by Dean Owen
“Sweet Mother of God,” Doc Snider breathed.
“We’ll have the service soon as you take a look at Bert. Some of the boys are digging the graves now.”
The doctor’s face was gray. “But why has Bert let Ward push him into a position like this? Why?”
“I wish I knew. Ward and Meade Jellick are holding something over his head. Bert acts like a man who’s scared gutless. I can’t understand it at all.”
“Most any other man and I might say it was possible to force him to do something against his will. But Bert Stallart—I just can’t believe it.”
There was the sound of a horse in the yard. Rim went to the window. Sheriff Jared Dort was just swinging down from a roan. The sheriff came purposefully to the kitchen door and knocked. Rim told him to come in.
The sheriff eyed him coldly, then said, “You patch Stallart up yet, Doc?”
“Looks as if Stallart is the least of the patching that should have been done,” Doc Snider said from the table. “Why didn’t you tell me about Mrs. Stallart’s brother and the others?”
“Wasn’t no use. Not unless on your last trip to Mesilla you learned how to bring the dead back to life.”
Doc flushed at the reference to Mesilla. He got up. “If you’ll lead the way, Rim.”
“You’d better go alone, Doc,” Rim said. “You know the way.”
“I’ll just go have myself a talk with Bert Stallart,” the sheriff said. “Come along, Doc.”
Rim said, “In that case, I’d better go with you two.”
“You just set down there, Bolden,” Sheriff Dort said coldly. If you don’t mind.”
They went out, the sheriff with his clay-stained fingers, the doctor carrying his bag, his steps a little shaky from his recent sojourn in the southern part of the territory.
Rim walked out into the bright sunshine to see how the grave-digging had progressed. He found the men sitting on the mounds of fresh earth, shovels laid aside.
“She’s all ready, Rim,” one of them said.
Rim picked up a handful of the cold earth, crumbled it in-his fingers. It this all a man fights for all his life? he thought bitterly. Just so he can find himself a grave that in the passing of a decade, maybe even less, will be unmarked?
CHAPTER TWELVE
The service was brief. The coffins were lowered into the ground and covered with earth. The headboards Ed Rule had made that morning were put in place. Marcy wept quietly. She stood away from her husband. She did not look at him once. All during the service Rim was conscious of Bert Stallart’s gaze on him.
When it was over Doc Snider got Rim aside. “Think over what I said,” he warned gravely. “About a man putting a three thousand dollar value on his life.”
“Good-by, Doc. Thanks for coming out.”
Doc drove off and Marcy and Bert Stallart went into the house.
Sheriff Dort came over to where Rim stood, his eyes bleak. “I was almost beginning to think you were getting the muddy end of the stick around here, Bolden,” Dort said. “That is until I heard what I did upstairs.”
“Think the worst,” Rim snapped. “You will anyway.”
“Two partners and one woman between you. That’s a pretty low way to go about getting yourself a ranch. And a woman!”
“Take that badge off, Dort,” Rim said. “And I’ll feed it to you a little at a time.”
“There ain’t a goddam Texan born of woman that puts the fear in me. Least of all you, Bolden.”
“The hell with how you feel about me. But you’re slandering a good woman.”
“I wasn’t sure about her. But I am now. She took your part. Against her own husband.”
“She defends the truth against a lying tongue,” Rim said. “Does that make her a wanton?”
“I want nothing more to do with you, Bolden. Jellick told me some things about you in town this morning. I didn’t know whether to believe them. But I do now.”
“Jellick—in town,” Rim mused, but the sheriff had mounted and was riding out of the yard.
Ed Rule said, “Don’t do it, Rim.”
Rim turned around, surprised that the old cook had come up behind him. “Don’t do what?”
“Go to town and tangle with Jellick. Not ’less you take some of the boys.”
“Enough boys are dead already.” Rim gave Rule a light tap on the arm with his fist. “You stay out of my business, old man.”
“If you got to mess with Meade Jellick,” Rule said seriously, “shoot him in the guts. Don’t let him get a hand on you.”
