Last Stand at Saber River Page 3

  Clare’s dark eyes were round and open wide. “Why?”

  “Because we’re not sure we’re staying.”

  Cable looked at the boy again. “Davis, you hold on to Sandy. You won’t let him jump out now, will you?”

  The little boy shook his head solemnly. “No, sir.”

  Cable smiled at his children. His hand reached to the wagon bed, felt the short barrel of the Spencer carbine, then moved to the shotgun next to it and brought it out, placing it muzzle-down between them on the seat.

  “Martha, this one’s yours. Put your hand on it when I climb off, but don’t lift it unless you see you have to.”

  He drew the Walker Colt from its holster, eased back the hammer, turned the cylinder carefully, feeling the oil-smoothness of the action, and lowered the hammer again on the empty chamber.

  “There’s the house,” Martha said anxiously. “Part of it.” She could see an adobe-colored shape through the pines close in front of them.

  Then, coming out of the trees, the house was in full view: a one-story adobe with an addition made of pine logs, a shingled roof and a ramada that ran the length of the adobe section. Beyond, part of the barn could be seen.

  Cable’s eyes were on the bearded rider. He was near the house, still mounted but facing them now, watching them approach. A second man had come out of the house and stood near the mounted man.

  “This is far enough,” Cable said. They were less than fifty feet from the men now. As the wagon stopped a third man, thumbing a suspender strap up over his bare chest, appeared in the doorway of the adobe. All three men were armed. Even the one in the doorway, though half dressed, wore crossed belts holding two holstered revolvers.

  “The one in the door,” Cable said. “Keep a close eye on him.” Martha made no answer, but he didn’t look at her now. He breathed in and out slowly, calming himself and putting it off still another moment, before he jumped down from the wagon, holding his holster to his leg, and moved toward the mounted man.

  “You were a while getting here,” Bill Dancey said. He dismounted, swinging his leg over carefully, and stood with his feet apart watching Cable coming toward him.

  Within two strides Cable stopped. “You knew we were coming?”

  “Janroe mentioned it.” Dancey’s short-clipped beard hid any change of expression. He nodded toward the man who stood near him. “Royce here went in for something I forgot this morning and Janroe told him.”

  Cable glanced at the one called Royce: a tall, thin-framed man who stood hip-cocked with his thumbs hooked into his belt. His hat was tilted forward, low over his eyes, and he returned Cable’s stare confidently.

  Royce must have taken the horse trail, a shorter route that followed the crest of the slope, to and from the store; that’s why they hadn’t seen him, Cable decided.

  He looked at Dancey again. “Did Janroe tell him it’s my land you’re on?”

  Dancey nodded. “He mentioned it.”

  “Then I don’t have to explain anything.”

  “That’s right,” Royce said. “All you have to do is turn around and go back.”

  There it was. Cable gave himself time, feeling the tension through his body and the anger, not building, but suddenly there as this lounging, lazy-eyed poser told him very calmly to turn around and go back. At least there was no decision to make. And arguing with him or with Dancey would only waste time. Even with Martha and the children here he knew how far he would go if necessary. He wanted to feel the anger inside of him because it would make it easier; but he wanted also to control it and he let his breath out slowly, shaking his head.

  “I was afraid this was going to happen.”

  “Then why did you come?” Dancey asked.

  The back of Cable’s hand moved across his mouth, then dropped heavily. “Well, since I own this place—”

  Dancey shook his head. “Vern Kidston owns it.”

  “Just took it?”

  “In the name of the United States government,” Dancey said. “Mister, you must’ve been dreaming. You ever hear of Rebel land in Union territory?”

  “I’m not a soldier anymore.”

  “You’re not anything anymore.” Dancey glanced at the wagon. “Your wife’s waiting for you. And the kids. You’ve got kids, haven’t you?”

  “Three.”

  “A man doesn’t do anything crazy with three kids.”

