” he said, grinning.
“Didn’t you know? He’s going to marry me.”
“I’d like to see the kids you two would make.”
“Is it true?” she asked.
“What if it is?”
“Well give him my love when you run into him.”
“Sure will,” he said.
We rode up to Hijinio’s for a couple of drinks.
“Kid what you want to hang around here for?” Hijinio asked.
“Why? You scared?” asked the Kid jokingly.
“Sure,” said Hijinio.
“You and me both,” said the Kid.
“Listen to him,” said Hijinio, showing his teeth in a smile.
There was nothing special about Hijinio except that he looked a lot like some of the Indians I had seen around Ensenada. His face was shaped like an egg, the widest part being at the cheekbones, and his chin and forehead were narrow. He had a pleasant dark face with good eyes and a powerful nose, a soft mouth and a wiry scraggly mustache which grew downward. He was a middle-sized fellow, a little taller than the Kid, and wiry.
“How’s everything?” asked the Kid.
“Good good,” said Hijinio.
“The wife?”
“Good.”
“Everything’s good,” said the Kid. “Been playing any poker lately?”
“Not much.”
“Why not?”
“Waiting for you to come back. I knew you’d be back. How could you stay away and miss your old compadre Hijinio Gonzales?”
“Sure,” said the Kid. “Let’s play.”
Hijinio brought out the cards and we played awhile. Hijinio was the richest man on the Punta, it was said. He had inherited land in the hills, cattle, and the adobes on the head. He and the Kid were good friends. As you know, it was in Hijinio’s adobe that the Kid got killed.
This adobe was long and had a portico and several rooms, all facing the cove. The easternmost room was Hijinio’s and the others were used by members of his family. His own room was square, with a dirt floor. It had several small windows with glass panes, a fireplace, a bureau, a brass bedstead in a corner and a couple of chairs. The door was on the cove side. When you entered, you saw the bed on the right corner farthest from you. It was in that bed that Hijinio lay when the fatal shot was fired. On the left were the fireplace and bureau. The Kid fell just in front of the bureau. Some people said it was Gonzales’ fault the Kid got killed, but that is not true. Hijinio knew nothing of what was coming and he himself almost got killed that night.
We got a little drunk and Harvey set to singing some sailor songs he had picked up around Monterey. He was high, the way he had been all the way to old Mex and back, and I wondered again what made him like that. He got up and did a couple of jigs and the Kid began clapping his hands and stomping his feet. I guess Harvey thought he was doing a fandango. Then we all started hopping around but none of us were as good as Harvey.
I liked old Harvey a lot. He was a fellow you could count on to the end and he wasn’t the kind that got loose-jawed the minute he had a couple of drinks inside him. He was my boy. He was handsome in his own way, although his face had a hatchet look about it. But I liked the set of his mouth and the clear speckles of his brown eyes and the thinness of his nose and his way of doing things. He was an independent cuss and although he wasn’t the world’s greatest gunfighter I had a lot of respect for him and so did the Kid.
The Kid took the bottle and had himself a couple of long swigs, saying “Kiss me baby” after each one, and then we danced some more and then I said, “Well let’s get moving. How about it?” and we mounted our horses and rode down the trail under the crazy cypresses hanging with moss, down through the meadows and under the pines and past the plaza and out to the mission road. The moon was large and bright that night.
When we were about a hundred yards from the mission road, which was an old dirt road running roughly north and south past the Punta, we approached a big bunch of mesquite on the right. We were riding single file, the Kid in front and Harvey behind him. Suddenly the Kid swung his horse around and came back to where I was, asking for the makings. I handed him tobacco and paper and we continued, Harvey now in front and the Kid behind me.
Then, as we got close to the bunch of mesquite, a shot suddenly rang out from it, together with shouts. I saw the orange burst from the muzzle and wheeled my horse, the Kid wheeling too, and the Kid and I hightailed it back toward the pines, lying low on the horses and shooting at the heap of mesquite. It was then we heard Harvey screaming in a way we knew he had been killed. He had started out after us but now he slowly turned his horse and rode slowly toward the mesquite, facing a small posse that was coming out of the ambush, and saying,
“Don’t shoot any more Dad. I’m killed.”
*
Longworth also knew, from those mortal screams, that Harvey was done for, but he was taking no chances.
“Throw your hands up Harvey,” he said, covering him with his forty-five.
“I’m killed Dad.”
“Throw your hands up. I’m not going to give you a chance to kill me.”
“I can’t. Don’t shoot. I’m dying fellows.”
“Take your medicine Harvey,” said José Carlyle calmly.
“God damn you,” Harvey said, reeling in his saddle. “Which of you boys killed me?”
“I did,” Longworth said.
“Take your medicine,” said José Carlyle.
“Throw up your hands,” said Dad.
“I can’t,” said Harvey and began to scream again.
Andy Webb walked toward Harvey’s horse, meaning to get hold of the reins.
