by James Short
“Yes, of course. We will do it together, holding hands. Like lovers, you see.”
“Yes, like lovers."
“And we will sleep together forever like lovers eternally in love.”
“What a dreadful man Aquino was!” The thought of him almost upset the beauty of the moment.
“A crook, a scam artist, false to everybody and everything. Now, bend your head over and look down. Listen. Hear the waves. You realize that the water has made the same sound ever since there has been water—even before life existed, and after all life has ceased, the waves will make the same sound.”
“I won’t stop falling, will I?”
“That is correct. You will not stop. There will be a split second of pain, less than half a heartbeat, and then the free-fall for eternity.”
April listened and found the sound of the waves very reassuring.
“Now, lean over a little more. Take a deep breath. Just a moment of courage, dear. Yes, you can feel the cool updraft. Don’t lose your balance. You must jump. You must commit yourself.”
April felt a tug forward. She exhaled, took in another deep breath, and flexed her legs. The sharp sting of a salty breeze was to be her last earthly sensation. She saw in her mind’s eye the hat that had flown off seven days before; it had seemed so beautiful as it arced high into the air before falling to the water and floating south. South. South? The sharp sting of the breeze her last earthly sensation… She saw Penelope’s face. Why? Her hat had floated south. South?
Unaccountably, April remembered that when on some errand, her mother had stopped by her grandfather’s place of work—the funeral home. April was about five, and she so wanted to see her favorite person in the world that she got away from her mother and took off running through the rooms in search of him. She found her grandfather standing over a table with the body of a small girl. Upon seeing her, he picked her up and began to carry her out. “I want to see the little girl,” April cried. Her grandfather turned around so she could see the small white body on the table.
“Dear, this is just a body of a little girl,” her grandfather soothed. “The real little girl is in heaven.”
“What happened to her?”
“She drowned.”
“Mommy thinks dead bodies are disgusting, and they stink,” April said.
Her grandfather smiled. “Your mother was always embarrassed by my profession. I try to make bodies as nice as possible so people can have one last look at their loved one and remember the spirit inside. And bodies don't smell bad at first, only after a day or two.”
April’s grandfather carried her back to her mother. He gave her a piece of candy in his formal way, which made it seem as if he was presenting her a gem of great value. Then the memory faded. April opened her eyes, straightened her legs, and turned towards the lights of the town.
Ravela leaped on her, arms and legs extended like a furious cat attacking its prey. April stumbled as she took a step backward, a tiny step towards the abyss, slipping to her knees, right foot then left foot alternately hovering over nothingness. She fell full on her belly, dangling, clawing the rocks with everything she had. She felt the gravelly dirt sliding beneath her hands. Ravela screamed like a banshee and tore at her. Then a hand found a purchase. Why it held, where she got the strength, April had no idea, but she pulled herself up. From her fingertips to her armpits, she was scraped and bloody. Ravela sat beside her composed.
“Ravela, I have to tell you what I just realized.”
“I don’t want to hear it!” Ravela said with a nasty sneer. “Anyway, it’s too late.”
“You must listen. They didn’t die.”
“I don’t have time to listen to you, but you can explain it to them.” Ravela pointed back to the street where about thirty pairs of eyes stood fixed on her. Ripped shirts, wild hair, dazed stares, the people looked like survivors of an all-out barroom fight. A woman with clicking high heels and a short skirt got out of a long purple Cadillac and pointed. “That’s her.”
The mob surged forward.
“You shouldn’t have run from us,” A young man with a scraggly adolescent beard and a bloody cut on his cheek yelled as he came within arm’s reach.
“You were just pretending to be kidnapped,” another voice from the mob stridently accused.
“I didn’t mean…” April was at a loss at how to justify herself.
The mutterings and grumblings of the crowd rose in volume, drowning out her words. She closed her eyes and waited for the worst. Then she heard: “April what are you doing here, and why are these people after you?”