  “Not very often,” Cable said mildly. His eyes moved to Royce, then past him to the bare-chested man who had come out to the edge of the ramada shade. This would be Joe Bob Dodd. He stood with one hand on his hip, the other raised to a support post. He wore his hair with sideburns to the angle of his jaw. This and the dark line of hair down the bony whiteness of his chest made him appear obscenely naked. He was somewhat shorter than Royce but had the same slim-hipped, slightly stoop-shouldered build.

  Cable’s eyes returned to Dancey. “I’ll give you the rest of the afternoon to collect your gear and clear out. Fair enough?”

  Royce looked over at Joe Bob, grinning. “You hear what he said?”

  The man at the ramada nodded. “I heard him.”

  “You don’t have the time to give.” Dancey said. “I told you, you’re going to turn around and go back.”

  “Bill,” Joe Bob called, “tell him he can leave his woman.”

  Cable’s eyes went to him, feeling the tingle of anger again. No, wait a little more, he thought. Take one thing at a time and don’t make it harder than it already is. His gaze returned to Dancey.

  “Go get Kidston and I’ll talk to him,” Cable said.

  “He wouldn’t waste his time.”

  “Maybe I would though,” Joe Bob said easily. His hand came down from the post and both thumbs hooked into his crossed belts. “Reb, you want to argue over your land?”

  “I’ll talk to Kidston.”

  “You’ll talk to me if I say so.”

  Watching him, seeing him beyond the lowered head of Dancey’s horse and feeling Dancey still close to him, Cable said, “I think that’s all you are. Just talk.”

  “Bill,” Joe Bob said, “get your horse out of the way.”

  Cable hesitated.

  He sensed Dancey reaching for the reins, his body turning and his hands going to the horse’s mane.

  And for part of a moment Dancey was half turned from him with his hands raised and the horse was moving, side-stepping, hiding both Royce and Joe Bob, and that was the time.

  It was then or not at all and Cable stepped into Dancey, seeing the man’s expression change to sudden surprise the moment before his fist hooked into the bearded face. Dancey stumbled against his horse, trying to catch himself against the nervously side-stepping animal, but Cable was with him, clubbing him with both fists, again and again and again, until Dancey sagged, until he went down covering his head.

  Cable glanced at the wagon and away from it with the sound of Martha’s voice and with the sound of running steps on the hard-packed ground. He saw Joe Bob beyond Dancey’s horse. Now a glimpse of Royce jerking the bridle, and a slapping sound and the horse bolted.

  Both Joe Bob and Royce stood in front of him, their hands on their revolvers; though neither of them had pulled one clear of its holster. They stood rooted, staring at Cable, stopped suddenly in the act of rushing him. For in one brief moment, in the time it had taken Royce to slap the horse out of the way, they had missed their chance.

  Cable stood over Dancey with the Walker Colt in his hand. It was cocked and pointing directly at Dancey’s head. Joe Bob and Royce said nothing. Dancey had raised himself on an elbow and was staring at Cable dumbly.

  “Now you take off your belts,” Cable said. He brought Dancey to his feet and had to prompt them again before they unbuckled their gun belts and let them fall. Then he moved toward Joe Bob.

  “You said something about my wife.”

  “Me?”

  “About leaving her here.”

  Joe Bob shrugged. “That wasn’t anything. Just something
I felt like saying—”

  Abruptly Cable stepped into Joe Bob, hitting him in the face before he could bring up his hands. Joe Bob went down, rolling to his side, and when he looked up at Cable his eyes showed stunned surprise.

  “You won’t say anything like that again,” Cable said.

  Dancey had not taken his eyes off Cable. “You didn’t give him a chance. Hitting him with a gun in your hand.”

  Cable glanced at him. “You’re in a poor position to argue it.”

  “In fact,” Dancey said, “you didn’t give me much of a chance either. Now if you want to put the gun away and go about it fair—”

  “That would be something, wouldn’t it?”

  Dancey said, “You’re not proving anything with that gun in your hand.”

