Power in the Blood

by Greg Matthews

  “It was a barber that done it,” Horace was saying, “and I’m the idiot that asked him to. I never knew ahead of time what was gonna happen to me on account of that barber, nossir, but I have to share the blame. See, I always let my old lady trim my hair up till then, but it’s our wedding anniversary and I figured, go get yourself a real close shave and a trim down at the barbershop, just for the wife, which is what I did, but soon as he laid that razor on my face I had the feeling there was something wrong, had kind of a tickling feeling to it, you know, and when he was done with scraping me my face was sore as a kicked behind, only I didn’t know why it would’ve felt that way so I never said a word about it, and then he starts to cutting my hair, which let me tell you was thick as a blackberry vine back then, and I paid the man and went on home, only this itch came a-crawling up off of my face from the shave and started to travel across my head, a real peculiar feeling, and I had the wife wash my hair to get rid of it, which it done for a day or so, but then it’s back, and by then there’s this rash all over my face and creeping up into my hair as well.

  “I went back to that barbershop and watched him through the window, and that son of a bitch, you know what he did? He never boiled the goddamn razor is what, the dirty dog, so now I knew what it was that’s afflicting me, and I marched in there and whomped that barber till he can’t stand up straight. He lost the customer that was there too, when I told why I was so mad. Well, that gave me satisfaction, but it never helped my hair. It commenced to come out in handfuls, just falling down like someone sheared it off, and I had to grow a beard at the same time on account of the rash that’s still on my face, and inside of a week or so I’m bald as a bullet above the ears and hairy below, a turnaround, as you might say, and it’s a shame, because this was a real handsome face before it got covered with a beard, but you know, I couldn’t stand to shave it ever again and be bald all over from the neck up, nossir. So, boys, you better be sure when you go to a barber he’s clean and does what he’s supposed to with that razor.”

  Horace dished up ham and beans, and Lodi contributed two bottles of whiskey to the meal. The Bentine brothers had by that time announced themselves responsible for the robbery in Thermopolis.

  “Never heard of it,” said Lodi, turning away.

  “Our daddy built this here cabin,” said Wiley, “but then he sold it when the blizzard wiped out his herd.”

  “He lost near ’bout everything,” Casper stated to an unresponsive audience. Taking their cue from Lodi, Drew and Nate and Levon were disinclined to make conversation with two such unprofessional murderers as the Bentines.

  “And Horace here got it off of that feller later on,” Wiley continued, “which Horace is a second cousin to our daddy, so we never minded him being here, and he never minded us laying low for a little while now—ain’t that so, Horace?”

  “I never minded anything in my life but a dirty razor.”

  Horace was not partial to his original guests, and resented their presence, especially now that a genuine friend from the past had arrived with a bunch of boys that looked true blue. It was a relief to have real company, but Horace was aware that Lodi’s tolerance of morons was notoriously low, and his reaction to such types speedy and final. Horace was embarrassed that Wiley had insisted on pointing out the distant family tie between the brothers and himself.

  “You fellers,” said Casper, meaning Lodi and his men, “you mean to pull off something up this way?”

  “No.”

  “Wiley and me, we’d help you out.”

  “Well, you and Wiley can take it easy, because like I said, we don’t have any plans. Want me to say it again just so’s you can remember?”

  “No need to talk like that,” warned Wiley.

  He had taken a dislike to Lodi as soon as Horace told him who it was riding toward the cabin. Lodi had the kind of reputation Wiley and Casper wanted for themselves. The brothers had felt crowded out even before the newcomers entered the cabin. It was already plain that Lodi considered them nobodies, and Wiley in particular took exception to that. It occurred to him, as he glared in Lodi’s direction, then away again as Lodi’s eyes bored through him, that to be the one who killed such a famous outlaw would boost him instantly into the stellar region of universal recognition, himself and Casper both. Of course, they would have to kill the other three as well, and maybe Horace Neet besides, but all that extra killing would be just what was required to make all men fear them. They would be the deadliest brothers in America since Panther Stalking and Kills With a Smile, and be in more newspapers than Slade, the Colorado Cannibal. Wiley decided he would talk to Casper about it the first chance he got.

