Forty Lashes Less One

13

They camped on high ground south of Bates Well and in the morning came down through giant saguaro country, down through a hollow in the hills to within sight of Quitobaquito.

There it was, a row of weathered adobes and stock pens beyond a water hole that resembled a shallow, stagnant lake—a worn-out village on the bank of a dying pool that was rimmed with rushes and weeds and a few stunted trees.

Shelby didn’t like it.

He had pictured a green oasis and found a dusty, desert water hole. He had imagined a village where they could trade for food and fresh horses, a gateway to Mexico with the border lying not far beyond the village, across the Rio Sonoyta.

He didn’t like the look of the place. He didn’t like not seeing any people over there. He didn’t like the open fifty yards between here and the water hole.

He waited in a cover of rocks and brush with Norma and Junior and Soonzy behind him, and Mexico waiting less than a mile away. They could go around Quitobaquito. But if they did, where was the next water? The Sonoyta could be dried up, for all he knew. They could head for Santo Domingo, a fair-sized town that shouldn’t be too far away. But what if they missed it? There was water right in front of them and, goddamn-it, they were going to have some, all they wanted. But he hesitated, studying the village, waiting for some sign of life other than a dog barking, and remembering Joe Dean with the three bullets in his chest.

Junior said, “Jesus, are we gong to sit here in the sun all day?”

“I’ll let you know,” Shelby said.

“You want me to get the water?”

“I did, I would have told you.”

“Well, then tell me, goddamn-it. You think I’m scared to?”

Soonzy settled it. He said, “I think maybe everybody’s off some place to a wedding or something. That’s probably what it is. These people, somebody dies or gets married, they come from all over.”

“Maybe,” Shelby said.

“I don’t see no other way but for me to go in there and find out. What do you say, Frank?”

After a moment Shelby nodded. “All right, go take a look.”

“If it’s the nigger and the Indin,” Soonzy said, “if they’re in there, I’ll bring ’em out.”

Raymond held the wooden shutter open an inch, enough so he could watch Soonzy coming in from the east end of the village, mounted, a rifle across his lap. Riding right in, Raymond thought. Dumb, or sure of himself, or maybe both. He could stick a .44 out the window and shoot him as he went by. Except that it would be a risk. He couldn’t afford to miss and have Soonzy shooting in here. Raymond let the shutter close.

He pressed a finger to his lips and turned to the fourteen people, the men and women and children who were huddled in the dim room, sitting on the floor and looking up at him now, watching silently, even the two smallest children. The people were Mexican and Papago. They wore white cotton and cast-off clothes. They had lived here all their lives and they were used to armed men riding through Quitobaquito. Raymond had told them these were bad men coming who might steal from them and harm them. They believed him and they waited in silence. Now they could hear the horse’s hoofs on the hard-packed street. Raymond stood by the door with a revolver in his hand. The sound of the horse passed. Raymond waited, then opened the door a crack and looked out. Soonzy was nowhere in sight.

If anybody was going to shoot at anybody going for water, Soonzy decided, it would have to be from one of the adobes facing the water hole. There was a tree in the backyard of the first one that would block a clear shot across the hole. So that left him only two places to search—two low-roofed, crumbling adobes that stood bare in the sunlight, showing their worn bricks and looking like part of the land.

Soonzy stayed close to the walls on the front side of the street. When he came to the first adobe facing the water hole, he reached down to push the door open, ducked his head, and walked his horse inside.

He came out into the backyard on foot, holding a revolver now, and seeing just one end of the water hole because the tree was in the way. From the next adobe, though, a person would have a clear shot. There weren’t any side windows, which was good. It let Soonzy walk right up to the place. He edged around the corner, following his revolver to the back door and got right up against the boards so he could listen. He gave himself time; there was no hurry. Then he was glad he did when the sound came from inside, a little creeking sound, like a door or a window being opened.

Harold eased open the front door a little more. He still couldn’t see anything. The man had been down at the end of the street, coming this way on his horse big as anything, and now he was gone. He looked down half a block and across the street, at the adobe, where Raymond was waiting with the people, keeping them quiet and out of the way. He saw Raymond coming out; Harold wanted to wave to him to get inside. What was he doing?

