Blood and Gold

by Joseph A. West

  “Then I’ll teach her,” the gunman said, his eyes ugly. “Same way I teach a horse, with a whip if necessary.” Up until then Wingo had ignored Ned, but he turned to him. “And you, from now on keep your trap shut. I don’t want to hear nothing from you. Open your mouth again, an’ I’ll close it permanently with a bullet.”

  Wingo had laid it on the line and I felt the weight of my Colt as the gun lay heavy at my side, the handle between my elbow and wrist. Hank was out of it, but if put to it, could I draw fast enough to drop both Wingo and Ezra?

  No, I decided, that would be a suicide play. From what I’d heard, both gunman were faster than me, and if we were equals, it would probably mean we’d all three be lying dead on the ground and nothing would be resolved.

  I knew that for now I had to bide my time and swallow whatever insults came my way or were directed at Lila and her pa.

  As it happened, the tense moment passed when Hank toppled out of the saddle and hit the ground with a thud.

  Wingo turned to Ezra. “Get him in the wagon.” He nodded at me. “You, boy, go help him.”

  I swung out of the saddle and helped Ezra carry his groaning brother to the tailgate of the wagon. Wingo dismounted and stepped beside us.

  His glance took in Lila’s organ and the dresser and he snapped: “Get that stuff out of there,” he said.

  “This damn wagon will be slow enough without us hauling all that junk.”

  Lila ran beside us. “Leave it alone,” she cried. “It was my ma’s furniture, just about all she ever owned.”

  “Well, your ma ain’t here,” Wingo snapped. He jerked his head at me. “Boy, toss it all out.”

  Lila opened her mouth to protest again, but I took her by the arm and turned her to me. “Lila,” I said urgently, “let it go. We’ll come back for it, trust me.”

  Wingo grinned. “Sure you will, boy, sure you will. Now do like I told you.”

  I climbed into the wagon and, as gently as I could, removed the dresser and organ and stood them on the grass beside the trail. Then I helped Ezra get Hank into the wagon.

  Lila bit her lip, her face very pale.

  I stepped beside her. “It will be all right, Lila,” I whispered. “Now isn’t the time.”

  The girl looked at me like I’d just crawled out from under a rock. “You could have stopped this,” she said. “You didn’t even try.”

  Wingo, who was standing close by, overheard and laughed. “Oh, he could have tried, little lady. Only thing is, right now he’d be dead.” He looked at me, his blue eyes hard. “What’s your opinion on that, boy?”

  Playing the part of the green puncher again, I shrugged. “I don’t see much point in dying over a tinpanny organ.”

  Wingo nodded. “Boy, you named that tune, sure enough.”

  He looked down at the grimacing Hank. “How you feeling?”

  “I’m hurting bad, Lafe,” Hank gasped, his lips very white against the leathery brown of his face and beard. “Just . . . just get me to a doctor.”

  Wingo smiled, a cruel, uncaring smirk. “You’re gut-shot, Hank. There ain’t a damn thing a doc can do for you.” He motioned to Lila. “See to him.”

  It was in the girl’s mind to refuse, I could tell, but in the end she stepped beside Hank and brushed the man’s hair away from his forehead. “You won’t let me die, will you, little lady?” the gunman asked, desperation in his eyes.

  “I’ll do what I can for you,” Lila answered.

  She walked to my horse and got the canteen from the saddle, poured water into her handkerchief and tenderly dabbed it over Hank’s parched lips. “Don’t swallow,” she said. “But it will help you feel less thirsty.”

  Hank saw me standing behind Lila. “What the hell are you looking at?” he demanded.

  “Nothing,” I said.

  “Then get the hell away from me,” Hank yelled, his fevered eyes wild.

  Wingo laughed. “Don’t gun the boy just yet, Hank,” he said. “We may need him.”

  He turned to Ezra. “Mount up.” And to me: “You too. We got some ground to cover before nightfall.”

  I swung into the saddle and Ned Tryon whipped the oxen into motion. Lila tied Hank’s mount to the rear of the wagon and many times afterward I heard the outlaw moan as the wheels jolted over ruts on the trail and the terrible pain in his belly consumed him.

  Wingo rode in the lead, his eyes constantly searching the trail ahead and the surrounding low hills.

