by F. M. Parker
The cowboys turned to watch them pass. "Got shot up in the war, eh?" said the blue-shirted man in a mocking voice. "Dumb thing to do for it's not Texas's fight."
Both Evan and John stopped and glanced over their shoulders at the cowboys.
"I thought it was our fight and went," John said.
"Look what it got you," said the blue shirt.
Evan put his hand on John's shoulder. "Our part is over, done with, and not worth arguing about."
"Yeah, you're right," John said.
They again moved, one limping and one with his shoulders hunched, in the direction of the door. The other men at the bar were now watching the wounded soldiers, and so too were the poker players. Ben felt his anger heating at the insulting words of the cowboy.
"There's no argument to be made for fighting in the war," the blue shirt called out in a loud, coarse voice. "We ain't got any slaves."
Ben saw the shorter soldier turn back and start to speak, and again the taller one took hold of him and said something that Ben didn't hear. The shorter man relented to the words of his companion and continued to limp on. Ben's anger was smoking in a corner of his mind. Still, he held himself reined in for he didn't want trouble.
"Any man who went to war was a fool—hell, more than that, just plain stupid," the blue-shirted man called out in a strident voice.
Ben's anger was scorching. He rose, shoving his chair back with a loud scraping sound. "Say that to me, loudmouth," Ben said in a rough voice.
The sudden challenge froze all movement in the saloon. Then heads swiveled and eyes fastened on the man in the rear corner of the cantina. In the shadows, Ben's white shirt stood out like a beacon.
"Tell me I'm a stupid fool," Ben ordered, his words like darts flung through the air at the blue-shirted man. "Tell me what you told those other wounded soldiers."
Ben moved away from his table and into the open space that lay between the tables and the front of the bar. He shoved his hat back to show his face. At the same time he put his hand on the butt of his pistol.
Evan looked into the devil face of the man who had taken insult from the cowboy's words. The flat, deadly way he had spoken and his savage eyes sent a chill along Evan's spine. There was a taut, menacing aura about him, a confident animal ready to fight.
The cowboys saw the readiness of Ben to fight. One spoke hastily to the blue-shirt one. "Better let it go, Rolph," he said.
"Yeah, that's right," added the third man. "I don't want to fight with that fellow. He scares me just looking at him."
"Ugly doesn't mean he's tough," Rolph said.
"He looks tough enough to me," said the third man.
Evan couldn't look away from the scarred man threatening the cowboys. He detected not one ounce of fear in the man, only that willingness to do battle, maybe a desire to start it. He heard two of the cowboys trying to talk the one called Rolph into leaving the cantina, and Rolph's words resisting the advice. Then the two cowboys won and all three were moving toward the door.
"You in the blue shirt, apologize to those two wounded soldiers for what you said to them," the devil-faced man ordered.
"Like hell I will," said the blue shirt.
"Do it, you damn coward," Ben said.
The blue-shirt man pivoted around to Ben. "Go to Hell, you ugly bastard." He reached for the pistol in the holster on his side.
You are the stupid one to draw on a man who already has his hand on his pistol, Ben thought. He pulled his revolver and shot through the blue cloth covering the man's right shoulder. He knew the .44-caliber bullet would break the bones in the shoulder. Let the man know how it feels to be seriously wounded.
The cowboy was spun to the right by the impact of the large bullet fired from but a few feet away. He crashed into a table, knocked it over, and fell to the floor with it.
His pistol went sliding across the floor. He clutched at his shoulder and began to moan. Ben took a step closer to the two cowboys still on their feet.
"Do you want to try your luck to see if it's better than his?" Ben said.
"It's not our fight," one of the men said quickly. "I tried to get him to let it alone."
"Then sit down there at that table and wait for the sheriff. He'll want to know what happened here. You'd better tell him the straight of it for if you don't, I'll come hunting you."
Ben spoke to the bartender. "Do you know where the doctor's office is?"
