by Elmer Kelton
After supper Skinner Hamilton called him out beneath the cool branches of a huge old cottonwood tree. The old man tried to sit down on his heels with Shag’s easy grace. Halfway down he caught himself and straightened up, swearing, his gnarled old hand pushing against his hip to get the kink out.
“Reckon you heard in town about that connivin’ old cow thief they call Jesse Wheat?”
“A little bit,” Shag admitted.
“You know he’s tryin’ to take away a waterhole that’s mine by rights? Tryin’ to starve my poor old cows to death, rob me of fifty years’ rightful gatherin’?”
Shag said he’d heard a little mention of it.
Skinner’s wizened face clouded up. “He’s as mean as a rattlesnake. Cunnin’ as a fox. Greedy as an old boar.”
With what little tact he had, Shag said, “Man told me you-all used to be friends, a long time ago.”
Skinner violently shook his gray head. “I was too young to know any better.” A glow came into the lead-gray eyes. “You know what the old chickensnake done last night? I had five men down at the waterhole, mindin’ their own business, just seein’ to it that my cows got all they wanted to drink. That old warthog come a-chargin’ in with thirty gunslingers—twenty, anyway—and beat one of my boys up so bad I had to haul him to town.”
Skinner pointed a crooked forefinger at Shag. “But you’re a man that can put him in his place. Use them fists a little bit, and old Jesse won’t dare to come back, ever.”
From what Shag had heard, old Jesse would come back. In fact, it’d probably tickle him to death to try.
But Shag didn’t say so. Especially since he hadn’t drawn any pay yet.
The cowboys groaned when Peeler Milholland passed on Skinner’s orders to load their guns and saddle their broncs. “Even whisky never was as habit formin’ as this,” one limping cowpuncher complained.
But not one of them failed to go along, or even hesitated more than long enough to stretch his sore limbs. They rode at a stiff trot, not joshing each other or spinning windies to pass away the miles the way cowboys usually do. Weariness lay heavily on every man’s shoulders, but a dogged persistence kept them going. As for Shag, the prospect of a little fight didn’t bother him. His fist was itching a little.
He grinned as a thought struck him. What if Curly Jim was there? It would be a laugh if Shag got to boot him in the britches. It would be something Shag could hooraw him about someday when they were working together again.
Shag sensed the temper of the cowboys changing as they approached the waterhole. Any resentment, any reluctance seemed to fade. Now, no matter what, they were Rafter H men, and there was pride in that fact.
Skinner Hamilton raised his knotty fist and said, “We’ll give old Jesse somethin’ to rattle what teeth he’s got left! We’ll show him what’s the top outfit in this here country.”
It was like a shot of whisky starting a man’s blood to pumping again.
Times, maybe, these punchers got mad enough at Skinner Hamilton to spit in his bloodshot eye. But now they were with him all the way.
Not far from the waterhole they reined up for a hasty war parley, hardly able to see each other in the dim light of the quarter moon.
“They’re bound to have a guard out,” Milholland said.
“Well, now,” Shag volunteered, “I’m the new man around here. How about me doin’ the missionary work?”
He was elected. He hung his jingling spurs over the saddle horn so as not to disturb any Flying W men who might have retired early and needed their rest. He handed the reins to somebody and set out afoot.
The waterhole was bright silver under the thin wood shaving of a moon. Cattle were bedded down not far from its banks. Up at the head of it, Shag had been told, a little spring bubbled water enough to keep the hole full but not enough to start a running stream.
Presently he spotted the guard. A match flared, and a freshly rolled cigarette glowed. Shag rubbed his knuckles.
He moved around behind the man and tapped him on the shoulder. When the guard looked back, there was a quick, solid thud and the cigarette went sailing. Shag rubbed his smarting knuckles again. The skin was torn, maybe bleeding a little.
He hadn’t felt so good in weeks.
He looked down at the groggy man, and his mouth dropped open. It was all he could do to keep from laughing out loud.
Curly Jim would never hear the last of this.
Still laughing inside, Shag walked on up to the camp-fire. Only five men here. He squalled like a panther and headed for the first man who jumped up.
