by Bill Dugan
“Hold on,” he shouted, not even sure the Indian spoke English. He felt silly, but didn’t know what else to do. “Stay still. I’m going to change my grip.”
The Comanche seemed to understand. He lay quiet, and Ted squeezed harder with his right hand, digging his fingers into the legging and curling them. Reaching out as far as he could with the left hand, he latched onto another fistful of leather and pulled. The Comanche’s hips scraped toward him, and he could see the man’s head now, swiveled to the right.
The black eyes staring at him over the red man’s shoulder seemed confused. Terror was there, but it was mixed with something else, some lack of understanding, as if wondering why this white man hadn’t let him go. Was it only to preserve him for some other form of death? The thought flashed through Ted’s mind like a meteor, that this man, whose life he held, literally, in his hands, might have been the one who drove the lance into Jack Wilkins. Maybe it was his knife that had skinned Jack’s skull.
For a second, he thought he should let go, let gravity avenge Wilkins. It wouldn’t, after all, be his fault if the Comanche couldn’t fly. The Indian seemed to sense his thinking, and for a moment, the confusion in the black eyes was gone. There was nothing there but terror, terror that turned to an icy calm. Then that, too, was gone, and there was hatred for an instant, pure unadulterated hatred, and then nothing. The black eyes were suddenly empty. Just blackness, deeper than anything Ted had ever seen.
And he held on.
Straining with every muscle, Ted hauled the Comanche back several inches, then stopped to catch his breath. He dug his teeth into his lower lip and pulled again, far enough for the Indian to raise up on his knees. Ted lay there panting. For the first time, he realized his shoulder hurt from more than the strain. He brought a hand up as the Comanche turned toward him, pivoting on his legginged knees.
Ted felt the slit in his shirt, the sticky blood soaking the severed edges. At the same instant, he saw the knife in the Comanche’s hand. He grabbed for his Colt as the Comanche curled the corners of his mouth in what might have been a sardonic smile. The brave waved the knife, its broad, flat blade catching the sunlight and sparkling for a second, then he stuck the knife into its buckskin sheath and stood up.
Ted felt the sweat on his palms. The Colt was slippery in his grip as he backed away, scrambling on his hips. The Comanche shook his head, the slightest nod, and Ted turned to see two more, watching him. The Comanche stepped toward him, reached down with one hand, and hauled Ted to his feet. Then, without a backward glance, he stepped past. A moment later, all three Indians were gone.
He sat there on the rock, wondering what it all meant. Had the Indian suggested they were even? It couldn’t have been more than that, certainly. It could have been less. A life for a life, it seemed to say. Or did it?
Ted got to his feet and dusted himself off. His shoulder had begun to throb, and he squeezed it closed with one hand, squeezing his Colt in the other. He heard the horses below for a moment, then nothing.
He was all alone on the lip of the canyon. He looked up at the sun. It was already beginning to turn red, slipping low on the horizon. His shadow, tinged with orange at its edges, speared out from him as he turned his back to the sun.
Walking back to his horse, he took several deep breaths, trying to purge himself of the fear and the confusion. The horse backed skittishly as he approached. Snatching at the reins, he got the pony calmed down. Ted clapped a hand on the pommel and hauled himself into the saddle. As he settled in, he felt something against his leg, something that shouldn’t be there. He looked down. Then, realizing what it was, he leaned over the side and threw up.
Dangling from a rawhide thong was a bloody scalp that could only belong to Jack Wilkins.
When his guts stopped churning, he realized the Comanche had settled accounts. All bets were off now, and the next time, if there was a next time, they were even. The slate was now clean, in a way even the Comanche did not understand.
He wondered what Jacob would think, if he told the old Quaker what had happened. He wondered whether he would tell him anything at all. He prodded the pony with his knees, turning back toward home.
And he knew the answer to both questions.
11
ELLIE SAT ON the grass. Her skirt spread out around her legs, she patted the ground alongside her. Ted shook his head. “I’d rather stand,” he said.
