"Big as life," the Mexican said.
Treat's gaze returned to Pyke. "Well?"
"You got me at an unfair advantage," Pyke said carefully. "A lantern in my hand. All the light full on me."
"You came here to burn down my house," Treat said, standing motionless. "You're holding the fire, as you told Sandal. You've four men backing you and you call it a disadvantage."
"Three men backing him," Sandal said.
Beyond him one of the mounted riders said, "This part of it isn't our fight."
And Sandal added, "Just Layo's."
"Wait a minute." Pyke was taken by surprise. "You all work for Mr.
Kergosen. He says run him out, we do it!"
"But not carry him out," the one who had spoken before said. "You threatened him, Leo; then it's your fight, not ours. And if you think he's got an unfair advantage, put the lantern down."
"So it's like that," Pyke said.
"You got two feet," Sandal said. "Stand on them. Show us how the segundo would do it."
"Listen, you chili picker! You're through!"
"Sure, Layo. Now talk to that boy out there."
"Mr. Kergosen's going to run every damn one of you!" Pyke half turned to face them, shifting the lantern to his left hand, the light swaying across Sandal and the chestnut color of his horse. "We'll talk to him," Sandal said.
Pyke stared at him. "You know what you done, you and the rest? You jawed yourself out of jobs. You see how easy a new one is to find.
Mr. Kergosen's going to be burned, but sure as hell I'm going to"--his feet started to shift--"tell him!"
As he said it, Pyke was spinning on his toes, swinging the lantern hard at Treat, seeing it in the air, then going to his right, but seeing Treat moving, with the revolver suddenly in his hand, and at that moment Treat fired.
Pyke was half around when the bullet struck him. He stumbled back against the front of the adobe, came forward drawing, bringing up his Colt, then half turned, falling against the adobe as Treat fired again and the second bullet hit him.
The revolver fell from Pyke's hand and he stood against the wall staring at Treat, holding his arms bent slightly, but stiffly against his sides, as if afraid to move them. He had been shot through both arms, both just above the elbow.
Treat walked toward him. "Leo," he said, "you've got two things to remember. One, you're not coming back here again. And two, I could've aimed dead center." He turned from Pyke to Sandal. "If you want to do him a good turn, tie up his arms and take him to a doctor. The rest of you," he said to the mounted men, "can tell Mr. Kergosen I'm still here."
HE WAS TOLD, and he came the next morning, riding into the yard with a shotgun across his lap. He rode up to Treat, who was standing in front of the adobe, and the shotgun was pointing down at him when Kergosen drew in the reins. They looked at each other in the clear morning sunlight, in the yellow, bright stillness of the yard.
"I could pull the trigger," Kergosen said, "and it would be over."
"Over for me," Treat said. "Not for you or Ellis."
Kergosen sat heavily in the saddle. He had not shaved this morning and his eyes told that he'd had little sleep. "You won't draw a gun against me?"
"No, sir."
"Why?"
"If I did, I'd have to live with Ellis the rest of my life the way you're doing now."
"So you're in a hole."
"But no deeper than the one you're in."
Kergosen studied him. "I underestimated you. I thought you'd run."
"Because you told me to?"
"That was reason enough."
"You're too used to giving orders," Treat said. "You've been Number One a long time and you've forgotten what it's like to have somebody contrary to you."
"I didn't get where I am having people contrary to me," Kergosen stated. "I worked and fought and earned the right to give orders, but I prayed to God to lead me right, and don't you forget that!"
"Mr. Kergosen," Treat said quietly, "are you afraid I can't provide for your daughter?"
"Provide!" Kergosen's face tightened. "An Apache buck provides.
He builds a hut for his woman and brings her meat. Any man with one hand and a gun can provide. We're talking about my daughter, not a flat-nosed Indian woman--and you have to put up a damn sight more than meat and a hut!"
Treat said, "You think I won't make something of myself?"
"Mister, all you've proved to me is that you can read sign and shoot."
