The Hell Bent Kid

by Charles O Locke

  Bawbeen drank wine and played first the sweet potato and then the mouth organ. Then he got out a jew’s harp. It was the worst music I ever heard. But he was trying to entertain me and I was polite and said I liked it, and then he would play more. Then he got a tick out of the loft for me and crawled in with his wife. I watched the fire till I fell asleep …

  Next morning he was up early and waked me. He was standing over me with some thin copper wire and a needle. He told me he would fix my ear. I hesitated at first. Then he showed me in the looking-glass that I had rolled on my ear in sleep. It was hanging pretty bad again. I asked him why the wire, and he said “I show you—I fix.”

  He took a hot coal and heated the wire, then he heated the needle and washed them in hot water. Then I sat in a chair while he pierced my ear in two places and wired it up. I looked at it and the heat he had used had stopped the blood-ooze and it looked pretty good. It was snug up.

  He then said nothing more and went outside while I sat to ease the burning pain and waited for Mrs. Bawbeen to wake up.

  She began to roll soon and talk in her sleep. Finally she saw me, rose up and yelled things in French. But she quieted down.

  I told her who I was. She asked for coffee and I brought her two cups.

  She became very talkative. I asked her if she did not find it lonely. She said: “You think I live here in this dirty place? I live in town, in Santa Rosa, and come out here every so often to make sure the wolves have not eaten Henry. Did he clean last night?”

  I told her I thought he had cleaned some. She looked around and said: “He has merely moved the dirt in new places.”

  When I asked her about the junk, she said Henry never threw anything away. He picked up junk riding around the country and brought it back and God help anyone who tried to take it from him. She found out I knew Amos Bradley and said she knew the whole family at Socorro, but the main branch was at Santa Rosa, the Spanish girls and all. She said they are “old richeros” who have lived in this country from away back. She asked me if I trusted Bawbeen. When I said yes, she said I had better not.

  “The cattlemen pay him high for wolfheads and if they want you, and pay high enough, he will sell you. Do they want you?”

  I said I thought they did and saw no reason not to tell her about the Boyds. I said I had my eyes peeled for the Boyds. She said I had better peel them for Henry. I hardly knew what to say.

  Sitting in bed, she began to fix her hair. Bawbeen came in then and she began to talk French to him. It sounded like she was name-calling. He merely smiled at her. He said: “This our guest, so entertain.” She said she would get breakfast. “Of course,” said Bawbeen, “but give him his fortune with the hand.”

  I was puzzled by this. She got up out of bed then, when Bawbeen kept mentioning “the hand, the hand.” So she came and took my hand just as Bawbeen went out when he thought he heard something. He merely mentioned hearing something and went out with no other explanation. He did everything like this.

  His wife was looking at my hand. She looked and looked first at my hand, then me. Then she dropped my hand and said, “Later.” She went to the sink then and threw water on her face, washed her hands, went outside for a little, then came back. She came and took my hand and then looked at me in the face. “Later,” she said again. Then at the sink where she started to clean dishes, she said, “Take care, take good care,” and used the Spanish term Madre de Dios. I heard her mumbling to herself, when she let me have the sink to clean up, saying Madre de Dios and French terms I knew nothing of.

  I said nothing to all this, but was nervous.

  Bawbeen had cut a few ribs from the uneaten sheep and they were laying on the table, half covered with a paper turned black in places with sheep blood.

  She said: “You take that bloody mess out of here and tell Henry to bury it. Then stay out till I fix myself and get the place a little more like it.”

  I went out and gave the ribs to Bawbeen, who tied them up to hang from the eaves. He went back then to cleaning wolf traps. I gave the place a good looking at. The shack could have been placed better for protection. The sheepfold was some, and the rise of hills and rock towers behind it. I was glad Blacky was up in the pines.

  Bawbeen’s Colt was lying handy on a tree stump near where he had now moved his traps. I figured, if surprised, I would grab it.

