Jim Saddler 2

by Gene Curry

  Curly touched his face with his hand and winced. That was all. A smaller man might have died from such a beating; all Curly did was spit out broken teeth.

  “Okay, it can wait till the war’s over,” he mumbled. “But when it is I’m going to beat you to death.”

  There was no doubt that he meant what he said, and I wasn’t about to take his word that he’d hold back until the shooting was over. I had pulled a sneaky trick on him and, dumb or not, he might be fixing to do the same.

  “You hear what I said, Saddler?”

  “Every word. I hope you remember what I said. Jump me and you get killed.”

  The boys knew what had been going on behind the barn, and there was no more grinning when I went back to them. By then it was close to noon. I pushed them hard through the hottest part of the day. Too many riders were posted along the boundary wire and I moved some of them back to a second line of defense.

  It was starting to get dark when I decided to call it a day. The men were working better than they had been, and who could doubt that the savage beating of Curly Fitch had something to do with their new spirit of enthusiasm.

  I figured Curly would be in the bunkhouse cooling his head with wet towels. But no, the hard-headed ramrod was out there helping to load barrels of coal oil into a wagon. Just a line of bandage showed under his hat, and when he saw one of the boys staring at him he yanked down the brim. There was no way he could hide what had happened to his face.

  Curly drove the wagon to the boundary wire and I rode alongside. Three men unloaded the barrels when we got there and spaced them out inside the wire.

  “Not so close to the wire,” I said. “Move the barrels back a bit. Now start digging. Bury them so nothing shows but the tops. If they come after dark, set the coal oil on fire, and then move back twenty-five yards. No shooting unless they start something first. Shoot if they try to cut the wires. Don’t even wait for them to get off a shot.”

  I asked some of the men if they had seen Jessie; one and all were sure she hadn’t gone outside the wire. Knowing what she was like I wasn’t sure of anything. The rider who patrolled the most northerly point of the wire said there had been some gunfire over on Pardee’s range.

  “Sounded like two shots,” he said. “One right after the other. Course it’s a distance and I won’t swear to it. Anyway, it don’t have to mean anything. Could just be some rider killing a snake.”

  “When did you hear the shots?”

  “I’d say about two hours ago, maybe a little more. That’s all the shooting there was.”

  It was dark now, time for supper, when we got back to the ranch. I looked in the corral and Jessie’s pony, a gift from John, was there. The animal had been rubbed down and watered, but I knew it had been ridden hard.

  Jessie was by herself at the dining room table; John was over by the fire snoring in a chair. Laughing Woman set out a plate for me, and I poured a drink and waited until she went back to the kitchen.

  I helped myself to baked ham and soldier beans. “Where did you go this afternoon?” I asked, my tone making it clear that I wasn’t just making conversation.

  Her hard, blue eyes looked at me with some amusement. “What do you mean?”

  “What I said. Where did you go today? You didn’t go outside the wire did you?”

  “What if I did? What would you do about it? I’m not Curly Fitch, you know.”

  “Where did you go?”

  “Oh for Christ’s sake! I didn’t go anywhere. All I did was ride around, get down, sit on a rock. When I got sick of that I rode some more. If it’s any of your business I got back about an hour ago.”

  I figured it had taken her longer than that to get back; her pony was still showing signs of sweat.

  “Then you didn’t tie your pony and go through the wire on foot?”

  “Why in hell would I do that, Saddler?”

  I said I didn’t know. “Maybe I will later. The condition of your pony says you got back not long before I did. And I just got here.”

  She gave me her idea of a friendly smile. “Maybe I was wrong about the time. What difference does it make?”

  I forked another thick slice of sugar-cured ham onto my plate. “I don’t know what difference,” I said. “If I knew what you were doing out there I wouldn’t have to ask questions, now would I.”

  “I tell you I just went for a ride. Is there anything wrong with that?”

  “Not a thing,” I said.

