Gunsights

by Elmore Leonard

  During the conference at the bench the people in the audience had begun to compare ideas and opinions and there was a buzz of noise in the lowceilinged courtroom. It stopped when Judge Hough banged his gavel on the desk.

  He said that based on a reasonable doubt because of a lack of substantial evidence the charge of suspicion of murder was hereby dismissed.

  That was it. The judge left the courtroom and the news reporters converged on Moon and Sundeen: one group asking Moon if he had actually intended to kill Sundeen; another group asking Sundeen what he intended to do about it. Moon said, you heard my testimony. He was looking for the county lawyer, Ison, to tell the little ass-kisser a few things, but did not see him now. Moon felt himself being moved by the crowd clearing away from between them so that finally they stood facing each other.

  Sundeen said, “Well, that's twice you have tried. Four hundred yards, huh?”

  “Give or take a few,” Moon said. “I see you got a hole in your face from the first time and a piece of ear missing.”

  The reporters were writing in their notepads now-the story unfolding before their eyes, better than they could have staged it, some of them not noticing Sundeen's hand going to his beard to stroke it gently as he stared at Moon.

  “You hung a friend of mine and it doesn't look like the court is gonna do anything about it,” Moon said.

  Sundeen continued to stare at him. He said then, “Go on home. We'll get her done before too long.”

  “I suppose,” Moon said.

  One of the reporters said, “Get your guns and settle it now, why don't you? Out on the street.”

  Sundeen gave the man a hard stare and said, “For you, you little pissant? Who in the hell you think you are?”

  Moon and Sundeen looked at each other again, each knowing something these reporters would never in their lives understand.

  Maurice Dumas waited in front of the jail, watching the people coming out. When he saw Moon and his good-looking wife, Maurice had to push his way through the crowd to get close enough to hand Moon the folded piece of note paper. Moon looked at Maurice Dumas, nodded hello, then opened the note and read it while the reporters waited. Moon nodded to Maurice again and handed the note to his wife.

  “From Bren,” he said.

  10

  1

  Janet Pierson felt left out. She was at ease with them, she liked them; but she didn't feel with them. Nor did she feel as close to Bren now. Bren and Dana Moon and his wife had shared something, had lived through an experience during another time that did not include her.

  She was aware of the news reporters waiting outside the house, the crowd of them that had followed Moon and his wife here. She liked his wife, Kate; she felt she had known her a long time and the feeling surprised her. For some reason she could sympathize with her; though the young woman did not seem to need or want it. She could also sympathize with the news reporters and knew what they were feeling. She imagined-after Bren and Mr. and Mrs. Moon were gone-the reporters standing at the door asking her questions. What are they like? What did you talk about?

  She imagined herself saying, Oh, they're very nice people. Polite, well-mannered.

  But what did they talk about?

  Nothing in particular. Old times mostly.

  Did they get in a fight over the situation?

  No, they're friends.

  Come on, did they have words?

  No. (Not exactly.)

  Did they talk about any of the men they'd killed?

  No, of course not.

  Do you know how many those two have laid to rest?

  They would get onto something like that and she would try to close the door.

  Did Moon chew tobacco in the house?

  Certainly not.

  We hear his wife is a tough customer.

  She's very nice.

  Did she have anything to say?

  Of course. She is not timid. She told me about their house.

  Was there much tension between them, Early and Moon?

  No, it was a very pleasant visit. Mr. Moon described his duties as an Indian agent. (“Through the office of Indian Affairs…handle all relations between the federal government and the Indians…direct the administration of tribal resources…supervise their ‘trust’ property…promote their health and physical welfare…guide their activities toward the attainment of economic self-sufficiency, self-government and the preservation of Indian cultural values.” Bren said, “And what exactly does that mean?” And Moon said, “Try to keep them from doing what is most natural to them, raiding and making war.”) While Mr. Early explained his responsibilities with the company. (“You get a big stockholder out here a thousand and some miles from home, what do you think is the first thing he wants to see?” “An Indian,” Moon said. “That's the second thing,” Bren said. “A whorehouse,” Mrs. Moon said. “Correct,” Bren said, and they had a good laugh over it.)

