Hombre

by Elmore Leonard

  “I thought maybe you’d like to go home.”

  “Say something,” Mendez said.

  “It’s looking at you,” Braden said back. “We can sit here long as we want. I can send a man for more water and chuck, but you people can’t move. You only move if we let you. You see that?”

  “What else?”

  “There doesn’t have to be much else.”

  “All right, what do you want?”

  “You leave the money, we leave the woman.”

  “And everybody goes home?”

  “Everybody goes home.”

  “We’ll have to talk about it.”

  “You do that.” Braden held the Winchester cradled over one arm, the truce flag hanging limp. He stood with his feet spread some, posing, it looked like, confident he knew what he was doing.

  “We’ll let you look at the woman while you talk,” Braden said. “Then when you’re ready you bring the money down and take the woman.”

  “We’ll talk about it,” Mendez said again. He glanced over at Dr. Favor who was at the other window, then down at Braden again.

  “What if,” he said “—well, what if nobody wants this woman?”

  “Wait a while,” Braden answered, “before you think anything like that.”

  “I just want to make sure what you mean, that’s all.”

  “You just have to be sure of one thing,” Braden said. “You don’t leave here with the money. You see that?”

  Mendez didn’t answer. Frank Braden waited a minute then started to go.

  “Hey,” Russell called out to him and Braden stopped, half way around so that he was looking back over his shoulder.

  “I got a question,” Russell said.

  Braden was squinting to make out Russell in the window. “Ask it,” he said.

  “How you going to get down that hill?”

  Braden knew what he meant. He stood there a moment, then came around slowly to face the shack again, showing us he wasn’t afraid.

  “Look, I come up here to tell you how things are. I’m making it easy on you.”

  “We didn’t ask you,” Russell said. “You walk up here yourself. You come and say we’re not leaving with the money…uh?”

  “You heard what I said.” Braden was tenser, you could tell.

  “We give you the money or you kill us.”

  “I said you wouldn’t leave here.”

  “But it’s the same thing, uh?…Maybe we give up the money and you still kill us.”

  “You better talk to your friends.”

  “I think,” Russell kept on, “you want to leave dead people who can’t tell things.”

  “If that was so, we’d have killed you at the stagecoach.”

  “You tried to,” Russell said, “taking the water. But it came back to us.”

  “You think what you want,” Braden said, meaning to end it.

  Russell nodded. He nodded up and down very slowly two or three times. “I’ve already thought,” he said in that mild way, so calm you did not suspect what he meant until he raised the Spencer. Then there was no doubt what he meant.

  “You hold on, boy!” Braden said. “I’m walking down the same way I come up.” But he was backing off, keeping his gaze fixed on the window.

  Russell had the Spencer at his shoulder, but his head up as he watched Braden.

  “You hear me!” Braden yelled. “You hold on!”

  It was like Russell was letting out rope, giving Braden a little slack before he yanked it tight. It was coming. We knew it and Braden, still backing away, knew it. But only Russell knew when. That’s what finally spooked Braden. He might have had seven miles of nerve inside of him, but all of a sudden he found it all let out and there was only one thing left to do.

  He started running, starting so fast across the slope toward the crushing mill that he fell within four or five steps, falling just as Russell pressed his face to that Spencer and fired. Maybe that fall saved Braden’s life; for certain it hurried Russell’s second shot, trying to get Braden while he was down, but that one kicked sand right in front of Braden who was lunging to his feet, running again, getting some distance as Russell took his time and aimed and when he fired again Braden twisted and rolled a ways down the slope. That’s when the gunfire opened up from the company building as the Mexican and Early woke up and started giving Braden some cover. Braden was crawling, then up on his feet and running again, limping-running, favoring one leg—and bam, the Spencer went off and Braden was knocked down again, down on his hands and knees, but somehow kept going, clawing the ground and half running half crawling, the Winchester truce flag behind him now and forgotten. Russell fired again, hurrying it because Braden was close to the crushing mill by then and that was Russell’s last one; Braden made it, reaching the corner of the building, about forty yards over from us, as the sound of Russell’s shot sang off down canyon.

  It was the Mexican who got Braden out of there. He came up over on the other side of the crushing mill and brought Braden down the same way, keeping the crushing mill between us and them so they wouldn’t get shot at.

  Early came out of the veranda shade to help the Mexican take Braden inside: Early looking back like he was afraid Russell would open up again, and Braden walking but dragging his legs and leaning on the two men. He had been shot up good.

  Mr. Braden, I thought to myself. Meet John Russell.

  But was our situation any better?

  Maybe. Depending on Braden. If he was hurt bad enough, they would have to get him to a bed or a doctor. So for a while we watched with that hope. But the hope kept getting smaller and smaller as time passed and nobody rode out from the company building.

  When there was no doubt but they were staying, Henry Mendez started on Russell again. Why did you have to do that? Why didn’t you let things just happen? he kept saying. It would be worse for us now, Mendez was sure. And it was Russell’s fault.

  “Nothing is different,” Russell said. In other words, they could be mad or shot up or hungry or drunk, they’d still try to kill us. When you thought about it, you knew it was true.

