Frye straightened in the chair and said, “I think it’d be fine.” Just like that.
You can’t be sure, Danaher told himself now, dismounting in front of the Randado jail. Even with God-given intuition you can’t always judge a man quickly. He told himself that because Frye was only twenty-four and because, more than anything else, he didn’t want to be wrong about him.
6
“I’m sorry you have to be kept in this cell,” Frye said to Dandy Jim, who stood close to him but seemed to be farther away because of the heavy iron bars that separated them. He hesitated. “Listen,” he went on, speaking to the Coyotero in Spanish, “I could leave this door open if it would make a difference to you.”
The Coyotero seemed to consider this. “Why would it make a difference,” he said then, “knowing I must remain here?”
“I promised the soldier in charge that I would hold you until he returned,” Frye explained.
Dandy Jim said nothing. He could not understand this and that was the reason he did not speak; and he was not sure if it would be proper to ask why the soldiers had the right to hold him or request of another that he be held. And at the same time, looking at Frye, he tried not to notice his swollen mouth, the bruises on both cheek bones and the left eye which was purple-blue and almost closed. He knew it would not be proper to ask about his disfigurement. Perhaps, though, he could ask about the other since he had known this man many years—
“Tell me,” he said, suddenly having decided to ask it, “why is what I did to that woman a concern of the soldiers?”
“I don’t understand,” Frye answered.
“It was my woman, I found her with another, this Susto if you know him, and did what I had to do.”
“When was that?”
“Just before the soldiers came.”
Frye was silent. Then, “After you disfigured her you drank the tulapai?”
Dandy Jim nodded.
“With others, and perhaps you made noise?”
“Perhaps.”
“To be overheard by someone who might tell the soldiers if it meant a reward?”
“That might be.”
“Well, that’s why they chased you…the tulapai, not because of what you did to your wife.” Watching Dandy Jim, Frye could see that this explanation did not seem reasonable to him, so he said, “I’ll tell you, without wasting words, that when the Apache drinks tulapai, the soldiers are afraid. That’s their reason for taking it away from you.”
Dandy Jim said, “When the soldiers drink aguardiente, who takes that from them?”
“No one.”
“Is no one afraid of them?”
“Some are, but in a way that is different.”
Dandy Jim could not reasonably carry this further, so he said, “Then that about my woman has nothing to do with why I am here.”
“I’m almost certain it does not.” Frye asked then, “Do you need tobacco?” And when the Coyotero shook his head, he said, “I’ll come back again to talk to you.”
And when he was gone Dandy Jim thought and continued to think that even this white man whom he had known so many years, even him he did not understand. Something made the white men different from Apache and he did not know what it was. Yes, even this one who could do many things which were Apache, even he was different when you closed your eyes and thought about him, remembering the small things he said which were not really small but kept small because they were things that could not be explained. Like this tulapai thing. He said that soldiers were afraid of the Apache who drank tulapai. That was keeping it simple and small.
And probably he does not approve of what I did to the woman, even though he says I am not being held for that. But it was not his wife, and he did not see her through the willows lying with another man. Susto.
He thought about the woman again, though he had ceased calling her his wife.
It was the tulapai he had been drinking on the way home that brought the rage. He would not have done it sober. Beat her, yes; but not mutilate her. But even as he thought of it he was angry again. It was not his fault that he was gone most of the time as a tracker for the soldiers. Did she expect him to grow corn? He was a warrior and would fight either for the soldiers or against them and at this time it was not only more profitable, but wiser to fight for them. He was not asked to go against Coyoteros. Only Chiricahuas and sometimes Mimbreños, people he did not usually approve of under any circumstances. But he did it as much for her as for himself and that was what angered him. That while he was away, working to be able to buy cloth and beads as well as ammunition, she would lie with another man. Susto. Susto of all men. She had been a Lipan woman, taken on a raid, and perhaps he should never have trusted her.
No, he was sure Frye did not approve of his treatment of the woman, though this did not show on his face. There was their difference again.
When Frye first became known to him he seldom thought of this difference. That time at San Carlos. And the first day they spoke—
They were just beginning the foot race and the white boy came up to them and asked if he could take part. For weeks he had watched their games while they pretended that he was not watching, but this day he asked if he might join. And while laughing to themselves they told him, seriously, yes he could join them, but would he not like to make a wager? Say his horse? All of this was half in Spanish and half Apache and English and it took time.
Then, after he had put up his horse they told him that of course he knew this was not an ordinary foot race. Dandy Jim himself, Tloh-ka then, pointed, explaining that they would run following the bending course of that arroyo to the clump of mesquite part of the way up the hill (“You will know it by the way it claws at your face”), then back again, a distance of two and a half miles. And, of course, the contestants would be blindfolded, their hands tied behind them and would carry a knife, by the blade, between their teeth. Whoever did not return with a knife still in his mouth would forfeit his horse to the winner of the race. There was an old Coyotero man there to see that each boy abided by the rules which forbade attempting a short cut or trying to trip an opponent.