“You have to put it out of your mind.”
“I can’t.”
“You did the right thing.”
“How?”
“Would it have brought Mr. Wilkins back, if you had killed that man?”
“Of course not, Ellie, but that’s not what I mean.”
“But it is what you mean. You understood it, even though you don’t understand how you understood. But that doesn’t matter. There has to be another way. People can’t kill one another until there is only one man left alive. What would be the point?”
“It would leave the planet for the fish and the birds. There’s something to be said for that, maybe.”
“Only as long as you can’t accept that God intends us for better things. But we have to be ready for them. It can’t happen until we are, because He won’t allow it.”
“God was not on that ledge. I was. It was me who grabbed that Comanche and pulled him back, not God.”
“But they could have killed you. You told me so, and I believe it. You have already made a difference. That Indian will remember what you did for the rest of his life.”
“It won’t change him none.”
“You don’t know that.”
Ted didn’t answer. He bent down to snag a fistful of grass and stuck a long blade between his lips. Finally, unable to stand the pressure of her expectant stare, he shook his head. “No, I don’t know that. But it doesn’t change anything.”
“It changes everything. That’s the whole point. You’re different now, not like Johnny, not like the rest of the men around here. You know you don’t have to pick up a gun every time someone looks at you cross-eyed.”
“I don’t know that.”
“Yes, you do.”
Ted walked to the edge of the spring and squatted down. He swept at a water skimmer with the ends of the grass, then watched as the long-legged bug sailed across the surface until it was out of reach.
The sun on the pond hurt his eyes, and he squinted across the water to where Jacob, his back bent under the bright light, hacked at the ground with a hoe. Row by tedious row, he’d been slashing at the hard-baked soil, then crawling on hands and knees to plant seedlings.
As he finished the latest row, he straightened to mop the sweat from his face and neck. He took his broad-brimmed hat and fanned himself a few times, then glanced over to where Ted and Ellie were sitting. When the old man noticed Ted watching him, he waved before dropping to his knees and going back to the planting.
“I think I ought to give Jacob a hand, Ellie. That’s too much work for one man.”
“It’s honest work, and he doesn’t mind.”
“And what I do isn’t honest?”
“I didn’t mean that. He wants to do it, even though it’s not easy. He gets pleasure from it.”
“I just meant that it was hard on a man his age.”
Ellie didn’t answer and he looked over his shoulder. She was staring at the ground.
“What are you thinking about?”
“I was just … never mind.”
“Come on, tell me.”
“It was nothing, really. Just woolgathering, I guess.”
“You won’t make a sheepherder out of me, if that’s what’s on your mind.” He laughed, but she took him seriously.
“Actually, I was wondering what you were going to do. If Johnny doesn’t come back, I mean.”
“Johnny’s not coming back. He made that pretty plain.”
“Then what are you going to do? You can’t keep that ranch going by yourself.”
“It’s not much of a ra
nch, really. But it is our land. My daddy’s buried there. I can’t leave.”
“Johnny did.”
“I’m not Johnny,” he snapped.
“My point exactly.”
“Don’t try to confuse me.”
“You seem to be doing that pretty well on your own.”
“What do you know about it? It’s easy for you. You know what you think, and you see what you want to see. You wouldn’t change if a thousand men died in front of your eyes. And you’re a woman, to boot.”
“You noticed.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I don’t know. Forget I said it.”
“Look, I’m going to help Jacob. We’ll talk about it later.”
“You run away from the wrong things, Ted.”
“I’m not running away.”
“No? Then what do you call it?”
Ted stalked off without answering. He skirted the pond, then cut through the tall grass and out into the plot of baked earth. It felt like stone under his feet, and he wondered not only how Jacob could work it by hand, but why.
As he drew close, he tried to smile. “Need some help, Jacob?”
The old man stopped to lean on his hoe. “Always need help, Theodore. It seems like this ground resents my attempts to cultivate it.”
