Zeke and Ned

by Larry McMurtry

  “Maybe we can, and maybe we can’t,” she told him. “I’d prefer to save it till I’m paid, but you’re still welcome to the chicken house.”

  She also allowed him access to her whiskey. The Becks were tough negotiators. She knew if she allowed Bill Yopps to grease himself up a little, he might accept a lower wage.

  Bill Yopps conceived a notion that was too good to share with anyone. Instead of killing Zeke while he was on his way to trial, he’d kidnap him and spirit him off to Fort Smith. It was well known that Judge Parker did not particularly approve of the Cherokee courts. If he and a few deputies could snatch an important prisoner such as Zeke Proctor and rush him to Fort Smith, Judge Parker might be inclined to restore him to marshal status.

  The Becks were nervous. Despite his brushing, Bill Yopps still had a good many feathers stuck to his person. Also, the wound in his shoulder was leaking down his sleeve again. The sight disgusted Sam Beck to the point that he was sick at his stomach. Bill hardly looked like a man who could defeat much opposition.

  Bill asked for an advance of $10 toward expenses, but Willy Beck was adamant: he was not to have a cent until the prisoner was delivered to the bar of justice—Beck justice—or else killed.

  “What do you aim to do about deputies, Bill?” T Spade asked. He, too, lacked confidence in Bill Yopps, but time was running out, and he doubted they could find another man to attempt the job.

  “I’ll go up to the Cave,” Bill Yopps assured them. “There’s always a few killers resting up by the Cave. I guess if I can deputize three or four, we can take your man.”

  The Cave was a ledge of overhanging rock on the ridge of the Walk Back Mountain. It was a favourite resting place for outlaws and renegades—white and Indian alike—and a far piece from any sheriff’s office. The way there was all uphill. Rattlesnakes liked it, too, because of the abundance of rocks on which they could sun themselves. One bearded outlaw named Rolly Dan had become fond of snake meat. He had strung a line between two trees to peel snakeskins on. There would usually be two or three peeled rattlers hanging from it. Rolly Dan would smoke them like hams.

  Without further discussion, Marshal Yopps saddled up and headed toward the Cave. The Becks watched him go with skeptical faces.

  “We ought to have started looking for a marshal sooner,” Willy observed. “If you wait till the last minute, you have to take draggy help.”

  “I think we ought to go cart Zeke off ourselves,” T. Spade said. “If we all go in a bunch, I doubt Ned Christie could stand us off.”

  The remark was greeted with silence. Neither Frank, nor Willy, nor Sam wanted to think about what Ned Christie might do.

  “If it’s fight Ned Christie or stay home, I plan to stay home,” Willy said, finally.

  T. Spade took offense at the remark.

  “A fine bunch of brothers you are,” he said.

  “Why, we’re fine,” Sam said. “I’m putting up four dollars toward the marshal, and it wasn’t even my wife that got killed.”

  “No, and it never will be, because no woman would be foolish enough to have you,” T Spade said bitingly.

  Sam regretted that the discussion of wives had ever begun. His bachelorhood was a sore trial to him, and T Spade knew it. He longed for a woman and had proposed to several, but with bleak results. His brother’s words were cruel, but true: no woman would have him.

  “You oughtn’t to be hard on Sam about women, T,” Willy admonished, when they got home. Sam was so depressed, he neglected to unsaddle his horse. He had wandered off toward the creek, to brood about his bachelorhood.

  “Shut up, Willy, or I’ll start in on you,” T Spade said.

  24

  ON ZEKE’S LAST NIGHT IN JAIL, HE BEGAN TO MISS HIS FAMILY.

  Once the missing began, it soon got bad. The morrow—indeed, his whole future—was uncertain. The jury might find against him; or, the Becks might take advantage of the fact that Judge Sixkiller planned to disarm the crowd. They might storm the courthouse and finish him. Ned Christie, the one man he could count on to protect him, was late showing up. Zeke knew that Ned, his Keetoowah brother, would not flatly desert him, but Ned had a ways to travel, and accidents could always happen along the road.

  It was chilly in the jail. Pete was whiny, demanding more attention than Zeke was in the mood to give him. Pete kept trying to jump up in Zeke’s lap, and Zeke kept pushing him off. The last time he did it, Pete got annoyed and nipped at Zeke’s hand. In a mood of tit for tat, Zeke tried to kick at him, but Pete was too quick, and he missed.

