He rammed a big iron key into the lock and ground it back. The door opened. Stumpy, then Nathan, and then Chance walked down the corridor, and Nathan heard the door being locked behind him. In the back corridor Nathan noticed the placement of the chair, the boarded windows, the supplies of food and water. The building with its thick adobe walls was like a fort.
Joe was standing at the bars of his cell, pressed eagerly against them, smiling. It was clear what he was thinking—Nathan had taken care of things, he was going to get out right away, and he would have a good laugh at the look on the sheriff’s face as he went. Something very sudden and violent happened inside Nathan. His love for his younger brother was deep and sincere. It had persisted out of habit long after he had learned that Joe was not in any way worthy of it. Now he knew that it was gone, or at least very much changed. Since the moment his riders had come racing out to Silver Spur with the news about Joe he had gone coldly and deliberately to work to save him, but he had not once let himself think of Joe personally. Now he looked at this handsome young man with the flashing eyes that were as shallow as rain water and he wanted to grab him and beat his head against the bars, asking him all the while why he had done this stupid, senseless, useless thing.
Nathan had worked long and hard for what he had. Joe had never worked at all. And Nathan felt that he was in danger of losing everything because Joe could not be bothered to exercise any control over his silly viciousness. Right now all the work of the ranch had had to be suspended and Nathan himself had been forced to run head on into the law because it had pleased Joe to kill a man in a drunken fit of annoyance. And here he was, sure and confident that Nathan would see that he didn’t have to pay for it.
If it had been only a matter of a prison sentence, Nathan would have let him sweat it out this time. But it was a hanging matter and Joe was guilty as a man can be, so there was only one thing to do. And Nathan would do it. Afterwards …
Time enough to think about afterwards when Joe was safe over the border. Nathan shook himself mentally, thrusting all emotional confusion to the back of his mind, out of the way.
“I’m glad you finally got here,” said Joe cheerfully. “I’m sick of this hole.” He waited a moment. Nobody said anything and Joe began to look doubtful. He asked, “Do I get out now?”
“That depends on what arrangements we can make with the sheriff.”
Chance said, “No arrangements.”
Nathan studied him. His face and his voice were both as hard as flint. Nathan shrugged. He said mildly, “I thought perhaps we could discuss—”
“You thought wrong,” Chance said, and suddenly the deep anger in him blazed out. “You’re a big man, Nathan. You’ve got a lot of land and a lot of cattle and you pay a lot of people to do what you want ’em to do. It doesn’t make you God. It doesn’t even make you Jesus Christ. Your brother killed a man and he’s going to stand trial for it. No arrangements, no discussions, nothing. You figure you’ve got me boxed. All right. But I’m going to sit in this box with Joe in my lap until the U.S. Marshal gets here. Then you can tangle with him if you want to.”
Nathan did not. Federal law was too big for any man to buck, unless he wanted to ruin himself utterly.
Joe laughed. “He talks big. He talks awful big. Look what he’s got here, Nathan. A barfly and an old cripple. Hell. You could have me out of here—”
Nathan said with cold impatience, “Shut up, Joe.”
Joe shut up.
Chance looked at him and smiled. “Nathan’s smarter than you are, Joe. He’s been looking the place over. He knows how tough it would be to rush this jail. And if he still has any doubts I’ll lay it out for him. The minute trouble starts around here, the prisoner is liable to get accidentally shot.”
He glanced at Stumpy, who had sat down in his chair and was holding the heavy shotgun pointed at Joe’s cell. Stumpy grinned a lustful grin and said, “In fact, I can practically guarantee it.”
Joe’s face turned chalky. He looked horrified. “He’d do it, too, Nathan, by God he would? He’s crazy enough.”
