Big Bend

by John Benteen

  But what woman would want him? More important, what woman did he want? Sure, there was a handful of eligible girls in North Wells, but the thought of living with any one of them filled him with a kind of nausea. Not a one of them, anyhow, who wouldn’t consider him beneath her, and probably not a one whose family he wouldn’t have to fight to get. The people of North Wells had a long memory; no one knew that better than Sam Ramsey. For forty years, over an ancient grudge, they had made outcasts of his parents, and even now that both of them were buried, it was something that neither he nor the town had yet forgotten.

  So the hell with them, he thought. He was used to being alone, and he could stand it for a long time. But when he no longer could, then he would get himself a woman—but not from North Wells. Meanwhile, he’d go on as he had for years, shying clear of getting mixed up with others, depending on no one but himself ...

  He slipped his right foot back into the stirrup, reined his mount around, and began to ride the rest of his fence, straight in the saddle, alert and watchful. But there was nothing but the occasional soundless flight of an owl and the distant, shrill yip of a coyote. At the end of a four-hour hitch, when it would be too late for thieves to strike and get away before daylight, he turned homeward, where he went to bed again and slept until just after seven.

  Chapter Two

  Ten days later, it happened that Sam Ramsey was in town when Denning’s expedition returned.

  North Wells had a railroad spur and a population of a thousand people, sixty percent of them Mexican. Its scattered buildings baked on a shadeless flat, and even though its unpaved main street had been oiled, each fresh breeze still roiled dust and coated everything with a fine, yellow powder.

  Ramsey had bought supplies at Finney’s Mercantile and was loading them in a wagon when he saw the column coming. They were still a long way off, outside of town, moving at a walk, as if their horses were exhausted; the shimmer of heat at that distance blurred all other details.

  There was more still to be loaded, but instead of returning to the store, Ramsey shoved a pile of salt blocks into place and wiped his hands against his jeans. Then he leaned on the wagon and waited, squinting into the sun.

  Slowly the men drew nearer—about twenty of them and some led horses. Now the column reached the head of Main Street, and Ramsey could see Tom Denning in its lead, his white mustache so dusty that it was barely visible against his burnt-black face.

  Word got around fast in North Wells; the board sidewalks were crowded, excited onlookers raising a hum like bees. As Denning and his men rode down the street, people surged forward to meet them. But Ramsey stood where he was, counting men and horses. Then he made a small sound in his throat.

  He knew that twenty had ridden out, but the column now was made up of only eighteen men.

  Long before they reached Ramsey, the riders swung over to the side of the street and halted before The Texas Cattleman, largest of the town’s saloons. They swung down, and the crowd boiled around them. Ramsey saw Denning snap something at them ferociously, tie his mount, and shove through the throng. The others followed, their faces dust-covered and gaunt, their eyes hollow.

  As Sam Ramsey himself walked toward the saloon, Sheriff Shan Williams emerged from the adobe building that was his office. A lanky man in Stetson, boots, and a seersucker suit, a Colt automatic strapped around his waist, he stood blinking in the sunlight and then hastened across the street and vanished into the barroom.

  By the time Ramsey got there, the crowd blocked him off from the men at the bar. Tom Denning, holding a glass of cold beer, was talking to Sheriff Williams in a voice loud enough for everyone to hear.

  “They wouldn’t even try to fight. They knew every back trail and draw in the whole damned place. They jest kept fadin’ out in front of us all the way to the Rio, and then they crossed. We went after ’em, and that’s where we got into the fight and Lee and Buck got killed. We crossed at San Vicente and we wasn’t two miles into Coahuila before the Mescans hit us. A whole damn army of ’em, Villa’s men, I reckon. Anyhow, they had us five to one, and we had a hell of a fight to git back across the river, and we had to leave Lee and Buck behind. They didn’t chase us across the Rio—”

  “So you never found the cow-thieves,” Shan Williams said.

