Last Stand at Saber River

by Elmore Leonard

  “Come inside,” Martha said pleasantly. “We can give you a chair at the window if you’d like.”

  Lorraine hesitated, but only for a moment. She nodded to Martha and said easily, “You’re very kind.”

  At the door, the children stood staring at Lorraine. Martha named them as they entered the ramada shade, and reaching them, brushed Sandy’s hair from his forehead. “The little Cables are about to have biscuits and jelly. Will you join them?”

  “No, thank you,” Lorraine said. She nodded politely to the children, but showed no interest in them, edging through the doorway now as if not wanting to touch them. Martha followed, moving the children to the table and sitting them down. Cable came in a moment later carrying the Spencer.

  As he propped it against the wall between the two front windows, Lorraine said pleasantly, “I hope you’re not going to shoot my father.”

  Cable closed both shutters of the right window, but only one shutter of the window nearer to the door. He turned then. “I hope not either.”

  “Oh, don’t be so solemn,” Lorraine said lightly. “If Duane does the talking you can be pretty sure he’ll mess it up.”

  Cable saw Martha’s momentary look of surprise. She placed a pan of biscuits on the table, watching Lorraine. “Miss Kidston,” Cable said mildly, “doesn’t have a very high regard for her father.”

  Martha straightened, wiping her hands on her apron. “That’s nice.”

  Lorraine regarded her suspiciously. Then, as if feeling a compulsion to defend herself, she said, “If there is nothing about him personally to deserve respect, I don’t see why it’s due him just because he’s a parent.”

  Cable was leaving it up to Martha now. He watched her, expecting her to reply, but Martha said nothing. The silence lengthened, weakening Lorraine’s statement, demanding more from her.

  “I don’t suppose you can understand that,’ ” Lorraine said defensively.

  “Hardly,” Martha said, “since I’ve never met your father.”

  “You’ve met him,” Lorraine said, glancing at Cable. “He’s the kind who can say nothing but the obvious.” Cable was looking out the window, paying no attention to her, and her gaze returned quickly to Martha.

  “I know exactly what he’s going to answer to every single thing I say,” Lorraine went on. “One time it’s empty wisdom, the next time wit. Now Vern, he’s the other extreme. Vern sits like a grizzled stone, and at first you think it’s pure patience. Then, after a few sessions of this, you realize Vern simply hasn’t anything to say. I haven’t yet decided which is worse, listening to Duane, or not listening to Vern.”

  “It sounds,” Martha prompted, “as if you haven’t been with them very long.”

  That brought it out. Lorraine recited a relaxed account of her life, using a tone bordering on indifference, though Martha knew Lorraine was enjoying it.

  Her mother and father had separated when Lorraine was seven, and she had gone with her mother. That didn’t mean it had taken her mother seven or eight years to learn what a monumental bore Duane was. She had simply sacrificed her best years on the small chance he might change. But finally, beyond the point of endurance, she left him, and left Gallipolis too, because that Ohio town seemed so typical of Duane. Wonderful years followed, almost ten of them. Then her mother died unexpectedly and she was forced to go to her father who was then in Washington. In the army. That was two or three years ago and she remained in Washington while Duane was off campaigning. Then he was relieved of his duty—though Duane claimed he “resigned his active commission”—and, unfortunately, she agreed to come out here with him. Now, after over a year with Duane and Vern, Lorraine was convinced that neither had ever had an original thought in his life.

  Cable listened, his gaze going out across the yard and through the trees to the meadow beyond. You could believe only so much of that about Vern and Duane. Even if they were dull, boring old men to an eighteen-year-old girl, they could still run you or burn your house down or kill you or whatever the hell else they wanted. So don’t misjudge them, Cable thought.

  He heard Martha ask where they had lived and Lorraine answered Boston, New York City. Philadelphia for one season. They had found it more fun to move about.

  Even with that tone, Martha will feel sorry for her, Cable thought, watching the stillness of the yard and the line of trees with their full branches hanging motionless over empty shade.

