The Brave Cowboy (16 page)

“And then an awful thing happened. While Charlie was standin at the head of the table with the big cake in his hands and a big grin on his face, this here young Steve Brock fella picked up about a pound of soft country butter that was settin on the table and reared back and heaved the whole mess at Charlie. And hit him, too, right on the side of his head—covered half his face and spread all over his neck. Made the most godawful splatter you ever saw.

“Well, I was just young enough and dumb enough to laugh. But just once—only once. Cause nobody else let out a sound. Not a tick. Old Charlie set the cake down on the table and started to try to get some of the butter off his face. Didn’t say a word; just kinda whimpered a little, like a sick hound. And then my Grandfather stood up—God, I’ll never forget that look on his face; there was somethin in his eyes that woulda froze the gizzard of a black panther. And did he look big: I thought he never would stop risin up outa that chair. The only sound you could hear was the rattle of his spurs. And then when he stood up the chair fell back with a crash that like to made me jump right outa my skin.

“There was a rifle hung on the wall and a pair of chaps and a coiled rope. I thought my Grandfather would reach for the rifle; but he took the rope instead and didn’t unwind it. Young Brock sat there with a kind of silly grin on his face. He was drunk when he threw
the butter but he began to look pretty sober now. My Grandfather walked toward him—great big steps—and Brock started to get up. “What the hell you think you’re gonna do?” he says. Still thinks he’s pretty tough. My Grandfather don’t say a word; he just reaches down, grabs Brock’s shirt and yanks him up outa the chair. Brock starts to say somethin but don’t get it out cause my Grandfather spins him round and kicks him in the tail so hard he hits the wall six feet away. Kicks him like you’d kick a mean dog, with the toe of his boot. So it really hurts. Then he opens the door to the front verandah and tells Brock to get out
pronto.
But Brock still has some notions about his dignity; he rolls away from the wall and comes at my Grandfather with both fists flyin. So then my Grandfather slugs him with the coil of rope. Brock stayed on the floor for a long time then, thinkin things over; then he crawled out the door and out to the barn and got into his old Chevvie and left for good. Never came back.”

Burns was silent for a few minutes. Bondi waited for him to speak. “That was a rough evenin,” the cowboy said; “made a big impression on me. Taught me some-thin, I think. Sorta reversed all my standards. There was old Snye—bald as a buzzard, potbellied, cranky and ugly and generally miserable; and there was Steve Brock—young, strong, smart, good-lookin. I despised old Charlie and powerfully admired Brock. Then all of a sudden, in five minutes or less, my Grandfather changed the whole picture somehow. Not that he made me like old Snye or hate Brock; it’s just that then and ever since whenever it’s a case of a Snye agin a Brock I feel I gotta help out the Snye. Not for his sake, but for my own, I think. Or for the sake of somethin more important than any Snye or Brock or me. What would you call it?”

Justice? thought Bondi; natural justice? “I don’t know,” he said aloud: “but I know what you mean.” But what the hell, he was thinking, am I a Charlie Snye?

Burns smiled. “You don’t know but you know what I mean? What does that mean?”

“You know what I mean,” Bondi said. He rubbed the corners of his eyes, and sniffed tenderly. “Have you ever been back to the old ranch—I mean, since the Government took it over?” He thought of the old man, Burns’ grandfather, sitting there on the verandah of his ranchhouse waiting for the Law to come and rob him of his home; he must have seen its representatives coming from a long way off and for a long time: far out on the desert a cloud of dust creeping closer, two small dark metallic objects glinting in the pure light of the sun and coming nearer through the flawless silence, nearer, nearer, no power on earth to stop them. “I suppose it’s illegal,” he added, as Burns failed to answer.

“Illegal?”

“To go back there.”

“Back there?” Burns shoved back his hat and scratched his head. “You mean where the ranch used to be? Yeah, you bet your bottom dollar it’s illegal. The signs say ‘Danger—
Peligroso
—Keep Out—Military Reserve—USAF.’ Fence around the whole area and every gate padlocked. I had to cut wire to get in. Nothin but a few lizards. No sign of deer or coyote or wild burro; even the jackrabbits seem to be gone or all dead. That’s the saddest, lonesomest place in all New Mexico. A good place to set off atom bombs.”

“Anything left of the ranch buildings?”

“Sure—everything smashed flat. Even some of the fence posts broke off. Adobe bricks scattered all to hell. Looked like a herd of wild elephants run over the place. Sure hope there was nobody there when they set that thing off.”

