The Desperado (17 page)

He rode down the slope again and into the darkness. I looked at Pappy
and he was shaking his head slowly from side to side. “I guess it's
like the man says,” he said soberly. “You never know.”

It was too good a thing to pass up. With fifteen thousand dollars on
our heads, every soldier in the Territory was a potential bounty
hunter. The next morning we were at the chuck wagon and Bass Hagan, the
hard pink-faced little trail boss, signed us on. Somebody must have
buried Buck Creyton, but there was no mention of it at breakfast. There
was no talk of any kind, for that matter. The riders regarded Pappy
with a kind of dumb awe, and me ... I couldn't be sure just what they
were thinking about me. I could feel their eyes on me when they didn't
think I was looking. Curious eyes, mixed with a kind of fear, I
thought. They ate their breakfast quickly and silently as a cold sun
began to come up in the east. Then, with elaborate casualness, they
sauntered down to the remuda pen to get their horses.

It took a while to get used to that kind of treatment, but I finally
did, as one long, weary, dust-filled day dragged into another. The men
let me and Pappy strictly alone. And I began to appreciate how Pappy
had lived all these years with that reputation of his. It was like
being by yourself on the moon. You couldn't have been more alone. In
every man you looked at, you saw that same mixture of curiosity and
fear—like men partially hypnotized by a caged and especially deadly
breed of snake. They couldn't take their eyes off it. But they knew
better than to get into the cage with it.

That was the way it was after getting a reputation by killing a man
like Buck Creyton.

Bass Hagan, the trail boss, was the only man who didn't seem to be
afraid of us, but he spent most of his time up in the van, and Pappy
and I ate dust back in the drag. And it wasn't long before I learned to
hate the nights, when time came for sleeping. I learned to sleep the
way Pappy did, always keeping a corner of my mind open, never letting
myself slip into complete unconsciousness. I learned to sleep—if you
could call it sleeping—on my back, with a cocked pistol in my hand. I
kept thinking of that reward money. I wondered how long it would be
before somebody tried to collect.

I learned a lot of things in those days as we pushed from the
Canadian up to North Cottonwood in Kansas. Pappy was my teacher. A
little at a time, every day, he showed me the little tricks that men
like us had to know to stay alive. The first rule, the most important
rule of all, was to trust no one. Accept it as truth that every man you
met was scheming to kill you, that every footstep behind you was a man
ready to shoot you in the back. Never get caught off guard. Never
relax. Never take more than two or three drinks, and let women alone.
Never let anyone do you a favor without paying for it, never become
obligated to anybody.

And that was only the beginning. He coached me on how to enter a
door, any door. First you listened; if it sounded all right, then you
stepped inside fast, with a quick step to the side so as to get your
back against a wall and not frame yourself against the light. There was
a certain toe-heel way to walk when you didn't want to be heard, and a
way to block your spur rowels to keep them from jangling. Little
things, all of them. Things that ordinary men would pay no attention
to, but with Pappy they were matters of life and death.

I learned to value my pistols above all other possessions, and to
take care of them before seeing to anything else. My horse came next,
almost as important as the pistols. I learned that my own comfort was
almost of no importance at all. A thousand things came ahead of that,
if I wanted to keep living.

What Pappy had to teach me, I learned fast, the way I learned to
shoot. Already, among the trail hands, there was talk of Davis being
removed from the governor's chair in Austin, and that meant that
military rule and the Davis police would go with him. It was important
that I learn everything that Pappy could teach me, because I had to
stay alive, to go back to Texas.

North Cottonwood was the settling-up place for the cattlemen before
going the last thirty-five miles to Abilene. It was there that the
riders were paid off and discharged, unless they happened to belong to
the drover's own outfit, and then they went on to the railhead with the
herd. It was there that all the scrawny and sickly cattle were cut out
of the herd and left to fatten before going to market. It was a crazy
patchwork of wagons, and dust, and bawling cattle, and cow camps.
Punchers who hadn't had a drop to drink and hadn't seen a woman for
more than two months began peeling off their filthy trail clothing,
bathing, shaving, and putting on their one clean pair of serge pants
that they had brought in their saddlebags all the way from the Rio
Grande, maybe.

