by Elmer Kelton
“You keep your hands off of him, Jesse Wheat. Fristo’s my man.” He waved his arm wildly at Shag. “Shag Fristo, you come back here!”
Shag took his time about it, but he came.
Skinner said, “Looky here, Shag, I been lookin’ for a man like you for twenty years. You ain’t fired.”
“I know it. I quit.”
“You can’t quit. I’ll raise your wages. Forty dollars a month. There ain’t no better in the country than that. And nothin’ but gentle horses, either.”
There wasn’t a really gentle horse in the whole remuda, except the ones Skinner kept for himself. Shag scratched his rust-colored head, then started to walk away from the group of men.
Jesse Wheat spoke up. “Wait now. We’ll both hire you, me and Skinner. We’ll need us a line cabin up here anyhow, and a rider to keep our cattle from gettin’ all mixed up. I figure you’ll be fair to both of us. We’ll split your wages.”
Shag chewed his lip and looked up at the cotton-puff clouds in the Texas sky. The fire and fight went out of him.
“Well, now, I might do that. But a line cabin’s a two-man job. And it just so happens that I know a good man.…”
COWARD
His hands tense on the leather lines, Dick Fladness flicked a quick, searching glance at the two women who shared the tight buckboard seat with him.
“Brownwood just ahead,” he said.
He might as well have said nothing, for the women sat in dusty, tight-lipped silence, their eyes brittle on the scattering of frame buildings that spread out across the open prairie west of Pecan Bayou.
Dick’s mouth went hard again, and he flipped the reins at the ill-matched team to pick them up a little. He had hoped the long, hot ride might wear down the contempt that stood like an adobe wall between the women and himself. It had not.
He turned the corner by the blacksmith shop, and the trailing dust from the buckboard wheels caught up with him for a moment. Nora Matson sneezed. It was the first sound the girl had made the whole way in, except that she had sobbed quietly when they first pulled away from the stark pile of gray ashes and charred wood that had been the Matson ranch home.
Dick pulled up in front of the hotel on Center Street and climbed down, wrapping the reins around the right front wheel. He held up his callused hands to help Nora’s mother down from the buckboard. Her eyes lashed him in scorn. She was a tall, graying woman with a stiff puritan pride.
“I can get down by myself.”
Her daughter followed her. Nora was eighteen, slender and pretty, with wide brown eyes that used to dance in laughter. Nora’s eyes never touched Dick’s face now, not while he was looking.
“I’ll bring in your things,” he said, nodding toward the small bundle of clothing under the buckboard seat.
Mrs. Matson cut him short. “We can manage that too. There’s not much of it, since the fire.”
Wincing, Dick stood silently by the buckboard wheel while the two women climbed the steps to the high plank gallery of the frame hotel. The balding proprietor hurried out and took the bundle from Nora Matson’s hands. He turned solemnly around to the girl’s mother.
“We heard about your son, Mrs. Matson. I’m terribly sorry.”
She acknowledged his sympathy with a quick nod of her chin, which suddenly was set harder than ever. Stiffly she went on into the hotel, Nora behind her. The hotel man paused for a quick glance at Dick. His frown showed that he knew. The whole town must know.
Head down, Dick stepped up into the buckboard and flipped the reins. He pulled the team back around and rolled down to the livery barn at the end of the dusty street. He was conscious of idle eyes following him. He drew up within and tried to convince himself that he didn’t care.
Mike Lavender walked out through the big open door of the frame livery barn and waited for him. Mike was a stiffened old cowhand who had had to seek an easier way to round out his days. His leather-dry face was expressionless, but Dick felt a quiet friendliness in the faded blue eyes. He leaned eagerly toward that friendliness, needing it for strength.
“Walter Matson’s buckboard and team, Mike,” Dick spoke. “Walter said let you take care of them.”
Dick took his war bag and bedroll from the buckboard and started out. He walked with a faint limp.
Mike Lavender’s eyes followed him. “What about you, Dick? What you goin’ to do?”
Dick stopped in the open doorway, his saddle slung over his shoulder. “Leave, I reckon. Go someplace where people haven’t heard of me. Then maybe I can start over.”
Mike Lavender shook his head. “You can’t run away from a thing like this, Dick. It’ll follow you. Take my advice and stay right here.”
