The Americans

by John Jakes

  Maunders squeezed his nose with his thumb and index finger. Then he held out the hand, fingers spread.

  “ ’Member this, punkin lily? ’Member the harm you done to it? Damn thing was stiff for nigh onto a month. Gonna have to chastise you for that.”

  Chadburn faced away from the street. “Not out here, Cletus.”

  A withering look from Maunders. “Why, sure. We’ll sashay into the square and invite the whole town.” Chadburn reddened. Maunders’ eyes slid back to Will. “No, we want someplace real private. Alley, maybe—”

  Will was watching for a chance to pull free of the grip of the emaciated, pop-eyed man called Sweeney. His stomach ached ferociously now. He stiffened when Maunders reached toward his cheek. Grinning, Maunders slapped him lightly and whispered, “This time you’ll be on your own, punkin lily. You won’t have Four Eyes to come along and save your hash—look out!”

  Will lunged away from Sweeney, then rammed his elbow in the man’s midsection. As Sweeney staggered, Will spun around. A father, mother, and three little girls from the state float blocked the sidewalk on his left. He whirled and ran the other way.

  A short distance down the block, an alley opened on his right. Will ran down the alley, toward the point where it intersected a second one, which formed the crossbar of a T. He glanced over his shoulder. None of the three had appeared at the alley mouth. Maybe they hesitated to chase him in broad daylight with the town so crowded. He ran on.

  Damn you for not keeping your eyes open! an inner voice raged. Margaret’s face flickered in his mind. Smiling a smug smile, as if he’d done exactly what she expected of him.

  At the junction of the alleys, Will headed left. He was into the turn when he heard a crash and a thump. Panicked, he looked back. Sweeney ran out of the saloon’s rear door followed by Chadburn, then Maunders. They’d seen him flee into the alley and taken a shortcut.

  “Catch the little bastard!” Maunders panted, already out of breath. Sweeney sprinted past Chadburn. Will ran only four or five steps before Sweeney tackled him and knocked him down.

  Tears of fury filled his eyes as he struck the cinders and sand of the alley. A back door. Why didn’t you stay out in front? Why didn’t you think?

  Bungler.

  Sweeney grunted, climbed off Will and rolled him over. Will pulled his right knee against his belly and kicked. Sweeney jumped out of the way. He caught hold of Will’s boot and twisted until Will slammed his palms against the dirt, his face wrenched by pain.

  Maunders pulled his little finger out of one of his nostrils, flicked something off the tip and waved. “ ’Nuff, Sweeney.”

  Sweeney let go. Will gasped and shook his head. Now that it was getting on toward midafternoon, no sunlight reached the alley. The shadows were cold. Will’s teeth began to chatter.

  “Get him up,” Maunders ordered, shutting the saloon’s back door. Sweeney took one arm, Chadburn the other. Will was jerked to his feet.

  He could barely stand on the twisted ankle. But he quickly forgot the pain. Chadburn was subjecting him to a strange kind of scrutiny. It wasn’t quite a bullying look; Chadburn was almost smiling.

  Will really hadn’t paid much attention to Chadburn until now. He was a powerfully built man about Maunders’ age. White hair hung down beneath his hat, half concealing his ears. White stubble showed all over his chin. He had plump, sun-reddened cheeks, a pink mouth, and eyes so large and softly blue, they were almost girlish. With no warning at all, he reached out and pinched Will’s buttocks.

  “Don’t make trouble, now, punkin lily.” His faintly moist eyes darted to Will’s lips. “Wouldn’t want to hurt a fine lookin’ boy like you.”

  “Just your type, huh?” Sweeney asked with a grin.

  “Anything in pants is Chadburn’s type,” Maunders said.

  A vile taste filled Will’s mouth all at once. He was scared to death. He knew that unless he got out of the alley under his own power, he might wind up being carried out. Wounded, dead, or—or God knew what, he thought with a glance at Chadburn. Godamighty! The man didn’t even bother to deny what Maunders said about him.

  Still staring at the prisoner, Chadburn ran the tip of his tongue across his upper lip. Maunders walked around a brimming rain barrel, and leaned back, his knee bent and his boot braced against the saloon wall. He leaned there, relaxing. His helpers had dragged Will out of the alley intersection. They were safe from observation by those on the street.

