by Jonas Ward
The ample living quarters of the Shaw family were directly behind the office. There was a large parlor showing signs of womankind in all its furnishings. There were Navajo rugs and wall hangings, Winslow Homer prints, and prints by other American artists, in a corner a guitar resting on a leather chair, a comfortable couch covered with a buffalo hide, and several armchairs. There was a buffet with glass decanters and tumblers and bottles of liquor.
Cara said, “You had enough, or will you take one?”
“I’ll take one with you.”
“For old times’ sake?” She was mocking him. Her dark eyes flashed; they had always fascinated him.
“Like you say.” He sat in the biggest chair.
“Talk about weight,” she said. “One thing they can’t call you is skinny.”
“You do take things serious,” he said. “I swear I didn’t really mean to say you’re skinny.”
“I don’t ever know about you.” She was still wearing Levi’s, tight enough to let the world know she carried enough weight in the best places. She poured two drinks and brought one to him. She sat down, legs sprawled, heels digging into a rug. “I’m flat weary.”
“You been on a horse to and fro. It’s been tough for you, Cara.”
“That Ebenezar. He should never have bought that coach, you know.”
“Look, he’s been around a long time. Stages are his life. He’s got a right.”
“As long as you bail him out.” She drew her knees up, holding the glass in both hands. “You old reprobate, you’re a damn good friend.”
“I don’t need that.” He was always embarrassed by thanks from anyone close to him. “It’s the least a feller can do. Besides, I won that money bettin’ on Coco.”
“Not all of it, you didn’t. There couldn’t have been much bet against him,” she said shrewdly. “You’re a big faker sometimes, you know that.”
“Drink your drink,” he said. “Relax some.”
“Like old times.”
“The old times with us were mainly good.”
“Mainly.” She cocked an eye at him.
He stirred uncomfortably. “Now, Cara.”
“Hey, wasn’t your fault. Nor mine. It was the way things happened. We were younger then.”
“We ain’t exactly old right now,” he said.
“Not by a damn sight. But we been around a lot.”
“Uh-huh.” He grinned at her.
“You been around a lot. I’ve been right here tryin’ to keep the damn line together, looking after Ebenezar and Gracie.”
“Come on, Cara. What about Lincoln Carmody?”
“Link was fine. He just didn’t last.” She never wavered; her glance was offhand, acknowledging nothing. She finished the drink. “Best we eat. It’s getting to the hour.”
“Always ready.” He followed her into the huge farm-style kitchen. There was a double wood stove, cabinets ranging the walls, a commercial-size icebox, pots and pans hanging on hooks, a long narrow table, and a gallery of chairs.
Buchanan said, “You really did it up brown. Greatest I ever saw.”
“We aim to please,” she answered. “There’s a little room over behind that door. That’s for the help and the traveler who asks. Rosemary Brown cooks for us when needed.”
“Best cook, worst mouth in the territory.”
Cara was dishing up the stew in bowls of dun-colored earthenware. Everything seemed to go together, pleasing the eye, he thought. She was a smart woman, this girl who had been so wild and woolly.
There was warm bread in the oven and a platter of butter and a glass jar of peach preserves. She put it before him, helped herself, and sat at the end of the table. Buchanan sat next to her, inhaling the odor of the victuals with a sigh.
“Plenty more where that come from,” she assured him. “I expect you can still stow it away.”
“Keeps me young and beautiful,” he told her.
It had always been good to be with her. Though never one for small talk, he could relax and deal in light conversation. She had a quick, sharp tongue, and she also had a quality of tenderness when they were together. The time passed pleasantly through his second helping, so that he almost forgot the dark clouds hovering.
Then there was the clatter of hoofs, and his hand went to the gun on the chair next to him. A hooting whistle came from the street.
He said, “That’ll be Billy’s boys.”
“Who?”
“Billy Button sent them. You can sleep a couple. They’re agreeable. They’re also mighty tough hombres.”
“We can’t afford them.” She frowned. “We don’t need them here in Encinal.”
