Billy picked up the war sack, slung it over his shoulder. He shook his head. “Much obliged, old-timer, but you’ve done enough for me already. There’s men out there as good in the saddle as I’ll ever be—been with you longer, too. Besides, my reason for leaving are what I told you the night Bud Hardin was killed.”
“Where’ll you go?”
Billy looked out the door and across the high plains baking under the Texas sun. He was thinking of the way Ackerman and Hardin and Jase Thornhill had tried to get him out of the way. Of the bitterness that had dogged him since his return—even Old Thad had given way to it in a moment of despair. And he was thinking, too, of the look in Mary’s eyes and the sound in her voice the night she’d seen how badly he’d been beaten.
“I don’t know, exactly,” he said slowly. “I hadn’t thought much about it up till now.” Then he smiled and held out his hand. “Been good working for you, Thad. Maybe someday… He felt the firm grip of the calloused old hand and noticed the huskiness in Thad’s voice when the old man said, “Anytime you want to come back, son…”
Billy turned and walked out the door. The other rider looked up in silence as he walked across the wagon lot, the sound of his spurs ringing loud in the stillness. He slung the war sack behind the cantle and tied it there. For a minute he thought of shaking hands with them all before he left, but then he saw how they were pretending not to notice, busying themselves with straightening a stirrup leather or tightening a spur strap. He turned away and mounted the dun.
When he reached the crest of the rise he looked back. They were standing there watching him as the dun dropped them out of sight behind the slope.
He rode south for a long time, keeping the dun at an easy lope that ate up distance without tiring the animal. Just what he would do or where he was headed wasn’t quite clear in his mind. The gentle roll of the high plains began to break here and there into wide, sloping canyons, with a crown of gypsum rock now and then glistening white in the sun. He knew he wasn’t far above the Canadian.
The country became more broken, and then suddenly he found himself instinctively skirting the rimrock, following the sloping side of a gentle canyon down to the floor below. It had been a long time since he’d been this way, but the lay of the country gradually came back to him. When he saw the snaky green of the willows and cottonwoods and the sparkle of water some miles ahead, he pulled up. Somewhere around here, if he remembered rightly, was a small box canyon. It was six winters ago—no, seven it was—that he’d helped his dad drag in hay to a bunch of cattle that had been marooned there in a blizzard. It would be a good place to hole up for a while—until he’d had time to think.
When he’d located the box canyon, Billy rode up it to where a cluster of willows and cottonwoods told him there might be water. He found a little spring that bubbled up and made a clear pool in a sandstone saucer before draining underground again a few yards away. It would be a good place to camp.
He dropped the reins at the drain end and let the dun drink while he himself walked up a way and lay belly down after removing his hat. Pressing his face to the water, he drank slowly, letting the cool goodness trickle down his throat. Then he sloshed water over his face and wiped it on the back of his sleeve.
When he’d finished he sat back against a willow sapling and reached for his tobacco. The dun was a few yards away, cropping at the sparse but lush grass that bordered the spring. Billy got up and loosened the saddle, lifting it a few times to let the air underneath. He left the latigo tied loosely and sat back down to finish his smoke.
In the cool and peaceful quiet of the trees Billy found it hard to believe that his life could have become so complicated. Here he was, relaxed and comfortable, watching the afternoon sun beginning to lengthen the shadows, breathing the sweet smell of the grass beneath him. In a few hours the stars would be out, filling the sky with the limitless jewelry of night. Then would come the moon, full and bright, bathing the river and the trees and high plains and canyons with its soft glow.
The memory of Mary Thornhill’s face in the moonlight came back to him and he tried to put it out of his mind. He gave a sigh that caused the dun to look up sharply, eyes big and wondering, ears pricked forward.
He walked over and untied his rope from the saddle, looped it into a crude hackamore and slipped off the bridle, fastening the end of the rope around a willow sapling. He found himself wondering why he did it that way, when he knew full well he had short lengths in his war sack for hobbles. He tried to tell himself that he wanted to keep the dun close by for company, but as he slipped off the saddle and dumped it on its side he had to smile to himself. That wasn’t the real reason. He knew, even without even having made up his mind about it, that when night came he would be saddling again. And then he’d be riding to see Mary Thornhill.
As he opened the war sack and fished inside for the tin cup and plate and sack of beans he said out loud, “You’re a damn fool, Billy Condo.” But when he walked out on the flat to pick up buffalo chips for the fire he knew he’d have to do it, damn fool or not.
When he’d eaten, the shadows in the canyon had lengthened into dusk and there was a blue-white mist creeping up from the river. He kicked sand on the fire and cleaned his plate and cup and put them back in the war sack. Then he picked up the saddle and blanket and walked toward the dun, following up along the rope.
When he’d saddled and was ready he took a last look at the place he was leaving so soon. Then he slipped his toe in the stirrup and swung up, turning the dun in a lope even before he was seated.
* * * *
The moon was high by the time Billy had covered the miles between the Canadian and the rise that looked down on the spread-out buildings of the Lazy S. He sat there for a while, keeping in the shadow of a lone juniper. Now that he was here, he wasn’t too sure just how he’d go about what he wanted to do. He dismounted and looped the reins over a branch, then squatted down to wait.
