Elmore Leonard's Western Roundup #2 Page 11

Digo's mouth was bleeding and he touched his jaw, moving it gently.

  "We're trying to help you."

  "You know where you can put that," Digo muttered.

  Danaher's arms were folded; but suddenly they uncoiled and his right fist lashed back-hande d across Digo's face.

  "First we want proper respect. Then the right answers."

  Digo held his sleeve to his mouth, wiping it gently. "I can tell you nothing."

  "Maybe," Danaher stated, "they went north."

  "I don't know."

  "Over toward Tubac?"

  "I don't know."

  "Or South. To La Noria."

  "He didn't tell me."

  "First to La Noria, then over the border."

  "You're wasting your time."

  "I've got more of it to waste than you have."

  Digo's eyes stayed on the sheriff, but he said nothing.

  "You know why?"

  Digo shook his head. "Why?"

  "Because before Christmas you'll be dead."

  Digo shrugged.

  "You'll hang for taking part in that lynching . . . e ven though it wasn't your idea."

  "Maybe it was."

  "Why should you protect Phil Sundeen?"

  "He pays me."

  "His old man pays you."

  "One or the other--"

  "What will you do after we hang Phil?"

  "You won't hang him."

  "Why not?"

  "He has influence."

  "All right," Danaher said, "then we'll hang you and shoot him."

  "What do you mean?"

  "I'll give orders to shoot him on sight. Sound asleep, taking a bath or sittin' in the outhouse , shoot him . . . and then bring him in."

  Digo was silent. "But," he said finally, "you have to find him first."

  "Which brings us around again," Danaher said.

  "Maybe you were to meet him somewhere on SunD land."

  "He didn't say."

  "In a line shack."

  "He didn't say."

  "Let's try the Huachucas."

  Digo nodded. "All right."

  Danaher's face tightened. "Watch yourself."

  "You don't scare me."

  Danaher stood close to him, looking down and both fists were clenched. "Digo, before the night's over I'll break you."

  "I can wait."

  Danaher moved a half step and his fist slammed into Digo's chest. He tried to rise, Danaher lettin g him, but it was momentary. Digo was pushing up , both hands on the arms of the chair, and Danahe r hit him again, in the stomach and then in the face , standing in close, keeping Digo pinned against th e chair, now driving both fists, grunting as he hit th e Mexican, not hurrying because Digo could n o longer defend himself. And when he stepped bac k Digo sunk into the chair, his arms hanging over th e sides, and did not move.

  "I've had them that tough before," Danaher said, moving to the desk. "Not many hold out."

  Frye said, "He won't tell you anything if he's dead."

  "If he won't alive," Danaher said, "then what difference does it make?"

  "Dandy Jim asked me what you were doing. I t old him and he said, 'There are many better way s to do it.' "

  "I was giving him a chance, not like the Apache does it," Danaher said. "He could fight back an y time he wanted."

  "If he could get out of the chair."

  "Don't you approve, Kirby?"

  "It's none of my business."

  Danaher looked at him, trying to read more than was on Frye's face, then he picked up his coat. "I'm going across the street."

  "Maybe I'll work on him while you're gone,"

  Frye said.

  Danaher studied him again. "You do that, Kirby." He went to the door, but looked back before opening it. "Let me know if he tells, huh?"

  When the door closed, Frye went to Digo. He pulled him forward in the chair, then stooping, le t Digo fall across his shoulders. He stood up and thi s way carried the man up the stairs, into the cell tha t the two Mexicans had occupied and lowered hi m to the bunk. He stepped into the hall and poure d water into a cup from a canvas bag that was hun g there for the prisoners, then returned to Digo an d raised his head gently to let the water trickle between the man's swollen lips.

  Digo's eyes opened. His hand went to the cup and he emptied it drinking thirstily.

  "More?"

  "A little."

  Frye returned with the cup filled and handed it to him. He made a cigarette while the man drank an d lighted it and when Digo handed him the cup he offered the cigarette. Digo took it hesitantly, then inhaled and blew out the smoke slowly.

