by Van Holt
Chapter 12
The Hatcher boys left for town as soon as Parson was buried. Curly’s horse stood saddled and waiting and he wanted to go with them, but he sort of felt responsible for Parson’s death and thought he ought to stay behind a few minutes to comfort the grieving widow.
Not that she was exactly grieving. She had put on an old black dress and combed her gray-streaked hair and smeared rice powder on her wrinkled face. She had not cried as she stood by the fresh grave under the cottonwood not far from the house, and Curly got the feeling that she was rather enjoying the occasion. She never went anywhere and hadn’t had an excuse in ages to fix herself up and put on a decent dress.
As soon as the boys were out of sight, she took off her little black hat and veil and gave Curly a sidelong glance that made him uneasy, though he couldn’t have said why. She didn’t seem mad or anything. In fact she was almost smiling. Maybe that was what worried him. He hoped he hadn’t given her the wrong idea by staying behind.
“Them sorry boys went off without them dogs again,” she said. “Come on in the house where they won’t bother you.”
The curs were scattered about the yard watching him with their hungry yellow eyes and were keeping quiet and behaving themselves only because Ma Hatcher was standing there beside him. He glanced uneasily at them and then followed her into the house.
“Don’t you reckon you ought to move into town where it’s safer?” he asked. “What with Parson gone and all.”
“What would I do in town?” Ma asked. “This is my home, Curly.”
“I know, but it may not be too safe out here by yourself, with them Apaches sneaking around and all. Them boys ain’t going to be around here much of the time.”
“I know I can’t count on them for nothing,” Ma said.
She turned and looked at him. “That’s what I wanted to talk to you about, Curly. You could turn this place into a real ranch, if you put your mind to it. And it’s high time you quit your wild ways and settled down.”
Curly began backing toward the door. “Afraid you’ve picked the wrong man, Ma. Settling down is one thing I aim to put off just as long as I can.”
“It beats what you’re doing,” Ma said.
“I reckon that all depends on how you look at it. I don’t aim to raise no cows for other folks to steal.”
“No, you’d rather do the stealing yourself.”
“It’s about all I know how to do,” Curly said, his stubbled face feeling uncomfortably warm. “Rustling stock and holding up stages. But it’s getting so the stages hardly ever carry anything worth stealing, and when they do there’s usually a man up on the box with a sawed-off shotgun and an itchy trigger finger. One dose of buckshot was enough for me. So now I stick to cattle and horses. There usually ain’t nobody guarding them.”
“What has all your stealing got you?” Ma asked. “All you’ve got is the clothes on your back and the horse you ride—and it don’t even belong to you. You ain’t got nothing and you never will have nothing.”
“I don’t want nothing,” Curly said. “If I had anything worth stealing, somebody would steal it. I’d rather do the stealing myself, like you say.”
“All it’ll get you is a early grave,” Ma said, wringing her hands. “Just like Parson.”
“I’m sorry about what happened to him,” Curly said. “But he knew it was a risky business. I told him at the beginning that some of us would prob’ly end up getting shot or hung.”
“He’d still be alive if it wasn’t for you,” Ma said, her eyes wet with tears.
Curly sighed heavily, feeling cramped and stiff and miserable, and anxious to be elsewhere. He wondered how he had ever let himself get involved in such an argument with a poor old woman who had just lost her husband. He wondered about it even as he heard himself saying, “I reckon I knew you’d say that sooner or later, and I’m just as glad you’re saying it now. It was getting on my nerves, wondering when you’d say it.”
Ma Hatcher found a handkerchief and wiped her eyes and blew her nose. “I never meant to say it,” she said. “But you got me upset talking like that.”
“Well, I reckon I might as well go on to town,” Curly said. “Since I’m only making you feel worse.”
“Go on,” Ma said, waving her hand. “It’s what you want to do anyhow. And tell Cash to come and get them sorry dogs before I take the shotgun to them.”
Curly looked at her in alarm. The last thing he wanted was those curs spoiling his fun when he was in town. “I figgered you might want to keep them here to warn you if them Apaches come sneaking around again,” he said.
“Like they warned me when they stole the horses?” Ma snorted. “There ain’t nothing left to steal, and them Injuns ain’t going to bother me. Not while I got the shotgun and the Sharps.”
“No, I reckon not,” Curly agreed. “They ain’t that crazy.”
“Don’t forget to tell him, now,” Ma said. “I’m tired of them dogs keeping me awake every night, and then sleeping like logs the one time I needed them.”
“I won’t forget,” Curly said as he went out.
He didn’t look at the dogs, hoping they wouldn’t see him either. He had often observed that animals didn’t pay much attention to a man until the man directed his attention at them. And he must have caught the dogs napping, because he was already in the saddle and sneaking out of the yard when the old bitch lurched up with a roar and they all came howling after him. He touched the Appaloosa with his heels and went up the canyon in a cloud of dust. The dogs soon got tired of the chase and went back to lie down in the yard.