Rim touched the butt of his low-slung gun. “I’m not going to town to palaver with Jellick or Indian wrestle. I’m going to town to kill him.”
Rim rode out, cutting into the hills away from the road. He didn’t want to run into Doc Snider, whose buggy he could easily overtake. Most of all he didn’t want to see Sheriff Dort. He’d had enough of the sheriff for one day.
* * * *
He approached the town from the south, coming in along Caballo Creek. He came upon the stage road from Mesilla and Paso and followed this for a mile. He was lost in dark and bitter thoughts when he caught sight of a yellow flower in the trees that bordered Caballo Creek, only a dozen yards from the road. Only it wasn’t a flower. It was the yellow head of a woman. Ellamae Stallart, sitting on a blanket, her feet drawn up under her, was regarding him somberly. Rim drew rein, looked around. He saw a yellow-wheeled buggy in the trees. Saw a team of horses tied off.
He rode up and dismounted. “Hello, Ellamae,” he said, his gaze searching the trees. “You here alone?”
“I’m with a fella.”
“What fella?”
“None of your business.” She had unpinned her long hair and now it hung loose about her shoulders. She wore a black dress with a frilly neckline. Her face was thinner than he remembered, paler. Her eyes were bitter.
“Where’s this fella of yours?” Rim said, and looked toward the creek.
“Right here!” a heavy voice said from behind him.
Rim, half-turned, felt something strike him in the small of the back with such force that he was driven to his knees. Half-paralyzed, he saw the hand ax that had been hurled at his back, thankfully striking with the flat end instead of the bit. Pain blurred his vision but he was able to see the immense shadow pounding down on him. He saw an armload of firewood come spilling down. Then he felt his gun torn from its holster.
Meade Jellick said, “I go to cut wood for cookin’. Look what I find!”
Rim heard Ellamae say, “Leave him alone, Meade.”
Jellick ignored her. “You got luck, Bolden. By rights you ought to be bleedin’. With half your back bone tore out. I need practice. I ain’t throwed one of them things in a long time.”
Desperately Rim tried to get his legs to work. He lay on his side. He began inching away but Jellick aimed a kick at his face. The swinging boot toe missed him by only half an inch as he drew back his head. The boot caught him in the shoulder. It knocked him hard against the ground. Jellick came for him again, grinning. This time Rim got to his knees. He swayed. Jellick came to stand over him, and he laughed.
“Ellamae, I brung you out here for a picnic. If seein’ a man’s brains layin’ in the dust turns your stomach you better go on down to the creek.”
“My God, Meade,” she whispered, getting to her feet. “Don’t kill him!”
Jellick leaned over to get Rim by an arm and drag him to his feet. But Rim came up of his own accord. He suddenly found strength in his legs. He bowed his head and the back of his neck came right up under Jellick’s crotch. Rim heaved up, lifting Jellick off the ground. It was like carrying a young bull on your back. The shock of Jellick’s big fists pounding his head and back almost drove him off balance. But he managed to take a few running steps. He launched himself in the air. As he fell he saw Jellic
k, arms flailing, catapult some half dozen yards away. Jellick fell with a crash on the side of his head. He lay huddled there like a wounded bear.
“I hope I broke his neck,” Rim panted, and looked around for his revolver.
Ellamae stood as if frozen, seeming unable to speak.
But before Rim could find the gun Jellick had taken, he saw the big man come up suddenly and sprint toward him. Jellick’s arms were wide from his big body, seeking to trap him in their circle.
Rim waited till Jellick could almost touch him with the tips of his fingers. Then he sprang aside. Jellick went past him like a runaway horse. And Rim’s whipping fist struck Jellick’s right ear so hard that it split the lobe. Jellick fell, skidding on his face. Instantly Rim was on him, getting the fingers of one hand in Jellick’s greasy hair. Drawing the head back so the face was exposed. Smashing with his right into Jellick’s face until the knuckles ached. And then Jellick, bellowing with pain, pretended to cover the wreckage of his face with a forearm. But the arm shot out, wrapped around Rim’s knees, pulling Rim down. His weight pinned Rim flat on his back.
