The Desperado (2 page)

“All right, Rodger,” she said at last. “Whatever you say.”

Her voice was heavy and edged with hopelessness. She had had great
plans for me. Even before I was born she had started making plans to
send me to the University of Virginia and make a lawyer out of me, or
maybe a preacher. But the war had put an end to that. There wasn't
anybody in Texas, except the scalawags and bureau agents, that had
money enough to send their children off to places like Virginia. And I
hadn't made things any easier for Ma. I had come into the world in the
midst of great pain, almost killing her, and I had been a source of
pain ever since. Like the time I cut Criss Bagley open with a
pocketknife. She had tried to comfort me and to understand, and I had
tried to explain to her. But I couldn't explain when I didn't know
myself. I just knew that Criss had been coming at me with an elm club
and I knew I had to get it away from him, one way or another. Criss was
twelve and I was ten, and he outweighed me by thirty pounds or more, so
the knife seemed the only way.

I remember the way he looked, standing there with his eyes wide in
amazement—before the pain—staring down at his opened belly. We had
been swimming down at Double-dare Hole, a muddy, deep hole in the
arroyo that cut across our land, and in the spring and early summer it
was almost always full. It was June, I remember, and four of us had
stopped there on our way from school. And one of the kids—I don't know
which one— tied knots in Criss's clothes, and that was the way it
started. He thought I did it. He came out of the water yelling,
“Goddamn you, Tall Cameron!” And I remember saying, “Don't goddamn me!
I didn't tie knots in your dirty damn clothes!”

For a while we just stood there glaring at each other. Criss was
naked and dripping, and fat around the belly and hips, like a girl. I
had already dried myself in the sun and had my clothes on. The other
two boys climbed up on the bank, grinning. Then one of them said,
“What's the matter, Criss? You afraid of Tall? You just goin' to stand
there and let him get away with tyin' knots in your clothes?”

Criss turned on the boy. “Keep your goddamn mouth shut. I guess I
know how to take care of Tall Cameron... unless he wants to untie my
clothes, that is.”

I know now that Criss really didn't want to fight. But I didn't know
it then. I could have untied his clothes and that would have been the
end of it. Instead, I said, “You can untie them yourself if you want
them untied. I don't guess I'm bound to wait on you.”

Criss was one of those people who never tanned in the summer, no
matter how much he stayed out in the sun. His hair was kind of a dirty
yellow, and so were his eyebrows; and his skin was as pink and soft as
a baby's bottom. He stood there waiting for me to do something about
his clothes. His pale little eyes shut down to angry slits.

“I'll count to ten,” he said tightly. “If you don't have my clothes
untied by then, it's goin' be too bad.”

“You can count to ten thousand,” I said. “I told you I didn't do it.”

So he started counting. And I didn't move. And when he had finished
he said, “All right, goddamn you!” and started toward me.

I had never fought Criss before. I'd never wanted to because of his
size, but I wasn't afraid of him. And, after the first swing he took, I
saw that it was going to be easy. He was big and fat and clumsy, and
not very smart. I ducked under his fist and slammed him right in the
middle of his pink, fat belly. He eyes flew open in surprise and he
made a sound like a horse breaking wind. I hit him again in the face,
and once more in the belly, and he sat down. He didn't fall or stumble.
He just sat down. And when he got up again he had that stick in his
hand.

I don't even remember getting the knife out of my pocket. I just
remember Criss flailing away with that club, catching me once on the
left shoulder and numbing it. Then he came in to hit me again, and that
was when I cut him. Right across the belly. You could see layers of fat
meat as the gash began to open. And at first little droplets of bright
blood appeared like sweat on the raw edges of the cut. Then Criss sat
down again, very carefully, and then he lay down and began to cry.

“Goddamn you, Tall! You killed me!”

For a minute I thought maybe I had. The blood was coming faster now,
oozing out of the white gash and over his pink skin. I still wasn't
scared, but I knew I'd have to get out of John's City if he died, and I
would have to do it before the town marshal heard about it. That was
when Ray Novak's pa was marshal, old Martin Novak, and he had a
reputation for tracking killers. So I left Criss where he was, there on
the ground, crying, and ran all the way to our ranch house.

