by A B Guthrie
"What's the pay?"
"N0thin'. Only what the boys want to put in the cup. I figure I can sing 'em open-handed. Worth a try, anyhow. Now I got to eat and be goin'."
The last Summers saw of him that night was the bony figure, fiddle and tin cup in hand, walking down the long grade toward the lights.
30
SUMMERS said to Teal Eye, "I'm oneasy in my mind."
They sat in the starshine outside the tepee. Nocansee was nearby, listening. He was a quiet boy — or man — and what went on in his head he didn't tell. Lije had gone to bed. Little Wing, likely hearing the talk, came up and sat down.
"He will be all right," Teal Eye answered.
"Like I told him, it"s a tomfool thing, carryin' his poke around."
"He is proud of it like a little boy," Little Wing said. "Proud to have money. Proud because he can pay debt to you."
"That poke's a fair weight, comin' full."
"Yours, too," Teal Eye told him. "You brought in the big buffalo."
"I go armed. All Hig's got is his fiddle, his fiddle and that poke that somebody'll want. He thinks everyone loves him. But come a fight between love and gold, gold wins. That's what I tried to get into his head."
Little Wing said, "It is just this one more time he sings. He said it to all."
"That's just it." Summers scratched himself. More damn places itched. Far off a wolf howled, sounding lonesome as the last of the pack. The stars shone brighter and cleaner than the lights of the town.
"The night's gettin' on," he said. "You be all right if I traipse into town?"
"You know it," Teal Eye told him. "We call Lije. We have the scattergun and the musket, so all right. Be all right, too."
He picked up his rifle and started down the hill. A horse would get him there sooner, but he'd arrive soon enough. No one would tackle Hig while he played to a crowd.
The smell of the place reached him before he came to it. This was what men did, what bunches of men did — tear up and stink up a location and foul the water and leave the land A wrecked when the gold ran out, leave the land torn and the water nasty until maybe at last God got around to mending things. No guarantee that he would.
The sounds of the voice and the fiddle floated through the open door of the saloon. Higgins was playing and singing some jig tune to the thumps of boots and whiskey yells. Summers poked his head inside. Men were dancing, alone and together, some with the scatter of whores who tried not to look too old for the business. Higgins had a little platform for himself.
Summers pulled his head back and snorted the stink out. The place smelled of beer, whiskey, dirt and sweat. Nice place for a picnic. The street, up and down, was deserted. Now was the time to drown the work of the day in a jug.
The music stopped, and hands clapped, and yells called for more.
Summers heard Higgins call out, "Ladies and gents, time to cool off and get your breath back. Soothin' music it is now."
Out of his long-ago boyhood Summers remembered snatches of song. "Pretty Saro" was one, heard again over the gap of years. The crowd was silent except for one drunken voice. There was the sound of fist against flesh, and the voice died. There was another song and another, and yes, now there was "Barbara Allen." After each came hand clapping, boot stomping and shouts for still more. Then Higgins played what Summers knew was his own song.
To me my ma weren't a lady.
To me she was only plain Ma
Who cooked the grits and the hog meat
For me and a man known as Pa.
He wasn't my pa, I can tell you.
He caught Ma when she was lone
And made out for sure that he loved her
And then called our house his own.
I hated his lights and his liver.
I hated him kernel and shell,
And I prayed the devil to take him
Down to the furnace of hell.
Then he met a slim filly named Lily
Who nobody ever called shy,
And took off with her for the city
And left us to root hog or die.
We made out, we made out, me and Ma did,
Thanks to her grit and her head.
Looking back, I cry in my whiskers,
Wishing that Ma wasn't dead.
Ma, oh, Ma, can you hear me?
Your touch was so gentle and strong,
I know now that you was a lady,
But why did it take me so long?
There was silence when the song ended and then a sudden blast of hands, voices, stomping feet. In answer to it Higgins I played the last verse again and then again the last line, adding to it and putting in more throb.
But why did it take me so long, so long?
Oh, why did it take me so long?
