Once a Renegade

by Peter Brandvold

  Finally, the voice became distinct, and Stillman, realizing suddenly what he was doing, froze, his fist drawn back. He glanced over at Leon, still sitting his steel-dust, a flush glowing behind the mahogany of his clean-lined face, his inky eyes urgent, pleading, his eyebrows furrowed.

  "Ben, you'll kill him!"

  Breathing hard, jaws tight, Stillman looked at the kid who hung nearly unconscious in the grip of his left fist. Red bruises were blossoming on his cheeks and blood dripped from his smashed mouth. His bandanna had slid halfway off his head, and Stillman could see the raw red swath where his hair used to be.

  Lifting his gaze, Stillman saw the cowboys gathered about him, crouched and exasperated, hands on their guns but knowing if they drew, the deputy would no doubt plug them with the Spencer carbine in his arms.

  Sighing, Stillman released the kid, who fell on his back, groaning. Stillman looked around for the kid's gun and his knife. Seeing them in the dust, he picked them up and stuffed the knife under his cartridge belt. He held the gun up, opened the cylinder, and shook the six cartridges out.

  When he'd wedged the gun behind his belt, Stillman said to the kid who still lay on his back, moaning and groaning and trying to regain his faculties, "You can pick up your weapons at my office in a month."

  Lifting his gaze to the others he said, "If I see any of you in town within the next two weeks, I'm turning the key on you. Understand?"

  "But, Sheriff," one of the drovers objected, "that crazy polecat scalped the kid and killed two of our friends!"

  “That's why he's in my custody. Now do as I told you, or I'll throw you in the hoosegow pronto!"

  Stillman's anger was back in earnest. He had no time for these rabble-rousers. It was the kid and the two other Bar 7 men who had instigated this mess, and now Stillman was having to clean up after them, arresting a man for seeking the only justice he knew. A man who lived alone and bothered no one unless they bothered him. A man who now would no doubt hang because one snot-nosed kid and two cow-brained drovers shot his mule.

  “Take the kid and get the hell out of town!" Stillman raged, waving an arm.

  The cowboys gave a start, backing off. Then two of them went over to the kid and helped him to his feet. When they were all heading down the boardwalk toward the livery barn, the kid jerking angry looks behind him, Stillman sighed, removed his hand from his holstered Colt, and swung up into the saddle.

  Glancing around, he saw that more people had lined the boardwalks, observing the spectacle. Even the Chinaman, Sam Wa, stood there beside his waitress, Evelyn Vincent.

  Guiltily averting his eyes, embarrassed that he'd lost his temper in so public a place, Stillman mumbled, "Let's go," and spurred his horse westward toward Evans's place at the top of the hill.

  Chapter Eight

  A MATRONLY WOMAN and a young boy with his right arm in a sling were climbing into a wagon as Stillman, the trapper, and McMannigle topped the hill and pulled their horses up to the doctor's front gate. As the woman released the wagon's brake and took up her reins, she eyed the grizzled trapper with bald disdain, her pug nose wrinkled.

  "Mornin', Mrs. Doherty," Stillman hailed the woman, tipping his hat.

  She did not respond. Instead, she turned sharply from the trapper with a loud "Harumph!" and flicked the reins against her sorrel's back. As the buggy passed, the boy swung around in his seat, watching the trapper with wide-eyed fascination.

  Stillman and McMannigle tied their horses to the hitching post and helped the trapper out of his saddle. The man kicked his moccasined feet free of the stirrups and hit the ground with a snarl and a loud sigh. The wound had opened, and the bandage was bloody. He was in obvious pain, throwing his head back and stretching his dry lips away from his big, chipped teeth.

  Stillman on one side, McMannigle on the other, they guided the trapper through the gate and toward the house. The doctor was standing in the open door.

  "I sure wish you'd try to bring your prisoners in without shooting them, Sheriff," he said. "Few have ever had any money to pay for my services."

  "I'll see to it the town council reimburses you," Stillman replied as he and Leon led the man through the door.

  "They'll just send over some hay," the doctor carped, closing the door behind them. "Believe me, I have plenty of hay."