  “I don’t have anything to prove.”

  “All right, then we leave for a while.” Dancey looked over at Royce. “Get the stuff out of the house.”

  “Not now.” Cable’s voice stopped Royce. “You had a chance. You didn’t take it. Now you leave without anything,” Cable said. “Don’t come back for it either. What doesn’t burn goes in the river.”

  Royce said, “You think we won’t be back?”

  Cable’s gaze shifted. “You’ll ride into a double load of buckshot if you do. You can tell Kidston the same.”

  Royce seemed to grin. “Man, you’re made to order. Duane’s going to have some fun with you.”

  Dancey’s eyes held on Cable. “So one man’s going to stand us off.”

  “That’s all it’s taken so far.”

  “You think Vern’s going to put up with you?”

  “I don’t see he has a choice,” Cable answered.

  “Then you don’t know him,” Dancey said flatly.

  2

  With daylight a wind came out of the valley and he could hear it in the pines above the house.

  Cable lay on his back listening, staring at the ceiling rafters. There was no sound in the room. Next to him, Martha was asleep. In the crib, beyond Martha’s side of the bed, Sandy slept with his thumb and the corner of the blanket in his mouth. Clare and Davis were in the next room, in the log section of the house, and it was still too early even for them.

  Later they would follow him around offering to help. He would be patient and let them think they were helping and answer all of their questions. He would think about the two and a half years away from them and he would kiss them frequently and study them, holding their small faces gently in his hands.

  The wind rose and with it came the distant, dry-creaking sound of the barn door.

  Later on he would see about the barn. Perhaps in the afternoon, if they had not come by then. This morning he would run Kidston’s horses out of the meadow. Then perhaps Martha would have something for him to do.

  They had worked until long after dark, sweeping, scrubbing, moving in their belongings. There would always be something more to be done; but that was all right because it was their home, something they had built themselves.

  Just make sure everything that belonged to Royce and Joe Bob and Bill Dancey was out of here. Make double sure of that. Then wait. No matter what he did, he would be waiting and listening for the sound of horses.

  But there was nothing he could do about that. Don’t worry about anything you can’t do something about. When it’s like that it just happens. It’s like an act of God. Though don’t blame God for sending Vern Kidston. Blame Vern himself for coming. If you can hate him it will be easier to fight him.

  And there’s always someone to fight, isn’t there?

  Ten years ago he had come here from Sudan, Texas—a nineteen-year-old boy seeking his future, working at the time for a freight company that hauled between Hidalgo and Tucson—and one night when they stopped at Denaman’s Store he talked to John Denaman.

  They sat on the loading platform with their legs hanging over the side, drinking coffee and now and then whiskey, drinking both from the same cups, looking north into the vast darkness of the valley. John Denaman told him about the river and the good meadow land and the timber—ponderosa pine and aspen and willows, working timber and pretty-to-look-

  at timber. A man starting here young and working hard would have himself something in no time at all, Denaman had said.

  But a man had to have money to buy stock with, Cable said. Something to build with.

  No, Denaman said, not necessarily. He told about his man Acaso who’d died the winter before, leaving his two kids, Manuel and Luz, here and leaving the few cattle Denaman owned scattered through the hills. You’re welcome to gather and work the cattle, Denaman said. Not more than a hundred head; but something to build on and you won’t have to put up money till you market them and take your share.

  That was something to think about, and all the way to Tucson Cable had pictured himself a rancher, a man with his own land, with his own stock. He thought, too, about a girl who lived in Sudan, Texas.

  The first thing he did in Tucson was quit his job. The same day he bought twenty head of yearling stock, spending every last dollar he had, and drove his cattle the hundred and twenty miles back to the Saber River.

  In the summer of his second year he built his own adobe, with the help of Manuel Acaso, four miles north of the store. He sold some of his full-grown beef to the army at Fort Buchanan and he continued to buy yearlings, buying them cheap from people around Tubac who’d had enough of the Apache and were willing to make a small profit or none at all just to get shed of their stock and get out of southern Arizona.