  A casual bonhomie began filling the cabin as the first bottle was emptied and the second begun. Wiley thought it might be smart to make Lodi believe he admired him, and so demanded details of his various robberies. Lodi preferred not to talk with Wiley, and after refusing several times to “discuss the past,” simply turned his back on the man and opened a conversation with Horace that centered on nothing but the past. Watching the exchange, Drew saw Wiley’s features harden. A look passed between the brothers that Drew likened to a visual pact, or mutual understanding, and he knew trouble was looming.

  “Hey,” said Wiley, leaning forward in his chair. “How come you want to talk to him about that old stuff, and you won’t talk to me about it?”

  Lodi finished speaking with Horace and slowly turned. “Pretty near your bedtime now, wouldn’t you say?” he drawled.

  Wiley shifted in his chair, but placed a smile on his face. Casper was watching everyone else in the room but his brother and Lodi. Drew saw Nate’s hand stray toward his gun.

  “Gentlemen,” said Drew, “the reason Lodi doesn’t want to discuss his career is because he’s promised exclusive rights to his biographer. I’m sure you’ll respect his predicament and not bother the man anymore.”

  The Bentines stared at Drew as if he had uttered phrases in Arabic. Nate and Levon were also puzzled, but kept their eyes on the Bentines and their hands near their guns. Lodi began to laugh, and Horace joined in. The rest followed, one at a time.

  The merriment was bogus but convenient, since it obviated the need for gunplay to resolve the offenses committed by both sides. It was a postponement, Drew concluded, of the inevitable. The Bentines were trash, far below the kind of man Lodi took into his company, and Wiley seemed bent on scraping up alongside Lodi in a manner calculated to produce fire before too long.

  It was no surprise to Drew that the brothers chose to visit the outhouse together not long after, and he leaned over to Levon and said, “Trouble coming from those two pretty soon.” Levon nodded and said to Nate Haggin, “They might come back at full cock, those boys.” Overhearing this, Lodi said, “Those dimwits? They went out together to plan a double jack-off, that’s all.” He laughed, and Nate and Horace laughed with him. Drew decided he and Levon were less drunk than the rest, therefore obliged to keep a sharper eye on things on behalf of everyone else. He would not have placed it beyond the ability of Wiley and Casper Bentine to sneak around and open fire through the opened windows while their targets laughed and drank.

  “I feel like I’ve got a bull’s-eye pinned on me,” he said.

  “Me too,” Levon agreed. “Care to take the air?”

  They left through a window that faced away from the, outhouse. “Hey, you boys circus acrobats, or what?” yelled Horace. Drew and Levon cut through the corral without disturbing the horses and peered around the cabin corner. The brothers were talking together a short distance away, their voices low. The moon gave so little light they appeared to be one man. They fell silent, and Drew heard urine splashing onto the ground.

  Levon whispered, “They’re just pissin’.”

  “You go back in if you want,” murmured Drew. “I don’t trust either one.”

  “They just come out to piss is all.”

  “Go back, then. I’m waiting for them.”

  “Who’s over there?�
� called Wiley. “Hey, who’s that hiding! Come on out!”

  Drew pushed Levon back into the shadows before stepping clear of the cabin wall. “Only me, boys, don’t panic.”

  “What the hell you mean, hiding away back there?”

  The brothers were buttoning their pants as Drew approached them.

  “Hiding? Making water, same as you both.”

  “Never seen you come out the door,” said Casper.

  “Must’ve been concentrating too hard.” Drew smiled. “Got the same difficulty myself. Have to handle my rod careful, or it’ll drop and break my toe.”

  Casper began to giggle. “Break your toe …” he said.

  “You ain’t so funny,” Wiley told Drew.

  “Well, you didn’t pay to hear me, so that’s all right.”