“You need ’em and you won’t pay,” Buchanan told her flatly. “It’s on the house.”
“We don’t accept ...”
He cut her off. “We means us. You and me. You said I was a partner. Okay. Billy’s my heir. That puts him in it with us. You savvy, ma’am?”
She said, “Okay. Let’s go and make ’em welcome. You are a big, dumb son, are you not, Tom Buchanan?”
“Yes’m,” he said, satisfied that she understood and agreed.
They went out to meet Billy’s boys. The moon was half full and the vaqueros were many and the night seemed good for that hour.
Doc Watson applied the stethoscope with gentle care. Mrs. Watson whispered, “Is it time?”
He nodded. There was no other sound in the room but the uneven breathing of Ebenezar Shaw. Mrs. Watson clasped her hands in silent prayer.
Ebenezar was in familiar territory. It was not the great open spaces, the sand and dirt and brown hills. It was green fields and rolling country and it was springtime and he was a boy in the stable with his ribbons and the gate and the weights he had fashioned from iron and horseshoes and he was working his hands, trying over and over to handle the leather lines as he had been taught. The lines slipped, his hands were swollen, unmanageable; still he tried.
There were presences watching. He could dimly see them. One was a girl in a dimity dress, but her face was in shadow and he could not recognize her. There was another, inimical presence, shadowy, looming. They were waiting for something to happen.
In the fields there were horses, lovely animals grazing but also watching, as if each had a personal interest in his practice, and they were a part of him; they were the true audience. It was all vague and shadowy except his hands, his tired, callused hands. He knew he was at home; he knew it was back east; he knew he was failing at management of the reins. He knew someone was urging him on—someone else was jeering. It was the horses that were faithfully urging him on, actively shoving at him. He could smell them, the good smell of fine horseflesh.
There was a stagecoach, but it was just beyond his line of vision. It was a goal to be approached steadily and with great effort.
There was menace; a whip cracked, the only sound except the uneven clump of the weights at the end of the reins. He was fading.
Doc Watson inhaled sharply. His wife redoubled her prayers. There was the strong odor of medication in the room. Time closed in.
“Close,” muttered Doc. “Real close to the climax.”
In the dream Ebenezar gulped. He braced his shoulders. He managed a deep breath. He was on the brink of exhaustion. A horse whinnied. The figure of the girl came clearer, but he still could not distinguish her features. The dangerous figure moved closer; a whip cracked again. There was no pain. The fear was inside him, deep inside.
Along with the fear there was determination, but to what end it was not quite clear. Nothing was clear but the leather and the fact of the horses and the shadowy figures. He felt himself evaporating.
Then for an instant it was all plain. This was happening in color, so that he saw and felt a ray of sunshine cutting across the scene. Day was fading, but the sunlight remained, bathing him so that he sweated. His hands became automatons. The weights lifted, plumped down, lifted, plumped down. Then it all was blown away as the girl came closer, her face not clear but h
er eyes shining.
Doc Watson said, “Hold on, old man, hold on.”
Ebenezar opened his eyes. “Durn if it wasn’t Gracie. It musta been Gracie.”
“You feel better?” asked Doc Watson.
“How in tarnation do I know? How did I feel before I went into that dream?”
“What dream? ... No, nevermind,” said Doc, folding up his stethoscope.
“I’m hungry,” Ebenezar declared.
Mrs. Watson said, “Soup. I have chicken soup.”
“That’ll be all right,” said Doc.
“The durned reins. They kept slippin’. My old man never did take to my practicin’ with ’em. Thought it was plain nonsense, wantin’ to drive,” Ebenezar said. His voice was faint but quite clear.
“Your stage is off with Buchanan.”
“Course it is. Tom, he allus comes through. I got to get me up outta here.”
“Not for a while,” said Doc. “You just take it damn easy and be lucky you’re still breathin’.”
