Sweetwater

by Dorothy Garlock

  Later, wrapped in the blankets and nestled in his arms, Jenny told him everything.

  “Oh, God! Honey—” He held her tightly. “This was happening to you while I was lying here in this damn bed! The rotten … son of a bitch! If Whit hadn’t killed him, I would have!”

  “I was sure he was going to kill me! Suddenly someone was there. I remember seeing a face, hair and a knife. I didn’t know it was Whit until I came out of my faint. He had taken the gag out of my mouth … and covered me. There was blood on his shirt and arms. He’s just a boy, Trell. He’s just a boy and he’s killed a man, cut his throat to save me.”

  “Whit’s more of a man than most I’ve met. Reasonable men would not want him punished for what he did. The trouble is I’m not sure who the reasonable men are here in Sweetwater. And Whit is an Indian. That clouds men’s judgment. It was good that he had someone to help him hide the body.”

  “I almost forgot the bag. Mr. Havelshell said he had papers that would prove the preacher was stealing reservation cattle.”

  “We’ll get to all of that later. Are you warm, honey?” He spread kisses over her face and smoothed the damp hair back from her forehead. “I don’t want you getting sick.”

  The rain continued all day.

  At the Agency compound, Linus sat in the far corner of the barn stroking the soft fur of his pet racoon. He had a lot to think about. What he’d seen that morning had turned his world upside down. He was glad in a way that it had happened, but he was confused as to what to do about it.

  Living for the past few weeks with Arvella and Pud had been almost like belonging to a family. She had called him in for meals, washed his clothes, and nagged him to let her cut his hair. He had fixed fence and cleaned out the horse barn with Pud. The man had not told him, not even one time, how stupid and worthless he was, even when running the hand-plow down between the rows of beans, he had dug up half a row.

  Kindness from a man was something new to Linus. Arvella had never been mean to him; but lately she had seemed happier, and it showed in the way she treated him, as if she maybe kind of liked him.

  Linus was thinking about what he had witnessed that morning. He was trying to decide if he should tell Pud and Arvella. She should know that she wouldn’t have to put up with Alvin’s visits anymore. Linus hadn’t understood why Alvin had married her because it was so obvious that he despised her.

  The boy was deep in thought and hadn’t noticed that someone was coming down the middle aisle of the barn. The raccoon, however, noticed and scurried off his lap and into the upended barrel that was his home.

  “You here, Linus?” Pud called.

  “Yeah.”

  “You sick or somethin’?” Pud came around the corner and saw Linus sitting in one of the stalls.

  “Naw. Jist sittin’ here.”

  “Arvella’s worried. Ya didn’t eat hardly any of the bread puddin’. She made it for ya, ’cause she knows yo’re fond of it.”

  “I wasn’t hungry.” His knees were pulled up, his arms folded across them. Now he lowered his head and rested his forehead on his arms.

  “Is somethin’ wrong? If yo’re bilious, boy, I’ve got a tonic. It’ll give ya the shits but ya’ll feel better.”

  “I feel a’right. I jist got stuff to decide.”

  “If there’s anythin’ I can help ya with, let me know.” Pud put his hand on the boy’s shoulder then turned to leave.

  “Pud—” Linus’s voice came quickly. “Stay a minute. I got to tell ya somethin’. I ain’t knowin’ what to do.”

  Pud hunkered down on his heels and picked up a straw.

  “I might not know what to tell ya, son, but the two of us could hash it over.”

  Son. The words brought a mist to Linus’s eyes. He’d never been called son by … anyone.

  “I stopped watchin’ at Stoney Creek.”

  “Ya told me.”

  “I went there this mornin’.” For a minute the old defiance was back in his words and voice. “I really wanted to see … Miss Murphy,” he amended with a guilty grin.

  “Nothin’ wrong with that. She ain’t hard to look at.”

  “I stopped when I saw Alvin’s mare in the woods ’tween here and the school—the one he bought from that man in Rawlins. Ain’t no mistakin’ that horse. Ain’t one like it in the country.”

  “Horse set him back a dollar or two. Ain’t no doubt about that. Alvin comin’ here, boy?”

  Linus shook his head and looked down at his clasped hands.