  “You ain’t so funny,” Wiley said again, then slapped his brother lightly on the shoulder. “You sound like a fool.”

  Casper became silent. All three peered at each other in the darkness. “Well,” said Drew, “if we’re all done watering the garden, there’s more whiskey waiting.”

  He turned and began walking back to the cabin. After a few paces he heard Wiley and Casper fall in behind. Opening the door, he saw Levon seated on his chair. The back window had been closed. Drew accepted the bottle from Horace and took a sip before passing it to the Bentines as they came through the door. “Your good health, gents.”

  Wiley drank without comment and handed the bottle to Casper. Lodi was shuffling cards. “Who’s in for poker?” he asked. Drew and Horace abstained; the rest gathered around the rickety table, and it quickly became obvious the Bentines were poor players, the only difference between them being that Casper accepted his losses with a rueful shake of the head, while his brother grew progressively more angry.

  “You boys wouldn’t be teaming up against us now, would you?” he suggested, veiling the insult with a tight smile.

  “Nope,” Nate assured him. “You just play lousy cards.”

  “We won plenty other times before,” Casper insisted.

  “Must’ve been playing against your granny,” said Levon.

  “No; she’s dead,” Casper told him. “It was fellers we played against, and we won, didn’t we, Wiley?”

  Wiley ignored him, concentrating on his cards. When Lodi scooped up the wagers minutes later, Wiley jumped to his feet. “Fuck …!” he yelled, addressing the room at large. Everyone but Casper waited to see if he would try to draw his gun. Drew’s hand was already on his own.

  “Bentine,” said Lodi, “I’ve seen more men die over the green cloth than I ever saw die any other way, and those deaths were avoidable, if only those men had’ve kept a cool head and learned how to play their cards right and take their losses like gentlemen. That isn’t too much to ask, to keep on living in this world of ours, now is it?”

  Wiley sat down. “You just better not do it again,” he warned.

  “Win, you mean?”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “Something eating you tonight, Bentine?”

  “I don’t like to see cheats take my hard-earned money.”

  “Oh, you mean the money you two got from Thermopolis. I heard you shot a bunch of people to get it, and the money wasn’t enough to justify the bloodshed, or did I hear wrong?”

  “It was a riskier job than that train you took.”

  “You know, Bentine, I really don’t agree with you, but I’m prepared to steer the conversation away from the place you took it, and keep on playing like I never heard any of the crap you seem to think is talk worth listening to. I’m even prepared to forget that you called me and my friends cheats, which normally I wouldn’t do, but I can see in this case I’m dealing with a goddamn moron, so the rules are relaxed.”

  This time Wiley drew his pistol as he rose, and the first shot went wild, passing within an inch of Lodi’s cheekbone. Lodi had time to yank his own pistol out and shoot Wiley square in the stomach. By then Casper was on his feet, and his first shot, aimed at Nate, who had also risen, missed and caught Horace Neet in the side of the head. Nate fired at Casper, hitting him in the ribs, and Casper fired again, almost hitting Levon, who was having trouble releasing the hammer tie on his holster. Lodi put a second bullet into Wiley, who staggered backward. Gunsmoke swirled around the lamp overhead. Casper was on the floor, holding his side, as Wiley collapsed a few feet away, already dying. Horace was still in his chair by the wall, eyes open, brain tissue covering his left shoulder. Drew’s ears were ringing from the shots exchanged, and his hand was frozen on his gun butt.

  “Damn thing …” muttered Levon, freeing his gun too late. The survivors looked at each other, at the two dead men and at Casper, writhing in pain now from his splintered rib cage and the shards of bullet lodged inside him.

  “Finish him,” Lodi told Nate.

  Nate shook his head. “Did that the last time, with that Pinkerton. Bones, this’n belongs to you. Shouldn’t be too hard, even for a candy-ass. Feller’s in real pain, Bones. You fix it for him.”

  Lodi seemed to accept the situation, and watched Drew slowly take out his pistol. No one had seen Drew kill a man, whole or injured. He aimed at Casper’s head and pulled the trigger. Casper jerked once and was still.