  I noticed that Ezra always rode behind me, wary and alert. It occurred to me that the man didn’t trust me, and the reason became apparent when he suddenly kneed his horse beside mine.

  “Haven’t I seen you someplace, boy?” he asked. “Seems to me your face is mighty familiar.”

  I felt a sudden jolt of unease. Did Ezra Owens see my face as I lay on the ground after Wingo shot me? Did he remember me?

  Trying to make light of it, I said: “I’ve been up the trail a few times, to Dodge mostly. Could be you’ve seen me there.”

  Ezra’s eyes were thoughtful. “Maybe so.” He shook his head. “Nope, I just can’t recollect, but it will come back to me by and by.”

  Right then I realized how fast I was running out of room on the dance floor. If Ezra remembered me, then he’d figure why I was here and after that my life wouldn’t be worth a plugged nickel.

  If I was to make my move and get back the money, I’d have to do it soon—even if the odds weren’t in my favor.

  And now I had an even more urgent concern: Lila.

  Lafe Wingo was accustomed to taking what he wanted, and he wanted the girl. Soon, very soon, I’d have to stand between them, and that meant a gunfight with two skilled pistoleros, a fight I was not sure I could win.

  It was a worrisome thing, and as we rode through the blazing heat of the day, my churning mind uncovered only more and more problems but no solutions.

  Above me, I saw buzzards wheel in the sky, grim messengers of death.

  But whose death?

  I didn’t know it then, but I would have that answer sooner than I expected.

  Chapter 14

  That night we made camp in a stand of cottonwoods by a wide creek with a couple of feet of milky alkaline water running along its pebbled bottom.

  As far as the eye could see, the country around us was flat, dry and sandy with few trees. Here and there clumps of sage and mesquite competed for space with low-growing cactus and the scarred land had still not healed from the passage of the spring herds. This was featureless, unlovely country, indifferent to all human enterprise or desire, a wild place where a man’s dreams dried up under the relentless sun and blew away like dust in the wind.

  Many had tried to live here and all had failed, leaving the plain to brood alone over its fading memories of the buffalo and the Comanche and a time gone that would never return.

  Ned Tryon guided the wagon into the cottonwoods and I helped him unhitch the oxen. We lifted Hank from the back of the wagon and laid him on the ground and the wounded gunman cursed us for our clumsiness, his face stark white from pain and the fear of death.

  Wingo, who did not seem to care much for honest labor, told me to gather some dry wood for a fire, since the Apaches, if any were in the vicinity, would be reluctant to attack at night over open ground where there was little cover.

  I did as he said and then filled the coffeepot and placed it on the coals to boil.

  Later I helped Lila prepare a meal of corn pone and sowbelly, and although she accepted my assistance, we worked in silence, things said and unsaid standing like a barbed wire fence between us.

  All this time, I was aware of Ezra’s black eyes on me, following my every move. The gunman’s suspicions were aroused and I knew he wouldn’t let it go until he remembered where he’d seen me.

  After we’d eaten and the day died around us, the sickle moon rose in a pale blue sky and a rising wind set the flames of the fire to dancing.

  Wingo rose and stepped to his blanket roll, reached
inside and found cigars and a bottle of whiskey. The man had an odd smile on his face, cruel and calculating, and I felt uneasy, wondering what was to come next.

  I didn’t have long to wait.

  Wingo squatted by the fire, the bottle held loosely in his hand. He turned and winked at Ezra, then said across the fire to the intently watching Ned, “Hey, Pops, you like whiskey?”

  Ned Tryon ran his tongue over his dry lips, fascinated, his eyes on the bottle like a man watches a rattlesnake. He rubbed the back of his mouth with a trembling hand and finally said: “Sure I like whiskey.”

  Wingo nodded. “Thought you did.”

  The gunman had read all the signs and pegged Ned for a drunk, and now, his eyes glittering scarlet in the firelight, he asked: “You care for a swig or two?”

  Unable to speak, all Ned could do was nod.

  “My pa doesn’t want your whiskey,” Lila flared at Wingo. She rose and placed a protective arm around her father’s shoulders. “He’s unwell. Leave him alone.”

  Wingo smiled, his face sadistic. “That right, Pops? You gonna take orders from your daughter and make me drink this here bottle all by my ownself?”

  “Let him be, Wingo,” I said.