  He tried to visualize the girl’s mother and he pictured them—Lorraine and her mother—in a well-furnished drawing room filled with people. The girl moved from one group to another, nodding with her head tilted to one side, smiling now, saying something; then everyone in the group returning her smile at the same time.

  Cable saw himself in the room—not intending it—but suddenly there he was; and he thought: That would be all right about now. Even though you wouldn’t have anything to say and you’d just stand there—

  He saw the first rider when he was midway across the river, moving steadily, V-ing the water toward the near bank. Now there were three more in the water and—Cable waited to make sure—two still on the other side. They came down off the meadow; and beyond them now, over their heads, Cable saw the grazing horse herd. They had returned the mares and foals.

  As each man crossed the river, he dismounted quickly, handed off his horse and ran hunch-shouldered to the protection of the five-foot cutbank. One man was serving as horse holder, taking them farther down the bank where the trees grew more thickly.

  Out of the line of fire, Cable thought. Behind him he heard Lorraine’s voice. Then Martha’s. But he wasn’t listening to them now. This could be nine months ago, he thought, watching the trees and the river and the open meadow beyond. That could be Tishomingo Creek if you were looking down across a cornfield, and beyond it, a half mile beyond through the trees and briars, would be Bryce’s Crossroads. But you’re not standing in a group of eighty-five men now.

  No, a hundred and thirty-five then, he thought. Forrest had Gatrel’s Georgia Company serving with the escort.

  How many of them would you like?

  About four. That’s all. Shotguns and pistols and the Kidstons wouldn’t know what hit them. But now you’re out-Forresting Forrest. He had two to one against him at Bryce’s. And won. You’ve got six to one.

  He could just see their heads now above the bank, spaced a few feet apart. He was still aware of Lorraine’s voice, thinking now as he watched them: What are they waiting for?

  A rifle barrel rose above the bank, pointed almost straight up, went off with a whining report and Lorraine stopped talking.

  Cable turned from the window. “Martha, take the children into the other room.” They watched him; the children, Martha, and Lorraine all watched him expectantly, but he turned back to the window.

  He heard Lorraine say, “He’s going to die when he finds out I’m here.”

  “He already knows,” Cable said, not turning. “Your horse is outside.”

  Her voice brightened. “That’s right!” She moved to Cable’s side. “Now he won’t know what to do.”

  “He’s doing something,” Cable said.

  The rifle came up again, now with a white cloth tied to the end of the barrel, and began waving slowly back and forth.

  “Surrender,” Lorraine said mockingly, “or Major Kidston will storm the redoubts. This is too much.”

  Cable asked, “Is that him?”

  Lorraine looked past his shoulder. Four men had climbed the bank and now came out of the trees, one a few paces ahead. He motioned the others to stop, then came on until he’d reached the middle of the yard. This one, the one Cable asked about, wore a beard, a Kossuth army hat adorned with a yellow, double-looped cord, and a brass eagle that pinned the right side of the brim to the crown; he wore cavalry boots and a flap-top holster on his left side, butt to the front and unfastened.

  He glanced back at the three men standing just out from the trees, saw they had not advanced, then turned his atten
tion again to the house, planting his boots wide and fisting his hands on his hips.

  “Sometimes,” Lorraine said, “Duane leaves me speechless.”

  “The first one’s your father?” asked Cable, making sure.

  “My God, who else?”

  “That’s Royce with the flag,” Cable said.

  “And Joe Bob and Bill Dancey in reserve,” Lorraine said. “I think Bill looks uncomfortable.”

  Cable’s eyes remained on her father. “Where’s Vern?”

  “I told you, he went to Fort Buchanan,” Lorraine answered. Her attention returned to her father. “He loves to pose. I think right now he’s being Sheridan before Missionary Ridge. Wasn’t it Sheridan?”

  “Cable!”

  “Now he speaks,” Lorraine said gravely, mockingly.

  “Cable—show yourself!”

  Cable moved past Lorraine into the open doorway. He looked out at Duane. “I’m right here.”

  Duane’s fist came off his hips. For a moment before he spoke, his eyes measured Cable sternly. “Where do you have my daughter?”

