The Carpetbaggers

by Robbins, Harold

"I don' know," Max said.

  "Believe me, boy," the Negro said sincerely, "thirty days in the cage is a lot longer than the year an' a half you got to go."

  "But maybe we’ll make it."

  "You won't make it," Mike said sadly. "Fust thing the warden does is get out the dogs. They don' get you, the swamp will."

  "How would he know we went by the swamp?" Max asked quickly. "You wouldn' tell him?"

  The Negro's eyes had a hurt expression. "You knows better'n that, boy. I may be a trusty, but I ain't no fink. The warden's gonna know all by himself. One man allus goes by the road. Two men allus goes by the swamp. It's like it was the rule."

  Max was silent as he dragged on his cigarette.

  "Please don' go, boy," Mike said. "Don' do nothin' to make me have to hurt you. I want to be you' friend."

  Max looked at him, then smiled slowly. He reached out his hand and rested it on the big man's shoulder. "No matter what," he said seriously, "you're my friend."

  "You goin'," Mike said. "You' mind's made up." Mike got to his feet and walked off slowly.

  Max looked after him, puzzled. How could Mike know what he himself didn't know? He got to his feet and scraped off his plate.

  But it wasn't until he was over the fence the next night and racing madly toward the clump of cypresses with Reeves at his side that he knew how right Mike had been.

  Then Reeves was scrambling around at the foot of the cypresses, sunk half to his knees to the murky swamp water, swearing. "The bitch! The no-good lying Cajun whore!"

  There was no boat there.

  12

  THEY PUSHED THEIR WAY THROUGH THE REEDS, sloshing in the water up to their waist, and up onto a hummock. They sank to their haunches, their chests heaving, their lungs gulping in great mouthfuls of air. From a great distance, they could hear the baying of a hound.

  Reeves slapped at the insects around his head. "They're gaining on us," he mumbled through swollen lips.

  Max looked at his companion. Reeves's face was swollen and distorted from insect bites, his clothing torn. Reeves stared back at him balefully. "How do you know we ain't been goin' in circles? Three days now and we ain't seen nothing."

  "That's how I know. If we was goin' in circles, we woulda run into them sure."

  "I can't keep this up much longer," Reeves said. "I'm goin' crazy from bug bites. I'm ready to let 'em take me."

  "Maybe you are," Max said, "but I ain't. I ain't got this far to go back an' sit in a cage." He got to his feet. "Come on. We rested enough."

  Reeves looked over at him. "How come them bugs don't bother you?" he asked resentfully. "It mus' be your Injun blood or somethin'."

  "Might be," Max said. "Also might be that I don't scratch at 'em. Come on."

  "Can't we stay here for the night?" Reeves complained.

  "Uh-uh," Max said. "We got another two hours of daylight. That's another mile. Let's go."

  He pushed off into the water. He didn't look back, but a moment later, he heard Reeves splash into the water behind him. It was almost dark when he found another hummock.

  Reeves sprawled flat on the ground. Max looked down at him. For a moment, he felt almost sorry for him, then he remembered the fierce hatreds that flamed in Reeves and he wasn't sorry any more. He'd known what he was doing.

  Max took out his knife and hacked swiftly at one of the long canes. He sharpened the end to a pointed spear. Then he sloshed out into the water. He stood there motionlessly for almost fifteen minutes, until he saw an indistinct shape swimming under the surface. He held his breath, waiting for it to come closer. It did and he moved swiftly. The spear flashed into the water.

  He felt the pull against his arms as he lifted the spear free of the water. A large, squirming catfish was impaled on the tip.

  "We got a good one this time," he said, returning to Reeves. He squatted down beside him and began to skin the fish.

  Reeves sat up. "Start a fire," he said. "We'll cook this one."

  Max was already chewing on a piece. He shook his head. "The smell of a fire carries for miles."

  Reeves got to his feet angrily. "I don't give a damn," he snarled, his face flushing. "I ain't no damn Injun like you. I'm cookin' my fish."

  He scrambled around, gathering twigs. At last, he had enough to start a small fixe. His hand groped in his pocket for matches. He found one and scraped it on a log. It didn't light. Angrily he scraped it again. He stared at the match. "They're still wet," he said.