Kergosen paused before asking, "Why didn't you sign a complaint to get Ellis back? Don't you know your rights? That what I'm talking about. You can track a renegade Apache, you can stand off five men with a Colt, but you don't know how to live with a white man!"
"Mr. Kergosen," Treat said patiently, "I could've got a writ. I could've prosecuted you for tearing down my house. I could've killed Leo Pyke with almost a clear conscience. I could've done a lot of things."
"But you didn't," Kergosen said.
"No, I waited."
"If you're waiting for me to die of old age--"
"Mr. Kergosen, I'm interested in your daughter, not your property.
We can get along just fine with what we're building on."
"Which is nothing," Kergosen said. "When you started," Treat asked, "what did you have?"
"When I married I had over one hundred square miles of land.
Miles, mister, not acres. I was going on forty years old, sure of myself and not a kid anymore."
"I'm almost thirty, Mr. Kergosen."
"I'll say it again: And you've got nothing."
"Nothing but time."
"Listen," Kergosen said earnestly. "You don't count on the future like it's nothing but years to fill up. You fill them up, good or bad, according to your ability and willingness to sweat, but you're sure of that future before you ask a woman to face it with you."
Treat said, "You had somebody picked for Ellis?"
"Not by name, but a man who can offer her something."
"So you planned her future, and it turned out different."
"Damn it, I try to do what's right!"
"According to your rules."
"With God's help!"
"Mr. Kergosen," Treat said, "I don't mean disrespect, but I think you've rigged it so God has to take the blame for your mistakes. Ellis and I made a mistake. We admit it. We should've come to you first. We would've got married whether you said yes or no, but we still should've come to you first. The way it is now, it's still up to you, but now you're in an embarrassing position with the Almighty. Ellis and I are married in the eyes of the same God that you say's been guiding you all this time, thirty years or more. All right, you and Him have been getting along fine up to now. But now what?"
Kergosen said nothing.
"We could probably argue all day," Treat said, "but it comes down to this: You either go home and send out some more men, or you use that scattergun, or you come inside and have some coffee, and we'll talk it over like two grown-up men."
Kergosen stared at him. "I admire your control, Mr. Treat."
"I've learned how to wait, Mr. Kergosen. If it comes down to that, I'll outwait you. I think you know that."
Kergosen was silent for a long moment. He looked down at his hands on the shotgun and exhaled, letting his breath out slowly, wearily, and he seemed to sit lower on the saddle.
"I think I'm getting old," he said quietly. "I'm tired of arguing and tired of fighting."
"Maybe tired of fighting yourself," Treat said.
Kergosen nodded faintly. "Maybe so."
Treat waited, then said, "Mr. Kergosen, I'm anxious to see my wife."
Kergosen's face came up, out of shadow, deep-lined and solemn, but the hard tightness was gone from his jaw. He shifted his weight and came down off the saddle, and on the ground he handed the shotgun to Treat.
"Phil," he said, "this damn thing's getting too heavy to hold."
From his pocket Treat brought out the bank draft Kergosen had give
n him. He handed it over, saying, "So is this, Mr. Kergosen."
They stood for a moment. Kergosen's hand went into his pocket with the bank draft and when they moved toward the adobe, the bitterness between them was past. It had worn itself to nothing.
Chapter 24 Man with the Iron Arm.
Original Title: The One Arm Man.
Complete Western Book, September 1956.
Chapter One.
CHRIS AND KITE and Vicente were already half down the slope when we came out of the trees--three riders spread out and running hard, waving their sombreros like they could smell the mescal we'd been talking about all morning. This new man, Tobin Royal, was next to me holding in his big sorrel I think just to show he could hold himself, too, if he wanted. He was smoking a cigarette and squinting through the smoke curling up from it. At the bottom of the grade, looking bleached white in the big open sunlight, were the adobes of Brady's Store: one main structure and a few scattered out-buildings and a corral. Brady's served as a Hatch & Hodges stage-line stop, besides being a combination store and saloon for the half dozen one-loop ranchers in the vicinity. The one we worked for--the El Centro Cattle Company--was bigger than all of them put together twice and just the eastern tip of it came close to touching Brady's Store. Chris and Kite and Vicente and this Tobin Royal and I were gathering stock from the east range, readying for a trail drive and we felt we deserved some of Brady's mescal long as it was handy.
