Elmore Leonard's Western Roundup #2

by Elmore Leonard

  He said that soldiers were afraid of the Apache who drank tulapai. That was keeping it simple an d small.

  And probably he does not approve of what I did to the woman, even though he says I am not bein g held for that. But it was not his wife, and he did no t see her through the willows lying with anothe r man. Susto.

  He thought about the woman again, though he had ceased calling her his wife.

  It was the tulapai he had been drinking on the way home that brought the rage. He would no t have done it sober. Beat her, yes; but not mutilat e her. But even as he thought of it he was angry again.

  It was not his fault that he was gone most of the time as a tracker for the soldiers. Did she expec t him to grow corn? He was a warrior and woul d fight either for the soldiers or against them and a t this time it was not only more profitable, but wise r to fight for them. He was not asked to go agains t Coyoteros. Only Chiricahuas and sometimes Mimbrenos, people he did not usually approve of under any circumstances. But he did it as much for her a s for himself and that was what angered him. Tha t while he was away, working to be able to buy clot h and beads as well as ammunition, she would li e with another man. Susto. Susto of all men. She ha d been a Lipan woman, taken on a raid, and perhap s he should never have trusted her.

  No, he was sure Frye did not approve of his treatment of the woman, though this did not sho w on his face. There was their difference again.

  When Frye first became known to him he seldom thought of this difference. That time at San Carlos.

  And the first day they spoke-GCo

  They were just beginning the foot race and the white boy came up to them and asked if he coul d take part. For weeks he had watched their game s while they pretended that he was not watching, bu t this day he asked if he might join. And while laughing to themselves they told him, seriously, yes he could join them, but would he not like to make a wager? Say his horse? All of this was half in Spanish and half Apache and English and it took time.

  Then, after he had put up his horse they told him that of course he knew this was not an ordinar y foot race. Dandy Jim himself, Tloh-ka then , pointed, explaining that they would run followin g the bending course of that arroyo to the clump o f mesquite part of the way up the hill ("You wil l know it by the way it claws at your face"), the n back again, a distance of two and a half miles. And , of course, the contestants would be blindfolded , their hands tied behind them and would carry a knife, by the blade, between their teeth. Whoeve r did not return with a knife still in his mouth woul d forfeit his horse to the winner of the race. Ther e was an old Coyotero man there to see that each bo y abided by the rules which forbade attempting a short cut or trying to trip an opponent.

  Twice that afternoon they ran the race and when it was over Kirby Frye still had his horse. He ha d not won any of the races, but he still had his horse.

  Later, years later, Dandy Jim learned Frye had been practicing this alone for weeks.

  There were other games in those days at San Carlos: Apache games, and in all of them Frye di d well and in competing in the games there was neve r the thought that this boy was different from them , not after that first foot race. In time he even spok e some words of their language.

  Thinking of those days now, it occurred to Dandy Jim, that, yes, they were different even then , because whatever it was that made them differen t was inside and must have been present from th e moment of conception. It was just that they did no t have the time then to notice it.

  But he is a good man, Dandy Jim thought, and I t hink it would be a rare thing to track with him o r go to war as his companion . . . to do somethin g which would leave no time for thinking about thi s difference.

  Danaher had been talking to Harold Mendez for almost a quarter of an hour when Frye came dow n the stairs. Time enough to learn how the hangin g had taken place and to learn again that Frye ha d not been present; though he refrained from askin g what Frye had done about it.

  And now, seeing Frye's swollen face, it wasn't necessary to ask. He felt relief sag inside of him an d he exhaled slowly, inaudibly, all of the tension tha t he had carried with him from La Noria. Frye ha d done something, there was no question about that.

  "Kirby, you look a bit worse for wear," Danaher said, sitting down and pointing with his eyes fo r Frye to sit down also. "How do you feel?"

  "I don't know. I think all my front teeth are loose."

  "Don't eat anything chewy for a while and they'll settle again. Who did it?"

  "Sundeen's jinete."