  “She’s here,” Cable said.

  Again Duane stared in silence, his eyes narrowed and his jaw set firmly. The look is for your benefit, Cable thought. He’s not concentrating as much as he’s acting. He saw Duane then take a watch from his vest pocket, thumb it open and glance at the face.

  Duane looked up. “You have three minutes by the clock to release my daughter. If you don’t, I will not be responsible for what happens to you.”

  “I’m not holding her.”

  “You have three minutes, Mr. Cable.”

  “Listen, she came on her own. She can walk out any time she wants.” Behind him he heard Lorraine laugh.

  Cable looked at her. “You’d better go out to him.”

  “No, not yet,” she said. “Call his bluff and let’s see what he does.”

  “Listen, while you’re being entertained, my wife and children are likely to get shot.”

  “He wouldn’t shoot while I’m in here.”

  “That’s something we’re not going to find out.” Cable’s hand closed on her arm. Lorraine pulled back, but he held her firmly and drew her into the doorway. He saw Duane return the watch to his pocket, and saw a smile of confidence form under the man’s neatly trimmed beard.

  “All of a sudden, Mr. Cable, you seem a bit anxious,” Duane said. His hands went to his hips again.

  Close to him, as Cable urged her through the door, Lorraine gasped theatrically, “Would you believe it!”

  “Go on now,” Cable whispered. To Duane he said, “I told you once I wasn’t holding your daughter. What do I have to do to convince you?”

  Duane’s expression tightened. “You keep quiet till I’m ready for you!” His gaze shifted to Lorraine who now stood under the ramada a few steps from Cable and half turned toward him. She stood patiently with her arms folded. “Lorraine, take your horse and go home.”

  “I’d rather stay.” She glanced at Cable, winking at him.

  “This is not something for you to see,” Duane said gravely.

  “I don’t want to miss your big scene,” Lorraine said. “I can feel it coming.”

  “Lorraine—I’m warning you!”

  “Oh, stop it. You aren’t warning anyone.”

  Duane’s voice rose. “I’m not going to tell you again!”

  Smiling, Lorraine shook her head. “If you could only see yourself.”

  “Lorraine—”

  “All right.” She stopped him, raising her hands. “I surrender.” She laughed again, shaking her head, then moved unhurriedly to her horse, mounted and walked it slowly across the yard, smiling pleasantly at her father, her head turning to watch him until she was beyond his line of vision. She passed into the willow trees.

  She’s had her fun, Cable thought, watching her. But now the old man is mad and he’ll take it out on you. Cable’s gaze returned to Duane. You mean he’ll try. At this moment he did not feel sorry for Duane; even after Duane had been made to look ridiculous by his own daughter. No, if Duane pushed him he would push him back. There was no time to laugh at this pompous little man with the General Grant beard; because beyond his theatrics this was still a matter of principle, of pride, of protecting his family, of protecting his land. A matter of staying alive too.

  Cable said bluntly, “Now what?”

  “Now,” Duane answered, drawing his watch again, “you have until twelve o’clock noon to pack your belongings and get out.” He looked down at the watch. “A little less than three hours.”

  There it is, Cable thought wearily. You expected it and there it is. He looked over his shoulder, glancing back at his wife, then turned back to Duane.

  “Mr. Kidston, I’m going to talk to my wife first. You just hang on for a minute.” He stepped back, swinging the door closed.

  “Well?” he asked.

  “This is yesterday,” Martha said, “with the places reversed.”

  Cable smiled thinly. “We don’t make friends very easy, do we?”

  “I don’t think it matters,” Martha said quietly, “whether Mr. Kidston likes us or not.”

  “Then we’re staying,” Cable said.

  “Did you think we wouldn’t?”

  “I wasn’t sure.”

  Martha went to the bedroom. She looked in at the children before coming to Cable. “Clare’s doing her letters for the boys.”

  “Martha, make them stay in there.”

  “I will.”

  “Then stand by the window with the shotgun, but don’t shove the barrel out until I’m out there and they’re looking at me.”