  It was so lonesome in the jail that Zeke even missed Liza and her constant babble. He missed the triplets, too. The triplets could never get enough of their pa; they crawled all over him whenever they got the chance and sometimes slept on top of him, like little possums. Minnie liked to tickle his ear and play with his moustache.

  Mainly, though, Zeke missed Becca. In his worried state, he began to remember the earlier, livelier Becca, the one he had been with three times in one night. They were both convinced that passionate night had produced the triplets. It might be that Becca was too old to produce any more triplets; it might be that he was too harried with worries to be with a woman three times in one night; but he and Becca could still do well enough, and it was saddening to him that he could not be with her on what might be his last night alive. He felt alive, too—he felt the need of his wife Becca—and yet, because of his foolishness with Polly Beck, a good woman had left him and gone back to her people.

  About midnight, Sheriff Charley Bobtail came in to check on his prisoner. Men had been known to do desperate things on the night before they had to face Judge B. H. Sixkiller across a courtroom. One foolish young bandit had cut his jugular with a pocketknife. The Sheriff found him dead, in a pool of his own blood.

  Zeke Proctor had not taken matters that far, but he did look mighty unhappy.

  “I wish you’d just let me go, Charley,” Zeke said.

  “Zeke, what would you do if I did?” the Sheriff asked, surprised by this unorthodox petition. “The marshals would just hunt you down, if I let you go.”

  “I’ve wronged Becca,” Zeke said. “Now she’s left me. I need to go make it up to her before I submit to trial.”

  Sheriff Bobtail was so surprised by this development that he was struck silent.

  “I’ve known trials to be put off,” Zeke said. “It’s a family matter I need to settle. Once I get it settled, I’ll come right on back. I’ll give you my Keetoowah oath, if that will help.”

  Charley Bobtail wished he’d stayed in bed. Now Zeke had gone and reminded him they were Keetoowah brothers, a fact that put him under a certain obligation. How much obligation was the question on Charley Bobtail’s mind.

  “Good-bye, Zeke, it’s late at night for conversation,” the Sheriff said. He hastened out the door, into the fresh night air.

  Walking home, he happened to pass Judge Sixkiller’s house. There was a light in the Judge’s window. Charley Bobtail peeked in and saw the Judge sitting at his little rolltop desk, reading a law book. On impulse, Charley went to the door and knocked.

  The Judge had a law book in one hand when he finally opened the door.

  “Zeke’s wanting to go make it up with his wife before the trial,” the Sheriff said. “He says he’ll come right back, once he’s got the matter settled.”

  “You didn’t let him out, did you?” the Judge asked.

  “No, he’s still in jail,” the Sheriff replied.

  “Go home, Charley,” the Judge told him. “I’ll visit the prisoner in the morning and discuss the matter with him myself.”

  “Are we still having the trial, then?” Charley asked.

  “Nine o’clock,” the Judge replied.

  Then he shut the door.

  25

  WHEN NED CAME UPON CHILLY STUFFLEBEAN, THE MAN WAS SITTING on top of his mule with his feet out of the stirrups, upstream a little ways from the normal crossing of Little Boggy Creek. The Little Boggy had just d
emonstrated how it got its name, because Chilly’s bay mule was bogged nearly to its haunches.

  The man on the bogged mule was wearing a black coat and a black necktie. Ned thought he might be an undertaker—maybe he had the mishap of getting bogged on his way to arrange a funeral, or lay out a corpse.

  The puzzling thing was that the man was stuck twenty yards downstream from the usual safe crossing. Why cross a creek with a name like Little Boggy and not stick to the tried-and-true ford?

  “Howdy,” Ned said. “How’d you come to be in that shape? Most people cross right here, where I am.”

  “I was aiming to,” Chilly informed him. “There was a snake there, though—a big ugly cottonmouth. I was raised not to disturb snakes, so I came downstream. Now I’ll be late for the trial, and probably get fired, to boot.”

  “Oh, I’m on my way to Tahlequah, if that’s the trial you mean,” Ned said. “Wade on over here and I’ll carry you in myself. It ain’t but three more miles to Tahlequah. We won’t miss that trial.”