Twice that afternoon they ran the race and when it was over Kirby Frye still had his horse. He had not won any of the races, but he still had his horse. Later, years later, Dandy Jim learned Frye had been practicing this alone for weeks.
There were other games in those days at San Carlos: Apache games, and in all of them Frye did well and in competing in the games there was never the thought that this boy was different from them, not after that first foot race. In time he even spoke some words of their language.
Thinking of those days now, it occurred to Dandy Jim, that, yes, they were different even then, because whatever it was that made them different was inside and must have been present from the moment of conception. It was just that they did not have the time then to notice it.
But he is a good man, Dandy Jim thought, and I think it would be a rare thing to track with him or go to war as his companion…to do something which would leave no time for thinking about this difference.
Danaher had been talking to Harold Mendez for almost a quarter of an hour when Frye came down the stairs. Time enough to learn how the hanging had taken place and to learn again that Frye had not been present; though he refrained from asking what Frye had done about it.
And now, seeing Frye’s swollen face, it wasn’t necessary to ask. He felt relief sag inside of him and he exhaled slowly, inaudibly, all of the tension that he had carried with him from La Noria. Frye had done something, there was no question about that.
“Kirby, you look a bit worse for wear,” Danaher said, sitting down and pointing with his eyes for Frye to sit down also. “How do you feel?”
“I don’t know. I think all my front teeth are loose.”
“Don’t eat anything chewy for a while and they’ll settle again. Who did it?”
“Sundeen’s jinete.”
“Digo the horsebreaker,” Danaher said as if r
eflecting, picturing him. Then, “What are you going to do about it?”
“I don’t know.”
“What about Tindal and the others; what’re you going to do about them?”
Frye seemed suddenly worn out and he only shrugged his shoulders.
Danaher was silent for a moment watching Frye. He told himself to take it easy or he’d lose a deputy. But no, the hell with that, if he wants to quit then let him get out now, out of the way. Baby him and you’ll be holding his hand from now on, Danaher thought.
So he said, “How long are you going to sit here?”
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t know very much, do you?”
Frye looked up. “What would you do?”
“I’d slap ’em with warrants.”
“I don’t know if I could do it.”
Danaher said, “You’ve got a gun.”
“I walk up to Tindal, and tell him he’s under arrest, and if he objects I draw on him.”
“You’ve got it fairly straight,” Danaher said, “but I’ll write it out if you want.”
“John—” Frye hesitated; it was the first time he had called Danaher by his first name. It just popped out and momentarily he looked at Danaher as if expecting him to object, but there was no reaction from him, nothing on Danaher’s face to indicate an objection. And Frye thought briefly, flashingly: You make a big thing out of everything. You make a problem out of whether you should use a first name or a mister…which was half the reason it didn’t go right at De Spain’s last night. You were being too respectful, so they shoved it down your throat.
“John,” he repeated the name purposely. “Maybe I’m sitting here because I’m afraid. I’ll get that out in the open first. But there’s something else. Last night Tindal told me that I worked for Randado, that is, the people of Randado. And if the people of Randado elect to have a law their way, one that benefits them as a whole, then I have to go along with the people I serve.”
Danaher nodded. “That sounds like Tindal. But there’s one thing wrong with the statement. You work for me.”
“I know I do, but these are the people right here I actually serve.”
Danaher leaned forward in his chair. “Let me tell you something, if you don’t already know it,” he said quietly. “I’m paid pretty well to keep order in a stretch of land as big as any one man’s been asked to watch. I’ve got people above me, but they give me a free hand; those were my terms. I’m the law here, Kirby. I’ve got a conscience and God to account to, but I’m the law and when I say something’s wrong, it’s wrong…until a higher authority proves otherwise.” Danaher continued to look at Frye, holding him with his eyes.
“You said you might be scared. Well, I was boogered once, shaking in my boots making my first arrest of a wanted man. After that I took men with me because it was quicker and I no longer had to prove to myself, or to anybody else, I could do it. You proved yourself by standing up to them. Now get some men behind you and slap warrants on Tindal, Beaudry, Stedman, Sundeen and Digo—”
“What about Clay Jordan?” Frye said, because he thought of him suddenly as Danaher named the others and he wanted to see Danaher’s reaction.
“Was he here?” Danaher’s face showed nothing.
“They say he wasn’t in on the hanging.”
Danaher paused. “Then don’t touch him.”
“Do you know him?”
“I know him.” Danaher rose saying this.
“He looks like a gun-tipper.”
“Don’t try to find out,” Danaher said.
“I might have trouble getting men to back me,” Frye said, “when I pass out the warrants.”
“That’s your problem. You get paid for figuring out things like that.”
Frye’s swollen lips formed a smile. “I’ll try. But I can’t promise anything.”
That was all Danaher wanted to hear. He said, “Wire Tucson when you’ve served them. If I don’t hear from you by Wednesday I’ll come back.”
