Brazos was insistent. “You don’t understand, Kirby—you ain’t goin’ in neither.”
Spud turned to Brazos. “Now, wait a minute—”
“Shut up! I said you ain’t goin’ in there, Kirby.”
Brazos cocked the hammer of his rifle. George and Spud scrambled out of the way.
Kirby stood straight, his gun hand loose at his side. “You going to stop me?”
“I reckon I am,” Brazos said. The curly-haired cowboy steadied himself. “Make your move.”
Slowly, deliberately, Kirby walked toward Brazos. The cowboy raised his rifle. “Go for it, Kirby!”
Kirby kept coming.
“I’m warning you!" Brazos said, squinting down the sights. Kirby walked right up to Brazos and stopped. The boy swallowed and reinforced his grip on the rifle. He was not prepared for this. He did not know what to do.
Kirby yanked the rifle from the boy’s hands. Stunned and helpless, Brazos backed away, all the fight drained out of him. Kirby raised the back of his hand and Brazos cringed.
Kirby lowered his hand. He shoved the rifle back to the surprised Brazos. Then he grabbed the young cowboy by the shirt and half pushed, half threw him down the hill. “Now, get back there and help Harry.”
As Brazos stumbled away, Kirby turned to the others. “You two stay here. Don’t come after me unless you hear shots.”
Spud leaned wearily against a rock. He bit a fresh chew of tobacco, regarding Kirby with distaste. “This is what you wanted all along, ain’t it, Kirby?”
Kirby did not answer.
“You’re settin’ yourself up to be judge and executioner for Swede, just like you done with all them others. You ain’t killin’ Swede ’cause he broke the law—you’re killin’ him ’cause it’s good for your reputation. You go preachin’ the holiness of the law, but you break the law quick enough when it suits your purpose. You’re breakin’ it right now.”
Kirby was unmoved. “My job is to rid this state of criminals, and that’s what I’m doing. If you have any complaints, write the governor. Others have."
Kirby picked up the shotgun. He looked at George and nodded.
George nodded in reply. “Take care, Kirby.”
Kirby turned away. George and Spud rested, not wanting to watch the final act of the drama, while Kirby followed the dry streambed through the boulders and came out onto the plateau proper. His eyes scanned the ground all the way to the cliff base, taking in trees and rocks and dusty clumps of creosote, but he saw no sign of human life. He cocked the shotgun hammers and walked toward the abandoned miners’ camp.
He moved slowly. It was very quiet, and the thud of his boots rang hollow in his ears. He felt a wrenching tightness in the pit of his stomach. His mouth was dry.
He remembered the last time he had seen Swede, nine years ago. Kirby had been living in Austin, where he’d just joined the State Constabulary. He’d been raking the tiny yard of his house when Swede rode up on his new horse. Dancer. Sarah was hanging out the wash; she was in the early bloom of her second pregnancy.
Swede hadn’t dismounted. “Don’t have the time,” he told them. His face wore its usual grin, but it was set and artificial. “I just wanted to say good-bye. I’m on my way to Fort Worth, to see a fella named Bailey.”
Kirby knew about Swede’s parents. He tried to dissuade his friend from taking revenge, but Swede wouldn’t hear it. “They’ve took everything from me, John—my folks, my land, my whole life. It’s the outlaw trail for me—and luck to them that tries to catch me.”
“I have something I’ve been keeping for you,” Kirby said. He went in the house and brought out Swede’s old Army .44. “When we were captured, I told them it was my personal sidearm. As an officer, they let me take it home when I was released from Camp Douglas.”
Swede took the revolver, nodding his thanks. Then he grinned. “And I got something for you—even had it wrapped.” He took a package from his saddlebag and handed it to Kirby. “Been carrying this around for twenty years.”
It was a book. Kirby did not have to unwrap it to know what it was—dog-eared and battered and written in—the New Texas State Primer.
Swede laughed, spurred Dancer and rode away. Kirby remembered Sarah watching him go. She was quiet and fearful, shading her eyes with her hand. Behind her, the wash billowed stiffly in the prairie wind. . . .
