Last Stand at Saber River

2

With daylight a wind came out of the valley and he could hear it in the pines above the house.

Cable lay on his back listening, staring at the ceiling rafters. There was no sound in the room. Next to him, Martha was asleep. In the crib, beyond Martha’s side of the bed, Sandy slept with his thumb and the corner of the blanket in his mouth. Clare and Davis were in the next room, in the log section of the house, and it was still too early even for them.

Later they would follow him around offering to help. He would be patient and let them think they were helping and answer all of their questions. He would think about the two and a half years away from them and he would kiss them frequently and study them, holding their small faces gently in his hands.

The wind rose and with it came the distant, dry-creaking sound of the barn door.

Later on he would see about the barn. Perhaps in the afternoon, if they had not come by then. This morning he would run Kidston’s horses out of the meadow. Then perhaps Martha would have something for him to do.

They had worked until long after dark, sweeping, scrubbing, moving in their belongings. There would always be something more to be done; but that was all right because it was their home, something they had built themselves.

Just make sure everything that belonged to Royce and Joe Bob and Bill Dancey was out of here. Make double sure of that. Then wait. No matter what he did, he would be waiting and listening for the sound of horses.

But there was nothing he could do about that. Don’t worry about anything you can’t do something about. When it’s like that it just happens. It’s like an act of God. Though don’t blame God for sending Vern Kidston. Blame Vern himself for coming. If you can hate him it will be easier to fight him.

And there’s always someone to fight, isn’t there?

Ten years ago he had come here from Sudan, Texas-a nineteen-year-old boy seeking his future, working at the time for a freight company that hauled between Hidalgo and Tucson-and one night when they stopped at Denaman’s Store he talked to John Denaman.

They sat on the loading platform with their legs hanging over the side, drinking coffee and now and then whiskey, drinking both from the same cups, looking north into the vast darkness of the valley. John Denaman told him about the river and the good meadow land and the timber-ponderosa pine and aspen and willows, working timber and pretty-to-look-

at timber. A man starting here young and working hard would have himself something in no time at all, Denaman had said.

But a man had to have money to buy stock with, Cable said. Something to build with.

No, Denaman said, not necessarily. He told about his man Acaso who’d died the winter before, leaving his two kids, Manuel and Luz, here and leaving the few cattle Denaman owned scattered through the hills. You’re welcome to gather and work the cattle, Denaman said. Not more than a hundred head; but something to build on and you won’t have to put up money till you market them and take your share.

That was something to think about, and all the way to Tucson Cable had pictured himself a rancher, a man with his own land, with his own stock. He thought, too, about a girl who lived in Sudan, Texas.

The first thing he did in Tucson was quit his job. The same day he bought twenty head of yearling stock, spending every last dollar he had, and drove his cattle the hundred and twenty miles back to the Saber River.

In the summer of his second year he built his own adobe, with the help of Manuel Acaso, four miles north of the store. He sold some of his full-grown beef to the army at Fort Buchanan and he continued to buy yearlings, buying them cheap from people around Tubac who’d had enough of the Apache and were willing to make a small profit or none at all just to get shed of their stock and get out of southern Arizona.

The next year he left Manuel Acaso with his herd and traveled back to Sudan. The girl, Martha Sanford, was waiting for him. They were married within the week and he brought her home to the Saber without stopping for a honeymoon. Then he worked harder than he ever imagined a man could work and he remembered thinking during those days: nothing can budge you from this place. You are taking all there is to take and if you don’t die you will make a success of it.

He was sure of it after living through the winter the Apaches came. They were Chiricahuas down out of the Dragoons and every few weeks they would raid his herd for meat. From November through April Cable lost over fifty head of cattle. But he made the Chiricahuas pay.

Lying prone high on the slope with a Sharps rifle, in the cover of the trees, he knocked two of them from their horses as they cut into his herd. The others came for him, squirming unseen through the pines, and when they rushed him he killed a third one with his revolver before they ran.

