Wild West

by Elmer Kelton

  They found it, but too late. A sudden crackle of gunfire started ahead of them. They heard excited shouts, the screams of horses.

  Fire leaped up in the darkness.

  Kyle’s heart sank. “Hold up, sonny. No use going in there now. I haven’t got a gun and that slingshot wouldn’t help much, either.”

  The gunfire stopped as abruptly as it had begun. A rumble of hoofbeats moved toward them. Kyle stepped down quickly and motioned the boy to do the same. They stood there, holding their horses’ noses to keep them from nickering. The raiding party passed by no more than three hundred yards away.

  The two rode on in after that. They had no trouble finding the camp. Even after the flames had stopped leaping into the air, the steady glow of fire lighted their way. Excited men were throwing water on the drilling rig, where stubborn flames clung, flickered low, then flashed bright again. But the last of them was snuffed out. Around the camp, the scene was one of almost total destruction. A burning wagon collapsed, sending a shower of sparks into the air while one of the wheels rolled down the slope twenty feet and came to clanking rest against a water barrel. The barrel was shot full of holes, the last of the water pouring out the punctures at the bottom. A short way from the rig, a mule lay screaming, threshing in agony. Rage roared through Kyle as he realized the raiders had shot all the animals.

  One of the men put the mule out of its misery with a pistol bullet as Kyle and the McLeod boy rode up. Someone recognized Kyle and swung a rifle around. Sam Whittenburg’s voice stopped him. “Hold on there! Let him come in.” Kyle rode in with his hands well away from his sides, so they could see he carried no gun.

  “What’re you doing here, Kyle?” Sam demanded. His voice was grim.

  “I came to warn you. But we got here a little late.”

  The boy piped in quickly. “Pa told me to come with him. Pa said he believed him. And it all happened just like he said it would.”

  “Ebeling was with your friend Gorman,” Sam said. “I guess you know that.”

  Kyle nodded. “I knew it. That’s why I came.”

  In the firelight Kyle saw the angry splotch of red on Sam’s sleeve. “You better take care of that, Sam,” he said, reaching to touch the arm.

  Sam pulled away. “There’s worse here. A lot worse. You better come with me, Kyle.”

  Kyle followed him to where a man lay on a blanket. Another man bent over him, working by lantern light, trying to stanch the flow of blood from a chest wound.

  Kyle’s breath broke off short. Enrique!

  He fell to his knees, his throat tight. “Enrique. Compadre.”

  Enrique’s eyes fluttered open. His lips moved, but no words came.

  Kyle looked up quickly. “We’ve got to get to a doctor.”

  Sam shook his head. “It’d kill him to move him now. And we’ve got no wagons left. Buster McLeod, how’s that horse of yours? Fresh enough to make it to town? Go fetch us a doctor. Hurry.”

  The boy left.

  Even as the youngster rode away, Kyle knew it would be no use. A few hours, a day, maybe two days, Enrique was done.

  The world came crashing down about him. He closed his burning eyes. His throat swelled and choked him.

  Sam said, “You’d have been proud of him, Kyle. I never saw a man like him. He saw Ebeling, and he seemed to turn into a tiger. Ebeling rode in, and the old man jumped out after him. His gun was empty, but he went on anyway with a knife in his hand.

  “They were all shooting at him at once, but just couldn’t seem to hit him. He grabbed hold of Ebeling’s leg and started pulling him out of the saddle. Ebeling shot him, then, in the chest. It wasn’t till then that Enrique stopped.”

  Sam walked away, leaving Kyle alone with Enrique. Kyle bent low over the old Mexican, hoping Enrique could understand.

  “You were right, Enrique,” he said, almost pleading. “I was wrong. You tried to tell me and I wouldn’t listen. Forgive me, Enrique.”

  Enrique’s ancient, wrinkled hand lifted. It was a terrible effort, but the old man managed to lift it and place it on Kyle’s hand. Kyle felt a gentle pressure there, and he saw Enrique’s lips pull into a thin, weak smile. He had to bend low to hear the whispered words.

  “Once—I was young, hijo, just like you. That’s why I understand you. You are Enrique—fifty years ago. Nothing to forgive, my son. Nothing to forgive.”

