Last Stand at Saber River

by Elmore Leonard

  “Let’s go back to Vern Kidston,” Cable said. “I never heard of him; so what you’re saying doesn’t mean a whole lot.”

  Janroe’s faint smile appeared. “Vern came along about two years ago, I’m told. He makes his living supplying the Union cavalry with remounts. Delivers them up to Fort Buchanan.”

  “He lives near here?”

  “In the old Toyopa place. How far’s that from you?”

  “About six miles.”

  “They say Vern’s fixed it up.”

  “It’d take a lot of fixing. The house was half burned down.”

  “Vern’s got the men.”

  “I’ll have to meet him.”

  “You will. You’ll meet him all right.”

  Cable’s eyes held on Janroe. “It sounds like you can hardly wait.”

  “There’s your suspicious mind again.” Janroe straightened and stepped into the next room. “Come on. It’s time I poured you a drink.”

  Cable followed, his gaze going from left to right around the well-remembered room: from the door that led to the kitchen to the roll-top desk to the Hatch & Hodges calendar to the corner fireplace and the leather-bottomed chairs, to the pictures of the Holy Family and the Sierra Madre landscapes on the wall, to the stairway leading to the second floor (four rooms up, Cable remembered), and finally to the round dining table between the front windows. He watched Janroe go into the kitchen and come out with a bottle of mescal and two glasses, holding the glasses in his fingers and the bottle pressed between his arm and his body.

  Janroe nodded to the table. “Sit down. You’re going to need this.”

  Cable pulled out a chair and stepped over it. He watched Janroe sit down and pour the clear, colorless liquor.

  “Does my needing this have to do with Vern Kidston?”

  Janroe sipped his mescal and put his glass down gently. “Vern’s the one living in your house. Not Vern himself. Some of his men.” Janroe leaned closer as if to absorb a reaction from Cable. “They’re living in your house with part of Vern’s horse herd grazing in your meadow.”

  “Well”—Cable raised the glass of mescal, studying it in the light of the window behind Janroe—“I don’t blame him. It’s good graze.” He drank off some of the sweet-tasting liquor. “But now he’ll move his men out. That’s all.”

  “You think so?”

  “If he doesn’t vacate I’ll get the law.”

  “What law?”

  “Fort Buchanan. That’s closest.”

  “And who do you think the Yankees would side with,” Janroe asked, “the ex-Rebel or the mustanger supplying them with remounts?”

  Janroe looked up and Cable turned in his chair as Luz entered from the store. Behind her came Martha holding Sandy’s hand and moving Clare and Davis along in front of her.

  “We’ll see what happens,” Cable said. He rose, holding out his hand as Davis ran to him and stood close against his leg.

  “Mr. Janroe, this is my wife, Martha.” He glanced at Janroe who had made no move to rise. “This boy here is Davis. The little one’s Sanford and our big girl there is Clare, almost seven years old already.” Cable winked at his daughter, but she was staring with open curiosity at Janroe’s empty sleeve.

  Martha’s hand went to the little girl’s shoulder and she smiled pleasantly at the man still hunched over the table.

  “Mr. Janroe”—Martha spoke calmly—“you don’t know how good it is to be back here again.” She was worried one of the children might ask about Janroe’s missing arm. Cable knew this. He could sense it watching her, though outwardly Martha was at ease.

  Luz said, “I invited them for dinner.”

  Janroe was staring at Clare. She looked away and his eyes went to Davis, holding him, as if defying him to speak. Then, slowly, he sat back and looked up at Luz.

  “Take the kids with you. They’ll eat in the kitchen.”

  Luz hesitated, then nodded quickly and held out her hand to Sandy. The boy looked up at her and pressed closer into his mother’s skirts.

  “They’re used to being with me,” Martha said pleasantly. Gently she urged Clare forward, smiling at Luz now, though the Mexican woman did not return her smile. “While Cabe…while Paul was away the children didn’t have the opportunity to meet many new people. I’m afraid they’re just a little bit strange now.”