  Denning took a swig of beer. “No. Not the main bunch of ’em. I told you, they just sifted out ahead of us. That country down there, it’s a nightmare. You got the Chisos and the Dead Horse Mountains and the del Carmens in Mexico, and when it ain’t up, it’s straight down, and when it ain’t either one, it’s miles of mean desert. Maybe if it hadn’t been for the Mescans, we might of finally made ’em stand and fight. But when you got the protection of a whole damn regiment of Mex Revolutionarios, you don’t need to fight.” He slammed his hand on the bar. “It’s a job for the Army, that’s what we’ve found out. The only way to clean out that country is for the Army to git up off its ass and move in.” He finished the beer. “Take at least a regiment of cavalry.”

  “The Army won’t move, you know that,” Williams said. “They got less than fifteen hundred men at Fort Bliss, most of ’em infantry. They say it’s my responsibility as the civilian law. Maybe I should have gone along—”

  “It wouldn’t have done a bit of good,” Denning snapped. “We got whipped, and we got whipped good, and it wouldn’t have made a bit of difference whether you or the Angel Gabriel or anybody else was along. What we got to do now is apply pressure on Washington, make that damned college professor up there send the soldiers out—”

  Williams nodded. “Well, maybe you’re right.” He turned to a tall, wide-shouldered man next to Denning, a man who had the look of being made of rawhide and whipcord. “Billy, I’m sorry about Lee.”

  Billy Goodhue’s face was something like that of a frog, his eyes haunted. The wide mouth thinned. “Thanks, Shan,” he mumbled and turned away. This was Denning’s foreman; his brother had been one of those left in Mexico.

  Williams turned to face the crowd. “Now, you people break it up. These men have had all they need without you folks botherin’ ’em. Shoo! Scat!” He flapped his hands at them like a man chasing flies.

  Slowly and reluctantly, the crowd flowed to the door. Ramsey stood to one side and let it pass. Soon the place was nearly empty; even the sheriff had gone. A little uncertainly, Ramsey moved up to the bar and touched Tom Denning on the shoulder.

  Denning whirled nervously, and Billy Goodhue looked around.

  “Tom,” Ramsey said, “I’m sorry as hell.”

  Denning stared at him, eyes pale in the tanned, dusty face. Then he said, “Yeah. I bet you are. All right, go ahead, say it. You told us so.”

  “I ain’t going to say anything. I just—”

  “Then don’t say anything!” Billy Goodhue rapped. He straightened up, as tall as Ramsey, and his voice was like flint against flint. “Anybody too chicken-livered to come with us—”

  Ramsey felt his face burn. He took a step backwards. “Billy,” he said quietly, “you’re dog-tired and sufferin’ a loss. I’ll overlook what you said. And ... I’m sorry about Lee.”

  “Lee don’t need you sorry. He mighta used your gun when we was in that fight across the river.” Goodhue’s eyes were like coals in his face.

  “I had my reasons for not going—”

  “Yeah. Sure.” Goodhue’s weary frog-mouth twisted, and he turned back to the bar. “Ahhh,” he said contemptuously. “Bastards like you make me sick.”

  He had used a word that was, in South Texas at that time, unforgivable. All at once, the room was silent, except for the scrape of boots and the rustle of chaps, as the other men at the bar turned. Ramsey, aware of all those eyes on him, stood motionless, staring at Goodhue’s broad back, his face flaming.

  “Billy,” he said, “I’m sorry you got whipped and lost your brother. But don’t take it out on me.”

  Without even looking around, Goodhue said something contemptuous and obscene. The others drew in their
breaths.

  They were expecting him to jump Goodhue now, Ramsey knew. It was what the man wanted—an opponent he could get his hands on, somebody he could fight, not an elusive shadow or a whole army, but just another man, a big one, a strong one, so he could vent his grief and frustration. It had been a mistake to speak, Ramsey realized. But then, it always was a mistake to get mixed up with the people of North Wells.

  But he did not want to fight Goodhue, and he didn’t care, really, what others thought of him. Anyhow, Goodhue was drunk with fatigue, and a sober man didn’t fight drunks. Ramsey fought himself under control, wordlessly turned away, and took a step toward the door.

  Goodhue whirled and caught him, thick fingers gouging his arm. Goodhue’s face was contorted. “You yellow coward. You won’t fight even when somebody rubs your nose in it, will you?”

  “Billy,” Denning said in a cautionary voice.

  Ramsey looked into eyes that were feverish with a temporary insanity. When he said, evenly, “Billy, turn me loose,” Goodhue did not seem to hear.