I told Pa what had happened, and I remember him staring at me for a
long, long time and not saying anything. He grew to be an old man in
those few minutes. And he had been an old man ever since. At last he
said, “Tall?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You go to the house. You go to your room and stay there. Don't tell
your ma anything about it until I get back. Give me your word.”

I had to give him my word. And I had to stay with it, because that's
the way it was between me and Pa. I went to the house, and from my room
I watched Pa get the spring wagon hitched and head down toward the
arroyo.

Criss didn't die, but there were some anxious days. Old man Bagley
swore that he would kill me, and Pa too, if Criss died. But he didn't
die. He stayed in bed for about two months and then he got up as well
as anybody, except for an eight-inch scar across his belly, just below
the navel.

I tried to explain to Ma the way it happened—the way Criss had come
at me with that stick—but it wasn't any use. She would always end up
by crying, “But son, why didn't you run from him? Why didn't you untie
his clothes for him?” And I couldn't tell her. I didn't know myself.

So, for some reason, that was what I thought about as Ma stood there
in the doorway holding her wrap-around together, and looking at Pa, and
me, and Ray Novak. As she said:

“All right, Rodger. Whatever you say.”

I said, “It's going to be all right, Ma. We'll just put in the spring
working, and come home in the summer.”

For a moment I forgot that I didn't want to leave the John's City
country, that I didn't want to go away from Laurin, that I was mad at
Ray Novak for bringing all this on. I wanted to see Ma smile more than
anything else.

And she did, finally, but it was weak, not reaching her eyes. She
said, “Of course, son. Will you be going... right away?”

I looked at Pa and he nodded. “Yes,” he said. “Right away.”

Ma went into the kitchen and we heard her shaking the grate on the
cookstove. Pa said, “Ray, did you come by your pa's place?”

“No, sir,” Ray said. “I figured that would be the first place the
posse would look for me.”

Pa nodded soberly. “You did right. I'll go over and let him know that
you're all right. I'll do it tomorrow.”

“I'd be much obliged, sir.”

Pa went into the bedroom and put on his pants and boots. He came out
stuffing his nightshirt in his pants. Without saying anything, he
handed me a cartridge belt with an open holster attached to it. I
buckled the belt on and he slid the .44 into the holster, then I went
upstairs to change my own nightshirt for a regular shirt and a
mackinaw.

The whole thing struck me as something out of a dream. Only a few
minutes ago I had been sound asleep, with not a worry in the world,
unless maybe it was figuring out a way to see Laurin more often. And
now I was getting ready to leave. Going down on the Brazos to a strange
country that I had never seen before. Just because Ray Novak lost his
fool head and hit a Yankee cavalryman.

I heard the front door open and close, and there was a thud of boots
and a bright sound of spurs as Pa and Ray went out to the barn to get
the horses ready. There? was a familiar stirring sound downstairs,
wooden spoon against crock bowl, and I knew Ma was mixing a batter of
some kind. Ma was like most women. In case of death or any other
disaster, her first thought was of food. The women themselves never eat
the food, but cooking gives them something to do. It takes their minds
off their troubles. Maybe it's the same as a man getting drunk to
forget his troubles. A woman cooks. Anyway, I knew Ray and I wouldn't
go hungry on our trip to the Brazos.

I went downstairs and outside, and the night was as clean and sharp
as a new knife. I stood out there for a few minutes, in the yard,
looking to the west where the Bannerman spread was. I thought about
Laurin. I let myself wonder if Laurin would miss me. If she would miss
Ray Novak—even a little bit. Goddamn Ray Novak, anyway.

Pa and Ray were working quietly in the barn, in the sickly orange
light of an oil lantern. Pa had cut out two horses from the holding
corral, and I saw immediately that one of them was the big
copper-colored gelding that was registered in the horse book as Red
Hawk. But he was just “Red” to me, and beautiful as only a purebred
Morgan can be. Ray was throwing a saddle up on a sturdy little black
and Pa was taking care of Red, patting him gently and crooning into his
nervous pointed little ears.