* * *
Kirby stopped. Up close, the old camp was in even worse shape than it looked at a distance. “Swede?”
There was no answer.
Kirby braced himself and continued on. He passed a collapsed sluice and a waterwheel. He searched the broken corral, but Swede was not hiding there. He moved on to the shed.
The shed was deep and dark, cluttered with rubbish and rotting wood. Kirby leveled the shotgun and eased himself inside. It was empty. Kirby stepped back out and looked toward the cabin. That was where Swede must be.
Kirby started forward. The cabin was surrounded by rank-smelling weeds. Its roof was caved in; the door, which faced the cliff, was half off. Planks had fallen from the rough walls. Kirby stepped carefully to avoid the rusting tin cans that littered the yard.
He climbed the low step. Inside, he saw gloom pierced by brilliant shafts of sunlight; He wrenched the squealing door off its last hinge and stepped into the cabin. “All right, Swede—”
From the comer came a clang. Kirby whirled in a crouch, teeth drawn, ready to blast Swede to kingdom come.
He saw a metal bucket rolling beside a stool. To the bucket’s handle was attached a trip rope that ran across the doorway. The cabin was otherwise empty, save for a wooden table and a bench and a rusted metal stove.
Kirby relaxed involuntarily, even as he knew that he shouldn’t.
Behind him a gun hammer clicked, and Swede said, “Wrong way, Schoolmaster.”
38
Kirby stiffened.
“You always was too eager, John. Drop that scattergun and turn around slow.”
Kirby turned, but he did not drop the gun. Swede was standing in the cabin doorway, his cocked revolver pointed at Kirby’s head.
“That was a nice trick with the bucket, Swede.”
“Thanks.”
Kirby thought it amazing that Swede was still on his feet. The big outlaw was gaunt, unshaven, and filthy, with a huge purple lump on his forehead. His clothes were torn and covered with blood. More blood dripped down his shirt from a lacerated ear. He was barely able to keep his eyes open.
“Been a long time,” Swede rasped.
Kirby’s finger curled on the triggers of the cocked shotgun. He was almost gloating. “Not long enough for you. Swede.”
The two men faced each other in the musty old cabin. Neither man moved.
Then Swede gave Kirby his easy grin and lowered the hammer of his .45. He twirled the weapon and presented it, butt first, to Kirby. “You win.”
Kirby reached out and took the pistol. “The rifle, too.”
Swede handed over the empty Winchester. Tilting his hat back, he leaned against the doorway for support. “Bein’ a Ranger must not set well with you, John, you’ve lost your sense of humor. Mind if I have a drink?”
Carefully, Kirby slipped the canteen from his shoulder and passed it to Swede. The outlaw took a long drink, then returned the canteen. “Thanks. You were pretty sure of yourself just now.”
Kirby couldn’t resist a smile. “I knew you were out of shells.”
Swede looked into Kirby’s eyes. “Was I?”
Kirby’s smiled cracked. He stepped back, bracing one foot on the bench. He steadied the shotgun across his knee to cover Swede. He rotated the .45’s cylinder to the right and pushed the ejector rod.
A bullet fell into his hand.
Kirby turned pale. Now it was Swede who couldn’t resist a smile. "I keep an extra in my hat. Case of emergency.”
Kirby stared at the brass-sheathed bullet. For once in his life, he was taken aback. “I—I wouldn’t have expected you to do
this, Swede. You could have killed me and taken my weapons. You could have fought on. You probably would have gotten away. I doubt my men would do much to stop you.”
Swede shrugged. “Call it a moment of weakness.” Then he grinned. “I couldn’t shoot you, John—we was friends once. Hell, I’m godfather to your daughter.”
Kirby seemed to be staring through a fog. He struggled to maintain himself upright. Swede had paid a staggering price for friendship. Kirby felt his life’s values collapsing around him. For the first time, he wondered which of them was the better man, which the greater sinner.
“How’s Rosie?” Swede asked.