Nathan’s eyes had become blank and hooded. His respect for Chance had grown tremendously. This is what he would have done himself, but he had not believed there was that much iron in the sheriff. Whether or not he would actually carry out the threat was a question Nathan did not care to gamble on, and it didn’t matter anyway because the old man certainly would. Nathan had run over a fair number of Stumpy Andersons in his time: it was a matter of necessity, the range here was poor and barren and a man needed a lot of it, all he could get his hands on. Nathan had built Silver Spur from a spread not much bigger than Stumpy’s section and he had preferred to use legal methods whenever he could. He figured if a man was so stubborn he had to use other ones to root him out, that was the man’s own fault. Few of them had ever come back to bother him. Stumpy was an exceptionally tough old bastard, and it was a pity that rifle bullet had only smashed his leg instead of his head.
Joe was saying in a high thin voice, “That’s murder, Chance. Goddamn it, do you think you can get away with murder?”
“I figure,” Chance said, “we’d all be dead by then, so what difference would it make?”
Joe said desperately, “Nathan, what are you going to do?”
“Why,” said Nathan in a perfectly expressionless voice, “I don’t see that there is anything I can do, Joe.” Joe opened his mouth, but Nathan spoke a little louder. “You’ll just have to be patient. And don’t worry about the trial. I’ll see that you have the best lawyer in Texas.” He turned to Chance. “I think everything is clear now.”
He walked around the corner out of the cell corridor, and he did not have the heart to look back at Joe’s stricken face. But he thought, “Let the son-of-a-bitch sweat.”
He waited while Chance unlocked the barred door, taking the opportunity to note that Stumpy was invisible from here, secure from any blast of shot down the hallway. The jail would have to be forced from the front, and no matter how fast you did it Stumpy would live long enough to finish Joe. He would not even be hurried.
Nathan’s mouth set. He became very thoughtful.
Chance went with him to the front door.
“There’s one more thing,” Chance said, in a peculiarly quiet voice. “I don’t figure that Pat Wheeler is more than half paid for.”
Nathan gave him a long level look. They stood there, both of them, not speaking, not needing to speak, drawn close together in understanding and enmity, and Nathan felt a deep strange shiver run through him—not fear but a sense of fate, of things set in motion like boulders down a hillside, that could not be stopped nor turned aside until they had run their course. And all the time in the back of his mind he saw Joe hanging from a gallows with a black sack over his head, swinging back and forth while the silver spurs glinted on his heels.
He said, “Good-by, Chance,” and went out into the glaring street and across it to the Rio Bravo Saloon.
Colorado was sitting at a table in the corner of the saloon. He had been sitting there for quite a while, watching what went on across the street. Now he watched Burdette come in with Matt Harris and the four other men. The crowd was still hanging around outside, hoping perhaps that Burdette would gather more men and rush the jail. But he didn’t. He spoke curtly to Harris, shutting him up, and went directly to the bar. There was a new bartender. He brought Burdette a bottle and Burdette drank, sparingly, his shoulders hunched a little, his head bent like a man who is doing some heavy thinking. Colorado stared at him intently from under the brim of his hat. He seemed to want to learn everything there was to know about Burdette just by looking at him.
After a minute or two Burdette turned around and Colorado saw that he was smiling, a kind of an odd smile. He called across the room to the little Mexican who was playing the piano.
“Raton.”
Raton stopped playing. “Me, Señor?”
Burdette nodded. “Come here.”
Raton looked uneasy but he
left the piano and went across to Burdette. Burdette put a hand on his shoulder and spoke to him quietly, putting his head close to Raton’s. Colorado was too far away to hear what was said, but he saw Raton start and pull away a little, speaking louder in protest. Colorado thought he said something about something being bad luck in Texas.
Burdette continued to smile. And now Colorado could hear him quite clearly.
“Play it, Raton. Keep playing it until I tell you to stop. Comprende?” He turned to the bartender. “Eddie, see that he isn’t disturbed.” Raton was still standing there, and Burdette looked at him in mild surprise. “Go on, Raton. I want to hear it, good and loud.”
Raton went back to his piano, dragging his feet. He sat down. He looked once more at Burdette as though hoping for a last-minute change of mind, but there was none. Raton clenched his fingers into fists, spread them again, and began to play.