  Katherine Kemmett was coming out of the examining room with a load of medical tools to be cleaned. "Oh, dear," she said, seeing the big, hairy man Stillman and McMannigle were ushering through the foyer.

  "In there," Evans said, meaning the room Katherine had just vacated. "Have him take a seat on the gurney. Good Lord, what's that smell?"

  "Your patient," Leon said.

  When they had him in the room, Stillman backed Shambeau up to the examining table. The trapper resisted, obviously disgruntled with his unfamiliar surroundings. Stillman wondered if the man had ever been in a real house before.

  "It's all right, Louis," Leon said. “The doctor's gonna dig that bullet out of your hide."

  Shambeau jerked a hard look at the deputy. "So you can hang me? Why not shoot me now... get it over with?"

  "We don't know you're gonna hang," Stillman said, trying to sound reassuring. “I'll make sure the judge knows the whole story. When he finds out they shot your mule, he might go easy on you."

  The prisoner cursed in French. At least it sounded like French to Stillman.

  "Just the same, sit down there, nice and easy. The doc's gonna look you over."

  Reluctantly the big man sat on the table, twisting his neck and rolling his head with the pain of the bullet in his shoulder. The doctor and Mrs. Kemmett came in, Katherine wiping her wet hands on a clean, white towel.

  "All right, boys," Evans said. "You can step outside while I have a look at him."

  Stillman shook his head. "We have to stay and make sure he doesn't try and run for it."

  "In his condition, he wouldn't get far." Evans tugged the buffalo coat off the trapper's raw, bloody shoulder, which had turned a mottled purple. "Besides that, you might as well bank on him being here overnight. I can already tell I'll have to do some deep cutting to get that bullet out, which means I'll be putting him under with ether. He'll be out till morning, at least."

  Leon turned to Stillman as the doctor examined the trapper's shoulder. "Why don't you head on home, Ben? I'll stay here with Shambeau."

  Stillman thought it over and nodded. "All right I'll get a meal in me and take a nap. I'll be back over to relieve you later this evening."

  Evans glanced at him. "I should have a look at that face of yours, Ben."

  "You got your hands full, Doc. I'll have Fay clean it up."

  "Stay home with that pretty wife of yours," Leon told Stillman. "I can nap here while the doc has ole Louis under the knife. I bet Mrs. Kemmett would rustle me up some grub if I begged her hard enough."

  Katherine glanced away from observing the doctor's work to flash Leon a smile. "I might be able to rustle you up something from Clyde's icebox."

  "All right, then," Stillman said. “I’ll head over in the morning. Maybe by then we can move him over to the jail. In the meantime, I'll telegraph a message to the circuit judge, see if we can't get him here pronto."

  He gave his deputy's shoulder a friendly squeeze and headed outside to his horse. After mounting up, he headed back down the hill, leading Shambeau's spotted Indian pony.

  His first order of business was to get rid of the trapper's horse, which he did at Auld's Livery Barn, having Auld stable the animal and store the trapper's gear until after the trial. That task accomplished, Stillman headed over to the telegraph office, where he scribbled out a message for the agent to send to Judge Herman Watkins.

  Finding no messages on the door of the jailhouse, he led Sweets out to the back stable. When he'd unsaddled the tired horse, he grained, watered, and curried him, and let him into the small pole corral where the bay promptly got down and rolled luxuriously in the well-churned dust.

  It was well past fi
ve by the time Stillman was walking east on First Street, where shadows were falling away from the tall facades and the traffic was dwindling. Taking a chance that Fay was still at school grading papers and cleaning chalkboards, Stillman went on past French Street, where his and Fay's house lay, and headed for the white-frame school, which sat in a little hollow at the eastern edge of town.

  Stillman was right. His lovely schoolteacher was hard at work scrubbing off the students' desktops as he knocked and entered through the front door.

  "Ben!" She dropped her rag in the wooden bucket and ran to him, throwing her arms around his neck. "Oh, I'm so glad you're back! I was worried I'd have to go home to an empty house again tonight."

  "No, we got him," Stillman said, trying to sound perky.

  She pulled away from him to look him over. Her brows furrowed and her cheeks flushed as she scrutinized his battered face. "Oh, Ben!"

  "Yeah, I got a little careless, but I'm fine."