  "Digo the horsebreaker," Danaher said as if reflecting, picturing him. Then, "What are you going to do about it?"

  "I don't know."

  "What about Tindal and the others; what're you going to do about them?"

  Frye seemed suddenly worn out and he only shrugged his shoulders.

  Danaher was silent for a moment watching Frye.

  He told himself to take it easy or he'd lose a deputy.

  But no, the hell with that, if he wants to quit then let him get out now, out of the way. Baby him an d you'll be holding his hand from now on, Danahe r thought.

  So he said, "How long are you going to sit here?"

  "I don't know."

  "You don't know very much, do you?"

  Frye looked up. "What would you do?"

  "I'd slap 'em with warrants."

  "I don't know if I could do it."

  Danaher said, "You've got a gun."

  "I walk up to Tindal, and tell him he's under arrest, and if he objects I draw on him."

  "You've got it fairly straight," Danaher said, "but I'll write it out if you want."

  "John--" Frye hesitated; it was the first time he had called Danaher by his first name. It just poppe d out and momentarily he looked at Danaher as if expecting him to object, but there was no reaction from him, nothing on Danaher's face to indicate a n objection. And Frye thought briefly, flashingly: Yo u make a big thing out of everything. You make a problem out of whether you should use a first nam e or a mister . . . which was half the reason it didn't go right at De Spain's last night. You were being to o respectful, so they shoved it down your throat.

  "John," he repeated the name purposely.

  "Maybe I'm sitting here because I'm afraid. I'll get that out in the open first. But there's something else.

  Last night Tindal told me that I worked for Randado, that is, the people of Randado. And if the people of Randado elect to have a law their way , one that benefits them as a whole, then I have to g o along with the people I serve."

  Danaher nodded. "That sounds like Tindal. But there's one thing wrong with the statement. Yo u work for me."

  "I know I do, but these are the people right here I actually serve."

  Danaher leaned forward in his chair. "Let me tell you something, if you don't already know it," h e said quietly. "I'm paid pretty well to keep order in a stretch of land as big as any one man's been aske d to watch. I've got people above me, but they giv e me a free hand; those were my terms. I'm the la w here, Kirby. I've got a conscience and God to account to, but I'm the law and when I say something's wrong, it's wrong .

  .

  . until a highe r authority proves otherwise." Danaher continued t o look at Frye, holding him with his eyes.

  "You said you might be scared. Well, I was boogered once, shaking in my boots making m y first arrest of a wanted man. After that I took me n with me because it was quicker and I no longer ha d to prove to myself, or to anybody else, I could do it.

  You proved yourself by standing up to them. Now get some men behind you and slap warrants o n Tindal, Beaudry, Stedman, Sundeen and Digo--"

  "What about Clay Jordan?" Frye said, because he thought of him suddenly as Danaher named th e others and he wanted to see Danaher's reaction.

  "Was he here?" Danaher's face showed nothing.

  "They say he wasn't in on the hanging."

  Danaher paused. "Then don't touch him."

  "Do you know him?"

 
"I know him." Danaher rose saying this.

  "He looks like a gun-tipper."

  "Don't try to find out," Danaher said.

  "I might have trouble getting men to back me,"

  Frye said, "when I pass out the warrants."

  "That's your problem. You get paid for figuring out things like that."

  Frye's swollen lips formed a smile. "I'll try. But I c an't promise anything."

  That was all Danaher wanted to hear. He said, "Wire Tucson when you've served them. If I don't hear from you by Wednesday I'll come back."

  Frye nodded, but said, "How do you know I w on't quit?"

  "Kirby," Danaher answered, "I just have to look at your busted face."

  "There must be a better way to do this," Harold Mendez said. He was watching Frye, who was sitting at the desk filling in the names on the warrants.

  The warrants already bore Judge Ira M. Finnerty's illegible scrawl in the lower right corner, which t o Frye always seemed proof enough of Danaher's influence--anyone who could get Judge Finnerty t o sign blank warrants that would be used sometim e in the future--

  "Maybe Danaher's right," Frye answered the jailer. "He'd throw them in jail and not make an y bones about it."

