Elmore Leonard's Western Roundup #2

by Elmore Leonard

  Merl White said, "What about your horses out front?"

  "They are patient," Haig answered. He was a short heavy-set man and he spoke quietly, as if h e were tired, and the heavy mustache over his mout h covered the movement of his lips.

  "If you want to tend them," Merl White said, "I'll see to the fire."

  "It's all right," Haig said, looking at Merl. But then his eyes went to the serving table, to the cigarette mashed out on the plate. He lighted the fire and moved the iron pot that was on the stove ove r the well. "It will be ready soon." He walked to th e rear door that opened to the backyard. "I'll be gon e only a few minutes," he said.

  The three men were watching him. Merl said quickly, "Where're you going?"

  Haig turned. "Don't you trust me?"

  Merl swallowed. "I'm sorry . . . I guess we're edgy. We wondered what you planned."

  "When I come back we will talk about it," Haig said.

  "A man can't go far without boots."

  Haig nodded. "We will talk about that, too."

  He went outside, then up the back stairs to the second floor porch and through a door whic h opened to a hallway and just inside the door h e lighted a table lamp. At the end of the hallway th e living room was dark. Haig opened the door on th e left, the door to his wife's bedroom, but he did no t go in.

  The room was dark, but the light from the hall fell across the bed and he could see her form unde r the comforter. She was lying on her side with he r back toward him as he stood in the doorway an d she did not move.

  "Are you awake?"

  "I am now," Edith said drowsily. Still she did not turn.

  "I have to tell you something." She did not answer and he repeated, "Edith, I have to tell you something very important." He moved into th e room and stood by the bed.

  "What is it?"

  "Those three men that were chased out of town--they're downstairs."

  He expected his wife to look at him now, but she did not. "Did you wake me up to tell me that?"

  "It concerns you," Haig said, "because they will be here until Monday night."

  "Then what?"

  "Then I'll take them to La Noria."

  "The good Samaritan."

  "I only ask that you stop entertaining Mr. Sundeen as long as they are here." Haig said this quietly, without emotion, as he had said all the things before.

  She turned now, but only her shoulders and head on the pillow, her body twisted beneath the comforter and now the faint light showed her eyes and the outline of her features.

  "I'll try," she said, beginning to smile.

  "He was here this evening," Haig said.

  "How would you know that?"

  "He ate supper in the kitchen and you had coffee with him while he ate."

  Now she recalled Kirby Frye, picturing him sitting across the table from her, but she said, "I didn't know watching someone eat was a sin."

  "With you," Haig said, "it could be a very near occasion to it."

  "You're absolutely sure Phil was here?"

  "Who else?"

  Edith rolled over lazily and with her back to him again said, "Imagine whatever you like."

  Danaher came Sunday morning. He had been to La Noria on county business and had planned to sta y there over Sunday before returning to Tucson, bu t two men rode in late Saturday afternoon with th e story of the hanging at Randado and that change d Danaher's plans.

  He left for Randado before sunup and all the way there he thought of Kirby Frye and wondere d if he had returned. The two men told that the regular deputy had not been there, only the jailer.

  And if Frye had returned, what?

  Danaher had confidence in his deputy, though he kept reminding himself of it, because picturing Fry e he saw a young man who looked too easygoing , who maybe smiled too readily and who called almost anyone older than himself mister. No, those things didn't matter, Danaher reminded himself.

  His confidence was based on a feeling and he relied on it more than he did the external evidences. A m an could look like a lot of things, but Danaher le t his intuition tell him what was beneath the surface.

  A good deal of the time, Danaher felt alone in his job, this being sheriff of Pima County, and he like d to think that sometimes God gave him extra help-GCo a n above-natural power that allowed him to rel y on his intuition in appraising people--a compensation for the loneliness of his job, and to make up for the minimum of help he could usually expect fro m others.

  His intuition told him many things about Frye.

  That he was sensitive without being emotional, that he was respectful without being servile, an d that he was a man who would follow what his conscience told him ninety-nine per cent of the time.