Dick dropped the saddle heavily, desperation raising the color in his face. “Look, Mike, I’m a coward. Anybody’ll tell you. I lost my head in a fight, turned tail and deserted my friends. And a man died.”
He lifted his hands. “Mike, do you think I could stay here and have people lookin’ at me the way they will, like I was a coyote or somethin’? Snickerin’ at me, maybe callin’ me a coward to my face?”
Mike’s pale eyes were patient. “Talk’s cheap. You don’t have to listen to it.” The old cowpuncher’s voice softened. “Son, these things have got a way of workin’ themselves out if you just give them a chance. Now, you pitch your bedroll on that spare cot back yonder. You’re stayin’ with me for a spell.”
Dick stood uncertainly, weighing Mike’s words. It was going to be tough, staying here with the name the town would give him. But it would be tougher leaving, for the memory would be with him always, haunting him with the image of what might have been, the futile knowledge of things left undone.
If he left now, there would never be any coming back. He thought of Nora Matson, the tinkling music of her voice, the warmth of her cheek against his as they stood in the moonlight, the cool evening breeze searching leisurely across the bayou.
Leave, and anything there might have been between them would be finished. Maybe if …
He picked up the bedroll and carried it to the empty cot.
Mike slouched in a cane-bottomed chair, idly whittling a stick of kindling wood down to a sliver. His pale eyes lifted as Dick came back. He said, “I’ve heard the story the way it’s been told around town. I’d like to hear it your way.”
Squatting on the ground, Dick stared hollowly at the pile of pine shavings growing around Mike’s big, worn-out boots.
“You’ve probably heard it just the way it happened,” he said. “It’s the barbed-wire fences that caused it. Ansel Hornby and his free-grassers have been cuttin’ Walter Matson’s fence, and we’ve been patchin’ it right up again. Three nights ago they cut it and left a placard hangin’ on a fence-post. Said if the fence went back up they would end the fight once and for all. Walter tore up the placard, and we fixed the fence.
“They waited till the sheriff had to be out of the country. Then last night they came. They were masked, but I know Ansel Hornby was leadin’ them. And I recognized the voice of Branch Collin, that foreman of his. They didn’t stop at the fence. They came right on to the house. We were puttin’ up a good fight, Walter and his son Lindy and three of us hands. Then they somehow set fire to the house.”
Dick’s hands began to tremble. “I tried, Mike. I tried to stay there and fight. But those flames got to reachin’ at me. My clothes went to smokin’. I couldn’t stand it. I jumped out the door and broke to runnin’. All I could think of was to get away from that fire. I didn’t quit runnin’ till I fell. I laid there till I finally got a grip on myself. I could tell the shootin’ had stopped. The fence cutters were gone. The house was gone. And Lindy Matson was dead.”
Dick’s head was in his hands. “Wasn’t a one of them would speak to me. They all looked at me like I had killed Lindy myself. Came daylight, the cowboys rode after some neighbor help. Everybody went up on the hill to bury Lindy. They wouldn’t let me help carry him. They wouldn’t even let me help dig his grave.
“And when it was all over, Walter told me to go. I brought the women to town, where they’ll be safe. Walter stayed. Swore he was goin’ to put the fence back up and fight Hornby’s free-grass men till he’s dead.” His face was grim. “He meant it, Mike. He’s got the guts of a Mexican bull. But Hornby’ll kill him. He knows the county’s watchin’ Walter. He knows if Walter’s fence stays up, there’ll be others, and the free-grass men will be fenced out. He won’t quit till Walter’s dead.”
* * *
Sitting on the edge of his cot, trying to figure out what to do, Dick heard the clatter of horses’ hoofs coming up from behind the barn. He caught the unintelligible conversation and the lift of careless laughter. Dick glanced at Mike and saw that the old cowboy was bent over in an uneasy nap.
Dick arose and walked toward the front of the barn. The limp was momentarily heavy from his having sat awhile. He heard riders hauling up on their reins and swinging to the ground in a jingling of spurs.
“Hey, Lavender,” a rough voice called, “how about us throwin’ our horses in a corral here for a while?”
Dick’s heartbeat quickened. That voice belonged to Branch Collin. Dick hesitated, looking back at the sleeping Mike Lavender. Then he walked on to the door. Facing Collin, he jerked a thumb toward Lavender’s pens.