His voice sounded above the other noises. "Ladies and gents, I thank you kindly. Now I'm sung out."
Summers waited, knowing that Higgins would sit there until the men had had a chance to sweeten the cup. Then he would empty the cup into his poke and come out.
He looked up and down the street again. Now was a likely time, and after a while, sure enough, two men came from in back of a building. He eased himself into the shadows between two shops. Higgins walked through the doorway and started down the road, his fiddle in one hand, his poke swinging from its thong in the other. The two men came close on his heels. Summers sneaked up from behind.
One of the men said, "Turn around. Got a gun on you. Hand over that poke."
"Oh, don't hurt me," Higgins whined, turning. "Here's the poke." He swung it as he turned. It caught the man over the temple. The man staggered and went down. Hands apart on his Hawken, Summers swung it over the other man's head and pulled the man to him. A squeak came out of the choked throat. The man was small. He kicked like a held rabbit.
"Get their pokes," Summers said.
Higgins collected them. "Not one hell of a lot in 'em."
"The pistol."
Higgins lifted it from where it had fallen. "It's no more'n a toy. One shot if it fired at all." He tossed it into the street.
Summers let the little man drop. The man squirmed and tried to get up. Summers gave his head a good-night lick with the barrel of his rifle. The other man hadn't moved. Men had begun to come from the Here's Howdy.
"Time to make tracks," Summers said.
Once free of the town, Higgins told him, "You was right, Dick, me wrong. I reckon you could say I was what they call purse-proud."
They walked up the hill, into the starlight and silence, into the good air, and then a voice reached them, singing. They halted and went on, and the voice came to them clearer. They halted again.
"Nocansee singin'," Higgins said.
The warm of the sun,
The wet of the rain,
I sit and I hear
That the prairie is wide.
"It's mostly his, but for the tune," Higgins said. "He sings better'n me."
"Shut up, Hig."
The feel of the wind
And the stir of the grass,
These things I know
And the prairie is wide.
The voice sounded clear and flowing as spring water, Summers thought, clear and flowing and sorrowful.
The buffalo bawlin',
The smell of meat cookin',
I sit and I hear
That the prairie is wide.
"Pity he don't sing more," Higgins said.
"Would you? Tell me that."
"Whoa up, Dick. What's rilin' you?"
Summers felt rage in him, and such a pity as would melt a man. "Would you in his fix? Makes a man want to goddamn God. He never had a chance, not one fuckin' chance."
31
GETS TIRESOME, just rustin' here," Higgins said. "I done smoked my throat raw."
"Hang to it," Summers told him.
"I'm hangin' all right, but not spooky. Who cares about them two measly bastards we banged on the head? Only about two nights' singin' in their pokes."
> The sun had passed from straight overhead, burning as it lowered toward the hills. The women made out to be busy. Lije was coming back from watering the horses. Nocansee sat silent as if he never had sung a word.
Summers called out to Lije, "Keep the horses close in."
"I swear, Dick- " Higgins said and didn't say more.
"I keep tellin' you, you can't trust 'em, not the law in these diggin's. The butcher — Con, you know — he told me private and secret, not as he was too sure. But seems like the outlaws are the law. They don't want anyone hornin' in on their thievin's."
"Why not leave now?"
"As it is, they'd just foller."
"Strikes me you're seein' things under the bed."
"Maybe so."
Grasshoppers jumped and crawled along stems. A big one flew out in front of Lije's horses, making a buzz like a rattlesnake. High overhead two birds soared, looking down, Summers knew, with eyes that could make out a mouse. The women talked back and forth, now and then laughing. The sun lowered itself, inch by inch, and gave up some of its fire.
It was then that Summers saw the man. He pointed toward him, saying nothing.
On a prancing horse, to the jangle of spurs, the man rode to them. He had on a clean jacket and a clean shirt and a glinting star. His boots were new. "Got some business with you boys," he said. "I'm Stimson, deputy sheriff. I know your names."