  "When do you take your turn?" Digo asked.

  "Do you think I should?"

  "You have a good opportunity." Digo's eyes raised to Frye. "If it was the other way around, if I w as in your shoes, I'd take a turn."

  "Danaher's doing all right."

  "He's doing too good."

  "Just keeps it up, doesn't he?" Frye said.

  "I think he must be crazy."

  "That's the way he is when he makes up his mind to something," Frye said. "He stays with it. Goo d for his word."

  "He doesn't scare me."

  "Then you're in for some more."

  "That's all right."

  "John gets mad and he keeps most of it inside . . . for a while. Then he has to blow of f steam, like poking his fist through a door. The les s you talk, the madder he gets." Frye paused. "Bu t this time he's lucky."

  "What do you mean?"

  "He can blow it off on Phil."

  "If he finds him," Digo said.

  "There's nothing to that," Frye said. "You saw that Coyotero boy. He's the best tracker ever rea d sign. It would just be a matter of time." Frye grinned.

  "With old Danaher getting madder and madder."

  "You mean that about shooting him on sight--"

  "You think he was kidding? Listen, that man's word is gospel."

  "I thought he was just talking."

  "Danaher doesn't just talk."

  Digo shook his head. "If he's so sure of getting him why does he question me?"

  "It could save him a day or two if you told."

  "Giving Sundeen that much more time."

  "It wouldn't matter," Frye said. "Phil doesn't have a chance. And all the time the steam's buildin g up in Danaher."

  Digo was silent. He said angrily then, "This is none of his business! Why is he here?"

  "Just to help out."

  "Why don't you do your own work?"

  "If he wants to help out it's all right with me."

  Digo looked at Frye intently and asked, "Would you shoot him on sight?"

  "Well, I've got no reason to."

  "You'd try to arrest him for trial?"

  "Probably." He knew what Digo was thinking, that if Sundeen stood trial he would most likely ge t off with little more than a fine. Digo had used th e word influence before and there was truth to that.

  "This is your territory. Would Danaher let you handle it yourself?"

  "If I asked him."

  "Listen." Digo was breathing heavily and his face was alive with what he was about to say. "I t would be senseless for him to die just becaus e Danaher is a madman."

  "Go on."

  Digo said it quickly. "If you promise to handle this yourself I'll tell where he is."

  "How do you know you can trust me?"

  Digo shook his head violently. "Keep Danaher off of Phil . . . swear it to God or I won't tell you!"

  Frye stooped close to Digo. He said quietly in Spanish, "Where is he, man?"

  "Promise in the name of God--"

  Frye nodded. "I promise."

  But Digo hesitated. His swollen face was strained and he closed his eyes as if in pain. "Giv e me another cigarette," he said, relaxing. He took i t from Frye and smoked it down as he convince d himself that this was the right thing. Keep Phi l alive. Perhaps it would break some of him, but i t would keep him alive. He rolled toward Frye an d whispered close
to his ear, even though they wer e alone in the cell.

  Danaher closed the door behind him as Frye came down the stairs.

  "Where is he?"

  "Upstairs."

  "Did you work on him?"

  Frye nodded, and he could see that Danaher was keeping himself from smiling.

  "Did he tell where Phil is?"

  Frye nodded again. "La Noria. You guessed it once yourself, John."

  Danaher stared. There was nothing he could say.

  "They got no business coming here," Earl Beaudry said.

  Behind him, sitting at the table, the woman watched him as he stood in the doorway lookin g past the deserted bandstand with its graye d wooden awning to the row of two-story adobe s across the square. One of these was the La Nori a Cantina and lettered on the weathered expanse o f wall next to it was the one word, MOCTEZUMA.

  Now, in the evening dusk, with rain clouds approaching, the word was obscure, losing its meaning in the fading light, though its form stood out against the pale adobe.

  The woman watched him and said nothing. This was her adobe, hers alone since the death of he r husband three years before; though when Ear l Beaudry came she assumed a different role: the submissive role she had known so well when her husband was alive. When this mood was on him it was better not to speak at all unless he asked a direc t question.

