by H. V. Elkin
Hansen nodded.
“Now, what we got to do, Eric, is wait patient until Anna comes for the sheep. If she’s hungry enough it won’t be long. When she gets near it we beat the bushes our way to make her run between the canvas to the pit. When she gets to the sheep, we fire our guns from opposite sides of that hill. That’ll make an echo that sounds like the gunfire’s comin’ from all around, and that should give the tiger just one direction to run in, right to the pit.”
Hansen looked back toward the hill. That worried expression returned to his face. “You don’t think it’ll work?” Cutler asked.
Hansen looked at Cutler and forced a smile. “No, I think it’s got a good chance of working.”
“Then what are you so worried about?”
“Who’s worried?”
Hansen turned and looked around at the countryside, maybe searching for some reason it would not work so he could take the upper hand away from Cutler, maybe unconsciously looking for someone to stand on his side and argue against the plan. His eyes widened as there seemed to be the sound of a running horse coming toward them from the southwest beyond the pit, but then the sound faded and so did the strangely hopeful expression on Hansen’s face. He sighed. “Okay, we might as well try it your way. I don’t have any other ideas.”
“Okay,” Cutler said. “Your gun loaded?”
“Just blanks.”
“That don’t matter. It’s the noise we want. I’ll have my rifle if it’s got to be anything else. When you hear me shoot, you shoot. When you see the tiger run into the canvas, come a’runnin’ with your lasso ready.”
The two men took up their positions at opposite ends of the hill and waited. Cutler watched the hill for a movement of color, but everything was still. In half an hour, the sheep bleated mournfully over its plight of being tethered without the consolation of water or grass in reach. The animal’s sound of hopelessness struck a chord in Cutler, maybe because no matter how sure he ever was that one of his traps would work, there was still an undercurrent of doubt that he ignored during the hunt because there was nothing to be gained by bothering with it. But the sheep’s sound hit that spot inside Cutler. However, at the same time, the sound must have hit its opposite in the hills, the hopelessness of the sheep touching the hope of the hungry tiger, and there was an orange movement flashing out of one of the dark shadows of the hill. It paused a moment, masquerading as a reflection, then flowed behind a rock. There was another moment before it reemerged and prowled with a slow, single-minded intent toward its prey. The plan was working.
Cutler put the Krag down and drew his Colt, and he waited as the tiger moved toward the sheep, not in a continuous rush, but in slow stages. Anna would crouch very still, then prowl forward a few yards, then pause like a statue, then prowl forward again, until the series of movements brought her within twenty yards of the sheep. Then her still form seemed to build up energy, and Cutler knew the moment was soon. Anna lunged forward. In that instant, Cutler fired his six-gun and the sound echoed off the hill.
Anna stopped short less than two yards from the complaining, frightened sheep. She stood taller now and held her head up, her ears high, her eyes looking around behind her.
Hansen had not fired. Cutler cursed to himself and fired again. There was a two-second pause before Hansen fired, and then Cutler fired again, until the hill reverberated with the sounds of the two guns.
Her hunger forgotten, Anna ran past the sheep and into the canvas highway that led to the pit.
“Now!” Cutler shouted to Hansen as he holstered his revolver, picked up the Krag in one hand, the lasso in the other and ran toward the canvas.
He had just gotten up to the sheep, saw the tiger moving toward the pit, when suddenly, near the pit, the canvas caved inward and a man stepped over it, putting himself between the tiger and the pit. Seeing the tiger, the man drew a six-gun and fired wildly, his shots exploding the ground near Anna who had stopped in her tracks. Anna was confused a moment, then turned and ran back. Toward Cutler.
Cutler fired his Krag into the air and yelled at the man, “Get away, you fool!” and saw the man was Sam Bean.
