Last Stand at Saber River

by Elmore Leonard

  Cable stepped to the doorway. Behind him Martha called, “Davis—Clare, where is he?”

  “He’s all right.” Cable lowered the Spencer looking out past Davis who was in the yard watching the rider just emerging from the trees. “It’s Janroe.”

  The first thing Cable noticed about Janroe was that he wore two revolvers—one in a shoulder holster, the other on his hip—in addition to a shotgun in his saddle boot.

  Then, as Janroe approached, he noticed the man’s gaze. Taking it all in, Cable thought, seeing Janroe’s eyes moving from the saddled gelding to the gear—cooking utensils, clothing, curl-toed boots, bedding and the three holstered revolvers on top—that was in a pile over by the barn.

  Janroe reined in, his gaze returning to the adobe. “Well, you ran them, didn’t you?” His hand touched his hat brim and he nodded to Martha, then fell away as Cable walked out to him. He made no move to dismount.

  “I don’t think you expected to see us,” Cable said.

  “I wasn’t sure.”

  “But you were curious.”

  Janroe’s gaze went to the pile of gear. “You took their guns,” he said thoughtfully. I’d like to have seen that.” His eyes returned to Cable. “Yes, I would have given something to see that. Was anybody hurt?”

  Cable shook his head.

  “No shooting?”

  “Not a shot.”

  “What’ll you do with their stuff?”

  “Leave it. They’ll come back.”

  “I think I’d burn it.”

  “I thought about that,” Cable said. “But I don’t guess it’s a way to make friends.”

  “You don’t owe them anything.”

  “No, but I have to live with them.”

  Janroe glanced at the saddled horse. “You’re going somewhere?”

  “Out to the meadow.”

  “I’ll ride along,” Janroe said.

  They passed into the willows, jumping their horses down the five-foot bank, and crossed a sandy flat before entering the brown water of the river. At midstream the water swirled chest high on the horses, then receded gradually until they again came up onto a stretch of sand before mounting the bank.

  “Now you’re going to run his horses?” Janroe asked.

  “I’ll move them around the meadow,” Cable said. “Toward his land.”

  “He’ll move them right back.”

  “We’ll see.”

  “You’re got a fight on your hands. You know that, don’t you?”

  They were moving out into the meadow toward Kidston’s horse herd, walking their horses side by side, but now Cable reined to a halt.

  “Look, I haven’t even met Vern or Duane Kidston. First I’ll talk to them. Then we’ll see what happens.”

  Janroe shook his head. “They’ll try to run you. If you don’t budge, they’ll shoot you out.”

  Cable said, “Are you going back now?”

  Janroe looked at him with surprise. “I have time.”

  “And I’ve got work to do.”

  “Well,” Janroe said easily, “I was going to try to talk you into going back to the store with me. I’ve got a proposition you ought to be interested in.”

  “Go ahead and make it.”

  “I’ve got to show you something along with it, and that’s at the store.”

  “Then it’ll have to wait,” Cable said.

  “Well”—Janroe shrugged—“it’s up to you. I’ll tell you this much, it would end your problem all at once.”

  Cable watched him closely. “What would I have to do?”

  “Kill Vern,” Janroe said mildly. “Kill him and his brother.”

  Cable had felt himself tensed, but now he relaxed. “Just like that.”

  “You can do it. You proved that the way you handled those three yesterday.”

  “And why are you so anxious to see the Kidstons dead?”

  “I’m looking at it from your side.”

  “Like hell.”

  “All right.” Janroe paused. “You were pretty close to John Denaman, weren’t you?”

  “He gave me my start here.”

  “Did you know Denaman was running guns for the South?”

  Cable was watching Janroe closely. “You’re sure?”

  “He was just part of it,” Janroe continued. “They’re Enfield rifles shipped into Mexico by the British. Confederate agents bring them up over the border and the store is one of the relay points. It was Denaman’s job to hide the rifles until another group picked them up for shipment east.”

  “And where do you come in?”