  "Why did they have to come?" Beaudry muttered.

  Her eyes lifted, looking at the back of his head.

  No, that was not a question expecting an answer.

  He was talking to himself. It was bad when he was in this mood. Like Sunday night when he ha d beaten her for no reason at all. But he was good t o her, too. He brought printed cloth . . . and flou r and chocolate and-- One learned to accept th e good with the bad. Sometimes though, she wa s thinking now, it was better to speak out, then tak e the beating and it would be out of his system.

  She was a handsome woman, firmly built, and the part of her blood that was Tarahumare showe d strong in the clean dark features of her face.

  "As long as they are not in this house," the woman said, "what difference does it make if the y are here?"

  Beaudry turned from the door, not answering her question, but came to the table and lifted the mesca l bottle that was there and poured some of it into th e glass he held. He had been drinking the mescal al l day and it showed in his eyes and in the way h e breathed with his mouth open, the corners of hi s mouth filmed with the colorless liquor. He returne d to the doorway and looked across the square as h e sipped the mescal, and now it began to rain.

  "What difference does it make if they are here?" t he woman said again.

  "Just keep still."

  "It would be less cold with the door closed," and as she said it she wondered if this might not be going too far. But he did not turn and now she knew that whatever it was that bothered him was a grav e matter.

  She was a simple woman and she said, "Are you thinking of your wife?"

  This time he looked at her. "God, no!"

  Then it was something else. Often, when he was silent and did nothing but drink mescal, she believed he was thinking of his wife, thinking that it was too bad she existed. Men did that, she knew.

  Even unattractive men such as this one. They felt that their wives were great weights and if the y could be free of them they would be men again.

  This one came here thinking himself irresistibly virile (until he slipped into his black mood), reliving a part of him that had been dead for a dozen years. Even being a simple woman she could see th e kind of man that he was: at home, speaking word s to his wife only when it was necessary and sentences only when they were arguing; but most of the time silent, thinking what a great beast she was , a dumb-eyed animal without feeling, a woman wh o no longer knew what it was to be a woman, and n o longer cared. These were the men who neve r looked at themselves, yet wandered from home.

  Even when he came here picturing himself somet hing else, the Mexican woman knew this abou t him; but she did not mind it and she thought of i t little, having learned to accept the good with th e bad. She did feel obligated to respect him. A ma n from the village had told her Senor Beaudr y owned . . . how many? . . . thousands of varas o f land. And he did no work! Something was sai d how he allowed others to use the land and the y paid him for it. But, the woman would think, it i s too bad he isn't attractive.

  Beaudry turned now and said, speaking to himself more than to the woman, "He's over there lappin' it up, not caring a damn what happens."

  "Who is?" the woman asked.

  "Phil Sundeen."

  "He was not here Sunday?" She could not remember the names of the two men who had come, but she knew neither had been called Sundeen.

  "That was Tindal and Stedman," he said, answering the question that was in her mind.

  And it occurred to her as he said their names what it was that must be bothering him. The hanging of the two La Noria men. Sunday the three of them had talked about it over and over again and i n the end there had been an argument becaus e Beaudry would not go back with them.

  Tindal and Stedman. Those were the ones. Both of them beyond the middle of life, like Beaudry , though they dressed better than he did and the y used language that was less coarse. She remembered now they had seemed frightened when they left. As Earl was now.

  "I thought there were four of them," the woman said, remembering how they looked entering th e square earlier that evening, riding almost single file.

  Beaudry looked at her intently. "You've got a lot of questions."

  The woman shrugged. "It doesn't matter."

  "The other one works for Sundeen. That makes four."

  "They are all your friends, but you don't want them here?"

  "Friends," Beaudry muttered, "bringin' the law on me."

  She did not understand this fully, but it seemed reasonable to say, "Then why don't you ask the m to leave?"

  He poured another drink before turning from her and this time didn't bother to answer.

