Three-Ten to Yuma and Other Stories

by Elmore Leonard

  There! He watched Billy-Jack walk slowly toward the hut. God, make him move faster! Billy-Jack was out of view then beyond the corner of the hut.

  All right. Brennan put down the tin plate he was holding and moved quickly, noiselessly, to the side of the hut and edged along the rough logs until he reached the corner. He listened first before he looked around. Billy-Jack had gone inside.

  He wanted to make sure, some way, that Billy-Jack would be looking at Doretta, but there was not time. And then he was moving again—along the front, and suddenly he was inside the hut, seeing the back of Billy-Jack’s head, seeing him turning, and a glimpse of Doretta’s face, and the sawed-off shotgun coming around. One of his hands shot out to grip the stubby barrel, pushing it, turning it up and back violently, and the other hand closed over the trigger guard before it jerked down on Billy-Jack’s wrist.

  Deafeningly, a shot exploded, with the twin barrels jammed under the outlaw’s jaw. Smoke and a crimson smear, and Brennan was on top of him wrenching the shotgun from squeezed fingers, clutching Billy-Jack’s revolver as he came to his feet.

  He heard Doretta gasp, still with the ringing in his ears, and he said, “Don’t look at him!” already turning to the doorway as he jammed the Colt into his empty holster.

  Frank Usher was running across the clearing, his gun in his hand.

  Brennan stepped into the doorway leveling the shotgun. “Frank, hold it there!”

  Usher stopped dead, but in the next second he was aiming, his revolver coming up even with his face, and Brennan’s hand squeezed the second trigger of the shotgun.

  Usher screamed and went down, grabbing his knees, and he rolled to his side as he hit the ground. His right hand came up, still holding the Colt.

  “Don’t do it, Frank!” Brennan had dropped the scattergun and now Billy-Jack’s revolver was in his hand. He saw Usher’s gun coming in line, and he fired, aiming dead center at the half-reclined figure, hearing the sharp, heavy report, and seeing Usher’s gun hand raise straight up into the air as he slumped over on his back.

  Brennan hesitated. Get him out of there, quick. Chink’s not deaf.

  He ran out to Frank Usher and dragged him back to the hut, laying him next to Billy-Jack. He jammed Usher’s pistol into his belt. Then, “Come on!” he told Doretta, and took her hand and ran out of the hut and across the clearing toward the side where the horses were.

  They moved into the denser pines, where he stopped and pulled her down next to him in the warm sand. Then he rolled over on his stomach and parted the branches to look back out across the clearing.

  The hut was to the right. Straight across were more pines, but they were scattered thinly, and through them he could see the sand-colored expanse of the open grade. Chink would come that way, Brennan knew. There was no other way he could.

  Chapter Seven

  Close to him, Doretta said, “We could leave before he comes.” She was afraid, and it was in the sound of her voice.

  “No,” Brennan said. “We’ll finish this. When Chink comes we’ll finish it once and for all.”

  “But you don’t know! How can you be sure you’ll—”

  “Listen, I’m not sure of anything, but I know what I have to do.” She was silent and he said quietly, “Move back and stay close to the ground.”

  And as he looked across the clearing his eyes caught the dark speck of movement beyond the trees, out on the open slope. There he was. It had to be him. Brennan could feel the sharp knot in his stomach again as he watched, as the figure grew larger.

  Now he was sure. Chink was on foot leading his horse, not coming straight across, but angling higher up on the slope. He’ll come in where the trees are thicker, Brennan thought. He’ll come out beyond the lean-to and you won’t see him until he turns the corner of the hut. That’s it. He can’t climb the slope back of the hut, so he’ll have to come around the front way.

  He estimated the distance from where he was lying to the front of the hut—seventy or eighty feet—and his thumb eased back the hammer of the revolver in front of him.

  There was a dead silence for perhaps ten minutes before he heard, coming from beyond the hut, “Frank?” Silence again. Then, “Where the hell are you?”