It was damned strange music to come out of a barroom piano. Colorado could not believe his ears at first. The notes were somber and savage, with a quality of relentless anger in them. It was a music of revenge, of punishment. It was immensely stirring. It came in short phrases, repeated, then repeated again. It sounded like a bugle call.
And all of a sudden Colorado knew what it was. He sat up straight and his eyes narrowed, going again to Burdette.
Burdette was still smiling. He seemed satisfied and at peace. He talked some more to the bartender, apparently giving further instructions about Raton. Then he nodded to his men and they all went out, the men looking puzzled about the music but not daring to ask questions. Probably, Colorado thought, very few people now had ever actually heard it, but they would only need to be told the name. Burdette and his men mounted and rode away. The crowd began slowly to break up.
Raton continued to play. The music seemed to have a curious effect on him. His reluctance slipped away. His slender back straightened. His hands struck down upon the keys as though they were smiting enemies. In his eye there was a gleam of fierce and secret pride.
Colorado saw Dude ride in from the edge of town. He got up and left the saloon. He crossed the street to the jail, walking unconsciously in time with the harsh beat of the music. Chance had come out onto the porch and was talking with Dude.
“—expect him to do,” Chance was asking, “give us his plan of campaign?” He was holding his rifle in his two hands and Colorado thought he might break it any moment like a twig.
Dude said, “You mean he didn’t say anything at all?”
“Nothing. Just cleared his own skirts. Outside of that, not a goddamn thing.” Chance turned his head and gave Colorado a cold stare. “What do you want?”
“Just wondered how you came out with Burdette.”
“Why should you care?” Dude asked. “You made it pretty plain you weren’t interested.”
Colorado ignored him. He said to Chance, “Maybe Burdette didn’t say anything to you directly but he’s talking now. Hear that music? He told the man to play it.”
Chance looked at him narrowly. He and Dude listened to the piano, sounding muted but still thunderous across the blazing street.
“What is it?” asked Chance.
“The Deguello. The Cutthroat Song. Santa Anna’s regimental bands played it outside the Alamo. Played it day and night while the red flag waved, until it was all over. Now do you remember what it means?”
A change came over Chance’s face, leaving it grim and dark. “Yeah,” he said. “I remember. It means no quarter.”
He looked up at the riders motionless on the cliffs, and then at the streets of the town, and then outward to the wide and empty land.
Colorado walked away. He sang softly to himself, “And Santa Anna gained the day, all on the plains of Mexico.”
FOURTEEN
Chance was standing by the window, listening to the Deguello and quarreling with Stumpy who was on the other side of the barred door.
“How the hell could I hold him?”
“If he ain’t given you all the reasons a man could need—”
“Like what?”
“Like stopping people on the road. Like—”
“It’s Silver Spur range. He’s got a right to stop ’em long as he don’t do more than ask questions. He hasn’t hurt anyone or bothered their property.”
“Like the stagecoach, then, damn it. He—”
“Prove it. Prove he hired the man that killed Wheeler. Prove that these men he’s got in town and up on the cliffs and out on the road would do one damned thing beside sit there if I tried to take Joe Burdette out of town.”
Stumpy swore. “Prove, hell. I’d of throwed him in anyway.”
“I might have,” Chance said, “except for one thing.”
“What’s that?”
“I’d have been doing him too big a favor.”
“Lay it out for me,” Stumpy said, shaking his head. “I’m a ignorant old man. I can’t figure these here fine points.”
“Nathan’s a big man. He’s got big friends. If I threw him in jail with no legal cause his friends would hear about it tomorrow and I’d be out of office the day after—and lucky if I wasn’t in the cell instead of Nathan. And I’ll lay you six, two and even that Joe would ride out of trouble on Nathan’s back.” Chance brooded a minute, retesting this chain of reasoning and finding it as solid as before. “This way,” he went on, “Nathan’s on the wrong side of the law and that’s a risky place to be. He might fall and break his neck on it yet.”
He was silent again for a moment. Then he said, “Anyway, with us holding Joe over his head, I don’t see what he can do.”