  “When Denaman died I was sent out to take his place.”

  Cable’s eyes remained on Janroe. So the man was a Confederate agent. And John Denaman had been one. That was hard to picture, because you didn’t think of the war reaching out this far. But it was here. Fifteen hundred miles from the fighting, almost another world, but it was here.

  “I told you,” Janroe said, “I was with Kirby Smith. I lost my arm fighting the Yankees. When they said I wasn’t any more use as a soldier I worked my way into this kind of a job. Eight months ago they sent me out here to take Denaman’s place.”

  “And Manuel,” Cable said. “Is he in it?”

  Janroe nodded. “He scouts for the party that brings up the rifles. That’s where he is now.”

  “When’s he due back?”

  “What do you want to do, check my story?”

  “I was thinking of Manuel. I haven’t seen him in a long time.”

  “He’ll be back in a day or so.”

  “Does Luz know about the guns?”

  “You can’t live in the same house and not know about them.”

  “So that’s what’s bothering her.”

  Janroe looked at him curiously. “She said something to your wife?”

  Cable shrugged off the question. “It doesn’t matter. You started out with me killing Vern and Duane Kidston.”

  Janroe nodded. “How does it look to you now?”

  “You’re telling me to go after them. To shoot them down like you would an animal.”

  “Exactly.”

  “That’s called murder.”

  “It’s also called war.”

  Cable shook his head. “As far as I’m concerned the war’s over.”

  Janroe watched him closely. “You don’t stop believing in a cause just because you’ve stopped fighting.”

  “I’ve got problems of my own now.”

  “But what if there’s a relation between the two? Between your problems and the war?”

  “I don’t see it.”

  “Open your eyes,” Janroe said. “Vern supplies remounts to the Union army. He’s doing as much to help them as any Yankee soldier in the line. Duane’s organized a twelve-man militia. That doesn’t sound like anything; but what if he found out about the guns? Good rifles that Confederate soldiers are waiting for, crying for. But even without that danger, once you see Duane you’ll want to kill him. I’ll testify before God to that.”

  Janroe leaned closer to Cable. “This is what I’m getting at. Shooting those two would be like aiming your rifle at Yankee soldiers. The only difference is you know their names.”

  Cable shook his head. “I’m not a soldier anymore. That’s the difference.”

  “You have to have a uniform on to kill?”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “I know exactly what you mean,” Janroe said. “You need an excuse. You need something to block off your conscience while you’re pulling the trigger. Something like a license, so killing them won’t be called murder.”

  Cable said nothing. He was listening, but staring off at the horse herd now.

  Janroe watched him. “That’s your problem. You want Vern and Duane off your land, but you don’t have the license to hunt them. You don’t have an excuse your conscience will accept.” Janroe paused. He waited until Cable’s gaze returned and he was looking directly into his eyes.

  “I can give you tha
t excuse, Mr. Cable. I can fix you up with the damnedest hunting license you ever saw, and your conscience will just sit back and laugh.”

  For a moment Cable was silent, letting Janroe’s words run through his mind. All at once it was clear and he knew what the man was driving at. “If I worked for you,” Cable said, “if I was an agent, I could kill them as part of my duty.”

  Janroe seemed to smile. “I could even order you to do it.”

  “Why me? If it’s so important to you, why haven’t you tried?”

  “Because I can’t afford to fool with something like that. If I’m caught, what happens to the gun running?”

  “And if I fail,” Cable said, “what happens to my family?”

  “You don’t have anything to lose,” Janroe said easily. “What happens to them if Vern kills you? What happens to all of you if he runs you off your land?”

  Cable shook his head. “I’ve never even seen these people and you want me to kill them.”

  “It will come to that,” Janroe said confidently. “I’m giving you an opportunity to hit first.”

  “I appreciate that,” Cable said. “But from now on, how would you like to keep out of my business? You stop worrying about me and I won’t say anything about you. How will that be?” He saw the relaxed confidence drain from Janroe’s face leaving an expressionless mask and a tight line beneath his mustache.

