The Law at Randado Read online

  The Law at Randado

  ELMORE

  LEONARD

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chatper 10

  Chatper 11

  Chatper 12

  Chatper 13

  Chatper 14

  Chatper 15

  Chatper 16

  Chatper 17

  Chatper 18

  About the Author

  Praise

  Books by Elmore Leonard

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  1

  At times during the morning, he would think of the man named Kirby Frye. The man who had brought him here. There had been others, most of them soldiers, but he remembered by name only the one called Frye. He had known him before and it had been a strange shock to see him last night.

  Most of the time, though, Dandy Jim stood at the window of the upstairs jail cell and watched the street below in the cold sunlight and tried not to think of anything.

  He would see riders walking their horses, then flat-bed wagons—most often with a man and woman on the seat and children at the back end with their legs swinging over the tailgate—and now and then a man leading a pack mule. They moved both ways along the street that appeared narrower from above with the ramadas making a shadow line along the building fronts.

  Saturday morning and the end of a trail drive brings all kinds to town. The wagon people, one-loop ranchers and their families who would be on their way home before dark. A few prospectors down out of the Huachucas who would drink whisky while their money lasted, then buy some to take if their credit was good. And the mounted men, most of them on horses wearing the Sun-D brand—a D within a design that resembled a crudely drawn flower though it was meant to be a sunburst—men back from a month of trail driving, back from pushing two thousand cows up the San Rafael valley to the railhead at Willcox, twenty days up and ten back and dust all the way, but strangely not showing the relief of having this now behind them. They rode silently, and men do not keep within themselves with a trail drive just over and still fresh in their minds.

  Dandy Jim knew none of this, neither the day nor why the people were here. Earlier, he had watched the street intently. When he first opened his eyes, finding himself on the plank floor and not knowing where he was, he had gone to the window and looked out, blinking his eyes against the cold sunlight and against the throbbing in the back of his head that would suddenly stab through to above his eyes.

  But the street and the store fronts told him only that this was no Sonoita or Tubac or Patagonia, because he had been to those places. Now he looked out of the window because there was nothing else to do, still not understanding what he saw or remembering how he came here.

  Dandy Jim was Coyotero Apache; which was the reason he did not understand what he saw. The throbbing in his head was from tulapai; and only that much was he beginning to remember.

  His Coyotero name was Tloh-ka, but few Americans knew him by that. He had been Dandy Jim since enlisting as a tracker with the 5th Cavalry. They said he was given the name because he was a favorite with the men of the “Dandy 5th” and they called him Jim, then Dandy Jim to associate him with the regiment, because to say Tloh-ka you had to hold your tongue a certain way and just to call an Apache wasn’t worth all that trouble. Tloh-ka was handsome, by any standards; he was young, his shoulder-length hair looked clean even when it was not, and his appearance was generally better than most Apaches. That was another reason for his name.

  He slept again for a short time, lying on his stomach on the bunk, a canvas-covered wooden frame and an army blanket, but better than the floor. He opened his eyes abruptly when he heard the footsteps, but did not move his face from the canvas.

  Through the bars he saw two men in the hallway. One was fat and moved slowly because of it. He carried something covered over with a cloth. The other was a boy, he saw now, carrying the same thing and he stayed behind the large man, moving hesitantly as if afraid to be up here where the cells were.

  As they came to his cell the Coyotero closed his eyes again. He heard the door being opened. There was whispering, then a voice said, “Go on, he’s asleep.” Dandy Jim opened his eyes. The boy was setting a dishtowel-covered tray in the middle of the floor. As the boy stood up he glanced at the Coyotero. Their faces were close and the boy looked suddenly straight into the open black eyes that did not blink.

  “Harold!” The boy backed away.

  “What’s the matter?”

  “He’s awake!” The boy was in the hallway now.

  “We let them do that,” the fat one who was called Harold said, and locked the door again.

  They went to the other cell and the boy took the tray while Harold unlocked the door. The boy went in quickly and put the tray on the floor, not looking at the two Mexicans who were lying on the bunks. The door slammed and they were moving down the hall again. Dandy Jim could hear the boy whispering, then going down the stairs Harold was telling him something.

  The Coyotero sat up and ate the food: meat and bread. There was coffee, too, and after this he felt better. The throbbing in his head was a dull pain now and less often would it shoot through to his eyes. The food removed the sour, day-old taste of tulapai from his mouth and this he was more thankful for than the full feeling in his stomach. And now he was beginning to remember more of what had happened.

  He heard the cell door close again, this in his mind. It was dark and he was lying on the floor and now he remembered the men leaving, one of them carrying a lamp. They walked heavily and the floor against his face shook with their walking. Then darkness, and silence, and when he opened his eyes again he was here. But before that—

  Tulapai. No, before that.

  It came to him suddenly and his mind was not ready for it. The shock of memory stiffened his body, then left him limp the next moment and he groaned, closing his eyes tight to squeeze the picture of it from his mind. He saw her face clearly. She was on the ground and he was astride her, holding her arms with his knees. Her eyes were open wide, but she did not scream, not until he drew the knife, and holding her head down by the hair, slashed off part of her nose.

