“You down there, where's your captain?”
The big one set his glass down. He looked at the short, fat one, and
they both grinned quietly, as if they were enjoying a secret little
joke just between the two of them.
“Down at the marshal's office, I reckon,” the big one said.
He was lying. I was sure of that without knowing how I was sure. I
could have killed him right there, both of them, with no regrets, no
feeling at all. It could just as easily have been one of them, I
thought. I'd never be able to look at a policeman again without
thinking that, without feeling that sick anger blaze up and burn again.
And the two of them stood there grinning. The bartender and the
others didn't do anything.
I heard myself saying, “Do you know who I am?”
The big man shrugged. The short one had another go at his drink.
“The name is Cameron,” I said. “Tall Cameron. I hear you Davis police
are looking for me.”
They didn't even blink. I was hoping that they would make a move for
their guns, but they didn't move at all.
The big man spoke mildly. “You must of heard wrong, kid. We don't
want you.”
“You're a goddamned liar,” I said.
That jarred them for a minute. I watched the grins flicker and fade.
They looked like they might go for their guns after all, and I was
hoping they would. I was praying that they would give me an excuse to
put a bullet... But that was as far as the thought went. Pat Roark
stopped all thinking, all action that might have taken place, with:
“Tall, look out!”
I wheeled instinctively. I vaguely noticed that the bartender's hands
had darted under the bar again and I caught the glint of a brutish
sawed-off shotgun. And I was aware of the two police clawing for their
own side guns —but all that was in the back of my mind. It was the
gallery that held my attention.
The man up there had a rifle pointed at my chest. I didn't know how
he got up there. Probably he had been up there all the time, waiting
for me to turn my back. I knew, with the same instinct that told me the
big policeman was lying, that the rifleman was Thornton. Before I had
half whirled about I heard Pat Roark's .44 crash and saw the bartender
sliding down behind the bar, the shotgun dropping from his limp
fingers. Somehow my own gun was in my hand.
At a time like that you don't stop to think. Your mind seizes all the
facts in a bunch and there is no time to separate them and decide where
to act first. The two policemen were still clawing for their pistols,
awkwardly. But the man on the gallery didn't have to draw. The rifle
was ready, aimed, and I imagined that I could see the hammer falling. I
forgot about the two policemen. The .44 bucked twice in my hand and the
room jarred with the roaring. Two shots, I knew, would have to do it. I
couldn't wait to see if the man would fall. The two policemen were
awkward with pistols, but they weren't that awkward.
By the time I swung on them again, the big man's gun was just
clearing his holster. I shot him in the belly and he slammed back
against the bar, clawing at the neat black hole just above his belt
buckle. The fat one didn't have a chance. He shouldn't have been
allowed to carry a gun. He didn't know what to do with one. He was
still fumbling with the hammer as my bullet buried itself in the flabby
folds of fat under his chin. He reeled back and blood began to come out
of his mouth.
It all happened in a second. Two seconds at the most. I stood there
watching the fat man die. He sagged, clutching at the bar to hold
himself up. But his fingers missed and he hit the floor with his back,
kicked once or twice, and lay still.
Pat Roark shouted, “The door, Tall. I'll keep them covered while you
back out.”
But it wasn't over yet. Thornton, the man on the gallery, was still
alive. He was on his knees clutching his middle, and bright red blood
oozed between his fingers. I counted my shots in my mind. Two at
Thornton, one at the big man, and one at the fat one. That was four. I
had one bullet left. A six-shooter is actually a six-shooter only for
fools and dime novels. There's always an empty chamber to rest the
hammer on when the pistol is in the holster. I leveled the pistol at
Thornton and fired my last bullet. I thought, This one's for you, Pa.
It's too late to do you any good, but it's the only thing I know to do.
Thornton came crashing down from the gallery, falling across a poker
table like a rag doll, then dumping into a shapeless heap on the floor.
I stood there breathing hard, the empty pistol still in my hand.
Pat said, “Tall, for God's sake, come on!”
