Zeke and Ned

by Larry McMurtry

  “Justice costs money,” the Judge said, with a sigh. “If I had unlimited funds to spend on marshals, there wouldn’t be a criminal within two hundred miles of here. The fact is, I can’t even afford to light the lamps. It’s a sad comedown.”

  “Lucky for Zeke Proctor, though. I guess he’ll stay where he is,” Chilly said.

  “He’ll stay where he is. Whether that’s lucky is another matter,” the Judge said.

  “Why? Do you think Judge Sixkiller will let him off?” Chilly asked.

  “No, Judge Sixkiller will give him a thorough trial, if it gets to trial,” the Judge said.

  “Why wouldn’t it get to trial?” Chilly asked.

  “There’s a passel of Becks, and they’re all hot,” the Judge replied. “The dead woman was a Squirrel on her pa’s side, and there’s quite a few Squirrels. I expect they’re all hot, too.”

  “You think they’ll lynch him?” Chilly asked.

  Judge Isaac Parker had finished talking. He kept whittling away on his willow stick.

  16

  ZEKE HATED CURBS ON HIS FREEDOM, AND JAIL IN TAHLEQUAH WAS a major curb on his freedom.

  Having Zeke there soon proved to be a curb on Sheriff Charley Bobtail’s freedom, too. Zeke was a demanding prisoner if there ever was one. Miscreants and felons rarely spent more than a few hours in the Tahlequah jail. Once they sobered up and submitted themselves to Judge Sixkiller in a spirit of humility, the Judge usually let them go, though not without levying a hefty fine.

  Throughout the first night and most of the second day, there was general apprehension within the jail. Everybody expected the white marshals to show up and attempt to take Zeke back to Fort Smith. Sheriff Bobtail had strict instructions from the Judge, and the instructions were not to let the marshals have Zeke. Ned Christie stayed the night, sleeping in the Cherokee Senate meeting hall. He missed his young wife Jewel—he dreamed of her soft eyes, and sweet breath— but he felt he ought to stay with Zeke at least one day. After all, he was a senator; perhaps the white marshals would listen to him if they showed up. Most of them had little interest in carting prisoners from one place to another, and Judge Parker was not popular with them because he paid the smallest fee possible for their services and permitted no extravagance. Their real hope in taking assignments to Tahlequah was to catch a whiskeyseller and collect the handsome reward. Two whiskeysellers, if apprehended and convicted, would yield enough reward money to enable a marshal to retire.

  When the second day came and went with no marshals, Ned decided the crisis had passed and prepared to go back to his wife. Zeke was annoyed with the whole arrangement. He did not want to be in jail, but if he had to be, he wanted Ned to go and bring him his dog, Pete, for company.

  “Pete might still be in that springhouse. If he is, I guess he’s living on bugs,” Zeke said. He and Ned had been throwing dice all day, to no purpose. Neither of them had any money.

  “I imagine Becca let him out,” Ned said, keeping his eyes on the dice. He wanted to go home and lay with his wife. He did not want to go all the way to Zeke’s place, just to let a dog out of a springhouse.

  “He could be a hundred miles away by now,” Sheriff Bobtail said.

  “Pete? Why would he be a hundred miles away?” Zeke asked, with some indignation. What right did Charley Bobtail have to be making such comments about his dog?

  Sheriff Bobtail declined to follow up on his remark. He had meant to go coon hunting that evening, and was annoyed at having to stay in Tahlequah just to hear Zeke Proctor complain. It occurred to him that he might deputize Ned Christie for a few hours, just long enough to get in a good coon hunt. Ned looked restless, though; he might not tolerate being deputized. It was a vexing situation for all concerned and was made more vexing a minute later, when the wild renegade Davie Beck came stomping into the jail.

  Davie took little care with his appearance. His shirt was liberally stained with tobacco drippings, and his pants were muddy. He had a long-barreled pistol stuck in his belt.

  “I ought to shoot all you fools, and I will shoot you, you goddamn killer!” he said, glowering at Zeke. “I’ve taken a solemn vow to avenge Polly, and I’d just as soon do it now.”

  “I guess you would, since I’m in jail and unarmed,” Zeke said. “I suggest you come to my house day after tomorrow, and we’ll have at it.”

