Curly Bill and Ringo (13 page)

“Just happened along and didn’t want to butt into something that wasn’t any of my business,” Ringo said. “But I guess that tall Mexican thought I was on your side or something, me being a gringo and all.”

He turned in his saddle and glanced about at the bodies that littered the canyon floor. Then his glance returned to Curly’s grinning face. “Is this how you’ve been mending your ways, Curly? You look to me a lot like a man who’s enjoying himself.”

“I’d forgot what it’s like,” Curly said. “I reckon a little excitement now and then don’t hurt anyone.”

“Looks like it hurt someone,” Ringo said, looking past him.

Curly turned his head and saw Beanbelly standing beside old Parson, who lay stretched out on the ground. One of the Mexicans must have drilled him when he raised up with the shotgun.

“I reckon it just ain’t old Parson’s day,” Curly said. “He hit bad?”

“Bad enough,” Beanbelly said, sort of smug and casual about it. “He’s dead.”

Curly went to look for himself and saw that Beanbelly was right for once. Parson had been shot clean through the heart. But since he had to die, Curly was just as glad that he had died quickly and hadn’t lingered long enough to figure out who was to blame for this last misfortune. Of course, Curly had no way of knowing whether old Parson would have blamed him for getting him into this predicament, or the Lord for not getting him out.

All three of the Hatcher boys seemed remarkably unmoved by their pa’s death. They might have been looking at a dead steer, for all the feeling they showed. They probably figured Parson was about as well off dead, considering his age and his bad health. They were still young enough to think that older people were just marking time while they waited for the undertaker. And if there was no undertaker available or anyone to bury them, well, the wolves and buzzards had to eat the same as the worms.

Curly turned to find Ringo still in the saddle, watching him with intense blue eyes.

“Old Parson took a bullet.”

“So I gathered,” Ringo said, and began rolling a cigarette. There was a sudden whinny from the rocks and Ringo’s black lifted its head and answered.

“That horse you stole from the Apaches is getting too friendly with my horse, Curly,” Ringo said. “I’m jealous.”

“I notice your horse don’t seem to mind,” Curly said.

Ringo glanced down with obvious affection at the black’s small pointed ears. “He’s just a poor dumb animal who doesn’t know any better. It’s my job to see that he doesn’t fall in with bad companions, the way I did.”

Curly shrugged. “I’d ask you to get down and give the poor dumb animal a rest, Ringo. But we’ve got to be going.”

Ringo raised his blue eyes. “So have I,” he said, striking a match on his thumbnail. He lit his cigarette, nodded silently, and rode back the way he had come, turning into the narrow side canyon.

A little later, as Curly and the Hatcher boys were riding on down the main canyon with Parson across his saddle, they were surprised to see a dark horse and rider up on the rim about a half mile ahead, watching them.

“He’s sure been doing some riding!” Cash exclaimed.

Curly studied the distant horse and rider, squinting against the sunlight. “I don’t think that’s Ringo. The horse don’t look quite right somehow.”

“How can you tell that far away?” Cash asked.

“Comanche Joe? What do you think?”

The long-haired boy studied the horse and rider in silence for a moment, then shrugged. “Can’t tell.”

“I saw somebody on a dark horse like that last night,” Curly said.

“Prob’ly Ringo,” Cash said.

“No, Ringo was with me.”

“Maybe it was Mad Dog Shorty then. Most horses look dark at night.”

“I figger Mad Dog Shorty was dead before then. That was midnight or after and he left town not long after dark.”

“He’s gone,” Comanche Joe grunted.

Curly looked along the rim and saw no sign of the dark horse and rider. “Just like last night. Whoever it is gives me the creeps.”

“I don’t know who that was last night,” Cash said. “Prob’ly just some drifter or ridge rider, if it wasn’t Shorty. But I think the one we saw up there was Ringo. I don’t know how he got up there that quick. But who else would be riding a dark horse and wearing dark clothes like him?”

“You could be right,” Curly said, studying the rim with worried eyes.

They found the horses at a waterhole and camped there for the night, unaware that two tall lean men in black squatted on the rim of the canyon watching their campfire in silence.