But I waited a few more seconds, almost hoping that Thornton would
move again so I could go over and beat the life out of him, the way he
had done with Pa. But he didn't move. His eyes had that fixed glassy
stare that always means the same thing. I had done all I could do.
The spectators—the carpetbaggers, and white trash, and
scalawags—still hadn't moved. Their faces were pale with shock as they
stared at the lifeless figures on the floor. That wasn't the way they
had expected it to work out. They had been confident that their man
could kill me easily from his place on the gallery, but now that it
hadn't worked out that way, they weren't sure what they ought to do.
My pistol was empty, but they didn't realize that, so I kept it
trained on them.
I said tightly, “Take a good look at the man that killed my father.
Being a member of the Davis police didn't save his dirty hide; that's
something the rest of you might remember.”
“Tall,” Pat Roark said again. I started backing out, keeping them
covered with my empty pistol.
Outside, we hit the saddles and our horses lit out for the far end of
the street in one startled jump. The other ranchers fell in behind us,
fogging it out of John's City.
We traveled north toward Garner's Store for maybe two miles, and then
the ranchers started splitting up, cutting out from the main body and
heading toward their own outfits. They were nervous men for the most
part, and I could see by their faces that they thought they had been
suckered into something that they hadn't bargained for. Well, I
thought, to hell with them. If they were afraid to fight for their own
kind, there was nothing I could do for them.
By the time we reached the store, Pat Roark was the only one still
with me. As we let our horses drink at the trough, Pat stood up in his
stirrups, looking back along the road.
“The police don't seem so damned anxious to follow us,” he said,
still with that thin grin of his.
I wasn't worrying about the police. It was the cavalry that was going
to give us trouble when they heard about it. We hitched our horses and
went inside the store.
Old Man Garner wasn't glad to see us. Things had a way of happening
to people who helped fugitives. A man's store could burn down, or he
could get robbed blind. All kinds of things could happen.
He came slowly out of the dark interior of the store.
He could smell trouble and he didn't like it.
“Tall, you get out of here,” he said gruffly. “I know the police are
after you; so don't tell me different.”
“I'm not going to tell you different, Mr. Garner. But they won't
be
along for a while. Is my credit still good?”
He grunted. “I reckon. If it'll get you out of here.”
We got a dozen boxes of .44 cartridges, some meal, salt, and a slab
of bacon. “If you don't see me for a while,” I said, “you can get the
money from Ma.”
“Money won't do me no good,” he said peevishly, “if the police catch
me helpin' you out this way. Now scat, both of you.” Then on impulse,
he went behind the counter and came out with a small tin skillet and a
bag of ground coffee. “You might as well take these too, as long as
you're gettin' everything else you want.”
I took the things and wrapped them up in newspapers. Old Man Garner
didn't like turncoats any better than most people, and he wasn't as put
out about helping us as he tried to make us believe. As we started back
for our horses, I said, “When the bluebellies come along you might just
mention that you saw us heading east, toward Indian Ridge.”
At last his curiosity got the best of him. “Did you... kind of get
things settled up, Tall?”
“As well as it can be settled,” I said. “Remember, east, toward
Indian Ridge.”
“I won't forget. Now go on, get out of here.”
We headed northwest along the road to the Bannerman ranch for a mile
or more, and then cut due west on some hard shale that would be
difficult to trail us on. We moved on up to some low rolling hills and
finally reached the arroyo. I looked at Pat Roark.
He was a funny guy. And, as we headed toward Daggert's Road, I began
to wonder just why he was sticking his neck out this way. The Roarks
had a small one-horse outfit over east of John's City—that is, the old
man had the outfit. Pat, I remembered, was the youngest of five sons,
and the others had drifted off to other parts of Texas before the war
and hadn't been heard from since. Pat's old man had never amounted to
much. What little money he made by brush popping went mostly for
whiskey. Pat had never had the money to attend old Professor Bigloe's
academy like the rest of us.