April opened her eyes and stared as Philip, the good clumsy man, made his way through the crowd and held out his hand. He turned to the mob and explained, “She’s my wife,” and then somewhat confusedly added, “At least, we were married.”
The crowd grudgingly retreated a step. Although they had been searching for her half the night, no one had thought through what they were going to do once they found her—rescue, punish or ravish. And her two protectors who confronted them seemed rather formidable. There was an especially ominous and intimidating air about the old glowering fat man as if he were beyond the fear of pain and death.
After watching the people disperse—the clicking-heels purple Cadillac driver being the last to go—Philip said, “First of all…” He paused and gulped and seemed to be looking in the air on either side of her for the right words. “First of all, before we tell each other about this strange night, I can’t say… I want to say, sorry. You know I never meant to make you unhappy. But you must understand, I didn’t want to give up so easily. I won’t make any more trouble. I guess I pushed too hard. I hope you don’t hold it against…”
“Don’t say another word. It’s my fault. It just wasn’t right. I was so stupid I didn’t realize it before. My fault, my fault. What’s done can’t be undone. We’ll be friends. Oh, that sounds so phony. Let’s just say that if we meet after we divorce, we’ll be pleasant to each other.”
“Yes, we’ll be pleasant like people who could have been friends.”
“Yes, sorry, but you have to admit nothing is as ever good as you think it is going to be.”
“Except stories, sometimes. If you like, we could sit on the bench, and I’ll tell you some interesting things I’ve found out about the treasure.”
They did so, and Philip explained the roles of Thornton and Kurtz and then related what Jacinto had just told him about the unusual last day of Penelope and Tomàs.
All That Glitters or Not
Tomàs had rarely felt so miserable. He visited Penny every day and never failed to discover in her a new, exceptional quality. And daily they never failed to quarrel. Penny’s price was steep, and she was determined to charge it in full. Not only did she want him to quit his way of providing for his and, in the future, for her keep, but she refused to live on any of what she called his ill-gotten gains. So if he was to take her word as law along with herself as his lawfully wedded wife, they would begin their lives together as poor as beggars. He was trying to reconcile himself to poverty when she came up with an even worse idea.
This morning after a kiss and a blissful fifteen minutes of flirting and teasing, they began to discuss whom they could invite to their wedding, a subject that was quickly becoming tedious for Tomàs. Suddenly, Penny’s mood darkened and she began to verbally circle around a topic, like a wrestler looking for the opportune moment to make a lunge at an opponent. Soon, she made her move, coming out with what was bothering her. Penny had gotten it into her head that he should pay back every cent he had ever stolen. When he protested, she started in on her “Why nots?'” He listed a dozen reasons. Penelope refuted them with good reasoning and bad.
“I don’t try to make you into a different person, why are you trying to do that to me?” He stood up in preparation to leave her presence, and maybe never return.
“I earnestly wish you would make demands on me, so I could prove to you how much I love you.”
“Okay, my demand is for you to accept me as I am.”
He observed the particular furrow in her brow that he had learned to associate with her stubbornness. Thank God, Franklin arrived to put an end to the dispute, saying peace wasn’t impossible as long as the warring parties were disposed to meet halfway. Franklin went on to say that he had observed that the best unions were based on such a willingness to compromise. Tomàs could have sworn that Franklin was directing his comments more to Penelope than to him.
“Of course, I will compromise,” Penny said in a tone that didn’t indicate much spirit of concession. In any event, if she refused to compromise, then he just might refuse to be truthful. The sin of an occasional little lie might be worth the delight of her company in her non-contentious moods.
So, while fishing on the pier in an unusually sober frame of mind, Tomàs didn’t welcome the appearance of Thornton. He wasn’t in the mood for business. And he wasn’t in the mood to explain himself. James Thornton, he had discovered, was the one other person in on the secret of Penelope. She had promised Tomàs that he could have the pleasure of informing the sheriff about their engagement when they fixed the day. Now, if Thornton had found out about the affair by other means, it seemed Tomàs might have to inform him of their non-engagement.