  “If they eat,” Janroe said, “they still eat in the kitchen.”

  Martha’s face colored. “Mr. Janroe, I was merely explaining—”

  “The point is, Mrs. Cable, there’s nothing to explain. In this house kids don’t sit at the table with grownups.”

  Martha felt the heat on her face and she glanced at her husband, at Cable who stood relaxed with the calm, tell-nothing expression she had learned to understand and respect. It isn’t your place to answer him, she thought. But now the impulse was too strong and she could no longer hold back her words, though when she spoke her voice was calm and controlled.

  “Now that you’ve said it three times, Mr. Janroe, we will always remember that in this house children do not eat with grownups.”

  “Mrs. Cable”—Janroe spoke quietly, sitting straight up and with his hand flat and unmoving on the table—“if your husband has one friend around here it’s going to be me. Not because I’m pro-South or anti-Union. Not because I favor the man who’s at a disadvantage. But because I don’t have a reason not to befriend your husband. Now that’s a pretty flimsy basis for a friendship.”

  “If you think I was rude,” Martha said patiently, “I apologize. Perhaps I did—”

  “Just wait a minute.” Janroe brought up his hand to stop her. “I want you to realize something. I want you to understand that I don’t have to smile at your husband for his business. If you don’t trade with me you go to Fort Buchanan and that’s a two-day trip. Add to that, I do business with the Kidstons. They buy most of the goods as fast as I receive them. And I’ll tell you right now, once they learn I’m dealing with your husband they’re going to come in here and yell for me to stop.”

  “Mr. Janroe—”

  “But you know what I’ll answer them? I’ll tell them to go to Buchanan or hell with their business, either one. Because no man on earth comes into my house and tells me what I can do or what I can’t do. Not Vern Kidston or his brother; not you or your husband here.”

  Janroe relaxed against the back of his chair. “That’s how it is, Mrs. Cable. I’d suggest you think about it before you speak out the first thing that comes to your mind.”

  Again there was silence. Cable saw his wife tense, controlling herself with a fixed tightness about her nose and mouth. She stared at Janroe.

  “Martha,” Cable said mildly, “why don’t you take the children to the kitchen? Maybe you could help Luz dish up.” Martha looked at him, but said nothing. She held out her hand to Davis, gathered her children about her, and followed the girl to the kitchen.

  “Your wife looks like a woman of strong character,” Janroe said as Cable sat down again.

  “She sticks up for what she believes.”

  “Yes,” Janroe said. “A strong-minded woman. I noticed you asked her when you told her to go to the kitchen. You said, ‘Why don’t you take the children?…’ ”

  Cable stared at him. “I think I said that.”

  “I’ve found,” Janroe said, “it works a sight better to tell women what to do. Never ask them. Especially a wife. You were away for a while and your wife took on some independence. Well, now you’re back I’d suggest you assume your place as head of the family.”

  Cable leaned forward, resting his arms on the edge of the table. “Mr. Janroe, I’d suggest you mind your own business.”

  “I’m giving you good advice, whether you know it or not.”

  “All I know about you so far,” Cable said quietly, “is that you like to talk. I’ve got no reason to respect your advice. I’ve got no reason to respect you or anything about you.”

  He saw Janroe about to speak. “Now wait a minut
e. You gave my wife a lecture on what she was supposed to understand. I stood by and watched you insult her. But now I’ll tell you this, Mr. Janroe: if you didn’t have the misfortune of being one-armed you never would have said those things. You might be a strong-minded, hard-nosed individual who doesn’t care what anybody thinks and who won’t stand for any kind of dependence. You might even be a man to admire. But if you had had both your arms when you said those things, I’d have broken your jaw.”

  Janroe stared at Cable, his chest rising and falling with his breathing. He remained silent.

  “I’m sorry I had to say that,” Cable told him after a moment. “But now we know where we stand. You’ve got your ideas and I’ve got mine. If they cross, then I guess you and I aren’t going to get along.”

