The Law at Randado Page 4

  “Let’s get this over with,” Stedman said.

  Tindal said, “We got to tie their hands.”

  “What for?” Beaudry asked.

  “You always do.”

  “It’s better if you don’t…they fight longer trying to hold their weight off the rope, then their arms give out.”

  Tindal frowned. “What’s the matter with you?”

  “This isn’t a church meeting, R.D.”

  “You talk like a crazy man.” Tindal turned from Beaudry and saw that Stedman was already tying their hands. He had cut enough length from the free ends of the riatas hanging from the beam.

  Now the older Mexican said, “What about a cigarette first?”

  Tying the man’s hands behind his back, Stedman said, “Go to hell.”

  “Don’t you have any customary last things?”

  Digo rolled a brown paper cigarette, lit it, then placed it between the man’s lips. “Here. Don’t say I never gave you anything.”

  The Mexican inhaled and with the cigarette in the corner of his mouth blew out smoke in a slow stream. “You’ve given me enough already.”

  Digo said in Spanish, “You feel you are much man, don’t you?”

  “Not for long,” the man answered, also in Spanish.

  “It’s too bad this has to happen to you.”

  The Mexican shrugged.

  “Does your companion wish a cigarette?”

  “Ask him.”

  Digo smiled. “He looks already in another world.”

  Barely above a whisper the younger one was reciting, “…Santificado sea el tu nombre, venga a nos el tu reino…”

  Digo grinned at him and said, “Remember to have perfect contrition.”

  The older Mexican said suddenly, “Do this quickly and stop talking!”

  Now Digo shrugged. “As you say.”

  They lifted the Mexicans to the bare backs of the horses and now no one in the crowd spoke. In the silence, Digo mounted. He kneed his horse in a tight circle between the two Mexicans, reached up and adjusted the loop over the older Mexican’s head and tightened the honda at the nape of his neck. The younger one tried to move his head away, but Digo’s hand clamped over his jaw and held the head still until he dropped the noose over it and tightened the knot.

  Now he moved out behind them and dismounted. Still there was silence and he took his time, with everyone watching him, walking up close behind the two horses. In front, an opening had been cleared to let the horses run.

  Digo waited for a signal, but none came. So it was up to him. All right. He raised both hands in the air, said, “Go in peace—” and brought his hands down slapping the rumps of the horses.

  They swung out, then back toward him on the ropes and turning, jumping aside, Digo could hear the horses breaking away down the street. The bodies jerked on the tight lines, but only for part of a minute. He heard Tindal say, “My God, look at their pants—”

  Someone else said, “I don’t feel very good.”

  And it was over—

  3

  Kirby Frye rode in shortly before nine o’clock.

  He tied his dun gelding in front of the jail and started for the front steps, but at the walk he thought: A few more minutes won’t matter to Harold. He turned and crossed the street, walking slowly with the stiffness of all day in the saddle. He was hungry, he felt the taste for a glass of beer and he was anxious to see Milmary Tindal; all three were before him and he didn’t know which to do first.

  It felt good to walk and he was thinking how good the beer would taste. Sit down and stretch your legs, even before washing up, take the first glass and drink it better than half right down, though it burns your throat. Then sip what’s left. Smoke a cigarette and drink the beer slow. Then have another one and sip that.

  De Spain’s windows, above the painted lower half, showed every lamp up to full brightness. Frye opened the door. But he closed it again and went on. Smoke and noise and he didn’t feel that much like having to make conversation in a Saturday night crowd. The Metropolitan was still open, and a few doors down he saw light coming from Tindal’s store. Well, he could always see Mil at home if she closed the store; but if the café closed—

  He opened the door of the Metropolitan and almost bumped into the cook who was coming out.

  “Too late, Ed?”

  “Hello, Kirby. Too late for me.”

  “Can I get something?”

  “Sure, Edith’s still there.”

  “I’m starvin’.”

  “You get them drunk Indins?”

  “All of a sudden they disappeared.”

  “Ain’t that the way. Well…Edith’ll fix you something. I got catchin’ up to do.”

  “Thanks, Ed.”

  The café was empty. The counter was clean and most of the tables had been cleared, all but two that were near the front and still cluttered with supper dishes. With the emptiness was silence. Frye walked back toward the kitchen, hearing his steps and the metallic ching of his spurs which seemed louder because they were the only sounds in the room.

  Nearing the open doorway to the kitchen a voice said softly, “Phil?”

  Frye hesitated, then went into the kitchen, looking to the left. Edith Hanasian, Haig’s wife, was sitting at the table against the wall with a cup of coffee in front of her.

  “It’s me.”

  “Oh.” She looked at Frye with surprise.

  “I wondered if I could get a bite.”

  “Of what, Kirby?”

  “Whatever might be on the stove.”

  “You look tired.”

  “Been working all day.”

  “Would you like a drink?”

  “That’d be fine.”

  “Sit down then.”

  Frye moved to the table. “Where’s Mr. Hanasian?”

  The woman shrugged. “I don’t know.”

