The Second Western Novel

by Matt Rand

  They surrounded him as he sprang to the ground, and a babble of voices picked at him. He heard a dozen reports and a dozen questions, and none made sense.

  He held up his hand, and the voices stopped. He answered the one question in all those eyes. “We were taken,” he said harshly. “By Saucedo.” His eyes darkened. “No, by Austin’s men. We thought they were friendly. They’ve joined Saucedo.”

  A massed sigh ran through his listeners, sounding like a cold, lonesome wind through leafless trees.

  “Are they dead?” Brenner asked.

  “They’re prisoners,” Nelson said.

  Again that rippling sigh ran through them.

  Nelson looked at the handful of men. “Where are the rest?”

  Brenner said, “About twenty are out on scout.”

  That meant a total of sixty men. Sixty men against the forces Saucedo was moving toward Nacogdoches. But there should be more; there had been more, when Nelson left town yesterday morning. It was not hopeless, not by any means. Stevens would be bringing two or possibly three hundred men with him from Natchitoches. With the men here, there would be a sizable number. Not so many men as Saucedo was bringing up, but determination was with the defenders of Nacogdoches. With the loss of the first battle, Austin would see. When the Mexicans were fleeing in broken disorder, Austin would change his opinions.

  Nelson asked, “Any news from Chauncey?”

  Brenner took too long with his answer, and his eyes kept sliding away.

  A cold wind of premonition touched Nelson. He asked in a careful voice, “What is it, Brenner?”

  “He brought bad news, Nelson. Maddy could interest no one. There’s no help coming from Natchitoches.”

  Nelson closed his eyes under this new blow. In that brief interval he said a silent prayer.

  “Are you sure?” he asked hoarsely.

  “I heard Chauncey myself. His news scared out a lot of them. They left all day yesterday.” His tone had the strength of pride. “The ones left ain’t scaring.”

  Nelson looked at those faces, so anxious for heartening news. And he could tell them nothing.

  Brenner stared at Nelson’s face. “How bad is it, Nelson? The Indians are coming, aren’t they?” His forehead wrinkled in a worried frown. “But Conger came in last night and said the Indians are moving their villages. Moving them north. Are they gathering someplace else?”

  Nelson said in a cracked voice, “Perhaps they are.” So Payne had not been lying about Hunter’s death. All along, Nelson had been certain of that, but still the hope would not die. Brenner’s words killed it.

  Brenner said, “What do we do now, Nelson?”

  Nelson said dully, “Wait for me. I’ll be back.” He had to get by himself, to think and sort out all these blows. A man stood in the wreckage of his crumbled dreams, and his thoughts were like clubs, pounding him with mocking blows whichever way he turned.

  He looked at the red-and-white flag floating from its standard. Liberty Pole, someone had called that pine sapling. He stared at it a long moment before he moved away from the group, and the death of a dream was in his eyes.

  He went down the deserted street, passing boarded-up stores and empty houses. Only a few short days ago this street had teemed with traffic. He passed the town’s prostitutes, standing uncertainly before their house. Their usual derisive comments at him were missing. They did not know what was happening, but the fear in the air had reached out and touched them, silencing their ordinarily sharp tongues.

  He wondered why they had stayed, then recalled the fact that this kind of woman did not precede man. She followed. For the moment, these women had no clear course to follow. No, they would stay in the town until it was occupied, and with its occupation their uncertainty would be gone. They would easily shift their lot to meet any change of fortune. A man was still a man, regardless of which side he fought for. A drawn smile touched his face at the thought. It was a basic philosophy, and perhaps a sound one.

  He stopped at the end of the street and stared out over the plains. In his mind’s eye he could still see them green and prosperous, the snug homes, the fat cattle. He wanted to scream against their emptiness, against the fact that he could do nothing about it.

  He started to turn back, when he saw the lone rider pounding hard from the east toward town. He waited with a dull resignation. From his urgency, this man had news of some sort. It might be word of another disaster, but it would affect him little. Even the deepest hole had its bottom, and he had found his.