“Why shouldn’t I be? ... Oh, sure, durn it. Bullet in the chest. Meant to kill Buchanan, I swan. Just a bit o’ luck.” Ebenezar closed his eyes. A smile played across his face, then slowly went away. He slept again.
Doc said, “Can’t kill these old devils.”
“He’s a sweet, good man,” his wife said.
“A tough old man.” The doctor smiled. He felt pride in his profession. It had been terribly close, but he had won the battle.
Charlie Knife rode a wiry mustang along the narrow Indian road that twisted through the Black Hills, leading a small brown burro that toted a solid pack. His left shoulder ached from the bullet that had narrowly missed killing him and had surprised him into taking flight. He turned down into a ravine from the depths of which towered tall pines. There was no discernible path, no landmarks; this was his private way.
The sure-footed animals proceeded with great care. When they had reached the tiny clearing they stopped before a one-room cabin wrought from logs and bits and pieces of raw lumber. Out of the door came Juanita. She was squat and broad-faced but not pure Apache; there was a cast to her features that proclaimed mixed blood. Her skin was red, but there was a curl in her black hair. She wore a skirt tanned from elk hide, moccasins, and a white flannel shirt. She spoke the mixed language of Apache-Mexican that was so difficult to translate.
“Hola. You are home.” Then, even in the subdued light from the doorway, she squinted and said, “You are hurt.”
“Hola.” Charlie Knife grunted, dismounting. “The food.”
She hesitated, then went to the burro and unpacked it with the skill and strength of a man and carried edibles into the cabin.
To the rear of the cabin was a lean-to shed. He was careful, even gentle, with the animals, caring for them. They related to him as did no human being. Humans called him “breed” and feared and despised him. He was part Apache, part Mexican, part African. He was all outlaw, except to the beasts of the field.
He carried his machete into the cabin—he had come by it in a strange way, through a wandering Mexican woodsman whose throat he had been forced to slice. His other knives were arranged about his waist and in his boots, all razor sharp. The Sharps was under his right arm. He set the machete and the rifle in a corner and only then thought of his wound. Juanita was arranging the canned and dried-safe food upon neat shelves. Everything was in order, as always. The wide, low bed of branches was neatly covered with animal skins; the stove he had acquired upon a notable excursion sat in its corner polished with blacking; the pots hung in a row above it. There were pegs to hang surplus garments on and two windows sporting clean oiled paper adorned with tiny appliqué figures of men and women and animals, Juanita’s handiwork.
Now he removed his shirt, wincing as it parted from dried blood. The bullet had gone through the fleshy part of his shoulder, very clean. He sat wordlessly upon a three-legged stool as Juanita brought a warm, wet cloth and applied it to the wound.
She said, “Very close, Natchivan.” Only she in all the world called him by his Apache name.
“A lucky shot.”
“Did you get this Buchanan?”
“No. Not yet.”
“But you were paid. We have tequila, the red wine. You only bring it when you have been paid.”
“Ha. That I took from the rich man, who was drunk again.”
“But he paid?” she asked.
“Enough. For now,” Charlie Knife said.
“Later?”
“If I have luck.”
“You know where he keeps the money?”
“Bank. But there are ways.” His slanted eyes darkened. “He hires for the kill. He pays for—peon work.”
“And this Buchanan?”
His expression altered. “I shot the old man. Buchanan—he may have big medicine.”
“You believe?”
“I believe nothing, as you well know.”
“But perhaps?” Her hands were busy, applying a salve to the clean hole of the wound, fashioning an expert bandage.
“There are such people.” He allowed himself a thin, rare smile. “I have slit a few of them in order to make certain that there is no magic against cold steel.”
“You will rest?”
“Tonight.”
She leaned close. “Tonight.”
“Si.”
“Good. Now the food.”
It was all businesslike, but there was a bond between them. They were outcasts. He put a hand on her breast. Again he smiled, but differently.
Five
Walnut-faced Ed Harper had been a jockey in his day. His whip was much longer than he was tall. He was never without a flat bottle of good whiskey, though he was seldom drunk. He said to Buchanan, “I greased the damn wheels my own self. I got two passengers from the mines and a whore lady who couldn’t make good in this burg. I got express from the mines and an order to pick up for Meyer at the general store. Anything else?”