“You’re under arrest, Tom,” Thornton said.
Given his gloomy train of thought, Tomàs wasn’t surprised. So Penny, in a fit of honesty, had confessed his crimes to her friend, the sheriff. Then he jerked himself back into reality. Penny would have given him a full warning before she committed such a breach of confidence.
“Arresting me for what crime, sheriff?”
“We have to hurry. A rancher by the name of Kurtz, whom I think you’re not unacquainted with, will be arriving in less than half an hour with a lynching party. Safest place for you, seems to me, is the jail.”
“Seems to me jail would be the least safe place. With half a chance, I’ll outrun him.”
“No way. Not with his escort of brigands who’d run you to ground in an hour or two. And forget hiding out in the Flats. These people won’t care who they hurt on the way.”
“How are you going to protect me from several dozen pistoleros?”
“Brick walls, bullets, and the established principle you can’t attack the law without breaking the law. We can hold out in the jail against a hundred men for a month. I’ve deputized your cook, Matamoros, your friend Osito, and I’ve sent out for help from nearby sheriffs. Reinforcements should be here by tomorrow afternoon.”
“And you’re also arresting me because you think Kurtz might have a point.”
“Yes, I’ll listen to what Kurtz has to say, but I won’t tolerate vigilante justice. If you need a trial, Tom, then you’ll get a fair one.”
“Kurtz accused me of cheating at cards. He whipped me to the bone, then put me on my horse so I’d die beyond his property line. Fourteen months later, I drove a herd of his cattle over a cliff to even the score.”
“I’ve heard you called a card sharp and card cheat.” Thornton sought his gaze and held it.
“I got that reputation because I have the knack of telling by the cards played what cards my fellow players are likely holding.”
“Are you telling me you never cheated?”
Tomàs now averted his eyes. “How did Kurtz find me here?”
“Any man can be found by somebody mad enough to look hard. Sheriff from Gilroy sent a boy on a fast horse to warn me. You would have more time if the boy hadn’t gotten lost.”
“Maybe you’re right, his men can out-ride me, but they can’t out-sail me. Just turn your back, and I’ll be a dot on the horizon in half an hour.”
“Sorry, Tom, we’re doing this my way.”
Tomàs settled himself into his cell. Thornton lent him a rifle. “Hide it in your blanket and only show it in case things get out of hand.”
“Better give me some cartridges if you expect things to get dicey,” Tomàs said, looking the rifle over.
“I’m still deciding about that. For now, the less lead people have, the less chance somebody’s going to get hurt.”
Matamoros and Osito appeared and took up positions in front of the jail. A minute later, Kurtz and his gang rode up. After a brief heated exchange with Thornton about the practical application of the rule of law, Kurtz entered the jail alone and unarmed. Tomàs was sitting on his bunk dealing a hand of solitaire onto his blanket. He ignored his visitor for a minute, then gathered up the unfinished game, shuffled the cards, and dealt out a poker hand. Kurtz pulled up a chair on the other side of the bars and settled himself down. James Thornton stood at the door, keeping an eye on the face-off between the would-be lynchers and the two friends of Tomàs, now sheriff deputies.
“What’s the matter?” Kurtz finally spoke, taking out a cigar and lighting it. “Scared to look into the eyes of the man who will hang you tomorrow?”
“That’s a mighty hasty trial. We usually take more time here fixing up our justice than in your neck of the woods.”
“I’m just compensating for the delay in making you pay for your crimes. It took me seven years to track you down, and during that time, you enjoyed seven years of a good life, which you didn’t deserve. Don’t get the mistaken impression the sheriff is protecting you. If I didn’t see a benefit in keeping you around for another day or two, I’d be fitting the noose to your neck at this very moment.”
“Bold talk for a man who’s outnumbered.”
“You mean your friends hereabouts? Whipping them would be as easy as whipping boys who piss their bedclothes. My men are all fighters—against Indians, or outlaws or maybe themselves having done stints as road agents.”