  "Yeah," Max answered, still chewing stolidly on the fish. It was rubbery and oily but he chewed it slowly, swallowing only a little at a time.

  "You c'n start a fire," Reeves snapped.

  Max looked up at him. "How?"

  "Injun style," Reeves said, "rubbin’ two sticks together."

  Max laughed. "It won't work. The wood's too damp." He picked up a piece of the fish and held it up toward Reeves. "Here, eat it. It ain't so bad if you chew it slow."

  Reeves took the fish and squatted down beside Max, then began to chew on it. After a moment, he spat it out. "I can't eat it." He was silent for a moment, his arms wrapped around himself. "It's gettin' damn cold out here," he said, shivering slightly.

  Max looked at him. It wasn't that cold. Faint beads of perspiration stood out on Reeves's face and he was beginning to tremble.

  "Lay down," Max said. "I’ll cover you with grass – that'll keep you warm."

  Reeves stretched out and Max bent down and touched his face. It was hot with fever. Max straightened up slowly and went to cut some more grass.

  It was a hell of a time for Reeves to come down with malaria. Reluctantly he took one of his matches from its oilskin wrapping and lighted a fire.

  Reeves continued to shake spastically beneath the blanket of swamp grass and moan through his chattering teeth. Max glanced up at the sky. The night was almost gone. Unconsciously he sighed. He wondered how long it would take for the warden to catch up with them now.

  He dozed, swaying slightly, as he sat. A strange sound hit his subconscious and suddenly he was awake.

  He reached for his fishing spear and crouched down. The sound came again. Whatever it was, it was large. He heard the sound again, closer this time. His legs drew up beneath him. He was set to lunge the spear. It wasn't much but it was the only weapon he had.

  Then Mike was standing there casually, his rifle crooked in his arm. "You' a damn fool, boy," he said. "Shoulda knowed better'n to light a fire out here."

  Max got to his feet. He could feel fatigue spread over him now that it was over. He gestured to the sick man. "He got the fever."

  Mike walked over to Reeves. "Sure 'nough," he said, his voice marveling. "That warden, he was right. He figgered Reeves would get it after three days in the swamp."

  Mike sat down next to the fire and warmed his hands. "Man but that fire sure do feel good," he said. "You should'n'a waited aroun'."

  "What else could I do?"

  "He would'n'a waited if it was you."

  "But it wasn' me," Max said.

  The Negro looked down at the ground. "Maybe you better git goin' now, boy."

  Max stared at him. "What do you mean?"

  "Git goin'," Mike said harshly.

  "But the rest of the posse?"

  "They won' catch up fo' a couple of hours," Mike said. "They be satisfied catchin' Reeves."

  Max stared at him, then looked off into the swamp. After a moment, he shook his head. "I can't do it," he said.

  "You' a bigger fool than I thought, boy," Mike said heavily. " 'Twas him, he'd be off in the swamp now."

  "We busted out together," Max answered. "It's only fittin' we go back together."

  "All right, boy," Mike said in a resigned voice. He got to his feet. "Drown that fire."

  Max kicked the fire into the water, where it sputtered and died. He glanced back and saw Mike pick up Reeves as if he were a baby and sling him over his shoulder. Max started back into the swamp toward the prison.

  "Where at you goin', bo
y?" Mike's voice came from behind him.

  Max turned around and stared.

  Mike pointed in the opposite direction. "The end o' the swamp about twenty-fi' miles that way."

  Sudden comprehension came to Max. "You can't do it, Mike. You ain't even officially a prisoner no more."

  The big man's head nodded. "You' right, boy. I ain't a prisoner. That means I kin go where I wants an' if I don't want to go back, they can't say nothin' about it."

  "But it's different if they catch you helpin' me."

  "If they catch us, they catch us," Mike said simply. "Anyway, I don't wanta be the one who lays the snake on you. I can't do it. You see, we's really frien's."

  Eight days later, they came out of the swamp. They stretched out on the hard, dry ground, gasping for breath. Max raised his head. Far in the distance, he could see smoke rising on the horizon.

