The Big Gundown

by Bill Brooks

  The girl wept openly, bitterly.

  “You ain’t got no affair with none of this,” she sobbed. “Whyn’t you go on and leave us all alone. Ain’t you done enough already? You killed Nat and now you want to kill me. Well, just go ahead and kill us all if that’s what you’re intending, ’cause it don’t matter to me. Kill this baby, too! Kill Nat’s baby girl.”

  He stood there breathing hard through his nostrils. He had it in mind to do that very thing: to kill every last one of them.

  “You’re all just white trash,” he said to the girl. “Just goddamn white trash, is all!”

  The baby began to cry and she held it up close to her and tried to put her tit in its mouth, but it fussed and wouldn’t take it and her milk leaked down onto its face and she cried even more.

  He didn’t know what to do. The old woman was crying, too. Out of frustration he upturned the table and the things that were on it: some old china dishes and cups they had brought with them from Arkansas; a jar with dried wildflowers in it—Nat’s last gift to her he’d brought that late fall: “I found these just waiting for you, Marybeth,” he’d said, giving them to her—a tin cup with coffee in it the boy had been drinking. All of it scattered across the puncheon floor like trash now.

  He removed the pistol from its holster and cocked it and aimed it at her and said, “Yes, I killed him and I’ll by god kill you, too, woman. You and this old hag and that boy yonder.”

  He could see it then, the fear in her eyes, and that is what he wanted to be there. The baby cried louder still. It squirmed in her hands and she felt completely incapable of caring for it. Dallas pulled the trigger and the sound of the pistol fire was like an explosion in the small room. The bullet took out a chunk from the wall above her head. The explosion seemed to stun them all into silence, except for the babe, who screamed even louder—though its cries were hardly more than the squalling of a kitten.

  “Let that be a warning to you,” he said. Then he said something strange, something none of them expected.

  “You get rid of that and I’ll take you in. You don’t and I will kill you.”

  She shook her head.

  “You got one day to think about it,” he said. “You get rid of that and I’ll come back here for you and you can go with me. These others can make their own way, only I don’t want them around here no more.”

  And when no one said anything, he added, “I ain’t fooling around. And if you think the law will protect you, you better start thinking otherwise, because he’s on my list, too. Get rid of it, or else!”

  It seemed like they didn’t breathe until they saw him riding away.

  Frisco said, “He’s gone, the son of a bitch.”

  “Hesh, with that sort of talk,” the old woman said. “You sound just like him when you talk like that.”

  “I don’t care if I do.”

  “I care if you do. I don’t want to hear no more cursing.”

  “He comes back, I’m gone shoot him in the guts.”

  “Oh, god!”

  The girl didn’t say anything.

  The babe had finally clamped onto her breast and began suckling a little. Tears fell from her cheeks onto the tiny hands that had turned into fists, as though it knew already it was going to have to fight for every little thing in life.

  The boy stood staring out the window, hoping that Dallas would come back, even though he had nothing to shoot him with.

  The old woman closed her eyes against it all. Why is life so rotten bad?

  20

  JAKE AWOKE TO THE SMELL of frying bacon, coffee, and baking biscuits. He dressed quickly and went out into the kitchen, where the girls were already seated at the table and Clara was busy serving them their breakfast.

  “Good morning, Mr. Horn,” the girls said in unison. They had happy smiles on their faces and he felt more than a little embarrassed.

  “You forgot to comb your hair, Mr. Horn,” April said.

  “Yes, you forgot to comb your hair,” May said with a giggle.

  He swept his fingers through his hair, trying to smooth down the wild parts.

  “Mr. Horn slept over as our guest last night, girls,” Clara said.

  They looked at her with bright expectant eyes.

  “Now, let’s not bother him,” Clara added. “Mr. Horn, are you hungry?”

  He nodded and said, “I need to go check on my patients first.”

  “Mr. Horn stayed the night as our guest because he has two men he’s caring for in the infirmary,” Clara said. “They’re very ill and he didn’t want to leave them.”