There was a night breeze stirring among the cottonwoods on the creek below, and the yellow light from the windows seemed to wink at him from time to time. He lit a cigarette, taking care to shield the match so it wouldn’t be seen. As he smoked he tried to locate the lights he saw. The one farthest to the right, he knew, came from the bunk house—he could see it clearly through an opening in the trees. Every now and then a longer streak of light would show when the door of the bunk house opened and a rider came or went on some mission or other. The lights at the house were harder to find, for the trees blocked the view pretty well. But he guessed the one light he saw must be in the kitchen. As far as he knew nobody lived there with Mary and Jase, and it would be about now that she would be busy with the supper dishes.
It was a long time before the light in the bunk house dimmed and went out. Billy shifted his gaze to the house again. The light was still where it had been, far as he could tell. Probably Jase was busy with tally sheets at the kitchen table. Or, maybe it was Mary, reading. She’d always been one to read, Billy remembered. Every time she could get her hands on a book. The first time he’d seen her, she’d had a book in her hand.
It seemed like another life ago, it was so far away. They were both kids then. Not really—sixteen or so. The emotion he’d felt wasn’t one a kid would be capable of, he knew that. He remembered how he’d been following the creek on that spavined old pony his dad had given him. They’d just come out to Texas from Louisiana and Billy’d lost his way. He was following the creek, knowing it would bring him near home, when he’d surprised Mary. Surprised himself, too. He hadn’t looked to find a girl way out here in nowhere.
He’d reined the pony to a halt when he saw her. She was so absorbed in the book that she hadn’t even heard him ride up. For a while he just sat there and watched her, almost afraid to move lest he scare her away. She was-lying on her stomach in the grass, her head propped up on her elbows looking down at the book in front of her and waving her legs slowl
y in the air.
That was what had caught Billy’s eye first. Her legs. She had no stockings on and it gave him a kind of a shock. He hadn’t ever given much thought to girls, but then it’d been a long time since he’d seen one his own age. It had never even occurred to him seriously that girls had legs—they seemed to be nothing but skirts from the waist down. He recalled his mother’s long black cotton stockings above her button shoe tops. But this girl’s legs were bare clear to the knees.
It had made his face grow warm to look, but it seemed kind of nice. They were pretty legs. Smooth and rounded and soft-looking. It was a long time before he looked up at her face. That surprised him just as much. It was a delicate, pretty face, with soft honey-colored hair done up in long pigtails that were tossed over her shoulders and tied at the ends with red ribbon. He hadn’t known that women could be that pretty—or girls, either. She had reminded him of a faded picture his mother kept in a fancy frame on the parlor wall back in Louisiana. He’d always had a sort of reverence for that picture. To him it was something unreal, like angels.
He heard a little cry and suddenly realized she had seen him and was standing up, tugging the big balloon skirt down around her ankles. In his embarrassment all he could say was, “What’s that you’re reading?”
“A book,” she had said sullenly, not knowing, he guessed, whether to be angry or afraid.
“What kind of a book?” he asked, remembering his manners and getting down from the pony and taking off his hat.
“It’s called The Odyssey.”
“That’s a funny name for a book,” he said, shuffling his feet self-consciously, “what’s it about?”
His shyness had seemed to relieve her fears and she had giggled a little at his question. He didn’t know what was so funny, but he grinned at her and found himself blushing again at the same time. Her eyes, he noticed, were the same color as the bluebonnets that bloomed along the Canadian.
“It’s the story of a Greek warrior.”
Billy had never read beyond the third grade primer, but at the mention of the word warrior he felt his literary disadvantage disappear. He knew all about warriors.
“You mean Creek warrior,” he told her with gentle condescension. After all, you wouldn’t expect a girl to know much about Indian tribes.
This time she had tried to hide her giggle behind the book. “Silly goose,” she said good-naturedly. “The Creeks are Indians. Ulysses was a Greek” She flung herself to a sitting position on the ground, this time taking care to smooth the hem of her skirt around her ankles so that only the toes of her shoes showed. “Here,” she said laying her hand beside her, “sit down and I’ll read some of it to you.”
He had sat down, feeling a strange warmth inside him as if hot water was running through his stomach. He wondered what his dad would think if he could see him here instead of looking for that cow and calf as he was supposed to.
The strange words hadn’t made much sense to him, but he found himself entranced by the sound of her voice. It was like the tinkling of ice crystals in a little brook the morning after a heavy frost. He watched her face and saw the expression change from time to time as she read.
The shadows were deep in the cottonwoods along the creek when he had finally mounted and started home. But he hadn’t cared if it took him forever to get there. He remembered now his promise to meet her there again the first time he had a chance to sneak away. And he touched his hands to his lips as if to revive the burning her lips had left there when she’d finally kissed him.
* * * *
Billy Condo ground the cigarette out under his boot heel and stood up with a sigh. The yellow light in the kitchen had finally gone out and been replaced by another in the bedroom by the corner of the porch. Just now it, too, had dimmed and gone out.