  That was the quality which sold Danaher, because he was sure he could make many of his own principles a part of that conscience, and in time he would have a real deputy. He showed Frye that he himsel f was a man to whom principle was everything an d this way, whether Frye was aware of it or not, h e won Frye's respect.

  At the same time, Danaher was honest enough to admit to himself that maintaining Frye's respec t would even make John Danaher a better man an d he thought: That's how God tricks you into bein g good.

  It hadn't taken long for him to like Frye, and that happened with few people he ever met. He respected him as a man, and with Danaher respect was something to be given out sparingly and onl y after substantial proof that it was deserved. Onc e he caught himself pretending that Kirby Frye wa s his son and he called himself a damn fool; but whe n he did it again he thought: Well, what's so unnatural about that? But the next time he saw Frye he spoke little and he bawled hell out of him for lettin g cigarette butts collect on the jail floor.

  The first time he ever laid eyes on Frye was at Galluro Station the day after the Chiricahuas hit-GCo Danaher received the wire on a Saturday afternoon, from Fort Huachuca, relayed through the Benson operator. BRING POSSE GALLURO STATION

  HATCH AND HODGES LINE URGENT CHIRICAHUAS.

  They reached Galluro Monday before noon, Danaher and eight men, only eight because raisin g a posse on Saturday wasn't the easiest thing in th e world. They moved along at a steady but slowe r pace keeping their eyes open on the chance the y might be riding into the running Chiricahuas an d that was why it took them until Monday to ge t there.

  The station had been partially burned, the stable and outbuildings, everything that wasn't adobe , and the teams had been run off. The dead wer e buried: the station agent and his wife and the Mexican hostler. But two people were missing: the hostler's wife and the little girl, and it was naturall y assumed the Apaches had taken them. The agent's wife had been in her forties, that was why she ha d not been taken.

  A Lieutenant J. R. Davis told them this.

  He was there from Fort Huachuca with half of a company, about eighteen men counting his Coyotero scout, plus two civilians who stood with their thumbs in their belts waiting for something to happen. The other half of the company had gone out the day before while the sign was still fresh, Lieutenant Davis told them; but he had waited in order to tell Danaher their plan, which was no plan at all , but the only alternative Davis could think of.

  So, the first half of the company was to stay on the sign as long as possible, following wherever i t led. Davis would take the remainder of the company and angle east by southeast for the Dragoons, which was the logical place the Apaches would tr y to reach no matter what direction they took fro m Galluro. By Wednesday, Davis said, he hoped t o have made contact with the rest of the company b y heliograph. And if luck was with them, th e Apaches would be somewhere in between thei r sun-flash messages.

  Danaher was told to take his men west, back toward the Santa Catalinas, the way they had come, and keep a sharp eye, because perhaps thes e Apaches weren't heading for the Dragoons at all , but trying to get away in a westerly direction.

  Danaher was angry, because he could see the lieut enant didn't believe this, but only said it becaus e he had come all that w
ay from Tucson with eigh t men and it was a shame not to have him doin g something.

  "How many were there?" Danaher asked.

  "Not more than a dozen," Lieutenant Davis told him, and glanced at his scout. "That's what Dand y Jim reads."

  "And you're pretty sure," Danaher said, "you can handle these twelve Chiricahuas by yourself."

  "What do you mean?"

  "Well, you're sending us off for home now you don't need us."

  The lieutenant's face reddened, but it was anger and not embarrassment. "What do you mean don't need you? Couldn't they just as easily have gone toward the Catalinas?"

  "You're not even considering it."

  "My God, I can't go all four directions with eighteen men!"

  Danaher felt sorry for him momentarily. The lieutenant had problems of his own to live with an d to him they were bigger than anyone else's. Ther e was no sense in aggravating him further. It wasn't the lieutenant's fault Danaher had been brough t here; still, the Pima sheriff couldn't help one mor e small jab and he said, "Well, Lieutenant, how d o you suppose I'm going to watch your western frontier with only eight men?"