"Yes, just a few blocks down the street."
"Go ask him to come here. And bring Sheriff Blackaby back with you so we can settle this matter right now."
"You bet," said the bartender, and hurried from the cantina.
All the other men were silent and watching Ben. He didn't see any danger from them. He sat down at a table and laid his gun on top in front of him. Now to see how the sheriff would take the shooting.
Evan and John came across the cantina to Ben's table.
Evan spoke to Ben. "May John and I sit with you?"
Ben was surprised at the request, but quickly recovered. "Sure, have a seat," he said.
The two soldiers sat down across the table from Ben.
"We can vouch that he tried to shoot you and you only defended yourself," Evan said.
"That's right," John said "He had no right to insult us and I'm damn glad you shut him up."
But I goaded him into pulling a gun, Ben thought. So I'm responsible for it coming down to a fight. He must learn to control his quickness to anger.
EIGHTEEN
"My name is Evan Payson," Evan said, and put out his hand to Ben.
"Ben Hawkins." Ben shook the offered hand.
"I'm John Davis." He took Ben's hand. "That fellow sure had some mean things to say to us."
"By the expressions of some of the men here, they felt he was right in thinking we had no business in the war," Ben replied.
"It's a divided state on that matter and that's a fact," Evan said. "But he had no right to insult us."
Both Evan and John were looking into Ben's face. They appeared ill at ease at the sight of his mutilated features, but not revolted by them. That was a pleasant thing to Ben. They must have been in the thick of the fighting, and had seen what horrible wounds cannons and mortars and rifles could do to a man. That would account for their willingness to look at him.
The sheriff and doctor, followed by the bartender, came into the cantina. The doctor was slender and quite elderly. Sheriff Blackaby was a large, burly man wearing twin revolvers and a belt full of cartridges. He walked with a heavy, no-nonsense step. Both he and the doctor stopped to examine the wounded man.
"How'll he be?" the sheriff asked the doctor.
"He'll live, but may end up having a bad shoulder for there's broken bones."
"Who did the shooting?" said the sheriff, straightening to cast a hard look around.
"I did," Ben said.
The sheriff looked at Ben and at the pistol on the table in front of him. "Put the gun away, Hawkins," he ordered.
Ben picked up the pistol and slid it into its holster. He didn't want any trouble with the lawman. While still a deputy sheriff in El Paso, Ben had met Blackaby. He knew the lawman was tough, but honest and fair in his enforcement of the law. Ben hoped he was lenient with him in this fracas.
The sheriff ran his eyes over the assemblage of men in the cantina. He stopped on a middle-aged man, one of the poker players. "Edgar, you tell the straight of things; did you see all what happened here?" the sheriff asked.
"Yes, Abel, I did."
"Tell me about it."
Edgar related the event, Rolph's words to Evan and John, Ben's challenge, and the shooting.
The sheriff then turned to Ben. "You satisfied that Edgar told it like it happened?" he asked.
"He told it as close as anybody could, so I'll stand by it that way."
The doctor called from where he was treating the wounded man. "Abel, I've done all I can for the man here. Now I need some help to get him to the hospital."
"Sure, Sheriff," one of the men said. The other nodded.
The sheriff brought his attention onto Rolph's comrades. "You two run with Rolph, so I'd guess you were with him when this happened. You got anything to say different from what's been said?"
Both men shook their heads in the negative.
"All right then, you can go. Stay out of trouble."
The lawman turned and, including Ben, Evan, and John with a sweep of his eyes, spoke to them. "Edgar said you were insulted for having fought in the war and that led to the shooting. Now I wouldn't like being insulted myself. But I take shootings serious when they happen in my town."