  “I think you’re a fool,” Janroe said quietly. “But you won’t realize it yourself until it’s too late.”

  “All right,” Cable said. He spoke calmly, not raising his voice, but he was impatient now, anxious for Janroe to leave. “That’s about all I’ve got time for right now. You come out again some time, how’s that?”

  “If you’re still around.” Janroe flicked his reins and moved off.

  Let him go, Cable thought, watching Janroe taking his time, just beginning to canter. He’s waiting for you to call him. But he’ll have a long wait, because you can do without Mr. Janroe. There was something about the man that was wrong. Cable could believe that Janroe had been a soldier and was now a Confederate agent; but his wanting the Kidstons killed—as if he would enjoy seeing it happen—that was something else. There was the feeling he wanted to kill them just for the sake of killing them, not for the reasons he brought up at all. Maybe it would be best to keep out of Janroe’s way. There was enough to think about as it was.

  Cable swung the sorrel in a wide circle across the meadow and came at the horse herd up wind, counting thirty-six, all mares and foals; seeing their heads rise as they heard him and caught his scent. And now they were moving, carefully at first, only to keep out of his way, then at a run as he spurred the sorrel toward them. Some tried to double back around him, but the sorrel answered his rein and swerved right and left to keep them bunched and moving.

  Where the Saber crossed the valley, curving over to the east side of the meadow, he splashed the herd across with little trouble, then closed on them again and ran them as fast as the foals could move, up the narrowing, left-curving corridor of the valley. After what he judged to be four or five miles farther on, he came in sight of grazing cattle and there Cable swung away from the horse herd. This would be Kidston land.

  Now he did not follow the valley back but angled for the near slope, crossed the open sweep of it to a gully which climbed up through shadowed caverns of ponderosa pine. At the crest of the hill he looked west out over tangled rock and brush country and beyond it to a towering near horizon of creviced, coldly silent stone. Close beyond this barrier was the Toyopa place, where Kidston now lived.

  Cable followed the crest of the hill for almost a mile before he found a trail that descended the east slope. He moved along the narrowness of it, feeling the gradual slant beneath the sorrel, and seeing the valley again, down through open swatches in the trees. Soon he would be almost above the house. A few yards farther on he stopped.

  Ahead of him, a young woman stood at the edge of the path looking down through the trees. Luz Acaso, Cable thought. No.

  Luz came to his mind with the first glimpse of this girl in white. But Luz vanished as he saw blond hair—hair that was tied back with a ribbon and swirled suddenly over her shoulder as she turned and saw him.

  This movement was abrupt, but now she stood watching him calmly. Her hand closed around the riding quirt suspended from her wrist and she raised it to hold it in front of her with both hands, not defensively, but as if striking a pose.

  “I expected you to be older,” the girl said. She studied him calmly, as if trying to guess his age or what he was thinking or what had brought him to this ridge.

  Cable swung down from the saddle, his eyes on the girl. She was at ease—he could see that—and was still watching him attentively: a strikingly handsome girl, tall, though not as tall as Martha, and younger by at least six years, Cable judged.

  He said, “You know who I am?”

  “Bill Dancey told us about you.” She smiled then. “With help from Royce and Joe Bob.”

  “Then you’re a Kidston,” Cable said.

  “You’ll go far,” the girl said easily.

  Cable frowned. “You’re Vern’s—daughter?”

  “Duane’s. I’m Lorraine, if that means anything to you.”

  “I don’t know why,” Cable said, “but I didn’t picture your dad married.”

  Her eyebrows rose with sudden interest. “How did you picture him?”

  “I don’t know. Just average appearing.”

  Lorraine smiled. “You’ll find him average, all right.”

  Cable stared at her. “You don’t seem to hold much respect for him.”

  “I have no reason to.”

  “Isn’t just because he’s your father reason enough?”

  Lorraine’s all-knowing smile returned. “I knew you were going to say that.”

  “You did, huh?…How old are you?”