  “Now, Dave,” Sheriff Bobtail said. “Zeke’s in my custody—don’t you be threatening him.” Unfortunately, the Sheriff was not possessed of a weapon just at the moment. He did not like wearing his pistol, because it interfered with his posture, and he had left his rifle out by the woodpile.

  “Shut up, Charley, you ain’t even armed,” Davie retorted. “I would rather not kill no sheriff, but I will, if I’m interfered with.”

  Ned Christie stood up and sidled between Davie and Zeke. Davie was the runt of the Becks, and Ned was a good foot and a half taller and considerably better armed. Davie’s old pistol had part of the handle wired on.

  “This man is a legal prisoner,” Ned informed Davie. “Judge Sixkiller put him in jail, and the trial is set. He wants to try a live prisoner, not a dead one.”

  Davie Beck was prone to animal-like fits when he was enraged. His hair would stand up like a mad coon’s, and he would snarl and hiss like a wildcat. In his rage, he would suck in air and swell like a bladder. Now, facing Ned Christie, his eyes got pig red, and he snorted a few times through his thick nose hairs.

  “You ought to get back to your goddamn hill, Ned,” Davie said. “I will shoot any man that opposes me.”

  “Get to shootin’, then,” Ned said, promptly drawing both of his .44s.

  Instead of pulling his old pistol with the wired-on handle, Davie gave a snarl and jumped for Ned’s throat. Ned whopped him with one of the big .44s right up the side of his head, knocking him into a corner. Davie was up in a flash and came for Ned again, trying to butt him down. Ned sidestepped, and whacked him right across the nose with the same big pistol. Everybody heard the nose crack. Blood came pouring forth, as if someone had just pulled a stopper out of Davie’s nostril. He went down again, but managed to lunge from a prone position and sink his teeth into Ned’s calf.

  “Watch him, Ned, he bites!” Zeke warned, a second too late.

  Ned did not need the warning—he knew Davie Beck bit and clawed in his rages, but he had not supposed Davie could recover from two whacks with a .44 pistol quite so swiftly.

  Sheriff Charley Bobtail could hardly believe his eyes. Davie Beck was not much more than half Ned Christie’s size, and Ned was far better armed—and yet there Davie was, his face and chest smeared with blood, chawing at Ned’s leg as if it was a pork chop.

  Ned had to whop Davie Beck three more times directly on the head and neck before Davie ceased his biting. Even then, Davie still showed signs of fight. He fumbled for his pistol, but Ned kicked his hand away and took the pistol. To Ned’s astonishment, the pistol was not even loaded.

  Then Davie got up on his knees and pulled a knife. It was a big clasp knife, which he promptly smeared with blood as he was trying to open the blade. Though his leg pained him, Ned could hardly keep from laughing at Davie Beck’s determination to do him violence. Davie stopped trying to open the clasp knife for a moment, and spat out a bloody tooth, one jarred loose by Ned’s second blow.

  “Watch him now . . . watch him now, he’s quick,” Zeke warned, from his cell. He felt sure Ned would prevail in the struggle, but there was always a chance Davie would manage some wild move and get through Ned’s guard, shoving the big knife into his liver.

  If that happened, his own doom would swiftly follow. Charley Bobtail had neglected to arm himself. The bloody Davie Beck would make short work of the Sheriff, who, in Zeke’s view, was a slow man in the wrong job.

  Ned had no intention of allowing Davie Beck the slightest opening. He squatted down so as to be at Davie’s level, and pointed both .44s directly at Davie’s bloody head.

  “Now, Davie, I want you to scat,
” he said firmly. “You had no business coming into this jail and misbehaving. Judge Sixkiller has set a trial, and it’s less than two weeks away. You and your brothers will just have to wait until the law has had time to proceed.”

  Davie’s hands were so slippery with blood that he failed to get his knife open, and Ned had his unloaded gun with the wired-on handle. He had lost all his bullets in a wager at cards, and had only brought the gun in hopes of bluffing Charley Bobtail. Had he known Ned Christie was there, he would have stopped and borrowed some bullets—but of course, it was too late for that now. Ned had the drop on him, and Ned was known throughout the Territory for the accuracy of his aim.