  Chilly did not relish the prospect of wading. For one thing, the fat water moccasin might still be around, and he would be easier pickings wading than he would be on his mule.

  For another thing, there was the matter of dress. He was expected to be the bailiff at Zeke Proctor’s trial, and he had on his only suit of clothes. In fact, the suit of clothes had belonged to him for one day. Judge Parker had insisted that he buy it, and had helped him get a bank loan to pay for it. The banker had been skeptical and so had the merchant, but Judge Parker considered the matter of attire so important that he accompanied Chilly first to the bank, and then to the dry goods store.

  Chilly was very proud of his suit—it had given him the confidence to make the long ride through the hills from Fort Smith to Tahlequah. He felt sure that bandits and hooligans would be likely to respect a traveler in such a suit.

  Now his mule was bogged in the mud, three miles shy of the trial, and the only way to get out of the situation was to wade in the same mud, which would surely not improve the condition of his new suit. If he came in to the trial muddy, Judge Parker would be sure to hear about it, and the consequences might be dire.

  Chilly decided his best option was to undress, a tricky thing to do on a bogged mule. Cautiously, he raised one leg at a time, and pulled off each shoe. Then he very carefully stood up in the saddle, as an amused Ned Christie watched. Using great care not to spook the mule, Chilly managed to get his new pants off. The shirt and coat were easier, and the necktie was no trouble at all.

  “Now that’s smart,” Ned said. “Why muddy up your good clothes?”

  At that moment, he saw the water moccasin Chilly had been talking about. It lay partly hidden behind a rock, and it was big and ugly, just as Chilly had claimed. Without giving the matter much thought, Ned took one of his .44s and blew the moccasin’s ugly head off.

  The gunshot spooked the bogged mule, who lurched forward in a violent attempt to free himself. Fortunately, Chilly was agile—he managed to get off the mule just as it lurched, his clothes held in a bundle high above his head. The only casualty was a shoe, which slipped out of the bundle and started floating downstream. It floated right down to Ned, who reached over and picked it up. He poured the water out of it, and followed Chilly to shore.

  “I thought that mule was bogged too deep to spook,” Ned said. “Most mules just give up and die when they bog that deep.”

  Chilly, who was hastily dressing, looked horrified at the thought of the mule dying.

  “That mule can’t die,” he said. “That mule belongs to the court back in Fort Smith. Judge Parker would probably hang me if I let anything happen to that mule.”

  “You’re as good as hung, then,” Ned advised him. “I ain’t got a rope to pull him out with, I expect he’ll sink on down in the mud and drown about the time the trial starts.”

  He was mostly pulling Chilly’s leg. It would take the better part of two days for a mule to bog deep enough to drown. Once the trial was over, Chilly could come back with a rope and a winch, and if he could find a stout tree to fasten the winch to, he could winch the mule out.

  Chilly was unaware that Ned was teasing him, and was soon in an agony of indecision. Should he miss the trial and save the mule, or save the mule and miss the trial? On top of that, he had no idea how to tie his necktie. Once he got dressed again, he stood there, staring at the tie dangling from his hand.

  Ned Christie saw his plight, and got down to help. He had never tied a necktie, either. On formal occasions, he contented himself with a clean bandanna. Though tying a necktie looked easy—there were professional men who managed it every day—in practice, it proved to be impossible. Ned tied several knots, but none of them looked acceptable. Chilly tried several knots, with the same result. One end of the necktie always came out too long, and the other end too short.

  Before they knew it, time had slipped by. The mule was still bogged, and the necktie still untied. Ned happened to cock an eye at the sun, his only timepiece, and when he did, he grew alarmed: it was just short of nine o’clock.

  “Get on, we’ll have to lope it,” Ned said, and Chilly obeyed. He held his wet shoe in one hand, and his necktie in the other. Ned had understated when he said they’d have to lope it to Tahlequah, and soon had his big grey gelding in a flat-out run. He knew Zeke counted on him being there. He might get blue if the trial started with Ned not around to take his part in case of trouble.