  While Mendez and Russell were together I brought up the idea of getting out the way we’d come in.

  They’d shoot us off the wall as we climbed up, was Mendez’s answer. “Not when it’s dark,” Russell said; you saw he was thinking of ways.

  So far, you will notice, no one had said Russell should give them the money in exchange for Mrs. Favor: do what Braden wanted and see what would happen, not just guess. Maybe because it would be wasting breath to mention it to Russell. Or maybe because no one was thinking of Mrs. Favor at that time.

  Well, that changed as soon as the Mexican brought her out. Maybe an hour had passed from the time Braden was shot. (It’s hard to remember now the different spaces of time.) It had been so quiet over there. Then the Mexican was coming out across the open with Mrs. Favor in front of him. Her hands were tied and there was a length of rope, like a dog leash, tied around her neck with the Mexican holding the other end.

  He brought her all the way out to the ore-cart tracks that came down from the crushing mill and made her sit down there. Kneeling, he tied the leash to one of the rails, keeping Mrs. Favor in front of him as he did. He drew his left-hand Colt then, holding his right elbow tight against his side, and ran to a little shed that was just above and over a few yards.

  He surprised us then. Instead of going back, keeping the shed in line with us as a cover, he made a run all the way across a pretty open stretch to the crushing mill.

  Picture him about forty yards down and over to our left; Mrs. Favor straight down, looking small sitting there and staring up at the shack, about eighty yards away.

  It was while the Mexican was making his run that Early came out carrying a rifle and moved off toward the south pass on foot. I did not have to think about it long. Early was circling around to get behind us, closing the back door whether we wanted to use it or not.

  That’s what Russell said too.
He was still at the window watching the corner of the crushing mill where the Mexican was. The McLaren girl asked him where Early was going and Russell said, “Behind us,” not taking his eyes off the crushing mill; the Mexican had not shown himself yet.

  Dr. Favor, at this time, was at the other window looking down at his wife. It was a strange thing, while he was there no one else went out to the window, as if letting him be alone with her. But he did not stay too long; he walked away and lit up a cigar and sat down, I guess to think some more.

  The McLaren girl and Mendez and I finally found ourselves at that window, where we stayed just about all the rest of the time we were there. Of course we kept looking at Mrs. Favor.

  Remember Braden saying, “We’ll let you look at the woman while you talk?” He knew what he was doing.

  She sat there between the ore-cart tracks looking up this way most of the time. We soon learned that she could not stand up straight; the rope tied to her neck was not long enough. She could get in a bent-over position, but that was all. For a time she tried to undo the rope end tied to the track, but evidently the Mexican had tied it too tight.

  So she just sat there out in the open with the sun getting higher all the time, sometimes brushing her hair out of her face or picking things off her skirt. The way she would look up—my gosh—you knew what she was thinking. But she certainly was calm about it, not even crying once. It was not till a little later we found out they had not given her any water.

  It was after the Mexican started on Russell.

  He yelled out from the corner of the crushing mill, just showing part of his head for a second, “Hey, hombre! How do you like that woman?…You want her?…We give her to you!” Things like that.

  John Russell did not answer. Except he put his face against the stock of the Spencer and the front sight on the corner of the crushing mill.

  The Mexican waited a while. Then he yelled, “If you want that, hombre, you better hurry! Maybe there won’t be nothing left in the sun!”

  It was about 10 o’clock by then, maybe a little earlier.

  Then the Mexican yelled, “Man, why don’t you come out and give her a drink of water? She hasn’t had none…not since yesterday morning!”

  There he was, just a little part of him at the corner, and bam the Spencer went off and you saw the wood splinter right where the Mexican’s face had been.

  It was quiet right after, long enough for us to wonder if Russell had got him. Long enough for the McLaren girl to say, “That woman hasn’t had any water.” Then to Russell: “Did you hear what he said? She hasn’t had water since yesterday.”

  Russell was watching the corner still. The McLaren girl kept staring at him. “Is that why you want to kill him?” she said then. “To shut him up? So you won’t have to hear about her?”

  I touched her arm to calm her, but she jerked away. “It won’t help to get fighting among ourselves,” I said.

  “Are we all on the same side?” she said. “Do you really think that?”

  “Well, we’re all sitting here.”

  She was looking at Russell again. “He’s sitting here with twelve thousand dollars of somebody else’s money and that woman is tied like an animal out there in the sun.” She looked at me like somebody should do something.

  “Well, what do you want him to do?”

  The McLaren girl never answered. The Mexican yelled out again, letting us know he was still alive. “Hey, hombre!” he called out. “You got wood in my eyes!…Come down here and help me get it out!” Honest to gosh, like he thought it was funny to be shot at.

  He kept it up, yelling at Russell from time to time, trying to get him outside. We heard from Early a few times too. Rocks coming down on the roof from above: Early still feeling his whisky and being playful, or else just letting us know he was up there and not to try anything.

  The McLaren girl was quiet for a while. I guess she had calmed down. The sole of one of her shoes was loose and she kept fooling with it, trying to twist it off, even when she was looking at Mrs. Favor who sat with her shoulders hunched over now and her head down. The McLaren girl could not look at her too long, or fool with that shoe forever.

