Blood Money and Other Stories Page 9

  Valdez said, "Whether you could get a robe was the thing that bothered me."

  "A gift," Sixto said. "Hanging from his clothesline."

  Lyall heard them, but he wouldn't let himself believe it. He wanted to say, "Wait a minute! Come on, now, this wasn't supposed to happen!"

  Thinking of Bohannon and Elodie and the nights walking in the hallway, suddenly knowing he'd done the wrong thing, and too late to do anything about it. "Wait a minute . . . I was trying to help you!" But not saying it because it had been his own damn, stupid fault, and he was so aware of it now, he had to bite his lip to keep from yelling like a kid.

  Valdez came out of the cell and picked up the shotgun Lyall had dropped. He said to Lyall, "Now my soul feels better."

  He motioned Sixto toward the stairs. "Go first and see how it is with the old one."

  "He sleep," Sixto said, and patted the barrel of his pistol.

  "Let's be sure," Bobby Valdez said. He watched Sixto go through the doorway and listened to him start down the stairs. He looked at Lyall again, smiling. "You can mark this to experience."

  If Valdez had backed out, holding the gun on Lyall, it wouldn't have happened. Even if he had just warned Lyall not to yell out or follow them but he just turned and started walking out, know ing Lyall wouldn't dare try to stop him. And that's where Bobby Valdez made his mistake.

  Lyall saw the man's back like a slap in the face.

  Even though he was scared, all of a sudden the knots inside him got too tight to stand. No thinking now about how it happened or what might happen just an overpowering urge to get him!

  He lunged at the back that was moving away.

  Three long strides and his arms were around Valdez's neck, jerking, swinging him off his feet.

  He heard the shotgun clatter against the wall and hit the floor.

  Tight against him, Bobby Valdez was turning his body. Lyall let go with one arm, brought it down quick, and drove it as hard as he could into the stomach almost against him. Valdez gasped and started to sag. Then footsteps on the stairs. Lyall scrambled for the shotgun, came up with it, and was at the doorway in time to see Sixto partway up the stairs, but as he raised the shotgun there was a swirl of robes and Sixto was at the bottom again.

  There was the sound of him running through the office, then nothing. Lyall came around fast. Valdez was almost on him, coming in low, diving for Lyall's legs and he dove right into the shotgun barrel swung hard against his skull.

  Lyall just stood there breathing for a minute before he dragged Bobby Valdez back to the cell and hefted him onto the bunk.

  "Mr. Valdez," Lyall said out loud, "that's one you can mark to experience."

  He went downstairs after that. Barney Groom was slouched in his chair, out cold. Lyall went to the doorway; he stepped outside to have a look around, and there was the friar's robe. It was in the road over by the hitch rack. Lyall gathered it up quick. He brought it back in the office and hung it beneath his rain slicker that was hooked on a peg.

  Then he breathed easier.

  Elodie turned away from the window. "It's over, Lyall," she said gravely. "They're starting to come out on the street."

  Lyall glanced at her. "Is that right, Elodie?" he said, then put a little more ketchup on his eggs.

  Scrambled eggs were good that way; this morning they tasted even better. He ate them, half smiling, remembering Bohannon coming that morning. Bohannon frowning at Barney Groom, Barney trying to figure how he got his head bumped when he was sound asleep.

  Then when they went upstairs that was really something. Bohannon saying, "Maybe he's sick," seeing Valdez's white face and the side of his head swollen like a lopsided melon. And Barney Groom saying, "Maybe the same bug bit me, bit him."

  Then what Bohannon said to him when they went downstairs again that was the best.

  "Now, Lyall, you done a fair job, though just sitting up there trying to keep awake wasn't much of a test. Tell you what"

  Bohannon pulled a folded sheet of paper from his vest pocket "last night I got a note from the White Sands marshal telling about the padre there getting his outfit stolen off the clothesline and would I assign a man to it since he's busy collecting taxes." Bohannon chuckled.

  "Have to keep the padres happy. Now, Lyall, if you could prove to me you're smart enough to get that padre's robe back for him, I'll see you're made a permanent deputy. And that's my solemn word."