  Maunders fingered his groin. “Chadburn gave me an idea, punkin lily. The three of us spent every last cent on whiskey. Been drinkin’ since sundown last night. All that liquor made us mighty randy. But we can’t afford no whores.”

  His gaze slid down Will’s legs, then back to his face. “Maybe we got us a passable substitute.”

  “Say, maybe we do,” Sweeney said with a grin. “Way I been feelin’, anything short of a sheep’d be fine.”

  Chadburn’s breathing quickened. His fingers began to drum a little tattoo on Will’s forearm. With unmistakable eagerness, he said, “The storeroom of the saloon was empty, Cletus. Shall we take him in there?”

  “Jesus, Chad. Sometimes I think all you got for brains are your balls. We gotta take him someplace where it won’t make no difference if he hollers. South of town, maybe. Out past that river—”

  Maunders sauntered forward, his revolver bobbing on his hip. He squeezed Will’s cheeks between his palms. “Ought to be a real nice walk for you, punkin lily. You can think about all the sweet stuff that’s in store for you when—”

  Will brought his right knee up into Maunders’ groin. Maunders staggered and gasped. Will reached across Maunders’ right hip and yanked an old Smith & Wesson from the worn leather holster. Chadburn and Sweeney were yelling and starting to pummel him. He shoved the muzzle against Maunders’ belly and cocked the hammer.

  “Let go,” he said to the men on either side of him. “Turn me loose or I’ll kill him.”

  ii

  A cloud passed in front of the sun, darkening the alley even more. Sweeney swore and reached for the revolver. Maunders whispered, “No.”

  Sweeney pulled back. Maunders eyed Will, trying to judge the extent of his nerve. Angry, Chadburn said, “Shit, I’ll bet he don’t know how to use it, Cletus.”

  “I do,” Will said.

  “We ain’t gonna wager on it and find out we was wrong,” Maunders said. He glanced at the gun barrel digging a crater in the stained front of his hunting shirt. “What happens how, punkin lily?”

  “You and your friends leave. I keep the gun and that’s the end of it.”

  “Until you send the Elkhorn crew after us?”

  “No, I won’t do that.”

  Sweeney snorted. “Don’t trust the little son of a bitch, Cletus. It’s three on one. We can dig his ditch for good.”

  “Shut your damn mouth!” Maunders cried in a hoarse voice. Nervous, he peered at Will. “You mean to say that if we let you go, you won’t try to get even?”

  “Not unless you make trouble for me in Medora.”

  “We call it a draw, that it?”

  Chadburn was furious. “Cletus, you don’t have to call it a draw with some weak-livered city boy who—”

  “Shut up. The gun’s in my gut, not yours.” For a second Will thought he detected a foxy glint in Maunders’ eye. Then it was gone. Blowing rancid breath in Will’s face, the older man said, “All right, punkin lily. It’s a draw. I’ll put both my hands in the air. At the same time, Chad and Sweeney will let go of you. Then I’ll back away from that pistol and walk toward my friends and we’ll light out. There’ll be no trouble for you in Medora long as we don’t get none either. Bargain?”

  Will’s right arm was aching with tension. The revolver felt heavy and sweat-slippery in his hand. His hand and forearm started to tremble. So did his right leg. He held steady by force of will and said, “Bargain.”

  “Okay, then. Let him go, lads.”

  Grumbling, Sweeney and Chadburn released Will.
He heard their boots scuff as they moved behind him. He concentrated his attention on Maunders, who had raised his dirt-encrusted hands over his head and was stepping backward slowly.

  Maunders put his weight on his right foot and winced. “Got a pebble in my boot. I’m gonna try to shake it into another position. Don’t get spooked and shoot me.”

  Sweat shone like grease on Maunders’ face. He lifted his right boot eight inches off the ground. In the process, he executed a turn, so that his left leg partially blocked Will’s view of the right one. Maunders grasped the top of his right boot with both hands, a peculiar maneuver for loosening a pebble way down at the bottom of—

  “Duck, Chad!” Sweeney shouted as Maunders yanked a hideout knife from his boot top.

  Maunders pivoted back toward Will, his hand streaking upward for the throw. The hand started forward. Will leveled the Smith & Wesson and fired.