Jellick stranded him and Rim felt the bleeding from Jellick’s face on his own. And Rim fought for one of Jellick’s hands and caught the wrist that seemed big around as a wagon tongue. Jellick’s other hand flashed to his throat and Rim tensed his muscles against the pressure. From a deep cavern of his mind came a roaring that grew. And with it came a redness and then black. It was his life that was swiftly melting into that blackness. And from some inner core he cried out for strength to lift this madman off of him and break the murderous fingers at his throat.
The only thing that saved him was the fact that Jellick only had one hand at his throat. If Rim had not managed to hang onto the other wrist the last life-giving breath would have been crushed out of him seconds ago.
But Rim suddenly released his hold on the wrist and clawed for the eyes. Never before in his life had he purposefully sought to blind a man. But he would have felt no guilt if he could have dug from the skull the eyeballs of this man who sought his death.
At the last moment Jellick jerked his head away and the clawing fingernails dug into flesh of cheek and jowl instead of eyesocket.
This shifting of Jellick’s weight gave Rim a chance to gain leverage. He heaved up, but not enough. Jellick was leaning on him again, seeking his throat. But Rim, holding both of his hands together, drove them upward, breaking apart Jellick’s grip. This he followed with a smashing blow to the jaw that snapped Jellick’s head back. And Rim twisted his body, toppling Jellick.
There was a sudden sound from the road and Rim shifted his gaze and saw two men on a hay wagon, staring. They were trying to hold in their team that was jumpy from the scent of blood and the sight of two big men pounding one another.
“Holy Kee-ryst!” one of the men said, awed. “It’s Jellick and Rim Bolden!” He grabbed a revolver from the floorboards of the wagon. Pointing it at the sky he emptied it. “Everybody ought to see this!”
The team, already skittish, nearly got away, but the second man held them in.
But Rim was only vaguely aware of all this. Jellick was coming for him again. He fought him off, took two crushing blows to the face. There was the salty, mineral taste of his own blood. He struck savagely at Jellick’s midriff and was rewarded by a blast of stale beer breath that must have been lifted from deep in the man’s stomach. But one of Jellick’s wildly swinging fists caught him at the right temple. Rim’s vision rocked. He groped, clung to the front of Jellick’s shirt to keep his legs from going out from under him. Jellick’s big yellow teeth snapped at his left ear. Rim jerked free, having a dim view of three Jellicks charging at him again. He lashed out and the three must have merged into one for he felt the man’s solid jawbone under his knuckles.
It was hit and back up, hit and sidestep. With Jellick always pressing. Jellick using short jabs and swinging wide, his fists like rocks swung from leather thongs.
They grappled and Rim, his head on Jellick’s heaving chest, felt a blinding pain at his crotch. He fell, but his hands caught at Jellick’s belt. He toppled Jellick. They broke apart. And Rim managed to crab-crawl across the ground, Jellick trying to kick at his head every step.
And Rim, in that moment, knew that had Jellick’s lifted knee struck solidly it would be over now. The pain subsided. Rim rolled away from Jellick’s boots. But his back was momentarily turned. Jellick kicked him at the spot where the hurled ax had struck earlier. Rim screamed. For a moment he thought the paralysis would grip him again. But it didn’t. On his knees he turned, meeting Jellick’s rush. He caught a swinging leg just below the knee. He twisted, putting all his weight on it. If only he could shatter the bone—Jellick gave a great squeal of pain. He kicked like a trapped horse. Rim was knocked ten feet away. Rim got up shakily and he saw that Jellick’s two legs were still solidly supporting the weight of this indestructible giant.
For the first time Rim felt a shadow of fear. He saw that the road and the area by the creek was packed with men who had come from town, a quarter mile away, drawn by the firing of the revolver by the teamster. He saw the staring faces, saw the eyes shining with excitement. And he knew that what they saw here today would be told as long as there was a campfire in these hills. Told and retold. And maybe with it set to music. With a cowhand and a banjo singing about the death of Rim Bolden. And a vaquero with a guitar, singing in Spanish of the futile fight of Señor Bolden. “Ah, you should have seen that day, compadre. The ground was red as if you opened a cask of wine and let it flow upon the soil. And those two. Ai—ai—ai—you would not recognize them as men. Their faces were masks of blood but you could see their eyes. The eyes hated—.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Jellick was bent over, gasping for breath. And for once Rim did not move in on him. His legs felt as if anvils were tied to his ankles. His arms were weighted as if cast in solid lengths of iron. He could hear his own breathing. It reminded him of spring wind howling in a rocky draw.