He spoke directly to Ben. "You seem awfully ready to pull a gun. And just a short while ago Thatcher came to see me about buying some horses that you didn't have a bill of sale for. What you do in Mexico is out of my jurisdiction, but selling stolen Valdes horses here in Abilene is my business. Now most people who buy them don't worry about a bill of sale since they once belonged to a Mexican. They remember Goliad and the Alamo. Some of the buyers even fought in the war of '47 and sure don't have any liking for Mexicans. In fact, they're glad to see you doing what you're doing. But I'm bothered by it all. I think it would be best if you left town for a spell, until you change what you do for a living."
Ben rubbed the big scar that ridged down the full left side of his face. He had thought before that the sheriff would sooner or later have a talk with him about the Mexican horses. Now Ben had added to the problem by selling the horses of the men who had killed Black Moon and the two women. The sheriff hadn't mentioned those horses, which meant that he was offering Ben a way out. It would be wise to take it.
"I'm a peaceful man, Sheriff, and want no trouble," Ben said. "I've been planning on visiting El Paso. My mother's buried near there and I should go and put some flowers on her grave."
"Now that sounds like a nice thing for a son to do," said the sheriff.
Ben saw the tenseness leave the sheriff. The man had been prepared to enforce his order, while Ben had absolutely nothing to gain by resisting.
"You'd probably want to leave right away," said the sheriff.
"I was thinking early tomorrow," Ben replied.
"Good" grunted the lawman. He spoke to the bartender. "You can get back to business now." The sheriff hitched up his heavily laden gun belt and strode from the cantina.
"Ben, we're going to El Paso," Evan said. "You'd be more than welcome to travel with us. Isn't that right, John?"
"Sure thing," John replied. "There are thieves and Indians between here and there. Another gun could come in handy."
John paused and studied Ben. "I've got a question. There was a deputy sheriff named Ben Hawkins in El Paso a spell back. Are you that deputy?"
"The same," Ben said. He had become deputy sheriff purely by chance. He had won the rifle-shooting contest—the prize was three hundred dollars—that was held yearly in El Paso. He had come in second in the pistol shooting, second to the sheriff of El Paso, Dan Willis. Ben had often wondered how much of his loss at the pistol-shooting contest was due to his final challenger being the sheriff. Anyway, his skill at the match had gotten him the deputy sheriff job, for later that day the sheriff had searched Ben out and offered it. Ben had accepted on the spot. He had already been planning to distance himself from the Mormon community of Canutillo. He had worked as a deputy for but eighteen months before he had gone off on a great adventure to fight for Texas.
"I thought I had the name right," John said. "I remembered it because you were talked about when the sheriff hired you. You know, about a man from Canutillo, and a young one too, becoming a deputy sheriff in El Paso."
"Yes, I was raised in Canutillo." Ben's voice had a flinty tone that said he didn't want any more talk about Canutillo.
Evan spoke quickly to head off any comments John might make about Evan's early life. "We're going to spend the night at the hotel just down the street. Where are you staying?"
"I've got a room in a home off on the edge of town," Ben said.
Evan climbed to his feet. "I'm wore out and need to rest. Stop by in the morning when you get ready to travel and we'll leave together."
"I would like that," Ben said. He meant it. Here were two men who could look him in the face and were willing to travel with him. His lonely, bleak mood was banished, at least for a time.
NINETEEN
Maude knew the other wives of Lester Ivorsen were jealous of her. They tried not to show it, and were succeeding as far as Lester was concerned. However, Maude felt the jealousy as a palpable force filling the big communal room where Lester met with all his wives every evening. Maude was seventeen and the sixth wife.
Lester was seated in a big leather chair positioned with its back against a wall. He was a big-boned, muscular man with sandy-colored hair and gray eyes. His six wives were seated in favorite chairs in a semicircle a dozen feet or so away. Two of the women had babes in arms. The larger of the children of his various wives were seated next to their mothers. The small ones who could walk, regardless of who their mothers were, sat intermingled on the floor at Lester's feet. He was smiling as he talked to the wee ones. He seldom smiled when addressing the wives, or the larger children.
