A Noose for the Desperado (13 page)

“What the hell's wrong with you, anyway? You know what I mean.”

“I don't know anything,” he said, “except that I just saw a kid out
there blown up with his own conceit and making a goddamned pest of
himself. Eight days ago he was just another punk kid who had got off
the right track but not so far off that he couldn't have been put back
on again. Now he's swaggering like a fighting rooster that hasn't got
sense enough to know that he hasn't been equipped with gaffs. But I
suppose you're doing something about that. What are you doing to him,
anyway— giving him lessons in gun slinging?”

“I'm not doing a damn thing to him,” I said, and in spite of all I
could do I was letting him get under my skin again. I stood up and
grabbed the front of his shirt and twisted it. “Look,” I said tightly,
“there's something we'd better have an understanding about. You're just
working for me, like Kreyler and all the others. When I want you to say
something or do something, I'll let you know. Until that time, you'll
keep your goddamned mouth shut.”

As usual, I was sorry after I had said it. He just stood there
looking at me with those sad old eyes and I knew that I would never be
able to hate him.

“I'm sorry, Bama,” I said. “I didn't mean what I said, but why do you
have to keep prodding me until I fly off the handle that way?”

He kept looking at me and I had the uncomfortable feeling that he was
pitying me, and if there was anybody in the world that I didn't want
pity from, it was Bama. I sat down and said, “Go on, have another drink
and forget it.”

I poured one for him and shoved it across the desk, but he shook his
head and said, “I can forget about us because I guess we're not very
important to anybody now. But that kid is different.”

I was getting impatient again, but I forced myself to sit tight until
he got it off his chest.

Bama said, “Why don't you send him back to wherever he came from?
He'd listen to you. Just tell him to go back and put in his time on the
work gang and give himself a chance to live like a human being.”

I said, “I'm not holding him here. He can do anything he wants to
do.” But that wasn't answering Bama's question and we both knew it.
“Anyway, he's the one who has to take care of that ledger.”

Bama sat back and closed his eyes. “Of course, what I think doesn't
amount to much, but I was wondering if it wouldn't be better for all of
us if we let the kid go—and the ledger, and the smuggler trains, and
all the rest of it.”

“Now, that's a hell of an idea. Look, one raid is all we need to
make. That will give us enough money to keep a hideout until the law
forgets that we were ever alive. But that money, we've got to have
that.”

“But is money the most important thing?”

I got up, tired of the senseless bickering that was getting us
nowhere. “By God, you're crazy,” I said. “That's the only way to
explain the way your brain works.”

And Bama smiled that faraway smile and I knew that he wasn't mad at
me, and never would be, really. “Sooner or later it always gets around
to that, doesn't it? Everybody's crazy.” He finished off the drink I
had poured for him. “Well, maybe that's the right answer. I don't know
any more.”

I got to thinking about it later and decided that maybe Bama had been
right on a few points. For one thing, the kid was carrying this
imitating business too far. God knows where he found them, but
somewhere he had picked up a couple of old Prescott revolvers. Navy
revolvers, they were called, but the Navy had never bought any of them,
and neither had anybody else who had any idea what a good pistol was
supposed to be. But the kid had them buckled on with a couple of
cartridge belts that I figured he had made himself, and he had his
holsters cut away like a real badman and tied down at his thighs.

He was in the saloon talking to Marta when I first saw him in that
getup, and I figured it was about time we had a talk.

Marta was laughing at something when I came up, and I said, “I'm glad
to see that everybody's in a good humor for a change.”

She laughed again and pointed at Johnny. “Juanito say he be big man
like you someday.” The kid's face turned red and he fiddled with a
whisky glass that was about a quarter full of clear tequila. “Maybe
bigger, he say,” and Marta's eyes had the devil in them again, that
look she got whenever she got two men together. It was the kind of look
that you see in Mexicans' eyes when they take their roosters to the
fighting pit and start roughing them up before the battle.

But I knocked a hole in some of her fun when I said, “Yes he'll be a
bigger man than me.” Which, after all, wasn't saying so much. “But not
the way he means,” I went on. “Not with guns.”