By the time Tobin and I rode into the yard, the others had gone into the saloon side of the adobe and I saw a bare-headed, dark-haired man leading their three horses over to the open stable shed that attached to the adobe. He looked around, hearing us ride in, and I saw then that he had only one arm. For a moment he stood looking at us; then he turned, leading the horses away, moving slow like he either had all the time in the world or else his mind was on something else. As we swung off, this Tobin Royal called over to him, "Hey, boy, two more here!" But the one-armed man kept going like he hadn't heard.
Tobin stood looking at the rumps of the three horses moving into the stable. He let his reins drop and he moved a half dozen slow strides toward the stable. A quirt was thonged to his left wrist and it hung limp at his side opposite the long-barreled Navy Colt on his right hip.
He was a slim, good-looking boy, but he never smiled unless he said something he thought was funny, and he liked to pose, as he was doing now with the quirt and his hat tilted forward and the low-slung Navy Colt. In the few weeks he'd been with us I'd learned this about him.
I started to bring the horses and he turned his head. "You keep them horses over there."
"What's the difference? I'll take them over."
"Just stay where you are." His gaze went back to the stable as the one-armed fellow came out of the shadow into the sunlight again, and for a moment Tobin just stared at the man.
"Are you deaf or something?"
THE MAN TURNED to Tobin and his eyes looked tired. They were watery, and with the bits of straw sticking to his shirt and pants he looked as if he'd just slept off a drunk in the stable. He was about thirty, a year one way or the other. He didn't answer Tobin, but came on toward me.
"I asked you a question!"
He stopped then and looked at Tobin.
"I asked you," Tobin said, "if you were deaf."
"No, I'm not deaf."
"You work here?"
The man nodded.
"You're supposed to answer when somebody calls."
"I'll try to remember that," the man said.
The temper rose in Tobin's face again. "Listen, don't talk like that to me! I'll kick your hind end across the yard!"
The tired eyes looked at me momentarily. He came on then and took the reins and started back toward the stable with the horses. Tobin called to him, "Water and rub 'em down now . . . you hear me?" He stood looking after the horses for a time, then finally he turned and started for the adobe as I did.
"You didn't have to talk to him like that."
Tobin shook his head disgustedly. "Judas, I hate a slow-moving, worthless man."
"He had only one arm," I said.
"What difference does that make?"
"Maybe it makes him feel bad."
"It don't make him walk slower."
"Well maybe some men it does."
Tobin opened the door and walked in ahead of me over to the bar that was along the left-hand wall where Chris and Kite and Vicente stood leaning and drinking mescal, and he said, "Whiskey," to Brady standing behind the bar.
Brady was looking toward me, waiting for Tobin to get out of the way. "How you been, Uncle?" Brady said to me.
"Fair," I told him. "How've you been?"
"Good." He smiled now, that big, loose-faced, double-chinned smile of his. "It's nice to see you again."
"I want whiskey," Tobin said.
Brady looked at him. "I heard you, Sonny. You can't wait till I tell a friend hello?"
I got to the bar before Tobin could say anything. "Joe, this is Tobin Royal, a new man with us."
Tobin nodded and Joe Brady said glad-to-meet-you, because he was a businessman. He sat the whiskey bottle on the bar and poured a drink out of it. Tobin emptied the hooker, and touched the bottle with the glass for another. But this one, after Brady poured it, he took to one of the three tables that were along the other wall, where the stage passengers ate. He sat down with the drink in front of him and started making a cigarette.