  Bawbeen had a little fire going, melted some cheese, mixed it with sheep fat, and kept dipping the gloves he wore into a shallow pan of fat melted with sheep blood. Then he poured this into a rusty frying pan, to cool. He cut the cheese in cubes, punched a hole in these and poured in some kind of killer from a brown bottle. Then he melted more sheep grease and plugged the holes.

  Before we went in the house, he showed me a sheep shank bone and a horse shank bone cut in two like a saw had done it. He said a wolf had bit through each. I was willing to believe the sheep bone but not the horse, though my father had told me about how hard a wolf can bite, their jaw-power.

  “These big wolf up from Mexico,” said Bawbeen. “For each big greaser wolf I get twice as much. Greaser wolf big enough to kill cattle, mountain lion, buffalo, people, even all people in town. Magic wolf. Loup-garou.”

  Mrs. Bawbeen opened the door, threw out dishwater and called us in. She had cleaned up a little, but the fire was too hot for comfort. We had coffee, canned apples, sheep stew and beans. It was fair.

  She ate nothing, drank coffee and abused Henry. She said he was a good bookkeeper and could work in town for the Maxwells and Springers even if he did not speak English well. She said he could write English better than speak it, and showed me French letters he had written. She said he could have a nice job, sitting at a desk in a silk shirt writing, but preferred to herd sheep. She said: “My husband is a dirty man and likes dirty work.”

  Bawbeen said absolutely nothing. I could see her getting angry. She jumped up suddenly and said, “This dirty son-of-a-bitching country what it is doing to this nice boy. This dirty country ruins everybody.” She picked up a small knife from the stovetop and began to yell, holding the knife against Bawbeen’s throat. She said: “I will cut your worthless throat, you animal, if you give this boy away to anyone. Do not do it or I will kill you sure.”

  Bawbeen, of course, stopped eating at this point. But he just sat and stared at the floor while the knife was at his throat. I don’t believe he was scared at all. He said absolutely nothing. So then she began to scream again, taking the knife away, then coming back with more screaming.

  Finally she got too tired to keep it up. She could talk no more. She sat down. Suddenly she said: “Henry is so beautiful because he is so ugly.”

  Bawbeen was quiet a minute. Then he took a big spoonful of beans, taking a long time to fix it, piling the beans high on the spoon. He had trouble getting them in his mouth. Then he started chewing. After chewing them he said: “Some night you will come out here again and get drunk. I will furnish the wine. Then when you are asleep I will kill you sure.” He said this very quietly.

  At this his wife merely laughed in a wild way.

  Then she said to me and nodded: “He is right. Henry is right. He will.” She seemed pleased.

  Seeing the letters Bawbeen had written in French, I asked for some paper and pencil. Bawbeen had plenty of these, so gave me some, and I put down a few more tracks on paper about what I had done since leaving the Bradleys. With the hunt for me on, and not knowing how soon they would make a final hash of me, I seemed to think more and more about leaving some record of my father and me. Mrs. Bawbeen said to her husband I was writing a letter to my girl. Truth to tell I owed Restow a letter by this long time, but no way to post it.

  We heard horses. Mrs. Bawbeen shoved me under the bed and pulled down the quilt. Henry went outside. But I came out from under the bed finally. I wanted to be ready for what might happen.

  13

  Lohman Makes a Getaway

  Mrs. Bawbeen finally went out and joined Bawbeen and two men who had come up.
First she stayed close to the house but then moved down to the spring. Then she moved to some trees where there was a line rigged and some clothes hanging.

  Not either man looked like the two I had seen the day before. They were better dressed men. The biggest was carrying a Colt when he got off his horse, but the other man drove the buckboard and was not armed though later he strapped on a gun from the buckboard.

  The biggest man, with a mustache and a big scar on the back of his neck, was named Nelson. At least that is what I heard Bawbeen call him. The smaller man was tough and light and chewed tobacco and spit nervously and constantly.

  They howdyed Bawbeen, who stood near his Colt on the stump and looked at them. Nelson told Bawbeen the Springers had authorized him to come and pay him for any wolfheads he had. I had a letter in my pocket from Restow for one of the Springers, but of course was impossible to use now and probably would always be.