The kid's face had started to brighten, but it fell quickly. Then it
took on a half-angry, defiant look. “I never said anything about it,”
he said, “but I was considered a pretty good shot down in the Nueces
River country. I guess I know as much about guns as most people.”

“You don't know a hell of a lot,” I said, “or you wouldn't be making
a fool of yourself with those old Prescotts.”

Blood rushed to his face as if I had just slapped him. “Look,” I
said, any my voice was as deadly serious as I could make it. “I hired
you on as a messenger boy, not a gunman. When you're heeled you're just
advertising for trouble. On the other hand, there aren't many men—not
even in Ocotillo—who would take a shot at a man who didn't have a
chance to shoot back.”

The kid stiffened. “Mr. Cameron,” he said, “I guess you don't know
much about Ocotillo, even if you do run it.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

Then he took off his hat and I saw the bump over his left ear, and an
open cut about an inch long that was just beginning to scab over.

I must have sat there for a minute or more before I could think of
anything to say. The thing jarred me because I thought I had everything
under control—I had Kreyler nailed down, most of the men were
satisfied, and I had two men, the kid and Bama, that I could trust. And
still somebody was working against me.

At last I jerked my head at Marta and said, “Go home or somewhere. I
want to talk to Johnny alone.”

She didn't like that much, being brushed away like a bothersome fly.
But then she saw that I meant business and she got up from the table
and sort of melted away.

“All right,” I said. “Tell me about it and don't leave out anything.”

He shrugged. “Well, it was last night. I was in the saloon for a
while, and—well, I guess I kind of made friends with that girl, Marta.
After a while she said why didn't I walk to her house with her, down in
the Mexican part of town, and I said sure, I'd like to. That was the
way it started. I got to her house, all right, but her pa raised such a
hell of a racket that I didn't stay.” He grinned a little. “I don't
understand much of that greaser talk, but I understood enough to know
that her old man doesn't like gringos. Well, after that I started back
for the saloon, and the streets down there are as dark as hell. That's
where they jumped me.”

“Who jumped you? Mexicans?”

“If they were Mexicans, they knew a lot of English cuss words. There
were three of them, I think, and I still don't know what the hell they
wanted. I didn't have any money. And if it was somebody with a grudge
against me, why didn't they shoot me instead of hitting me over the
head?”

“How did you get away from them?”

“I guess they weren't expecting much of a fight. Anyway, we stirred
up the Mexicans. The next thing I knew I was in one of those adobe
houses and Marta was taking care of this cut on my head.”

Slowly I began adding things together. Kreyler and that Mexican
girl—they might have something to do with it. Maybe the Marshal was
just crazy enough to fight for that girl when he didn't have guts
enough to fight for himself. I was beginning to understand that women
could make men do crazy things. Anyway, I put Johnny Ray-burn and Marta
together in my mind and I didn't like it at all. Even if it had nothing
to do with that ambush.

“It's about time we had an understanding,” I said. “That girl, Marta,
is not for you. The sooner you get that through your head, the better
off you'll be.”

I had expected an argument, but instead of arguing he just sat there
looking puzzled. “Why, gosh, Mr. Garner-on,” he said, “I never even
thought about her. Not the way you mean.” And he began to look
uncomfortable. “Well,” he said, “to tell the truth, I've got a girl
down in Texas waiting for me, and I guess she's the only girl in the
world as far as I'm concerned. Do you know what I mean?”

He hit me with it and I hadn't been expecting it. It knocked me right
out of Ocotillo and into the big, wild Panhandle country, which had
been my country once— but that was long ago. There had been a girl
there too, and she had waited as long as any girl could be expected to
wait, I guess. But I hadn't got around to going back until it was too
late.

My first impulse was to strip those guns oft nun and make him go back
to Texas and give himself up. But then I remembered the ledger, and the
kid was the only one who could take care of that for me. And that had
to be taken care of. I had to keep my hands around Kreyler's throat.