  "There's a town there," he said excitedly, scrambling to his feet. "We'll be able to git some decent grub."

  "Not so fast," Reeves said, pulling him down. Reeves was still yellow from the fever but it had passed. "If it's a town, there's a general store. We'll hit it tonight. No use takin' any chances. They might be expectin' us."

  Max looked over at Mike. The big Negro nodded.

  They hit the store at two in the morning. When they came out, they all wore fresh clothing, had guns tucked in their belt and almost eighteen dollars they had found in the till.

  Max wanted to steal three horses from the livery stable and ride out. "Ain't that just like an Injun?" Reeves said sarcastically. "They'll trace horses faster'n us. We'll keep off the road two or three days, then we'll worry about horses."

  Two days later, they had their horses. Four days later, they knocked off a bank in a small town and came out with eighteen hundred dollars. Ten minutes later, they were on their way to Texas.

  13

  MAX CAME INTO FORT WORTH TO MEET THE TRAIN that was to bring Jim Reeves's daughter from New Orleans. He sat in the barber chair and stared at himself in the mirror. The face that looked back was no longer the face of a boy. The trim black beard served to disguise the high cheekbones. He no longer looked like an Indian.

  Max got out of the chair. "How much do I owe you?"

  "Fifty cents for the haircut, two bits for the beard trim."

  Max threw him a silver dollar.

  Mike came off the side of the building against which he had been leaning and fell into step. "It's about time fer the train to be comin' in," Max said. "I reckon we might as well walk down to the station."

  Three and a half years before, they had come into Fort Worth one night with seven thousand dollars in their saddlebags. Behind them they had left two empty banks and two dead men. But they had been lucky. Not one of them had been identified as other than an unknown person.

  "This looks like a good town," Max had said enthusiastically. "I counted two banks comin' in."

  Reeves had looked up at him from a chair in the cheap hotel room. "We're through with that," he said.

  Max stared at him. "Why? They look like setups."

  Reeves shook his head. "That's where I made my mistake last time. I didn't know when to quit." He stuck a cigarette in his mouth.

  "What we goin’ to do, then?" Max asked.

  Reeves lit the cigarette. "Look aroun' for a good legitimate business. There's lots of opportunity out here. Land is cheap and Texas is growin'."

  Reeves found the business he was looking for in a little town sixty-five miles south of Fort Worth. A saloon and gambling hall. In less than two years, he had become the most important man in town. Then he started a bank in a corner of the gambling house and, a little time later, began to acquire land. There was even talk of electing him mayor.

  He bought a small ranch outside of town, fixed up the house and moved out of the rooms over the saloon. A little while after that, he moved the bank out of the saloon, which Max then operated, and ensconced it in a small building on the main street. In less than a year, people began to forget that he had ever owned the saloon and began to think of him as the town banker. He began to grow quietly rich.

  He needed but one thing more to complete his guise of respectability. A family. He sent discreet inquiries back to New Orleans. He learned that his wife was dead and his daughter was living with her mother's relatives. He sent her a telegram and received one in return, saying that she would arrive at Fort Worth on the fifth of March.

  Max stood looking down the platform at the disembarking passengers. "You know what she looks like?" Mike asked.

  "Just what Jim tol' me and it's been ten years since he saw her."

  Little by little, the passengers walked away until the only one left was a young woman, surrounded by several valises and a small trunk. She kept looking up and down the platform. Mike looked at Max questioningly. "You reckon that might be her?"

  Max shrugged his shoulders.

  They walked down to the young woman. Max took off his Stetson. "Miss Reeves?"

  A smile of relief appeared on the young woman's face. "I declare, I'm glad to see you," she said warmly. "I was beginnin' to think Daddy never received my telegram."

  Max returned her smile. "I'm Max Sand," he said. "Your father sent me to meet you."

  A fleeting shadow crossed the girl's face. "I half expected that," she said. "Daddy's been too busy to come home for ten years."

  Max guessed that she didn't know her father had been in prison. "Come," he said gently. "I've got a room for you over at the Palace Hotel. You can clean up and sleep there tonight. We got a two-day trip home, so we won't start till morning."