  Brennan waited, feeling the smooth, heavy, hickory grip of the Colt in his hand, his finger lightly caressing the trigger. It was in his mind to fire as soon as Chink turned the corner. He was ready. But it came and it went.

  It went as he saw Chink suddenly, unexpectedly, slip around the corner of the hut and flatten himself against the wall, his gun pointed toward the door. Brennan’s front sight was dead on Chink’s belt, but he couldn’t pull the trigger. Not like this. He watched Chink edge slowly toward the door.

  “Throw it down, boy!”

  Chink moved and Brennan squeezed the trigger a split second late. He fired again, hearing the bullet thump solidly into the door frame, but it was too late. Chink was inside.

  Brennan let his breath out slowly, relaxing somewhat. Well, that’s what you get. You wait, and all you do is make it harder for yourself. He could picture Chink now looking at Usher and Billy-Jack. That’ll give him something to think about. Look at them good. Then look at the door you’ve got to come out of sooner or later.

  I’m glad he’s seeing them like that. And he thought then: How long could you stand something like that? He can cover up Billy-Jack and stand it a little longer. But when dark comes…. If he holds out till dark he’s got a chance. And now he was sorry he had not pulled the trigger before. You got to make him come out, that’s all.

  “Chink!”

  There was no answer.

  “Chink, come on out!”

  Suddenly gunfire came from the doorway and Brennan, hugging the ground, could hear the swishing of the bullets through the foliage above him.

  Don’t throw it away, he thought, looking up again. He backed up and moved over a few yards to take up a new position. He’d be on the left side of the doorway as you look at it, Brennan thought, to shoot on an angle like that.

  He sighted on the inside edge of the door frame and called, “Chink, come out and get it!” He saw the powder flash, and he fired on top of it, cocked and fired again. Then silence.

  Now you don’t know, Brennan thought. He reloaded and called out, “Chink!” but there was no answer, and he thought: You just keep digging your hole deeper.

  Maybe you did hit him. No, that’s what he wants you to think. Walk in the door and you’ll find out. He’ll wait now. He’ll take it slow and start adding up his chances. Wait till night? That’s his best bet—but he can’t count on his horse being there then. I could have worked around and run it off. And he knows he wouldn’t be worth a damn on foot, even if he did get away. So the longer he waits, the less he can count on his horse.

  All right, what would you do? Immediately he thought: I’d count shots. So you hear five shots go off in a row and you make a break out the door, and while you’re doing it the one shooting picks up another gun. But even picking up another gun takes time.

  He studied the distance from the doorway to the corner of the hut. Three long strides. Out of sight in less than three seconds. That’s if he’s thinking of it. And if he tried it, you’d have only that long to aim and fire. Unless…

  Unless Doretta pulls off the five shots. He thought about this for some time before he was sure it could be done without endangering her. But first you have to give him the idea.

  He rolled to his side to pull Usher’s gun from his belt. Then, holding it in his left hand, he emptied it at the doorway. Silence followed.

  I’m reloading now, Chink. Get it through your cat-eyed head. I’m reloading and you’ve got time to do something.

  He explained it to Doretta unhurriedly—how she would wait about ten minutes before firing the first time; she would count to five and fire again, and so on until the gun was empty. She was behind the thick bole of a pine and only the gun would be exposed as she fired.

  She said, “And
if he doesn’t come out?”

  “Then we’ll think of something else.”

  Their faces were close. She leaned toward him, closing her eyes, and kissed him softly. “I’ll be waiting,” she said.

  Brennan moved off through the trees, circling wide, well back from the edge of the clearing. He came to the thin section directly across from Doretta’s position and went quickly from tree to tree, keeping to the shadows until he was into thicker pines again. He saw Chink’s horse off to the left of him. Only a few minutes remained as he came out of the trees to the off side of the lean-to, and there he went down to his knees, keeping his eyes on the corner of the hut.

  The first shot rang out and he heard it whump into the front of the hut. One…then the second…two…he was counting them, not moving his eyes from the front edge of the hut…three…four…be ready…. Five! Now, Chink!