  Janroe sipped his mescal, taking his time, and set the glass down gently. “You were with Bedford Forrest,” he said then. “Were you an officer?”

  “I reached captain.”

  “That speaks well of you, doesn’t it—an officer with Forrest?”

  “It depends from which side you view it.”

  “How long were you with him?”

  “Since June, sixty-two.”

  “In the saddle most every day. Living outside and fighting—” Janroe’s head nodded slowly. He raised the glass again. “You might be able to break my jaw at that.”

  “Maybe I shouldn’t have said that.”

  “Don’t back off. I’m being realistic, not apologizing. I’m saying you might.”

  Cable stared at him. “Maybe we should start all over again.”

  “No, I think we’ve come a long way in a short time.”

  “Except,” Cable said, “you know more about me than I do about you.”

  “You don’t have to know anything about me,” Janroe said. “The Kidstons are your problem.”

  “I’ll talk to them.”

  “But why should they talk to you?” Janroe watched him intently. “You’re one man against, say, fifteen. You’re an ex-Confederate in Union territory. The Kidstons themselves are Yankees. They sell most of their cattle and all of their horses to the Union army. Vern’s brother Duane even held a command, but now he’s back and he’s brought the war with him. Has everybody calling him ‘The Major’ and he orders Vern’s riders about like they were his personal cavalry.” Janroe shook his head. “They don’t have to listen to you.”

  Cable shrugged. “We’ll see what happens.”

  “How do you eat?” Janroe asked. “That’s your first problem.”

  “For now,” Cable said, “I plan to buy provisions and maybe shoot something. Pretty soon I’ll start buying stock and build my herd again.”

  “Buy it from where?”

  “South. Luz’s brother has friends in Sonora. I sold my stock to them when I enlisted on the agreement they’d sell back whatever I could buy when I came home.”

  “Manuel’s down that way right now,” Janroe said.

  Cable’s eyes raised. “When will he be back?”

  “In a few days, I suppose. But your problem is now. I said before, some of Vern’s men are living at your place.”

  “I’ll have a talk with them,” Cable said.

  “One of them was here this morning. Bill Dancey.” Janroe paused as Luz approached the table. She put plates in front of them and a serving dish of meat stew between them. Janroe asked her, “Where’s his wife?”

  “With the children.” Luz served them as she spoke.

  “Was Dancey here this morning?”

  “I saw no one else.”

  “Who’s up there with him?”

  “I think Royce and the one named Joe Bob Dodd.”

  “Tell Mr. Cable about them.”

  Luz looked off, as if picturing them, before her eyes lowered to Cable. “Bill Dancey is head. He is a large man and wears a beard and is perhaps ten years older than the others. This Royce and the one called Joe Bob look much alike with their thin faces and bodies and their hats worn straight and low over their eyes. They stand with their hands on their hips in a lazy fashion and say things to each other and laugh, though not genuinely. I think they are Texans.”

  “They are,” Janroe said. “I’m not sure about Dancey. But it’s said this Joe Bob and Royce, along with Joe Bob’s two older brothers, that’s Austin and Wynn, deserted from Sherrod Hunter’s Texas Brigade when he came through here and Duane Kidston hired them. They say if Duane knew they’d been Rebel soldiers he’d have a fit.” Janroe paused. “Royce and Joe Bob are the ones at your place. Austin and Wynn are probably at the main house.”

  Cable said, “You’re telling me not to go home?”

  “I’m telling you how it is. You do what you want.”

  “We’ll leave as soon as we load up.”

  From the platform Janroe watched the wagon, with Cable’s sorrel trailing, move off toward the willows. He watched intently, his right hand on the stump of his arm and massaging it gently, telling himself not to become excited or hasty or jump to conclusions.

  But, my God, it was more than he could have hoped blind luck would provide—an Ex-Rebel suddenly showing up here; coming home to find the Kidstons on his land.