By the time the rest of the Rafter H got there, they didn’t have much to do.
When Skinner Hamilton strutted around later, crowing about what “we” had done, something went sour in Shag’s stomach. Damned old pelican hadn’t bruised a knuckle.
And suddenly Shag wondered if the old rancher ever had. He was mighty good at exercising his jaw. But had he ever done a lick of real fighting himself against this Jesse Wheat he hated so all-fired much?
Skinner delegated Shag and four others to stay on and let the Rafter H cattle come up to water. He suggested that they kind of drift the Flying W stock away a little piece, say ten or fifteen miles.
Only a pile of charred poles showed where the squatter’s shack had been. It had fallen victim in the first tussle over this waterhole. Now a well-stocked chuckbox was set up in the open shade of the cottonwoods. Scattered about on the ground was the bedding the Flying W’s had left in their obliging retreat. Shag wondered how often the chuck-box and the bedding had already changed hands.
It came close to changing hands that afternoon. Out pushing away Wheat’s cattle, Shag saw the Flying W’s coming. He and the other Hamilton cowhands got back to the waterhole first. They were sitting there diligently rubbing their guns to a high polish when the eight riders came up.
Curly Jim wasn’t with them, Shag noted with amusement. Probably soaking his aching jaw in a wet cloth somewhere.
Shag had never seen Jesse Wheat, but he knew him now on sight. Wheat was about the same cut of man as Skinner Hamilton, two years older than the Canadian River, and wrinkled up like a peach seed. His beard was a shade shorter but just as gray as Skinner’s and just as scraggly. He had the same kind of piercing eyes, and the same fierce pride was shining in them.
Old Man Wheat frowned at the guns in the punchers’ hands. “You fellers don’t need them things. We didn’t come here to fight. We just come to ask you to move along peaceable.”
The old man had more gall than a bull yearling. Shag stood up to his full six-feet-five and laughed in Jesse Wheat’s face.
The rancher’s eyes snapped. “You’re the one,” he accused. “You’re the one hurt my poor boys last night.” Then the eyes stopped snapping. The same calculating look came into them that had been in Skinner’s when Shag had knocked the grain bag down with his fist.
“You know, cowboy,” he said confidentially, “that’s a sorry greasy-sack outfit you’re a-runnin’ with. You’ll die ragged and in disgrace, workin’ for an old turkey buzzard like Skinner Hamilton. Why don’t you come on the ride for me?”
Shag shook his head. “Skinner Hamilton’s buyin’ my grub and payin’ my wages. I reckon I’ll stay.”
Wheat shrugged. “Your funeral, then. All right, boys. Take ’em!”
The Flying W’s jumped down and came swarming. In about two minutes it was over with, and Shag had two sets of skinned knuckles.
Old Man Jesse Wheat sat in his saddle, blinking in disbelief at his cowboys piled up like cordwood.
“Now you’ve really split your britches,” he raged, when his Adam’s apple quit bobbing. “The Flyin’ W will cut you down to size. You watch.”
Helping Wheat’s battered cowboys back into their saddles, Shag got the notion they weren’t quite so enthusiastic.
But they’d try again. That was the cowboy way. They’d try as often as Jesse Wheat said to, as long as they stayed on his payroll. They might fin
ally draw their pay and leave, but they’d never let up as long as they worked for him.
They didn’t let up. They came again that night, and the next night. They came with guns and tried to scare off the Rafter H men by sending bullets whining high over their heads. But Shag Fristo stood solid as a rock wall and aimed his gun a little lower.
Skinner Hamilton listened to the telling of it, a malevolent grin splitting his whiskery face. “Old Jesse’ll bust a blood vessel,” he said gleefully.
But Peeler Milholland, the foreman, was less than gleeful. “First time it’s ever come to shootin’. Anything can happen now.”
Shag tried to ease him. “Aw, it wasn’t much. Nobody got shot at. Just a few cartridges got burnt up.”
“But what about the next time?” Peeler demanded, flicking a quick, half-angry look at old Skinner dancing around as if he had just raked in the whole pot from a high-stakes table. “Somebody’s liable to get killed, and there ain’t enough water in Texas to be worth that.”
