Jim Saddler 2

by Gene Curry

  “No,” she said. Then she hesitated. “I guess so.”

  Not for a minute did I believe her.

  She caught my mood. “You don’t have to believe anything I say, Mr. Wingate. I was on my way for Lincoln County, New Mexico, when all this happened. I thank you for your hospitality, but I’d as soon as be on my way.”

  “What would you do there?” John asked, knocking back another glass of rum.

  He whistled and Laughing Woman hurried in with another bottle of rum from the kitchen. John thanked her in Yankee-accented Navaho. Laughing Woman gave the girl, this daughter of Jesse James, a sour look. I didn’t blame the Indian woman one bit. If I were a favored woman I’d be bitter too, having her around. But then I’m not a woman. Hot damn! She was a great looking bundle, hard eyes or not.

  “What would you do in Lincoln County?” I asked the girl.

  “Hire out my gun,” she said.

  “The Murphy-Tunstall war is long over,” I said.

  She had an answer for that, maybe a truthful one.

  “Murphy always has a war going with somebody.”

  I knew that could be true. Major Murphy, an ex-Union officer from California—now with the Englishman Tunstall dead and Billy the Kid, Tunstall’s self-appointed avenger, long under the sod—owned the biggest part of the country; but I also knew that no matter how much Murphy grabbed, he always wanted to grab off more.

  “Sell your gun?” John said in some amazement. “You mean you’re a gunfighter?”

  “What’s wrong with that, Mr. Wingate? This is 1887 and it’s time women were heard from. Back East there’s a woman running for President. She can’t vote herself but there’s nothing in the Constitution to keep her from running for President.”

  “Oh Lord!” John said. “It’s just that you don’t look like Belle Starr or Calamity Jane or …”

  “You mean any of the women who want to do the things men do.”

  “Why do you have to bring them into it?” John looked completely confused.

  “I could face down the two of them,” Jessie James said, and for the life of me I could never get used to that name.

  For forty years John Wingate was used to having his way with men and women. Handling men came easy to him, but his leather-faced wife, as I knew, had been the blight of his otherwise boisterous life.

  “You want me to go?” the girl asked. “Knowing about me, what do you want me to do?”

  “Do what you like,” John said. “There’s an empty room down at the end of the hall. Used to be my daughter’s room. You can bunk in there.”

  Already I was feeling bad about having brought the girl to John’s house. Just about now he was having all the trouble he could handle with his old partner, and having this girl along wasn’t going to make life any easier.

  “I’m going to bed,” she said.

  Chapter Four

  At least one of my prayers had been answered, and I reached for the rum bottle, my way of thanking the Lord.

  I filled John’s glass before I did my own.

  “Another one,” John said.

  I obeyed the order.

  “You think she’s telling the truth?” John said. “You knew Jesse at some point, didn’t you?”

  I shook my head. “Not so,” I said. “One time in Sangerville, Kansas, I saw him in a saloon. It was late at night and he came in with his brother Frank and one of the Youngers, I guess Bob, and they had new beards on their faces. A scruffy bunch by the look of them. They looked tired, half starved. They left after two drinks.”

  “What!” John said in a loud voice. Then he remembered about the girl and brought his voice down to a whisper. “You mean you weren’t interested in the rewards? Jesse alone was worth ...”

  “No,” I said. “I don’t work like that. Forget about Jesse James, why don’t you! Him and his daughter, if that’s what she is.”

  John Wingate turned his bleary eyes on me. “How can I do that, Saddler? She reminds me so much of my poor Hannah. Not so much in the looks but in the fire she has. But she does have some of poor Hannah’s looks.”

  John drank down another glass of dark rum, and I don’t know where he put it in that bony body. As they say, he must have had a hollow leg. Two hollow legs and two hollow arms, and maybe a hollow head too.

  “Do you think I was too strict with the girl, Saddler?”

  He had been, but I didn’t say it.

  “About Pardee,” I said.