  What else might be asked? Janet Pierson wondered if her name would appear in a newspaper or in Harper's Weekly. “In an interview with Mrs. Pierson, a close friend of the”…legendary, celebrated, renowned…famous…“the well-known figures who are playing important roles in the controversial land war…” What? “Mrs. Pierson stated they are very polite, well-mannered people.”

  She said, “I don't understand it at all. I don't. How can you sit there like it's just another day and completely ignore what's going on?”

  Bren put on a concerned frown. “Honey, we're just visiting; catching up's what we're doing. You know it's been over three years?”

  “Yes, I know it's been three years. You date everything you talk about,” Janet Pierson said. “Sonora in eighty-seven. St. Helen's, some stagecoach station in eighty-nine. The wedding three years ago…”

  There was a silence. They seemed content to let it go on, patient people, used to quiet; the Moons sitting together on the sofa could be on the porch Kate had described…Bren with a leg over the arm of his chair. Coffee cups on the end tables…News reporters outside dying of curiosity: Were they at each other's throats or plotting a way to kill Sundeen?

  Bren said, you want some more coffee? The Moons said, no, thank you.

  Janet Pierson, hands gripping the arms of her chair, said, “Would you like to hear about my past life, my marriage? How I came to live here? My husband, Paul, was a mining engineer. He designed and built the crushing mill up at the works that one day, when he wasn't feeling well and should have stayed in bed-I told him, in your condition you should not be walking around that machinery…”

  Silence again.

  Finally Kate Moon said, “Do you want them to talk about the situation? What do you want?”

  “These two-” Janet Pierson began, almost angrily and had to calm herself. “These two, the heroic figures-some people must believe they're seven feet tall-what are they doing?”

  “They're resting,” Kate Moon said. “Ask them. Dana, what are you doing?”

  “Wondering if we shouldn't be going.”

  “I'm sorry,” Janet Pierson said. “I'm the one acting strange. I'm sincerely sorry.”

  Kate said, “Bren, what are you doing?”

  “I don't know,” Bren said. “Passing time? It does seem funny sitting here like this.”

  Moon looked at him. “What are you gonna do?”

  Bren frowned again. “What do you mean, what am I gonna do?”

  “Your man lynched my man.”

  “He isn't in any way my man.”

  “You both work for the same company.”

  “I don't work. I told you that. I draw money for my claims, that's all.”

  “All right, you're both paid by the same company.”

  “I don't have anything to do with this situation. What do you expect me to do, quit? You want me to walk out with them still owing me seventy thousand dollars?”

  “I'm not your conscience,” Moon said. “I'm not telling you what to do.”

  “You bet you're not.”

  T
here was a silence again.

  Kate said to Janet Pierson, “You like it better now?”

  “Please-I'm sorry,” Janet Pierson said. She was; though she did not feel guilt or remorse. She had to hear what they thought, if she was going to understand them.

  Bren rose from his chair. “I'm going to the latrine-if it ain't full of newspaper reporters.”

  “You still call it that?” Moon said.

  Janet Pierson said she wanted to fix them something to eat and followed Bren out to the kitchen.

  When they were alone, Moon said, “What are we doing here?”

  “Be nice,” Kate said.

  “I am nice,” he said. “That's all I'm doing, just sitting here being nice. I wonder what that son of a bitch Ison is doing. Probably having a drink and a good laugh with the judge and that other lawyer in his new suit.”

  “You knew what was gonna happen,” Kate said. “Don't act so surprised.”

  He patted her hand. “I'm glad you're so sweet and understanding. I hope Ison and Hough run again next year so I can vote against them, the asskissers.”