Kirby came out of it, slipping the bullet into his vest. “She’s well.”
Swede seemed satisfied with the answer. Kirby said, “That was a fine thing you did with her, Swede. You would have made it if you hadn’t taken her with you.”
“You didn’t come here to make no saint of me, John. Let’s get on with it.”
But Kirby was not ready. His eyes narrowed. “Why’d you do it, Swede?”
“Take the girl?” Swede joked.
“Go bad.”
Swede didn’t want to talk about it. “I did what I had to do. Just like you’re doin’ now.”
Kirby hesitated. He remembered Swede’s reassuring grin at Chattanooga, when the rear guard was nearly overwhelmed by the Black Hat Minnesota Brigade. He remembered long cold nights and mess fires together, when he and Swede had talked of their lives and their dreams. He remembered back even further, to the tall boy who’d taken him camping on the Guadalupe River.
What have I become?
Kirby squared his shoulders, steeling himself for what he had to do. He smiled thinly. “Swede, I’m going to break the law. I’m not putting the cuffs on you.”
Swede stood straighter. Kirby went on. “Not even when your girl is alone with the horses. Not even when I saw a cleft in the rocks, out behind the waterwheel, that would take you off this plateau away from my deputies.”
Swede caught his breath. Then he smiled. “A lot of talk, Schoolmaster—just to make it look like I was running away.”
“Out the door,” Kirby ordered. He motioned with the shotgun.
“No, do it here. I’m too tired to go any further. Tell ’em I jumped you.”
“All right.” Kirby leveled the shotgun and stepped forward. Suddenly Kirby grimaced and grabbed his right leg.
“What’s the matter?” Swede asked.
Kirby hopped on one foot, in obvious pain. “A nail came through my boot.” Covering Swede with the shotgun, he limped to the trestle table. “Stay right there.”
Swede raised his hands.
Kirby leaned the shotgun carefully against the table. He turned his back to Swede and sat on the rickety bench. “These Yankee boots never were any good,” he said. He tugged at the boot, speaking over his shoulder. “Don’t you get any ideas about running way, Swede—do you hear me? Don’t do anything to—”
“Thanks,” Swede said, and his feet scuffed in the doorway.
“—to destroy my faith in you. I wouldn’t want that.” Kirby paused. He permitted himself a chuckle at his little joke. “No, I certainly wouldn’t want that.” He stamped the boot back onto his foot and looked around.
The doorway was empty.
Kirby sat for a long minute, then sighed and rose. He walked slowly, with no evidence of pain, to the cobwebbed window. He sat on the sill, gazing at the empty, sunburned plateau and the shadows of late afternoon.
From his vest he drew a cheroot. He bit off the end and lit it, drawing deeply, savoring the taste. “I suppose I’m a fool,” he said to himself. “But I’ve been a fool before. Maybe I’ve been a fool all my life.”
He remained in that position for some time, smoking the cheroot and contemplating the ruins of his career. He felt uncommonly relaxed.
At the bottom of the hill, Swede and Rosie rode away, toward Mexico.
THE END
* * *
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About the Author
Robert Broomall is the author of a number of published novels. Besides writing, his chief interests are travel and history, especially military history, the Old West, and the Middle Ages. He also likes to cook, much to the dismay of those who have to eat what he prepares.
Amazon author page: https://www.amazon.com/author/robertbroomall
Excerpt from The Lawmen by Robert Broomall:
Chapter 1
The average life expectancy for a marshal in Topaz, Arizona, was three weeks. Jack Ryan was not that lucky. He was killed after nine days on the job, shot in the back by a drunk who was trying to see if his pistol worked.
They buried Ryan on Boot Hill. There were few mourners. The late marshal had no relatives in Topaz, and he hadn’t been around long enough to make friends. Most of the town’s inhabitants didn’t even know his name.