  Hearing his old partner’s name jerked old John back to present business. Business was business, after all.

  “Saddler,” he said mournfully, “it keeps getting worse no matter what I do.”

  John Wingate had the look of a man who had been wronged by the world.

  He said, “After twenty-five years we took to arguing, broke up a partnership that lasted all that time. It never was more than a handshake anyhow. Everything we had was split right down the middle. We had to split—Vince took his half of the ranch and I took mine. That seemed to do it. I’d see him in town and we’d give a nod. I felt kind of forlorn, Vince gone and no more late-night card games and the drinking and the old stories of hard times. But—split up—that’s what it looked like, it seemed. Vince stayed where he was, built himself a whole new house. It wasn’t so bad, a business arrangement, you might say.”

  “What happened to change it, John?”

  “It happened when the last bad drought spell came and I dammed the creek. Why in hell shouldn’t I? The creek starts on my land—it was my land before we were partners—so I got a right to dam it. You think I’m a hog to do that, Saddler. I didn’t dam it completely. My cows were bawling for water but I always let some water through so Vince wouldn’t suffer that much. He didn’t see it that way. Vince came to me, said I had no right to dam up any water, said I had no right to stop the God-given water …”

  “But the drought’s over,” I said.

  “Not my place to back down,” John said. “I could have kept all the water, only I didn’t. I always let some through for him.”

  “He thought not enough.”

  “He got some, and that’s more than some men would have sluiced his way. Given the times, I did the best for him I could. Don’t you see that, Saddler? I’d have done more than that. I couldn’t. The whole country was drying up. It was me or him. I can’t say more than that.”

  I knew all this talk wasn’t aimed at me. Old John was trying to convince himself that he was one fine man and his old partner, Vince Pardee, was a grasping son-of-a-bitch.

  I didn’t say anything.

  “A Rebel fanatic is what he is,” John went on. “All he has to do is ride on over here and admit he’s in the wrong, and I’ll be the first to forgive him and wave the olive branch of peace.”

  “You know Vince won’t do that.”

  Like so many old men, they were a little crazy; when men have been strong and hard all their lives, they have a way of turning on everything when dying time comes near.

  You think that old gent on the rocker of the front porch of the hotel is crazy when he says he’d like to see another Civil War, another war with Mexico, even a war with England? Of course he’s crazy, but he still means it.

  “Maybe if you talked to Vince,” I suggested. “You don’t want this to go too far.”

  John snorted. “It’s gone far enough. Vince is a damned fool, Saddler. I’m hard pressed to say this, Saddler, but it’s war to the death between us.”

  “That’s too bad,” I said. “I still think you ought to talk.”

  John had no use for my suggestion. “What’s the matter with you, Saddler? Keep on talking like that and you’ll find yourself out of a job.”

  “I can still play poker, John, but I’ll work for you if that’s what you want.”

  John drank to that. “That’s more like it, boy. A man don’t know he’s alive unless he’s in a fight for what’s right. I’m fighting to survive, that’s the best kind of a scrap there is. Rebs, Indians, outlaws, fire
, flood, drought, love, pox—I fought and whipped every one. If Vince Pardee thinks he’s going to ruin me he’s barking up the wrong tree.”

  Laying a bony hand on his heart, John said mournfully, “The sad thing is, I’m a man of peace. Deep down, that’s what I am.”

  I got the sentiment, and it was a damned lie.

  “All Vince understands is the rope and the gun,” this man of peace stated. “Course at this stage of the game it don’t matter a damn who started the trouble. It’s here and we have to take care of it. We got to be as tough as Vince—tougher! Fifteen years back I wouldn’t need your help—could have done it all by myself—but now I need a strong right arm. In the old days every man on a ranch, from cookie to top hand, was ready to fight on the count of three. Times change though, and that’s where you come in. You got to whip my boys into shape, and you got to do it fast.”

  I was tired of listening to John run off at the mouth. “You’re right. Times change.”

  “I’m too old to change,” John said, mighty proud of himself.