Summers and Higgins got to their feet. Stimson stayed on his horse. He had a six-shoot Colt at his belt.
Higgins said, making out to be meek, "Pleased to meet you."
The women stood at the tepees, watching.
"That's nice," Stimson said. "Now it appears that you two beat up on a couple of our worthy citizens last night."
"Worthy?" Higgins asked. "Lord help us." Step by careful step he was working his way to one side of the horse, opposite Summers.
Stimson laughed a rich laugh. "Don't get me wrong. We don't make much of a scuffle. Boys will be boys."
"That's good to hear," Summers said.
"But robbery now, that's a different matter. I came for the pokes you took. just hand them over, and there'll be no charges against you."
"You see any pokes, Dick?"
"Nary a one."
Stimson smiled, just biding his time. He had a full, confident face with whiskey burn in it.
"We shall see what we shall see. Another little thing, men. The community has laws and licenses. There's a fee of twenty-five percent for wild animals brought in for sale. And an entertainer's license comes to twenty dollars a night. Sorry, gents, but you haven't paid."
Summers asked, "Who makes these laws?"
"They're mining camp laws. The sheriff enforces them with the help of his deputies."
"Who's the sheriff?"
"Henry Plummer, though that's not your concern."
"And him and you keep the money, that's if you tell him your takin's. We ain't of a mind to fork over."
Stimson touched the butt of his Colt. "I'm not here for trouble, but if you want it you'll get it. Hear me, dad?"
From the other side of the horse Higgins let his voice out in a screech. "Who you callin' dad? He's a better man than you'll ever be, you pus-gutted son of a bitch."
Stimson turned toward him. Summers grabbed Stimson by the arm, yanked him from the horse and thumped him on the ground. The pistol flew from the holster. Like a monkey Higgins ran in front of the plunging horse and gathered it up.
Nocansee had got out of the way.
"Now," Higgins said mildly, "shall we go ahead with our talk?"
Stimson sat on his butt in the dust. "You'll pay for this. By God you'll pay. Wait till the sheriff hears."
Summers let a smile come to his face. "That's just what we'll do. Wait. You and us both." He called out to the women,
"Break camp."
Lije came running up, his eyes wide. They took in what there was to see. "Don't need no help, I see." He sounded disappointed.
"We do, though," Summers said. "Bring the horses back, son. We're takin' off."
He turned to Higgins, who was holding the Colt steady on Stimson. "Keep it lined up while I get his poke." Then, "Lordamercy, it's right heavy."
"You dumb bastards." Stimson was still sitting in the dust.
"Now, Hig, I reckon that bob-tailed shootin' iron will fire, but it's shy on reach. I'll get my rifle. Happen he makes a run for it, I can shoot his lights out, fur as I can see him."
"You're making one goddamn big mistake," Stimson told them.
"Looks to me like you made the mistake," Summers answered.
"Tryin' to rob two innocent citizens. Ain't there a law against that?"
"We'll forget the law. Keep the Colt, you jugheads. Give me my poke and my horse, and we'll call it even."
Higgins said, "Plumb reasonable, ain't he, Dick?"
"We'll let him go all right."
Lije had brought up the horses. The tepees were coming down. Nocansee held a nervous horse while Lije packed it.
"Hig, get a piece of rope, will you? We aim to see Mr. Stimson don't fall off his horse. Get some for his hands, too. He won't be usin' reins. First, though, fetch his horse. I'll keep him covered."
"They hang people for this," Stimson said.
"Sure do. Now get up and get on that horse, else I'll shoot you or club you with this here iron. That's the stuff. Now, Hig, tie his feet tight under the horse. Hands come next. We don't want no accidents and have to shoot the law."
The camp was clean. Horses packed. Horses saddled. Only the ashes of old fires left. Summers put a halter on Stimson's horse, saying, "I'll lead him, Hig." They were used to this way of travel. Horses for the two women, a horse for Nocansee with Lije leading on another, pack horses to be led by one rider or another, one travois that they might have to drop. Higgins swung into his saddle and called out, "Hi-yi."