  “What will you do?”

  “Talk to him. See how reasonable he is.”

  “Do you think Vern is there?”

  “No. I guess Vern does the work while Duane plays war.”

  Martha’s lips parted to speak, but she smiled then and said nothing.

  “What were you going to say?” Cable asked.

  She was still smiling, a faint smile that was for Cable, not for herself. “I was going to tell you to be careful, but it sounded too typical.”

  He smiled with her for a moment, then said, “Ready?” She nodded and Cable turned to the door. He opened it, closed it behind him, and stepped out to the shade of the ramada.

  Duane Kidston had not moved; but Royce, holding the carbine with the white cloth, had come up on his right. Bill Dancey and Joe Bob remained fifteen to twenty feet behind them, though they had moved well apart.

  “You have exactly”—Duane studied his watch—“two hours and forty-three minutes to pack and get out. Not a minute more.”

  Cable moved from shade to sunlight. He approached Duane, seeing him shift his feet and pocket his watch, and he heard Royce say, “Don’t let him get too close.”

  Then Duane: “That’s far enough!”

  Cable ignored this. He came on until less than six feet separated him from Duane.

  “I thought if we didn’t have to shout,” Cable said, “we could straighten this out.”

  “There’s nothing to straighten,” Duane said stiffly.

  “Except you’re trying to run me from my own land.”

  “That assumption is the cause of your trouble,” Duane said. “This doesn’t happen to be your land.”

  “It has been for ten years now.”

  “This property belonged to a Confederate sympathizer,” Duane said. “I confiscated it in the name of the United States government, and until a court decides legal ownership, it remains ours.”

  “And if we don’t leave?”

  “I will not be responsible for what happens.”

  “That includes my family?”

  “Man, this is a time of war! Often the innocent must suffer. But that is something I can do nothing to prevent.”

  “You make it pretty easy for yourself,” Cable said.

  “I’m making it easy for you!” Duane paused, as if to control the rage that had colored his face. “Li
sten, the easy way is for you to load your wagon and get out. I’m giving you this chance because you have a family. If you were alone, I’d take you to Fort Buchanan as a prisoner of war.” Duane snapped his fingers. “Like that and without any talk.”

  “Even though I’m no longer a soldier?”

  “You’re still a Rebel. You fought for an enemy of the United States. You likely even killed some fine boys working for that bushwhacker of a Bedford Forrest and I’ll tell you this, whether you’re wearing a uniform or not, if it wasn’t for your family, I’d do everything in my power to destroy you.”

  Joe Bob shifted his weight from one leg to the other. “That’s tellin’ him, Major.” He winked, grinning at Bill Dancey.

  Duane glanced over his shoulder, but now Joe Bob’s face showed nothing. He stood lazily, with his hip cocked, and only nodded as Duane said, “I’ll do the talking here.”

  Like yesterday, Cable thought. They’re waiting to eat you up. His gaze shifted from Royce and Duane to Joe Bob.

  Just like yesterday—

  And the time comes and you can’t put it off.

  Cable’s gaze swung back to Duane, though Joe Bob was still in his vision, and abruptly he said, “There’s a shotgun dead on you.” He waited for the reaction, waited for Joe Bob’s mind to snap awake and realize what he meant. And the moment the man’s eyes shifted to the house, Cable acted. He drew the Walker Colt, thumbed back the hammer and leveled it at Duane’s chest. It happened quickly, unexpectedly; and now there was nothing Duane or any of his men could do about it.

  “Now get off my land,” Cable said. “Call a retreat, Major, or I won’t be responsible for what happens.”

  An expression of shocked surprise showed in Duane’s eyes and his mouth came open even before he spoke. “We’re here under a flag of truce!”

  “Take your flag with you.”

  “You can’t pull a gun during a truce!”

  “It’s against the rules?”

  Duane controlled his voice. “It is a question of honor. Something far beyond your understanding.”

  Royce stood with the truce-flag carbine cradled over one arm, holding it as if he’d forgotten it was there. “He makes it worthwhile. You got to give him that.”