Rosie almost dropped the hat. She looked at it like it was alive, fighting some inner horror.
“What’s wrong?” Swede asked.
“This was Lucy’s,” she replied in a low voice.
“Oh. I’m sorry.”
Rosie looked up. Then she plopped the hat on her head. “Why? You didn’t kill her.”
Muttering an oath, Swede led Dancer over. He mounted, lifted his left foot from the stirrup, and extended a hand. He had arranged the petticoats behind his saddle for her to sit on. Rosie started to take the hand. Then she remembered something. “Wait. My friends—we’ve got to bury them.”
“Lady, there’s some men back there looking to kill me. If they want to waste an hour or so burying them bodies, that’s fine. I ain’t doing it.”
Rosie stepped back. “What kind of Christian are you, Mr. Burdette? The Good Lord knows I’m no saint, but I swear I’ll not leave this place until—”
“You’re leaving now. Get on.”
The girl thrust her fists onto her slim hips, her rosebud lips puffed in anger. “Listen, mister, don’t do me no favors.”
“It’s no favor. There’s a few things in life I won’t do—and one of ’em is leave a woman alone with Comanches around.”
The fog seemed to lift from Rosie’s mind. It was as if she suddenly realized the danger they were in every minute they stayed here. The Comanches could return at any time. They could be in the rocks even now. She slumped and lowered her gaze.
Swede extended his hand again. “Now get up behind me.” Rosie hitched her skirt and climbed up on the horse. She wrapped her arms around Swede’s waist and they started off, leaving the camp to the buzzards.
Once, the feel of Rosie’s soft breasts against his back and her grip on his waist might have aroused Swede. Not now. Every fiber of his being concentrated on the broken landscape, tense muscles waiting for the jarring impact of a bullet or an arrow.
“Sure is hot,” Rosie said.
Swede said nothing.
“These saddlebags look ready to bust—what’s in them?” “Yankee greenbacks,” Swede said.
“Congratulations.”
Again Swede said nothing.
Rosie tried once more. “This is a beautiful horse.”
“Me and Dancer been together a lot of years—since right after the war. He’s saved my hide more times than I care to remember.” Swede’s voice turned acid. “He’s been rode hard the last few days, though. I don’t know how long even he can hold out carrying two people.”
Rosie threw up her hands, almost fell off the horse, and quickly held on again. “That’s it. That does it. I give up trying to talk to you. From now on, I’ll just sit here and not be a bother. I’m sorry I got attacked by Indians. I’m sure it was my fault.”
Swede gave no evidence of listening.
Exasperated, Rosie blurted, “Why don’t you just kill me and solve all your problems?”
“I thought about it,” Swede said.
They rode on in silence.
13
The posse came on hard. Not as hard as Kirby wanted, though. He had to hold himself back each time Black George stopped to read the trail.
Taking Swede would be the capstone to Kirby’s career as a lawman. Swede Burdette was a legend in Texas—Texas Ranger, Army scout, pioneer cattleman, soldier—but his war with the Southwest Texas Railroad had become the greatest legend of all. Swede knew that the way to hurt the railroad was by taking its money. The Westland Bank was a sole subsidiary of the Southwest Texas Railroad, created to handle that organization’s vast finances as it snaked its way from Fort Worth to San Antonio, and now to Temperance.
Swede and the Arkansas Kid had had the laugh on posses from the Red River to the Rio Grande. Newspapers used their exploits to poke fun at carpetbagging politicians. An embarrassed Governor Davis had even considered sending an expedition into Mexico to get Swede, but he had decided against it on advice from the State Department.
Kirby had known their paths would cross this way, from the day Swede went wrong. For nine years he had prepared himself for this chase. He had learned to think of Swede as an object and to forget everything that had passed between them. You could not reform lawbreakers like Swede; you put them away or you exterminated them.
And yet . . . good, honest men could become lawbreakers. Swede was the perfect example. Kirby wondered why the trade ran only in one direction. Was sin that corrupting? Father Montgomery said it was, but Kirby did not know.