  He’s your weapon, Janroe thought. Now it was right in front of him after months of waiting and watching and wondering how he could make it happen and never be suspected. If necessary he would even apologize to Martha for what he’d said. It had come out too quickly, that was all. He would smooth it over if he had to, because Cable’s presence could be far more important than where kids ate, or if they ate at all, for that matter. He would have to watch himself and not let his mind clutch at petty things just to be tearing something apart.

  But think it out carefully, he thought, now that there could be a way. Don’t stumble; he’s right here waiting, but you have to use him properly.

  Cable—Janroe could feel the certainty of it inside of him—was going to help him kill Vern and Duane Kidston. And then, thinking of Cable’s wife, he decided that before it was all over, Cable would be as dead as the two men he would help kill.

  Cable forded the river at the store and followed it north out into the open sunlight of the mile-wide valley, then gradually west, for the valley curved in that direction with the river following close along its left, or west, slope. The far side of the valley was rimmed by a low, curving line of hills. The near slope also rolled green-black with pines; but beyond these hills, chimneyed walls of sandstone towered silently against the sky. Beyond the rock country lay the Kidston place.

  Sandy was asleep. Davis and Clare sat on the endgate, Davis holding the reins of the sorrel. And Martha sat with Cable, listening in silence as he told her everything Janroe had said about the Kidstons.

  When he had finished, Martha said, “What if they won’t leave, Cabe? The ones in our house.”

  “Let’s wait and see.”

  “I mean with the children to think of.”

  “The children and a lot of things,” Cable said.

  They talked about Luz then. Even in the kitchen, Martha said, Luz had acted strangely: tense and almost reluctant to talk even about everyday things. She did tell that the store had been left to them, to Manuel and herself, in John Denaman’s will; and they would stay here. The grave of their mother in a Sonora village was the only tie they had with their birthplace; the store had been their home for a dozen years. Luz had been only six, Manuel twelve, when their father came here to work for John Denaman. The next year their father died of a sickness and John Denaman had cared for them from that day on.

  But she related little more about Edward Janroe than what she had told Cable—the man’s name, the fact that he owned a half interest in the store and had been here eight or nine months.

  But if business was so poor, Cable asked, why would Janroe want to buy into the store?

  Because of Luz? Martha offered.

  Perhaps. Luz was a good-looking girl. Janroe could easily be attracted to her.

  But Martha was sure that Luz stil
l liked Vern Kidston. Luz mentioned that she used to see Vern frequently; but that was before Janroe came. Something else to wonder about. Though Janroe himself was the big question.

  “What do you think of him?” Cable asked.

  “All I’m sure of is that he has a low opinion of women,” Martha said mildly, “judging from the lecture he gave me.”

  “He won’t do that again,” Cable said. “I talked to him.”

  Martha smiled. She moved closer to her husband and put her arm through his.

  They rode in silence until they saw, through the willow and aspen along the river, horses grazing farther up the meadow. Martha handed her husband the field glasses and took the reins.

  “About thirty, just mares and foals,” Cable said after a moment. “And a man with them.”

  Martha kept the team moving. They were close to the base of the slope with the dark well of pines above them and the river close on their right. Their house was perhaps a quarter of a mile ahead, no more than that, set back a hundred feet from the river; but it was still out of sight, hidden by the pine stands that straggled down from the slope.

  Through the glasses, Cable saw the rider come out of the trees on this side of the river. He noticed that the man was bearded and remembered Luz Acaso’s description of the one named Bill Dancey: older by ten years than the other two; the one in charge.

  “He must have seen us,” Cable said. “He just crossed over.”

  “Waiting for us?” asked Martha.

  “No, going for the house.” He handed the glasses to Martha, feeling the children close behind him now.

  Davis said, “Can I look?”

  “Not right now.” Cable half turned on the seat. “Listen, I want you children to stay right where you are. Even when we stop, stay there and don’t jump off.”