  Daylight came, and the word spread. The ranchers began riding in to look around, to take inventory and see what the others were thinking. The drilling camp was a litter of dead horses and mules, burned wagons and camping equipment. Every water barrel was shot full of holes. Oats were scattered all over the ground.

  The well driller was talking to Milt McGivern, shaking his head. “The rig there, it’s built out of oak, and it didn’t burn bad. We got the fire put out. But we can’t drill again till we get some new teams and camp gear, and some new rope, too. And we got to dig that drill bit out of the hole by hand. Weighs five hundred pounds.”

  He squinted. “Something else. We got to have better protection than we had, or we don’t even start.”

  Thomas Avery, the family man, worriedly shook his head. “I don’t know. It ain’t worth it, risking our lives this way. Getting shot at for land that don’t even belong to us. If Gorman don’t get it, somebody else will buy it out from under us anyway.”

  Ferman Olds said, “What kind of a life is it when you got to live with your guns twenty-four hours a day, wondering when they’re going to come next? It might last for months.”

  Riders came by during the day, and the news gathered. Gorman and Ebeling had raided several ranches after leaving the well site. They had burned buildings or caved them in. They had run off cattle from all over the range. Over at the Johnson place they had shot old man Johnson. He wasn’t even in Gorman’s original plan. And at the Hendersons’, one of the horsemen had run over Mrs. Henderson and left her lying there with a broken leg.

  Thomas Avery looked as if a mule had kicked him in the stomach. “That settles it,” he said. “If they want it that bad, they can have it.”

  Ferman Olds nodded. “That’s the way I see it, too.”

  But Milt McGivern still had some fight him. “Wait a minute, now. We’re not going to tuck our tails between our legs and run off like mongrel dogs, without even putting up a fight. We’ve spent years building what we have. Are we going to let somebody take it away from us in one night?”

  Jealous of McGivern’s strong spirit, Avery said irritably, “What do you expect us to do? I’m not a gunfighter. I’m a rancher.”

  “You’re a coward!” McGivern declared.

  Kyle had been staying close to Enrique. Enrique had lapsed into unconscious last night, and he hadn’t come out of it. Kyle knew he never would.

  Still stiff and sore from the beating, Kyle stood up and walked over to where the men were arguing.

  “Look,” he broke in, “if you can hold out through the next couple of weeks, you’ll have Gorman whipped.”

  They looked at him in surprise. “What you know about it?” Avery demanded.

  Kyle explained about the trail herd Gorman was expecting.

  “A week, ten days at the most, and it’ll be here. It’s a big one. Gorman has got to have your range for those cattle—all of your range. If those cattle come piling in here on him and he hasn’t got it, he’s sunk. He’ll have to send them on north somewhere, west to New Mexico. Or even back to South Texas. Whichever he does, he’ll have to do it quick.”

  Avery scowled. “How do we know you’re not still with Gorman? How do we know you’re not setting us up for a licking?”

  Kyle said, “Gorman’s got Ebeling with him now. And they’ve shot Enrique. You know I wouldn’t ride with Ebeling.”

  McGivern had been eyeing Kyle critically. Now he said to Avery, “I believe him, Thomas. And I’m not going to quit. I’m going to stick, like he says.”

  Kyle felt the touch of McGivern’s hand on his shoulder. “We’ve all made
mistakes, son. I’ve made them, and you’ve made them. I don’t blame you for yours. I hope you’ll forgive me for mine. Let’s call it square and see what we can do to set it right.”

  Avery’s eyes were still hostile. They were still scared. “Stick if you want to, Milt. But I’m through.”

  He turned and started walking for his horse. Ferman Olds called, “Wait for me, Thomas. I’m going with you.” Sadness was in McGivern’s eyes as he watched them go. “I reckon we’ll lose the rest, too. Let two pull out and the others will follow. Just like a row of dominoes falling down. One goes and they all do.”

  Kyle turned to Sam. “You were telling me the other day about the Rangers. Where are they?”

  Sam shrugged. “No telling.”

  “Sam,” Kyle said, “I think the law would stick with all of you now, whatever you did. Gorman had it on his side when he started. He owned those creek sections. But now he’s over-reached himself, he and Ebeling. He’s raided and burned and even killed.

  “He’s desperate for time now. That’s why he cut the dogs loose. He’s hoping to get this thing wound up before the law finds out about it. He wants to get you all run out or buried. Once he’s got possession of the land, even the law’s going to have a hard time rooting him out.”