  “Pud, Alvin had the teacher down on the ground and tied up.” The words came out in a rush. “She was fightin’ him. He’d stuffed a rag in her mouth and was laughin’. I ain’t never heard him laugh much a’tall, and never like that. It was like he was … well, like he was somebody else.”

  Pud whistled through his teeth. “It ain’t like Havelshell to do somethin’ so … so harebrained. A man’d get hung quicker than scat for somethin’ like that.”

  “I wasn’t goin’ to let him hurt her, Pud. Honest to God. I wasn’t. It jist wasn’t right. I didn’t know what I was goin’ to do, but I was goin’ to do somethin’. I was gettin’ off my horse when that Indian kid, old Whitaker’s brat, come runnin’ out of the woods. He yelled like the savage he is, and jumped on Alvin’s back. Pud, that little sucker cut Alvin’s throat from ear to ear!”

  “Jesus, my God! He … killed him? Yo’re sure?”

  “Damn near cut his head off.”

  “Did he … had he raped her?”

  “Don’t think so. She’d swooned. Didn’t scream or cry or nothin’ when she come to. Pud—I ain’t carin’ none a’tall that the kid killed him.” He paused, then said, “I suppose ya think I ort to.”

  “I ain’t supposin’ what ya ort to think, son. Havelshell, for all his schoolin’, was a schemin’ sonofabitch. I been expectin’ one of the toughs in town to blow his head off when he was lordin’ it over ‘em.”

  “I ort to feel bad ‘cause he was my pa.”

  “I knew that, son. Arvella told me. The way I look at it a pa is the man who takes care of his younguns if’n they be of his seed or not. He keeps their bellies full and teaches ‘em right from wrong. Alvin was like one a them dandelion puffballs. The wind comes along and scatters the seed. I’m thinkin’ that he scattered seeds jist like that, not carin’ if they took root or not. That’s not a pa to my notion.”

  “He knowed about me all my life and hated me and my ma. When she died, I come here. He was madder than a pissed-on snake when I showed up. Said he’d kill me if I ever told anybody he was my pa. Later, when he married Arvella, and she come out here, he sent me out to keep a eye on Stoney Creek.

  “Ya know what, Pud? I’d busted my ass gettin’ to town to tell him somethin’. He never oncet said a thanky, or asked me to stay to supper, or anythin’ like that. He’d tell me to get the hell outta the house, even if it was midnight. A time or two he paid for me to go to the whorehouse. Now I think it was ‘cause the horny old goat wanted to watch.”

  “The town’ll be stirred up when they find out what happened. They’ll hang the kid if they get their hands on him.”

  “Another Indian was with him. They put Alvin on the back of his horse and headed into the woods. There’s places on that reservation where you could hide a herd of buffalo.”

  “They’ll hide the body, but Indians won’t destroy a horse. It’ll vanish in the herds and be driven north.”

  “Besides the teacher and the Indians, Pud, I’m the only one that knows that little bastard killed him.”

  “’Pears that way, boy. What ya got against the kid? Seems he’s in the same boat ya are.”

  “I jist don’t like him!” Linus said firmly. “What’ll I do, Pud?”

  “Ya’ve got two choices. Ya tell or ya don’t tell.”

  “Arvella ort to know she ain’t got to put up with him no more.”

  Pud was quiet for a moment while he took out his pipe and filled it with tobacco.

  “Her pa
’ll be lookin’ for another man for her.”

  “Couldn’t it be you, Pud. Yo’re not mean to her like Alvin was.”

  “He’d not consider me, son. I’m just a rough cowboy.”

  “Arvella’ll have to leave here. Where’ll she go?”

  “Home to her pa, I reckon.”

  “He ain’t goin’ to be wantin’ me hangin’ ’round.”

  “We’ll have to wait and see how the wind blows.”

  “How long’ll it be before that Bible-spoutin’ old sonofabitch knows Alvin is gone?”

  “Guess it’ll depend on who knew he was comin’ out here. He had to a left Sweetwater last night or early this mornin’.”

  “I ain’t tellin’ nobody but you and Arvella. If the old man asks me, I’ll say I ain’t seen him. What’ll you say, Pud?”

  “I ain’t seen him neither. And that’s the God’s truth.” He grinned around the pipe stem in his mouth. “Come on. Let’s go tell Arvella. Don’t figure she’s goin’ to be tore up about it a’tall.”