“Mike’s asleep, but I reckon it’s all right.”
Branch Collin was a medium-tall, slender man with a quick, easy movement and a sharp, sensitive face. There was a hint of green in his eyes that seemed always to contain a devilish laughter. Ansel Hornby was boss of the ranch, but Branch Collin was undisputed boss when it came to trouble. There were people two counties away who broke into a cold sweat at the mention of his name.
Collin seemed momentarily surprised at sight of Dick. Then the laughter came to his eyes. “Richard the Lion-Hearted. I reckon you found where you really belong, swampin’ a stable.”
Dick gritted his teeth and held his anger inside.
Ansel Hornby kneed a big roan horse up closer. He had a narrow, intense face. Dick had never seen him smile. Hornby’s voice was flat and grim. “Boy, you should never have quit runnin’. You should have kept goin’ till you were clear out of the country. I would advise you to move on now.”
Anger beat against Dick, but his throat was tight. He could not speak.
Branch Collin said, “He’ll leave, Ansel.” Collin’s smile lingered. His eyes dwelt heavily on Dick’s. “But not before he puts up our horses for us.”
Dick opened the gate for the men to ride in. There were five besides Hornby and Collin. They unsaddled and turned their horses loose in the corral.
Collin shook his finger under Dick’s nose. “You feed them horses good, you hear? Otherwise you’ll find yourself runnin’ faster than you did last night.”
A couple of the men chuckled. Enjoying the approval of the little audience, Collin suddenly pulled Dick’s hat down over his eyes, hard. “There, that’s just to be sure your hat don’t blow off while you’re runnin’.”
Trembling with anger and humiliation, Dick pulled his hat up. Collin and the men were walking away, laughing. But Ansel Hornby stood there, his humorless eyes on Dick’s blazing face.
“Man down the road said you brought the Matson women in. They put up at the hotel?”
Dick’s answer came brittle and sharp. “You leave the women alone!”
Hornby’s eyes widened in speculation at this unexpected hardness in the cowboy who had run away. “I’m not here to hurt the women. But sometimes you can reason with a woman when you can’t talk to her men.” His eyes narrowed again. “You had better consider what I told you, Fladness. You can ride a good way between now and dark.”
Hornby turned and broke into a brisk stride to catch up with his men. Their spurred boots raised puffs of dry dust in the street. Dick watched Hornby point toward the hotel. But Collin shook his head and jerked his thumb at the saloon. Pleasure before business.
Dick’s mind turned to Nora Matson and her mother. If only Sheriff Adams were in town.…
Dick stepped hurriedly back into the barn. In his haste he almost knocked down Mike Lavender. The old man had awakened to the lift of voices and had seen at least part of this.
Dick took his belt and gun from his war bag.
Lavender watched him worriedly. “You sure you know what you’re doin’?”
Dick’s glance touched him, then dropped away. “I don’t know, Mike. I only know I’ve got to do somethin’.”
Summer heat clung heavily over the empty street as Dick hurriedly walked up Center. He sensed men watching him. A remark was made just above a whisper, and he knew he was meant to overhear it. The blood rose warmly to his face, but he held his eyes straight ahead.
An idler leaning against the smoky blacksmith shop pointed a crooked finger at him. “You’re runnin’ the wrong way. They’re in front of you, not behind you.”
Choking down anger, Dick stepped up onto the long gallery of the hotel. A backward glance showed him Hornby and Collin pushing out of the saloon. Dick moved on in. The proprietor eyed him suspiciously.
“I’ve got to see Mrs. Matson and Nora,” Dick told him.
The hotel man frowned. “Don’t you think you’d better move on? I don’t believe they’ll care to see you.”
Dick’s nervous hands gripped the desk edge. “I know what you think of me. I know what the town thinks. But that doesn’t matter right now. Ansel Hornby and Branch Collin are on their way here to see Mrs. Matson. She ought to know.”
The man’s eyes widened. “They’re upstairs in seven. I’ll go with you.”
Dick rapped insistently on the door. Mrs. Matson pulled it inward. Her grieved eyes hardened at sight of him. “I thought you’d be gone by now. What do you want?”