The members of Topaz’s town council did not attend the funeral. They gathered gloomily in the upstairs office of Thomas Price’s General Merchandise store. Price’s store had been one of the first buildings in Topaz. It was one of the town’s few frame structures, and it held a favored spot, just over the bridge on Tucson Street, shaded by the cottonwoods that lined the banks of the San Marcos River, in whose bend Topaz lay.
Wearing shirtsleeves on this searing mid-July afternoon, the five men poured drinks from the decanters on Price’s sideboard. “Pity about Ryan,” said Cruickshank the banker, in his soft Scots burr. “I’d hoped he might last longer than the others.”
Amos Saxon, the fork-bearded, bespectacled justice of the peace, was philosophical. “He forgot to watch his back, that’s all.”
“What are we going to do for a marshal now?” Cruickshank asked.
Tom Price, who was also Topaz’s mayor, shook his head. “I've offered the job to a number of people, but nobody’s interested. Nobody even wants to talk about it.”
“Why should they?” said Peter McCarty, one-armed editor of the Topaz Trophy. “Not many people enjoy committing suicide.”
Miles Dunleavy, the town’s leading attorney, sipped his whiskey. His thick hair pomade was melting in the heat and dripping down his temples. “What about Johnny Evitts?”
“Evitts wants the job, all right,” Price said, “but he’s too young. This job calls for a man, not a boy. I told him he could stay on as deputy, but that we wouldn’t promote him.”
McCarty perched himself on the edge of Price’s desk and laughed. “Maybe you should make Wes Hopkins marshal. He runs the town anyway.”
The others failed to see the humor in the newspaperman’s remark. Mayor Price edged away from the open window, wrinkling his nose at the smells that wafted through it—from the town’s many privies and the animal manure heaped in the streets, from the mounds of garbage and rotting animal carcasses, from the stamping mill downriver. As long as Price had been at Topaz, he hadn’t gotten used to the stench.
Price turned back to the others. He was a dapper man with an imperial moustache and goatee in the French fashion. Sweat stains spread across his starched white shirt. He disliked going without a coat, because it revealed the weight he’d gained in recent years. “Someone’s got to take the job,” he said. “Charity’s afraid to let the children play outside, for fear they’ll be hit by stray bullets.”
“You’re the mayor,” McCarty reminded him. “You promised to clean up this town if you were elected.”
“I don’t see how I could have done more than I have. God knows, I’ve tried everything. There has to be more vigorous law enforcement, that’s all. If we’re ever to make Topaz a decent place to live—”
He was about to lau
nch into an impromptu oration when the outside door opened, and a man stood highlighted in the harsh glare of the sun.
The man was about six feet tall and sturdily built—or he seemed to be, it was hard to tell. A beard like a creosote bush spread across his chest. His clothing was mostly patches, and his ragged hat was held together with rabbit skin, with only a bit of the original felt still visible. One of his boots was missing a heel; the sole of the other flopped open, revealing a toeless sock. He smelled even worse than the street, if that was possible. His pale blue eyes swept the room as he stepped inside. “I’m looking for Mayor Price,” he drawled.
“I’m Mayor Price,” the merchant snapped, “and we’re in the middle of an important—”
“I hear you need a marshal.”
Price stopped. The council members stared at one another. “Are you applying for the position?” Judge Saxon asked.
“That’s right,” the man said. “Name’s Clay Chandler.”
Mayor Price cleared his throat. “And why do you want the job?”
“Money, mainly—I don’t have any. I was just up at the mine, but they ain’t hiring.”
“Have you done police work before?” Dunleavy asked.
“Nope,” Chandler said.
“What makes you think you’re qualified, then? Can you use a gun?”
“Some.”
“And men—can you handle them?”
“I commanded an infantry company in the war.”
“Union or rebel?” asked the mayor, who gloried in his own war record.
“Confederate,” Chandler replied, using the proper term. “Twenty-seventh Georgia.”
“A rebel officer,” Price mused. “You must be a man of education.”
“Not really. I started as a private.”
Price lifted an eyebrow. “That’s unusual. It’s my understanding that, unlike our own glorious Federal forces, the rebels rarely commissioned men from the ranks.”
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