  “Well, our old friend Sundeen would've got off anyway,” Kate said. “What did they have to convict him with? Nothing.”

  “Let's go home.”

  “If she's fixing something, we should stay.”

  Moon looked toward the kitchen door. “Do you suppose he's living here with her?”

  “It's his house,” Kate said. “He either bought it for her, or so he can say he owns a bigger house than yours-”

  “Jesus Christ,” Moon said.

  “I'm not sure which,” Kate said. “But she's a nice person, so don't look down your nose at her.”

  “I'm not looking down my nose.”

  “I like her,” Kate went on. “She's a feeling person, not afraid to tell you what she thinks.”

  “Or what other people think,” Moon said. “You two should get along fine. You can tell us what's on our minds and save us the trouble of talking about it.”

  “She's worried about Bren; can't you see that?”

  “Bren? Christ, nobody's shooting at Bren. He isn't even in it.”

  “That's what bothers her,” Kate said. “He won't take sides.” She looked up and smiled as Janet Pierson came into the sitting room. “We were just talking about you.”

  “I don't blame you,” the woman said.

  Kate made a tsk-tsk sound, overdoing it, shaking her head. “Why worry about what people think? You know what you're doing.”

  “Sometimes I guess I say too much.”

  “Sure, when you run out of patience,” Kate said. “I know what you mean.”

  Moon's gaze moved from his wife to the woman, wondering what the hell they were talking about. Then looked toward the door at the sound of someone banging on it, three times. There was a pause. Janet Pierson didn't move. Then came three more loud banging sounds, the edge of somebody's fist pounding the wood panel hard enough to shake the door.

  When Bren appeared again in the backyard, coming from the outhouse, the reporters on the other side of the fence in the vacant lot called to him, come on, just give us a minute or so. What were you talking about in there?…Debating the issues or what?…When's Moon going to meet Sundeen?

  Then there was some kind of commotion. The reporters by the fence were looking away, moving off, then running from the vacant lot toward the front of the house. Bren went inside. There were onions and peppers on the wooden drain board in the kitchen, a pot of dry beans soaking. He heard the banging on the front door.

  Janet Pierson was standing in the middle of the sitting room, saying, “They're not bashful at all, are they?”

  Bren walked past her to the door, pulled it open and stopped, surprised, before he said, “What do you want?”

  Deputy J.R. Bruckner stood at the door. Looking past Bren at Moon sitting on the sofa, Bruckner said, “Him. I got a warrant for the arrest of one Dana Moon. He can come like a nice fella or kicking and screaming, but either way he's coming.”

  2

  In Benson, Ruben Vega had to find the right church first, St. John the Apostle, then had to lie to the priest to get him to come from the priest house to the church to hear his Confession.

  Kneeling at the small window in the darkness of the confessional, Ruben Vega said, “Bless me, father, for I have sinned. It has been…thirty-seven years since my last confession.”

  The old priest groaned, head lowered, pinching the bridge of his nose with his eyes closed.

  “Since then I have fornicated with many women…maybe eight hundred. No, not that many, considering my work. Maybe six hundred only.”

  “Do you mean bad women or good women?” the priest asked.

  “They are all good, Father,” Ruben Vega said. “Let me think, I stole about…I don't know, twenty-thousand head of beeves, but only in that time maybe fifty horses.” He paused for perhaps a full minute.

  “Go on.”

  “I'm thinking.”

  “Have you committed murder?”

  “No.”

  “All the stealing you've done-you've never killed anyone?”

  “Yes, of course, but it was not to commit murder. You understand the distinction? Not to kill someone, to take a life; but only to save my own.”

  The priest was silent, perhaps deciding if he should go further into this question of murder. Finally he said, “Have you made restitution?”

  “For what?”

  “For all you've stolen. I can't give you absolution unless you make an attempt to repay those you've harmed or injured.”