The back door banged open and Soonzy was standing in the room covering him with a Colt revolver.

“Got you,” Soonzy said. “Throw the gun outside and turn this way. Where’s that red nigger at?”

“You mean Raymond?” Harold said. “He left. I don’t know where he went.”

“Which one of you shot Joe Dean, you or him?”

“I did. I haven’t seen Raymond since before that.”

“What’d you do with Virgil?”

“I don’t think I know any Virgil.”

“Frank’s brother. He took us off the train.”

“I haven’t seen him.”

“You want me to pull the trigger?”

“I guess you’ll pull it whether I tell or not.” Harold felt the door behind him touch the heel of his right foot. He had not moved the foot, but now he felt the door push gently against it.

“I’ll tell Frank Shelby,” Harold said then. “How’ll that be? You take me to Frank I’ll tell him where his brother is and them other two boys. But if you shoot me he won’t ever know where his brother’s at, will he? He’s liable to get mad at somebody.”

Soonzy had to think about that. He wasn’t going to be talked into anything he didn’t want to do. He said, “Whether I shoot you now or later you’re still going to be dead.”

“It’s up to you,” Harold said.

“All right, turn around and open the door.”

“Yes-suh, captain,” Harold said.

He opened the door and stepped aside and Raymond, in the doorway, fired twice and hit Soonzy dead center both times.

Shelby and Junior and Norma Davis heard the shots. They sounded far off, but the reports were thin and clear and unmistakable. Soonzy had gone into the village. Two shots were fired and Soonzy had not come out. They crouched fifty yards from water with empty canteens and the border less than a mile away.

Norma said they should go back to Bates Well. They could be there by evening, get water, and take the other trail south.

And run into a posse coming down from Gila, Shelby said. They didn’t have time enough even to wait here till dark. They had to go with water or go without it, but they had to go, now.

So Junior said Jesus, give me the goddamn canteens or we will be here all day. He said maybe those two could paint theirselves up and bushwack a man, but he would bet ten dollars gold they couldn’t shoot worth a damn for any distance. He’d get the water and be back in a minute. Shelby told Junior he would return fire and cover him if they started shooting, and Junior said that was mighty big of him.

“There,” Raymond said. “You see him?”

Harold looked out past the door frame to the water hole. “Whereabouts?”

Raymond was at the window of the adobe. “He worked his way over to the right, coming in on the other side of the tree. You’ll see him in a minute.”

“Which one?”

“It looked like Junior.”

“He can’t sit still, can he?”

“I guess he’s thirsty,” Raymond said. “There he is. He thinks that tree’s hiding him.”

Harold could see him now, over to the right a little, approaching the bank of the water hole, running across the open in a hunch-shouldered crouch, keeping his head down behind nothing.

“How far do you think?” Raymond said.

Harold raised his Winchester and put the front sight on Junior. “Hundred yards, a little more.”

“Can you hit him?”

Harold watched Junior slide down the sandy bank and begin filling the canteens, four of them, kneeling in the water and filling them one at a time. “Yeah, I can hit him,” Harold said, and he was thinking, He’s taking too long. He should fill them all at once, push them under and hold them down.

“What do you think?” Raymond said.

“I don’t know.”

“He ever do anything to you?”

“He done enough.”

“I don’t know either,” Raymond said.

“He’d kill you. He wouldn’t have to think about it.”

“I guess he would.”

“He’d enjoy it.”

“I don’t know,” Raymond said. “It’s different, seeing him when he don’t see us.”

“Well,” Harold said, “if he gets the water we might not see him again. We might not see Frank Shelby again either. You want Frank?”

“I guess so.”

“I do too,” Harold said.

They let Junior come up the bank with the canteens, up to the rim before they shot him. Both fired at once and Junior slid back down to the edge of the still pool.

Norma looked at it this way: they would either give up, or they would be killed. Giving up would be taking a chance. But it would be less chancey if she gave up on her own, without Shelby. After all, Shelby had forced her to come along and that was a fact, whether the Indian and the Negro realized it or not. She had never been really unkind to them in prison; she had had nothing to do with them. So there was no reason for them to harm her now—once she explained she was more on their side than on Frank’s. If they were feeling mean and had rape on their mind, well, she could handle that easily enough.