  She started looking at Russell and finally went over and kneeled down next to him. Russell was smoking, sitting back on his feet, the Spencer resting on the ore bags lining the window sill.

  “We have to give them the money,” she said, very quietly, “I think you know that.”

  He looked at her, not just glancing but taking his time to look at her dark sun-browned face good.

  “Like you had to give that one water,” Russell said. Meaning Dr. Favor.

  “That’s over with.” She bristled up a little.

  “You think he would have done it for you?”

  “Somebody would have.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “I just know. People help other people.”

  “People kill other people too.”

  “I’ve seen that.”

  “You’re going to see some more.”

  “If you want to say it’s my fault we’re stuck here, go ahead,” the McLaren girl said. “It might make you feel better, but it won’t change anything.”

  Russell shook his head. “The thing I want to know is why you helped.”

  “Because he needed help! I didn’t ask if he deserved it!”

  She let her temper calm down and said, half as loud, “Like that woman needs to live. It’s not up to us to decide if she deserves it.”

  “We only help her, uh?”

  “Do we have another choice?”

  Russell nodded. “Not help her.”

  “Just let her die.” The McLaren girl kept staring at him.

  “That’s up to Braden,” Russell said. “We have another thing to look at. If we don’t give him the money, he has to come get it.”

  The McLaren girl almost let go of her temper then. “You’d sacrifice a human life for that money. That’s what you’re saying.”

  Russell started making a cigarette, looking out the window at the crushing mill as he shaped it, then at the McLaren girl again. “Go ask that woman what she thinks of human life. Ask her what a human life is worth at San Carlos when they run out of meat.”

  “That isn’t any fault of hers.”

  “She said those dirty Indians eat dogs. You remember that? She couldn’t eat a dog no matter how hungry she was.” Everybody was watching him. He lit his cigarette and blew out smoke. “Go ask her if she’d eat a dog now.”

  “That’s why!” the McLaren girl said, like it was all clear to her now. “She insulted the poor hungry miserable Indians and you’d let her die for that!”

  Russell shook his head. “We were talking about human life.”

  “Even if there was no money, nothing to be gained, you’d let her die!” All the McLaren girl’s temper was showing now, and she was just letting it come. “Because she thinks Indians are dirty and no better than animals you’d sit there and let her die!”

  Russell held the cigarette close to his mouth, watching her. “It makes you angry, why talk about it?”

  “I want to talk about it,” she shot back. “I would like you to ask me what I think a human life is worth…a dirty human Apache life. Go on, ask me. Ask me about the ones that took me from my home and kept me past a month. Ask me about the dirty things they did, what the women did when the men weren’t around and what the men did when we weren’t running but were hiding somewhere and there was time to waste. I dare you to ask me!”

  She knelt there tensed, like she was to spring on him if he moved, though it was just she was so intent on telling him what she’d just said.

  It was all out of her system then. I think everybody wasn’t so tense anymore. She sank back to a sitting position, taking her eyes off Russell, looking down at that loose sole on her shoe and fooling with it as she thought something over.

  Next thing, she was saying, “I haven’t seen my folks in almost two months…or my little b
rother. Just he and I were home and he ran and I don’t know what happened to him, whether they caught him or what.”

  She looked up at Russell again, all the softness gone out of her that quick, like it was starting all over again. “What do they think of an eight-year-old human life?” she said. “Do they just kill little boys who can’t defend themselves?”

  Russell had not taken his eyes off her, still holding the cigarette up near his face. “If they don’t want them,” he said, and kept looking right at her.

  That ended it. For a thin little seventeen-year-old girl she was tougher than most men and I think you know that by now. But she had to give some time. I thought she was going to cut at Russell again, but the words didn’t come. Her eyes filled up first. She sat there trying to keep her chin from quivering or crying so we’d hear her, still looking right at Russell even with her eyes wet, daring him to say something else.

  Right at that time (and it was almost welcome) the Mexican started again. He yelled out, “Hey man, you hear me!” Russell turned and looked down the barrel of the Spencer. The Mexican wasn’t showing himself now and his voice sounded a little farther away. You knew he was there though.

  “Come on down here,” the Mexican yelled out, “I got something for you!”

  Russell had something for him too if he showed even part of his face.

  “Man!” the Mexican yelled then. “We both come out—talk to each other!”

  He waited.

  “You bring that piece of iron you got. I bring one, uh?”

  Every word he yelled echoed up canyon and came back again.

  “Hey, hombre, whatever your name is—you hear me!”

  After that he said some things I had better not put down here, terrible words that were embarrassing to hear with the McLaren girl in the same room. He was trying to get Russell out by insulting him, but he could have been yelling at a tree stump for all the good it did. Russell sat there waiting for the Mexican to show himself; which he never did.

  Something Russell had said to the McLaren girl bothered me, so I asked him about it: about them having to come up here if they wanted the money. Why couldn’t they just outwait us? Our water would run out (there was about a quart and a half left), then what would we do?