“That’s cow country for you. Stubborn, ornery.”
“Cowmen, too, I think.”
“You mean me?”
“Not only you. I’ve been watching you two. Anything wrong?”
“You’ll have to ask Ellie.”
“I’m asking you, Theodore. You can say what’s on your mind. Plain speaking is my preference, you know.”
“So I see.” He looked off at the sky for a moment before answering. “I don’t know. I guess me and Ellie just don’t see some things the same way.”
“I sometimes think that’s what God wanted. It gives husbands and wives something to do on winter nights.”
“What’s that?”
“Argue, what else?” He laughed, and it sounded like the joy of a man half his age. His whole body shook, and his face split into a broad grin. “You should try it sometime.”
“I don’t know if I’m cut out for that, Jacob.”
“My Ellie thinks you are.”
“Maybe not anymore.”
“Trouble? I don’t mean a spat, I mean real trouble?”
Ted shook his head. “I don’t know. I guess so.”
“You can work it out.”
“I’m not so sure we can, Jacob. We’re so different. I don’t know if either one of us can change.”
“Of course you can. Both of you can. It’s hard work, but nothing worth having comes easy.”
“We’ll have to see.” He pointed at the seedlings. “What do you want me to do?”
Jacob turned to look back toward the house. “You see those two buckets, by the well?”
Ted nodded. “Yeah.”
“You can water these plants. Not too much. I don’t want them to get used to too much water. But a little, just so the roots take hold.”
Ted walked toward the house, stepping carefully across the rows of plants. At the well, he snatched the first bucket and hooked it on the well rope. Lowering it down, he listened for the splash as the oak hit the water, then waited a few seconds for it to fill before cranking it back up. He filled the second bucket and lugged them both back toward the garden.
Water sloshed on his ankles and soaked his pants from the knees down. The pails were large and heavy, but after a half dozen trips, it began to feel good. He settled into a rhythm. Each row took four pails, and Jacob already had nine planted before Ted even got started.
Jacob’s work was harder and more time-consuming, and Ted offered to switch off, but the old man shook his head. “This is something you have to grow into, Theodore. Planting things and helping them grow takes patience. It’s not like anything you are used to.”
“I could learn.”
“I’m sure you could, but not today. Today, I want to get everything planted. Next spring, I can show you. Time won’t be so precious then. We can go slowly, and make sure it’s done right.”
“If you change your mind, let me know.”
“I will.”
They finished the work without more conversation. Jacob hummed to himself, in a rich baritone that quavered as he hoed, rose and fell as he leaned over to plant. Ted watched Ellie as she moved past the garden. She skirted the far edge of the staked plot without speaking, then walked to the house.
He wanted to say something, but decided to take a page from Jacob’s book. Patience, as alien to him as to all Cottons, hurt a little, but he bit his tongue and kept on working. When Ellie was gone inside, Jacob stopped for a minute to stretch his back. He groaned as he bent his shoulders back, his hands on his hips.
“Not so young as I was, Theodore.”
“You want to switch?”
“Not so old as that.” He smiled, then got to his feet. “Time to water something besides the seedlings, eh?” He moved toward the well, with Ted right behind him. Both men were sweating, and Ted’s shoulders ached from the constant pull of the heavy pails. He was used to hard work, but he was using muscles he seldom bothered, and they resented it.
At the well, Jacob lowered a pail, then tugged it back up without using the crank. He took a hammered metal dipper and scooped water into it, rinsed his mouth, and spat. “I guess you are used to dust, the same way I am.”
Ted nodded.
“It’s so much drier here than Ohio. I hadn’t expected that.”
“This is hard country.”
“I am a hard man, Theodore. I will win, you wait and see.”
“I hope you do, Jacob. I sure as hell hope somebody around here wins something. And soon.”
“No need for profanity, son.”
Ted didn’t answer. He’d spotted something on the horizon, beyond the spring. He took a step toward it, shielding his eyes from the glare.