Until after one more raid. My visions of riches were gone. Kreyler
had found my soft spot—the kid—and he was already beginning to shove
the knife in.

“Is anything wrong, Mr. Cameron?”

“Wrong?” For a moment I forgot what we were talking about. “No,
nothing's wrong. Just see if you can find Bama, will you, and tell him
to see me in the office.”

Bama took his time about coming, but finally he did come, and the
world felt like a saner, safer place with Bama around. He helped
himself to one of Basset's cigars on the desk, then he pulled up a
leather-bottomed chair and sat down.

“You look worried,” he said. “That's not much like you, Tall
Cameron.”

Why the hell he couldn't just call me Tall I don't know. But he
always used my full name, and for some reason it always reminded me of
the first time I ever saw my name on a “Wanted” poster.

But that was just a passing thought, as he sat there looking at me,
and I was surprised to see that he was almost sober—or as sober as I
had ever seen him, anyway.

I said, “I think Kreyler has already gone to work on the kid. It was
a mistake letting Kreyler know who was going to take care of the ledger
for us, but I guess it's too late to worry about that.”

And I told him what the kid had told me, about the bushwhacking and
the way they had tried to brain him, and Bama sat there rolling the
cigar from one side of his mouth to the other and not saying anything.

“If they get their hands on him again,” I said, “they'll beat the
information out of him and then put a bullet in his skull.” Bama still
didn't do anything, so I said, “Why don't you say something?”

“What good would it do? It's your show now. You've got everything
just the way you want it. Of course, you could send the kid back to
Texas if you wanted to.”

“You knew we can't do that. Everything here depends on Kreyler, and
Kreyler depends on the kid.”

Bama sighed. That was all.

“How many men on my payroll would fall in with Kreyler?”

“Five, maybe six. You find malcontents wherever you go, but I
couldn't point them out for you.”

Then I went to the map that I had tacked on the wall of the office
and said what I had meant to say in the first place.

“We've got a scout report that a smuggler train has entered here, at
a place called Big Mouth Canyon, about twenty-four hours ago. Heavily
loaded, according to the scout, with maybe a record load of silver or
gold. How soon can you get the men together?”

Bama stared at me. “You can't attack in a place like that. They'll be
traveling over open country. Their outriders will be fanned out and
they'll shoot us to pieces.”

“We can't string it out any longer,” I said. “This is the raid we
have to make. And it will be the last one.”

Bama looked at me, and then at the map, and then he sighed again and
got up from his chair. “Well, I'll round up as many as I can find,” he
said, “and tell them we'll meet at the same place tonight.”

That was one thing about Bama, you didn't have to talk all day to get
an idea across. One raid, that was all I wanted, and then we'd find a
place to start all over again —not, as Bama had said, that it made
much difference about us. But the kid still had that girl waiting for
him, and Bama knew how I felt about that.

It all began much the same as the last raid, except that I was the
boss now and not just another rider. But I didn't have the knack for
organizing the way Basset had had. I didn't have the patience to sit
down with paper and pencil and check off all the names of men I could
depend on. I left that job to Bama while I took Johnny Rayburn around
to the livery barn to get our rigs in shape.

I didn't like the idea of bringing the kid along on the raid, but I
couldn't very well leave him back in Ocotillo making bullet bait of
himself. The stableman brought my black in, and a bay for Johnny
Rayburn, and then we heard a commotion outside and Bama came in.

His face was worried and he was wiping nervous sweat off the back of
his neck with a dirty handkerchief. I waved the stableman out of the
place and said, “What's going on?”

“You've got to send somebody out,” he said, “and call your men in,
because the raid is off.”

“Like hell,” I said.

He wiped his neck some more and then brought the handkerchief across
his mouth. “Maybe you'd better come out and see for yourself.”

I went out, with the kid on my heels, and saw maybe a dozen men
ganged around in front of the saloon. In the middle there were two
horses, and it didn't take me long to see what the excitement was
about. As I began to shove men aside I heard Kreyler saying. “Morry,
get yourself a partner and ride out to the meeting place and tell the
men to come back in.”