  Laughing Woman peeped out of the kitchen and made clicking sounds with her tongue. Taking the bottle and glass, John got up unsteadily.

  “Duty calls,” he said.

  “You were always strong for duty,” I said.

  “That’s what the ladies tell me.”

  He went upstairs with his arm around Laughing Woman while I sat there and drank my drink.

  On the face of it, this war seemed to be nothing but a misunderstanding between two stubborn old men. In a way it reminded me of the old man or woman who suddenly decides to get rid of the partner of fifty years. Old men get crazier than old women, but if you tell them that, you’ve made an enemy for life.

  Another strange thing was that Yankees are supposed to be tight-lipped and stingy. This couldn’t be less true of old John. His door was always open to strangers and he never held back on the food or the rum.

  Vince Pardee, on the other hand, was said to be a bit of a skinflint, always looking to the dollar. None of this mattered, now that the two wild, old men were set on turning Dade County into one big graveyard. I was mad at them and sorry for them at the same time. It had already gone past the fist-shaking stage—men had been killed, some by me—and there was big trouble dead ahead if something didn’t stop it.

  What that something was I had no idea. There was no real way to discuss it with John without getting him more steamed up than he was. I could see that it wasn’t just over water; they had to fight to prove that they were still men. When the eyesight starts to go, and food lays heavy on your stomach, and you aren’t much use to a woman any more, it’s time to start a fight with some other crazy old gent.

  That’s why I know I won’t live to be sixty; I’ll get in the way of a bullet to keep that from happening, if I have to.

  Those were some of my thoughts as I sat there in the silent room, sipping rum and smoking a cigar. Down the hall in John’s room there was a fair bit of noise, and for the life of me I could never understand why he had to let the whole world know he was jollying—trying to, anyway—a woman. Or maybe it was because his bitter-faced Iowa wife, long, long dead, had been a cold slab of bacon in bed. But I was glad that he was getting something out of life, if only a fat Navaho. Come to think of it, the fat Navaho was probably all right.

  After the big meal and the rum, too much rum, I didn’t feel like sleeping just yet. Then, too, I had killed men that day, and though it had been to save my life, I thought about it. It bothered me more than it did the girl; no sign that I could see that it bothered her at all.

  I was corking the rum bottle and finishing the cigar when she came out of her room. There was nothing in particular I wanted to say to her. I gave her a brief nod.

  In her eyes there was an odd look, and I didn’t know what to make of it. There was tension and hostility, and she hadn’t come out to the living room for nothing at all.

  “That rum would taste better, not so sweet, if you put a slice of lemon in it,” she said.

  That was Jessie, always saying the least expected thing. It was late and everybody on the ranch had gone to bed except the guards.

  “It’s all right as it is,” I said.

  That annoyed her. “I suggested sliced lemon. Didn’t you hear me?”

  “I heard you. I’m through drinking for the night.”

  “But not for tomorrow, is that it?”

  “Did you just join the Temperance League?”

  “It seems to me you should cut back on your drinking while you’re working for Mr. Wingate. How can you do your best work if you’re drinking all the time?”

  “That’s what they said about General Grant.”

  “I’m not joking, Saddler. We’re in a war here and everybody should have a clear head.”

  I said, “Who invited you to join? I know why I’m here—I was sent for—but what about you? Anyhow, I can’t see a woman in a range war.”

  You should have seen her temper flare, as it did so very often. “It’s not for you to invite me or send me away. You better remember that.”

  For such a pretty girl, she had a vicious smile when you got on the bad side of her, something that was easy to do.

  She said, “As for women fighting wars, I’ll stand up to any man who ever lived; and that includes you.”

  “Slow down,” I said. “I just had a good dinner and a fine cigar, and don’t feel like standing up to anybody right now. Listen, I don’t give a damn what you do, as long as you don’t stir up the men or otherwise make trouble.”