  He waited until the rider neared, then raised his arm. The horseman waved in return and steered toward him. He reined up beside Nelson and looked down the empty street with curious eyes.

  “Is it true the rebellion is dead?” he asked.

  “It’s true.”

  “Maddy sent me,” the man said. “I’m looking for Nelson O’Shaughnessy.”

  The man’s words were a strong breeze fanning life into his hope.

  Nelson said eagerly, “I’m O’Shaughnessy.” He wondered why the man looked at him in that odd manner, and asked, “What is it?”

  “We heard reports you were running, that your people had turned against you.”

  Nelson’s eyes were puzzled. Not his people, but Austin’s people, and he started to make the difference clear.

  “Maddy wanted to learn the truth. It kept bothering him. He said he knew you. Said you couldn’t have turned despot.”

  The puzzled look grew in Nelson’s eyes. He heard the man, he understood the words, but they didn’t make sense.

  He said, “Start at the beginning. Where did these reports come from?”

  “Chauncey Stevens, Maddy said his name was, rode into Natchitoches a few days ago. Maddy had close to three hundred men ready to ride here. But Stevens said the rebellion was over. He told Maddy you were running. I was there that night. I heard him. It kept eating on Maddy so much that I told him I’d ride here and find out.”

  Nelson kept his face blank before those watching eyes. But inside he felt hollow. Help had been ready to move from Natchitoches, and Stevens had killed it. But why? The question pounded inside his head with hammer strokes.

  The man asked, “Is Saucedo really marching?”

  “He’s marching,” Nelson replied. But it would have made no difference, if Stevens had not lied. Why, Chauncey, why?

  He asked with a last lingering hold on hope, “No one will come?”

  The man shrugged. “They scattered after Stevens’ report. It would be hard to stir them up again.”

  Nelson dully nodded. Hard, if not impossible. And then, too late.

  The man looked down the empty street again. “I guess everybody will be pulling out.”

  Nelson’s nod was mechanical. He scarcely heard the question.

  “I’ll tell Maddy the story was all wrong.” He pulled his horse around, and that could have been a shiver rippling through him. “This town don’t even smell healthy.”

  Nelson said, “No,” and moved down the street.

  The man stared after him, then shook his head. He put the horse into a lope.

  The sound of the hoofbeats pulled Nelson’s head around. He remembered he had not even thanked the man. It seemed a small omission now. The hollow in him was filling—filling with a fire that roared and crackled. He went down the street with heavy, deliberate strides. His face was carved from a block of ice, and only the burning eyes looked alive. He prayed Stevens had not left town. If he were still here, he would find him. His mind dared not go beyond that point.

  He covered the empty streets and the alleys. He looked in at his office, and Leah rose and started toward him. He said, “Later, Leah.”

  She looked at his eyes, and her face went white. She whispered, “Nelson—”

  He turned and left her before she could phrase her question, knowing a relief that she made no attempt to follow him.

  He went down the street toward Stone House. The men were still before it. He wanted to keep this thing
between himself and Stevens, but he would have to ask them if they had seen him.

  He was a dozen yards from the group when he saw Stevens talking to Brenner. Stevens was laughing, his face easy and relaxed.

  Nelson stopped. His hands were shaking, and he breathed deeply to chase out the tremors. His fingertips brushed the butt of Payne’s gun, thrust into his waistband. He took a step and called, “Chauncey.”

  If the tone did not warn Stevens, something in Nelson’s face did. Stevens’ face froze, and its tightening made the cheekbones stand out in harsh relief. He moved away from Brenner, and his stiff, unnatural attitude kept men from following him.

  “Yes, Nelson.” His voice was very soft.

  “A rider just came in from Natchitoches. He told me an odd story.”

  Someone recognized the stiff posture of the two men facing each other, and said in a hushed voice, “My God.” Boots made scuffing sounds as men pulled hastily to either side.

  “Did he, Nelson?” A curious little smile twisted Stevens’ lips. It did not reach his eyes. His eyes were filled with an emotion Nelson could not identify.