  Then, roughly, he shoved Ramsey away. “Yankee skunk,” he said.

  And that was enough. Ramsey felt the control and compassion rush out of him; hot, red rage enter in. His fists clenched, his voice shook. “All right, Billy, you wanted it, you got it. Take off that goddam gun and we’ll go outside.”

  A slow, triumphant grin overspread Goodhue’s face. “Well, by God,” he said, and his hand unlatched his cartridge belt. He handed it to Denning, without taking his eyes from Ramsey. “Hold that a minute, boss.”

  Ramsey wheeled, strode out the door into the hot, bright sunlight. He heard Goodhue’s boots clomping behind him, eagerly, the rush as the others followed. He stepped down off the sidewalk and into the middle of the oiled street, and then he turned to face Goodhue, who was coming at him fast.

  There were no preliminaries. Goodhue came off the sidewalk at a run, big fists clubbed, and Ramsey met him head-on. Neither man had any knowledge of boxing; both were work-hardened and tough; they moved in close and began to batter each other with short, powerful jabs. Goodhue’s beardy, dusty face danced before Sam Ramsey’s eyes; and Ramsey felt the shock and pain as Goodhue’s heavy fists clubbed him on shoulders, arms, and chest. But he was dealing out the same punishment to Goodhue, each looking for a chance to smash the other’s face, neither with room enough in which to do it.

  Then Ramsey stepped back, got leeway, and before Goodhue could close with him again, he hit Goodhue on the mouth hard enough to rock him back. Then Ramsey followed up with a left that knocked Goodhue’s face around. Goodhue lurched to one side, knees buckling, but he caught Ramsey around the waist as he dropped and buried his face in Ramsey’s shirt.

  Ramsey hit him on the back of the neck, but Goodhue slid down, seized Ramsey’s legs, up-ended him, and Ramsey fell backwards on the street with terrific impact. He was scrambling up when Goodhue, laughing and bleeding, hit him between the eyes and knocked him flat again.

  Stars exploded and lights went off in Ramsey’s head. Then he felt a crushing, smothering weight on him—Goodhue. Fingers gouged into the soft flesh of his throat, looking for the windpipe. Ramsey, knowing that he was dead unless he broke that grip, threshed his body desperately, somehow got a hand in Goodhue’s face. His fingers sought the eyes, as he pushed Goodhue’s head backwards with all his power.

  Then Goodhue had to yield or break his neck. His fingers nearly tore out Ramsey’s throat as they slipped away. Suddenly Goodhue’s weight was off him, and Ramsey was rolling frantically, knowing that the first one up had the advantage. He made it to his feet a fraction of a second before Goodhue, while the cowboy was still off balance, and hit Goodhue in the face with all the force of right fist, arm, and shoulder. Goodhue sagged sideways, landed on hands and knees in the dust, blood pouring from nose and mouth. He shook his head and tried to hoist himself; to make sure he didn’t, Ramsey hit him again, and Goodhue flopped over on his back, arms and legs spraddled, mouth open, breath a rasp.

  Ramsey stood tensely, fists clubbed, waiting for Goodhue to rise, then saw that it was over. He sucked in a gulp of air that made his chest swell and spat into the dust from a dry mouth. Brushing hair back from his eyes, he wheeled to face Tom Denning.

  “All right, Ramsey,” Denning said coldly. “You won’t hafta fight nobody else.”

  “Billy asked for it—He wouldn’t let me out of it … ”

  “Yeah, he overstepped. It was fair.” But there was no warmth or friendliness in the words, and Ramsey, looking at the hostile faces that ringed him, knew that every man there regretted his victory. He was alone in the town, as always. But he had showed them that it made no difference. Still gasping, he turned away, shoved through the crowd, and walked stiffly and painfully to his wagon outside Finney’s Mercantile.

  ~*~

  He still felt the effects of the fight that night as he rode his fences. Billy Goodhue had landed plenty of solid blows, and even the Morgan’s rocking-chair gait made Ramsey wince. By an hour after midnight, he was already looking forward to dawn and time to head back to the house. It was too bad, he thought, that he lacked corral space to keep the whole herd near the ranch house at night.