The dogs must have alerted the Apaches, or perhaps they were watching the house. He found them waiting for him shortly after he climbed the Appaloosa out of the canyon. All five of them were mounted on horses they had stolen out of the Hatcher corral, and they had formed a half circle, penning him against the canyon rim. Big Nose, brown and naked except for moccasins and breechcloth, straddled a stout bay in the trail scarcely a hundred yards ahead of him, brandishing an old Sharps. A quick glance to the rear revealed that another Apache had materialized in the trail behind Curly where it descended the gap in the rim, blocking his retreat. The other three were slowly closing in on his left, walking their horses toward him through the stunted brush.
He could have almost laughed at his bad luck, except that he didn’t feel like laughing. I reckon it ain’t my day, he thought, trying to decide which way to run. Except there wasn’t any way to run. No matter which way he went, an Apache could easily swing over and head him off. And they all had rifles, while he had only his revolvers.
But he had one advantage. They wanted the Appaloosa alive as a trophy to take back to their people. In the past their bullets had not even come close to him, such was their fear of hitting the horse. Now they all held their fire, evidently planning to get close enough to pull him out of the saddle and then kill him without endangering the horse.
Curly had other plans. He drew his gun, cocked it and aimed it at the Appaloosa’s head. Big Nose suddenly halted his horse and yelled something at the others, who also halted, Curly bared his teeth in a savage smile that was not really a smile at all, just a wolfish curling of the lips. With his left hand he waved for them to get back out of his way.
Big Nose did not give the necessary order, and all five of them remained like mounted statues frozen in place. Curly walked the Appaloosa slowly on along the trail toward Big Nose, still holding the cocked pistol at the gelding’s head, singing softly to keep his courage up.
When I get to hell, I know what they’ll say
Here comes old Curly, get out of his way
He broke off, for Big Nose might think it was his death song—and perhaps it was.
Big Nose remained motionless, his smoldering dark eyes glaring over his huge nose at Curly, his swarthy face sl
owly turning black with rage. Curly was now close enough to see that face become distorted and ugly with hate, the wide nostrils flaring, and he wondered if he had gone too far or misjudged the Indian. But there was nothing to do now but brazen it out.
Big Nose sat his horse in the trail near the rim and did not move aside for him. He gripped the old Sharps in his right hand but made no threatening gesture with it. Curly walked the Appaloosa around him and turned his head to keep an eye on the Indian, who did likewise.
Curly could hear his heart beating as he listened to the slow steps of the walking horse and watched the distance gradually lengthen between himself and Big Nose. He could feel the heat of the glaring yellow sun and the dampness of sweat trickling down inside his clothes. He could smell the dusty earth and the dry brush beside the trail.
He had covered about fifty yards when he saw Big Nose take a deep breath, but it seemed to be pure rage that expanded his naked brown chest. The Indian screamed for blood and swung his horse around and jerked up the old Sharps.
Curly bent low over the Appaloosa’s neck, reined the gelding off the trail and streaked across the desert toward the stage road. The five Apaches came screaming after him, their lead whistling through the air all around him. He couldn’t be sure whether they were trying to hit him or not this time, all he knew was that they didn’t. And their horses, though fresh and strong, were no match for the Appaloosa. Once in the stage road he thundered along it at a dead run, leaving a ribbon of dust behind him, and the Apaches were soon left so far behind that they abandoned the chase, shaking their guns in the air and screaming in fury.
Curly, smiling over his shoulder, gradually slowed his pace to a walk in order to let the Appaloosa cool off.
So once again he made it back to town with a whole skin and his curly locks still attached to his head and rode along the street grinning with affection at the familiar sights and feeling right proud just to be alive. He reined in and stepped down in front of the general store and went in casually taking the doctored list out of his shirt pocket and handing it to Grady. There were an even dozen of the horses they had brought back from Mexico and scattered on Uncle Willy’s range. The list showed no less than seventy. Grady looked the list over while Curly turned to look out at the empty street, quietly humming to himself. It was a fine day, only a few little clouds building up that he had scarcely noticed as he rode in.
“What’s this, Curly?” Grady asked.
Curly looked around at him in surprise. As usual, there wasn’t a hint of expression on the storekeeper’s small wrinkled face. Only his gray hair showed how much he thought and worried, and how the years were gaining on him.
“Why, it’s a list of the horses we brought back,” Curly said. “Didn’t Uncle Willy tell you about it before he left?”
Grady shook his head. “He told me to let you boys have whatever you needed on credit. But he didn’t say anything about any horses.”
“That’s just like Uncle Willy,” Curly said, rubbing his mouth and remembering now that he hadn’t mentioned the horses to Uncle Willy until he was in the stage, about to leave town. So there was no way Uncle Willy could have told Grady about the horses. “He told me to make out a list of the horses and he’d settle up with us when he gets back.”
“I see,” Grady said. He studied the list a moment. “’Fourteen sorrels. Fourteen chestnuts.’” He glanced up at Curly and asked, “What’s the difference between a sorrel and a chestnut? I’ve never been very clear on that point.”