  The badly aimed bullet tore through the outside of Maunders’ right thigh. The impact of the shot staggered him. His knife hand flew open. The blade dropped and hit the ground.

  Will hurled himself against the saloon wall. He bumped the rain barrel. Water sloshed on his sleeve.

  Chadburn and Sweeney were too stupefied to draw their revolvers. They stared at their friend, who was clutching his right leg with both hands. Blood leaked through a powder-blackened tear in his buckskin trousers, then oozed between his fingers.

  “Oh Jesus it hurts. Jesus—”

  From the direction of the street came a rising clamor.

  “Was that a shot or a firecracker?”

  “A shot.”

  “Where’d it come from?”

  “The alley behind the saloon.”

  “We got to get out of here,” Maunders whimpered. Tears were trickling down his cheeks.

  “Got to kill him first, Cletus.” Chadburn pulled his revolver.

  The voices were growing louder. Maunders shook his head, weeping as he squeezed his wounded leg. “We got to get away or they’ll lock us up. You want to get locked up, you stay. You want to get chased and lynched, go ahead an’ shoot him.” He turned and started hobbling.

  Chadburn looked at Will and raised his revolver. Sweeney seized his arm. Will waited, knowing that if Chadburn decided to fire, he probably wasn’t fast enough to beat him now that they both had guns in their hands.

  Sweeney heard the men approaching in the other alley around the corner. He shook Chadburn’s arm. “Don’t do it. You’re liable to hang. The satisfaction ain’t worth the cost.”

  Chadburn glared at Will a moment longer. Then he rammed his revolver back in the holster.

  He and Sweeney raced forward to Maunders. They propped his arms over their shoulders. Maunders beat a fist on Chadburn’s back. “Come on. Hurry it up!”

  The three of them turned left at the mouth of the alley beyond the saloon’s back door. The instant they were gone, Will started to close his eyes. Then he saw the knife shining just a yard away. He sprang toward it, groaning when he put sudden weight on the ankle Sweeney had twisted. He snatched up the knife and flung it in the rain barrel, and Maunders’ revolver after it. He wanted no questions. No more trouble. He just wanted the whole business over with, because he hadn’t acquitted himself well. Out in front of the saloon, at the very moment he’d heeded to think clearly, his ineptitude had undone him.

  Men turned the corner from the other alley and then they were milling around him. He seemed to hear a dozen voices, all shouting the same questions.

  “What happened, boy? Who fired a shot?”

  In fascination, Will watched the last of a stream of small bubbles rise and burst on the surface of the rain barrel. The bubbles had streamed upward from the sinking gun.

  The men kept shouting at him. He wiped his sweating face to gain time. Over the back of his hand he scanned the alley for signs of Maunders’ blood. He saw none. The final bubbles popped in the rain barrel.

  “I don’t know who fired the shot,” he said finally. “I heard it too. Must have come from the next street.”

  In moments they were gone, pursuing the gunman. Will hurried toward the square to find the Elkhorn men. When he was asked why he was limping, he said a drunk had lurched into him and he’d twisted his ankle, that was all.

  iii

  Leaner, browner and more fit than ever before, Will boarded an eastbound Northern Pacific express in mid-August.

  He’d planned to stay on the Elkhorn until September first. But Gideon had written to suggest that he come back before that. They had to arrange plans for schooling, Gideon said. Since Roosevelt had no objection to the early departure, Will didn’t argue.

  He had said nothing about the encounter with Maunders and his friends. For weeks after the celebration, Maunders’ name hadn’t even been mentioned on the ranch. Will finally assumed the secret was safe.

  Then, two days before he was to leave, Bill Sewall had returned from a trip to Medora with some startling news. One of Maunders’ kin was saying Maunders had died in a sleazy hotel in Bismarck.

  According to what Sewall had heard, Maunders and his friends had shown up in Bismarck about the middle of July, intending to drink and gamble for a few days. Obviously they’d gotten money somewhere—stolen it, most likely. Maunders had been wearing a dirty bandage on one leg, and limping. Soon pain drove him to a doctor. The wound had become infected. Mephitic gangrene had already set in. Maunders had lasted only a couple of weeks after that. His friends had buried him in a pauper’s grave, then telegraphed the news to relatives. Neither Chadburn nor Sweeney had come back to Medora.