  Because of the ugliness of the afternoon, his thoughts tonight were sour and pessimistic. The wind seemed colder than usual, and he was acutely aware of his loneliness. Maybe he did need a woman, maybe—

  Then, not far away in the other pasture, the stallion, Dancing Man, snorted.

  Ramsey reined around, hand dropping to the cedar butt of the old .45.

  Horses have a language; Ramsey knew and understood it. Dancing Man wasn’t clearing his nostrils or warning a colt away from his graze. He had caught the wind of something strange, alarming. Probably only a coyote or a bobcat, but, still—

  The moon was high, a suspended blob of hammered silver. Its light made shadows extravagant, tricky. Ramsey looked at the geldings in this pasture; most of them still grazed or slept, but a few had lifted their heads and pricked their ears. Then Dancing Man snorted again. At that moment, a swirl of cloud veiled the moon and shrouded the earth with darkness.

  Ramsey cursed silently and drew the .45. The pressure of his knee sent the Morgan at a cautious walk toward the gate between the pastures, a few hundred yards away. Suddenly, heart pounding, he reined in. The wind had risen and it blew away from him; then it died for an instant and he heard the sound again, almost certainly a voice. A word or two, indistinguishable, then the wind once more.

  Now the thunder of hooves; the brood mares had spooked, were galloping about the pasture. Ramsey put the Morgan into a lope, straining his eyes to pierce the darkness ahead. The sound of running horses ahead of him drowned out its hoof-beats. Suddenly the animal slid to a stop; it had reached the gate.

  Then, from beyond it, there was a high, strange scream, a sound to freeze the blood. Ramsey recognized it, a cry of rage from a charging stallion; it came again, and suddenly there was the explosion of gunfire, a lacing of bright flashes in the night. The horse screamed again, this time in agony, and Ramsey reached frantically for the wire loop that held the homemade gate. His hand had just touched it when he was blinded by a white, glaring light. Instinctively, he fired full at it, and it fell to the ground, a carbide lantern raying upward now. In its beam he saw the man he had caught by surprise at the gate crumpling to one knee, his led horse jerking free behind him and racing off down the fence. Ramsey shot again and the man flopped over on his back, and then the gate sagged open and Ramsey kicked the Morgan through. A final scream from Dancing Man was chopped off short. Ramsey raced the horse down the fence toward gun flashes, firing as he went at those bright orange jets, drawing down their lightning on himself.

  It came: a deadly, winking flicker of orange and the raw and ripping whine of near-miss bullets. His hammer clicked down on an empty shell; he clawed at the Winchester. Then the Morgan shuddered, grunted, reared and fell sideways. Ramsey was almost thrown from the saddle, but not quite; the horse
came down as dead weight against the fence, and Ramsey was still mounted on it. Barbed strands gouged his flesh; fence posts snapped; wire rolled over and around him and, as the horse landed hard on his left leg, Ramsey’s head hit something and seemed to explode in a flash of brilliant white light. After that, there was only darkness.

  Chapter Three

  Wrapped in a cocoon of jumbled wire, Sam Ramsey awakened to scalding sunlight and to pain. His head felt as if it were about to split like a rotten melon; his wire-chewed torso was stiff with dried blood and ached in every muscle—and his left leg was numb from the thigh down, pinned beneath the dead Morgan’s rib cage.

  Ramsey thought, when he could think at all: It’s full day; they can’t still be around. And they haven’t killed me ... Slowly, cautiously, panting as he disentangled himself from the wire, he raised himself on one elbow and craned his neck. That much effort made his head roar with pain, his eyes water. But there was no one within the radius of his vision: Both pastures were empty, as far as he could see.

  He sank back, waited for the blade of pain in his skull to quit sawing, and tried to think.

  For the moment, the most important thing was to get out from under the dead horse. If he didn’t, he would die slowly and in agony, for no one from North Wells would ever come looking for him. He dug his elbows into the ground and pulled.

  But the Morgan weighed nearly half a ton, and its full weight was on him; moreover, his foot seemed tangled in the stirrup. The animal’s carcass held him like the jaws of a trap.

  He pulled his right leg up, braced his foot against the saddle, and tried harder, hoping his boot would come off. But that didn’t work, either.