  He heard him—hurried steps on the packed sand—and almost immediately he saw him cutting sharply around the edge of the hut, stopping, leaning against the wall, breathing heavily but thinking he was safe. Then Brennan stood up.

  “Here’s one facing you, Chink.”

  He saw the look of surprise, the momentary expression of shock, a full second before Chink’s revolver flashed up from his side and Brennan’s finger tightened on the trigger. With the report Chink lurched back against the wall, a look of bewilderment still on his face, although he was dead even as he slumped to the ground.

  Brennan holstered the revolver and did not look at Chink as he walked past him around to the front of the hut. He suddenly felt tired, but it was the kind of tired feeling you enjoyed, like the bone weariness and sense of accomplishment you felt seeing your last cow punched through the market chute.

  He thought of old man Tenvoorde, and only two days ago trying to buy the yearlings from him. He still didn’t have any yearlings.

  What the hell do you feel so good about?

  Still, he couldn’t help smiling. Not having money to buy stock seemed like such a little trouble. He saw Doretta come out of the trees and he walked on across the clearing.

  6

  Jugged

  STAN CASS, HIS elbows leaning on the edge of the rolltop desk, glanced over his shoulder as he said, “Take a look how I made this one out.”

  Marshal John Boynton had just come in. He was standing in the front door of the jail office, one finger absently stroking his full mustache. He looked at his regular deputy, Hanley Miller, who stood next to a chair where a young man sat leaning forward looking at his hands.

  “What’s the matter with him?” Boynton said, ignoring Stan Cass.

  Hanley Miller put his hand on the back of the chair. “A combination of things, John. He’s had too many, been beat up, and now he’s tired.”

  “He looks tired,” Boynton said, again glancing at the silent young man.

  Stan Cass turned his head. “He looks like a smart-aleck kid.”

  Boynton walked over to Cass and picked up the record book from the desk. The last entry read:

  NAME: Pete Given

  DESCRIPTION: Ninteen. Medium height and build. Brown hair and eyes. Small scar under chin.

  RESIDENCE: Dos Cabezas

  OCCUPATION: Mustanger

  CHARGE: Drunk and disorderly

  COMMENTS: Has to pay a quarter share of the damages in the Continental Saloon whatever they are decided to be.

  Boynton handed the record book to Cass. “You spelled nineteen wrong.”

  “Is that all?”

  “How do you know he has to pay a quarter of the damages?”

  “Being four of them,” Cass said mock seriously. “I figured to myself: Now, if they have to chip in for what’s busted, how much would—”

  “That’s for the judge to say. What were they doing here?”

  “They delivered a string to the stage line,” Cass answered. He was a man in his early twenties, clean shaven, though his sideburns extended down to the curve of his jaw. He was smoking a cigarette and he spoke to Boynton as if he were bored.

  “And they tried to spend all the profit in one night,” Boynton said.

  Cass shrugged indifferently. “I guess so.”

  Boynton’s finger stroked his mustache and he was thinking: Somebody’s going to bust his nose for him. He asked, civilly, “Where’re the other three?”

  Cass nodded to the door that led back to the first-floor cell. “Where else?”

  Hanley Miller, the regular night deputy, a man in his late forties, said, “John, you know there’s only room for three in there. I was wondering what to do with this boy.” He tipped his head toward the quiet young man sitting in the chair.

  “He’ll have to go upstairs,” Boynton said.

  “With Obie Ward?”

  “I guess he’ll have to.” Boynton nodded to the boy. “Pull him up.”

  Hanley Miller got the sleepy boy on his feet.

  Cass shook his head watching them. “Obie Ward’s got everybody buffaloed. I’ll be a son of a gun if he ain’t got everybody buffaloed.”

  Boynton’s eyes dropped to Cass, but he did not say anything.

  “I’m just saying that Obie Ward don’t look so tough,” Cass said.

  “Act like you’ve got some sense once in a while,” Boynton said now. He had hired Cass the week before as an extra night guard—the day they brought in Obie Ward—but he was certain now he would not keep Cass. Tomorrow he would look around for somebody else. Somebody who didn’t talk so much and didn’t have such a proud opinion of himself.