  Nelson’s voice was labored. “He said help was ready, and your lies stopped it from coming.” The hard mask of his face cracked into lines of agonized entreaty. “He was wrong, wasn’t he, Chauncey?”

  “He was not wrong,” Stevens said. “I wanted to see you crushed and begging.”

  “But why?”

  “Why?” Stevens’ eyes flamed. The emotion filling them could be identified now. It was hatred, sheer, stark hatred. “Damn you, Nelson. Don’t you know why I came back?” His voice climbed higher and higher, its tones those of a man lashing himself to action. “I came back to kill you.”

  Nelson’s ears caught the words, but his stunned mind would not accept them.

  The hatred twisting Stevens’ face shook him out of that trancelike state; that and the dipping, clawing motion of Stevens’ hand. He grabbed for his own pistol, his fingers stretching in frantic haste. He tugged the pistol free, sure that he was going to be a vital split second late.

  He threw up the muzzle and fired, and the two shots rolled together as one. Something hit his upper left arm, and the shock was the same as though a club had bounced off it. He staggered back a step and steadied himself. He did not want to fire again, and he did not have to.

  Stevens stood spraddle-legged, his face working with surprise and shock. His gun hand kept sagging despite his desperate attempts to lift it. Slowly his fingers loosened and the gun dropped into the dust. His head dropped as though he were trying to look at the spurting hole in his chest. He took a broken step, then his knees came unhinged and he pitched forward on his face.

  Nelson rushed to him and fell to his knees beside him. He turned him over and lifted his head. The hole pumped its steady stream, and looking at the bloodless face, Nelson thought he was gone.

  Stevens’ eyes opened, and he stared vacantly into Nelson’s face. It took a long moment for comprehension to enter them. He said in a fading whisper, “I did my best to kill you, Nelson.”

  “But why?” Those frantic words were all that came into Nelson’s mind.

  “Melissa,” Stevens said simply. “I always loved her.” A smile worked his lips, a sad, lonely smile.

  “Chauncey.” Nelson’s voice trembled with its earnestness. “I did nothing to her.”

  Stevens stared at him long, and the eyes grew clearer. Nelson felt as though those eyes probed his very soul.

  He had to bend his head to catch Stevens’ words. “She said you did, Nelson. And I believed her. You didn’t give her that house?”

  “No,” Nelson said vehemently.

  Stevens’ lips moved with his faint sigh. “I guess I believe you.”

  Those unblinking eyes probed at Nelson, and Nelson prayed, Please, God. Don’t let him ask who.

  “It doesn’t make any difference,” Stevens whispered. “Nothing does, when you love someone. Take her back to Natchez. She doesn’t belong here.”

  “I will,” Nelson said in a hoarse, racked voice.

  A faint smile lighted Stevens’ face. “Nelson, I’m sorr—”

  His body stiffened in Nelson’s arms, blood gushed from his mouth, and his face twisted in its final agony. Nelson heard the last fluttering breath as Stevens went limp in his arms. The eyes were still open, but they would be forever vacant.

  Nelson stared into the dead face. It was peaceful now, the lips slightly parted as though they would break into a smile. Nelson’s eyes were hot and stinging. “Good hunting, Chauncey,” he whispered, and lowered the head into the dust.

  He stood up, his movements those of a tired old man. Pain was in his left arm, running from shoulder to fingertips in fiery waves. He looked dully at the shallow furrow, at the blood staining his shirt sleeve. He had noticed neither pain nor blood until now.

  He looked at the faces slowly moving toward him, then down at Stevens. No one spoke to him, no one knew what to say.

  He said in fierce tones, “No one is to blame him. He did what he thought he had to do.” His voice lowered until it was almost gentle. “Take care of him.”

  He went down the street, letting his weight ride hard on each stride. Behind him he heard the hushed outbreak of voices.

  Leah was standing in the office doorway, and she ran toward him.

  “Nelson,” she cried. “I heard the shots. What—” Her voice faltered and her face went white as she saw the blood on his arm. “You’re hurt!”