  The lieutenant's face was still flushed and he said angrily, "How many men would you like, Mr.

  Danaher?"

  "Many as I can get."

  "Will two be enough?"

  "If that's all you can spare."

  Davis motioned to the two civilians who were standing with Dandy Jim. "You men go with th e sheriff here."

  One of the men said, "You're orderin' the wrong boy. When I start ridin' it's back towar d Huachuca."

  Davis looked at the other man, scowling. "What about you?"

  He was standing hip-shot with his thumbs in his belt and he nodded. "All right with me."

  The first man said, "Kirby, what you want to go way over there for?"

  "Well, Frank, our deal's closed, I thought I'd go on up to Prescott and visit with my folks."

  Davis said, "Mr. Danaher, you get one man."

  "That'll have to do then," Danaher said.

  He glanced at the man who was coming with him, but did not take a second look because ther e wasn't anything out of the ordinary about him-GCo t hough maybe he was lankier and lazier lookin g than the next man--and Danaher didn't bother t o shake hands with him, but turned to his eight me n and told them they would eat before starting back.

  Then, drinking his coffee, Danaher looked over at Davis' half-of-a-company preparing to leave and h e saw his new man and Davis' Coyotero scout squatting, talking together, and Danaher's interest advanced one step.

  But it was not until later that he spoke to him.

  They had been riding for more than an hour and it came when the two of them happened to be ridin g side by side.

  "What did that Coyotero tell you?" Danaher's first words.

  "To stay awake."

  Danaher looked at him because the boy's voice was calm and he had not been startled by the sheriff's abrupt question. "What do they call you?"

  Danaher said now.

  "Frye."

  "Frye what?"

  "Kirby Frye."

  "Where're you from?"

  "Randado originally."

  "Is that so? What else did that Coyotero say?"

  "That maybe part of them went this way."

  "What do you think?"

  "I think he could be right."

  Danaher half smiled. "Don't go out on a limb."

  Frye glanced at him, saying nothing.

  Danaher asked, "Did he tell the soldier that?"

  "No."

  "Why not?"

  "It wouldn't make any difference with the few men he's got."

  "Davis thought they'd run for the Dragoons,"

  Danaher said.

  "Well, he's probably right."

  "So they could have gone either way and both Davis and the Coyotero are probably right."

  "I'm saying," Frye said, "they could have gone both ways. Any Chiricahua could dodge soldier patrols and get back to the Dragoons, but he'd stop and give it some thought if he was driving thos e stage horses."

  "So maybe the ones with the horses went this way," Danaher concluded.

  "That's right."

  "But if they were to drive them west, then make a long swing back to the Dragoons, that woul d take time."

  "They've got more of it than anybody else," Frye said.

  They camped without a fire on flat ground, but with foothills looming in the near distance. It wa s the boy, Kirby Frye, who suggested no fire. Th e men grumbled because as far as they were concerned they were going home, not stalking hostiles; but Danaher agreed with Frye and said bluntly , flatly, no fire, and that's all there was to it. They at e jerked beef and biscuits, then lay on their stomach s to smoke, holding the glow cupped close to th e ground. One man, with a cigarette in his mouth , stood up and walked off a few feet to relieve himself. He turned, surprised, seeing Danaher next to him, but had no time to dodge as Danaher's fis t swung against his jaw. Without a word Danahe r stepped on the cigarette and returned to the circl e of his possemen.

  In the morning as soon as they reached high ground, they saw the dust. Far off beyond th e sweep of the grade below them, hanging clear an d almost motionless in the distance, seeming only a few hundred yards off in the dry air but at leas t four hours ahead of them, beyond arroyos and cutbanks that were only shadow lines in their vision.

  Horses raised dust like that and every man there knew it. And when they moved on, down th e sweep of the grade, there was an excitement insid e of them that wasn't there before. Danaher coul d feel it and he knew the others did, but they rod e loose and kept it inside and tried to look as if thi s was something they did every other day of th e week.