  “Yes, Mama,” they said.

  “I’ll be right back,” Jake said.

  “Call me if you need my help,” Clara said.

  Ellis Kansas was dead.

  He lay on his back with his mouth slightly open, his eyes staring at the ceiling. Jake thumbed the man’s eyelids closed. It felt the way it always felt when a patient died on him. Like a defeat. He took it personally.

  He turned his attention to the scraggly young man.

  “I’m pissing blood,” Willy Silk said.

  “I think you may have suffered a wound to one of your kidneys, but I don’t think it was very deep.”

  “Hurts like a bastard.”

  “I’m sure it does.”

  “Am I gone live or not?”

  “Probably,” Jake said.

  “How can you be sure?”

  “If you were going to die, you’d have died by now.”

  “Like him?” Willy nodded toward the body of Ellis Kansas.

  “Yes, like him.”

  “What was it killed him?”

  “Somebody shot him through the neck.”

  “Goddamn.”

  “You’ll need bed rest for a few days,” Jake said.

  “Why, if I ain’t gone die?”

  “Because you could get that wound infected and then you would die. Besides, I doubt you’ll feel like walking very much for awhile.”

  Willy tried to sit up, but the pain was excruciating.

  “I’m thirsty.”

  Jake brought him a glass of water and held his head while he drank it.

  “Damn thing is, it’s gone make me piss more, ain’t it?”

  “Best to keep fluids in you,” Jake said.

  “Huh?”

  “Drink lots of water. I’ll set the pitcher and the glass here by your bed.”

  “This a hospital?”

  “Infirmary,” Jake said.

  “And you’re the doc?”

  “City marshal,” Jake said.

  “You arrest that bitch who stabbed me?”

  “Not yet.”

  “What the hell you waiting for?”

  “She claims you assaulted her.”

  “Hell I did. She stabbed me over that Chinese girl.”

  “Why would she do that?”

  “Shit, you best go ask her.”

  “I intend to.”

  Willy grimaced and Jake said he’d check in on him later.

  Jake went back out and sat down at the table and ate the breakfast Clara fixed him. The girls excused themselves to go out and play. Clara and Jake could hear them whispering to each other as they put their coats on in the mud room: “Mama’s in love with the marshal.” “I know it.” “Shhh, shhh, they’ll hear us.” Clara looked at Jake and shook her head.

  “They asked me if I was in love with you,” Clara said with a smile. “I told them not to be silly. But they’re right. I am.”

  Jake didn’t say anything, but stood away from the table and went to the stove and took the pot of coffee and refilled his cup.

  “You want some more?” he said.

  “No,” she said. “I’m fine.”

  “Ellis is dead,” he said. “I didn’t want to say anything in front of the girls. I need to go get John and have him take care of it, then I need to go over to the saloon and question that girl who stabbed the other one.”

  Clara watched him as he stood drinking
from the cup. He could tell that she wanted to talk about what the girls had asked, but he wanted to avoid the subject for the time being. Too many things were on his mind. He finished and set his cup down, then went and put his coat on and Clara stayed sitting at the table.

  “I’ll come back in awhile and check on the young man. He should be fine until I get back. Unless you want to offer him something to eat. Though I doubt he’ll feel like eating.”

  She nodded.

  “We’ll talk about that other thing, too,” he said. “Only not now.”

  She looked expectantly at him, then said, “Okay.”

  He went to Tall John’s and told him about Ellis.

  “That’s a shame,” John said. “He seemed like a pretty good fellow, all around.”

  “Yeah, I think he was, too.”

  “I’ll try and get him in the ground today, if it ain’t frozen. If it is, I might have to put him in Zimmerman’s icehouse, where he keeps his meats.”

  “Whatever you have to do,” Jake said, “as long as you get him out of Clara’s house.”

  “I’ll go and find Will Bird and we’ll get him out.”