  Lyall pretended he didn't see Bohannon wink at Barney Groom. He said, "Yes, sir, I'll sure try." Just as serious as he could.

  Man with the Iron Arm.

  Chapter One.

  Chris and Kite and Vicente were already half down the slope when we came out of the trees three riders spread out and running hard, waving their sombreros like they could smell the mescal we'd been talking about all morning. This new man, Tobin Royal, was next to me holding in his big sorrel I think just to show he could hold himself, too, if he wanted. He was smoking a cigarette and squinting through the smoke curling up from it.

  At the bottom of the grade, looking bleached white in the big open sunlight, were the adobes of Brady's Store: one main structure and a few scattered out buildings and a corral. Brady's served as a Hatch & Hodges stage line stop, besides being a combination store and saloon for the half dozen one loop ranchers in the vicinity. The one we worked for the El Centro Cattle Company was bigger than all of them put together twice and just the eastern tip of it came close to touching Brady's Store. Chris and Kite and Vicente and this Tobin Royal and I were gathering stock from the east range, readying for a trail drive and we felt we deserved some of Brady's mescal long as it was handy.

  By the time Tobin and I rode into the yard, the others had gone into the saloon side of the adobe and I saw a bare headed, dark haired man leading their three horses over to the open stable shed that attached to the adobe. He looked around, hearing us ride in, and I saw then that he had only one arm.

  For a moment he stood looking at us; then he turned, leading the horses away, moving slow like he either had all the time in the world or else his mind was on something else.

  As we swung off, this Tobin Royal called over to him, "Hey, boy, two more here!" But the onearmed man kept going like he hadn't heard. Tobin stood looking at the rumps of the three horses moving into the stable. He let his reins drop and he moved a half dozen slow strides toward the stable.

  A quirt was thonged to his left wrist and it hung limp at his side opposite the long barreled Navy Colt on his right hip.

  He was a slim, good looking boy, but he never smiled unless he said something he thought was funny, and he liked to pose, as he was doing now with the quirt and his hat tilted forward and the low slung Navy Colt. In the few weeks he'd been with us I'd learned this about him.

  I started to bring the horses and he turned his head. "You keep them horses over there."

  "What's the difference? I'll take them over."

  "Just stay where you are." His gaze went back to the stable as the one armed fellow came out of the shadow into the sunlight again, and for a moment Tobin just stared at the man.

  "Are you deaf or something?"

  The man turned to Tobin and his eyes looked tired. They were watery, and with the bits of straw sticking to his shirt and pants he looked as if he'd just slept off a drunk in the stable. He was about thirty, a year one way or the other. He didn't answer Tobin, but came on toward me.

  "I asked you a question!"

  He stopped then and looked at Tobin.

  "I asked you," Tobin said, "if you were deaf."

  "No, I'm not deaf."

  "You work here?"

  The man nodded. "You're supposed to answer when somebody calls."

  "I'll try to remember that," the man said.

  The temper rose in Tobin's face again. "Listen, don't talk like that to me! I'll kick your hind end across the yard!"

  The tired eyes looked at me momentarily. He came on then and took the reins and started back toward the stable with the hors
es. Tobin called to him, "Water and rub 'em down now . . . you hear me?" He stood looking after the horses for a time, then finally he turned and started for the adobe as I did.

  "You didn't have to talk to him like that."

  Tobin shook his head disgustedly. "Judas, I hate a slow moving, worthless man."

  "He had only one arm," I said.

  "What difference does that make?"

  "Maybe it makes him feel bad."

  "It don't make him walk slower."

  "Well maybe some men it does."

  Tobin opened the door and walked in ahead of me over to the bar that was along the left hand wall where Chris and Kite and Vicente stood leaning and drinking mescal, and he said, "Whiskey," to Brady standing behind the bar.

  Brady was looking toward me, waiting for Tobin to get out of the way. "How you been, Uncle?"

  Brady said to me.

  "Fair," I told him. "How've you been?"

  "Good." He smiled now, that big, loose faced, double chinned smile of his. "It's nice to see you again."