  "But you're not Danaher," Mendez said.

  "I just don't think they have to be thrown in jail." The warrants would be served, but instead o f jailing them they would be ordered not to leave th e vicinity between now and the next court dat e scheduled for December 18, three weeks away. An d since their families and businesses were here Fry e decided it wouldn't be necessary for them to pos t bond. But it will be hard living with them, h e thought. Then Judge Finnerty will decide to hol d the hearing at Tucson and that will make it all th e worse, making them ride eighty-five miles for thei r comeuppance.

  Sunday, the day before, he did not see any of them. He came to the jail in the morning to reliev e Harold and to talk to Dandy Jim; but after Danahe r left he went back to his room--a boardinghous e down the street--and stayed there through most o f the afternoon and evening, not even visiting D e Spain's after supper. Let them cool off. Sunda y might have a soothing effect on them and it woul d be easier Monday when he served the warrants.

  "Harold, maybe you could find out if Beaudry's about while I visit Tindal and Stedman."

  "All right," Harold nodded. "What about Sundeen?"

  "I'll go out there about suppertime."

  "When his whole crew's in," Harold added.

  "I have to serve Digo, too," Frye answered. He left the jail, slipping the warrants into his insid e coat pocket, and walked along the shade o f wooden awnings to the Randado branch of th e Cattlemen's Bank. He glanced across the street t o Tindal's store before going inside and he thought o f Milmary as he approached the railed-off section o f the bank's office.

  "Louise, could I see Mr. Stedman?"

  The blond girl at the front desk looked up. "He isn't in," she said stiffly.

  "Where would he be?"

  "I don't know."

  "No idea?"

  "Maybe he's at dinner."

  "It's a little early for that."

  "Mr. Stedman doesn't tell me everything he does."

  "All right." Frye started to go. "You might tell him I was here."

  "Don't worry," the girl said after him.

  He crossed the street to Tindal's. Opening the door and closing it with the jingling of the bell, h e saw Milmary behind the counter. She was facin g the shelves, a writing board in her arm, and Fry e knew that she had seen him. She would have turne d hearing a customer.

  "Mil--"

  "Just leave your warrant on the counter and get out of here."

  He hesitated. "How do you know I have a warrant?"

  "Everybody in town saw Danaher yesterday.

  Why else would you be here?"

  Now it was out in the open and that made it simpler, if nothing else. "I'm looking for you r dad."

  "I don't know where he is."

  "Maybe he's having dinner with Mr. Stedman."

  "Why don't you"--she turned suddenly, hesitat ing as she saw his bruised face, and though her tone was softer she finished--"look for him. Isn't tha t what they pay you for, looking for criminals?"

  "I thought you might save me some steps," Frye said. "Maybe he's at home."

  "Maybe he is," Milmary said.

  "Or at De Spain's?"

  "Or in Mexico! Why don't you just leave?"

  "All right, Mil."

  "Kirby--"

  He was turning to go and now he looked back at her. "What?"

  "Who did that to you?" She nodded gently, almost frowning.

  "Digo," Frye answered. He hesitated, still looking at her, but slowly her eyes dropped from his. He turned then and left.

  Harold Mendez was at the window when Frye opened the door. He nodded to a line of Sun-D h orses hitched in front of De Spain's and said , "They came while you were at Tindal's. It looke d funny because as you were coming out they wer e going into De Spain's."

  "Is Phil there?"

  "Phil and Digo and Jordan and three or four more." Harold's eyes went to the line of horses an d he said, "That's right, seven of them."

  "I didn't even hear them," Frye said.

  "You were thinking of something else," Harold said. He saw Frye look at the rifle rack and then a t the desk, then walk over to the desk, not sittin g down but only touching it with his fingers, the n come over to the window and Harold was thinking: I'm glad I'm not in his shoes; and said, "Did you serve the warrants?"

  "Neither one of them were there."

  "Something funny's going on," Harold said.

  "Wordie Stedman was passing and I asked him if he'd seen Mr. Beaudry, but he went right on without stopping."