Another time that winter a war party attacked the house of Juan Toyopa, Cable’s nearest neighbor to the west, killing Juan and his family and burning the house. They reached Cable’s place at dawn-coming suddenly, screaming out of the grayness and battering against the door. He stood waiting with a revolver in each hand. Martha stood behind him with the shotgun. And when the door gave way he fired six rounds into them in half as many seconds. Two of the Apaches fell and Martha stepped over them to fire both shotgun loads at the Apaches running for the willows. One of them went down.

Then Cable rode to Denaman’s to get Manuel Acaso. They returned to the willows, found the sign of six Chiricahuas and followed it all day, up into high desert country; and at dusk, deep in a high-walled canyon, they crept up to the dry camp of the six Apaches and shot three of them before they could reach their horses. The survivors fled, at least one of them wounded, Cable was sure of that, and they never bothered him again.

Perhaps they believed his life was charmed, that he was beyond killing, and for that reason they stopped trying to take him or his cattle. And perhaps it was charmed, Cable had thought. Or else his prayers were being answered. It was a good thing to believe; it made him feel stronger and made him work even harder. That was the time he first had the thought: nothing can budge you from this land. Nothing.

The next year their first child was born. Clare. And Manuel Acaso helped him build the log addition to the house. He remembered planning it, lying here in this bed with Martha next to him and Clare, a month-old baby, in the same crib Sandy was sleeping in now; lying awake staring at the ceiling and thinking how he would build a barn after they’d completed the log room.

And now thinking about that time and not thinking about the years in between, he felt comfortable and at peace. Until the murmur of Martha’s voice, close to him, brought him fully awake.

“They’ll come today, won’t they?”

He turned to her. She was on her side, her eyes open and watching him. “I guess they will.”

“Is that what you were thinking about?”

Cable smiled. “I was thinking about the barn.”

“You’re not even worried, are you?”

“It doesn’t do any good to show it.”

“I thought you might be trying out your principle of not worrying about anything you can’t do something about.”

“Well, I thought about it.”

Martha smiled. “Cabe, I love you.”

He rolled to his side, pulling her close to him and kissed her, brushing her cheek and her mouth. His face remained close to hers. “We’ll come out of this.”

“We have to,” Martha whispered.

When Cable left the house the sun was barely above the line of trees at the river’s edge. The willow branches moved in the breeze, swaying slowly against the pale morning sky. But soon, Cable knew, there would be sun glare and deep shadows, black against yellow, and the soft movement of the trees would be remembered from another time with another feeling.

With Davis and Clare he brought the four team horses out of the barn and put them on a picket line to graze. It wouldn’t help to get them mixed with Kidston’s herd. He saddled the sorrel gelding, but let the reins hang free so it could also graze. The sorrel wouldn’t wander. After that he returned to the house.

Martha came out of the log room with Sandy. “What did you forget?”

“The Spencer,” Cable said. He picked it up, then turned sharply, hearing Clare’s voice.

The little girl ran in from the yard. “Somebody’s coming!”

Cable stepped to the doorway. Behind him Martha called, “Davis-Clare, where is he?”

“He’s all right.” Cable lowered the Spencer looking out past Davis who was in the yard watching the rider just emerging from the trees. “It’s Janroe.”

The first thing Cable noticed about Janroe was that he wore two revolvers-one in a shoulder holster, the other on his hip-in addition to a shotgun in his saddle boot.

Then, as Janroe approached, he noticed the man’s gaze. Taking it all in, Cable thought, seeing Janroe’s eyes moving from the saddled gelding to the gear-cooking utensils, clothing, curl-toed boots, bedding and the three holstered revolvers on top-that was in a pile over by the barn.

Janroe reined in, his gaze returning to the adobe. “Well, you ran them, didn’t you?” His hand touched his hat brim and he nodded to Martha, then fell away as Cable walked out to him. He made no move to dismount.

“I don’t think you expected to see us,” Cable said.

“I wasn’t sure.”

“But you were curious.”

