Blood and Gold

Chapter 14

That night we made camp in a stand of cottonwoods by a wide creek with a couple of feet of milky alkaline water running along its pebbled bottom.

As far as the eye could see, the country around us was flat, dry and sandy with few trees. Here and there clumps of sage and mesquite competed for space with low-growing cactus and the scarred land had still not healed from the passage of the spring herds. This was featureless, unlovely country, indifferent to all human enterprise or desire, a wild place where a man’s dreams dried up under the relentless sun and blew away like dust in the wind.

Many had tried to live here and all had failed, leaving the plain to brood alone over its fading memories of the buffalo and the Comanche and a time gone that would never return.

Ned Tryon guided the wagon into the cottonwoods and I helped him unhitch the oxen. We lifted Hank from the back of the wagon and laid him on the ground and the wounded gunman cursed us for our clumsiness, his face stark white from pain and the fear of death.

Wingo, who did not seem to care much for honest labor, told me to gather some dry wood for a fire, since the Apaches, if any were in the vicinity, would be reluctant to attack at night over open ground where there was little cover.

I did as he said and then filled the coffeepot and placed it on the coals to boil.

Later I helped Lila prepare a meal of corn pone and sowbelly, and although she accepted my assistance, we worked in silence, things said and unsaid standing like a barbed wire fence between us.

All this time, I was aware of Ezra’s black eyes on me, following my every move. The gunman’s suspicions were aroused and I knew he wouldn’t let it go until he remembered where he’d seen me.

After we’d eaten and the day died around us, the sickle moon rose in a pale blue sky and a rising wind set the flames of the fire to dancing.

Wingo rose and stepped to his blanket roll, reached inside and found cigars and a bottle of whiskey. The man had an odd smile on his face, cruel and calculating, and I felt uneasy, wondering what was to come next.

I didn’t have long to wait.

Wingo squatted by the fire, the bottle held loosely in his hand. He turned and winked at Ezra, then said across the fire to the intently watching Ned, “Hey, Pops, you like whiskey?”

Ned Tryon ran his tongue over his dry lips, fascinated, his eyes on the bottle like a man watches a rattlesnake. He rubbed the back of his mouth with a trembling hand and finally said: “Sure I like whiskey.”

Wingo nodded. “Thought you did.”

The gunman had read all the signs and pegged Ned for a drunk, and now, his eyes glittering scarlet in the firelight, he asked: “You care for a swig or two?”

Unable to speak, all Ned could do was nod.

“My pa doesn’t want your whiskey,” Lila flared at Wingo. She rose and placed a protective arm around her father’s shoulders. “He’s unwell. Leave him alone.”

Wingo smiled, his face sadistic. “That right, Pops? You gonna take orders from your daughter and make me drink this here bottle all by my ownself?”

“Let him be, Wingo,” I said.

The gunman snapped his head around. “Puncher, you keep the hell out of this.”

“The man has a problem with whiskey,” I said. “You’ll do him no favor.”

“Seems to me, Ned,” Ezra said, his voice smooth, “that if a man wants a sup of whiskey, why, that’s his own business.”

Ned nodded, reckless eyes fixed on the bottle. “My own business, that’s right,” he mumbled. Ned turned his head to Lila. “Just one sup, daughter. It will steady me.”

“Of course it will,” Wingo said. “Make a new man of you. Ain’t that right, Ezra?”

“Sure enough,” Ezra agreed. “Nothing like a drink of good whiskey to steady a man down, make him see things in a better light.”

Wingo held up the bottle and shook it, the amber contents sloshing. “Come an’ get it, Pops.”

Despite Lila’s anguished cry of protest, Ned rose unsteadily to his feet. He rubbed his mouth again with an unsteady fist and stepped toward Wingo.

The gunman held up a warning hand. “Not so fast, Pops.” He smiled, his yellow wolf’s teeth shining like wet piano keys. “You don’t think you’re gonna get this fine Kentucky whiskey for free, do you?”

Ned stopped. “What do you want?”

“Want? Why, I don’t want much.”

“Name your price,” Ned said.

Wingo turned to Ezra. “Well, this man said it straight up, all honest and true blue as could be. He said, name your price. What should I charge him, Ezra?”

The dark gunman’s smile was thin, without humor. “Can you sing, Pops?”

Startled, Ned shook his head.

“He can’t sing, Lafe,” Ezra said, pretending deep disappointment.

“Well, maybe he can dance.” Wingo looked up at Ned. “Well, how about it, Pops? Can you dance? Maybe one of them Missouri jigs I’ve heard so much about.”

Dumbly, Ned Tryon nodded, looking impossibly old and wearied in the revealing firelight.

I’d seen enough. I sprang to my feet, rage simmering in me. “Wingo, give him the bottle or don’t, but leave the man his dignity.”