  Besides, his ears were ringing from Ned’s blows, and another tooth or two felt like they were working loose. The one thing Davie wanted to avoid was swallowing his own teeth. Swallowed teeth could grow in your stomach and puncture you fatally, his grandmother had told him when he was a child growing up in Mississippi.

  He managed, with difficulty, to get to his feet. Ned Christie’s eyes had a chill in them. Davie could tell the man would not be loath to shoot him.

  “I have got to attend to these teeth,” Davie said, once he was up. He started for the door, but turned just before he got to it.

  “Goddamn you, Ned,” he coughed. The blood had thickened up in his mouth.

  “Scat now, I said,” Ned repeated. “Just go along, or else die.”

  “One of these days I’ll skin you and peg up your hide,” Davie said, spitting out red froth. “That’s my solemn vow.” Then he left.

  Ned holstered his pistols, and looked over at Zeke.

  “It’s a good thing I stayed, ain’t it?” he said.

  “Yep,” Zeke replied. “I expect I’d be in hell by now, if you hadn’t.”

  17

  WHEN DAVIE BECK GOT HOME, THERE WAS SO MUCH BLOOD ON HIS saddle that T Spade’s first thought was somebody had shot his horse.

  When Davie dismounted, he did not seem immediately capable of speech. He began to walk around in circles in front of the mill. First one Beck brother, then another, trickled out to observe him. Sam, the eldest Beck, interrupted Davie’s circling long enough to determine that he was bleeding from the ear as well as from the nose.

  Nosebleeds were a common thing among the six Beck brothers. They frequently inflicted them upon themselves in the course of their many disputes. Frank and Willy, the middle brothers, had scrapped almost from birth and were subject to even more frequent nosebleeds. But it was rare for Davie to receive an injury, either from a brother or from anyone else, the reason being that there was no predicting where a fight with Davie Beck would stop. Once he passed into one of his animal fits, brother or stranger was just as apt to end up dead. The worst thing Davie had on his conscience was the drowning of cousin Simon Beck, which had occurred right after Davie’s own wedding to a yellow girl named China Lee. Cousin Simon had kissed the bride a little too enthusiastically for Davie’s taste. While the wedding party tippled, Simon and Davie fought their way down a hill, through a thicket, and into a creek. Davie returned to the wedding party not much worse for wear, but cousin Simon never returned. He was found two days later, with a bloody head and his lungs full of creek water. Davie tried to claim that a Choctaw must have jumped Simon, but no one in the Beck clan believed it. No one inquired closely into the matter, either. Davie did not welcome efforts to corroborate his stories.

  Davie was always the victor in his disputes; he did not stop fighting until his opponent was either dead or so damaged that he could not function. Thus, when Davie rode up, his saddle bloody to the stirrups, bleeding not only from the nose but from the ear, the assumption among the Beck brothers was that Zeke Proctor and anyone who might have tried to defend the man must be dead. The thought that someone might have bested Davie in a fight did not occur to any of them.

  “So, is the rascal dead, Dave?” T Spade asked. He knew he should have gone to avenge Polly himself, but he had suffered from an overpowering lethargy since her death and had allocated the matter of revenge to his renegade brother.

  “No, but he will be, soon enough,” Davie muttered. It galled him to admit failure. Bitterness at Ned Christie flooded his heart.

  The news took the assembled Becks aback. It was unthinkable that Zeke alone could have bested Davie—so, what was the story?

  “Well, why ain’t he dead?” Frank Beck managed to inquire. He was normally fearful of questioning his brother, but in this instance, he was so overwhelmed by curiosity that he could not contain himself.

  “Because that goddamn Ned Christie took his part,” Davie admitted. “I didn’t have no bullets to shoot the son-of-a-bitch with. Lost them at poker over in Dog Town.”

  “Now that was foolish,” T Spade remarked. “Ned Christie’s a dead shot. How did you expect to kill him without bullets?”

  “I didn’t expect him to be there in the first place,” Davie told him. “I expected to get in the cell with Zeke, and cut his damn throat.”

  “That was rash. How did you expect to get in the dern cell?” Willy asked.