Janroe’s gaze went to the pile of gear. “You took their guns,” he said thoughtfully. I’d like to have seen that.” His eyes returned to Cable. “Yes, I would have given something to see that. Was anybody hurt?”

Cable shook his head.

“No shooting?”

“Not a shot.”

“What’ll you do with their stuff?”

“Leave it. They’ll come back.”

“I think I’d burn it.”

“I thought about that,” Cable said. “But I don’t guess it’s a way to make friends.”

“You don’t owe them anything.”

“No, but I have to live with them.”

Janroe glanced at the saddled horse. “You’re going somewhere?”

“Out to the meadow.”

“I’ll ride along,” Janroe said.

They passed into the willows, jumping their horses down the five-foot bank, and crossed a sandy flat before entering the brown water of the river. At midstream the water swirled chest high on the horses, then receded gradually until they again came up onto a stretch of sand before mounting the bank.

“Now you’re going to run his horses?” Janroe asked.

“I’ll move them around the meadow,” Cable said. “Toward his land.”

“He’ll move them right back.”

“We’ll see.”

“You’re got a fight on your hands. You know that, don’t you?”

They were moving out into the meadow toward Kidston’s horse herd, walking their horses side by side, but now Cable reined to a halt.

“Look, I haven’t even met Vern or Duane Kidston. First I’ll talk to them. Then we’ll see what happens.”

Janroe shook his head. “They’ll try to run you. If you don’t budge, they’ll shoot you out.”

Cable said, “Are you going back now?”

Janroe looked at him with surprise. “I have time.”

“And I’ve got work to do.”

“Well,” Janroe said easily, “I was going to try to talk you into going back to the store with me. I’ve got a proposition you ought to be interested in.”

“Go ahead and make it.”

“I’ve got to show you something along with it, and that’s at the store.”

“Then it’ll have to wait,” Cable said.

“Well”-Janroe shrugged-“it’s up to you. I’ll tell you this much, it would end your problem all at once.”

Cable watched him closely. “What would I have to do?”

“Kill Vern,” Janroe said mildly. “Kill him and his brother.”

Cable had felt himself tensed, but now he relaxed. “Just like that.”

“You can do it. You proved that the way you handled those three yesterday.”

“And why are you so anxious to see the Kidstons dead?”

“I’m looking at it from your side.”

“Like hell.”

“All right.” Janroe paused. “You were pretty close to John Denaman, weren’t you?”

“He gave me my start here.”

“Did you know Denaman was running guns for the South?”

Cable was watching Janroe closely. “You’re sure?”

“He was just part of it,” Janroe continued. “They’re Enfield rifles shipped into Mexico by the British. Confederate agents bring them up over the border and the store is one of the relay points. It was Denaman’s job to hide the rifles until another group picked them up for shipment east.”

“And where do you come in?”

“When Denaman died I was sent out to take his place.”

Cable’s eyes remained on Janroe. So the man was a Confederate agent. And John Denaman had been one. That was hard to picture, because you didn’t think of the war reaching out this far. But it was here. Fifteen hundred miles from the fighting, almost another world, but it was here.

“I told you,” Janroe said, “I was with Kirby Smith. I lost my arm fighting the Yankees. When they said I wasn’t any more use as a soldier I worked my way into this kind of a job. Eight months ago they sent me out here to take Denaman’s place.”

“And Manuel,” Cable said. “Is he in it?”

Janroe nodded. “He scouts for the party that brings up the rifles. That’s where he is now.”

“When’s he due back?”

“What do you want to do, check my story?”

“I was thinking of Manuel. I haven’t seen him in a long time.”

“He’ll be back in a day or so.”

“Does Luz know about the guns?”

“You can’t live in the same house and not know about them.”

“So that’s what’s bothering her.”

Janroe looked at him curiously. “She said something to your wife?”

Cable shrugged off the question. “It doesn’t matter. You started out with me killing Vern and Duane Kidston.”

Janroe nodded. “How does it look to you now?”

“You’re telling me to go after them. To shoot them down like you would an animal.”

“Exactly.”