  Jake went out and crossed the street and went down to the Three Aces. It was early yet. The barman was washing glasses and looked up when Jake stepped inside.

  “I need to talk to the girl from last night,” Jake said. “The one involved in the knifing.”

  “Sweetwater Sue? She’s in the back, third door on the right.”

  Jake went on back and knocked and waited.

  “Go away” came a feminine voice from inside.

  “City Marshal, we need to talk.”

  He heard movement in the room, a second voice, then the door opened and the woman stood there in a loose-fitting kimono. He could see the other girl beyond, there on the bed, sitting with her knees pulled up—the Chinese.

  “The man you stabbed last night,” Jake said. “He says you did it for no reason, except maybe jealousy.”

  She saw him looking past her, stepped out of the room into the hallway, and closed the door behind her.

  “He tried to rape me.”

  “Open your robe,” Jake said.

  “Go to hell.”

  “Open your robe so I can see the marks on you.”

  “What marks?”

  “A man who tries to rape a woman will leave marks, bruises of some sort. I don’t see any on your neck or arms, so open your robe.”

  “Look, I didn’t give him a chance to put his hands on me. He acted like he was a customer, then when we get back here to the room, he tells me he doesn’t have any money and that I’m going to give it to him for free or else he’s going to take it. I asked him to leave and he refused. So I said I was going and he tried to stop me and that’s when I stuck him.”

  “You stuck him in the back,” Jake said. “How’d that happen?”

  “Listen, mister, I been around enough men to know when they’re dangerous. I don’t give them a chance. Who’s going to blame me?”

  “Go get dressed.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I’m going to arrest you.”

  “For what?”

  “For your own good.”

  She laughed harshly.

  “You’re just like all the others,” she said. “What, you want a free poke? You’ll let me go if I give you a freebie?”

  “Get dressed,” he said.

  He saw then the anger in her, enough anger to put a knife into someone.

  “You son of a bitch,” she said.

  “You got two minutes.”

  He waited until she came out again, the Chinese girl clinging to her, pleading with him not to take her.

  “No, no,” she cried. “She takes care of me. Please!”

  Jake ignored her and led the whore by the elbow down the hall, through the main room, and outside.

  “Why are you doing this? Don’t I even get a trial?”

  Jake prodded her on until they got to the jail.

  “Empty your reticule on the desk,” he said. She did as she was told and when he saw she had no knife or other weapon—like a derringer—he opened the cell door and waited until she entered, then locked it behind her.

  “How long you going to keep me here?”

  “Until I can figure out who’s telling the truth.”

  “I don’t see you locked that son of a bitch up.”

  “He’s not in much condition to walk.”

  She was flushed with anger to the point of trembling.

  “I hate you!” she said.

  “I know it. I’ll send someone around later with lunch.”

  She was still cursing him when he stepped outside again.

  The air had a cold crispness to it. It stung the skin, but it felt good, too. Except for the muddy horse-trodden street, everything appeared white and pure, like a painting of a winter scene he’d seen in an art museum once.

  He wondered when the cowboys would come.

  21

  FRISCO DROVE THE WAGON. Marybeth and the infant rode on the seat beside him. The old woman sat in the back, wrapped in blankets. It was slow going through the snow-heavy road. The horse labored and they had to stop often to let it blow.

  “It feels like we’re the only ones in the whole world,” Marybeth said, looking around at the endless white landscape. Not so much as a crow flew to break the empty feeling.

  Frisco said, “I don’t know why we’re running.”

  “’Cause we ain’t stupid, is why,” the old woman retorted.

  He looked around. She was his ma, but he never forgave her for running off his pa. She had a severe visage. Her tight face seemed little more than thin skin stretched over bones with gray empty eyes. He never knew her as anything but old, even though she claimed to be only thirty some years of age. He remembered his pa as a stout dark-haired man with handsome good looks and happy ways. But he remembered, too, the arguing the two of them did, mostly at night. The old man wore his pants tucked inside his boots and kept his black hair combed down the center and wore a black handlebar moustache, which he waxed diligently. He liked clean shirts, freshly boiled, and kept them buttoned at the throat. Marybeth had told the boy once that their pa had a woman in town he went to see regular and he asked her how she knew such a thing and she said their ma had told her. He didn’t want to believe it, but whenever he looked at the old woman, he thought he could understand why his pa might take up with someone of a less sour disposition.