  The gunman snapped his head around. “Puncher, you keep the hell out of this.”

  “The man has a problem with whiskey,” I said. “You’ll do him no favor.”

  “Seems to me, Ned,” Ezra said, his voice smooth, “that if a man wants a sup of whiskey, why, that’s his own business.”

  Ned nodded, reckless eyes fixed on the bottle. “My own business, that’s right,” he mumbled. Ned turned his head to Lila. “Just one sup, daughter. It will steady me.”

  “Of course it will,” Wingo said. “Make a new man of you. Ain’t that right, Ezra?”

  “Sure enough,” Ezra agreed. “Nothing like a drink of good whiskey to steady a man down, make him see things in a better light.”

  Wingo held up the bottle and shook it, the amber contents sloshing. “Come an’ get it, Pops.”

  Despite Lila’s anguished cry of protest, Ned rose unsteadily to his feet. He rubbed his mouth again with an unsteady fist and stepped toward Wingo.

  The gunman held up a warning hand. “Not so fast, Pops.” He smiled, his yellow wolf’s teeth shining like wet piano keys. “You don’t think you’re gonna get this fine Kentucky whiskey for free, do you?”

  Ned stopped. “What do you want?”

  “Want? Why, I don’t want much.”

  “Name your price,” Ned said.

  Wingo turned to Ezra. “Well, this man said it straight up, all honest and true blue as could be. He said, name your price. What should I charge him, Ezra?”

  The dark gunman’s smile was thin, without humor. “Can you sing, Pops?”

  Startled, Ned shook his head.

  “He can’t sing, Lafe,” Ezra said, pretending deep disappointment.

  “Well, maybe he can dance.” Wingo looked up at Ned. “Well, how about it, Pops? Can you dance? Maybe one of them Missouri jigs I’ve heard so much about.”

  Dumbly, Ned Tryon nodded, looking impossibly old and wearied in the revealing firelight.

  I’d seen enough. I sprang to my feet, rage simmering in me. “Wingo, give him the bottle or don’t, but leave the man his dignity.”

  Wingo’s draw when it came was a blinding blur of motion and I suddenly found myself staring into the business end of a Colt that looked as big as a railroad tunnel.

  “Boy”—Wingo smiled, his voice level and conversational—“you got two simple choices: Sit down or die right where you stand.”

  Ezra was studying me closely. He hadn’t drawn his gun, but he was coiled and ready and I knew when it came his draw would be as fast as a striking snake.

  Now wasn’t the time.

  I gulped down my touchy, eighteen-year-old pride like a dry chicken bone and sat, humiliation burning in my cheeks. I caught Lila looking at me and saw something in her eyes, sympathy maybe, and something else . . . contempt? Disappointment? I could not tell.

  Wingo holstered his Colt. “Excellent choice, boy.”

  He turned his attention to Ned. “Now, Pops, where was I afore I was so rudely interrupted? Oh, yeah, now I recollect. Let’s see that Missouri sodbuster’s jig.”

  “You’ll give me whiskey?” Ned asked, pleading words rustling quiet from his lips like falling leaves.

  “Sure,” Wingo said. “Hell, that’s what whiskey is for, ain’t it? To be drunk.” Wingo laughed and began to clap his hands, and Ezra joined in with him. Over by the fire, even Hank, hurting and dying slow like he was, grinned.

  Ned put his hands on his hips and began to dance. He kicked his feet in a dreadful parody of a country jig, the desperation in his eyes awful to see. Ned Tryon knew how complete was his humiliation, but the lure of whiskey drove him on and his jig became more and more frenzied, his booted feet pounding again and again into the dusty earth, stomping out a demented, detestable dance of the damned.

  Wingo and Ezra grinned and clapped faster, quickening the pace, and Ned tried to keep up, sweat beading his forehead, drenching his shirt, his mouth hanging open and slack as he gasped for breath.

  “Heee-haaa!” Wingo yelled, clapping even faster, his hands blurring.

  Ned danced for five terrible minutes before he faltered to a halt and fell flat on his face. The man lay there for a long while before he looked over to the grinning Wingo. “Whiskey,” he pleaded.

  The gunman put the bottle to his mouth and drank deeply, then passed it to Ezra. “Nah,” he said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “You’re a rotten dancer an’ you don’t deserve no whiskey.”