  Travor looked from the window in his hotel room onto the rain-soaked street of Sweetwater. Rain was still coming down. At times the wind drove it in sheets against the windowpane. He had been up half the night, as had most of the folks in town after the dreaded cry of “FIRE” was heard. The fire in Havelshell’s house was off to a good start by the time the water brigade arrived, and there was no chance of saving it. The effort was concentrated on keeping the fire from traveling on the dry grass and wood fence to other houses nearby.

  Alvin Havelshell had not been seen since he left the saloon, and it was assumed that he was in the house when it was reduced to a pile of smoldering ashes. The fire had traveled to the small barn and the hay inside had fueled the blaze. Havelshell’s blooded mare had escaped and, according to hoofprints, had taken off across the grassland. Had the rain arrived several hours earlier, something of Havelshell’s might have been saved.

  Townspeople gathered under store-porch awnings to talk about the killings in the saloon and the death of Mr. Havelshell. Last night a dozen men had seen Sheriff Armstrong give him back the star; and early this morning it had been found among the wet ashes, giving some evidence that Havelshell had been in the house when it burned.

  Travor stayed in his hotel room until hunger drove him to leave it for the eatery where he’d had supper the night before. He was in a hurry to get back to Stoney Creek and to the girl who waited there. The rain would be no bother, but he was not eager to ride with lightning forking down.

  On the hotel porch, Travor hesitated about darting out into the heavy downpour. While he waited, two men came from around the corner of the hotel and leaped up onto the porch. They wore poncho rain gear and carried saddlebags.

  “Come on, ole man. I was thinkin’ I’d have to get behind ya and push.” Both men were tall, but the younger was taller and broader.

  “You think yo’re so smart. Look at yore boots and look at mine. There ain’t hardly no mud a’tall.”

  “It wouldn’t a mattered on those old boots anyhow.”

  Travor nodded at the men and started to step off the porch.

  “Trell? Trell McCall?”

  Travor turned to see the older of the two men looking at him.

  “Travor McCall. Trell’s brother.”

  “I’ve heard about Trell’s look-alike. Cleve Stark.” He held out his hand. “This laughin’ jackass is my most-of-the-time pain-in-the-butt sidekick, Dillon Tallman.”

  “Howdy.” Travor’s pleasure was genuine. “And I’ve heard about Marshal Stark and”—he grinned at Dillon—“his pain-in-the-butt sidekick, Dillon Tallman.” He shook the hands of both men, then said, “Trell told me that he’d sent a wire to Pack to try and find you.”

  “Trell here?”

  “No. A lot has happened since he sent the wire.”

  “Pack caught up with me; and knowin’ Trell ain’t one to get all rattled over nothin’, I come on down. I spent a week with him out on the ranch a couple years ago. You were drivin’ a herd of longhorns up from the Texas panhandle at the time. We didn’t envy ya none a’tall.”

  “It’s not somethin’ I’ll ever do again.”

  “We need to get us a decent meal in our bellies,” Dillon said. “I’ve et nothin’ but Cleve’s trail cookin’ for a week.”

  “It ain’t been but two days,” Cleve corrected, then to Travor, “Nothin’ gets this kid’s dander up like missin’ a meal.” Cleve hit his friend a playful blow on the shoulder.

  “Just goin’ to grab a bite myself. I’ll pay my hotel bill and pick up my saddlebags.”

  “We were camped about five miles out last night and smelled smoke. Not wantin’ to get caught in a forest fire, we saddled up and come on in. It’d started rainin’ time we got here.”

  By this time they were standing in front of the hotel desk and Melva was looking them over.

  “You stayin’?” She gave Cleve her brightest smile.

  “Not knowin’ yet.”

  “We’d be happy to have ya and will do everything we can to make ya comfortable.”

  “That’s mighty nice of ya, ma’am.”

  “Where you from, stranger?”

  “Any place west of the Mississippi.”

  Travor fetched his saddlebags and met Cleve and Dillon on the porch.

  “The liveryman was full of talk ‘bout the shootin’,” Cleve remarked. “When he said McCall, I figured he meant Trell.”

  “Well, I’m not proud about killin’ one of ‘em. He was just a stupid kid. Killin’ the other’n was like killin’ a mad dog. He’d a gone on killin’ for hire till he was stopped.”