“Did you get close to Trinity?”

“No sir, I didn’t go close. But I seen it from top of the hill back of the corral. It’s about two miles south of where the ranchhouse was—a big glassy disc set in the sand, round and shiny and green. Like green glass. It’s just a little east of a gap in the hills we used to call
Mockingbird Pass. I camped there lots of times when I was a kid. We had a well there, with a big tank; I swum there plenty of times. Nothin left of it now.” Burns pulled at the whiskers on his chin. “But I didn’t go close to that green glass. No sir, not me. That there’s an evil place. It’s haunted. I stay away from places like that.”

Bondi was silent, pondering, marveling over the imagined scene, the emptiness, the names:
Trinity
—Oscura, The Dark Mountains—Mockingbird Pass—Alamagordo… Amazing, he thought, and fantastic and beautiful and evil. And haunted, according to Burns. Haunted? Yes, it must be, it must be—great shoals of wailing ghosts must linger there, glowing like radium in the night, the sound of their lamentations like the moan and sigh of the winds through Mockingbird Pass when the sun has gone down. While the great lone sad empty desert waits beyond, listening, listening…

The room had grown dark; the evening filtered through the windows and bars and gathered around them in the room. The prisoners talked quietly and listlessly, waiting for something. Waiting for anything. From outside they could hear the muffled roar and blare of motor traffic, the vast compounded murmur of a hundred thousand human voices, the twittering of starlings, the drone of the evening airplanes. The men waited.

Bondi remembered something. “Look,” he said, “we’d better get up by the gate.”

Burns opened his eyes, looked sleepily at Bondi. “Why?” he said.

“Are you still in earnest about breaking out of here tonight?”

“Sure am.”

“Then you’d better make sure you get in a cell tonight. If you’re stuck in the bullpen you won’t have any privacy at all. Though I’m not convinced it makes much difference.”

“You think there’ll be some left over?”

“Some? You mean people? Yes, I think so.” Bondi stood up, rubbed his eyelids. “There’s something else you ought to know. Suppose you can’t file through these bars in one night? What then?”

“I’ll finish up the next night,” Burns said.

“That’s it,” said Bondi; “you can’t be sure you’ll get the same cell the next night. Unless—”

“Unless what?”

“Unless you’re among the first eight men through that gate each evening.”

“I don’t see why I got to worry about that?”

“Because,” Bondi said; “because it’s a stampede out of here. A mad rush. Nobody wants to get left behind in the bullpen for the night. No mattresses here, no blankets; you sleep on the floor or on a table.”

“Well,” said the cowboy, “let’s crowd that gate hard.”

“We’re a little late,” Bondi said, nodding in that direction. A dark knot of little men squatted on their heels by the gate, muttering in each other’s faces. Backs jammed against the bars, feet braced against the cement, they squatted and jabbered quietly, hands active, the veterans.

“We’ll have to talk with those fellas,” Burns said. “That’s all. Come on along.” He started toward them.

Bondi followed, a little uneasy. The innocent assurance of this child, he was thinking, this ghost from the past.

Burns squatted down among the men guarding the gate. While Bondi watched, standing several feet away, the cowboy spoke quietly and persuasively to his glum, brooding listeners. Bondi was unable to hear what was said; he saw Burns perk a thumb in his direction, saw the dark faces nod in understanding and agreement, and then apparently everything was settled. Quickly and easily.

The cowboy was speaking to him. “Come here,” he was saying; “hunker down here.” Bondi moved forward
and got down beside his friend. “I’ve explained everything to these boys,” Burns said. “They’re mighty helpful. Two of em are thinkin about comin out with us.” He nodded toward the tough bitter faces of two Indians; one of them smiled faintly at Bondi.

“You told them?” Bondi said. “But of course…”

“Sure,” Burns said: “it ain’t gonna be no secret very long, is it?”

“No it ain’t—isn’t,” Bondi agreed. He thought: Might possibly be wiser for me to lag behind a bit, get jostled accidentally into a different cell from this rugged crew. Traitorous thoughts… impossible. This comrade of mine, though, this amiable madman, is capable of thinking of attempting to kidnap me, dragging me out of here by force. A man bent on chivalry can be quite ruthless. Must be on my guard.

“What’s the matter?” Burns said: “you look a mite fretful. The hay fever gettin you down?”

“Are you up to something?” asked Bondi.