  “Please,” Ned begged. “Whiskey. For the love of God man, you promised. Give me my whiskey.”

  Ezra grinned and passed the bottle back to Wingo and the big gunman stood. He stepped beside Ned and said: “You want whiskey, Pops? Here, go get it.”

  Wingo tilted the bottle and poured its contents into the sand a few inches from Ned’s face. Ned tried to intercept the gushing amber cascade with his open mouth, but Wingo grinned and pushed him roughly away with his foot.

  When the bottle was empty, Wingo kicked at the damp sand. “There, Pops. There’s your whiskey.”

  Ned made a strangled sound deep in his throat and dived on the wet patch, stuffing the sand into his mouth, sucking at it. His mouth and beard covered in sand, he finally gave up and lay there, sobbing, his thin shoulders heaving.

  The whole affair had been set up by Wingo to be a cold, calculated act of cruelty and as I watched Lila lie beside her father, whispering softly to him, my hatred for the gunman grew into a livid fire, consuming me.

  I rose to my feet and stepped beside Lila and her pa. Gently I lifted Lila off her father, then raised Ned into a sitting position. The man’s eyes were wide-open, but he saw nothing as he stared into the fire like someone already dead.

  Beside me, Wingo stretched and yawned. “Well, I’ve had enough fun for one night. Now it’s time for my blankets.” He reached down, grabbed Lila by the wrist and pulled her to her feet. He held the girl close to him, looking down at her tearstained face, his eyes hungry. “Come on, little lady, I don’t plan on sleeping alone.”

  I hit him then.

  My right took Wingo square on the chin as he turned to look at me. The man let Lila go, staggered a few steps and crashed heavily on his back. Wingo made no move for his gun, but a triumphant grin spread across his face. “Boy,” he said, “now I’m going to tear you apart.”

  Wingo stood and my heart sank when I realized just how huge he was. He easily made two of me, and by his eager grin and the joy of battle in his eyes, it seemed he was no stranger to rough-and-tumble fistfights.

  But my scraps with Wiley back when I lived on his pa’s ranch had taught me something. Enough, I fervently hoped, to square the odds.

  I put Wiley out of my mind, intent on Wingo, my thoughts concentrated on the big gunman. Wingo circled me, his fists up in the
pugilist’s manner and it was obvious he’d taken lessons from a professional prizefighter. For such a huge man, he moved well, gracefully balancing on his toes. Yet when he threw his first blow, it was short. I feinted a left, sidestepped and smashed a hard right to his mouth. Wingo roared through mashed lips and spit blood.

  The big man took a step back just as I swung a left and my fist met only air.

  Wingo danced forward, his fists jabbing, and his greater height and weight forced me back and I took a solid right to my chin that staggered me.

  Wingo followed up with a wicked left hook that hit so hard, stars danced in front of my eyes and to my surprise I saw the ground rush up fast to meet me.

  I hit the dirt with a thump, tried to rise, and the gunman swung a kick to my head. But I turned away at the last moment and his boot went sailing past my cheek.

  Still groggy from the two blows I’d taken, I came up slowly, slipped Wingo’s right and slammed a couple of hard punches to his body. Neither punch had any effect on the man and he grinned through bloody lips and bored inside, his fist swinging.

  He jabbed a fast right to my ribs, but I countered with my own right and followed up with a wide left hook that caught Wingo at the corner of his right eye and staggered him.

  Blood streamed down Wingo’s cheek from the thin tissue above his eye, and he dashed it away with his fist and came after me again.

  The gunman had taken several of my best punches. He was bloody but unbowed and still full of fight and I began to fear that he might wear me down simply by his ability to absorb punishment and keep on battling.

  I stepped inside Wingo’s next punch and slashed at him with quick, telling blows to the body. The man gave ground, then swung a ponderous right that missed me by a mile. I surprised him by not counter-punching. Instead I dove at his waist, dropped my arms to his knees and upended him.

  Wingo crashed to the ground, but rose fast, lithe as a cat. I was already on my feet and set up, and I drove a right to his chin that made the gunman’s head snap back and followed up with a left to the side of his head that split his ear.

  Wingo bellowed and rushed me, his arms outspread, hoping to get me in a bear hug. If that happened, I’d be overcome by his enormous strength and he could easily break my spine.