But the tiger was not about to be turned back by a second gun firing into the air, whether Sam got out of the way or not. The animal was desperate now and would kill if she had to in order to escape from the spot occupied only by enemies. Before Cutler could lower his rifle to kill her, she was in the air, lunging toward him, her feet hitting him in the chest like two hundred-pound sledgehammers and pushing him down with a movement that knocked the air out of him. Before he could breathe again, he felt the sharp talons ripping into his chest and he saw the sharp teeth flashing toward his throat. He swerved just in time and, in that movement, saw that the Krag was out of reach and, with a simultaneous movement, drew his knife and jabbed it toward the tiger’s throat.
A sharp snap punctured the space between man and tiger, and the knife disappeared. In the same moment, the tiger released its prey, snarled at the sound, reeled about and ran off back toward the hill.
Hansen was standing there with the whip in his hand, and Sam Bean was running through the canvas highway toward them. Cutler was dazed, but he stumbled to his feet and backed up to see both men as Sam came up alongside Hansen. Cutler held his gunhand out at the same moment he calculated there was only one bullet left in his Colt. Sam had his gun still drawn, but since he was unlikely to save ammunition with the tiger coming toward him, Sam’s gun was probably empty. The greatest danger was the whip, but Hansen held it with its business end lying lifeless on the ground, as though it too had run out of ammunition.
The two men looked at Cutler as if they were a low pair in a poker hand, maybe wondering if Cutler had a higher pair in his six-gun. They spoke as if they were bidding.
“You okay?” Hansen asked.
“You’re all cut up,” Sam said, raising a finger but not lifting his arm and indicating the general area of Cutler’s chest.
Neither man moved.
“We got to get you taken care of right away,” Hansen said, and Cutler wondered what he meant by that. Hansen went on, “A cat’s claws are poison.”
“That a fact?” Cutler asked.
“Yes,” Hansen said. “Don’t you know? The meat cats eat, some of it gets under the sheaths of the claws and it rots in there. That can kill you worse than if she bit you.”
Cutler knew this to be true, and it added one more element to the poker game they seemed to be playing.
Sam jerked his head southwest. “My horse’s over there. I got some whisky. Could use it for a disinfectant.” But he did not move.
“Drop that whip,” Cutler ordered Hansen.
Hansen let it fall without question.
Cutler told Sam, “Drop that gun. Throw it away from you.”
Sam looked innocent. “What for?”
Cutler whipped out his own gun. “This is what for!”
Sam shrugged as if Cutler was crazy and threw his gun away.
“Now unbuckle your belt,” Cutler said.
“Cutler ...” Hansen started to protest.
Cutler shot him a look that silenced him. Then he glared back at Sam. Sam did as he was told and the gun belt fell to the ground. “Now both of you back up,” Cutler said.
Sam and Hansen exchanged looks, then took several steps back.
Cutler stepped forward, picked up the gun belt and whip. He threw them away with an angry motion that made him feel the damage that had been done to his chest. But his expression did not change.
“Cutler ...” Hansen began tentatively, then saw that Cutler was listening. “Obviously, you’re under some kind of misapprehension.”
“Yeah,” Sam agreed. “I don’t get it. Why’re you holdin’ a gun on us?”
“Why would you think?”
Sam shrugged. “Ain’t got a single idea. Hell, you don’t think I made that tiger come after you, do you?”
“Fact is,” Cutler said, “that’s exactly what happened.”
“An accident! Just an accident!”
Cutler slipped more shells into his Colt, then held it leveled at Sam.
“You gonna kill me because of an accident?” Sam asked. “My pa’ll hang you if you do.”
“Too bad you wouldn’t be around to see it.”
“Look, listen to reason. I didn’t know I was gonna step into a tiger’s path. I just saw this cloth stretched out, wondered what in the hell that could be and came over to see.”
“Just like a good deputy,” Cutler said.
“Well, sure. Then what else did you expect me to do but shoot when I saw a tiger comin’ toward me?”
“Might expect you to shoot to kill.”
“Don’t think a bullet from my little gun’d do any more than make the tiger madder. Thought the best bet was to scare it.”
“You think fast,” Cutler said. “Too fast.”
“You’re not callin’ me a liar, are you? What did you think? That I was out to get you? What for?”