  “Not bad, Leah.” He kept moving toward the office, and she hurried along at his side. He sank into a chair, and her fingers tore away the shirt sleeves. His face remained blank against the pressure of the wad of cloth she used to stop the bleeding.

  It was hard to get the words out. “Leah, I killed Chauncey.”

  He felt the fingers stop their work, and without looking at her he knew the horror in her face.

  “Chauncey,” she repeated as though she had never heard the name before.

  He told her the story in dry, almost disconnected words, “He came back to kill me, Leah, because he believed her.”

  She dropped to her knees before him and looked up into his face. “Can’t you understand, Nelson? He loved her. Don’t blame him.”

  Surprise touched his face, then he shook his head. “I’m not blaming him, Leah.” He stroked her hair with his right hand, and his voice was soft. “Why wouldn’t I understand how another man felt?”

  Tears streaked her cheeks. “Oh, Nelson,” she sobbed. “You and Chauncey.”

  She was close against him, her wet cheek laid against his, and again he felt the hot stinging in his eyes. Yes, him and Chauncey.

  Brenner came into the room, and his tone was apologetic. “Nelson, a courier is here from Saucedo.”

  In his deep personal loss, Nelson had forgotten the rest of this, and Brenner’s words jerked him back. He helped Leah to her feet and straightened. “Wait here for me,” he said wearily.

  He went back to Stone House with Brenner, knowing this would not be good news. He felt as though his store of good news were forever exhausted.

  The Mexican handed him the dispatch, and his manner was confident. A knowing look came into his eyes as he gazed at the handful of men surrounding him.

  Nelson’s face remained wooden as he read Saucedo’s message. He folded it and thrust it into his pocket. “Tell Saucedo I agree to his terms.”

  A flash of admiration appeared in the man’s eyes. His hand rose in a half salute, then he whirled his horse and clattered away.

  Nelson looked at those anxious faces. “Saucedo reminds me that he is still holding thirty men. No harm will come to them if I promise to leave the country. He promised no harm will come to any of the residents of Nacogdoches, and he grants the rights of all settlers here. No attempt will be made to punish anyone for conspiracy. We can’t fight it. There aren’t enough of us. But it will be safe for you to remain here.”

  Brenner chewed reflectively on his wad
of tobacco. He drawled, “I’m kinda tired of Texas. I guess I’ll be drifting, too.”

  Voices broke out in indecisive argument. Some would stay, some would leave. Nelson looked at them before he moved away. The cohesive unity of them was broken, perhaps never to be regained.

  He saddled two horses and rode out to the abandoned camp. He gathered his and Leah’s personal belongings, seeing a few other people doing the same. He rode back to the office, and Leah came out with another small bundle.

  Her smile was brave. “Some things I thought you would want. I don’t think I overlooked anything.”

  He tied the bundle behind the saddle, then helped her mount. He swung up and sat staring at the building. He could barely make out the dreams behind it, and once they had been so very real.

  He said, “I guess that’s all,” and turned his horse.

  They rode past Stone House, and no one lolled before it. He started to pass by it, then reined up his horse. He swung to the ground and walked to the flagpole. He hauled down the flag, carefully folded it, and thrust it into his pocket.

  Leah’s smile was there, though her lips trembled and her eyes sparkled with tears.

  He started to remount, then stopped as he saw the group of women across the street. Melissa stood a dozen yards from them, and he remembered his promise to Stevens.

  “I’ll be right back,” he said, and walked toward Melissa.

  She shrank from him, but her eyes remained defiant. He hated this woman, and the hatred choked him.

  He said, “Chauncey’s dead.”

  Her faced showed no concern, no feeling of loss, and his anger was a wild, lashing thing. Then suddenly it was gone, leaving him weary. Too much hatred had already been used without gain to anyone.

  “Melissa,” he said slowly, “I promised Chauncey I would take you back to Natchez.” Her face did not change, and he said impatiently, “Don’t you understand? Saucedo and his troops will be here soon. Maybe before night. Austin has sent men with him.”

  Wicked delight made her face ugly. “You’re beaten. You’re running.”

  Her taunting could not stir his anger to life.