“Watch him Andy,” warned Dad. “He’s killed all right but he might try for revenge. He can pull a trigger yet.”
“I can’t,” gasped Harvey.
“Watch him,” Dad said.
“God damn you,” gasped Harvey, almost falling off his horse.
“You’re not going to get a chance to kill me Harvey boy,” said Longworth.
“Take your medicine,” said José Carlyle.
“Get me off this horse,” begged Harvey. “For God’s sake let me die easy.”
They held their guns down on him and went up to him and took his gun out of its holster and his rifle out of its scabbard and lifted him off his horse and laid him down beside the road. They examined him and found that he was shot through the left side, just below the heart. He lay on his back, silent, staring at the stars and breathing heavily. A pool of blood formed beside his left shoulder.
“You killed the wrong fellow?” asked Webb.
“I was sure it was the Kid,” Longworth said.
“What’s the difference?” José Carlyle said.
“I was sure it was the Kid,” Dad said. “I could have sworn it was.”
“Who’s this fellow?” asked Webb.
“Harvey French,” said Dad. “Harvey I’m sorry I killed you,” he said.
Harvey
blinked his eyes.
“Won’t be long now,” said José Carlyle.
“Why don’t you shut your face?” said Dad angrily.
“I didn’t say anything,” said José Carlyle.
“No you never do.”
“All right Dad all right.”
“It’s not your fault,” said one of the men. “You were doing your duty.”
“I was just so sure it was the Kid,” said Dad.
“Any reward out for this fellow?” asked Webb.
“No.”
“Too bad. You suppose that was the Kid that got away?”
“I don’t know,” said Dad. “I suppose he’s down in old Mex.”
“Why don’t we go after them?”
Dad eyed Webb ironically. “Webb,” he said. “You know where we are?”
“No.”
“The Punta. You’ve heard of it I see. You know what the Kid means to them? They’re mostly greasers and Indians in there. If he’s in there—”
“Well let’s get going,” said one of the men.
Dad knelt down. “Harvey,” he said, “was that the Kid who got away? Who was with you Harvey? Can you hear me?”
“You killed me,” said Harvey slowly.
“Was that the Kid?” asked Dad.
“The Kid’s in Mehico,” said Harvey.
“You sure?” asked Dad.
“Everybody knows it but you.”
“He’s lying,” José Carlyle said.
“Tell me the truth. You’re dying. You’ve got nothing to lose,” Dad said.
“The Kid’s in Mehico,” said Harvey.
“Well let’s get out of here,” said Dad, standing up.
“Don’t leave me fellows,” begged Harvey. “I don’t want to die alone.”
“If we hang around here much longer—” Dad said.
“Why don’t you finish the job?” said Harvey bitterly. “If you were a friend of mine you’d put me out of my misery.”
“I’m no friend of yours but I’m sorry I killed you.”
“You’ve killed an innocent man,” said Harvey. “May you rot in hell.”
José Carlyle pulled out his gun and went over to Harvey and said, “You want me to finish it?”
Harvey looked frightened and said, “Don’t! Don’t shoot any more! For God’s sake I’m killed already!”
Longworth stepped over to José Carlyle and jerked the gun out of his hand.
“I was only kidding,” said José Carlyle.
Longworth stuck the gun’s muzzle against José Carlyle’s stomach and cocked the hammer. José Carlyle’s face went white.
“Don’t do that Dad,” he said whiningly.
“I’m only kidding,” Dad said angrily.
He knelt down beside Harvey.
“Harvey you’re dying,” he said. “The game’s over for you. Tell us where the Kid is. There’s no harm in telling. You’re dying.”
“Fuck you,” said Harvey and turned his head away.
*
They slung Harvey face down over his saddle, slapped the horse’s rump and rode away. The horse brought Harvey up to the cypress head. The Kid and I were outside the Kid’s adobe, waiting for trouble. We saw that Harvey was still alive and we carried him into the adobe and laid him on the bunk. Harvey opened his eyes and saw us. He smiled.
“They’re gone away,” he said. “They’ve killed me.”
“That’s too bad,” said the Kid.
“I told them you were in Mehico.”
“Who killed you?”
“Dad.”
The Kid made a wry face.
“It was lucky for you you went back for the makings,” Harvey said.
“You’re a good boy,” said the Kid.
“I’m glad I don’t have to die alone,” Harvey said.
“You in pain?” I asked.
“Some,” said Harvey. “Hi Doc.”
“Hi Harvey.”
“I’ll be taking me a trip tonight.”
“Have a drink,” said the Kid.
Harvey gulped the whiskey and coughed, then seemed to fall asleep. I’m going to take off soon, he was thinking. I’ve always thought it would be like a great white sheet of silk and I would have to walk, a long way over it and would sink down to my thighs in it and before getting lost in it I would look down behind me and down below I would see the earth spinning, with cobwebs all over it and fat spiders sitting on it.
I lit a couple of tallow candles and the Kid and I sat down to a game of stud.