Cutler shook his head. “Don’t know. Don’t think as fast as you do. I’m still workin’ on the coincidence of you bein’ here when there’s so many other places you could’ve been instead.”
“Wasn’t no accident. You know Pa wanted you to stay put on the circus lot. He told me to keep an eye on you.”
Hansen said, “That makes sense.”
“Nothin’ makes sense right now,” Cutler said and looked at Hansen.
“What’re you mad at me for?” Hansen asked. “I probably saved your life.”
“By whippin’ the knife out of my hand?”
“No, that just happened. Your knife just happened to be there. I was just putting the crack of my whip between you and Anna’s teeth. That’s what made her back off. Besides, what good was a knife? We didn’t want to kill her, did we?”
Cutler said nothing. There was little doubt in his mind now that the two men were in cahoots, that they were going to extremes to keep the tiger free as well as alive, and that they would sooner see Cutler dead than the tiger captured. But killing either one of them now would only make matters worse for the circus. And since he could not prove what he knew, there was nothing to be gained by letting them know his suspicions.
“Either of you boys think I got a right to be mad?”
“Hell yes,” Sam said. “Sure you do. You didn’t catch the tiger.”
“Right,” Hansen agreed. “We did a lot of work, and it was all for nothing. I’m mad, too.”
“But,” Sam said, “there’s no call for you to be holdin’ a gun on us, is there?”
“Guess not,” Cutler said. “But I’m mad. That’s why I’m doin’ it. Don’t think I’ll shoot you though, unless you give me another reason.” He looked at them a moment, waiting to see if they wanted to come up with one, but neither man spoke. “I want to get over bein’ mad,” Cutler said. “So here’s what we’re gonna do. We’re gonna straighten things out so everybody understands I’m the one’s in charge from now on.”
“Sure,” Sam agreed. And Hansen nodded.
“So I’ll give the orders,” Cutler said.
In the face of the gun, both men nodded their agreement.
“First order,” Cutler said, “is for Eric to get on back to the circus and stay there until I get there. And be real patient ‘cause I got to go somewhere else first.”
“Sure, Cutler,” Eric said and started for the whip.
“Leave it,” Cutler said. “Just get on your horse and ride away before I change my mind.” He thumbed back the hammer of his gun, and it made a clicking sound that froze Hansen in his tracks. Stooped over the whip as he was, Hansen made a tempting target for Cutler’s fist and it took some restraint not to take advantage of it. Hansen straightened in a moment, then walked off toward his horse.
After the sound of Hansen’s horse had faded into the distance and in the right direction, Cutler told Sam, “Now, you.”
Sam said, “If you got rid of him so you could murder me, least you could do is make it a fair fight.”
“Corner a back-shooter,” Cutler said, “and nine times out of ten, he’ll ask for a fair fight.”
“Who’s a back shooter?”
“Folks who come sneakin’ up on other folks, they tend to be.”
Any fear of Sam’s now turned into hatred and anger. He looked like he was ready to go for Cutler and take his chances rather than let another man accuse him of such a terrible thing. It did not matter whether or not the accusation was true or might be someday; it was the insult that mattered. Cutler saw this and holstered his Colt. Sam looked surprised.
“You gonna let me pick up my gun now?” Sam asked.
“Not right this minute,” Cutler said. “Not today.”
“Well, if you’re not gonna shoot me, Cutler, then what?”
“First, we’ll go find that horse of yours and see about that disinfectant you say you got with you.”
“The whisky? It’s there all right.”
“After we take this sheep back where it belongs,” Cutler said, “you and me are gonna take us a little ride into Langtry and have us a nice, friendly talk with your pa.”
“Pa does the talkin’ in Langtry.”
“Then we’ll listen. And if I don’t hear what I’m after, maybe I can figure out some way to get his attention.”
Cutler glanced toward his six-gun, then looked up and gave Sam a smile that made him feel funny.
Chapter Seven
Roy Bean was in his rocking chair on the porch of the Jersey Lily when Cutler rode up with Sam. Bean was rocking slowly as if thinking about something. Then the rocking stopped, as if he was thinking about something else, when he saw Sam without his gun.