  “There now,” said Nate. “Easier than poking your first woman—am I right, Bones?”

  Drew said nothing, but admitted to himself that the thing he had done was simplicity itself; one second Casper Bentine had been in torment, the next second gone from the body that caused him pain. Drew felt neither good nor bad about the shooting. He hadn’t liked either of the Bentines, and they were not men to cry over; still, it did seem that he should have felt more than he did.

  “That’s Horace gone,” said Lodi, holstering his gun. “He was a game feller, not even very old. It was his baldy head made him look older than he was. Well, we need to get them all outside. I’m not sleeping next to dead men.”

  Above the cabin, Clay and Aemon Jennings had been awakened from sleep by the gunfire. They scrambled to their watching post and peered down through the darkness, but could see nothing but a tiny square of lamplit window below.

  “Got to be a falling-out of some kind,” Jennings said. “It’ll be the new ones caused it. Everything was peaceful till they showed up.”

  “Bentines most likely gunned them down for no good reason. They’re the type to do that.”

  “Could be no one got hurt. I saw a fight in Tucumcari, seven men, and all of them near about emptied their guns at each other, and just one got winged. He wasn’t even hurt very bad, but he died later from infection.”

  The cabin door opened, and in the oblong of light two men appeared, carrying a third. “There goes your no-harm-done idea,” said Clay.

  A second and a third body were brought outside, but the darkness made it unclear exactly where they were set down.

  “Three gone out of seven,” said Aemon. “That’s better odds for us. Care to sneak down and find out which three?”

  “I’ll let you do that.”

  “They won’t put them under the ground till sunup. I’d sure like to know which ones were hit.”

  “Go right ahead.”

  “You don’t have much confidence for a bounty man, Dugan. There’s no dog going to sniff you out.”

  “Or you.”

  “That’s correct, but you’re the one that was hired by me, not the other way around, so you can get yourself down there and snoop around for something that’ll maybe help us out tomorrow, or we cancel the partnership right now, that’s the way I feel about it.”

  “I wouldn’t want the partnership to lose out, Jennings, I like you too much to let that happen.”

  “Fine, so you get down there and poke around.”

  It took Clay almost fifteen minutes to reach the cabin. The little moonlight available was hidden by cloud, and he had to grope around in the dark for a further ten minutes before locating the bodies over by the stable. The men who had carried them there
had not used a lamp, and the bodies were not laid out neatly; one was at least five yards from the other two. Clay ran his fingers over their features, trying to find some clue to their identities, but the only corpse he was sure of was the one with the smooth pate.

  Since he was already so close to the cabin, and because he was frustrated by not knowing who the second and third dead men were, Clay decided to extend his risk by peeking through the window to see who had lived through the gunfight and who had not. He was within ten feet of the yellow square set in the cabin’s side wall when he heard the door open and close at the front. He scrambled for the deeper darkness beyond the wan beam of light streaming from the window-panes, and had barely found it before two sets of boots came around the corner. Clay sent a prayer of thanks to the god of unbelievers when he saw they had again come outside without a lamp, presumably because the cabin was so poorly appointed there was only one on the premises, the one that shone so feebly through the window. He saw two dim figures pass through its wan beam and stop in the vicinity of the bodies.

  “It ain’t right, to my way of thinking,” said a voice.

  “It’s a question of practicality,” said another. “You get that one.”

  Clay heard sounds of effort, and realized the corpses were being robbed of their boots. He had noticed during his own examination that their gun belts were already gone.

  “Where’s the other one?” asked the first voice.

  “Over there somewhere.”

  Clay listened to the footfalls passing back and forth.

  “Dark as a whale belly out here,” grumbled the first voice. “You find him yet, Bones?”

  “Maybe he got up and walked away.”

  “That ain’t even funny.”

  “Levon, when a man that can’t see two feet in front of his face can’t make a joke, he may as well quit being human.”

  “Just find him, that’s all. I don’t like this.… Shit!”