The cowboy did not seem to understand the question. “Up to somethin?” he said. “Sure I’m up to something He turned to the dark silent group around him. “Any of you boys got the fixins for a smoke?” One of the Indians pulled a small limp greasy sack from his shirt-pocket and without a word offered it to Burns. Together with a packet of papers. “Thanks,” Burns said, proceeding at once to manufacture himself a cigarette. “You know,” he said to Bondi, “these two fellas—” He indicated the Indians. “—These two fellas are Navajos. They don’t like it in here any better’n I do. And they’re supposed to be in for ninety days flat. For talkin to a woman while they was drunk—ninety days; you ever hear the like?”

“What did they say to this woman?” Bondi said. He looked at the two men. They were clearly distinguishable from the Pueblo Indians—taller, thinner, with lean faces and wild slanted Mongolian eyes. Hard customers, he thought… Conceived under the moon by the pillars
of Monument Valley—weaned on the milk of the wild mare.

Burns lit his soft brown little cigarette. “These boys been in here nearly a week,” he said. “They’re beginnin to feel kinda randy… like you, maybe.” He winked at Bondi.

Like me? thought Bondi.

Agua!
came the alarm. There was a general movement of men toward the bullpen gate, a lull in conversations. Bondi found himself pressed against the bars, Burns at his side, the Navajos just behind him. He could smell the decaying armpits of an old vagrant crouching against his ribs. An unfamiliar experience; he had always waited before, aloof and solitary, well behind the compressed pack of criminals.

“Damn,” muttered Burns, putting out his cigarette with thumb and forefinger, slipping it into his shirt-pocket. “Damn,” he said.

“Don’t make a noise when the guard comes in,” Bondi said. “Not a word; they’ll jump down your throat if you open your mouth.”

“I know,” Burns said; “I understand these fellas. They got a tough job.”

The guard opened the panel in the cellblock door and peered in at them. Bondi could see a nose, pale and damp, the mustache, a pair of dull brown bored eyes. “No pushin or runnin,” the guard shouted at them; “if I catch anybody shovin or runnin I’ll throw him in The Hole for a week.” He stared at them, sniffing. “Okay,” he said, and cranked open the cellgates on one side of the corridor. The prisoners watched. Then he cranked open the bullpen gate and the men funneled rapidly and silently out. “No runnin!” the guard shouted.

Burns and Bondi were among the first down the corridor, hastening toward the cell on the outside corner of the cellblock, the cell farthest from the cellblock door. Behind them came the Indians. A trusty stood at the end of the corridor counting heads; when eight
men had entered the farthest cell he moved down to the next cellgate and counted off eight more, and so on to the fifth cell and fortieth man. As Bondi had expected there were too many prisoners to fit in the cells; five men had to return to the bullpen.

Inside the cell Bondi sat down on a steel bunk, a lower this time, and leaned back against the wall. He felt suddenly and unreasonably safe, secure, comfortable. Much more pleasant in the cells, he thought, than in the bullpen—more privacy, better lighting, more facilities for relaxation. As he thought of it he shifted his position, lay back and stretched out full length on the gray blanket, the pad beneath it, the steel shelf below that. He pushed off his shoes and watched the cowboy prowling around in the little cage, kicking gently at the bars, tapping on them with his knuckles.

“What are you looking for?” Bondi asked. “A secret exit? Sit down for a few minutes. Take it easy.”

“Not much music in these bars,” Burns said. I’m afraid the sonsabitches is solid. We better get to work right away.”

Bondi worked his feet out of his socks. “You can’t start yet, you damned fool. The guard is still hanging around outside. And the trusties will be in any minute now to clean up.”

Burns knelt on the floor, examining the intersecting members of the cell. “I reckon we oughta work pretty low,” he said. “Might be easier to crawl through if you can put some of your weight on the floor.”

“Maybe so,” Bondi said, “but just hold back for a few minutes or you’ll get us all in trouble.”

“I hate to waste any time,” Burns said, not looking at Bondi. “I’m a-rarin to go; I can smell them mountains already.”

“Which mountains?”

“
The
mountains. Any mountains. The Mountains of the Moon.”

“Well, don’t get carried away.” Bondi wiggled his toes in the gray dusty air. “Just be patient for a few
minutes.” He thought of the velvet evening outside, the twilight cooling of the sunburnt city, the final soft wash of radiant pink on the mountains east of the city. “Sit down,” he said, as. Burns continued to search and turn in the narrow cell. “Sit down, for godsake; you’re making me nervous.”