The horses stopped in front of Bean, and Sam started to dismount. “Stay in the saddle a minute,” Cutler told him. Sam settled back into his seat and waited.
Roy Bean’s face was a mask as it usually was. His chair started to rock again, slowly, deliberately. And he waited, too. Cutler was dealing right now, so he had to name the game.
Cutler pushed his hat back on his head and casually sleeved his forehead. “This son of yours,” Cutler said, “this son and deputy, he kind of got in the way out there today.”
Bean looked at Sam. Sam grinned slightly and shrugged. Bean’s eyebrows lowered, disapproving, and he told Sam. “Get off that horse.”
Sam glanced at Cutler, and Cutler nodded permission. Sam dismounted and strutted onto the porch by his father. Bean stood, stared at his son a moment, then without warning cuffed the young man across the cheek. Sam crouched away from the blow, more surprised than hurt.
Bean pointed an accusing finger at Sam. “What the hell you mean ridin’ in here without your gun? How’d you lose it?”
“Well ...” Sam started, then looked for the right words.
Bean was not inclined to be patient. “Somebody take it away from you?”
“No, Pa!”
“Then where is it?”
Sam did not know what to say, knowing the truth would only make his father angrier and that a lie would not get past Cutler. “Let’s you and me go inside and I’ll tell you about it.”
Bean glared at Cutler. “You take this deputy’s gun away from him?”
“Never touched it,” Cutler said.
“But Sam’s lost his gun. And besides that, Cutler, I see you’re not on the lot where I told you to stay.”
Cutler nodded.
“Well sir,” Bean said, “I think we got us the makin’s of a trial right here. Get on inside, Cutler, and I’ll get me a jury.”
Cutler raised his hand. “No need to go botherin’ folks that way. Might need ’em later, but right now you might want to have a private hearin’.”
“You tellin’ me how to run a court?”
“No sir, I ain’t. Just suggestin’ you might not want to have a public trial, the facts bein’ what they are.”
“And just what are they?”
“Not too clear and not too nice, maybe.”
Bean glared at Sam, and Sam nodded. “Okay,” Bean told Cutler, “a private hearin’, then. Get down and come in.”
There were two Texas Rangers drinking beer inside. Mike McKay sat in a corner, also drinking beer, writing something and referring to newspaper clippings in an old cigar box. McKay seemed to have found some inspiration from working in the saloon where the noose still hung over a beam.
“Need the room, boys,” Bean told them. “Gonna have a private hearin,.,,
“Sure, Judge,” said one of the rangers, and he and his partner got up and carried their beers outside.
Bean put his Texas Statute book on the bar, put on his alpaca coat and sat on the stool behind the bar. He glared at McKay who seemed to be taking his time assembling the things he was working on.
“Stick around, Mike,” Cutler said.
“Thought we said ‘private’,” Bean said.
“Oh sure,” Cutler said, “but that don’t have to include the man writin’ a book about you, Judge. He ought to be here as a witness. Anything comes out you don’t want the world to know about, you can always hang him.”
Bean nodded. “Guess so. Okay, McKay, you stay.”
McKay was nervous. “I’d just as soon go.”
“Now that’s all right,” Bean told him. “You stay and you write down how things come out here.”
Sam sat at a table and put his feet up on it.
“Show some respect for the court,” Bean told him, and Sam put his feet on the floor, but he grinned as if it was a private joke between him and his father.
“Court’s in session,” Bean said in a loud voice for McKay’s benefit, then looked at McKay to see if he was writing it down. McKay got the message and dutifully made a note. He nodded to the judge and Bean went on, “We’re here to get the fact concernin’ the disarmin’ of a deputy of this here court. Who’s gonna talk first?”
“Your honor,” Cutler said.
“John Cutler,” Bean said. “Shoot.”
“Today Eric Hansen and me went out after the tiger.”
“You mean to tell me, Cutler, you left the circus lot in disobeyance?”