There was one canteen left, Joe Dean’s. Norma picked it up and waited for Shelby’s reaction.

“They’ll shoot you too,” he said.

“I don’t think so.”

“Why, because you’re a woman?”

“That might help.”

“God Almighty, you don’t know them, do you?”

“I know they’ve got nothing against me. They’re mad at you, Frank, not me.”

“They’ve killed six people we know of. You just watched them gun Junior—and you’re going to walk out there in the open?”

“Do you believe I might have a chance?”

Shelby paused. “A skinny one.”

“Skinny or not, it’s the only one we have, isn’t it?”

“You’d put your life up to help me?”

“I’m just as thirsty as you are.”

“Norma, I don’t know—two days ago you were trying to turn me in.”

“That’s a long story, and if we get out of here we can talk about it sometime, Frank.”

“You really believe you can do it.”

“I want to so bad.”

Boy, she was something. She was a tough, good-looking woman, and by God, maybe she could pull it. Frank said, “It might work. You know it?”

“I’m going way around to the side,” Norma said, “where those bushes are. Honey, if they start shooting—”

“You’re going to make it, Norma, I know you are. I got a feeling about this and I know it’s going to work.” He gave her a hug and rubbed his hand gently up and down her back, which was damp with perspiration. He said, “You hurry back now.”

Norma said, “I will, sweetheart.”

Watching her cross the open ground, Shelby got his rifle up between a notch in the rocks and put it on the middle adobe across the water hole. Norma was approaching from the left, the same way Junior had gone in, but circling wider than Junior had, going way around and now approaching the pool where tall rushes grew along the bank. Duck down in there, Shelby said. But Norma kept going, circling the water hole, following the bank as it curved around toward the far side. Jesus, she had nerve; she was heading for the bushes almost to the other side. But then she was past the bushes. She was running. She was into the yard where the big tree stood before Shelby said, “Goddamn you!” out loud, and swung his Winchester on the moving figure in the striped skirt. He fired and levered and fired two more before they opened up from the house and he had to go down behind the rocks. By the time he looked again she was inside.

Frank Shelby gave up an hour later. He waved a flour sack at them for a while, then brought the three horses down out of the brush and led them around the water hole toward the row of adobes. He had figured out most of what he was going to say. The tone was the important thing. Take them by surprise. Bluff them. Push them off balance. They’d expect him to run and hide, but instead he was walking up to them. He could talk to them. Christ, a dumb nigger and an Indin who’d been taking orders and saying yes-sir all their lives. They had run scared from the train and had been scared into killing. That’s what happened. They were scared to death of being caught and taken back to prison. So he would have to be gentle with them at first and calm them down, the way you’d calm a green horse that was nervous and skittish. There, there, boys, what’s all this commotion about? Show them he wasn’t afraid, and gradually take charge. Take care of Norma also. God, he was dying to get his hands on Norma.

Harold and Raymond came out of the adobe first, with rifles, though not pointing them at him. Norma came out behind them and moved over to the side, grinning at him, goddamn her. It made Shelby mad, though it didn’t hold his attention. Harold and Raymond did that with their painted faces staring at him; no expression, just staring, waiting for him.

As he reached the yard Shelby grinned and said, “Boys, I believe it’s about time we cut out this foolishness. What do you say?”

Harold and Raymond waited.

Shelby said, “I mean what are we doing shooting at each other for? We’re on the same side. We spent months together in that hell hole on the bluff and, by Jesus, we jumped the train together, didn’t we?”

Harold and Raymond waited.

Shelby said, “If there was some misunderstanding you had with my men we can talk about it later because, boys, right now I believe we should get over that border before we do any more standing around talking.”

And Harold and Raymond waited.

Shelby did too, a moment. He said then, “Have I done anything to you? Outside of a little pissy-ass difference we had, haven’t I always treated you boys fair? What do you want from me? You want me to pay you something? I’ll tell you what, I’ll pay you both to hire on and ride with me. What do you say?”

Harold Jackson said, “You’re going to ride with us, man. Free.”

“To where?”

“Back to Sentinel.”