  “Wolf,” said Bawbeen like a grunt. “Wolf?” He spit.

  “But,” Nelson said, “we want to look in your house also.”

  “What for?”

  “Well,” Nelson said, “a young polecat is drifting around the country hereabout. He might have crawled into your place last night unbeknowst to you and maybe even have died. He’ll stink soon.”

  Mrs. Bawbeen came up then. Her dark eyes were very sad. Her hair looked fresh and tight combed where it had been oily and stringy. She shook her head. “We keep out the skunks with the fire. We keep out the big ones and the little ones, young ones and old ones. No, there is no skunk in the house, but don’t go in there. It is my house and Henry’s. What are you—sheriffs? Who are you to go around putting your big fat noses into private homes?”

  She opened the door I was standing behind then. I could see nearly all of this, as I moved back from the bed toward the fireplace, slanting my walk and cutting my eyes toward the window. The more she opened the door, the more I slewed back.

  Nelson said: “Suppose we just walk in without no asking.”

  “Ah fine, come, come in.” Mrs. Bawbeen drew back inside the door and picked up a paring knife. She got it from the table which she had just made neat. “Come in and let me cut you up. Oh thanks, Henry, for sharpening my knife today. I will show you a large skunk with his liver cut out, like his sack.”

  She slammed the door in Nelson’s face.

  Nelson I could not see then. But could hear him laughing. The other, small man was nodding his head nervously and spitting. Inside Mrs. Bawbeen gave me a terrible frown and shove toward the bed. I hesitated and she stomped her foot, so I drifted back toward the woodbox. I sort of believed her with the knife in her hand.

  Outside I heard Bawbeen say: “Good thing you not go in. She would of cut you up. My wife is terrible woman. Terrible.”

  The men laughed and he pulled two croker sacks out from under the house and they moved away from the door down to the spring. I could thus hear much that was going on. Mrs. Bawbeen rattled pans and kept motioning to me. I kept my eyes on the group near the spring.

  Bawbeen rolled six wolfheads out of the croker sacks, two fresh and bloody. He brought a panther head from a nail. The men argued then about paying him.

  Nelson showed one wolfhead had dried right down to the skull, which was true. He said it was a “relic” Bawbeen had picked up in the hills. Bawbeen did not get angry, but kept saying “Trapped him.”

  All the while they argued, the small man, now armed, kept watch around the place. Finally Bawbeen got sore, threw down the wolfhead that was dried and took money for the others.

  The more I watched the more I liked the idea of leaving Blacky up in the jacks. But then he whinnered. Both men looked up, then at each other. The small one started for the house door. Bawbeen threw down with his Colt on the other. He said: “No shoot here. This my place.”

  I hightailed for the back window, as the small man reached the cabin door. Out I went. The door flew open behind me. Mrs. Bawbeen met the small man with a shovelful of hot ash and red coals from the fire.

  Even then I hoped he would not get it in the face, and he did not. His shirt was open and he got it on the bare chest, and a lot went down his shirt front. He started to scream and roll on the ground.

  Under the jacks I slewed left, then up the ridge with Nelson sighting me and getting a late start. Bawbeen poured his Colt at Nelson. He threw shot after shot, but sure was weak with a hand gun. He should of had a rifle.

  I never had seen such big rocks as the ones I jumped and crawled over. When I found a ledge under a lot of bush, I crawled there and watched Nelson go past.

  Then when I lost sight of him I began to worry. He could move on me from behind where I was. He may have seen me, I thought. I thought he might have planned that, pretending not to see me, then doubling back.

  Poked my head up from the ledge, swung by my hands to the rock above. Stopped then because I could see plenty snakes. It was one of those big families—four or maybe five coiled on ledges high above me, two down closer to the ledge I was on.

  Kept my eye on them, you bet, moving carefully south in the direction of Blacky. Did not watch where I moved and dropped in a big rock gap. It had high sides, just beyond reach of my fingers. The snakes did that. I had been too busy like a fool, watching them.