  The next year he left Manuel Acaso with his herd and traveled back to Sudan. The girl, Martha Sanford, was waiting for him. They were married within the week and he brought her home to the Saber without stopping for a honeymoon. Then he worked harder than he ever imagined a man could work and he remembered thinking during those days: nothing can budge you from this place. You are taking all there is to take and if you don’t die you will make a success of it.

  He was sure of it after living through the winter the Apaches came. They were Chiricahuas down out of the Dragoons and every few weeks they would raid his herd for meat. From November through April Cable lost over fifty head of cattle. But he made the Chiricahuas pay.

  Lying prone high on the slope with a Sharps rifle, in the cover of the trees, he knocked two of them from their horses as they cut into his herd. The others came for him, squirming unseen through the pines, and when they rushed him he killed a third one with his revolver before they ran.

  Another time that winter a war party attacked the house of Juan Toyopa, Cable’s nearest neighbor to the west, killing Juan and his family and burning the house. They reached Cable’s place at dawn—coming suddenly, screaming out of the grayness and battering against the door. He stood waiting with a revolver in each hand. Martha stood behind him with the shotgun. And when the door gave way he fired six rounds into them in half as many seconds. Two of the Apaches fell and Martha stepped over them to fire both shotgun loads at the Apaches running for the willows. One of them went down.

  Then Cable rode to Denaman’s to get Manuel Acaso. They returned to the willows, found the sign of six Chiricahuas and followed it all day, up into high desert country; and at dusk, deep in a high-walled canyon, they crept up to the dry camp of the six Apaches and shot three of them before they could reach their horses. The survivors fled, at least one of them wounded, Cable was sure of that, and they never bothered him again.

  Perhaps they believed his life was charmed, that he was beyond killing, and for that reason they stopped trying to take him or his cattle. And perhaps it was charmed, Cable had thought. Or else his prayers were being answered. It was a good thing to believe; it made him feel stronger and made him work even harder. That was the time he first had the thought: nothing can budge you from this land. Nothing.

  The next year their first child was born. Clare. And Manuel Acaso helped him build the log addition to the house. He remembered planning it, lying here in this bed with Martha next to
him and Clare, a month-old baby, in the same crib Sandy was sleeping in now; lying awake staring at the ceiling and thinking how he would build a barn after they’d completed the log room.

  And now thinking about that time and not thinking about the years in between, he felt comfortable and at peace. Until the murmur of Martha’s voice, close to him, brought him fully awake.

  “They’ll come today, won’t they?”

  He turned to her. She was on her side, her eyes open and watching him. “I guess they will.”

  “Is that what you were thinking about?”

  Cable smiled. “I was thinking about the barn.”

  “You’re not even worried, are you?”

  “It doesn’t do any good to show it.”

  “I thought you might be trying out your principle of not worrying about anything you can’t do something about.”

  “Well, I thought about it.”

  Martha smiled. “Cabe, I love you.”

  He rolled to his side, pulling her close to him and kissed her, brushing her cheek and her mouth. His face remained close to hers. “We’ll come out of this.”

  “We have to,” Martha whispered.

  When Cable left the house the sun was barely above the line of trees at the river’s edge. The willow branches moved in the breeze, swaying slowly against the pale morning sky. But soon, Cable knew, there would be sun glare and deep shadows, black against yellow, and the soft movement of the trees would be remembered from another time with another feeling.

  With Davis and Clare he brought the four team horses out of the barn and put them on a picket line to graze. It wouldn’t help to get them mixed with Kidston’s herd. He saddled the sorrel gelding, but let the reins hang free so it could also graze. The sorrel wouldn’t wander. After that he returned to the house.

  Martha came out of the log room with Sandy. “What did you forget?”

  “The Spencer,” Cable said. He picked it up, then turned sharply, hearing Clare’s voice.

  The little girl ran in from the yard. “Somebody’s coming!”