  Her voice reminded him of a dog’s bark.

  “Stupid is as stupid does,” he said bitterly.

  The old woman said, “I ought to slap the sass out your mouth.”

  “Go ahead,” he said.

  She simply glared at him. They both knew it had come a point it wouldn’t do any good to whip him, that if there was a man to be relied on among them, it was him, even if he was only around twelve years old. He was lean as a hungry wolf and had wolf’s eyes, amber and fierce, like he’d swallowed all the misery there was to swallow and couldn’t spit it back up again. He was old beyond his years, she thought. The girl, less so for having taken up with that colored cowboy and getting herself a belly full of child. But what was there in this far-flung frontier but cowboys and a few bachelor ranchers old enough to be the girl’s father, most of them. The rest of the local manhood, as far as she could determine, were no-account, dumb as oxen, stubborn as mules, dirty, thieves, and worse. Look what the girl taken up with before Nat Pickett. Colored as that boy was, he was twice as better than that damn Dallas Fry, who was meaner than a snake.

  Men were all the same in her book—not to be trusted or counted on and not a one of them worth the air they breathed. She thought about Harry, how he run off on her for some red-haired harlot, then left her, too, and God only knows where he went after that. She hadn’t heard of him in years and she didn’t care to, either. She figured he was dead. It never cost her a night’s sleep to think he was.

  “We better get on,” she said. “That
old horse is liable to die he stands there long enough.”

  Frisco snapped the reins and the horse didn’t move, then he snapped them again and yelled, “Haw on!” and the horse stepped off, but you could see pulling the wagon with the four of them in it was a strain.

  It took the better part of a day for them to reach Sweet Sorrow.

  The old woman said, “Pull in here.”

  She said, “I’ll go and get the marshal.”

  The girl said, “Hurry, I’m cold, Mama.”

  Inside the jail she saw a fat old man leaning back in a chair half asleep and she slammed the door hard and he near fell out of his chair.

  Gus Boone thought somebody fired a gun.

  “Jeez Christ!’ he said, scrambling up.

  “Where’s the marshal?” the old woman said. “We come to see the marshal.”

  “He ain’t here.”

  “I can see that, you dolt. Where is he?”

  Gus shrugged. She looked like something in one of his nightmares.

  She saw the woman locked up in the jail cell. Floozy, for sure.

  “Well,” she said, “perhaps you could tell me where I can find him before we’re all murdered.”

  “Murdered?” Gus said. “Who’s going to murder you?”

  “I ain’t about to discuss my business with you.”

  Gus looked befuddled.

  The door opened and Frisco and the girl came in. It made the small room crowded with all of them standing in there. Frisco looked at the calendar on the wall. It had a drawing of a woman in a big hat holding a can of coffee that said ARBUCKLE IS THE COWBOY’S COFFEE. Then he saw the rack of guns—shotguns and rifles, repeating Winchesters, and double-bore Whitneys. He could do some serious damage to that son of a bitch with one of those. His own single-bore was out in the wagon, its stock cracked, its barrel pitted. He planned on taking the dime he had saved and buying himself a bullet to replace the one Dallas had pocketed. A bullet for Dallas, only next time it wouldn’t end up in his pocket but in his goddamn guts.

  “It’s too cold for me and little Sadie to wait out there, Mama,” Marybeth said.

  Gus saw the girl had a baby under the blanket wrapped around her. And when she took the blanket from around its tiny head as she stood over near the stove, he could see it wasn’t any bigger than a five-pound sack of Arbuckle. He never saw a baby with so much dark hair.