I came up and slapped Red on his smooth glossy rump and he switched
his fine head around and glared at me with a caustic eye. Red was
bigger than most Morgans; almost sixteen hands high and king every inch
of the way. The extra height was mostly in his hard-muscled legs, which
gave him speed. A barrel chest and a heart as big as Texas gave him the
stamina to do a hard day's work and not complain, although he had been
bred as a show horse. An Eastern pilgrim had brought him down from
Vermont or Massachusetts or somewhere two summers ago when the horse
had been a two-year-old, and it had been love at first sight between
Red and Pa. Pa had bought him on the spot, and Ma and me still didn't
know what Red cost.

Pa looked up at me as he tightened the cinch under Red's belly. “I
guess Red will get you to Brazos country,” he said, “and get you back
again.”

I didn't know what to say. I knew how Pa felt about that blueblood,
and there were other horses on the place that would do just as well for
me. But I found the good sense to keep my mouth shut. Pa was giving Red
to me and he wanted to do it his own way.

After a while, Ma came out with some things for me done up in a
blanket roll, and she had a grub sack filled with coffee and bacon and
meal and salt and some fresh-cooked cornbread. And there was a small
deep skillet done up in the blanket roll. I couldn't help grinning a
little. It was more like getting ready for a picnic or a camp meeting
than making a cross-country run with a posse on our tails.

I said, “Thanks, Ma. Now don't you worry.” Then I kissed her cheek,
and her skin was dry and rough against my lips. Her eyes were wide—a
little too wide, and liquid-looking, but not a tear spilled out. She
would wait until I was gone for that. I swung up on Red and Pa handed
up a sealed white envelope.

“This is for your Uncle George Cameron,” he said quietly. “Give it to
him when you get to the ranch. It tells him who you are and asks him to
give both of you a job of work through the spring season. It doesn't
say anything about the police trouble. I don't figure there's any use
worrying him about that.”

He stopped and raked his fingers through his thinning hair. Pa had
been a handsome man not many years before, and part of that
handsomeness could still be seen. Men hold up better than women in this
country. But he looked tired and old as he reached up to shake hands
with me. Most of the age was in his eyes.

“Good-by, Tall. Be careful of yourself.”

“Sure, Pa.”

“Do you think you can find the place all right?”

“We can't miss the Brazos if we ride east,” I said. “We'll head south
and then ask questions if we have to.”

He nodded. “I guess that's about right. Good-by, Ray. I'll let your
pa know.”

“Good-by, sir. Thank you.”

We sat there for a minute, wondering if there was anything else to
say. Then we all began to hear the noise of complex rattle and
movement. For an instant I listened and looked at Ray Novak. He was
thinking the same as I was. There was a rattle of loose steel and the
aching screech of saddle leather, all muted and deadened by night and
the distance. Then came the thudding of regimented horses, and we
didn't have to be told that they were cavalry horses.

And still we sat there as the sound of horses and the rattle of
cavalry sabers got closer. And I thought grimly, They sure as hell
didn't waste time! Then I raked Red with the blunted rowels of my
spurs, and we jumped out of the barn and into the darkness, with Ray
Novak right behind.

The detachment of troopers saw us, or heard us. Somebody, an officer
probably, bellowed out, “Halt! In the name of the United States Army!”

I sank the steel into Red and we jumped out a full length in front of
Ray and the black. The cavalry recovered quickly and there were more
bellowed orders in the darkness. Then they were coming after us, at
full charge, from the way it sounded.

IT'S FINE TO FEEL A HORSE like Red under you. I bent over his neck
and felt the long hard muscles along his shoulders as he began to
stretch out in a long, flowing, ground-eating stride. Then the cavalry
started shooting, but that didn't worry me much. They couldn't hit
anything in the darkness unless somebody got pretty lucky. And Ray and
I had one advantage over them. We knew the country.

We headed south first, toward some low rolling hills where the
mesquite and scrub oak was so thick that it was hard to get through,
even in the daytime, if you didn't know your way around. Red was
running like a well-oiled machine now, and Ray's black horse was about
two jumps behind us. The black was a good horse, but he was used mostly
for cutting cattle and I knew he wouldn't hold up at the pace we were
going for more than a half a mile. So I turned in the saddle and yelled
back at Ray Novak.