Jacob noticed. “What is it?”
“Not sure, Jacob. A rider, comin’ hard, but I can’t tell who it is.”
He broke for the house at a run. “Come on, Jacob, come on.” He turned to see the old man staring off at the approaching rider. He called again. When it was clear Jacob wouldn’t follow, he sprinted toward the house at full speed. He burst inside. “Ellie? You here?”
“What’s the matter?” She came out of the next room, unfolded clothes in her arms. “What’s wrong?”
“Maybe nothing. I just wanted to make sure you were inside.”
“Where’s my father?”
“He’s still in the garden. He wouldn’t come. Just stay here.”
Dashing back through the door, he rounded his pony and grabbed his rifle. The rider was still coming flat out, and had narrowed the gap considerably. Ted ran back to Jacob, who scowled at him when he saw the gun. “No need for that,” he said.
“I hope you’re right, Jacob.” The rider was outlined by the cloud of dust his horse was kicking up. But his face was just a blur in the bright sun.
As the rider drew closer, his horse started to look familiar. Less than a quarter mile away now, he still lashed his mount with the reins, driving the pony as hard as he could.
“Looks like Rafe,” Ted said.
“That couldn’t be,” Jacob said.
But it was. And it could only be bad news.
When the old cowboy was close enough, he jumped from his pony and walked the last few steps.
“Rafe, what the hell is going on? Why aren’t you up north?”
The old man shook his head. He looked exhausted. The creases in his leathery skin were caked with trail dust. Even through the beige coating, Ted could see the dark circles and the bags under Rafe’s eyes.
“Teddy, I got some bad news. Awful bad news.”
“What happened? You lose the herd? Where’s Johnny?”
“That’s what I come to tell you, Teddy.” He paused and looked at Jaco
b for a moment. “Johnny ain’t with me, Teddy. He’s dead.”
“What?”
“Dear God,” Jacob muttered. He walked heavily to the screen door, opened it, and leaned into the house. “Ellie, you better come out here.”
Ted swallowed hard. He searched Rafe’s face for some evidence that this was just a cruel, misguided prank. There was none.
He turned and walked away, leaving the messenger confused and alone in the front yard. Walking down toward the spring, he stared into the water for a long time. One thought kept running through his head. “It’s my fault,” he whispered. “It’s my fault.”
12
TED AND RAFE sat on the front porch. Jacob and Ellie had left them alone. For a long time, Ted didn’t say anything, and Rafe waited. The questions were there, but he wasn’t anxious to try and supply the answers. None of them would really change anything.
As the sun started to sink, Ted got up and walked back and forth on the unpainted boards. His spurs jingled, and the sound was almost too musical, too cheerful. Ted didn’t seem to notice, but it was driving Rafe crazy. He kept quiet because it was Ted’s grief, not his own, and he had no right to make demands of any kind.
When Ted finally spoke, there was no trace of the kind of razor-edged anger he’d expected. Johnny would have stewed until he exploded. Ted was different. He seemed calm, almost too calm.
“What happened?” he asked.
“We never seen it coming, Teddy. Johnny was all set for the sonofabitch. But he fooled us.”
“Who? Who fooled you?”
“Ralph Conlee. I dunno. I had a bad feeling, but Johnny thought we were alright. Them farmers warned us, so it shouldn’t have been no surprise. But it was though. It surely was.”
“Rafe, just make it plain and make it short. No hedging. I want to know exactly what happened. That’s all I want to know. Tell me, dammit.”
Rafe sighed. This is what he was afraid of. But there it was, and there was no way to avoid it. Not now. He could have sent one of the other hands, but that would have been too easy, and Rafe was no coward. “Jayhawkers, Teddy. Some damn kind of Yankee irregulars gone to seed. No better’n damn savages, you want to know the truth of it. They wanted money to let the herd pass. We didn’t have none, of course, least not near enough to what they wanted. Then they wanted a piece of the herd. Johnny was mad by then, and told them no.”