  "He might have had something to do."

  "Didn't even look back."

  "Well, I don't know--"

  "Kirby, the word's out on this warrant business and nobody likes it. That's what it is."

  Frye nodded slowly, looking across the street. "It didn't take long for them to find out, did it?"

  "They saw Danaher and they know Danaher wouldn't fool around," Harold said. "You kno w they can make it hard for you to serve those warrants."

  "I don't understand that, Harold. Everybody wasn't in on the hanging. Why should they stick u p for the few that were?"

  Harold shrugged. "Maybe it's just that nobody likes Danaher. Or at least they feel closer to Tinda l and Stedman . . . and Beaudry, and it's a matter o f principle with them. Like helping out a kin who's i n trouble. Not necessarily because you like him, bu t because he's a him."

  Frye said, "Do they feel that way about Sundeen?"

  "They don't have to worry about Sundeen. Listen," Harold went on, "probably everybody isn't against you." He hesitated. "But that isn't muc h consolation because it seems like everybody , doesn't it?"

  Frye nodded.

  "I know how you feel," Harold said. "I'm glad I d on't have to feel that way any more. It's somethin g that comes with the job but isn't important unti l something like this happens. You know I used to g o out of my way to be nice to people . . . always wit h a good word; then one day I just got sick to m y stomach of smiling, and I quit." Harold's eyes wen t to the window and he said abruptly, "There's Dig o on the porch."

  "I saw him," Frye said. He nodded. "He's going in again."

  "What does that tell you?" Harold said.

  Frye was silent, watching the front of De Spain's, and he was thinking: How long will it take? Th e tails of the horses switched lazily in the sunlight o f the street, but the shade of the porch was deserte d and nothing moved there.

  "What did you say, Harold?" But now he wasn't listening and he knew Harold would not answer.

  He saw both doors of De Spain's swing open and hold open as they came out: Phil Sundeen first , Digo moving next to him as he started across th e street; the one called Jordan was directly behin d Sundeen and spreading out behind him were th e four other Sun-D riders.

&nbs
p; "Harold, unlock the rifles."

  "You can't stop all of them."

  "Before you do, go up and open Dandy Jim's cell."

  "I'll give you a rifle first."

  "No . . . get up there quick!"

  Frye moved to the door and opened it. In the sunlight, halfway across the street, Sundeen hesitated.

  As Frye stepped into the doorway Sundeen came on again until less than twenty feet separated them.

  Digo came even with Sundeen, but Jordan stayed back. He was almost directly behind Sundeen.

  Frye watched them, holding himself calm, knowing what would come, but not being sure what to do. They've rehearsed this, he thought, so let the m play it.

  "I hear," Sundeen called, "you got warrants to serve."

  Frye hesitated. "That's right."

  "You got one for me?"

  Frye nodded.

  "One for Digo?"

  "That's right."

  "What about the Committee?"

  "For three of them."

  "But they're not about."

  Frye nodded again.

  "What about Jordan?"

  "None for that name."

  Sundeen grinned. "None for Mr. Jordan. Why don't you have one for him?"

  "He wasn't part of the hanging."

  Sundeen stood relaxed. "I don't think that's the reason."

  "I don't care what you think," Frye told him.

  Sundeen glanced at Digo. "Listen to the boy sheriff."

  Digo grinned, looking up from the cigarette he was shaping. "He's something."

  "I think you're afraid to put his name on a warrant," Sundeen said. "That's the reason."

  "You think whatever you like," Frye answered.

  Behind him he could hear Harold Mendez coming down the stairs.

  Sundeen took a full step to the side, half turning, saying, "I don't believe you met Mr. Jordan."

  "Not formally," Frye said.

  "Mr. Jordan takes care of my legal affairs." Sundeen nodded to Jordan who was standing directly in line with Frye now, his coat open and his thumb s hooked close to the buckle of his gunbelt.

  Frye said, "Then he can advise you about the warrant you're getting."

  "He says I'm not going to get one. Digo either."