  Jessie helped herself to a big drink of rum and seemed to relax, though I knew she was quivering with tension she didn’t display. I wondered what it was; in less than a week we had a long sweet night in bed and a showdown with guns. I don’t know what I would have done if she had really tried to kill the sheriff. Would I have shot her? I suppose I would have. It’s hell when things get that mixed up between a man and a woman.

  We had been sitting on opposite sides of the long table. Now, holding her glass, she came around and sat beside me. “If there’s nothing wrong, then why don’t you cheer up? Pardee isn’t going to win this fight no matter how many men he has. He can’t win because he doesn’t have people on his side like you and me.”

  “What are you driving at, Jessie?”

  “Just this. We’re going to win because we’re tougher and meaner than Pardee ever hoped to be.”

  “I still don’t get it. Say what you mean.”

  “All right. We’re better than any of these people here. I don’t include Mr. Wingate because … well... I don’t. They don’t like you, Saddler, and they probably don’t like me.”

  I had to grin at that. “Some of them would like to get a chance to like you.”

  “They’ll never get that chance. I pick my own bed partners and there’s nobody around here worth picking except you and sometimes I wonder about you. You could be a top gun, but you don’t seem to care. Why is that? Don’t you want to build a reputation, have people step down from the sidewalk when you pass by?”

  “Good Lord, no! Why should I want to do a thing like that?”

  Her eyes narrowed. “To make people show respect. To let them know you’re somebody.”

  “I am somebody. My name is Jim Saddler and I was born and dragged up in Jonesboro, West Texas.”

  “You know that isn’t what I mean.”

  “I know it isn’t. Sorry, not interested. If earning respect means killing people I’d just as soon pass.”

  “You have killed people.”

  “Here and there, now and then.”

  “You make me mad, you know that, Saddler. You have what it takes to get it, but you don’t want it.”

  The baked ham certainly was good. I had some more. “That’s right,” I agreed. “I don’t want it.”

  “We could be an unbeatable team,” Jessie said, putting her hand on my arm. “In no time we’d be famous as …”

  She hesitated and I finished the rest of the sentence for her.

  “... as your father.”

  She lifted her chin defiantly. “That’s right,” she said. “People are going to know who I am.”

  I looked at her. “Look,” I said, “it’s not my way to ask questions of anybody—are you really Jesse James’ daughter?”

  “Do you doubt it?”

  “Not specially.”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “I don’t know. Just asking.”

  Now she looked eager. “If I could prove that I am, really prove it, would you team up with me then?”

  “Not a chance. As soon as this trouble is over I’m going back to being a gambler for a while. If you feel like coming along I wouldn’t mind it a bit. It isn’t a bad life. You get to see a lot of towns, eat well, stay in good hotels. You ever been to Galveston or El Paso? They’ve got some fine hotels there.”

  Jessie set down her glass with a bang. “To hell with Galveston! You think I’m going to sit around some hotel room while you’re playing cards day and night. No thanks, Saddler.”

  “Suit
yourself,” I said.

  But she refused to let it drop. “You’re making a mistake, Saddler. In years to come you’ll look back and regret that you weren’t more of a man.”

  I was getting tired of being nagged. “If you want to be another Belle Starr, then go to it. Just leave me alone. I’m trying to finish my supper.”

  “Oh you make me mad. I’d like to shake you till your teeth rattle, and then shake you some more.”

  “Is that all you’d like to do? I have something better in mind.” I grinned at her pretty, sullen face.

  “I could make you see my side of things. I know you like me, so there’s no use pretending you don’t. Didn’t we have a good time in bed the other night?”

  I wasn’t going to argue about that. “Couldn’t be better,” I said.

  “Then why don’t we do it again? Right now.”

  “You’re trying to bribe me?”

  “Persuade you is more like it.”

  “I’m ready to be persuaded till the cows come home.”

  “You won’t be sorry,” she said.

  But of course I was sorry about everything, but that wasn’t to come till later. I was as sorry as I could be, and there wasn’t a thing I could do about it.