* * *
The column spread out. Spud and Harry Ferrante were behind Kirby, followed at a distance by the young cowboy, Brazos, and the spare horses. The other riders were strung along the trail.
Harry sat rigid in the saddle, his nerves tightened like wire. Spud eased his pony closer to Harry’s, a chaw of tobacco puffing out one side of the grizzled cowboy’s mouth. “Give him some slack, son—yourself, too. You got a ways to go.”
“What?” Harry said. “Oh, yeah. Thanks. I will.”
Harry eased on the reins. He tried to relax, but he was too excited. This was the kind of adventure he’d dreamed about since Momma had brought the family west after the Civil War. All these years, Harry had been searching for the Wild West; now the West had come to him in the form of Swede Burdette, and he was not about to let it get away. More important, he felt that on this posse—enforcing the law with his neighbors in the fashion of democracy—-he was at last coming to grips with the American dream, the dream that had brought his father from Italy to start a new life, the dream that had kept his mother going when all seemed lost. He felt a part of that indefinable something that made the name “America” unique in the world—a name to be proud of, to fight for. He hoped they caught up with Burdette soon; he didn’t think he could stand the wait much longer.
Like any male his age, Harry was fascinated by cowboys, and he’d been discreetly studying the one next to him. He had noticed that Spud never seemed to remove his big hat. He even slept with it on. “Why do they call you Spud?” he ventured.
“Aw, that’s just my pappy. He always said I looked like a potato, with these short legs. Real name’s Albert.”
“Were you born in Texas?”
Spud grinned. “Borned in Texas, and I’ll die in Texas. Don’t never want to go nowheres else.” He motioned. “That’s a fancy piece you’re carrying.”
Harry drew the silver-plated, over-and-under rifle from its boot and gave it to the cowboy. “It belonged to my father—he’s dead, now. He ordered it special from Italy—from Joseph Venuti, a famous gunmaker in Milan.”
Spud felt the balance and nodded appreciatively, though he didn’t like the over-and-under type barrel himself. He handed the weapon back, and Harry said, “I’d never forgive myself if anything happened to this.”
Harry replaced the rifle and went on. “You said you rode with Mr. Kirby before. What happened?”
Spud’s leathery face grew sour. “Three boys robbed a stagecoach. We chased ’em. We tracked ’em down and cornered ’em in a box canyon. They never had a chance. We shot ’em like dogs.”
“Madonna Santa ,” Harry said, using his mother’s favorite expression. “That must have been exciting.”
Spud worked his tobacco for a moment, considering. Then he sent a stream of juice past his horse’s ear. “I knew them boys. They was cowhands, same as me. They was good boys. They just done the robbery to raise some hell. They didn’t hurt nobody. We could have waited ’em out and made ’em surrender. We could have taken them alive.”
They rode on in silence. When Spud spoke again, his voice was admonishing. “You seem like a nice enough fella, Harry. Why're you so all-fired determined to see Swede dead?”
“He stole Momma’s money.”
“That the only reason?”
“And . . . well, Swede Burdette is one of the great outlaws. He’s been on the run as long as I can remember. We’ll be the ones that got him—that’s something you can talk about the rest of your life.”
Spud regarded Harry with disappointment. After a bit, he pulled on his reins. “Reckon I’ll relieve Brazos with them horses.”
Spud trotted back to where Brazos rode, wondering about youth and death and why they were so attracted to each other. With a jingle of harness, he turned his horse and fell in beside Brazos. “I’ll take ’em awhile.”
“Thanks.” Brazos gave over the lead. He pulled down the kerchief he’d worn against the dust, then removed his gauntlet and flexed his cramped hand. He looked less confident than he had yesterday. “Say, Spud, what do you reckon—can Swede get out of this one alive?”
It was precisely the subject Spud had come here to avoid. “Don’t know,” he said.
“Swede’s the last of a kind. Texas won’t be the same without him.” Brazos looked at his older companion uncertainly. “You gonna shoot at him?”
Spud gritted his teeth, “I’m hopin’ it don’t go that far.”