  "I want whiskey," Tobin said.

  Brady looked at him. "I heard you, Sonny. You can't wait till I tell a friend hello?"

  I got to the bar before Tobin could say anything.

  "Joe, this is Tobin Royal, a new man with us."

  Tobin nodded and Joe Brady said glad to meetyou, because he was a businessman. He sat the whiskey bottle on the bar and poured a drink out of it. Tobin emptied the hooker, and touched the bottle with the glass for another. But this one, after Brady poured it, he took to one of the three tables that were along the other wall, where the stage passengers ate. He sat down with the drink in front of him and started making a cigarette.

  Joe Brady nudged the mescal bottle toward me.

  "What's he trying to prove?"

  "That he's older than he is," I answered. I could hear Vicente telling a vaquero story and Chris and Kite were listening, knowing what the ending was, but waiting for it anyway. They didn't have much to say to Tobin, because the first day he joined us he had a fight with Kite.

  Kite had been a Tascosa buffalo skinner, a big rawboned boy, but Tobin licked him good. Tobin always stayed a few steps out from them, like he didn't want to be mistaken for just an ordinary rider.

  "I see you got a new man too," I said to Brady.

  "That's John Lefton," Brady said. "He came here on the stage a few weeks ago . . . got off like he expected to see something. As it turned out, he'd paid the fare as far as his money would take him . . . which was to here."

  "What's he running away from?"

  "Did you see him close?"

  "You mean the one arm?"

  Brady nodded. "That's what I think he's run ning from."

  "Well, it's too bad. How'd he lose it?"

  "In the War."

  "Well," I said again, "it's better to lose it that way than, say, in a corncrusher. What side was he on?"

  "Union."

  "Don't hold it against him, Joe."

  "Hell, the War's been over for eight years."

  "You felt sorry for him and gave him a job?"

  Brady shrugged. "What else could I do?"

  "He looks like he drinks."

  "He about draws his wages in mescal. But he does his work . . . better'n the Mex boy and even took over the bookkeeping."

  "It's a terrible thing to see a man down like that."

  I heard the screen door open behind me and Brady mumbled, "Here he is."

  Chapter Two.

  I half turned as he went by, walking to the back part of the adobe where Brady's rolltop desk was next to the door that led to the store part. He was carrying a push broom.

  Brady called over the bar, "John, you don't have to do that now."

  "It's all right," he answered. His voice sounded natural, but like there wasn't a speck of enthusiasm in him if he ever wanted to bring it out.

  "No," Brady said. "Wait till later. These people will just mess up the place anyhow."

  He nodded, then leaned the push broom against the wall and stood at the desk with his back to us.

  "I never know how to talk to him," Brady half whispered.

  "Mr. Brady "

  Brady looked up and saw John Lefton at the end of the bar now. As he walked down to him, Chris and Kite and Vicente stopped talking. They stood at the bar pretending like they weren't trying to hear what was said, as Brady and the one armed man talked for a minute. Then Brady came back for the mescal bottle and poured him a good shot of it.

  "I wonder what he's trying to forget," I said, when Brady was opposite me again.

  "His wife," Brady said, and didn't add anything to that for a minute. Then he said, "He's been here three weeks and he's gotten three letters from her, forwarded from the last town he stayed in, but he hasn't answered one."

  "How do you know it's his wife . . . he told you?"

  Brady hesitated. "I read one of the letters."

  "Joe!"

  He gritted his teeth, meaning for me to keep my voice down. "After he got the last one he started drinking and kept it up till it put him asleep. He was sitting at that table there and the letter was right in front of him. Listen . . . I just stood there trying to figure him out, wanting to help him, but I couldn't help him till I knew what his trouble was.

  Finally I decided, hell, there's only one way to do it, read the letter."

  "Go on."

  "She asked him why he never answered any of her letters and when he was going to send for her, and telling how much she loved him," Brady paused. "You see it now?"

  I could see it all right. Him coming back from the War lacking an arm and somehow figuring he'd be a burden and being sensitive about how he looked. Then running away to prove himself . . . then doing more running than proving. Promising to send for her at first, but each day knowing it would be harder as the time passed. Her at home waiting while he wanders around losing his selfrespect. That would be eight years of waiting now.