  “You want me to sit out front or here?”

  Edith smiled. “If he didn’t trust the deputy, who would he trust?”

  “I just didn’t know where you wanted me to sit.”

  “Here. Then I won’t have so many steps.”

  Frye pulled out the chair opposite to Edith and sat down. “The coffee smells good.”

  “Would you rather have that?”

  “I just said it smelled good.”

  The woman rose. She went to a cupboard and returned with an almost-full whisky bottle, picking up a glass from the serving table as she did. She placed the glass in front of him and poured whisky into it.

  “Whoa—”

  “You’re a big boy now.”

  “I’m not that big.” He drank some of the whisky and putting the glass down felt Edith move around next to him. She took his hat off and sailed it over to the serving table.

  “I’ve had that on so long I forgot it was there.”

  “You look younger without it.”

  “Do I?”

  She moved her fingers over his sand-colored hair. “Sometimes you look like a little boy,” she said quietly.

  “Do I look like a hungry one?”

  She moved away, as if reluctantly. “What do you want?”

  “I don’t care.”

  “Enchiladas are still warm.”

  “Fine.”

  She went over to the stove, then looked back at him. “Or lamb stew?”

  “All right. Stew.”

  “You’re easy to please.”

  She placed a heaping plate of the stew in front of him, brought salt and bread, then sat down again.

  “Tastes good.”

  “Does it?” She was leaning forward now with her elbows on the table, watching him eat. He glanced at her and the way she was leaning he could see the beginning of the hollow between her breasts. She was an attractive woman, not more than a year past thirty, but she smiled little. It showed in the way her mouth was set and in the eyes that seemed indifferent to whatever they looked at. Probably in another few years she would be fat. Now, there was only the hint
of it, a pleasing softness that would become too soft.

  “Where’d you say your husband was?”

  “I said I didn’t know.”

  “That’s right.” He ate the stew, pushing it onto the fork with a piece of bread, dabbing the bread in the gravy and eating that. When he was finished he wiped the plate clean this way.

  “More?” Edith asked.

  Frye looked at her still leaning close to the table. Then he began rolling a cigarette. “I wouldn’t mind a cup of coffee…though I hate to ask you to move.”

  Edith smiled, still not moving. “Sometimes the little boy in you begins to disappear.”

  “Do you want me to get it?”

  She rose then. “You’re paying for it.”

  He watched her go to the stove and come back with the coffeepot.

  “I thought eating in the kitchen like this I was a guest.”

  She poured them each a cup and sat down, but now she sat sideways in the chair, leaning against the wall, looking from the ceiling to the stove and at nothing in particular, not bothering to answer him.

  “Business slow?”

  Edith shrugged indifferently. “It’s all right.”

  “You generally do better than this on Saturday, don’t you?”

  “Everybody’s next door, celebrating.”

  “Celebrating what?”

  “Their manhood.”

  “What?”

  Edith looked at him. “Didn’t you hear what happened?”

  “I just got back.”

  “Go next door; you’ll find out.”

  Frye shrugged. He wasn’t going to beg her. He finished his coffee, stubbed out the cigarette on the plate and stood up. He was tall, but with a big-boned leanness, and he looked younger than twenty-four. “Maybe I will,” he said. Then, “If I see Phil, you want me to tell him you’re here?”

  Edith hesitated, studying Frye’s face. “Why would I want that?”

  “You thought I was him when I came in.”

  “Don’t jump to any conclusions.”

  “Wouldn’t think of it. How much do I owe?”

  “Thirty cents.”

  He felt inside his pants pockets. “I’ll pay you tomorrow, all right?” He grinned. “I guess I didn’t bring any money.”

  Edith shook her head. “Then the little boy comes back again.”

  Frye was smiling. “That’s no way to talk to the deputy sheriff.”

  He went out the front door and stopped on the plank sidewalk to make another cigarette. The noise inside De Spain’s would go on until late, dying out slowly, then the street would be quiet again. It had been quiet last night when he left. Friday night was usually quiet. He lighted the cigarette, looking across the street to the jail. Quiet as a church. He heard laughter from De Spain’s.

  Edith said they were celebrating—

  She thought I was Phil Sundeen when I came in. That’s it. Sundeen’s back from his drive and his men are celebrating. Probably been at it since early this morning. Sitting in there all day drinking.

  He shook his head faintly remembering this morning, miles away chasing like hell after nothing. His eyes went to the jail again. Harold would be asleep now, sitting up with his feet on the desk.

  But Edith said something happened. Not just that they were celebrating, but that something happened—

  Let it wait.

  He flicked the cigarette into the street and moved away from the cafe.

  Milmary Tindal was locking the front door of the store when he came up behind her. She heard the footsteps, then heard the footsteps stop and she turned coming around hesitantly, keeping her face composed, then her features relaxed suddenly and she smiled with relief.

  “Kirby! You scared—”

  Holding her shoulders he kissed her unexpectedly, his lips making a smacking sound against hers.

  “Kirby!”