  “All I’m saying is he don’t look so tough to me,” Cass repeated.

  Boynton ignored him. He looked at the young man, Pete Given, standing next to Hanley now with his eyes closed, and he heard his deputy say, “The boy’s asleep on his feet.”

  “He looks familiar,” Boynton said.

  “We had him here about three months ago.”

  “Same thing?”

  Hanley nodded. “Delivered his horses, then stopped off at the Continental. Remember, his wife come here looking for him. He was here five days because the judge was away and she got here court day. Pretty little thing with light-colored hair? Not more’n seventeen. Come all the way from Dos Cabezas by herself.”

  “Least he had sense enough to get a good woman,” Boynton said. He seemed to hesitate. Then: “You and I’ll take him up.” He slipped his revolver from its holster and placed it on the desk. He took young Pete Given’s arm then and raised it up over his shoulder, glancing at his deputy again. “Hanley, you come behind with your shotgun.”

  Cass watched them go through the door and down the hall to the back of the jail to the outside stairway, and he was thinking: Won’t even wear his gun up there, he’s so scared. That’s some man to work for, won’t even wear his gun when he goes in Ward’s cell. He shook his head and said the name again, contemptuously. Obie Ward. He’d pull his tough act on me just once.

  PETE GIVEN OPENED his eyes. Lying on his right side his face was close to the wall and for a moment, seeing the chipped and peeling adobe and smelling the stale mildewed smell of the mattress which did not have a cover on it, he did not know where he was. Then he remembered, and he closed his eyes again.

  The sour taste of whiskey coated his mouth and he lay very still, waiting for the throbbing to start in his head. But it did not come. He raised his head and moved closer to the wall and felt the edge of the mattress cool and firm against his cheek. Still the throbbing did not come. There was a dull tight feeling at the base of his skull, but not the shooting sharp pain he had expected. That was good. He moved his toes and could feel his boots still on and there was no blanket covering him.

  They just dumped you here, he thought. He made saliva in his mouth and kept swallowing until his mouth did not feel sticky and some of the sour taste went away. Well, what did you expect?

  It’s about all you deserve, buddy. No, it’s more’n you deserve.

  You’ll learn, huh?

  He thought of his wife, Mary Ellen,
and his eyes closed tighter and for a moment he tried not to think of anything.

  How do I do this? How do I get something good, then kick it away like it’s not worth anything?

  What’ll you tell her this time?

  “Mary Ellen, honest to gosh, we just went in to get one drink. We sold the horses and got something to eat and figured one drink before starting back. Then Art said one more. All right, just one, I told him. But, you know, we were relaxed—and laughing. That’s hard work running a thirty-horse string for five days. Harry got in a blackjack game. The rest of us were just sitting relaxed. When you’re sitting like that the time seems to go faster. We had a few drinks. Maybe four—five at the most. Like I said, we were laughing and Art was telling some stories. You know Art, he keeps talking—then there’s a commotion over at the blackjack table and we see Harry haulin’ off at this man. And—”

  And Mary Ellen will say, “Just like the last time,” not raising her voice or seeming mad, but she’ll keep looking you right in the eye.

  “Honey, those things just happen. I can’t help it. And it wasn’t just like last time.”

  “The result’s the same,” she’ll say. “You work hard for three months to earn decent money then pay it all out in fines and damages.”

  “Not all of it.”

  “It might as well be all. We can’t live on what’s left.”

  “But I can’t help it. Can’t you see that? Harry got in a fight and we had to help him. It’s just one of those things that happens. You can’t help it.”

  “But it seems a little silly, doesn’t it?”

  “Mary Ellen, you don’t understand.”

  “Doesn’t throwing away three months’ profit in one night seem silly to you?”

  “You don’t understand.”

  You can be married to a girl for almost a year and think you know her and you don’t know her at all. That’s it. You know how she talks, but you don’t know what she’s thinking. That’s a big difference. But there’s some things you can’t explain to a woman anyway.