Frye nodded, but said, “How do you know I won’t quit?”
“Kirby,” Danaher answered, “I just have to look at your busted face.”
7
“There must be a better way to do this,” Harold Mendez said. He was watching Frye, who was sitting at the desk filling in the names on the warrants. The warrants already bore Judge Ira M. Finnerty’s illegible scrawl in the lower right corner, which to Frye always seemed proof enough of Danaher’s influence—anyone who could get Judge Finnerty to sign blank warrants that would be used sometime in the future—
“Maybe Danaher’s right,” Frye answered the jailer. “He’d throw them in jail and not make any bones about it.”
“But you’re not Danaher,” Mendez said.
“I just don’t think they have to be thrown in jail.” The warrants would be served, but instead of jailing them they would be ordered not to leave the vicinity between now and the next court date scheduled for December 18, three weeks away. And since their families and businesses were here Frye decided it wouldn’t be necessary for them to post bond. But it will be hard living with them, he thought. Then Judge Finnerty will decide to hold the hearing at Tucson and that will make it all the worse, making them ride eighty-five miles for their comeuppance.
Sunday, the day before, he did not see any of them. He came to the jail in the morning to relieve Harold and to talk to Dandy Jim; but after Danaher left he went back to his room—a boardinghouse down the street—and stayed there through most of the afternoon and evening, not even visiting De Spain’s after supper. Let them cool off. Sunday might have a soothing effect on them and it would be easier Monday when he served the warrants.
“Harold, maybe you could find out if Beaudry’s about while I visit Tindal and Stedman.”
“All right,” Harold nodded. “What about Sundeen?”
“I’ll go out there about suppertime.”
“When his whole crew’s in,” Harold added.
“I have to serve Digo, too,” Frye answered. He left the jail, slipping the warrants into his inside coat pocket, and walked along the shade of wooden awnings to the Randado branch of the Cattlemen’s Bank. He glanced across the street to Tindal’s store before going inside and he thought of Milmary as he approached the railed-off section of the bank’s office.
“Louise, could I see Mr. Stedman?”
The blond girl at the front desk looked up. “He isn’t in,” she said stiffly.
“Where would he be?”
“I don’t know.”
“No idea?”
“Maybe he’s at dinner.”
“It’s a little early for that.”
“Mr. Stedman doesn’t tell me everything he does.”
“All right.” Frye started to go. “You might tell him I was here.”
“Don’t worry,” the girl said after him.
He crossed the street to Tindal’s. Opening the door and closing it with the jingling of the bell, he saw Milmary behind the counter. She was facing the shelves, a writing board in her arm, and Frye knew that she had seen him. She would have turned hearing a customer.
“Mil—”
“Just leave your warrant on the counter and get out of here.”
He hesitated. “How do you know I have a warrant?”
“Everybody in town saw Danaher yesterday. Why else would you be here?”
Now it was out in the open and that made it simpler, if nothing else. “I’m looking for your dad.”
“I don’t know where he is.”
“Maybe he’s having dinner with Mr. Stedman.”
“Why don’t you”—she turned suddenly, hesitating as she saw his bruised face, and though her tone was softer she finished—“look for him. Isn’t that what they pay you for, looking for criminals?”
“I thought you might save me some steps,” Frye said. “Maybe he’s at home.”
“Maybe he is,” Milmary said.
“Or at De Spain’s?”
“Or in Mex
ico! Why don’t you just leave?”
“All right, Mil.”
“Kirby—”
He was turning to go and now he looked back at her. “What?”
“Who did that to you?” She nodded gently, almost frowning.
“Digo,” Frye answered. He hesitated, still looking at her, but slowly her eyes dropped from his. He turned then and left.
Harold Mendez was at the window when Frye opened the door. He nodded to a line of Sun-D horses hitched in front of De Spain’s and said, “They came while you were at Tindal’s. It looked funny because as you were coming out they were going into De Spain’s.”
“Is Phil there?”
“Phil and Digo and Jordan and three or four more.” Harold’s eyes went to the line of horses and he said, “That’s right, seven of them.”
“I didn’t even hear them,” Frye said.
“You were thinking of something else,” Harold said. He saw Frye look at the rifle rack and then at the desk, then walk over to the desk, not sitting down but only touching it with his fingers, then come over to the window and Harold was thinking: I’m glad I’m not in his shoes; and said, “Did you serve the warrants?”
“Neither one of them were there.”
“Something funny’s going on,” Harold said. “Wordie Stedman was passing and I asked him if he’d seen Mr. Beaudry, but he went right on without stopping.”
“He might have had something to do.”
“Didn’t even look back.”
“Well, I don’t know—”
“Kirby, the word’s out on this warrant business and nobody likes it. That’s what it is.”
Frye nodded slowly, looking across the street. “It didn’t take long for them to find out, did it?”
“They saw Danaher and they know Danaher wouldn’t fool around,” Harold said. “You know they can make it hard for you to serve those warrants.”