After a time the two men got on their horses and rode quietly away across the windy desert. Neither spoke for a while, but one of them was so angry he chewed the corner of his mustache and his frosty blue eyes glittered in the moonlight.

“I wish to hell I hadn’t made you that promise,” the angry one finally said, keeping his voice low more from habit than any fear of being heard. “They stole them horses and then ambushed the Mexicans who came after them to get their animals back. I rode by there and saw bodies lying all over the place.”

“I rode by there myself,” Ringo said, “and I don’t think Curly had much choice. He was outnumbered and he didn’t have any help on his side that he could rely on in a stand-up fight. In his place I might have done the same thing.”

“I’d believe almost anything you told me, Ringo, but I won’t believe anything good that anyone tells me about Curly. And it seems to me that you’re going to have to make up your mind which side you’re on and who your friends are.”

“Don’t ask me to choose between you and him, Wyatt,” Ringo said, “Not at this late date. Curly and I have ridden a lot of miles together.”

“That’s something that’s always puzzled me,” Wyatt said. “How did you manage to put up with him?”

“Curly’s easy to be around,” Ringo said. “And he’s about the only one who can put up with me when I’m having one of my off days.”

“But how can you trust a man who lies so much?”

“How can you trust a doctor who’s sick all the time?”

“The man you’re referring to never was a regular doctor. Just a dentist. But what’s that got to do with it?”

“I just don’t like the man,” Ringo said.

“I feel the same way about Curly. He’s a shining example of everything I’ve always hated. If I hadn’t given you my word, I’d go back there right now and finish what I started that day at that waterhole. It’s what any man would do who’s interested in seeing justice done.”

“But you gave me your word, Wyatt,” Ringo said, “and I’m holding you to it.”

Wyatt sighed. “It goes against the grain to let that grinning rascal get away with that, the way he’s got away with everything else. But I reckon I’ll keep my promise as long as you keep yours. But the minute you break your promise or breathe a word to anyone about me even being in this part of the country, all bets are off and I’ll go hunting Curly.”

Curly began backing toward the door. “Afraid you’ve picked the wrong man, Ma. Settling down is one thing I aim to put off just as long as I can.”

“It beats what you’re doing,” Ma said.

“I reckon that all depends on how you look at it. I don’t aim to raise no cows for other folks to steal.”

“No, you’d rather do the stealing yourself.”

“It’s about all I know how to do,” Curly said, his stubbled face feeling uncomfortably warm. “Rustling stock and holding up stages. But it’s getting so the stages hardly ever carry anything worth stealing, and when they do there’s usually a man up on the box with a sawed-off shotgun and an itchy trigger finger. One dose of buckshot was enough for me. So now I stick to cattle and horses. There usually ain’t nobody guarding them.”

“What has all your stealing got you?” Ma asked. “All you’ve got is the clothes on your back and the horse you ride—and it don’t even belong to you. You ain’t got nothing and you never will have nothing.”

“I don’t want nothing,” Curly said. “If I had anything worth stealing, somebody would steal it. I’d rather do the stealing myself, like you say.”

“All it’ll get you is a early grave,” Ma said, wringing her hands. “Just like Parson.”

“I’m sorry about what happened to him,” Curly said. “But he knew it was a risky business. I told him at the beginning that some of us would prob’ly end up getting shot or hung.”

“He’d still be alive if it wasn’t for you,” Ma said, her eyes wet with tears.

Curly sighed heavily, feeling cramped and stiff and miserable, and anxious to be elsewhere. He wondered how he had ever let himself get involved in such an argument with a poor old woman who had just lost her husband. He wondered about it even as he heard himself saying, “I reckon I knew you’d say that sooner or later, and I’m just as glad you’re saying it now. It was getting on my nerves, wondering when you’d say it.”

Ma Hatcher found a handkerchief and wiped her eyes and blew her nose. “I never meant to say it,” she said. “But you got me upset talking like that.”

“Well, I reckon I might as well go on to town,” Curly said. “Since I’m only making you feel worse.”