He untied the reins from the juniper and swung onto the dun. Then he started down the slope to where the darkened building lay silent in the Texas moonlight.
CHAPTER EIGHT
When he came to the creek Billy dismounted and led the dun a little way through the trees to where he could see the house a hundred yards or so away. From down by the corral the whinny of a horse cut suddenly through the night air. Quickly, Billy grabbed the dun’s nose and covered the nostrils to cut off any answer. Then he waited.
When he felt certain that no one had paid any attention, he led the dun back a safe distance and tethered it in a thicket of saplings. Then he slipped the converted .44 out of its holster and held it in the moonlight, opening the loading gate and turning the cylinder slowly. He closed it quietly and put the gun back. Bending down, he unbuckled his spurs and hung them on the saddle horn.
Walking through the trees he came to the creek and crossed it where a shallow bank would hide him from view of the house. Once across, he kept to the shadows, stopping now and then behind a tree to listen.
He circled so as to approach the house on the side away from the bunkhouse—the side where the corner bedroom lay. He felt his heart beating a little faster at the crazy thing he was trying to do. But he grinned to himself when he remembered that that Greek Ulysses had run away with a man’s wife in the book—and all he was trying to do was talk to a man’s sister. Or did he have it mixed up? Maybe it was that gent named Paris in that other book Mary’d read to him.
When he came to the rail fence that surrounded the open yard around the house he waited for a long time, listening. He was pretty certain that the other bedroom was off the kitchen, on the other side. That would be Jase’s he guessed.
Still in the shadow, he lay down beside the fence and pulled himself quietly under the bottom rail. Then he stood up quickly and ran across the open patch of moonlight. The wall was in the shadow of the eaves, and he flattened himself against it, trying to quiet the pounding of his heart enough to hear. There was nothing but the soft sighing of the breeze through the trees.
The window was only a few feet away. He crept toward it, still keeping close to the house. Something white suddenly fluttered on the window sill, making him stop stock still and sending his heart pounding again. But it was only the edge of a curtain moving gently on the breeze. He moved on until his shoulder was touching the sill.
“Mary!” he called in a whisper.
He could hear the frogs throbbing along the creek.
“Mary!” He didn’t dare call any louder.
There was a sound of bedsprings squeaking. He could imagine the fright she must feel so he called again, “Mary—it’s Billy Condo. Here—outside the window!”
He heard the startled gasp, then the sound of hasty dressing and bare feet crossing the floor. Her head came cautiously through the window.
“Billy! Oh, Billy—why did you have to come here? Don’t you know…?”
He slipped off his hat and stood close to the window. Her face wasn’t far above him, looking down at his.
“I wanted to see you, Mary. This seemed the only way I could do it without stirring up trouble with Jase. Tell me—is the only reason you won’t see me because Jase told you…”
Her voice held a note of genuine anguish. “Oh, Billy—I don’t know! Jase says…”
“I know what Jase says,” Billy said grimly. “What I’m interested in is how you feel, Mary. There were a lot of things happened in the war—maybe a lot of them weren’t right. People fought on whichever side they believed in. But that’s all over now, Mary I’d—I’d like to think that things could be the way they used to—between you and me. Or—or has six years been too long?”
It seemed to him as he watched, that her face was paler and thinner than it used to be. He could see the inner conflict of emotions reflected in her face. She bit her lip to keep back the mistiness in her eyes and turned her head to avoid his gaze.
“I—I don’t know, Billy. It’s been so long, and—and you didn’t write.”
“I’m not much of a man to put my feeli
ngs down on paper, Mary. Besides, I didn’t know if a letter could get through or not or how it would look if it did. It might have been hard to explain, you getting a letter from a Union man.”
“Is that the real reason?”
He thought he noticed a touch of irony now.
“What do you mean?”
“Maybe you didn’t write because you were—well, ashamed.”
Her hand was on the window sill. He closed his own over hers and gave a quick squeeze, partly in reassurance, partly in reprimand. His voice was less soft when he answered.
“I’m not ashamed of what I’ve done, Mary. We might as well understand that now, before anything else.”
“Not ashamed of fighting against your own people, your own kind?”
“You’ve been listening to Jase.”
“Well—it’s true, isn’t it?”
“No. Not when you put it like that. Mary, please try to understand. It wasn’t just a matter of fighting on one side or the other. There were a lot of things wrong with the war—on both sides. There is in every war. Everything was all mixed up in politics and slavery and a lot of issues that seemed important to some people—but the real thing, the important thing, was that the Union had to hang together. I…I don’t know how much sense that makes, Mary. Maybe it doesn’t make any. But it was what I believed in—and that’s why I fought for the Union. My folks—your folks, too—they came out here to Texas hoping that one day this country would all be a part of one great nation. That’s what they worked for. You can’t just let something like that be forgotten. You can’t just…”
“Oh, Billy!” She drew her hand away and covered her face. He could tell she was crying quietly. Her body shook with silent sobs, and she tore her hands from her face and went on her knees so that her face came on a level with his. He could see the wet tears shining on her cheeks. She took his hand in both of hers, squeezing it hard.
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