  By the time they reached the hotel, twenty minutes later, Max was in love for the first time in his life.

  Max tied his horse to the hitching post in front of the Reeves ranch house. He climbed up the steps and knocked at the door. When Reeves's daughter opened it, her face looked tired and strained, as if she'd been weeping, "Oh, it's you,' she said in a low voice. "Come in."

  He followed her into the parlor. He reached for her, suddenly concerned. "Betty, what's wrong?"

  She slipped away from his hands. "Why didn't you tell me you were an escaped convict?" she asked, not looking at him.

  His face settled into cold lines. "Would it have made any diff'rence?"

  She met his look honestly. "Yes," she said. "I'd never have let myself get this involved if I'd known."

  "Now that you do know," he persisted. "Does it matter?"

  "Yes," she said again. "Oh, don't ask me. I’m so confused!"

  "What else did your father tell you?"

  She looked down at her hands. "He said I couldn't marry you. Not only because of that but because you're – you're half Indian!"

  "An' just because of that, you stopped lovin' me?"

  She stared down at her twisting hands without answering. "I don't know how I feel," she said finally.

  He reached out and pulled her toward him. "Betty, Betty," he said huskily. "Las' night at the dance, you kissed me. You said you loved me. I haven't changed since then."

  For a moment, she stood quietly, then pulled herself away from him. "Don't touch me!" she said quickly.

  Max stared at her curiously. "You don' have to be afraid of me."

  She shrank from his hand. "Don't touch me," she said, and this time the fear in her voice was much too familiar for Max not to recognize it. Without another word, he turned and left the room.

  He rode straight into town to the bank and walked into the back room that served Reeves as an office.

  Reeves looked up from the big roll-top desk. "What the hell do you mean bustin' in here like this?" he demanded.

  Max stared at him. "Don't try to bull-shit me, Reeves. You already done a good job on your daughter."

  Reeves leaned back in his chair and laughed. "Is that all?" he asked.

  "It's enough," Max said. "Las' night she promised to marry me."

  Reeves leaned forward. "I gave you credit for more brains'n that, Max."

  "I
t don't matter now, Reeves. I’m movin' on."

  Reeves stared at him for a moment. "You mean that?"

  Max nodded. "I mean it."

  "You takin' the nigger with you?"

  "Yeah," Max said. "When I get our share of the money."

  Reeves swung his chair around and took some bills from the safe behind him. He threw them down on the desk in front of Max. "There it is."

  Max looked down at it, then at Reeves. He picked up the money and counted it. "There's only five hundred dollars here," he said.

  "What did you expect?" Reeves asked.

  "We came into Fort Worth with seven thousand. My share of that alone was twenty-three hundred an' we ain't been exactly losin' money in the saloon." Max took a ready-made from Reeves's desk and lit it. "I figger Mike an' me's due at least five thousand."

  Reeves shrugged. "I won't argue," he said. "After all, we been through a lot together, you an' me. If that's what you figure, that's what you get."

  He counted the money out on the desk. Max picked it up and put it in his pocket. "I didn't think you'd part with it so easy," he said.

  He was halfway to the saloon when someone hailed him from the rear. He turned around slowly.

  The sheriff and two deputies advanced on him, their guns drawn. Reeves was with them.

  "What's up, Sheriff?" Max asked.

  "Search him," Reeves said excitedly. "You'll find the money he stole right on him."

  "Stole?" Max said. "He's crazy! That money's mine. He owed it to me."

  "Keep your hand away from your gun," the sheriff said, moving forward cautiously. He stuck his hand in Max's pocket. It came out with a sheaf of bills.

  "See!" Reeves yelled. "What did I tell you?"

  "You son of a bitch!" Max exploded. He flung himself toward Reeves. Before he could reach him, the sheriff brought his gun butt down along the side of Max's head. It was just at that moment that Mike looked out the window of the room over the saloon.

  Reeves walked over to Max and looked down at him. "I shoulda known better than to trust a half-breed."

  "Pick him up, boys, an' tote him over to the jail," the sheriff said.