  It was the fault of the tulapai, the corn beer he had been drinking as he rode home; but it was also his rage. The shock of seeing her with Susto. Across the stream, through the willow branches, seeing the two of them lying close to each other. He was halfway across the stream when they saw him. Susto ran for the brush thicket and disappeared; but Dandy Jim’s wife ran to their jacale, as if she knew she would be caught, but should at least run at a time like this. And that was where he found her and did what he had to do, what had been the customary act of a cheated Apache male longer than anyone could remember. A woman without a nose would not easily fall into adultery again.

  And now he remembered more of the things that had happened the evening before: sitting with his friends drinking tulapai, drinking too much while they told him what he had done was the right thing. Then the sudden warning that soldiers were approaching the rancheria; but it was hard to think, even then with the tulapai, and they made noise fleeing on their ponies. Their minds would not calm long enough to think out their escape and do it properly. So they just ran, and all the time, for hours, the soldiers were never more than a mile behind. Just before dark the soldiers caught up and shot Dandy Jim’s pony and that was the end. He remembered walking, stumbling, between their horses for a long time until they reached a place that was light and there was much noise.

  And he remembered briefly, vaguely seeing a man
he had once known, Kirby Frye. Then up the stairs…the plank floor of the cell, then daylight and the sour taste of tulapai.

  He did not know what had happened to his companions. Perhaps they are still fleeing, he thought. With the darkness they could have escaped the soldiers. And that one whose name is Frye…he was there. I have not seen him for a long time. But he is not here now.

  He looked at the two Mexicans in the cell across the hallway. One of them was eating, but the other man was still lying on the bunk with his arm over his eyes. For a moment the Coyotero wondered why they were there.

  Downstairs, the boy was talking to Harold Mendez. His name was Wordie Stedman; he was eleven and he liked better than anything else to sit in the jail office with Harold Mendez or Kirby Frye and have them tell him things. Sometimes he got upstairs; like just a while ago when Harold let him carry one of the trays. The boy had an excuse to stay there now. He had to wait for the prisoners to finish eating before he could take the trays back to the Metropolitan Café.

  He said to Harold, who was middle-aged and at this moment looked comfortable in the swivel chair with his feet propped on the desk edge, staring out the window, “I’m glad I got a chance to see them close-up. They really look mean, don’t they?”

  Harold Mendez said, “Everybody looks that way when they wake up.”

  “Those two Mexicans, I saw them the other day when Kirby brought them in. One with his hat gone, shot smack off his head.” Wordie grinned. “Kirby must’ve been off a ways else he’d a hit him.”

  “Maybe he was aiming at the hat.”

  “Why would he do that?” the boy said. “When you catch two men stealing other people’s cattle you might as well aim a little lower and save the county some hangin’ expenses.”

  “How much does it cost to hang a man, Wordie?”

  “What?”

  “You’ve been overhearing your father.” Harold Mendez, the jailer, lighted a cigar now and drew on it gently, holding it the way a man does who considers cigar smoking a luxury.

  “The one in the other cell’d scare the wits out of anybody,” Wordie Stedman said.

  “Dandy Jim?”

  “That ’Pache.”

  “He’s considered a nice-looking boy.”

  Wordie nodded, indicating upstairs. “There wasn’t anything nice about him a while ago. He stunk to high heaven.”

  “I’ll see he gets a bath and rinses out his mouth,” Harold Mendez said.

  The boy was thinking, looking absently at the stairway, then he said, “I’ll bet he murdered somebody and Kirby come up and caught him red-handed!”

  “The only thing he was murdering was his stomach.”

  The boy looked at the jailer, frowning and twisting the corner of his mouth. “He was drinking tulapai,” Harold Mendez explained. “Soldiers from Huachuca out looking for stills found him and some others with tulapai. They chased after the Indians, about six braves, to get them to tell where the stills are, but Dandy Jim’s the only one they caught.”

  “What are they doing with him here?” the boy said.

  “He was close by when they caught him, so they asked Kirby if they could keep him here while they chased after the others.”

  The boy said excitedly, “And Kirby went along to give them a hand!”

  Harold Mendez nodded. “Of course.”

  “He’ll find them,” the boy said confidently.

  “What if he doesn’t?”

  The boy looked at the big jailer. “What do you mean?”

  Harold Mendez shrugged. “I mean what if he doesn’t bring them back?”

  Wordie looked at him, frowning again. “’Course he’ll bring them back.”

  “I’ve known him to come home empty-handed.”

  “Nobody’s perfect,” the boy said. But if that’s true, the boy was thinking, then Kirby Frye’s sure the closest thing to being it. He said now, “Should I get the trays?”

  “We’ll give them a few more minutes.”

  “I don’t see how they can eat. In jail.” The boy went to the window and looked out just for something to do. “There’s sure a lot of people here today.”

  “It’s Saturday,” Harold Mendez said.

  The boy turned to Mendez suddenly. “The Sundeen crew’s back.”

  “So I heard.”