  We left old John snoring in his chair by the fire, took the bottle of rum and went down the flagstoned hall to my room. She helped me to undress and I did the same for her. This women—this girl—was a mystery to me; every minute there was a different turn to her character. I decided to put off deciding about her, to enjoy the night ahead.

  It was different than it had been the first time; on the first night there had been no tension between us, but now there was. I could feel it in the way she arched her back and I started to make love to her, and instead of crying out she remained silent.

  After we finished making love she told me to hold her as tightly as I could. She molded her lithe body against mine, and her hard strong fingers dug into my back. We lay together in that way for a long time. We still hadn’t said anything by the time she loosened her grip on me and lay on her back with her eyes wide open.

  At some point I must have dozed off.

  Chapter Nine

  I rolled out of bed when somebody started yelling like a Comanche. The yelling was followed by three shots. Pulling on my pants I took a quick look at my big old turnip of a watch. The time was ten thirty in the evening. Whoever was yelling was doing his best to sound like a troop of cavalry.

  Jessie was awake now, and maybe she had been awake all the time. I had jerked the bedclothes aside when I jumped out of bed; she was a sight: young and soft and shapely in the rosy glow of the lamp. I hated to get out of that bed.

  “What do you think it is, Saddler?” There was a veiled look in her eyes, but I didn’t think much of it because she was always acting kind of strange.

  I went out and a young cowboy named Jackson was still yelling. I think he was enjoying himself. Curly Fitch rushed out of the bunkhouse and told him to shut up and talk like a sensible man. The young cowboy didn’t seem to hear him—he was that excited. He raised his gun to fire another shot; Curly’s roar nearly knocked him out of the saddle.

  John Wingate came out of the house followed by Jessie. He had his Peacemaker holstered at his side and he was stamping his feet into his boots. I could smell the rum though I was at least four feet away.

  “What in hell is going on here?” John asked, still not completely awake. “And who was shooting off that gun at this time of night.”

  Jackson looked scared. “Me, Mr. Wingate. Pardee and his whole force is at the wire. I got here as soon as I could.”

  “What does he want?” John looked puzzled, and in a way so was I because if Pardee wanted to make a night attack he wouldn’t just ride up easy. He’d hit the wire hard and come in shooting.

  “You sure of what you’re saying, cowboy?” An idea was beginning to form in my mind, and I didn’t like it. But it would have to wait.

  “I asked you what does Pardee want?” John said. “I wish you’d favor me with an answer, young man.”

  “I don’t know what he wants, sir. He kept yelling that two of his men had been bushwhacked over on the north range today. He says this time you got to face him, or he’ll come after you.”

  John’s bony face grew dark with rage. “He’ll what! Why that no-good Rebel-beggar, accusing me of being a bushwhacker. I know now what I should have done. I should have killed Vince Pardee when I had the chance. That’s what good sense told me I ought to do. Dammit, why didn’t I? This whole thing would never have happened. You sure that’s what he said, son?”

  “That’s what he said, Mr. Wingate. He was the only one that did any talking. I thought my end had come when the whole bunch of them rode up, but Mr. Pardee said he had no quarrel with me. He said his business was with—begging your pardon, sir—the murdering skunk I worked for.”

  “Get my horse,” John ordered Curly Fitch. “That’s all I wanted to hear. And there goes the last hope of peace between me and Vince Pardee. Calling me a murderer! By God, I’ll make him eat those words before I’m through. Everybody get mounted. Let’s see if the Reb is as good at fighting as he is at name-calling.”

  We moved out in minutes and if there was any shooting going on at the wire we didn’t hear, even with the wind blowing our way. But there was nothing but the dusty night wind stinging our eyes.