Norma started laughing as Shelby said, “Jesus, are you crazy? What are you talking about, back to Sentinel? You mean back to prison?”

“That’s right,” Harold said. “Me and Raymond decide that’s the thing you’d like the worst.”

She stopped laughing altogether as Raymond said, “You’re going too, lady.”

“Why?” Norma looked dazed, taken completely by surprise. “I’m not with him. What have I ever done to you?”

“Nobody has ever done anything to us,” Raymond said to Harold. “Did you know that?”

The section gang that arrived from Gila told Mr. Manly no, they had not heard any news yet. There were posses out from the Sand Tank Mountains to the Little Ajos, but nobody had reported seeing anything. At least it had not been reported to the railroad.

They asked Mr. Manly how long he had been here at Sentinel and he told them five days, since the escape. He didn’t tell them Mr. Rynning had wired and instructed him to stay. “You have five days,” Mr. Rynning said. “If the convict pair you released do not return, report same to the sheriff, Maricopa. Report in person to me.”

Mr. Manly took that to mean he was to wait here five full days and leave the morning of the sixth. The first two days there had been a mob here. Railroad people with equipment, a half-dozen guards that had been sent over from Florence, and the Maricopa sheriff, who had been here getting statements and the descriptions of the escaped convicts. He had told the Maricopa sheriff about sending out the two trackers and the man had said, trackers? Where did you get trackers? He told him and the man had stared at him with a funny look. It was the sheriff who must have told Mr. Rynning about Harold and Raymond.

The railroad had sent an engine with a crane to lift the locomotive and the baggage car onto the track. Then the train had to be pulled all the way to the yard at Gila, where a new locomotive was hooked up and the prisoners were taken on to Florence. There had certainly been a lot of excitement those two days. Since then the place had been deserted except for the telegrapher and the section gang. They were usually busy and it gave Mr. Manly time to think of what he would tell Mr. Rynning.

It wasn’t an easy thing to explain: trusting two convicts enough to let them go off alone. Two murderers, Mr. Rynning would say. Yes, that was true; but he had still trusted them. And until this morning he had expected to see them again. That was the sad part. He sincerely believed he had made progress with Harold and Raymond. He believed he had taught them something worthwhile about life, about living with their fellowman. But evidently he had been wrong. Or, to look at it honestly, he had failed. Another failure after forty years of failures.

He was in the station house late in the afternoon of the fifth day, talking to the telegrapher, passing time. Neither had spoken for a while when the telegrapher said, “You hear something?” He went to the window and said, “Riders coming in.” After a pause he said, “Lord in heaven!” And Mr. Manly knew.

He was off the bench and outside, standing there waiting for them, grinning, beaming, as they rode up: his Apache and his Zulu—thank you, God, just look at them!—bringing in Frank Shelby and the woman with ropes around their necks, bringing them in tied fast and making Mr. Manly, at this moment, the happiest man on earth.

Mr. Manly said, “I don’t believe it. Boys, I am looking at it and I don’t believe it. Do you know there are posses all over the country looking for these people?”

“We passed some of them,” Raymond said.

“They still after the others?”

“I guess they are,” Raymond said.

“Boys, I’ll tell you, I’ve been waiting here for days, worried sick about you. I even began to wonder—I hate to say it but it’s true—I even began to wonder if you were coming back. Now listen, I want to hear all about it, but first I want to say this. For what you’ve done here, for your loyalty and courage, risking your lives to bring these people back—which you didn’t even have to do—I am going to personally see that you’re treated like white men at Florence and are given decent work to do.”

The Apache and the Zulu sat easily in their saddles watching Mr. Manly, their painted faces staring at him without expression.

“I’ll tell you something else,” Mr. Manly said. “You keep your record clean at Florence, I’ll go before the prison board myself and make a formal request that your sentences be commuted, which means cut way down.” Mr. Manly was beaming. He said, “Fellas, what do you think of that?”

They continued to watch him until Harold Jackson the Zulu, leaning on his saddle horn, said to Mr. Manly, “Fuck you, captain.”

They let go of the ropes that led to Frank Shelby and the woman. They turned their horses in tight circles and rode out, leaving a mist of fine dust hanging in the air.