  They went down the boardwalk to the eatery, hurrying from one porch to the next because rain was still coming down in a steady drizzle. The cook greeted Travor as if he were the town hero. Travor introduced Cleve and Dillon as friends passing through and led them to a table at the far end of the room. When plates of flapjacks and eggs were placed before them, Travor explained what had happened to his brother and how it led to his killing Crocker and his sidekick.

  “Got witnesses,” Travor concluded. “The kid drew first, Crocker missed his shot and I hit dead center.”

  “Looks cut-and-dried to me.”

  “I was reasonably sure it was Crocker who ambushed Trell, but it could have been a feller I had a run-in with the night I stopped here on my way to the ranch. He got under my skin and I mopped the floor with him. He’s as ornery as a longhorn with a thorn in his pecker and he ain’t a forgettin’ man. We’ll go head to head again afore long.”

  “Are ya sure ya ain’t a brother to this here hard-nosed clabberhead?” Cleve grinned and jerked his head toward Dillon. “He can get into trouble faster than I can tell ya about it.”

  “Now, Cleve. I’m just full of beans and vinegar. Pa warned ya.”

  “Yeah, and it was the first time in my life I failed to heed John Tallman’s warnin’.”

  It was easy for Travor to see that these men had great affection for each other.

  “We need to make sure Havelshell is dead.” Cleve had turned serious again. “Then I’ll send a wire to the Indian Bureau. I sent one already tellin’ ‘em I was coming to investigate some rustlin’ of reservation cattle. They’ll have to appoint another agent.”

  “I ain’t envyin’ ya goin’ through them wet ashes.”

  “He could’a been on that horse that’s missin’.” Dillon poured syrup on another stack of flapjacks. “Good way to lose yourself—lettin’ folks think ya burned up.”

  Later they stood in front of the eatery. The rain had eased up. The road between the two rows of buildings was a sea of mud.

  “Here comes that preacher I was tellin’ya about,” Travor said, as a buggy rattled into town. “Some folks say that he played the tune Havelshell, his son-in-law, danced to. His name is Longfellow. He came out to Stoney Creek once while I was there. Slimy, smooth-talkin’ little toad to my notion.”

  “Reverend Longfellow. So this is where h
e landed.”

  “You’ve heard of him?”

  “Oh, yes. He’s got enough wind for a dozen preachers.”

  The horse was struggling to pull the preacher’s buggy through the mire. The pudgy man looked neither left or right. He flayed the horse unmercifully with the buggy whip.

  “Stupid sonofabitch!” Dillon gritted his teeth.

  “Nothin’ riles Dillon more than somebody beatin’ a horse.”

  Another blow caused the horse to swerve and the buggy wheels sank to the hubs in a mud hole. Infuriated, the preacher stood and rained blow after blow on the helpless animal.

  Dillon sprang off the porch as if propelled by a slingshot, and although he sank into mud to his ankles, quick strides carried him to the buggy. He reached in and jerked the whip from the preacher’s hand just as he lifted it to lash the horse again.

  “Ain’t ya got no brains? You’ll kill that horse!”

  With surprising speed, Longfellow turned on Dillon, a small pistol in his hand.

  “It’s my horse, damn you.” Gone was the pious look he affected in church. “Give me that whip.”

  “Mister, if a man draws on me he’d better shoot quick.”

  In an unthreatening manner, Dillon held out the whip, handle first. When Longfellow reached for it, Dillon’s free hand lashed out like a striking snake. The pistol flew out of the preacher’s hand and landed in the mud. The strong young hand that fastened on Longfellow’s coat pulled him until he teetered on the edge of the buggy.

  “If ya wasn’t so damned old and so damned soft, I’d give ya a little of what ya was givin’ that horse.”

  “Let go of me, you ruffian! I’ll have you arrested.”

  “Ya’ll have to pick yoreself up outta the mud first.”

  Dillon gave a little tug and then let go of the man’s coat. The preacher teetered for a second or two, tried to get his balance, then fell. He landed, sprawled, in a foot of mud.

  “Phew! You landed in a pile of wet horseshit.”

  “Get … away from me!” Longfellow tried to get to his feet, slipped and fell back down in the mud.

  Dillon glanced down at him, then waded back to the porch of the eatery with a satisfied grin on his face.