Allie Grindge, who owned the Jewel Saloon, was one of the spectators. He peered at the weary combatants through his steel-rimmed spectacles. “Boys, boys,” he said. “Call it off. Call it off.”
Jellick laughed and straightened up and came for Rim again. Rim struck him. Felt the knuckles of the big man rake his numbed face.
They circled, slugging. In close they used elbows and knees. The crowd was shouting. Horses reared, showing rolled eyes at the excitement. The stage coming from Mesilla had pulled up. Two of the passengers had alighted, a slim dark man in a black suit. And a girl with red hair who wore a pale green dress. She seemed gripped by some horrible fascination as she watched the fight.
The stage driver yelled, “Get in, get in! I can’t hold this team much longer!”
But neither the girl nor the dark man heeded him. The stage drove off, the other passengers shouting their disappointment at not being able to see the finish.
And the end was not long in coming. From some hidden reservoir Rim gathered the last flicker of his strength. He told himself, This is the man who killed Willie. The man who shot Simpson in the face and killed the others. The man who is trying to blacken Marcy Stallart’s good name. The man who is trying to wreck my life by what he holds over the head of Bert Stallart—
As Jellick came for him Rim did not sidestep. He drove his left fist into Jellick’s solar plexus. And at the same time he whipped his right to the jaw. But Jellick did not go down. He came on, blundering, cursing, trying to maul, to maim, to kill. A growing panic touched Rim as he gave ground before the avalanche.
“Dear God,” he breathed through his torn lips, “give me a gun!”
But there was no gun, only his fists. They wrestled across the clearing, once piling into Ellamae who had stood her ground, terror-stricken. They got up, tore at each other. They fell against the wagon and the team kicked wildly.
As Jellick twisted aw
ay from the wagon his left side was exposed. Rim hit him at a point just below the heart. Jellick tried to cover up and Rim hit him again. A great roar swept through the air and Rim did not know then if it was the crowd or the clamor in his own brain.
He struck, struck. He could hardly lift his hands.
The roaring increased it engulfed him. And he felt hands on his arms and somebody pounding his back. Dazedly he looked around. Excited faces hemmed him in.
“You done it, Rim!” a man shouted. “You done it!”
“Done what?” was all Rim could say.
“Jellick is down!”
And he was. Rim saw him lying in the road dust. A trickle of blood from Jellick’s smashed nose made a small scarlet trail down the slope of a wheel rut.
Rim groped wildly. “A gun. Somebody give me a gun. I’m going to kill him—”
“No,” Allie Grindge said. “It’d be murder.”
“The hell with that. He isn’t fit—fit to live.”
Suddenly the road rolled out from under him. A storm must have come up suddenly for he was floating through a black cloud. He was dimly aware of voices: “Take him to town.” “Take Jellick, he’s worse off.” “We’ll send Doc for Rim Bolden.” “Let’s go drink whisky and talk about this.”
Later, Rim heard a girl’s voice say, “Get back. I’ll take care of him.”
And then Rim was increasingly aware of something soft under the side of his head. He opened one aching eye and saw a large green button and then some soft green cloth. The button and the cloth moved in and out, in and out. For quite a few seconds he wondered about this, then decided it was made by someone inhaling, exhaling. He felt warmth under him and a scent of lilac. Then, as he turned his head he felt a woman’s shape under his head. He looked up into a young face that watched him over the edge of a rounded shelf of bosom. The face was pale now. She had large gray eyes and thick lashes. And she kept running the tip of her tongue along her full lower lip.
“I’m so glad you’re conscious,” she said.
“I must be dead,” he breathed. “They don’t have faces like yours. Not in this world. I must be in the next one.”