  “Almost nineteen.”

  Cable nodded. That would explain some of it. “And you’ve been to school. You’re above average pretty, which you’ll probably swear to. And you’ve probably had your own way as long as you can remember.”

  “And if all that’s true,” Lorraine said. “Then what?”

  Cable shook his head. “I don’t know.”

  “What point are you trying to make?”

  Cable smiled now. “You didn’t react the way I thought you would.”

  “At least you’re honest about it,” Lorraine said. “Most men would have tried to bluster their way out. Usually they say, ‘Well’—with what passes for a wise chuckle—‘you’ll see things differently when you’re a bit older.’ ” Lorraine’s eyebrows rose. “Unfortunately, there isn’t the least shred of evidence that wisdom necessarily comes with age.”

  “Uh-huh,” Cable nodded. This girl could probably talk circles around him if he let her. But if she pulled that on Martha—

  Cable smiled. “Why don’t you come down and meet my wife?”

  Lorraine hesitated. “I don’t think I should put myself in the way.”

  “You wouldn’t be in Martha’s way. She’d be glad of the chance to sit down and talk.”

  “I wasn’t referring to your wife. I meant my father. He’s coming, you know.” She saw Cable’s expression change. “Didn’t you think he would?”

  “Coming now?”

  “As soon as he gathers his company,” Lorraine answered. “Not Vern. Vern went up to Fort Buchanan yesterday on horse business.” She looked away from Cable. “You know you can see your house right down there through the trees. I came here to watch.”

  She stepped back quickly as Cable moved past her, already urging his sorrel down the path as he mounted. She called out to him to wait, but he kept going and did not look back. Soon he was out of sight, following the long, gradual switch-backs that descended through the pines.

  Martha had cleaned the stove for the second time. She came out of the house carrying a pail and at the end of the ramada she lifted it and threw the dirty water out
into the sunlight. She watched it flatten and hang glistening gray before splattering against the hard-packed ground. She turned back to the house, hearing the sound of the horse then.

  “Clare!” Her gaze flashed to the children playing in the aspen shade. They looked up and she called, not as loud, “Clare, bring the boys in for a while.”

  “Why do we have to—” Davis’s voice trailed off. He made no move to rise from his hands and knees.

  Martha looked back at the stable shed, then to the children. “Dave, I’m not going to call again.” The children rose and came out of the trees.

  She heard the horse again and with it a rustling, twig-snapping sound. She waved the children toward the house; but Clare hesitated, looking up toward the pines. “What’s that noise?”

  “Probably not anything,” Martha said. “Inside now.”

  As they filed in, Cable turned the corner of the house. Martha let her breath out slowly and stood watching him as he dismounted and came toward her.

  She wanted to say: Cabe, it’s not worth it. One alarm after another, running the children inside every time there’s a sound! But she looked at Cable’s face and the words vanished.

  “What is it?”

  “They’re on the way.”

  Martha glanced at the house, at the three children standing in the ramada shade watching them. “Clare, fix the boys a biscuit and jelly.”

  As she turned back, she again heard the rustling, muffled horse sound. She saw her husband’s hand go to the Walker Colt a moment before Lorraine Kidston rounded the adobe.

  “I decided,” Lorraine said as she approached, “it would be more fun to watch from right here.” She dropped her reins then, extending her arms to Cable. When he hesitated, she said, “Aren’t you going to help me?”

  Cable lifted her down from the side saddle, feeling her press against him, and he stepped back the moment her feet touched the ground. “Martha, this is Lorraine Kidston. Duane’s girl.”

  Martha recognized his uneasiness. He wanted to appear calm, she knew, but he was thinking of other things. And she was aware of Lorraine’s confidence. Lorraine was enjoying this, whatever it was, and for some reason she had Cable at a disadvantage. Martha nodded to Lorraine, listened as Cable explained their meeting on the ridge, and she couldn’t help thinking: Soon we could be thrown to the lions and Lorraine has dressed in clean white linen to come watch.