  "You're fine? Your cheeks are purple, there's a gash on your brow and another, bigger one on your lip!"

  "The man packs a hell of a punch," he said with a sigh, "but I'm alright. Really." He returned Fay's appraising look, saw her hair falling over her shoulders and around the full breasts swelling her crisp schoolteacher's dress, and, in spite of his bruised and battered body, knew a moment of sweet desire.

  "How much more do you have to do here?"

  "Just blow out the lamps. I was lingering because I didn't know you were back."

  "Come on, then," he said, squeezing her shoulders eagerly. "Let's go get a steak over at Sam Wa's, then head home for a little promenade."

  Fay laughed huskily and took his face gently in her soft hands. "You are all right, aren't you?" She kissed him tenderly.

  "Never better."

  When she'd blown out the lamps and closed the damper on the woodstove, she grabbed her shawl and stepped through the door Stillman was holding open.

  As they turned through the schoolyard gate and headed westward up First Street, Stillman nodding to a prominent rancher and his wife heading out of town on their red-wheeled surrey, Fay asked him about Shambeau. Stillman told her what had happened, and that Doc Evans was sewing him up. He left out the part about his using Tommy Falk's face as a punching bag on First Street a while ago.

  "They shot his mule?"

  "That's what it looks like. The kid will get called to testify at the trial. It'll all come out then, if I have to beat it out of the little rodent myself."

  "Why would they do such a thing?"

  "For sport," Stillman said. "And because they didn't know any better than to harass a man who wanted only to be left alone."

  Fay looked at him. "Sounds like you're on his side."

  Stillman took Fay's hand as they mounted the boardwalk on the south side of the street. "I know I'm not supposed to be on anyone's side, Fay, but damnit, the man was minding his own business!"

  "He didn't have to do what he did. He could have come to you and reported it."

  Stillman exhaled heavily and shook his head. “That's just not the way of men like Shambeau. They were out here long before there were any laws besides the ones they enforced themselves, in their own way."

  "Times change."

  Stillman sighed again regretfully as he opened the door

  of Sam Wa's Cafe. "Yes, they do."

  The cafe was almost empty but for a couple retired farmers sipping coffee at the counter. As Fay made her way to a table, Stillman asked the waitress, Evelyn Vincent, if he could wash before he ate, then headed into the kitchen where a basin sat on a food preparation table.

  The cafe's proprietor, the venerable Sam Wa, stood at the range stirring a big pot of chili. Seeing Stillman, he bowed and said, "Good work today, Ben! Very good work! That Falk kid needed a good ass-kicking for long time!"

  "Yeah, I lost my temper, though, Sam. Not very professional, I'm afraid."

  "Ah, screw professional. This the wild and woolly West, no?" The stout Chinaman in a blue smock and stained apron threw his head back and laughed raucously as only Saw Wa could laugh.

  "That's what I used to think, Sam."

  Stillman dried his hands, arms, and face on a towel, dabbing gingerly at the cuts, and headed for the swinging doors.

  "The missus with you?" Wa called to him.

  "She sure is, Sam."

  "What you have—steak?"

  "Two T-bones, Sam. I'll have mine—"

  "I know, I know—you have yours rare, the missus have hers well-done. Ha! Ha! Ha!"

  Stillman smiled, waved, and headed back to the eating area where the young Evelyn Vincent was talking with Fay. As Stillman sat down, Evelyn turned to him.

  "Fay told me what happened with Louis Shambeau," she said. "I could've told you that if Tommy Falk was involved, he was the one who instigated the trouble."

  "Well, I don't know that for sure, Evelyn. We'll have to let a jury decide."

  "Poor Louis," Evelyn said. "All he ever wanted was to be left alone. Never gave me a lick of trouble the few times he came in here. Tommy Falk's never been anything but trouble." She leaned close to Stillman. "I can't tell you how thrilled I was when I saw you thrashin' him in the street earlier." She snickered. "Now, what can I get you two?"

  "Sam already has our orders," Stillman said. "Steak with all the trimmings."

  "You got it," Evelyn said, scribbling on her notepad and wheeling for the kitchen.

  When she was gone, Fay said, "Thrashing him in the street earlier'?"