“There are several different schools of thought on the subject,” Curly said evasively. “No two people seem to agree about it. Some claim the dark sorrels are chestnuts, some the light, some say neither. Some say they’re all sorrels, some say they’re all chestnuts, some say there ain’t a bit of difference. But Uncle Willy can decide for himself which is which.”
“If they’re not all stolen before he gets back,” Grady said. He was still glancing over the list. “’One buckskin. One line-back dun. One coyote dun. One zebra dun. One claybank. One copper dun. Looks like you brought back a lot of duns this trip.”
“You know how them duns are, Grady. They breed like rabbits.”
“So it seems,” Grady said. “It looks like even the geldings have been at it. Well, I’ll keep the list for him. But he didn’t leave any cash for me to pay you with.”
“I didn’t figger he would,” Curly said. He glanced toward the small post office window at the back of the store. “Reckon you ain’t got no mail for me?”
Grady shook his head. Then he grinned and asked, “Who do you know that can write, Curly?”
“Nobody much, I reckon,” Curly said, grinning too. “Tell me something, Grady. Who did Uncle Willy send that letter to that everybody’s been wondering about? Beanbelly was in here that day eating something and saw him give it to you.”
Grady shook his head. “I’m not at liberty to disclose that kind of information, Curly.”
“Does that mean you won’t tell me?”
“That’s what it means.”
“I won’t tell anyone.”
Grady just glanced at him and didn’t say anything. He put the list in the cash drawer, where he could look at it every time Curly and the Hatcher boys bought something on credit and see if they were overdrawn.
“I reckon nobody thinks I can keep my big mouth shut about anything,” Curly said and headed for the door. Then he stopped and turned. “Maybe there’s something you can tell me. Has Ringo bought a shotgun from you?”
Once more Grady shook his head. Curly had never seen him nod it. “He bought some clothes the first day he was in town, and a sack of grub yesterday morning. But he hasn’t bought a shotgun.”
“How much grub?” Curly asked.
“Almost ten dollars worth.”
“That’s a lot of grub. Even at today’s prices.”
Grady didn’t say anything.
“Well, thanks, Grady,” Curly said. “I won’t mention it to Ringo that you told me.”
Grady smiled. “I don’t imagine you’ll mention asking me, either.”
“No, I reckon I won’t,” Curly said, and went out wondering why Ringo had needed so much grub, since he was staying in town and not one to do his own cooking unless he just had to. Curly didn’t know for sure that the gunfighter had returned to town, but figured he soon would if he hadn’t already.
Curly decided to have a quick beer before taking his horse on to the stable, so he tied the gelding in front of the Road to Ruin and went in through the swing doors. There was no one in sight but Blondie, who stood behind the bar looking cool and pretty in a calico dress. Her eyes had no particular color that he ever noticed, but her hair was naturally blonde and her face was smooth and white, without a blemish, unless you counted the tiny mole on her cheek. She looked even better in the daylight, he thought. Which was unusual, as most saloon women looked like hags during the day. But they all looked good to men who hadn’t seen a woman of any kind for a while.
He propped his elbows on the bar and studied Blondie’s face, and she seemed to find his interest in her fascinating. “Women sure are good looking,” he said. “Even the ugly ones are beautiful.”
“Big Ella will be right pleased to hear that. What can I do for you, Curly?”
“Just a beer, I guess, to drown the dust. I’m running short of funds. Cash money is sure hard to come by these days.”
“You’re telling me,” Blondie said, as she set the foaming beer before him. “Everybody who comes here wants credit, but they never want to pay up. What do they think I’m running, a charitable establishment?”
Curly laughed and glanced about the room. “Where’s Big Ella and Crazy Mary? They got customers this early in the afternoon?”
“No such luck,” Blondie said. “I’ve got them cleaning up their rooms. It looks li
ke a pig pen back there. No self-respecting man would come back the second time. Those two will drive me out of business yet.”
“If they don’t, hard times probably will,” Curly said.
Blondie gave him a sympathetic glance. “How’s the rustling business?”
“Getting tougher and riskier all the time. Looks like I may have to go into a safer line of work. Like hunting mountain lions or grizzly bears.”
“I heard about Parson Hatcher,” Blondie said. “The boys stopped by a little earlier. Why didn’t anyone let folks know, so they could go to the funeral?”
Curly wiped the back of a big hand across his wide mouth. “Wasn’t no funeral. That’s the disadvantage of being the only preacher around. Nobody to preach your funeral when it comes your turn. And Ma thinks only riffraff gets buried in the cemetery. But she seems to think that’s all there is in this town. Riffraff.”
“There’s not even much of that left,” Blondie said. “I sure picked the wrong town this time. I thought without any competition or law to worry about, I could grab my share of the loose money and get out before times got hard. Now it looks like I’ve already waited too long.”
“I think we all have,” Curly said, and finished his beer. He drank beer like water and for the same reason. He would get around to the hard stuff after he took care of his horse.
“You leaving already?” Blondie asked.
He grinned, laying his money on the bar. “I figgered it would be a good time to go, before you get mad about something and start swearing. I sure hate to hear a lady swear.”
“Oh, I don’t mean nothing by it,” Blondie said.
“I know it.”