Lester had told Maude that he wanted a child by her. She hoped that never occurred. What little feeling she had held originally for the man had quickly faded during the two months she had been married to him. She knew she had made a terrible mistake in marrying him. Hurry and end the evening gathering, she willed silently. End all the playacting.
A little blond-headed boy toddled up to Lester's knee and looked up at him. The father lifted the lad and placed him on his lap and held him as he continued to talk with the small children. After a few minutes Lester placed the blond child back on the floor. He pulled his watch and checked the time, as he did every evening when he grew weary of the children.
"Skedaddle to bed," he said to the small ones, and waved them away with his big hand.
Maude watched the children run off laughing. She, same as the other wives and larger children, straightened in her chair and became attentive. Now it was time for Lester to give instructions for tomorrow's operation of his several businesses. Then there would be time for domestic matters, and to settle any disagreements that might have developed between any of his wives.
Lester's rulings were final. Maude recalled that evening shortly after she had come into the family when Lester had grabbed Alice, wife number five, who was two years older than Maude and had been married to Lester two years, turned her over his knee, and spanked her severely for arguing with him. Maude believed the woman had argued because she was angry with Lester for taking a new and younger wife. The woman had never argued with the man since that day, at least not to Maude's knowledge.
Lester had assigned each wife, with the assistance of her children if they were large enough, the task of operating a specific enterprise. Lester gave overall direction and controlled the flow of money, and banked the profits in his name. Wife number one managed the general store of Canutillo; number two, with her three large sons, operated the cattle ranch in the hills north of town. Then there were the two boardinghouses, and the dress shop to be run. Lester had instructed Maude to work with wife number one, Marie, and learn all the aspects of managing a general store.
Lester completed his instructions for the conduct of the businesses. He again pulled his watch, the signal that he was now going to make his choice of the wife for the night The procedure for him to do that had been established for years. Maude had learned it the first night of her marriage to Lester. The last one he spoke to in the evening was the one to receive his favors and to prepare herself for him. Lester had chosen Maude practically every night since she had come into the family. She prayed that tonight he would select one of the other wives.
She was certain the other women felt neglected. This evening
, as every evening, every one of them had done her best to entice the lusty man to her bed for the night. Each had carefully prepared herself, freshly bathed, hair neatly done, and clothing laundered and ironed. All the children had been presented to their father as well groomed as the mothers.
Maude listened with sinking heart as one after another of the women was dismissed. Lastly Lester looked at her.
"Good night, Maude," Lester said with a penetrating look in his eye.
"Good night," Maude replied.
She left the man standing watching her and went out onto the porch. The building consisted of a large central complex of rooms for communal use and wings extending left and right, each containing three apartments, one for each of the wives. Maude walked toward her newly constructed rooms on the far right end.
The mistake she had made in marrying Lester weighed heavily on her shoulders. Lester was a very handsome man; all of the unmarried girls of Canutillo had spoken among themselves of that. Maude had also thought him handsome. Several of the other men of the town had multiple wives and the young women were used to that, and so Lester's several wives did not seem to concern the girls. He was wealthy, they had said, and a wife of his would never want for anything. They had not recognized the fact that the wives earned their own way by hard work. Maude, once Lester had begun to come to her father's house to court her, had taken special notice of his wives and saw their busy workdays.
She had remained hesitant to accept Lester's proposal of marriage, unsure of her feelings toward him, of how she would fit into the man's large number of wives. However, at the strong urging of her father, a good friend of Lester, she had finally been swayed to accept the man's proposal.
Now she knew that having a handsome husband could never compensate for all the heartaches of being wife number six. Or for even being number two, Maude was certain. She should have defied her father. She wanted out of the marriage. That wasn't easy to do in the small, closed community. She had mentioned to her father that she wanted to leave Lester. Her father had flown into a rage and forbidden it. So Maude had developed a plan. All was in readiness. She just needed a head start.