I could see Pappy's eyes take on new life after we finally got the
herd rounded up on a bedground that suited Bass Hagan.

“This is the place, son,” he said. “You haven't seen a town until
you've seen Abilene.”

He even found a clean pair of pants and a shirt with all the buttons
on it, and put them on to celebrate the occasion. But Pappy got a jolt
that afternoon as the riders were being paid off. Bass Hagan called us
over to one of the supply wagons where they had set up headquarters.

“Now, what the hell?” Pappy said.

I said, “Maybe we're so good he wants to hire us for mother trail
drive.”

Pappy grunted. Trail driving was work, and he had had enough of that
to last him for a while. What money Pappy needed he could usually get
over a poker table.

But we went over anyway. Hagan was slicked and duded up in a fancy
outfit that he had been saving for the end of the trail. He was just
cinching up a big bay, the best horse in the remuda, when Pappy and I
got there.

“I want you boys to stay with the herd,” Hagan said without looking
around. “It'll mean extra pay for a couple of days. I've got to ride
into town on business.”

Pappy said, “We don't need the extra pay. We just signed up as far as
North Cottonwood.”

The trail boss turned slowly, frowning. “I figured I done you boys a
favor by hiring you on and getting you through Indian Territory. But if
you figure it's too damn much to ask, staying over a couple of days...”

Pappy glanced at me. Sure, Hagan had done us a favor, but we had
earned our money on that trail drive. I could see Pappy's face grow
longer. “Never let anyone do you a favor without paying for it,” he had
said. “Never become obligated to anyone.”

Pappy shrugged. “All right, Bass. I guess we can stay here a couple
of days. What do you want us to do?”

Hagan brightened. “Nothing special, just help my other riders take
care of the herd till I get back.” He swung up on the bay, grinning
quietly. As we watched him put his spurs to the bay and lope off to the
north, an idea got stuck in my mind and I couldn't get it out.

I said, “Something just occurred to me. Do you think Hagan would
think enough of fifteen thousand dollars to try to get us arrested?”

Pappy took a long time rolling one of his corn-shuck cigarettes. He
held a match to it thoughtfully, handing the makings to me. At last he
smiled that sad half-smile that I had come to expect. “I think I've
said it before, son,” he said. “You learn fast.”

But we stayed on with the herd, and, if Pappy was worried, it didn't
show on that long face of his. We didn't mention Hagan again that day,
but when night came we fell automatically into a routine that we had
worked out, of one sleeping and one watching.

Once Pappy said, “Money is a funny thing. The root of all evil, they
say. Men steal for it, kill for it, lie for it...” He inhaled deeply on
a cigarette. “Money,” he said again. “I never had much of it myself. I
could have hooked up with the Bassett gang once when they was robbing
the Confederate payrolls. If I'd done it, maybe I'd have been a rich
man now.”

He laughed abruptly, without humor. “My ma always taught me that it
was a sin to steal. I never stole a dime in my life...”

Pappy's voice trailed off. He didn't know how to say it, but I
thought I knew what was going on in his mind. I had thought about it
too, since I saw that reward poster with my name on it. Most men got
something out of their crimes—maybe not much, when they stood on the
gallows thinking about it, waiting for the floor to drop out from under
them, but something. Men like me and Pappy, we didn't get anything. All
the money we had was the thirty-odd dollars that Hagan had paid us for
the trail job. All the satisfaction we had was that of knowing that we
were faster with guns that most men, and that wasn't much of a
satisfaction when you thought of what other men had. Security, homes,
wives. Things that Pappy would never have. And—I had to face it
now—things that I would never have if I didn't somehow fight my way
out of the crazy whirl of killing that seemed to have no beginning and
no end.

The thought of that scared me. It made me sick all the way down to
the bottom of my stomach when I thought of ending up the way Pappy was
bound to end. Without Laurin. Without anything. Until now, I had been
telling myself that there really wasn't anything to worry about, all I
had to do was hold out until I could get a free trial in Texas. But now
I wasn't sure. Paul Creyton, the policemen, the cavalryman, Buck
Creyton—after each one I had told myself that there wouldn't be any
more killing. I could still say it, but I couldn't believe the words
anymore.

