by Nelson Nye
"I reckon not," Rafe murmured, his drawl gone cold as froglegs; and only then, too late, did the Bender range boss spy the swift-enlargening barrel of the gun coming at him like a bat out of Carlsbad in the stranger's other fist. Cursing, he tried, but there was no time left to get his head out of the way. He went out of the saddle like a shotgunned duck.
*****
Built in the days when the danger of Apaches was a very real and ever present pearl, the Ortega Grant headquarters looked not unlike a fort. Constructed of sun-baked adobes, the buildings were laid out in the form of a square, interconnecting, about a central court or patio. The name, Su Casa, was carved deep into the huge beam above the main gate, and the portals themselves were made of squared logs held together and hinged with straps of hand-hammered iron. The massive bastioned outer walls were three feet through and additionally strengthened by ramparts where the peons of the original owners could mount a withering defense. The old guard rooms, though crammed now with a dusty cobwebbed clutter of odds and ends, were still habitable at either side of the puerta, Rafe observed as he rode Bathsheba through the portals and came, not unnoticed, into the courtyard.
Here within the unpierced walls which had closed them off from the world outside, Ortega's family and retainers had lived a secluded life of their own. He could imagine dark faces curiously peering from the cell-like rooms lining the four sides of the patio and, almost, he could hear the pigs and goats foraging for scraps among the squawking flutter of scurrying hens that fled from beneath the skewbald's hoofs.
In the sun-laced shade of a giant pepper overhanging the stone-rimmed well, an old man sat in a wired-together rocker with a taffy haired girl, arrow straight, behind him. Between them and Rafe, caught frozen in midstride, Rafe saw the pulled-around darkening face of his brother.
"Evenin'," Rafe said, stepping out of the saddle, and saw the girl's hand come up and clutch at her throat.
"Who is it?" the old man called as Rafe came toward them; and Duke, pushing forward, said, "I'll take care of this!"
One hand disappeared inside the green coat and Rafe, coldly grinning, not swerving by even the twitch of an eyebrow, walked right into him. Duke, cursing, fell back and then, with a kind of half-strangled scream, yanked the hand from his coat. Before he could bring the snub-nosed pistol into line Rafe's left hand closed like a vise around his wrist. Without visible effort Rafe dragged the arm up over Duke's head. Like a man with a possum up a tree he shook it, and the pistol flew into the well with a plop.
The old man, trying to get out of his chair, cried again, "Who is it?" and Rafe, laughing into Duke's livid face, shoved him away. "It's your son, Rafe," he said, "come back to take care of you."
"Rafe?" the old man, brightening, got shakily up, the girl putting out her hands to help.
"He's not Rafe!" Duke snarled. "Don't you remember? Rafe's dead!"
The light went out of old Bender's look. He stood there like a stricken oak, wide shoulders sagged, eyes dull, arms loose. "Dead, you say? My son is dead...." A shiver ran through the wasted frame, then the head tipped up. 'Neath tufted brows the eyes reached out like groping hands to find Rafe's shape and search his face and bewilderedly stretch from him to the girl. "Luce—Luce," he sighed, "who is this man?"
Her eyes quit Duke, moving back to Rafe. "I don't know," she said, chin coming up. "I never saw him before."
"He looks to me," growled Duke, "like one of the bunch that's been liftin' our cows! We lost another big jag last night, Spangler says. I think—"
"Be still!" Bender cried. "Let him speak for himself. I want to hear his voice."
Rafe looked from the sullen hate on Duke's face to the cool unwinking stare of the girl. This wasn't the spindle-legged, big-eyed child who'd run clean to Beckston's Four Corners after him that day he'd gone to join up with Jeb Stuart. She'd shot up and filled out, become a real looker—if a man didn't peer too long or too deep.
He shook his head tiredly. "What's to say when a man's own kin look him straight in the eye and don't know him from Adam—"
"You still claiming you're Rafe?"
"What difference does it make? Eleven years ain't a lifetime. I haven't changed that much."
Bender said, "Come over here, boy. Put your hand in mine arid tell me you're Rafe—"
"Are you crazy?" Duke shouted. "God damn it, Rafe's dead! We got a paper—"
"Where is this precious paper?" Rafe said.
Dog-eared and worn so thin along the creases you could pretty near look through them. Bender got it from his vest and, leaning against the well rim, tried with hands that shook to spread it out as Rafe stepped closer.
There didn't seem much point in reading it once his glance had taken in the official seal. It was bonafide enough; a number of women had got remarried, he'd heard, on the strength of papers like that. Give a man a kind of scalp-twitching feeling to come so sharp against proof he was dead. Made him wonder, by grab, it he wasn't better off to leave it!
Then he saw the covert exchange which passed between Duke and his sister; and he remembered how Joseph had been sold into Egypt. He thought, They'll not get rid of me so free! and said to his father, "Seein's how I've come back, you can pitch that away."
But Duke, rushing up, cried fierce through his teeth, "No you don't—I'll take care of that!" and, before anyone realized what he was up to, grabbed the paper and defiantly crammed it into his pocket, backing hastily away.