“I hear he hails from Wisconsin,” I said.
The Kid shook his head to say he didn’t know.
“He wasn’t bad with a horse,” I said, “but never very good with a gun. I tried to teach him but he just didn’t have the knack of it. A fellow like that is bound to get himself killed before he’s twenty-five. He would have made somebody a good foreman though.”
“He just picked the wrong trade that’s all,” said the Kid, studying his cards.
“He was sure mighty handy with a branding iron.”
I’m going to take off soon, Harvey was thinking. I used to have a horse when I was a kid. I was a great rider when I was fifteen. Fifteen is the best time in a fellow’s life. I’ve been going downhill ever since.
He felt a cold hand touch him but he did not bother to open his eyes to see whose it was.
“He’s still alive,” I said.
“Harvey,” a voice said.
Thinking carefully, Harvey was able to decide it was the Kid’s but he was too tired to answer.
“I think he’s dead,” someone said.
Someone felt his wrist.
“No he’s still alive,” another voice said.
“Come on back and play,” said the Kid. “He’ll die soon enough.”
Why the hell did I get mixed up in all this? Harvey was thinking. Maybe I can get somebody to figure it out. Harvey your time is short you know that?
Suddenly he screamed and we looked up from our game and watched him. He screamed again and then we heard the rattle in his throat. He jerked twice and was still.
“Well that’s that,” said the Kid. “Let’s get him buried. I reckon they’ll want to have a wake.”
“Good old Harvey,” I said.
*
The natives had a wake for Harvey in the barn and Jesús Garcia buried him that night. The Kid and I spent the night in our adobes in the cypress head. Harvey’s killing had caused quite a commotion on the Punta, some of the natives thinking it was the Kid who had been killed. Nika knew now for sure that if the Kid hung around the Punta much longer he would find himself a bullet the way Harvey had and the more she thought about this the more she felt that the Kid was there only because of her and that she would be responsible for his death. Right after Harvey was buried she came over to the Kid’s adobe. He was lying on his bunk in his clothes, one tallow candle burning on the small table.
“That could have been you,” she said quietly. He had heard her come up the path and into the adobe.
“So what?” he said.
“Poor Harvey,” she said.
“A lucky shot,” he said. “Lucky for me.”
He stood up and set his hands in his back pockets.
“Your luck’s going to change if you keep hanging around here,” she said.
“What do you know about my luck?” he asked. “My luck’s better than ever. Don’t you know that?”
“It won’t last forever.”
“What am I supposed to do—bust out crying?”
“A little crying might do you some good. Aren’t you sorry for him?”
He shrugged.
“When your luck gives out that’s the end of the game,” he said.
“I don’t like to hear you talk like that.”
“I didn’t say it to please you.”
“No I know you didn’t.”
“This what you came to tell me?” he asked.
“No.”
“What then?”
She looked at him. “I don’t know.”
And then she went up to him, very close, watching his eyes intently, waiting for them to tell her something, and he held her shoulders gently and she pressed her cheek against his neck, thinking, I’m married to Miguel, and remembering Miguel lying in his bed, hollow-cheeked, the forehead looking too large, the nose looking thin and pinched, and she thought, I hope he won’t die, poor Miguel, and the Kid gripped her shoulders and she watched his eyes again in that intense way, trying to read them, and he kissed her. They said nothing in the dimness of the place, in the earth-smelling place with the madonna on the wall, and as he probed her mouth with his tongue she thought again of Miguel, thinking, Poor Miguel, I hope he won’t die.
9
There was no secret about how it happened or who did it. Late the next afternoon, Thursday, Cal and Curly Bill Dedrick and a fellow named Shotgun Smith rode up to the ranch where Modesto worked and called him out front. He went into the yard in front of the corral and asked them what they wanted. His boss was there too. They were liquored up and sweating and laughing to beat the band.
“Hell kid we just want to be sociable,” Curly Bill said.
“So you think you’re pretty good with that thing on your hip,” said Cal.
“I don’t want any trouble with you,” said Modesto, unhitching his gunbelt and letting it fall to the ground.
“Come here Modesto I got something for you,” said Curly Bill and he jerked his forty-five and shot him.
The ball hit Modesto in the stomach. He staggered, clawing at his gut. The Dedrick boys and Smith thought it was a great joke. Modesto straightened up partly, the blood running out over his fingers.
“The Kid will get you for this,” he said quietly.
It was at this point that Shotgun Smith fired a barrel into Modesto’s head. The boy dropped and Curly Bill dismounted and kicked his face with the high heel of his boot. Cal dismounted too, got a large rock and laid it under Modesto’s head for a pillow. Then Curly Bill, spotting Modesto’s piebald in the corral, roped her, led her close to the boy and shot her in the head. When she lay dead, steaming, the urine running out of her and the blood staining the ground, he got Modesto’s hat, which had fallen near the body, and put it under the mare’s head.
The Authentic Death of Hendry Jones Page 13