“How much did you lose on account of me?”
Kurtz considered the question. “Thirty-five, forty thousand dollars.”
“Between mending and planning, I lost fourteen months of my life and spent near ten thousand dollars. I’d call us even.” For the first time, Tomàs made eye contact.
“A man never gets ahead just breaking even. You know that.”
“You are lucky I didn’t take that point of view and kill you,” Tomàs smiled at his enemy.
“Your mistake. My mistake was thinking I had already killed you. You can be certain I ain’t going to repeat it.”
Tomàs picked up the three cards he had dealt to the second hand and held them out so Kurtz could see them. “How about a game?”
Kurtz sucked on the cigar. “You ain’t got nothing to bet I can’t get by other means.”
“Foolish of me to ask you. You never lose anyway. Why do you bother to play when you can’t stand to lose?”
“You claiming you warn’t cheating me?”
“No, amigo, I didn’t need to. If you want your thirty-five thousand, you’re going to have to win it from me. You won’t find more than a thousand cash in my house, and my furnishings won’t bring you much more than a couple of hundred.”
“Money ain’t the main thing. Your corpse will cancel your debt. Your corpse and a young woman by the name of Penelope Boller. If we were to put a dollar value on her, how much is she worth, do you think? I’m going up to her house right now to appraise that particular piece of property.”
Tomàs felt his facial muscles stiffen. “Miss Boller won’t see you.”
“I suppose she won’t want to see me, but that’s not how it’s going to work. There’s her widow mother beholden to a nigger. Must be humiliating to the good woman. I wonder how grateful she’d feel to be eased out of that obligation.”
Franklin Gambles with Lives to Save Hearts
Franklin learned from the blacksmith that Tomàs had been arrested. While driving the Boller carriage to the jail to discover the reason, Kurtz’s gang rode past him in a cloud of dust. The standoff was already underway when he arrived, Matamoros and Osito grimly guarding the door, more friends of Tomàs occupying the roof of the land agent’s office across the street, and thirty mounted pistoleros glaring evilly
at their opposition on both sides of them.
Matamoros waved Franklin off, shouting, “No place for you, señor. These sons-of-bitches are out for blood, and they aren’t particular whose blood.”
Franklin started for the mansion to give Penny the bad news. Halfway there, twenty pistoleros swarmed past him with the same destination in mind. Franklin flicked the quirt and whistled to spur the horses. He pulled into the front drive just as Kurtz had begun to vigorously apply the brass door knocker against the strike plate.
When Franklin stepped down from the carriage and hitched the horses, Kurtz stopped pounding, dropped the stub of his cigar and ground it into the porch.
“What is your business with Mrs. Boller, sir?” Franklin asked as he took the rancher’s measure. Kurtz was a thickset man with a gray weathered face and cold slate-gray eyes. The muscles in his neck and forearms stood out like taut cords restraining a powerful animal. “Your business, sir,” Franklin insisted.
Kurtz grimaced as if tasting bile. “My business is my business. Don’t play the nigger servant with me. You have more say about who comes through this door or not than your mistress.”
“I’m not playing at anything, sir. Mrs. Boller will want to know the nature of your visit.”
“I’m not in the mood to bandy words with a nigger.” Their wills locked in a momentary stalemate. Around him, Kurtz’s men tensed. Conceding resistance was futile now, Franklin asked, “What name shall I give to Mrs. Boller?”
“Conrad Kurtz.”
“I’d appreciate that your friends stay outside.” Franklin opened the door.
Kurtz nodded and walked in, his gray eyes shifting from side to side, taking in the worn state of the furnishings and the indifferent housekeeping. Madeleine stood at the top of the stairs.
On seeing her, Kurtz swept off his hat and cleared his throat. “Mrs. Boller, I am Conrad Kurtz. I own a ranch in Oregon. I apologize because my business is unpleasant, but an honest man is obliged not to keep bad news from those the news concerns.”