“Go on,” Ma said, waving her hand. “It’s what you want to do anyhow. And tell Cash to come and get them sorry dogs before I take the shotgun to them.”

Curly looked at her in alarm. The last thing he wanted was those curs spoiling his fun when he was in town. “I figgered you might want to keep them here to warn you if them Apaches come sneaking around again,” he said.

“Like they warned me when they stole the horses?” Ma snorted. “There ain’t nothing left to steal, and them Injuns ain’t going to bother me. Not while I got the shotgun and the Sharps.”

“No, I reckon not,” Curly agreed. “They ain’t that crazy.”

“Don’t forget to tell him, now,” Ma said. “I’m tired of them dogs keeping me awake every night, and then sleeping like logs the one time I needed them.”

“I won’t forget,” Curly said as he went out.

He didn’t look at the dogs, hoping they wouldn’t see him either. He had often observed that animals didn’t pay much attention to a man until the man directed his attention at them. And he must have caught the dogs napping, because he was already in the saddle and sneaking out of the yard when the old bitch lurched up with a roar and they all came howling after him. He touched the Appaloosa with his heels and went up the canyon in a cloud of dust. The dogs soon got tired of the chase and went back to lie down in the yard.

The dogs must have alerted the Apaches, or perhaps they were watching the house. He found them waiting for him shortly after he climbed the Appaloosa out of the canyon. All five of them were mounted on horses they had stolen out of the Hatcher corral, and they had formed a half circle, penning him against the canyon rim. Big Nose, brown and naked except for moccasins and breechcloth, straddled a stout bay in the trail scarcely a hundred yards ahead of him, brandishing an old Sharps. A quick glance to the rear revealed that another Apache had materialized in the trail behind Curly where it descended the gap in the rim, blocking his retreat. The other three were slowly closing in on his left, walking their horses toward him through the stunted brush.

He could have almost laughed at his bad luck, except that he didn’t feel like laughing. I reckon it ain’t my day, he thought, trying to decide which way to run. Except there wasn’t any way to run. No matter which way he went, an Apache could easily swing over and head him off. And they all had rifles, while he had only his revolvers.

But he had one advantage. They wanted the Appaloosa alive as a trophy to take back to their people. In the past their bullets had not even come close to him, such was their fear of hitting the horse. Now they all held their fire, evidently planning to get close enough to pull him out of the saddle and then kill him without endangering the horse.

Curly had other plans. He drew his gun, cocked it and aimed it at the Appaloosa’s head. Big Nose suddenly halted his horse and yelled something at the others, who also halted, Curly bared his teeth in a savage smile that was not really a smile at all, just a wolfish curling of the lips. With his left hand he waved for them to get back out of his way.

Big Nose did not give the necessary order, and all five of them remained like mounted statues frozen in place. Curly walked the Appaloosa slowly on along the trail toward Big Nose, still holding the cocked pistol at the gelding’s head, singing softly to keep his courage up.

When I get to hell, I know what they’ll say

Here comes old Curly, get out of his way

He broke off, for Big Nose might think it was his death song—and perhaps it was.

Big Nose remained motionless, his smoldering dark eyes glaring over his huge nose at Curly, his swarthy face slowly turning black with rage. Curly was now close enough to see that face become distorted and ugly with hate, the wide nostrils flaring, and he wondered if he had gone too far or misjudged the Indian. But there was nothing to do now but brazen it out.

Big Nose sat his horse in the trail near the rim and did not move aside for him. He gripped the old Sharps in his right hand but made no threatening gesture with it. Curly walked the Appaloosa around him and turned his head to keep an eye on the Indian, who did likewise.

Curly could hear his heart beating as he listened to the slow steps of the walking horse and watched the distance gradually lengthen between himself and Big Nose. He could feel the heat of the glaring yellow sun and the dampness of sweat trickling down inside his clothes. He could smell the dusty earth and the dry brush beside the trail.

He had covered about fifty yards when he saw Big Nose take a deep breath, but it seemed to be pure rage that expanded his naked brown chest. The Indian screamed for blood and swung his horse around and jerked up the old Sharps.