  Chilly Stufflebean grabbed the saddle strings as best he could. He managed to stuff the necktie into the wet shoe, and then held the wet shoe between his teeth. He, too, had an interest in being on time. The bailiff had to be there well before the judge, in order to see that there was water in the judge’s pitcher, and spittoons handy both for judge and jury. He knew carrying a shoe in his teeth was not orthodox behaviour, but it was, in his view, better than being late.

  When they came down the hill to Tahlequah, Ned slowed the gelding. They came to the courthouse in a high trot. A considerable crowd was milling in the street. It was mostly just curiosity seekers, but the Becks were part of it—all except Davie, who was not in view. The drunken marshal, Bill Yopps, was astride his horse over by the dry goods store, a number of ruffians with him. Charley Bobtail was not to be seen, but Judge B. H. Sixkiller was on the steps of the courthouse, dressed for court in a black frock coat a good deal more worn than Chilly’s.

  Chilly hastily jumped off Ned’s horse, and slipped on his other shoe. In his haste, he forgot that he had stuffed his necktie in it. His foot was muddy, and so was the necktie, once he pulled it out. With the Judge looking at him sternly, he made no attempt to knot the necktie.

  “I expect you’re the bailiff. Didn’t Judge Parker supply you with a mount?” the Judge inquired.

  “He did, Your Honour—a mule,” Chilly admitted. “It bogged in a creek. If this fellow hadn’t come along and give me a ride, I doubt I would ever have got here.”

  “I expect a bailiff to be on time, whatever the circumstances,” Judge Sixkiller said. “In ten minutes, you would have been late. I prefer to start my court promptly, and I’m sure Judge Parker’s the same.”

  “Yes sir,” Chilly said. “I’ll go in and set out the spittoons.”

  “That won’t take long,” the Judge informed him. Though an Indian, Judge Sixkiller differed very little in his behaviour from Judge Parker, Chilly observed. Both men had a stern way of speaking; both of them made Chilly feel that he was not trying hard enough.

  “How many spittoons do you set out?” Chilly asked. “We got six, in Fort Smith. One for the Judge, two for the jury, and three for the crowd.”

  “I allow one for the jury, if it’s a long trial,” Judge Sixkiller told him. “I don’t chaw myself, and I don’t encourage it in the crowd. If they must chaw, they can walk outside to spit, or else sit near a window.”

  Chilly went behind the Judge’s bench and retrieved the single spittoon, setting it in a spot convenient to the jury box. It looked
to be a busy day for a bailiff, if there was only one spittoon for the whole courtroom. He would have to be up and down every hour or so, just to keep the spittoon empty.

  He would be thankful when Zeke Proctor’s trial was over.

  26

  THE SQUIRREL BROTHERS WERE NEARLY LATE GETTING TO THE TRIAL because Rat had carelessly left the gate unlatched when he did the evening chores. The horses got out, and spent the night eating crabapples in a crabapple thicket nearly two miles from the house. It was an awful inconvenience, one that caused Moses Squirrel to curse his brother roundly.

  “I have never left a goddamn gate unlatched in my life,” Moses pointed out.

  Rat Squirrel, feeling surly and picked on, made no reply.

  The horses were eventually caught and ridden hard to Tahlequah. They stopped in the high woods for a moment, to survey the scene.

  “Why, there’s Bill Yopps. He’s got Slow John with him,” Jim Squirrel observed. “I ain’t seen Slow John in a while.”

  It was just about time for the trial to start. They were about to ride on down the hill, when Moses Squirrel spotted Ned Christie, sitting on his horse in front of the courthouse.

  “Uh-oh—there’s Christie,” Rat remarked. “Do you see him, Mo?”

  “I ain’t blind, ’course I see the man,” Moses said. He was still out of sorts about the horses, and seeing Ned Christie did nothing to improve his spirits.

  After some cogitation, he spoke again.

  “Let’s don’t go to the trial,” Moses said, finally.

  “What?” Jim said, startled. “Not go to the trial? Why not?”

  Though he had no intention of saying so to his brothers, Moses Squirrel had a powerful dread of a gun battle with the most expert marksman in the Going Snake District. The mere sight of Ned, sitting on his horse in a Tahlequah street, was enough to awaken this dread. Moses knew there had to be a more sensible way to revenge themselves on Zeke Proctor than to meander into a gunfight with the deadly Ned Christie.