Wingo’s draw when it came was a blinding blur of motion and I suddenly found myself staring into the business end of a Colt that looked as big as a railroad tunnel.

“Boy”—Wingo smiled, his voice level and conversational—“you got two simple choices: Sit down or die right where you stand.”

Ezra was studying me closely. He hadn’t drawn his gun, but he was coiled and ready and I knew when it came his draw would be as fast as a striking snake.

Now wasn’t the time.

I gulped down my touchy, eighteen-year-old pride like a dry chicken bone and sat, humiliation burning in my cheeks. I caught Lila looking at me and saw something in her eyes, sympathy maybe, and something else . . . contempt? Disappointment? I could not tell.

Wingo holstered his Colt. “Excellent choice, boy.”

He turned his attention to Ned. “Now, Pops, where was I afore I was so rudely interrupted? Oh, yeah, now I recollect. Let’s see that Missouri sodbuster’s jig.”

“You’ll give me whiskey?” Ned asked, pleading words rustling quiet from his lips like falling leaves.

“Sure,” Wingo said. “Hell, that’s what whiskey is for, ain’t it? To be drunk.” Wingo laughed and began to clap his hands, and Ezra joined in with him. Over by the fire, even Hank, hurting and dying slow like he was, grinned.

Ned put his hands on his hips and began to dance. He kicked his feet in a dreadful parody of a country jig, the desperation in his eyes awful to see. Ned Tryon knew how complete was his humiliation, but the lure of whiskey drove him on and his jig became more and more frenzied, his booted feet pounding again and again into the dusty earth, stomping out a demented, detestable dance of the damned.

Wingo and Ezra grinned and clapped faster, quickening the pace, and Ned tried to keep up, sweat beading his forehead, drenching his shirt, his mouth hanging open and slack as he gasped for breath.

“Heee-haaa!” Wingo yelled, clapping even faster, his hands blurring.

Ned danced for five terrible minutes before he faltered to a halt and fell flat on his face. The man lay there for a long while before he looked over to the grinning Wingo. “Whiskey,” he pleaded.

The gunman put the bottle to his mouth and drank deeply, then passed it to Ezra. “Nah,” he said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “You’re a rotten dancer an’ you don’t deserve no whiskey.”

“Please,” Ned begged. “Whiskey. For the love of God man, you promised. Give me my whiskey.”

Ezra grinned and passed the bottle back to Wingo and the big gunman stood. He stepped beside Ned and said: “You want whiskey, Pops? Here, go get it.”

Wingo tilted the bottle and poured its contents into the sand a few inches from Ned’s face. Ned tried to intercept the gushing amber cascade with his open mouth, but Wingo grinned and pushed him roughly away with his foot.

When the bottle was empty, Wingo kicked at the damp sand. “There, Pops. There’s your whiskey.”

Ned made a strangled sound deep in his throat and dived on the wet patch, stuffing the sand into his mouth, sucking at it. His mouth and beard covered in sand, he finally gave up and lay there, sobbing, his thin shoulders heaving.

The whole affair had been set up by Wingo to be a cold, calculated act of cruelty and as I watched Lila lie beside her father, whispering softly to him, my hatred for the gunman grew into a livid fire, consuming me.

I rose to my feet and stepped beside Lila and her pa. Gently I lifted Lila off her father, then raised Ned into a sitting position. The man’s eyes were wide-open, but he saw nothing as he stared into the fire like someone already dead.

Beside me, Wingo stretched and yawned. “Well, I’ve had enough fun for one night. Now it’s time for my blankets.” He reached down, grabbed Lila by the wrist and pulled her to her feet. He held the girl close to him, looking down at her tearstained face, his eyes hungry. “Come on, little lady, I don’t plan on sleeping alone.”

I hit him then.

My right took Wingo square on the chin as he turned to look at me. The man let Lila go, staggered a few steps and crashed heavily on his back. Wingo made no move for his gun, but a triumphant grin spread across his face. “Boy,” he said, “now I’m going to tear you apart.”

Wingo stood and my heart sank when I realized just how huge he was. He easily made two of me, and by his eager grin and the joy of battle in his eyes, it seemed he was no stranger to rough-and-tumble fistfights.

But my scraps with Wiley back when I lived on his pa’s ranch had taught me something. Enough, I fervently hoped, to square the odds.

I put Wiley out of my mind, intent on Wingo, my thoughts concentrated on the big gunman. Wingo circled me, his fists up in the pugilist’s manner and it was obvious he’d taken lessons from a professional prizefighter. For such a huge man, he moved well, gracefully balancing on his toes. Yet when he threw his first blow, it was short. I feinted a left, sidestepped and smashed a hard right to his mouth. Wingo roared through mashed lips and spit blood.

The big man took a step back just as I swung a left and my fist met only air.

Wingo danced forward, his fists jabbing, and his greater height and weight forced me back and I took a solid right to my chin that staggered me.