  Sam said, “So we send somebody to hunt the Rangers. What if it takes weeks to get them here? If the rest of the ranchers stampede like Avery and Olds, there’s not much we can do. And they’ll stampede, Kyle.”

  Kyle said, “Maybe we’ll find a way. We’ll just have to keep looking.”

  As Kyle had known he would, Enrique died the morning of the second day. Kyle sat beside him numbly, holding the red, wrinkled old hand that would never love again.

  Brook Emmett and Jane were there. Ebling had made a lightning raid on Emmett, taking away in one sweep the cattle he and a couple of cowboys had been holding. Now McGivern was trying to talk Emmett into staying. Emmett was about ready to give it all up.

  “It doesn’t mean much to me any more, anyway,” he was saying.

  McGivern said, “I know what’s been bothering you, Brook. Would it help you any if Kyle Rayford told you he no longer held anything against you? Would that wipe the slate clean?”

  Emmett turned slowly to face Kyle, not knowing exactly what to expect. For a moment he stood in silence, the hope almost painful in his eyes.

  Kyle said, “You asked me the other day if I would shake hands with you. I’d like to do it now.”

  Later Kyle turned back to Enrique. Jane sat down beside him. No words passed between them. None were needed.

  After a long while she asked, “Where are you going to bury him?”

  “He belongs on the Slash R,” Kyle said. “I’m going to take him there, if you’ll lend me one of your wagons.”

  Her hand touched his. “Sure, Kyle. I’ll go with you.”

  He shook his head sharply. “No. We might run into Gorman or Ebeling.”

  She said, “I’m going with you, Kyle.”

  He didn’t have it in him to argue. He shrugged. “All right. We’d better get started, or we won’t be back before dark.”

  Sam was gone, trying to talk others into staying a little longer. So just Kyle and Jane went with Enrique’s body. For an hour they sat together on the spring wagon seat, and not a word passed between them as the wagon bounced along. But Kyle could feel Jane’s worried eyes upon him.

  Jane said, “You’re still confused, aren’t you, Kyle? You don’t know which way to turn.”

  He nodded solemnly. “For four years I was so sure what I wanted. And when I got it, everything blew up in my face.”

  An emptiness left a terrible ache in him. “Even the Slash R. I dreamed of getting it back. Now I don’t know if I want it or not. There wouldn’t be anything left there but memories—a lot of bad memories.”

  She took his hand. “You’ll want it, when this is all over.”

  At the Slash R he picked a spot of high ground and took out the shovel. The summer sun bore down with a vengeance, and sweat soaked his shirt. But the ground was soft. The digging went fast.

  While Kyle dug, Jane walked up and down the creek, among the trees which Earl Rayford had set out as soon as he had reached the place, and which now had grown tall and strong. Presently she came back.

  “You know,” she said, “there’s a wonderful spot down there for a house. All that shade, and not far from the water. You could find all the rock you’d need just a little way up the creek.”

  Kyle stopped digging and wiped the sweat from his forehead. “I know. Pa had him a spot picked out down there. He used to always dream about the house he’d build someday.”

  “You’ll build it, Kyle,” she said. He didn’t know. He didn’t know if he’d ever want to see the place again.

  Gently Kyle lowered Enrique’s blanket-wrapped body into the grave. He stood with hat in his hand while Jane read from the Bible she had brought with her. She finished with a prayer. Kyle’s throat was so tight he couldn’t join in with her.

  He wished, for Enrique, that he had had a priest. There wasn’t one up here anywhere. Someday, maybe, he could find one and bring him here.

  He picked up the shovel and let the first shovelful of dirt slide back into the grave. He blinked away the stinging in his eyes.

  “Hold it, Rayford!”

  The voice cracked like a whip from within the trees. Kyle grabbed at his hip and then remembered. He had taken off his gun while he was digging. It hung on the wagon, fifteen feet away.

  Thatcher, Ebeling’s man, stepped out from the trees. His left shoulder was bound because of the wound Kyle had given him, and his left arm was in a tight sling. But his right hand was all right, and it held a gun.

  “I’ve been watching this place,” Thatcher said. “Had a notion you’d be back over here, sooner or later.”