Joe Brady nudged the mescal bottle toward me. "What's he trying to prove?" "That he's older than he is," I answered. I could hear Vicente telling a vaquero story and Chris and Kite were listening, knowing what the ending was, but waiting for it anyway. They didn't have much to say to Tobin, because the first day he joined us he had a fight with Kite. Kite had been a Tascosa buffalo skinner, a big rawboned boy, but Tobin licked him good. Tobin always stayed a few steps out from them, like he didn't want to be mistaken for just an ordinary rider.
"I see you got a new man too," I said to Brady.
"That's John Lefton," Brady said. "He came here on the stage a few weeks ago . . . got off like he expected to see something. As it turned out, he'd paid the fare as far as his money would take him . . . which was to here."
"What's he running away from?"
"Did you see him close?"
"You mean the one arm?"
Brady nodded. "That's what I think he's running from."
"Well, it's too bad. How'd he lose it?"
"In the War."
"Well," I said again, "it's better to lose it that way than, say, in a corncrusher. What side was he on?"
"Union."
"Don't hold it against him, Joe."
"Hell, the War's been over for eight years."
"You felt sorry for him and gave him a job?"
Brady shrugged. "What else could I do?"
"He looks like he drinks."
"He about draws his wages in mescal. But he does his work . . . better'n the Mex boy and even took over the bookkeeping."
"It's a terrible thing to see a man down like that."
I heard the screen door open behind me and Brady mumbled, "Here he is."
Chapter Two.
I HALF TURNED as he went by, walking to the back part of the adobe where Brady's rolltop desk was next to the door that led to the store part. He was carrying a push-broom. Brady called over the bar, "John, you don't have to do that now."
"It's all right," he answered. His voice sounded natural, but like there wasn't a speck of enthusiasm in him if he ever wanted to bring it out.
"No," Brady said. "Wait till later. These people will just mess up the place anyhow."
He nodded, then leaned the push-broom against the wall and stood at the desk with his back to us.
"I never know how to talk to him," Brady half whispered.
"Mr. Brady--"
Brady looked up and saw John Lefton at the end of the bar now. As he walked down to him, Chris and Kite and Vicente stopped talking.
T
hey stood at the bar pretending like they weren't trying to hear what was said, as Brady and the one-armed man talked for a minute. Then Brady came back for the mescal bottle and poured him a good shot of it.
"I wonder what he's trying to forget," I said, when Brady was opposite me again.
"His wife," Brady said, and didn't add anything to that for a minute.
Then he said, "He's been here three weeks and he's gotten three letters from her, forwarded from the last town he stayed in, but he hasn't answered one."
"How do you know it's his wife . . . he told you?"
Brady hesitated. "I read one of the letters."
"Joe!"
He gritted his teeth, meaning for me to keep my voice down. "After he got the last one he started drinking and kept it up till it put him asleep. He was sitting at that table there and the letter was right in front of him. Listen . . . I just stood there trying to figure him out, wanting to help him, but I couldn't help him till I knew what his trouble was. Finally I decided, hell, there's only one way to do it, read the letter."
"Go on." "She asked him why he never answered any of her letters and when he was going to send for her, and telling how much she loved him,"
Brady paused. "You see it now?"
I COULD SEE IT all right. Him coming back from the War lacking an arm and somehow figuring he'd be a burden and being sensitive about how he looked. Then running away to prove himself . . . then doing more running than proving. Promising to send for her at first, but each day knowing it would be harder as the time passed. Her at home waiting while he wanders around losing his self-respect. That would be eight years of waiting now.
"Maybe," I said, "he don't want her anymore."
Brady shook his head. "You never saw him read the letters."
About a minute later, this Tobin Royal came up next to me and slapped his left-handed quirt down on the bar. "Give me another one," he said.
Brady said civilly, "You haven't paid for the first two yet."
"We'll settle when I'm through," Tobin told him. He drank off part of the whiskey that Brady poured and stood fiddling with what was left, turning the glass between two fingers. His eyes lifted as Brady moved down the bar to where John Lefton was standing and poured him another mescal.