  Jesus, Ruben Vega thought. He said, “Look, that's done. I don't steal no more. But I can't pay back twenty thousand cows. How in the name of Christ can I do that? Oh-” He paused. “And I told a lie. I'm not dying. But, listen, man, somebody is going to,” Ruben Vega said, his face close to the screen that covered the little window, “if I don't get absolution for my sins.”

  He had forgotten how difficult they could make it when you wanted to unburden yourself. But now he was a new person, aware of his spurs making a clear, clean ching-ing sound as he walked out of the empty church-leaving thirty-seven years with the old man in the confessional-going to the depot now to buy a ticket on the El Paso & Southwestern, ride to Douglas, cross the border and go home.

  He hung around the yards watching the freight cars being switched to different tracks, smelling the coal smoke, hearing the harsh sound of the cars banging together and the wail of the whistle as an eastbound train headed out for Ochoa and the climb through Dragoon Pass. He wanted to remain outside tonight in the fresh air rather than go to a hotel in Benson; so he camped by the river and watched the young boys laughing and splashing each other, trying to catch minnows. With dark, mosquitoes came. They drove him crazy. Then it began to rain, a light, steady drizzle, and Ruben Vega said to himself: What are you doing here? He bought a bottle of mescal and for ten of the sixty dollars in his pocket he spent the night in a whorehouse with a plump, dark-haired girl named Rosa who thought he was very witty and laughed at everything he said when he wasn't being serious. Though some of the wittiest things he said seriously and they passed over her. That was all right. He gave her a dollar tip. In the morning Ruben Vega cashed in his ticket for the El Paso & Southwestern, mounted his horse and rode back toward the Rincon Mountains standing cleanly defined in the sunlight.

  3

  R.J. Bruckner said, “Look. They give me a warrant signed by Judge Hough for the arrest of Dana Moon. I served it over all kinds of commotion and people trying to argue with me and those newspaper men getting in the way. It took me and four deputies to clear them out and put Moon in detention. Now you got a complaint, go see the judge or the county attorney, it's out of my hands.”

  “Are you gonna drink that whole bottle yourself?” Sundeen asked.

  He reached behind him to close the door, giving them some privacy in the deputy's little office with its coal-oil lamp hanging above the desk.

  “I was havi
ng a touch before supper,” Bruckner said, getting another glass out of his desk and placing it before Sundeen. “Not that it's any of your business.”

  “I see they all went home,” Sundeen said, “the judge, the prosecutor and John Slaughter, leaving you with a mess, haven't they?”

  “I'm doing my job,” Bruckner said, pouring a short drink for Sundeen and setting the bottle within easy reach. “I don't see there's any mess here.”

  Sundeen leaned close as if to pick up the glass and swept the desk clean with his hand and arm, sending bottle, glasses and papers flying against the side wall. It brought the deputy's head up with a jerk, eyes staring open at the bearded, bulletmarked face, the man leaning over the desk on his hands, staring back at him.

  “Look again,” Sundeen said, “Listen when I'm talking to you and keep your hands in sight, else I'll draw iron and lay it across your head.”

  It was the beginning of a long night for R.J. Bruckner. First this one coming in and saying he wanted Moon released from jail. What? How was he supposed to do that? You think he just set a person free when somebody asked? Sundeen said he was not asking, he was telling him. He wanted Moon, but he was not going to stick a gun through the bars to get him. He wanted Moon out on the street. Bruckner would send him out and he would take care of it from there.

  Ah, now that didn't sound too bad.

  Except that Bruckner was looking forward to having Moon stay with him awhile. He owed Moon, the son of a bitch, at least a few lumps with a pick handle but had not gotten around to it yet.

  Bruckner sat back thinking about it, saying, “Yeah, like he was shot down while trying to escape.”

  “Jesus, it does't take you long, does it?” Sundeen said.

  Bruckner did not get that remark. He was thinking that he liked the idea of Moon being shot down even better than taking a pick handle to him…especially if it turned out he was the one pulled the trigger and not this company dude with the silver buckles.