  Stillman hemmed and hawed, cleared his throat. Scratching his head, he said, "Well, the little pipsqueak went after Louis with a gun.”

  "That's awful," Fay said. "But are you sure you didn't use a little more force than necessary?"

  "No, I'm not," Stillman admitted.

  Fay studied him across the table. "This case really has your blood boiling, doesn't it?"

  "Yes, I guess it does. I grew up with guys like Louis. Me and ole Bill Harmon used to hunt buffalo with 'em— back when there were still buffalo to hunt. I learned a lot from them, and I learned how they thought. A man kills your mule—it may seem harsh—but that man dies. It's a matter of principle. It lets others know you're not a man to be trifled with. Tough rules for a tough time and a tough land."

  "But that time is gone, and that land is changing."

  "Not in Louis's mind."

  "Maybe not in yours, either, eh?"

  Stillman shrugged.

  Fay said, "Or maybe there's just a part of you that doesn't want to let it go. I can see the appeal. It was a simpler time." She smiled. "And you were young."

  The steaks came and they ate, washing the meal down with hot coffee and following it up with apricot pie and ice cream. When they finished, Stillman paid the bill, and he and Fay walked home glancing over their shoulders to watch the sun set behind the buttes west of town.

  "You go get out of those dirty clothes," Fay said as they walked into the house. "I'll get a fire going in the stove and heat some water for a bath."

  "Mrs. Stillman, I do believe you're conniving to see me naked!"

  "Well, it has been two days." Fay laughed, heading into the kitchen.

  "What about my chickens?"

  "I had one of the boys come over and feed them after school. Out of those clothes!"

  Later, he soaked in the tub while Fay sponged his back. He was brooding, staring into a corner of the kitchen.

  "Let it go, Ben," she said softly. "You did your job. Now you have to leave it up to the judge."

  "I reckon you're right," he said. "It's just that... he's so ... out of his element." He looked at her. "You know, if I could I'd let him go."

  Fay sighed. "I think it's time to retire to the other room, Mr. Stillman."

  Stillman frowned. "I ain't tired."

  "Neither am I, Mr. Stillman."

  He turned to see her reaching behind to unbutton her dress and draw it down her shoulders. "Oh, these old schoolmarm dresses get so confining...."
<
br />   "I imagine they do at that," he said, staring at the straining white cotton of her chemise.

  "I bet I can help you with that scowl on your face, Mr. Stillman," she said, and he watched her hands slip into the sudsy water between his knees.

  "Yes, ma'am... I bet you can at that.”

  As her hands moved in the water, Stillman unlaced her camisole and slid it down her arms. She inhaled sharply as he kissed her slender neck and nuzzled her breasts.

  Later, after they'd made love in their room and she'd fallen asleep, Stillman got up and dressed in his union suit. He went out to the living room and stoked the stove, then built and lit a cigarette. He stood by the window, smoking, thinking about the trapper, thinking about the old days when he and the incorrigible Bill Harmon had been young and running wild across the West.

  Odd to think of Bill dead now, buried beside his Indian wife in the Two-Bears. As gone as the buffalo...

  Finally, Stillman's mind returned to the present, and he considered dressing and heading up to Evans's place on the hilltop to check on things. He decided against it. The trapper would be under the ether until morning, the doctor had said.

  Everything would be fine.

  Stillman stubbed out his cigarette and returned to the bedroom where Fay slept with her long legs curled beneath the quilts, her chocolate hair awash across her pillow. He crawled in beside her, kissed a tender breast, and nestled his face against her belly.

  Everything would be fine, and he would feel young again soon.

  Chapter Nine

  LEON MCMANNIGLE WAS sound asleep on the fainting couch in Doc Evans's parlor when he heard a door open and Evans and his assistant, Mrs. Kemmett, conversing. Instantly awake, the deputy sat up and dropped his feet to the floor, blinking and shaking his head.

  Straightening his gun belt, he headed for the kitchen where Doc Evans and Mrs. Kemmett were placing bloody surgical instruments in a porcelain pan.

  "How'd it go, Doc?" Leon asked.

  Evans removed his surgical mask. "Not too bad. The bullet had hit a bone but didn't break it. I think he'll be all right."