If Skinner Hamilton heard him, he showed no sign of it.
* * *
The next time was not long in coming. It was that night. There was little warning, just all of a sudden a clatter of hoofs and the yells of the Flying W men sweeping down like demons after a three-day drunk. Scattered all around the waterhole, Skinner Hamilton’s cattle jumped to their feet and broke into a run. The Flying W’s fired their guns into the air.
The Rafter H horses stampeded in terror, all but one hobbled in camp. He reared and threshed and threw himself to the ground, fighting the rawhide thongs that bound his forefeet.
Nothing is more useless than a cowboy left afoot. Shag grabbed a rope and ran after the threshing horse as it struggled to its feet and tried to run away in an awkward three-legged gait. He swung the loop, made his catch, and whipped the end of the rope around his hip, digging his high heels into the ground. The panicked horse turned back, fighting the rope.
Then, from out of the darkness, a rider bore down on him, firing into the air, trying to make the horse break away.
In a flush of fury, Shag pulled out his own pistol and aimed over the cowboy’s head, hoping to booger him away. He fired once … twice. Then, as he squeezed the trigger again, the horse made a hard lunge. The gun jerked down.
The thud of the bullet was thunder loud to Shag. The man cried out and tumbled from his saddle.
Cold fear hit Shag a belly blow. He ran to the fallen rider. “Lord of mercy, man,” he cried, “I didn’t mean—”
He turned the man over, and all the strength dropped out of him. Curly Jim!
Eyes burning, Shag felt for the wound and found it, low in the shoulder. He pulled his hand away, warm and sticky.
“Curly…” His voice broke. “I swear to God, I wouldn’t of shot you for the world.”
The shooting and yelling had stopped. Friend and foe, they all gathered around and stood, dull from shock, looking at Shag Fristo and Curly Jim.
“We got to get him to town,” Shag said.
He and a Flying W man stanched the bleeding and wrapped the wound. There was no wagon, so they caught Curly’s horse and put him back on it. Shag threw his own rig on the horse with which he had been struggling. With the Flying W man to help him, he headed for town, holding Curly in the saddle.
One of the Rafter H cowboys ran to catch up with him “Old Skinner ain’t goin’ to like this. What can I tell him?”
Shag’s voice ripped like barbed wire. “Tell him to go to hell!”
* * *
The doctor never was going to get through in there, it seemed like. Shag had drunk so much coffee his stomach sloshed when he moved. But he was boiling up another pot of it, his red-webbed eyes on the door behind which the doctor worked. The Flying W man sat patiently watching him. He knew about the kinship between Shag and Curly Jim.
He suggested, “Why don’t you set down a spell and get some shut-eye? I’ll wake you up when the doc comes out.”
Shag walked wearily to the window and looked out into the new day. This was all his fault. Remorse clung to him, heavy as lead.
“I won’t be able to sleep till I know if Curly’s goin’ to make it.” He lowered his red head. “If he don’t…” He did not speak the thought aloud, but if Curly died, Shag was liable to kill a couple of iron-headed old ranchers.
The cowboy nodded sympathetically and joined Shag at looking out the window. “I’m scared, Shag,” he confessed. “This business has come to a head, I’m thinkin’. Liable to be a hell of a fight out at that waterhole today.”
Shag’s face was hard and grim. He doubled his big fists. Hadn’t those stiff-necked old warhorses had enough?
The door hinges creaked, and the doctor stepped in. He was not exactly smiling, but his eyes bespoke confidence. “Your friend is made out of rawhide and barbed wire. He’ll make it.”
On his way back to the waterhole, Shag rode hard and steadily, irritably touching spurs to his horse any time the animal lagged or pulled to one side or the other. Shag’s eyes were bloodred from loss of sleep, and they burned as if they had sand in them. He hadn’t eaten any breakfast, so hunger was working on him. All in all, he was in no humor for church.
Mostly his mind was on Curly Jim. Curly had every right never to speak to him again. But the first thing Curly had done when he had opened his eyes was to grin and call him a name that could only be considered profane.
That was more than being kin. That was friendship.