  The boy seemed disappointed that what he said wasn’t news, but he tried again, saying, “I’ll bet there’s something you don’t know.”

  “There might be,” Harold Mendez said.

  “They haven’t been paid off yet.”

  Mendez turned his head to look at the boy. “No, I didn’t know that.”

  Wordie Stedman grinned. “I heard my dad talking about it a while ago with Mr. Tindal. Says they moved that big herd all the way up to the railhead, come all the way back, and still haven’t been given their trail wages.”

  “Your dad say why?”

  “No, but Mr. Tindal said a man does that just once and then he finds himself without a crew. Even a man like Phil Sundeen. Mr. Tindal said Old Val Sundeen used to always pay off the hands when they reached the railhead, like it should be. He said Phil better take some lessons from his dad pretty soon if he wants to stay in the cattle business. Said if Phil minded his ways instead of drinking and carousing he wouldn’t be losing stock and refusing to pay rightful trail wages.”

  “What did your dad say to that?”

  “Mr. Tindal was doing most of the talking. My dad would just nod his head. I never seen my dad or Mr. Tindal look so worried.”

  “They might have good cause,” Harold Mendez said. He drew on his cigar thoughtfully and his hand idly fingered a name-plate shingle that was on the desk. Harold Mendez had carved the lettering on it himself, an inscription that read: KIRBY FRYE, and under it: DEPUTY SHERIFF—RANDADO. It had taken him almost a month to carve it.

  2

  Across the street, in De Spain’s cardroom, R.D. Tindal was about to make a speech.

  He had begun forming the words in his mind the night before as he lay in his bed staring at the darkness and because of it he did not fall asleep until long after midnight. In the morning, as soon as he opened his eyes, he began recalling the words, hearing his own voice as it would sound, going over and over again the opening sentence that had to sound natural. No, more than natural, casual; but words that would hold them right from the start, words he would speak dryly in a sort of don’t-give-a-damn way, an off-the-cuff understatement, but loaded with meaning. Eating his breakfast he smiled thinking of the reaction. They wouldn’t laugh when he said it, because he wouldn’t; but they’d shake their heads thinking: By God, that R.D. Tindal’s something! His wife watched him from the stove; his daughter, Milmary, watched him while she drank her coffee, and neither of them spoke. Opening the store, The R.D. Tindal Supply Company, and waiting on the first Saturday morning customers, he went over the other things he would say, even anticipating questions and forming the exact words for the answers. At ten o’clock he put on his hat and coat and told Milmary to hold down the fort till he got back. Milmary asked him where he was going and did it have anything to do with his being so quiet all morning?

  Going out the door he said, significantly, “Milmary, the Citizens Committee.” That was all.

  And now he looked at the men at his table and the ones beyond at the other three tables and the men over against the wall, De Spain, one of them, standing with his back to the closed door and his hand behind him on the knob. He stood by the door, in case he was wanted out front. Saturday his saloon did good business even in the morning. And in the cardroom they could hear the sounds of the good business, the boots and the chairs scraping and the whisky-relaxed laughter.

  R.D. Tindal wished they’d be quiet, these men laughing over nothing, only because it was Saturday. His eyes returned to the three men at his table—Earl Beaudry, landowner, probably his closest friend. George Stedman, manager of the Randado Branch of the Cattlemen’s Bank, a good man to know. And Haig Hanasian, owner of the
Metropolitan Café, a man you’d never know in seven hundred years, Tindal thought—and then he was ready to begin.

  He cleared his throat. He had not intended to, because there was a chance someone might think he was nervous, but it just came out. He remembered though to sound casual and began by saying, “Gentlemen, it just occurred to me a minute ago, watching you boys file in, that there isn’t one of us here who hasn’t been shaving at least twenty years.” He watched some of them finger their chins, as he had known they would. “Yet those people up to the county seat would have a special representative down here just for wiping our noses if we’d let them.”

  He paused to give them time to shake their heads and appreciate fully this dry, spur-of-the-moment humor.

  Beaudry, Stedman and Haig Hanasian kept their eyes on Tindal, but did not shake their heads, not even faintly.

  Across the room De Spain shook his head, but he was thinking: He isn’t even a good actor.

  Tindal leaned forward resting his elbows on the table and said, “Now I think we’re all old enough to take care of ourselves, regardless of what opinion the people up to the county seat hold.” He paused again, but not so long this time. “Which means we’re old enough to take care of our own affairs right here in Randado without crying help from the county. Isn’t that right, Earl?”

  Earl Beaudry looked up. “Absolutely.”

  Tindal went on, “Earl’s lived right here for a long time, even before there was a Randado, and his dad before that, one of the first men in the Territory. Now I’d say a man like Earl Beaudry should have a few words to say about how his town affairs are run. There are others of you who’ve been out here almost as long, got your roots planted firm now. There are some who’ve been here only a few years, like our friend George Stedman, but men who’re damn well the backbone of the community.” R.D. Tindal’s mouth formed a faint grin. “What do you say, George? You think we’re old enough to wipe our own noses?”