Brazos put the fringed gauntlet back on. He spoke in a low voice. “All my life I’ve admired Swede Burdette. Now I’m chasin’ him, expected to kill him if I get the chance. Well, I ain’t gonna do it—I’ve decided. I’ll ride along, and I’ll take care of the horses, but I won’t shoot at Swede. I don’t care what Kirby says.”
Spud looked at the proud young man, perhaps seeing himself as he’d been twenty-five years ago. “You just watch Kirby don’t shoot you.”
“I ain’t scared of Kirby,” Brazos declared. Then he added, “Spud, why don’t you join me?”
Spud had sensed this was coming and wished he’d stayed where he was. “That’s a decision I ain’t prepared to make just now.”
“Putting it off won’t make it no easier.”
“Just leave me be the judge of that, will you?” Spud’s face turned bright red, his lips tightening with anger.
Brazos looked away, afraid he’d said too much. He rode toward the front of the column, leaving Spud by himself. Brazos came from Swede Burdette’s part of East Texas, and he knew more about Swede than any man on the posse save Kirby. Brazos’s parents had died from fever when he was little. He was raised in a New Braunfels orphanage, which he left as soon as he could. He’d drifted west, working odd jobs, till he became a cowhand. Earlier this year he had helped drive a herd to Henderson’s ranch, and he had stayed to work there. Next year he’d move on and work somewhere else.
Gradually Brazos caught up with the townie, Harry. The two youths regarded each other and nodded. They settled in and rode side by side without a word.
As the country became more broken, the riding grew harder. There was little time for talk. The column strung out even further, and each man withdrew into himself, under the hot fire of the sun.
“This is no fun at all!” cried the lawyer, Simpkin, at one point, from his position near the rear.
Behind him, the German, Karl, leaned on his saddle, panting, his khaki clothes black with sweat. “Mr. Kirby will get no one from Temperance to ride with him again—I tell you that.”
14
After two hours, Swede dismounted and walked, leading Dancer and carrying his Winchester in his free hand. His blisters swelled, then broke, and he could feel the water squishing inside his boots.
Through sweat-blurred eyes, Swede saw again the Greek who had made the boots in Laredo—swearing, drinking foul- tasting liquor, and trying to run up the price. Swede wished he still had his old cavalry boots. They had literally fallen off his feet before he’d let them go. The heels had been flatter and better for walking, and he missed the knee guards in this rough country. Chaps provided good leg protection, but they were too hot.
Behind him, Rosie shifted uncomfortably in the saddle. The slender girl hadn’t said a word since just after they’d started off, and Swede felt bad about the ungentlemanly way he’d treated her. He turned. "How you bearing up?”
“Quite well, thank you,” she replied without looking. Even with the straw hat, her nose and cheeks were reddening from the sun.
“Wish I knew where them Comanches got to. Visibility ain’t worth a damn in these hills.”
Rosie tried to be gruff, but she was naturally talkative and couldn’t resist conversation. “You think they’re still around?”
Swede squinted. The lines around his eyes lengthened and deepened, like a hundred dry watercourses in the parched desert of his face. “Depends on whether they’re after horses or if this is a killing raid. If it’s a killing raid, maybe they’ve run for home. If not, well”—he patted Dancer’s muzzle and hefted the Winchester—“keep a good lookout.”
Rosie shuddered, “The things those . . . those beasts did to my friends. How could human beings be so cruel?”
Indians believe if a man loses parts of his body, he can’t use them against you in the afterlife. They was taking precautions against revenge. Anyway, I seen some things in Camp Douglas prison that’d give any Indian ever born a run for his money.”
They went on. Swede had never known any whores well, though he’d visited his share—during the war and after. He remembered how he used to laugh at Kirby for never going with him.
He said, “Where was you coming from—you and your, ah, friends?”
“That new place in Kansas—Dodge City. We were headed for Franklin, then Arizona. There’s a big silver strike in Arizona. Nuggets big as your fist, they say. Frank—that’s Frank Morgan, our manager—he said we’d be on Easy Street there.”
“Hate to tell you,” Swede drawled, “but you wasn’t on the trail to Franklin.”