Rafe, seeing his father's bewilderment, put a hand on his shoulder, the good hand, of course, because there wasn't very much he could do with the other. "Never mind, suh. Let him have it," he said. "It's only a paper. I'm right here beside you."
The old man reached out and, milky stare peering blindly, suddenly stiffening when his touch came against that twisted claw. "Boy, you lied. You're not Rafe—"
"'Course he ain't! Rafe's brother snarled. "We tried to tell you! Clabber 'im, Jess!"
Something smoothly hard, something rigid as hate, came down like a house on the top of Rafe's head. His legs seemed to float right up off the ground.
VI
He came out in black waves across teeth sharp as needles from the depths of incalculable time. And always, it seemed, to hover and bump as though trapped under glass just short of awareness.
This was something he seemed to do over and over with the pain splintering clean up into his shoulders in bursts of recurrent, almost intolerable, agony. More frequently then, with the pain subsiding, the invisible surface appeared to give just a little, to sway like thin ice when his weight came against it; he could imagine he saw light and, sometimes, a garble of sounds echoed fustily down through the shadowy cracks.
At last, in a lamplit room, he broke through, owlishly blinking against the unaccustomed radiance. Eyes swimming into focus he beheld in startled wonder the peeled yeso-coated poles, a remembered halo of copper hair and, feeling bitterly put upon, clamped shut his eyes and dived incontinently back into the oblivion from which he had clawed.
Perhaps there was some good in it, but nothing was substantially altered next time he cautiously examined his whereabouts. He was still in Pike's house and Pike's filly was beside him. Also, like before, he was flat on his back in that dang female's bed!
It was a kind of situation no self·respecting Rebel could bring himself to countenance even for a minute if there had been any way around it. To be obligated once was cross enough for anyone. To find himself in their hands again—Rafe's eyes snapped shut with a shudder.
His mind cast back, trying to think how he'd come here. He remembered Duke yelling, "Clabber 'im, Jess!" and the world exploding like Harper's ferry, but the fog was too thick to fish anything else out.
Cracking open one eye he nervously took another squint. She was across the room now, sitting by the window with her head bent, sewing. You would never think to look at her she could be so dang deceitful, so demure she seemed, so quiet and sweet; but there'd been nothing sweet about the way she'd poked that sawed-off at him
and Rafe wasn't about to forget it. Her old man, he reckoned, was probably gone to fetch the sheriff.
A sigh welled out of Rafe in spite of himself, and Bunny's head came up. "Hi," she said, her whole look disapproving. "I suppose what has happened is the story of your life. In again, out again. When are you going to learn to take care of yourself?"
He was so piddlin' weak he couldn't seem, even, to work up a decent outrage. She put her sewing aside and, not waiting for an answer, got up and went off.
Through the door she'd left open he could hear her bustling around in the kitchen. Pretty soon the mouth-priming aroma of chicken made him think he'd pass out before she got the stuff to him.
When she finally came with a bowl of water the gird had been rinsed in he was too whipped to protest; so weak, by grab, he couldn't even get his hands from under the covers. He had to lay there and let her spoon it into him.
Next time he came around it was Pike who sat watching. Pike looking thoughtful, said, "How you feel? Up to taking more nourishment?"
Rafe had been determined to have it out with the feller, but the needs of the body appeared suddenly more important than making clear where he stood on the subject of Yankees. Sourly scowling, he nodded.
"Bunny—" Pike called, "fetch in the rest of that broth and a soft boiled egg. Bring a handful of crackers. And a mug of weak tea."
Rafe said, glowering, "You got to kill me by inches?"
"You'll live through it," Pike chuckled, "if we can keep down the complications. What'd you do to that hand?"
"Hand...? Oh! Horse rolled on it. In the war. I was—"
"You told me about that. I'm talking about the one you were using when you tore out of here."
Seeing Rafe's puzzlement Pike reached out and pulled down the covers. Rafe was dumbfounded. Both hands were bandaged clean to the elbows. He couldn't move either one. "Looked to me," Pike said, "like someone took a club to you. That left hand of yours was in bad shape. Thought I might just as well work on both of them while I was at it."
Rafe stared at the wrappings, trying to understand what had happened, but too shocked, too confused, to get really hold of anything beyond the appalling notion that this gross tub of lard had used him for a guinea pig. And that no matter if he wound up maimed for life—He said, feeling sick, "Am I going to be able to use 'em?"
Pike regarded him across steepled fingers. "Little early yet to say." He stared a while longer, settling back with a chuckle. "At least you won't be much worse off than I found you."
"And where was that," Rafe finally said.
"In the Dunes. There was quite a gale coming up. It's a wonder those shifting hills hadn't buried you."
Rafe reckoned that was probably what they had put him out there for. "What happened to the mare?"
"Some ranch hand found her halfway to Willcox," Pike said with his look playing over Rafe's face. "She was pretty sore footed, didn't have a shoe on her. Sheriff went over and picked her up couple of weeks ago"
Presently Rafe, uncommonly meek, said, "About how far from where you found me was she?"