  “Too loud?”

  “Right out on the street—”

  “You look good, Mil.”

  She brushed a wisp of hair back from her forehead. “I’m a mess.”

  “You going home?”

  The girl nodded, looking up at him. “When did you get back?”

  “Just a few minutes ago.”

  “Did you catch them?”

  “This afternoon they made it over the border.”

  “Daddy was sure you’d get them.” They started walking along the adobe fronts, hearing behind them faint sounds from De Spain’s. Ahead were the shadowy forms of men sitting in front of the buildings, now and then a cigarette glow in the darkness, and passing them—“Good evening—”

  “You get ’em, Kirby?”

  “No, sir. They got away.”

  “That’s too bad.”

  Nearer the end of the street the adobe fronts were deserted and now there was only the sound of their steps hollow on the plank sidewalk, and out behind the adobes and in the yard of the livery stable they could hear crickets.

  “It’s a nice night,” he said.

  The girl was walking with her head down watching her steps and did not answer. Standing straight she would come just past Frye’s shoulder. Now she seemed smaller. Her figure was slight, almost boyish, but her face was delicately feminine: dark, almost black hair combed back from her face and small features softly pale in the darkness. They turned the corner and started up the low sweeping hill, seeing the lights farther up. They flickered in an uneven row through the trees indicating at least five or six houses.

  “What’s the matter?”

  “Nothing,” the girl said.

  “You’re not talking.”

  “Well, I’m tired. That’s all.”

  “How’s your father?”

  She looked up at him suddenly. “He’s fine.”

  “What’re you so jumpy about?”

  “Well, why’re you asking me so many questions?”

  “All day long I’ve been talking to a horse.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Has he said any more about you marrying Sundeen?”

  “Of course not. I thought that was settled.”

  He said quietly, “I hope so.”

  Their footsteps were muffled and Frye’s spurs chinged softly. Abruptly Milmary said, “I suppose you heard all about what happened today.” In the darkness her voice seemed natural.

  “You sound like Edith.”

  “You were with her?”

  “All we talked about was supper.”

  “She didn’t tell you?”

  “Uh-uh.”

  “Well, there was a trial today.”

  “A trial?”

  “Our town’s first legal court action.”

  He was frowning. “The county judge was down here?”

  Almost defensively she said, “We have our own judge and prosecuting attorney,” and went on quickly now as if to tell it and get it over with. “The Citizens Committee met this morning and elected a city judge and a city prosecuting attorney.”

  “They don’t have the—”

  “Let me finish. Mr. Stedman was elected judge and my father, prosecutor. It was done legally, by vote of the Citizens Committee, and they represent all of the people here.”

  “You sound like your father.”

  “Will you please have the courtesy to let me finish?”

  “Go on.”

  Her face was flushed now looking at Frye, who for a moment had smiled, but was now frowning again. “After the elections they decided to hold the first court session and they tried the two cattle thieves you’ve been holding. Phil Sundeen was made to testify even though everybody knew those two men were the ones. You said yourself you caught them driving off the cattle. So they were found guilty.”

  “Then what?”

  Milmary hesitated. “Then they were taken out and legally hanged.”

  Frye was silent.

  “The men felt, why should they wait for a court way up at Tucson to get good and ready before something’s done. Our citizens are just as qualifi
ed…more so even, since it was one of our people whose stock was stolen.”

  “Your father explained all this?”

  “Of course he explained it to me, I’m not a lawyer.”

  “Neither is he.”

  “He’s got common sense!”

  “Mil, you can’t just set up a court any place you want. We’re part of the county, protected by the county. Maybe we should have a judge and a prosecutor here, but to get them would take some doing up at Tucson, not just a self-made committee deciding in one morning.”

  “Kirby, those two men were guilty. You caught them yourself,” she said pleadingly.

  “But you can’t set up the law after the wrong’s done. You got to have the authority before. I even know that much.”

  “I suppose my father and Mr. Stedman aren’t as intelligent as those people up at Tucson?”

  “Now you’re talking like a woman.”

  “What do you want me to talk like?”

  Frye said quietly, “The point is, the law is already established to handle things like this. Everybody’s agreed to it, so you can’t just come along and set up your own law.”

  “Even if it’s something we should have had a long time ago?”

  She’s using her father’s words, Frye thought. And she wants to believe them. He said, “Where did they hang them?”

  Milmary hesitated. “At the livery.”

  “Did you see it?”

  “Part of it.”

  “A big crowd?”

  “Of course.”

  “Was Harold Mendez there?”

  “I didn’t see him.”

  Frye said, “They were taken from the jail, marched down to the livery and hanged. Just like that?”

  “I didn’t see all of it.”

  “Did the part you see look fair?”

  “I don’t suppose a hanging would ever look fair. You’re using the wrong word.”

  “What’s a better word?”

  “Kirby, use some sense! They were tried by competent men and found guilty. Now it’s over.”

  They started to walk again, slowly, and did not speak for a few minutes. Nearing the house, Frye said, “Is your father home?”