Rosie stared at him for a moment, then shrugged. “I ain’t surprised. Frank never did have no sense of direction. Sharp manager, though. Always got us top dollar. He kept most of it himself, but that’s another story.”
“You like this kind of life?” Swede asked. Quickly he added, “I mean, the traveling and all.”
Rosie’s emerald eyes had lost their earlier glaze; now they glowed with anger. “Don’t worry, Mr. Burdette, I know what you mean.”
“I—I didn’t—”
“Sure, I work on my back. I ain’t ashamed of it, neither. Only ones I feel sorry for are the ones who do it for free.” Her stiff-backed defiance seemed unforced. “The money’s damn good, too. Don’t know where it goes, though. In this business you never save, no matter how much you make. Still, life ain’t bad—not near as bad as it used to be.”
Swede gave her a quizzical glance.
“Mister, I don’t know about you, but I was born in the worst slum in Boston. I don’t remember nothing but hard times. I remember rats running across our bed at night, and I remember my little brother Michael dying in my arms because there wasn’t nothing for him to eat. I got out when I was eight, and I never looked back.”
“Eight?” said Swede. “How’d you get on?”
“Any damn way I could—worked in factories, slept in the streets. Finally turned to whorin’ when there was nothing else left.”
Swede felt new respect for the girl. “What about the future?’”
For a moment Rosie’s features softened, like they had when she was unconscious. “Don’t think much about the future. Only goal I have is getting to the next day. Beyond that—oh, I sometimes dream about meeting a man and leaving the game—we all do. My best bet’s to find some rich bird while I’m still young, before my looks give out.”
She sat straighter in the saddle and stuck out her chin, posing. “I’m still good-looking enough to get a rich man, don’t you think?”
“I—I’m not a judge of such things,” Swede said.
Suddenly disconsolate, Rosie slumped. “Who am I fooling? If I’m real lucky, I might find me some widower with a bit set aside. More likely it’ll be a drunk who beats me regular, or some Holy Joe who works me to death, trying to earn God’s forgiveness for my sins. Most likely of all, I’ll end up with nobody. Guess I’ll keep going, though.”
Rosie shook her head, as if trying to rid herself of such maudlin thoughts. She looked down at Swede. “What about you? This y
our idea of a good time—running for your life?”
“It’s what I do,” Swede told her.
“You married?”
“No.”
“Ever been that way?”
Swede hesitated. “No. Seems I never had time when I was young. I was either bein’ called away to ride with the Rangers or the militia, or I was too busy helpin’ my pa with the farm.”
“You never had a girl?”
“There was a girl, once.” Swede smiled wistfully as he remembered. “Her name was Sarah Worth. She was the prettiest girl in Comal County. I gave Sarah her first horseback ride. I gave her her first dance, her first kiss. It was always kinda accepted we’d end up with each other.”
“So what happened?” Rosie asked.
“She married another fella. Name of John Kirby. Same fella that’s probably chasing us now.” Swede didn’t normally talk about his personal life, but somehow it didn’t seem to matter anymore. “Funny how it happened. I’d finally made my stake, and I went to Sarah’s house to ask for her hand. I found her there with Kirby. They told me they was getting married. Wanted me to be the first to know.”
That was the best Swede could express it aloud, though he could still hear Sarah’s words when the two of them had gotten off by themselves:
"John and I love each other, Swede. We didn't mean for it to happen; it just did. You were always gone, and John was here.”
“But I’m back, Sarah. Back to stay.”
Sarah was near tears. “You said that last summer, and the summer before—and before that, too.”
Swede looked down. “They asked me to go them times. I—I couldn’t very well refuse.”
“Don’t you see, Swede—they’ll always be asking you. You’ll always be tailing or fighting or driving cattle. I don’t want to spend my life never knowing if you’re alive or dead.” She touched his arm, the way she had done many times before. “And I don’t want to spend my life here, on the prairie, watching the empty horizon and growing old. I want to be around people. I want to live in a city. John can give me that. You can’t.”
The Bank Robber Page 7