He told her. Mrs. Matson’s jaw was set like carved stone.
Dick finished, “I’ll be here if you need me.” He tried vainly to see past Mrs. Matson, perhaps for a glimpse of Nora.
Winter ice was in the tall woman’s voice. “We needed you last night. We can do without you now.”
Through the open door he watched her move back to a wooden dresser and reach into the drawer. Then Dick turned away. Slowly he walked down the stairs, the hotel man behind him. At the foot of the steps Dick stopped and waited. Ansel Hornby strode through the open front door and stood a moment, adjusting his eyes to the dark interior. Branch Collin came in behind him and stood at his side, mouth fixed in his usual hard grin. His eyes raked Dick in contempt.
A soft, feminine tread on the stairs behind him made Dick step aside. Mrs. Matson came down, and Nora. Dick glanced quickly at Nora. Her brown eyes sharply met his, then fell away. Her lips trembled.
In an empty gesture of politeness, Ansel Hornby removed his broad-brimmed hat and bowed slightly. Branch Collin never moved or changed expression. “Good afternoon, Mrs. Matson, Miss Matson,” Hornby said. “I heard about your son. I want to tell you how deeply I regret it, ma’am.”
Hatred darkened Mrs. Matson’s face.
Hornby went on, “It wasn’t necessary, Mrs. Matson. It isn’t necessary that there be any more deaths. You could stop it.”
Dick saw that her hands were trembling. One was covered by a dark brown shawl.
Hornby’s voice intensified. “It’s only the barbed wire, ma’am. I think I could talk to the fence cutters, if I had your assurance that the wire would not go up again. Your husband would listen. That’s all it would take, just a word from you.”
Mrs. Matson’s voice was quiet and flat. “It’s our land. It’s our right to fence it. We’ll be there when you’re dead!”
Hornby’s face began to cloud. “There’ll be more killin’s, Mrs. Matson. A word from you could save your men. Keep silent, and they may die.”
Mrs. Matson’s lips curved downward. “No, Ansel. It’s you who will die!”
The shawl fell away. Gun metal winked a reflection from the window. For just an instant Dick froze. He saw Branch Collin’s hand
streak upward from his holster.
Dick leaped at Mrs. Matson, putting himself between her and Collin. He grabbed her hand and forced it down. The barrel blazed in his grip as the gun thundered and a bullet bored through the plank floor. In fury Mrs. Matson threw her body against him, struggling for the pistol. But Dick held his grip on the hot barrel and wrenched it away. It clattered to the floor at Hornby’s feet. Mrs. Matson fell back against her daughter. Her face was splotched red.
“You are a coward. Get out of my sight. If I ever see you again, Dick Fladness, I’ll kill you!”
She whirled and hurried back up the stairs. Dick flinched under the lash of contempt in Nora’s dark eyes.
Collin’s eyes followed the women. “Another second and I’d of shot her. Good thing for her that you did what you did, Fladness.”
Dick’s face twisted. “I wish I could’ve let her kill you, Hornby. One way or another, though, you’re goin’ to lose.”
Hornby tried to stare him down. Branch Collin’s cold grin came back, and he resembled a cat stalking a mouse. “Maybe you better apologize to Mr. Hornby.”
Dick clenched his fists. “I apologize for nothin’.”
Collin’s hand worked down toward the pistol on his hip. “That’s a good-lookin’ six-shooter you’re wearin’, Fladness. Maybe you’d like to try to use it.”
Dick went cold. “I couldn’t match you, Collin.”
Collin’s eyes remained on him, hard as steel. “See there? You’ve crawfished again.”
Impatiently, Hornby spoke. “What did you expect, Branch? You knew he was a coward. We’ll give the boys another hour at the bar. Then we’ll take a ride around the bayou and see about that wire. We’re goin’ to finish this thing once and for all.”
He turned on his heel and strode out, his spurs ringing dully to the strike of his heavy boots. Collin faced Dick a moment more. “Another hour,” he said grimly, “then we’ll leave. But you better be gone before that. If you’re still here, I’ll leave you hangin’ on the fence like any dead coyote.”
A chill on his shoulders, Dick stood and listened to the fading tread of Collin’s boots as the man stepped down from the gallery. Cold sweat broke on Dick’s forehead and on his suddenly weak hands.