So maybe he was just looking for a chance to get away from John's
City, and he figured this was it. Whatever the reason, I was glad to
have him along.
We rode down the arroyo until we came to the cutaway that Ray Novak
and I had ducked into before. Pat had never seen the place. I held some
of the vines and scrub trees back and motioned him to go on in, and he
said, “Well, I'll be damned.” He looked around appreciatively as I
covered the entrance again. “So this is Daggert's Road,” he said.
“Well, it'll be nearly hell for anybody to find us in a place like
this.”
I said, “It'll do for tonight. We'll go on up to the old cabin and
stay there. If things look all right I'll ride over to our place.
There's that red horse of mine. I sure would hate to leave him behind.”
It was clear that we weren't going to be able to stay around John's
City for long. Pretty soon the cavalry would be cutting tracks all over
northern Texas looking for us, and it wouldn't be the work gang if they
caught us this time. It would be a hanging.
Then, for the first time, I thought of those dead men back there in
the saloon. I didn't feel anything for them, not even hate, because
most of the hate had burned itself out the minute I emptied my pistol.
There was just the faint feeling of satisfaction, that kind of feeling
that comes to a man after he has paid off a big debt, and that was all.
I didn't experience those few hard minutes, the way I had after killing
Paul Creyton.
Four men I had killed in as many days—but even that didn't bother
me. They had all needed killing. Nobody held it against you for killing
a horse thief like Creyton. And Thornton and the other two policemen
weren't any different. I would have to hide out for a while, until the
carpetbaggers were out of Texas. A year, maybe. Two at the most,
because Texans wouldn't stand for that kind of treatment for long. Then
I could come back and stand trial. No jury of John's City ranchers
would convict me for what I had done.
There were only two things that bothered me. How would Ma get along
without me or Pa to look after her? And Laurin—it was going to be a
hard year, or two years, being away from her.
“Is that the place?” Pat Roark pointed toward the sagging shack at
the end of the trail.
I nodded. “I guess that'll hold us for a few hours. We can fill our
bellies and rest our horses, and figure out where to go.”
Pat laughed. “While the bluebellies cut tracks all over Indian
Ridge.”
Nothing seemed to bother him. If he regretted having to pull out like
this, without even a chance to say good-by to his old man, it didn't
show on that grinning face of his. He seemed to have completely
forgotten the fact that he had killed a man a short time back.
We picketed our horses behind the shack where there was plenty of new
green grass. By the time we got our saddles off and lugged our supplies
inside it was almost dark. I wondered about making a fire, then decided
we might as well have a hot meal while we had a chance.
Later, as we sat on the dirt floor eating dripping pieces of bacon
and hoecake, Pat said, “I know it's none of my business, and don't get
the idea I'm complaining, but don't you think it's a little dangerous
staying this close to John's City? We could cover some ground tonight
without punishing our horses.”
“I told you I didn't want to leave that red horse behind,” I said.
“Hell, the cavalry won't find us here. They'll be cutting tracks on
Indian Ridge, like you said.”
Pat shrugged. “All right. I was just thinking.”
Probably he knew the real reason I didn't want to pull out right
away. It was Laurin, not that red horse. But he didn't say any more
about it.
As night came on, we put the fire out, and my ears seemed to grow
sharper as darkness closed in. The moan of the wind and the rattle of
grass made startling sounds in the night. Once I got up abruptly and
went outside with my gun in my hand when I heard a movement in the
brush. But it turned out to be a swamp rabbit making his bed for the
night under a clump of mesquite.
Pat said, “You'd better go see about that horse, if you're so
almighty anxious about him.”
He didn't say I was getting the jumps, but that was what he meant.
All the things that had happened today began to grow and magnify in the
darkness. I wouldn't let myself think about Pa. I had done all I could.
He would understand that, wherever he was.
But Laurin was something else. She hadn't wanted me to go to town in
the first place. What was she going to say about those bluebellies that
I hoped were burning in hell by now? Somehow, I had to explain that to
her before I went away. And I wasn't sure how I was going to do it.