  Expressionless, Will had listened to Sewall finish the story. The whole business left him with a bad taste. He felt neither glad that Maunders was dead nor, God help him, more than fleetingly sorry. What he felt most of all was a renewed sense of his own inferiority. His penchant for doing things wrong had precipitated the tilt in Dickinson.

  Now he was at the depot, ready to board the train. In many ways he hated to leave. The weeks he’d spent in the Bad Lands were among the happiest and most rewarding he’d ever known. He had learned a great deal about ranching, and he’d learned a few things about himself, some not very pleasant.

  Roosevelt had come into town to see him off. So had some of the hands. Wilmot Dow was there, and Ferris, and Bob Beaufort. Roosevelt himself had just returned from a trip East. Gossip among the cowboys said he was tiring of a widower’s existence, and spoke often of his old friend Edith Carow.

  Dow shook Will’s hand and wished him good luck. Then Beaufort stepped up. Will especially valued the black cowboy’s handshake, and the moment when Beaufort smiled and said, “Come back next summer and we’ll make you into a first-class wrangler. You already turned into a pretty good one.”

  “Thank you, Bob. Look me up in Boston sometime. You’ve got the address—”

  “Right here.” Beaufort patted his pocket.

  Sylvanus Ferris of the Maltese Cross took his turn shaking hands. In a voice pitched so only Will could hear, he said, “See? The summer turned out a lot better than you thought. And I’ll bet you did a lot more than you thought you could.”

  Will remembered how unsure of himself he’d been the first time he spoke with Ferris. Much of that uncertainty had indeed been unwarranted. He’d found that if he pushed himself, he could do many things he’d thought were beyond his capabilities. He’d even saved a man’s life on the roundup. A good feeling.

  But the confidence he’d built up had been severely undercut by his experience in Dickinson. There, he’d learned that the past hadn’t really been laid to rest, and would continue to undo him when he least expected it. That was the final, discouraging lesson of the summer. Some things had changed, but not the most fundamental one.

  He refused to show Ferris how he felt. He smiled and said, “You’re right, it did turn out a lot better.”

  “Glad you feel that way.” Ferris clapped him on the shoulder. “Safe journey to you.”

  Roosevelt joined them. Ferris tou
ched his hat brim and sauntered off. Will was happy to have a moment alone with the ranchman. For weeks, his conscience had been bothering him.

  “Mr. Roosevelt, I made a mistake on Independence Day. I never told how well you spoke.”

  Roosevelt looked at Will in a sober way. “Generous of you to say that. I didn’t compose that address with you in mind. I was stating what I believe. But when I spotted you in the crowd, frowning and looking ready to explode, I realized that perhaps I’d unconsciously included some phrases and some thinking that came right out of our discussion. I was speaking to an issue on which we disagreed and still do, I suppose. I’d have been thunderstruck if you’d been among my well-wishers afterward.”

  “But I was rude not to tell you that you did a fine job.”

  Roosevelt’s eyes grew merry then. “An apology along with a compliment! There’s no need for the former—but it makes the latter doubly important. Thank you very much.”

  The conductor called all aboard. The whistle shrilled. Plumes of steam shot from under the locomotive. Roosevelt added, “You’ve been an asset to the ranch. I hope the summer’s been to your liking also.”

  He thought of Lon Adam and nodded. “I’ll never forget it.”

  A few words about your duties—

  Why did that damned speech nag him day in, day out? It had no application to him. He had no duties in connection with anyone but himself; and he’d already decided on the direction his life was going to take.

  Oddly, Roosevelt thought of the same thing just then. Sunlight flashed on his glasses as he said, “And medicine still captures your fancy, does it?”

  “Yes, sir. Definitely.”

  “That’s fine if it’s what you really want. However, I’m sure your father will have strong opinions about its suitability as a career. Write and tell me whether there’s an argument. And who wins.”

  The train began to move. Will jumped up on the steps of the coach. He clung to the handrail, frowning. The ranchman had just articulated a fear he’d been trying to ignore ever since it popped into his head some days ago. Gideon would have something to say. But what?