  She laughed at the idea of getting the cowhands stirred up. “That bunch! They can think about me what they like. As for the rest of it …”

  “I’m glad to hear that. It isn’t often the boys see somebody like you.”

  “What the hell do you mean somebody like me?”

  “The way you dress, the way you walk. You sure fill those britches to the breaking point. I’m telling you to stay away from the bunkhouse. The boys might decide you’re not a lady because you wear pants. Some of them might decide to tie you up for the night and have fun with you till morning. That would get them in big trouble with John, but they wouldn’t be thinking of that at the time.”

  “I’d shoot their eyes out. No, not their eyes, their ...”

  “Let’s not get too wild,” I said. “A bit of advice is all I’m trying to give you. It’s good advice. If the boys all come at you at one time there wouldn’t be much you could do.”

  “That’s what you say.”

  Again there was that strange, tense look in her eyes, and I couldn’t tell whether she was excited by the thought of killing men or being raped. Maybe both. Maybe she didn’t know herself, if she even thought about it.

  She asked, “You think they’ll try?”

  “Not as long you stay away from the bunkhouse after dark.”

  “Is that a fact now? I’ll go where I please.”

  I shook my head. “No. No you won’t. We’re going to meet head-on if you stay on this track. If this trouble goes far enough, and it looks that way, there’s going to be a real war. And it won’t be like a war between small ranchers. Wingate and Pardee have plenty of money and will spend it to get their way. They can hire all the men they need, and if they’re killed they can hire some more. I don’t mean cowhands—gunmen! When that happens there won’t be any time for foolishness.”

  “You’re calling me a fool?”

  “You don’t look like one, so don’t act like one.”

  “You certainly have plenty to say, don’t you? I think I like men who don’t talk so much.”

  “I’m sorry to disappoint you,” I said. “I’ll have to live with my grief.”

  “You don’t care if I like you or not?”

  “I wouldn’t mind it if you did like me. We’re all here together, as the preacher said.”

  Jessie had no sense of humor, absolutely none, as I was to discover later, and that was only one of the things wrong with her.

&nbs
p; She said now, “I don’t like people laughing at me, and that’s what you’re doing, or trying to do.”

  “I’m not,” I said. “Why would I want to do that? People won’t laugh at you if you don’t give them a chance.”

  “I won’t—but if they do they’ll be sorry.”

  “You wouldn’t shoot somebody for making a joke?”

  “If I felt like it I would.”

  “Do you always do what you feel like?”

  “Most of the time.”

  “That’s going to get you in trouble.”

  “I’ve been in trouble and I got out of it every time. What makes you think it’s going to change?”

  “You’ll find the answer to that in due time. Everybody does.”

  Jessie sat down at the table. “I’m going to take a drink of that rum, then I’m going to bed. Are you going to sit up all night?”

  I put on my hat and took my coat from the rack. “Not all night. I’m going to walk around until I feel like sleeping.”

  The thought of danger always made her eyes shine, and I wished she would take up poker or bullfighting if she couldn’t get enough excitement in the normal way.

  “You expecting trouble?” she asked. “You want me to go along?”

  I said patiently, “I’m not expecting trouble and I don’t want you to go along. All I want to do is see how the place looks at night. Guards are posted, but maybe not in the right places. Pardee served in the Confederate cavalry. I don’t want him taking us by surprise.”

  That made her bloodthirsty again. “I think Mr. Wingate ought to attack Pardee first, and not just occasional shooting. I mean burn his ranch, scatter his stock, drive him out of the territory. Then Mr. Wingate could take back what is rightfully his. Mr. Wingate started this ranch, didn’t he? That’s what he said.”

  “That’s what he said, but he also gave Pardee some credit for making it run right. John has … had ... a good head for business, but that kind of thing doesn’t always keep a ranch together. Pardee knew how to take care of the things that went wrong.”

  “You sound like you work for Pardee instead of Mr. Wingate.”

  “I don’t want to see either of them killed or crippled. They’re old but they still have some years left to enjoy.”