“I never stole a dime in my life,” Pappy said again, as if just
thinking about that particular clean part of his life made him feel
better.

I found myself hoping desperately that Bass Hagan would let well
enough alone and just tend to his cattle business in Abilene. I thought
bitterly: If they would just let us alone ... If Paul Creyton hadn't
tried to steal my horse, if the bluebelly hadn't killed Pa ...

But it was too late for tears. We couldn't change the past—nor the
future either, for that matter. If Hagan had it in his head to try for
the reward money, nothing would stop him. If it wasn't now, it would be
later.

THE NEXT MORNING was hot and hazy with dust from ten thousand
stamping cattle scattering as far as you could see in any direction.
There wasn't anything for Pappy and me to do. Hagan's regular riders
were taking care of the herd and remuda, and guarding the wagons. I
thought: It seems crazy as hell for Hagan to pay good money for riders
he doesn't need. Unless, of course, he was figuring to get his money
back, and some more with it. I watched Pappy plundering around in one
of the supply wagons, and after a while he climbed down with a towel
over his shoulder and a bar of soap in his hand.

“I figure we might as well wash up,” he said with a thin grin, “as
long as there doesn't seem to be any work for us to do.”

I said, “Don't you think one of us better keep watch?” We still
hadn't mentioned Hagan, but he was never far out of our minds.

Pappy shrugged. “We can watch from the creek. Maybe we've just got a
case of the jumps. Anyway, we need a bath. We can't ride into Abilene
looking like a pair of saddle tramps.”

Pappy was the careful one; if he thought it was all right, then it
was all right. We went down to the remuda herd and cut out Red and
Pappy's big black and got them saddled. The creek was only about a
hundred yards back of our wagons, but a horseman never walks anywhere
if he can ride.

We left the horses down by the water, and I took my place under a
rattling cottonwood while Pappy bathed first. Nothing happened that I
could see. I had a clear view of the herd and wagons, and everything
was going on as usual. Behind me, I could hear Pappy splashing around
and grunting at the shock of cold water. After a while he climbed up
the bank where I was, wearing his new serge pants and clean shirt. But
he didn't look much different, with that scraggly crop of whiskers
still on his face.

“No sign of Hagan yet?” he asked.

I shook my head.

“Go on and take your bath,” he said, handing me the wet bar of yellow
lye soap. “I'll let you know if we've got company.”

I peeled off my clothes and waded out knee deep in the bitter cold
water. I didn't have a change of clothes. That was something else I
forgot to bring from John's City, along with a slicker. Well, I had
over thirty dollars in my pocket. That would buy me some clothes in
Abilene —providing nobody got too set on keeping us out of Abilene.

In the meantime, I washed the clothes I had, lathering them with the
lye soap, then weighting them down to the bottom of the stream with a
rock while I washed myself. I was grimy from top to bottom, not just my
hands and feet and face, like it used to be on Saturday nights when Ma
put the big wooden washtub in the kitchen and filled it for me and Pa.
I scrubbed hard, using sand on my elbows and knees when the soap
wouldn't do the job. I didn't feel naked until I got all the dirt off.
After I had finished, I felt like I must have polluted the stream for
ten miles down.

After I had sloshed my clothes around to get the soap out, wrung them
out and hung them on a bush to dry, I went downstream to take care of
Red. He wasn't as dirty as I had been, but I rinsed off some caked mud
on his legs and rubbed him down and he looked better.

“You about finished down there, son?” Pappy called.

“Sure,” I said. “I was just sprucing Red up a little.”

“You better get your clothes on,” Pappy said with a mildness that
still deceived me sometimes. “It looks like we're going to have
company, after all.”

I stiffened in the cold water. Then I splashed over to the edge and
went over to the bush where my clothes were. They weren't dry, but they
weren't as wet as they had been the night of the rain—the night I had
killed Buck Creyton. I put them on the way they were, stuffed my feet
in my boots, and buckled on the .44's.