  “I meant to ask Charley Bobtail for the keys and if he wouldn’t give ’em to me, I would have cut his goddamn throat first,” Davie said. “But Ned was there with two pistols and a rifle, and he wouldn’t back down. He thumped me on the head with them dern big forty-fours until I lost my reason.”

  T. Spade Beck was staggered, though he knew Ned Christie was a formidable man. But Davie had bested formidable men time after time—why had he not bested Ned?

  “Didn’t you fight back atall?” he asked.

  “Bit his leg,” Davie said. He was still walking in circles, dabbing at his ear with a piece of rag he found someplace.

  “Dern . . . why bite his leg?” Frank Beck inquired. “You could bite his leg till it thunders, and the man could still slap you with them big pistols, or anything else that might be handy.”

  Willy was the thoughtful Beck. His brothers all tended to act first, and think later, if at all—but Willy had small belief in taking action without thinking about it for a few minutes first.

  What he had to think about now was the fact that Ned Christie, the best shot in the District, had allied himself with the murderer Zeke Proctor. It was an unexpected turn of events, made more ominous by the fact that Ned had managed to best Davie in a direct encounter, something that no one else had ever done—and had suffered only a minor injury in the process, to boot.

  “We might have to kill Ned. I don’t know why he interfered,” Willy said.

  “Well, they’re Cherokees, Willy. Besides, that girl of Zeke’s married him,” T. Spade reflected. Since Polly’s death, he had stopped trimming his beard, which was long and dank from tobacco spittings.

  “That’s it,” Frank concluded. “Ned married Zeke’s girl. That makes him and Zeke in-laws.”

  Sam, the silent Beck, was so moved by the spectacle of his blood-soaked brother, that he ventured an opinion, too.

  “It’s more than the girl,” he said. “They ain’t just Cherokees— they’re Keetoowahs. They speak in signs to one another and such. They believe in them Little People, and witches and spells. I expect they made some Indian medicine, which is why Davie couldn’t whip Ned.”

  “I shouldn’t have gambled my bullets,” Davie reflected. The fact was, once in a card game, he would gamble anything he had. The power to stop was not in him. More than once he had come home barefooted and beltless on muddy nights because he had gambled his boots and belt.

  “It’s probably all that saved you,” Willy said. “I wouldn’t be shooting at Ned Christie—not me. If you’d had bullets, I expect that old pistol of yours would have misfired and he might have shot you dead.”

  Stung by this criticism, Davie whirled into another animal fit, though a short one. He jumped at Willy and pounded him to his knees. Before Willy could catch his breath, Davie kicked him in the pit of the stomach. When Willy fell over gasping, Davie jumped on his head with both feet and tried to mash his te
eth down his throat. He wanted Willy to swallow a few teeth, that might then grow in his stomach and puncture him. It would mean an agonizing death, just the kind he wanted his mouthy brother to die.

  Nobody pulled Davie off. When Willy was unconscious, Sam Beck rendered his conclusions.

  “Willy ought to know better,” he offered.

  “What ought we to do, T.?” Frank Beck wondered.

  T. Spade dribbled more tobacco spittings into his beard.

  “I expected Judge Parker to send the marshals after Zeke,” he said.

  “Well, he won’t, the old bastard,” Sam said.

  “We could hire a marshal or two ourselves, then,” T. Spade observed. “Billy Yopps might need the work.”

  Davie Beck had stopped walking in circles. Stomping his brother Willy had restored his good humour, to some extent, and he was feeling a little better. For a moment, he was tempted to shoot all his brothers—they were a vexing lot. But he had no bullets, and it would be a chore to borrow enough to wipe out the vexing Becks. He went over and kicked at Willy a time or two more, for good measure. Willy groaned, and then proceeded to roll partway down the slope behind the mill.

  “The trial day is in about a week,” Davie said. “I mean to go to the courthouse and kill every single person that’s on Zeke’s side.”

  “Davie, couldn’t we hire a marshal or two to help?” T. Spade asked. “It’d seem more legal, that way.”

  What was legal did not interest Davie Beck in the slightest. While his brothers were trying to revive Willy, he stumbled over to the springhouse and held his head in the cold springwater until the blood stopped dripping out his ear.