His voice carried no conviction. Stumpy muttered something obscene. “He’ll think of something,” he said, and went away down the corridor. Stumpy did not have much of an ear for music but the monotonous repetition of the Deguello, which had been going for an hour now, was beginning to get on his nerves. In the back of the jail he could hardly hear it. He settled down to needling Joe.
Chance looked broodily out the window, and he saw Carlos coming from the direction of the hotel. He was walking fast, holding one hand over his eye. He came up on the porch and called and Chance let him in.
“What’s the matter with your eye?”
Carlos took his hand away. The flesh around the eye was swollen and purple. Carlos could still glare out of it. He glared.
“You told me to put the lady on the stage.”
“Hell,” said Chance, “did she give you that?”
“No,” said Carlos between his teeth, “she did not.”
“But I thought you said …”
“I said you told me to put her on the stage. Consuela, she hit me in the eye.”
“Consuela?” Chance said impatiently. “I’m getting mixed up.”
“If you will be good as to let me say that which I have come to say. Now.” Carlos took a deep breath and launched into his story. “I wait for the lady to come down. The stage is ready. Jake is ready. But she does not come down.”
Startled, Chance said, “What?”
“I yell at her, Come down. She say she is not coming. Jake says the hell with her, he will go. I beg him to wait. I go upstairs to get the lady—as you tell me, amigo. But she say she will not go.”
Chance said, “She did go, didn’t she?”
“I tell her you say she must. I tell her I am responsible. She say no, she is responsible. It is no use to argue with a woman, so I pick her up. Then Consuela comes and says, What are you doing with that woman? And I say, I am responsible for her. And Consuela, she thinks responsible means something it does not. So she hit me.”
Chance was trying hard not to laugh. Carlos was mad enough already. “What did you do?”
“What can I do? My arms are full of the lady and I cannot defend myself, so I drop her on the floor and then she yell like fury that I try to kill her, and Consuela—ah!” He flung his hands heavenward. “You spoke truly when you said her fingers are very strong. Now I ask you to come and—”
; “Wait a minute,” Chance said. “The girl did get on the stage, didn’t she?”
“No she did not. She has a will as strong as Consuela’s fingers, like iron. Jake would wait no longer.”
Chance said, “Oh Lord help us.” But he was not sure whether he was glad or sorry the girl had stayed.
Carlos repeated, this time in a louder tone. “You will please come, amigo, and explain to Consuela what responsible means.”
Chance yelled to Stumpy, picked up his rifle, and went out with Carlos. They walked along the hot street. The Deguello followed them. Carlos glanced uneasily at Chance, who said,
“You know what that is, huh?”
“Sí. It is very old. The buglers of Ferdinand and Isabella sounded it against the Moors when they drove them out of Spain. Indeed some believe the Deguello was Moorish before it was Spanish.”
“It always meant the same thing, though, didn’t it?”
“Sí,” said Carlos. “No quarter.” And he drew his hand like a knife across his throat.
They walked on in the dry blistering heat.
“Perhaps,” Carlos said, “It is only a boast.”
They went into the relatively dark, relatively cool hotel.
Consuela had apparently been waiting for them. She ran to Carlos, crying.
“The señorita, she explain. I am sorry, Carlos. I am so wrong.” She stood before him with her head bowed, saying, “Please forgive me.” Carlos’s face softened. He winked at Chance over her head and then looked stern again. He began to talk to Consuela gravely in Spanish.
Chance said, “I guess you don’t need me.” He went upstairs to Feathers’ room.
She was sitting on the edge of the bed, dressed in a dark travel costume with only a few small feathers on the hat. Her luggage was stacked neatly beside her. She looked up at Chance with the bleary-eyed obstinate look of a small girl who knows she has done a bad thing, is a little scared and bawling about it, but determined to brazen it out.
“Well,” she said, “I didn’t go.”
“I can see that.”
She pointed to the bags. “I had everything packed. Then Carlos yelled that the stage was ready and I heard somebody say I’m not going. It was me.”
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