  Why don't you ask them to leave? Across the square, now, light showed in the two windows o f the cantina. Why don't you ask Phil Sundeen t o quit drinkin' and join the monastery? That'd mak e about as much sense. A woman's brain is just bi g enough to take her from the stove to the bed. Fo r anything else it's got to strain. Ask them t o leave . . . just like that. "Phil, you and your friend s move along. This is my home . . . my second home , but I got first rights to its use." "Why sure, Earl , we'll pack up and be out by the thirty-second o f December." Beaudry swore under his breath. In th e doorway he could feel a mist of rain against his fac e as the breeze changed. All right. You can't talk nic e to him. "Phil--" Look him square in the eyes an d stand close and don't hardly move your mouth.

  "Phil, I'm not buyin' any more of that. You're not out of here in ten minutes I'll come for you with a gun!"

  His elbow touched the bulk of the Colt beneath his coat as he looked across to the two lighted windows. The gun was the answer. But why take a chance facing him head on? (He allowed it to be i n his mind, as if challenging Phil Sundeen was on e way; although there was not even a remote possibility he would bring himself to do it.) The gun brought out the ultimate plan. The gun and th e lighted windows.

  Now if he were to throw some shots inside, not trying to hit anybody--If he pulled it right they'd think posse. Sure, the first thing they'd think of . . . a big posse! They'd run. By God they'd run t o China!

  He turned to the woman abruptly. "Didn't I b ring a rifle this trip?"

  You can smell a Mexican pueblo, Frye thought to himself. Even with the rain. Not a soul in th e square and the adobes without windows look deserted, but you can always smell the good smell of the mesquite cook fires. If it wasn't raining there'd be people sitting by that bandstand. He was thinking then that La Noria was like a lot of pueblos; crumbling sun-dried adobe out in the middle o f nowhere, but with people in it to make the cookfire smells and keep it alive.

  Frye was standing at
the edge of an aspen thicket looking through the rain drizzle and across th e open one hundred yards to the wide break betwee n the adobes that showed the square. The bandstand , a dim outline of it, was on a straight line with hi s eyes and he knew that the cantina was along th e row of adobes on the right. Merl White was next t o him and Dandy Jim was one step behind.

  He'll be in the cantina, Frye thought, thinking of Sundeen. Bet all you've got and borrow more t o put on it, that's where he'll be. If he's not, then he's changed his ways--and you'd better change yours.

  Turning his head, keeping his voice low, he said, "Merl, would you say he'd be in the cantina?"

  Merl nodded and water rolled off the curled brim of his hat. "I wouldn't think about it twice," h e said.

  "Just go in?"

  "We could wait for them to come out."

  "Which could be a wet all night," Frye said.

  "Let's just go in and get it over with."

  "All right. You want to get the others?"

  Merl said he would and moved back through the trees. Dandy Jim waited with Frye.

  Now, waiting, listening to the rain, Frye thought:

  You shouldn't ask a question when you tell somebody what to do. He shrugged within himself. You don't have to kick Merl in the tail. No, it's not a question of the man. If you're in an order-givin g position then give the damn order and don't be s o damn hesitant. You don't say, "Do you want to ge t the others?" What if he'd said no? Watch Danahe r and learn a few things. Learn how to tell men wha t to do.

  He felt very much alone now, even though Dandy Jim was a step away from him, and h e thought: I wonder if Danaher ever feels all by himself? Like the night after Galluro and John hit that man for smoking out in the open. I'll bet he felt al l alone that night. It probably goes with the job. Yo u better watch Danaher and learn how to give order s and meet the cold looks that come back half th e time. But he'll be watching you tonight.

  Frye had told Danaher his promise to Digo. He had promised to bring Sundeen back himself, without shooting. Danaher had agreed. This is what he had hired him for. If he didn't care to use his gun , that was all right. As long as he brought him in.

  Danaher mentioned that the shooting Sundeen on sight business was half scare anyway. Then Fry e asked Danaher if he'd care to come along an d Danaher said yes without hesitating.

  Frye turned now, hearing the others coming up through the trees. He saw Danaher and he though t for one last time: Just tell them.