  "Maybe," I said, "he don't want her anymore."

  Brady shook his head. "You never saw him read the letters."

  About a minute later, this Tobin Royal came up next to me and slapped his left handed quirt down on the bar. "Give me another one," he said.

  Brady said civilly, "You haven't paid for the first two yet."

  "We'll settle when I'm through," Tobin told him.

  He drank off part of the whiskey that Brady poured and stood fiddling with what was left, turning the glass between two fingers. His eyes lifted as Brady moved down the bar to where John Lefton was standing and poured him another mescal.

  Tobin leaned away from the bar to look at Lefton. He came back then and said, loud enough for everybody to hear, "I guess even a man without all his parts can drink mescal."

  I couldn't believe he'd said it, but there it was and at that moment the room was quiet as night. I half whispered to Tobin, "What'd you say that for?"

  But he didn't answer me. He moved from the bar the next moment and went down to stand next to Lefton who glanced at him, but looked down at his drink again.

  "Before you go sloppin' up the mescal juice," Tobin said, "I want to understand my horse is cared for. You rubbed him good?"

  Lefton was raising the mescal glass, ignoring Tobin, and suddenly Tobin's quirt came up and lashed down on Lefton's arm and the mescal glass went slamming skidding over the bar.

  "I asked you a question," Tobin said.

  For a shaded second Lefton's face came alive, but as fast as it came the anger faded from his eyes and he looked down at his wrist, holding it tightly to his stomach. "No," he answered then. "I didn't rub down your horse."

  "Do it now," Tobin said.

  Brady moved toward them. "Wait a minute! You don't order my help around!"

  "He wants to do it," Tobin answered. "Don't you?"

  Lefton's eyes raised. "It's all right, Mr. Brady."

  "I'll tip him something," Tobin grinned. He looked at Lefton again. "One hand's as good as two for rubbing down a ho
rse, ain't it?"

  Lefton hesitated. Before he could answer Tobin's quirt came down cracking against the bar edge and Lefton went back half a step.

  "You're not much for answering questions, are you?"

  Lefton's eyes raised momentarily. "I'll tend to your horse."

  Tobin grinned. "I want to ask you something else." He waited to make Lefton speak.

  "All right," Lefton said.

  "Where did you leave your arm?"

  Again Lefton hesitated and you had the urge to poke him to make him hurry up and answer. "On Rock Creek," he said then. "East of Cemetery Ridge."

  "What was your outfit?"

  "Seventh Michigan."

  Tobin's face brightened. "Damn, I thought you looked like a blue belly! One of Wade Hampton's boys cut you good, didn't he?" He looked around at the rest of us and said, "A brother of mine was with Wade, all the way to Yellow Tavern."

  Lefton didn't say a word and Tobin studied him.

  "What rank did you hold?"

  "Lieutenant."

  "From lieutenant of cavalry to rubbin' down horses," Tobin said. He stuck out his quirt as Lefton started to walk past him. "I didn't say you could go!" The quirt moved across Lefton's chest and the tip of it poked at the empty right sleeve.

  "Above the elbow," Tobin said. "Were you righthanded or left?"

  "Right."

  "Now that'd be a hardship," Tobin said.

  "Teaching the left what the right used to know."

  The quirt end kept slapping gently at the empty sleeve as he spoke. "But the left's good enough for sloppin' mescal juice, huh?"

  Lefton did not answer.

  "You hear me?"

  "Yes . . . it's good enough."

  "I thought stable boys were supposed to say yes sir."

  "That's enough!" Brady said. His big face was red and had a tight look about the mouth. "You leave him alone now!"

  Tobin looked at Brady. "You ought to learn your stable boy proper respect."

  "This man isn't a stable boy!"

  "Then how come he wants to rub down my horse?"

  This was carrying it too far. I knew Tobin could lick me eight ways from breakfast with one hand, but now I could feel the anger up in my throat and I had to say something.

  "Tobin . . . you stop that kind of talk and act like a human being for once in your life!"