"About forty miles."
A kind of quiet set in through which, peculiarly, both men stared. Then Pike with a wheezing groan got up. "Somebody worked you over plenty. Sheriff's going to want to know about that. Probably be by to pick up your statement. You damn well better be around when he gets here."
It was hard for Rafe to realize that more than two a weeks had dropped right out of his life while he'd been flat on his back and out of his head. And he was sorely confused. It wasn't like a Yankee to be so diligent in behalf of an obviously down-and-out Rebel.
Bunny came in with the slop that Pike had called for, fluffed up his pillows, and proceeded to feed him. This she did with a determined cheer, chattering on, apparently paying no mind to Rafe's black scowls and rather niggardly replies.
He didn't even bother to make out like he was listening; he was too upset, too taken up with his worries.
She broke off, sat back, looking reproachful, a little indignant. "If you think this is fun for me—" she began, then with color coming into her cheeks let it go. "Tomorrow we're going to get you out of that bed." She pushed the last spoonful of broth-clammy crackers into his mouth. "Daddy says I'm not to stop you, that if you want to climb through that window again you'll not be hurting anyone but yourself. I do hope though," she said, regarding him slanchways, "that this time you'll at least think before you leap."
She had his attention now, all right. Every last scalp-prickling bit of it. "You—" he licked dry lips, "you mean I'm free to go? That I can walk right outa here any time I want?"
She stared back at him unreadably. At last, with a sniff, she gathered up her eating tools, got out of her chair. But at the·door she looked back; almost, he thought, with a kind of reluctant pity. "I've told you all I can," she said.
VII
Rafe felt the cold prickles digging into his belly. So that was their game! The old ley del fuegoz—law of escape. It was plain enough now why the sheriff in all this while hadn't got around to visiting him. They didn't want to hear no stories from him. They was too damn scared what he'd say might embarrass them!
And maybe they wasn't too far wrong at that. Their tin-badge sure knew which pocket the bulk of his living come out of. He wouldn't want to cross that penny-pinching banker; and the whole shebang likely knew by now Pike's patient wasn't nothing but another whipped Rebel. Rattle him, get the bastard's wind up, and then when he hopped through that window nail him! Who was going to kick up a stink over what the law did to any cut-and-run sesech saddle bum?
He could feel the sweat coming through his skin. Some goddamn Rebel was always getting himself killed. Nothing new about that. If it hadn't been for the girl—but this was no time to be thinking about her! It was him they was figuring to shut up. That was plain enough. This time they'd do it proper!
It didn't make no difference in Rafe's tangled thinking that all of his assumptions might not actually be true. He'd had nothing but trouble since he'd come into this country and he was, by grab, getting plenty fed up.
True to Bunny's promise they got him out of her bed the very next day; gave him steak, too, all he could cram into him. They sure was in a sweat to get him up and about and off on his own again. Pike, evidently, had been told to get rid of him.
It wasn't too easy to understand when you came right down to it. That banker, Chilton, cracked the whip around here—he'd stood Dahl off, no doubt about that. And Rafe was Chilton's man, on the surface anyway. Or had the highbinder washed his hands of Rafe after learning he was back in Pike's care, busted up? Had he learned the whole story of what had happened out yonder, or was it just Rafe's failure which had brought this shift in plans?
Nothing Rafe hit on seemed to make much sense. But with Bunny's cryptic words still rattling around through the corridors of his mind he was in no hurry to get back into circulation. A third week passed almost before he was aware of it. Except that his flippers were still swathed in bandages he was beginning to feel more his natural self. Pike helped him into his clothes every morning. Bunny fed and shaved him, gave him the run of the entire house. Her father washed him. The girl helped him on and off with his boots. He managed to hold back the calls of nature until Pike was around and then, some days later, the old red nosed boozer took off the wraps to have a squint at his handiwork.
Rafe was most nigh scairt to look himself. He peered at the flesh serving Pike for a face but might's well have quartered a rock, he thought, for all the good he got out of it. Then he saw Pike's eyes and very near quit breathing.
When he got hold of his courage, he said pretty bitter, "You got to take off both of 'em?"
"Eh? No, no, nothing like that," Pike said, covering up with a heartiness obviously as spurious as a three-dollar bill. "Turned out a deal better than we'd any right to hope for. Try moving those fingers. Here, let me massage them."
Rafe still wouldn't look, but there was plenty of feeling. He damn near
climbed right out of the chair. Through clamp-shut eyes he snarled, "You tryin' to break 'em!"
"Take it easy," Doc said. "This is very encouraging." He went on with whatever it was he was doing. "Feel like pins and needles going through them?"
It took all Rafe's breath to keep from yelling. When he reluctantly slatted one eye to take a peek, Doc, settled back, had let go and was smiling.
"You're going to have to get used to it, Bender. A lot of tissue was crushed. It's impaired the circulation. You're going to have to exercise—"
"How'd you know my name was Bender?"
"Isn't that what you told Bunny?"