  John wasn’t drunk and he wasn’t sober either; he was at that irritable stage where even a cool-headed man’s judgment is at its worst, and nobody could ever say that John Wingate was a cool-headed man. I rode in close to John, with Jessie on the other side of him. It was only a four mile ride to the wire, nothing for the rest of us, but old John jolted in the saddle like a sack of spuds. He didn’t look anything like a warrior going to do battle.

  We could see the light of the coal oil barrels from a long way off, from the top of a hill. It was still too far away to make out anything else. Then we were closer. My men lay on their bellies, rifles pointing at the wire. On the other side of the wire everybody had dismounted except Pardee himself. He sat his horse in a blaze of light; squat, bearded, unmoving. It would have been no trouble to kill him with a single bullet. He must have known that, but he didn’t seem to care.

  I wanted John Wingate to stay back while I talked with Pardee, but he refused, saying he had just as much nerve—more, in fact—than his old partner. There was no use arguing with him. At that moment he might not be displaying as much intelligence as a mule; the state of mind was the same.

  He walked his horse forward until he was the same distance from the wire as Pardee was on the other side. “I hear you been calling me a murderer and a sneak, Vince. Of course that’s just hearsay. You probably didn’t use any such words.”

  “Those were the words, John, and I won’t go back on them. Tell me this so maybe I can understand—why did you do it? I’ve known you a lot of years, but I’ve never thought you capable of a thing like this. You’re a money-grubbing Yank, but I never thought too much about that. But why would you want to murder two young boys that never did you a bit of harm? Just two boys working the north range and you had them murdered.”

  “What are you saying?” John roared.

  Pardee went on. “You never gave them a chance. Their pistols were still in their holsters, their rifles in their scabbards when we found them. Blown to bits with a shotgun. Double-O shot. Two blasts, two dead boys! How much would you say that’s worth. Come on, John, why don’t you put a price on it. You’re the one who always worshipped the Golden Calf! How much in dollars?”

  I looked over at the sawed-off riding in its boot under Jessie’s leg. She wasn’t the only one on the ranch who owned a shotgun, but she was the only one who carried a shotgun as a regular thing. That by itself was still no proof.

  John turned in the saddle and growled a question at me. His face was haggard. He had just been branded a cold-blooded killer and the charge had shaken him to his boots.

  “N
one of our men did it,” I said. It wasn’t the time to put Jessie on trial.

  “You hear that, Vince?” John roared. “You heard what Saddler said. None of my boys did it. Anyway, you know better than to think I did it.”

  “Not any more, not this time. All this time I’ve gone on believing that you were a decent man. That’s all over. You want to see your handiwork?”

  John didn’t answer, but he stayed where he was. Pardee spoke over his shoulder to someone who was waiting back where the light didn’t reach. Hoofs scraped on rock and I could see a man leading two horses. There was a body roped across the saddle of each horse, wrists and ankles roped underneath so they wouldn’t slide off. One body was missing a head; both were a bloody mess.

  Pardee’s voice had a quaver in it. “Take a good look, John. Two dead boys can’t hurt you.”

  “Take them out of here, Pardee,” I called out. “John isn’t coming across.”

  Pardee’s voice came back at me. “Why don’t you let John do his own talking, Saddler. His own talking and his own fighting, if he has the guts. There’s no need for any more men to do it. I say let’s get this over here and now. What do you think, John? You think you have the nerve to stand up by yourself and take a chance on dying.”

  “Say the word and I’ll drop him, Mr. Wingate,” Jessie said in a low voice.

  “Don’t try it,” I ordered her.

  It was the same situation as the one with Sheriff Brimmer: she wanted to kill old man Pardee, and she wasn’t even going to call him out before she shot him.

  “You’ll never make it,” I warned her. That was us, the lovebirds. In bed all was sweetness and light; out of it we were pulling guns all the time. I didn’t want to shoot her for two reasons. One, I didn’t want to shoot her; two, any shooting at all would cause both sides to open up.

  John saved the day in his own way. Swaying in the saddle, he told Pardee he’d be glad to face him. “If that’s what you want—fine with me.”