  Benny Ahrens was with him. Benny walked out behind him. Thatcher said something sharply to him, and Benny hurried up beside him. Benny also held a gun.

  Thatcher’s face was white and sick. He didn’t seem strong on his feet. But his hand was firm, and the gun barrel held steady. That was what counted.

  Thatcher’s eyes still showed signs of fever. “Look at this shoulder, Rayford. Crippled. It’ll be crippled as long as I live. You done it to me, and you’re going to pay for it.”

  Kyle’s heart was hammering. He glanced once again at the gun and knew he couldn’t make it. His hands were beginning to tremble a little on the handle of the shovel, stuck down into the mound of fresh earth.

  “What about her?” Kyle asked, nodding toward Jane.

  “We’re not here to kill women,” Thatcher said.

  Thatcher turned to Benny Ahrens. “Go pick up that gun on the wagon yonder.”

  Benny hesitated, his face a shade green. He had lost all stomach for this kind of thing.

  Thatcher whirled on him in fury. “Go on, you sniveling coward. Get that gun or I’ll kill you, too.”

  For a second, then, Thatcher’s eyes went on Benny Ahrens. Kyle brought up the shovel and heaved dirt at Thatcher’s face. It caught Thatcher in the eyes. The bullet whined past Kyle.

  Kyle spun and raced for the wagon. But Jane was already there. She grabbed the gun and threw it to him. He whirled back as Thatcher rubbed the sand from his eyes and brought his gun into line again.

  There wasn’t time to aim. Kyle cocked the hammer and squeezed the trigger fast—once, twice, three times. Thatcher doubled over and staggered two steps. The life was gone from him before he hit the ground.

  Benny Ahrens quaked like a sapling in the wind. He dropped his gun. He had never fired it. His eyes pleaded.

  “Please, Rayford, I didn’t want to come. You got to believe me. I didn’t want to come.”

  The sudden burst of action and its sudden end had left Kyle numb. He stared through Benny as if he couldn’t see him. For the full space of ten seconds he had held his breath. Now he let it go. He relaxed, the gun still in his hand hanging at his side.


  “I believe you, Benny. Only kick that gun out of the way. Where are your horses?

  “Back in the trees.”

  Jane said, “I’ll go get them.”

  Kyle nodded. “Benny, you take the shovel and finish filling the grave.”

  When Jane brought the horses, Kyle lifted Thatcher’s body across the saddle and tied him on, facedown. He slipped the bridle off and gave the horse a slap across the rump. It would head home, he knew.

  Kyle turned back to Benny Ahrens. “You want to go home the same way?”

  Ahrens shook his head, his eyes wide and white.

  “Then tell me. What are Ebeling and Gorman planning to do?”

  Benny said fearfully, “I don’t know. They ain’t been telling me.”

  Kyle grabbed Benny’s collar and shook him soundly. “That’s a lie. You follow Ebeling around like a hound dog.”

  Tears brimmed in Ahrens’s eyes. “He’d kill me if I told you.”

  Kyle took the rope off Benny’s saddle and threw it out to full length, then drew it up again, doubled.

  “Does this bring back any memories, Benny?”

  Benny trembled. “Rayford, that was a long time ago.”

  “Not long enough for me to forget it.”

  Kyle swung the rope sharply, so that it wrapped around his boot with a loud slap.

  Ahrens lowered his head, his fingers flexing rapidly. “Alright. They’re making a sweep of the whole country. Rounding up every hoof they can get their hands on in a hurry. Throwing them together on that old lake over on the Bar E. Day or two, when they’re finished gathering, they’ll run the cattle west, back into the dry country.”

  Kyle swore lightly under his breath. “There’s no water there except a few wet weather lakes. They’d starve to death.”

  Benny shrugged. “They ain’t Ebeling’s cattle.”

  * * *

  Gloom hung like a cold, wet blanket at Sam Whittenburg’s picket ranch house. Inside, Jane Emmett silently fixed a pot of coffee. Kyle Rayford sat on the front step, whittling on a stick, each stroke of the knife as savage as if he were cutting Clint Ebeling’s throat.

  Sam Whittenburg squatted on the ground beside him, drawing brands in the sand with a pointed stick and rubbing them out. Mil McGivern and Brook Emmett were there too, both grave.