Even before Shag got to the waterhole he could see that the Flying W puncher had been right. There, on the west, the whole Flying W was lined up on either side of Old Jesse Wheat. On the east, every man from the Rafter H even to the cook was siding old Skinner Hamilton. There was enough artillery in the outfit to reopen the Civil War.
Shag noted with a scowl that only two men in the whole bunch were not packing iron—Skinner Hamilton and Jesse Wheat.
The two wrinkled old ranchers hunched on their horses, hurling threats and barbed language in each other’s direction. Skinner cut his angry eyes at Shag. “Where the hell you been?”
Shag growled some kind of answer.
“High time you got back!” Skinner grumbled. “We’re fixin’ to have us a showdown here, for once and for all. We need every gun we got.”
Something was simmering inside of Shag like chili on a hot stove. He pointed his red-stubbled chin at Skinner’s hip. “I don’t see yours.”
Skinner’s face flamed. He wasn’t used to being spoken to this way. Not by anybody but Jesse Wheat.
“I got a good mind to fire you, Fristo.”
“You ain’t got any mind, and you can’t fire me. I done quit.” He reached down and came up with his pistol. He motioned at Skinner. “Git down.”
Skinner’s mouth dropped open. “You’ve gone crazy, that’s what.”
“Probably. But I said git down. And you too, Jesse Wheat.”
Dumbfounded, the two oldsters looked to their men for help. Shag made a sweeping motion with the gun. “All you fellers move around here in front of me, to where I can see you. First man reaches for a gun is apt to get his toes shot off.”
Nobody wanted to get burned, so everybody stood off and looked at him. He went on, “These two old buzzards been wantin’ a showdown, and I think it’s time they had one. It ought to’ve been done twenty or thirty years ago.” He turned to Hamilton and Wheat. “This time you two are goin’ to fight it out yourselves instead of lettin’ your cow-punchers beat their brains out for you. Hit him, Skinner!”
The old man hesitated. Shag pulled back the hammer. It clicked loudly enough to be heard across the county line.
Skinner swung his fist weakly and gave Wheat a tap.
“Harder! Make it a good one.”
The second one made both men grunt.
“That’s more like it. Now, Wheat, you hit him back.”
Wheat did.
“Go on and fight now, both of you. Get it out of your damned systems for once and for all.”
Looking apprehensively at Shag, the two ranchers went at each other like two tired old bulls, half the time swinging so wildly they didn’t even connect. When it looked as though they might stop, Shag motioned with the gun again.
“Keep it up. You ain’t half started yet.”
So they fought and wrestled, rolling over and over in the dirt, losing their hats, tearing buttons from their shirts. Neither could hit hard enough to break the shell on an egg. Shag stood over them menacingly. Each time it looked as though they might give up, he gently nuzzled one or the other in the ribs with the barrel of the pistol.
Their fierce dignity gone, the two old ranchers were an almost ludicrous sight. One by one, the cowboys began to grin.
It went on and on until finally both men tottered in the mud at the edge of the water-hole, dirty and disheveled, their clothes hanging, sweat streaking the dust on their faces. Skinner gave Wheat one final tap and fell on his face in the water. Wheat sat down with a muddy splash.
Skinner rolled over and wiped the water from his face, leaving a broad track of mud. Both men were heaving for breath. For a long time they sat in the water and stared at each other. They were a sorry-looking spectacle, the both of them. They looked as if they knew it.
Jesse Wheat said finally, “Skinner, you look like hell.”
Skinner rubbed another smear of mud across his face. “You ain’t no mornin’ glory yourself.”
Shag Fristo towered over the two men, his lips tight against his teeth. “Now then,” he said brittlely, “there’s water enough here for both of you, and you’re goin’ to share it. If ever I hear of you two old terrapins raisin’ hell with each other again, I’ll come back and rub them two gray heads together till by Judas you can smell the hair burn!”
Stiffly he walked back to his horse.
Jesse Wheat followed him with his eyes. “Skinner,” he said, “maybe you’d let a man like that get away, but I’ll be dogged if I will. If you ain’t takin’ him back to your ranch, I’m takin’ him to mine.”