  Well, Danaher thought, watching his men when they weren't watching him, that was a good sign.

  They're good men and maybe I shouldn't have hit that one last night. Now they know they're not jus t riding home and they'll act like grown men.

  But later on Danaher's men let their excitement show. Since noon they had been deep among th e hills, winding through the shadows of brush an d rock formations, moving single file with two men a mile or so ahead, moving slowly but gainin g steadily on the column of dust which they woul d see only occasionally now.

  About two o'clock they heard rifle fire up ahead and soon after one of Danaher's advance riders wa s coming back. They could read good news all ove r his face.

  Danaher side-stepped his big chestnut gelding to block the trail and the rider came up short, almos t swinging out of the saddle. He had been yellin g something as he rode in and now Danaher told hi m to shut up and take a breath and they'd find ou t what happened a lot quicker.

  "Now what's it all about?"

  "John, we got one!"

  The man's name was Walt Booth and he was the same one who had showed his cigarette glow th e night before and Danaher had hit. He was quic k tempered and easily roused to fight, but Danahe r could handle him and that's why he always le t Booth join the posses.

  Now Booth told them what had happened. How they had topped a rise and there right below them , but beyond a brush thicket, were eight or te n horses in a clearing like they'd been held up to rest.

  It hit them right away, Booth told. Stage teams from Galluro! And that meant only one thing--

  "We started to rein around and I heard it. A s nappin' sound in the brush. Now I had my piec e across my lap and my finger on the trigger--had i t there all morning--and I'm broadside to the thicke t when I hear the noise and the next second this sonof-a-bitchin' 'Pache's standin' there gawkin' at me.

  He starts to run, but he's a split-haired second late and I let him catch it right between the wings."

  Booth was grinning. "Didn't even have to lift the piece, just squeezed one off and he flops over like a sack of fresh cow chips."

  Danaher asked him how many Apaches, but Booth didn't know. When he fired the horse s started to move, just like that, like a signal, an d they didn't see even on
e, though they fired at th e horses because you know how the bastards cling t o the off side of a mount and make you thin k there're no riders while all the time they're ridin' t he hell out.

  He told that the other advance man was watching the place and they'd better shake their tails up there if they were going to have 'Pache for dinner.

  Danaher let Booth go first, then told the others to follow and he swore if a man made a sound he'd break him in two. But their excitement was u p again and they did make sounds in the loose shal e and brushing through mesquite and all Danahe r could do was swear to himself.

  The other advance rider was not in sight, but they found the dead Apache right away. Booth sai d damned if he oughtn't to lift the greasy scalp . . . s how his wife he was really out here . . . but Danaher told him to keep away. Frye came up to him then. He watched Frye kneel over the dead Apach e and heard him say something about the Apache being only a boy. Not over fourteen.

  Well, that was too bad. Danaher had live Apaches to think about. He directed his men to th e clearing where the horses had been and when the y got there the other advance man who had been wit h Booth was coming out of the brush on the othe r side. He was running and pointing behind him.

  "John, they're runnin' like blue hell down a draw!"

  "How many?"

  "Not a mile ahead! John, we got 'em runnin' for the open!"

  "How many!"

  The man reached them and he stopped, breathing heavily. "I didn't see 'em . . . I heard 'em! This draw's full of scrub pine--must slant down tw o miles before she opens up. Way off over the tree s you can see open country where the draw come s out. And all the time I could hear the red son s beatin' down through the trees!"

  "But you didn't see them come out," Danaher said.

  "Settin' there was time wasted. I came back to get you."

  Danaher swung up over his saddle and went through the brush at a gallop. The others followed.

  They topped the knoll that formed the beginning of the draw, listening and hearing nothing, but seein g off in the distance, below and off beyond the slanting brown-green smooth-appearing tops of the scrub pines, the dust trail. Dust that was risin g thinly to nothing and pinpoint dots inching into th e wide open flat glare of the distance. Booth said , "We're going to have us a late supper, but damn' i f it won't be worth it."