“Watch for trouble,” Buchanan said.
Harper gestured at the waiting Doug Campbell. “He’s younger’n me. Let him watch.”
“He watches right good. You know what’s happening; you’ll get extra pay.”
“Why’n hell else you think I’m takin’ the run? I got a bill at Morgan’s to pay.” He grinned. “It’s all okay, Buchanan. I been through a few mills.”
“Why’n hell else you think you got hired?”
Harper saluted with the whip. He made a last round of the four-horse hitch, talking in the ears of the animals, then gathered up the ribbons and climbed like a monkey to the driver’s seat.
Buchanan said to young Campbell, “You know the ropes. Don’t worry about Ed. He can be hell on wheels, with the stage or with his guns. He carries a couple.”
“I’m not worried, sir. I think I’d like to drive someday myself.”
“Your idea? Or Grade’s?”
Campbell flushed and made a face, then climbed to his position. He was carrying his rifle, and a shotgun loaded with buck lay beneath the seat. The passengers were in place. Harper whistled, high and shrill, and the stage took off for El Paso.
Cara stood silently in the doorway of the office. The vaqueros from the B Bar Ranch whooped it up—they were a gay and noisy bunch. Buchanan looked at her.
“Didn’t mean to take over.”
“That’s the least of my worries. I ought to go down to Cruces and be with Ebenezar. Can’t do it, though—too damn much to think about right here.”
“I’ll be moseyin’ out to the ranch. Be back right soon. No time for tarradiddle,” he said.
“I’ll be here.”
“I’m countin’ on that.”
She nodded and went indoors. They had fallen back into a close relationship, as though they had parted only yesterday, he thought, walking toward the general store. It was a good feeling; there were just a few people with whom he felt close and warm. He was now about to spend some time with the others who meant so much to him.
Billy Button was helping them load provisions onto his buckboard. He was all business, bossing everyone within sight. He waved a hand at Buchanan and said, “Climb aboard. We’re about set.”
Buchanan ascended to the hard, uncomfortable seat. Nothing was soft and easy these days, he reflected, certainly not the bed in the Miner’s Hotel. It had not been a good night for sleeping. His body had been willing, but his brain had been in furor.
The sun peered over the top of the Black Hills, casting its peculiar blue shadows on the town. People moved about their business. Billy argued about prices with Augie Meyer—Billy would never be rich enough not to bargain. As a kid he had been a sneak thief, stealing from this very establishment, mainly out of sheer mischief.
A dog barked at a horse and rider coming rather too swiftly down the main street. Buchanan was deep in thought.
Billy suddenly cried, “Tom!”
Buchanan swiveled in the seat. The rider was ten yards from him. He saw a desperate young face, saw the gun in the hand of the rider aimed at him. He swung down from the buckboard with amazing agility for a man his size. There was the too familiar sound of bullets. He came around the wagon with both guns drawn.
The horse was gone, clattering wildly on its way. The figure of the youth lay in the dust. Billy’s Sharps revolver was smoking. Dave Darrin came running over from the marshal’s office. People scattered, then came back to the scene as the smoke lifted, drifting on a breeze.
Billy said, “Damn it to hell. The Barringer kid.”
They went to the fallen youth. Sam Barringer glared up at Buchanan and cried, “You killed my sidekicks. You and that goddam Campbell. You killed ’em.”
Billy said, “Only winged him. I’m losin’ my eye.”
Dr. James Borden was approaching with his black bag. Cara was coming fast, rifle in hand, ready for anything. Buchanan sighed deeply, shaking his head.
“He had me cold, wasn’t for Billy. Just a boy.”
“The sumbitch could never shoot for beans,” said Billy, his bluster evaporated. “I know’d him since he was a baby.”
The doctor said, “He’ll live. You want him, Marshal, or should I take him?”