  Now I was in a stiff bind. I was in a rock pocket. Little hurt and shook up some. The hole was like a shallow well, but too deep for me. I looked down in the dark and could see two maybe three square feet of space to move my feet. There was a wedgy crack in the middle I was trying to stay out of. It was just the kind to get a foot wedged in.

  Fixed my feet firm and made one jump to get a hand hold on the top. I could not make it. I tried several times and about wore myself out, but then catching sight of a half-dry root hanging over on the north side. I figured if I grabbed this root I might have an outside chance.

  Just then I heard a snicker above. Nelson was standing on a ledge right over me. He knew he had me good. Shooting me would be like shooting a colt in a breaking box. But this was a mean man, I found out.

  He could of shot right off, but he begun feeling in his pockets. Then I saw he was looking for a knife and judged he would pitch it. But this was wrong. He opened her and began hacking at a small pine, at the same time trying to twist it free.

  Finally he got it half through. His belt started slipping, so he took it off with the Colt and laid it down and then twisted the tree branch free.

  I had started jumping again. But then decided I had better save my strength to see what he planned. Then I saw. He started poking at the ledge below and I could see the rattler’s tail over the edge. If he fell, it would be on me.

  The snake fought the stick. I thought maybe Nelson was stupid, and if the snake struck enough he might have no juice left. The snake kept coiling and looping—rattle, rattle. Not wishing to leave the ledge, of course. Nelson started laughing. His laughing rose to above near-yells. I could see now he had that personality called crazy-mean. He was sweating. He was shaking all over, laughing. He yelled loudest when the snake seemed near to falling, with a big loop of him hanging over. But next recovered his hold on the ledge.

  Then the stick broke. Nelson cussed a blue streak. Then he went back and wrenched off another stick. Kept laughing, working right ahead.

  I began to conserve myself for a real jump at that tree root. Nelson came back and started shoving the snake again. The buzzing went on, but suddenly Nelson saw a fresh, new snake on a ledge closer to me. He made a stab at it, I yelled, the snake fell straight down past me like an arrow, landed on my feet. I stomped once but then remembered Harley stomping on a snake. The snake’s head was cushioned by its own coils. Harley made no headway with it, moved once, the snake struck going in just above the shoe heel in the soft part of the shoe.

  I yelled now, as the snake came down, stomped once, gave one jump and grabbed the root. Hung on and threw my feet out of the hole and up far enough to catch one heel on the ledge. Then I got leverage, rolled clear. That s
nake which Nelson hoped would kill me in a mean way I truly believe scared me enough in my feet to make them do the impossible.

  I rolled fast into a clump of jackpines, Nelson grabbed up his gun and shot twice and missed. I rolled right into another snake that ran from me without even bothering me. Then I was up running among the trees and rocks.

  I could hear Nelson thrashing around in the hillside brush, cussing behind me. I pushed ahead for where Blacky was hid. Once I thought I had found the place and thought he was stole. But I had the wrong spot, turned around and looked up instead of down. There was his shiny hind end sticking out from behind the trees.

  Just as I got on and slid my rifle out of the loop, Nelson came on me from one side. He started toward me, did not see the rifle on my right, as I was facing upslope. He picked up a rock to heave. He had his gun in his left hand. It was the first time I ever started a snapshot without too much thinking. Swerved the gun to my left, then hesitated and the gun spoke for itself as Nelson heaved the rock. The shot was nearly a clean mistake, but the slug hit him square on the forehead and he died, went down like a tree, never moving.

  Nelson fell down between a couple of fallen trees, face up looking at nothing with open eyes. It was scary. From where I sat my horse, he looked like a man in a coffin betwixt those trees. The pines, taller here lower down, were like a church with Nelson in a coffin.

  I felt scared. Sitting there on Blacky, I knew my doom was sealed. Or had come closer. I had not meant to kill the man, just stop him. That trigger of my rifle I had filed too much—too hairline for safe. Good for speed. But I knew I had to dull down that trigger. I had shot with hardly aiming. Such things will happen once in a lifetime.