Summers pointed almost due north, not knowing the way, knowing he would find it. They rode the stars pale and out and the sun up and the sun starting down, not stopping except to make water, and came to the time that Summers called a halt.
"No tepees tonight," he told the women. "Lije, looks like there's water down there a ways. Take the horses and see can you find some meat for the kettle. Hig and me's got work to do."
He untied the rope from Stimson's feet. Stimson groaned as he slid from the saddle. His legs folded under him when he tried to stand. From the ground he rubbed his knees with his tied hands. "You sons of bitches have crippled me."
"Watch he don't run away, Hig," Summers said. He walked to where the women were. He told them, "When I give the sign, come out with knives. Make like you wanted to butcher him some."
Nocansee said softly, "You wouldn't, though."
"Not one scratch, son."
When he returned, Stimson was on his feet. He held out his hands, and Summers freed them while Higgins held the Colt.
"Now," Summers said, "take off your clothes, Mr. Deputy."
"Damned if I do!"
"Take 'em off or have 'em took off or knifed off, one way or t'other."
Slowly Stimson peeled off his jacket and laid it on the ground. Next came his shirt. "That suit you?"
"Get out of them pants. Boots, too."
"Come turn about, we'll nail you to the cross, Summers."
"Take 'em off, I said."
The man had a time with his new boots. He dropped his pants and stepped out of them and stood in his smallclothes. Summers lifted his hand, and the women came screeching, knives in their hands. Stimson's eyes widened and stared. The blood left his face. He said, "Jesus Christ, no!"
The women ran a circle around him, squealing in Shoshone and Blackfoot while they swung the knives. Summers hushed them with a down stroke of his hand. They stood grinning and fingering the blades.
"Keep those squaws away," Stimson tried to shout, fear in his voice.
"Why?"
The answer came out in puffs. "You know why. They'll cut off my works — cock and balls."
Summers made out to consider. "What you think, Hig?"
"There wouldn't be any little Stimsons growin' up to be deputies. That's one thing."
"Act like white men for God's sake," Stimson asked.
"Why, I figured we were," Summers answered. "Just follerin' your lead."
"Take my poke. Welcome to it."
"We done took it."
"Take my horse."
"Got it a'ready."
"Just let me go."
Summers said to Higgins as if Stimson wasn't there, "You got a point. No more Deputy Stimsons. But look at it another way. Say we let the women have their fun. I got doubts he could make it back. Likely bleed hisself to death. I shy from murder."
The women went to screeching and dancing again, and again Summers stopped them.
"What's to do then?" Higgins asked.
"Seems a shame to say no to the womenfolk, but I don't know. Let's just turn him loose on the prairie."
Stimson croaked something.
"Way he is?" Higgins asked.
"Leave him his underclothes. He'll burn bad enough with them on."
"Boots?"
"I reckon. He'll have a heap of walkin' to do. Time he gets to the gulch, we'll be hell-and-gone, too far for his law to reach. Let's go."
They left him standing in his under-britches and shirt. He hadn't put on his boots yet.
As they reined away, Higgins said, "I could almost feel sorry weren't he such a bastard."
"Only right way I knowed to handle things," Summers said.
"You got to keep solid in mind that a son of a bitch is a son of a bitch, no matter how come."
32
ANY WAY a man looked at it, age was a sorry thing. It came on a body gradual and then, almost all of a sudden, there it was. Take Dick Summers, Higgins thought as he led a horse to a tree to be tied up and shod. Not that Summers wasn't one hell of a man yet, but some of the spring had gone out of his step, and, in the mornings before he got loosened up, he walked gimpy, trying not to show it.
People who didn't know Summers would nod, accepting the signs. What would anyone expect in a man pushing seventy who had maybe pushed past it? Think to see him run and jump and holler and play hell with the ladies? Think to see him bracing one and all, wanting to iight? But to know the man was something else again, something different. It was to feel in himself the tired muscles, not springy now, and the ache in his joints, and want to sit down and bawl.