Wingo followed up with a wicked left hook that hit so hard, stars danced in front of my eyes and to my surprise I saw the ground rush up fast to meet me.

I hit the dirt with a thump, tried to rise, and the gunman swung a kick to my head. But I turned away at the last moment and his boot went sailing past my cheek.

Still groggy from the two blows I’d taken, I came up slowly, slipped Wingo’s right and slammed a couple of hard punches to his body. Neither punch had any effect on the man and he grinned through bloody lips and bored inside, his fist swinging.

He jabbed a fast right to my ribs, but I countered with my own right and followed up with a wide left hook that caught Wingo at the corner of his right eye and staggered him.

Blood streamed down Wingo’s cheek from the thin tissue above his eye, and he dashed it away with his fist and came after me again.

The gunman had taken several of my best punches. He was bloody but unbowed and still full of fight and I began to fear that he might wear me down simply by his ability to absorb punishment and keep on battling.

I stepped inside Wingo’s next punch and slashed at him with quick, telling blows to the body. The man gave ground, then swung a ponderous right that missed me by a mile. I surprised him by not counter-punching. Instead I dove at his waist, dropped my arms to his knees and upended him.

Wingo crashed to the ground, but rose fast, lithe as a cat. I was already on my feet and set up, and I drove a right to his chin that made the gunman’s head snap back and followed up with a left to the side of his head that split his ear.

Wingo bellowed and rushed me, his arms outspread, hoping to get me in a bear hug. If that happened, I’d be overcome by his enormous strength and he could easily break my spine.

I stepped quickly away and snapped a right to Wingo’s mouth, followed by another. Blood spurted, but my punches were weakening as the bigger man wore down my strength, and Wingo just grinned and shrugged them off.

I swung a left hook, hoping to drive him away from me. Too late. My fist bounced harmlessly off the side of Wingo’s head and his arms were around me, his hands locking on the small of my back.

Wingo pulled me to him, and slowly forced me backward. A searing white-hot pain stabbed at me and I struggled desperately to break the gunman’s hold. But Wingo’s strength was enormous and he was grinning wildly as he sought to snap my backbone.

Right then I figured I’d maybe seconds to live and that thought drove me. I suddenly went limp and Wingo roared in triumph and hugged me closer. I judged the distance to the bridge of his nose, suddenly stiffened and hammered my forehead, hard and fast, into the target I’d chosen.

I heard the bone crack and Wingo cursed and let me go, staggering backward, with blood splashed all over his face.

Relentless now, my fear replaced by anger, I waded after him and swung both fists to his chin. Left. Right.

Wingo went down, tumbling forward, but I met his face with my knee and his head snapped up, his shattered nose spraying a scarlet fountain of blood.

The gunman crashed onto his back and lay there for a few moments and I waited, gasping for breath, my fists ready.

By the fire, I was aware of Ezra watching me, his hand on his gun.

Was he going to make a play if I won this fight?

Beyond caring, I watched Wingo rise slowly to his feet and I moved in quickly. I drove a right and a left into his face, then summed it all up with a terrific right uppercut that jerked Wingo’s head backward and the big man went down on his knees.

I circled, wary and waiting, my jaw hanging loose as I battled to breathe.

“Let it go, boy.” Ezra’s voice cut into my consciousness. “You’ve whipped him.”

I don’t know how long I stood there. A minute, maybe longer.

Then Wingo’s bloody, battered head slowly came up and his burning eyes met mine. “Now I’m going to kill you, boy,” he snarled.

His hand flashed for the gun at his waist, but Ezra stepped in quickly. He grabbed Wingo’s gun arm and said: “No, Lafe. We’ll cross the Brazos tomorrow and until then we may need his rifle.”

“Let me be,” Wingo roared, jerking his arm free.

“Lafe!” Ezra yelled urgently. “Damn it, man, think of the money!”

Me, I was ready to make my draw, determined to go down fighting. But I had no need. Somehow Ezra’s logic had penetrated the killing fog of Wingo’s brain and I could see the man think it through.

“Lafe, we’ll cross the Brazos tomorrow,” Ezra said, voice soft and reasoning. “By then we’ll be clear of the Apaches and you can kill this man.” And again: “Think of the money. We’ve come too far to risk it all now.”

It took Wingo a long time to make up his mind. Finally he holstered his Colt. “After we cross the river, I’m dropping you, boy,” he said.

Wingo rose to his feet and staggered to the creek under a cold moon. He lay on the bank and splashed water onto his battered face, snuffling and snorting like a butchered pig.

Ezra stepped close to me, his black eyes in shadow. “Do you believe in God, boy?” he asked.

“I guess I do,” I said.

The gunman nodded. “Then I advise you to make your peace with Him, because from this moment on, you’re a walking dead man.”