“That’s called murder.”

“It’s also called war.”

Cable shook his head. “As far as I’m concerned the war’s over.”

Janroe watched him closely. “You don’t stop believing in a cause just because you’ve stopped fighting.”

“I’ve got problems of my own now.”

“But what if there’s a relation between the two? Between your problems and the war?”

“I don’t see it.”

“Open your eyes,” Janroe said. “Vern supplies remounts to the Union army. He’s doing as much to help them as any Yankee soldier in the line. Duane’s organized a twelve-man militia. That doesn’t sound like anything; but what if he found out about the guns? Good rifles that Confederate soldiers are waiting for, crying for. But even without that danger, once you see Duane you’ll want to kill him. I’ll testify before God to that.”

Janroe leaned closer to Cable. “This is what I’m getting at. Shooting those two would be like aiming your rifle at Yankee soldiers. The only difference is you know their names.”

Cable shook his head. “I’m not a soldier anymore. That’s the difference.”

“You have to have a uniform on to kill?”

“You know what I mean.”

“I know exactly what you mean,” Janroe said. “You need an excuse. You need something to block off your conscience while you’re pulling the trigger. Something like a license, so killing them won’t be called murder.”

Cable said nothing. He was listening, but staring off at the horse herd now.

Janroe watched him. “That’s your problem. You want Vern and Duane off your land, but you don’t have the license to hunt them. You don’t have an excuse your conscience will accept.” Janroe paused. He waited until Cable’s gaze returned and he was looking directly into his eyes.

“I can give you that excuse, Mr. Cable. I can fix you up with the damnedest hunting license you ever saw, and your conscience will just sit back and laugh.”

For a moment Cable was silent, letting Janroe’s words run through his mind. All at once it was clear and he knew what the man was driving at. “If I worked for you,” Cable said, “if I was an agent, I could kill them as part of my duty.”

Janroe seemed to smile. “I could even order you to do it.”

“Why me? If it’s so important to you, why haven’t you tried?”

“Because I can’t afford to fool with something like that. If I’m caught, what happens to the gun running?”

“And if I fail,” Cable said, “what happens to my family?”

“You don’t have anything to lose,” Janroe said easily. “What happens to them if Vern kills you? What happens to all of you if he runs you off your land?”

Cable shook his head. “I’ve never even seen these people and you want me to kill them.”

“It will come to that,” Janroe said confidently. “I’m giving you an opportunity to hit first.”

“I appreciate that,” Cable said. “But from now on, how would you like to keep out of my business? You stop worrying about me and I won’t say anything about you. How will that be?” He saw the relaxed confidence drain from Janroe’s face leaving an expressionless mask and a tight line beneath his mustache.

“I think you’re a fool,” Janroe said quietly. “But you won’t realize it yourself until it’s too late.”

“All right,” Cable said. He spoke calmly, not raising his voice, but he was impatient now, anxious for Janroe to leave. “That’s about all I’ve got time for right now. You come out again some time, how’s that?”

“If you’re still around.” Janroe flicked his reins and moved off.

Let him go, Cable thought, watching Janroe taking his time, just beginning to canter. He’s waiting for you to call him. But he’ll have a long wait, because you can do without Mr. Janroe. There was something about the man that was wrong. Cable could believe that Janroe had been a soldier and was now a Confederate agent; but his wanting the Kidstons killed-as if he would enjoy seeing it happen-that was something else. There was the feeling he wanted to kill them just for the sake of killing them, not for the reasons he brought up at all. Maybe it would be best to keep out of Janroe’s way. There was enough to think about as it was.

Cable swung the sorrel in a wide circle across the meadow and came at the horse herd up wind, counting thirty-six, all mares and foals; seeing their heads rise as they heard him and caught his scent. And now they were moving, carefully at first, only to keep out of his way, then at a run as he spurred the sorrel toward them. Some tried to double back around him, but the sorrel answered his rein and swerved right and left to keep them bunched and moving.

Where the Saber crossed the valley, curving over to the east side of the meadow, he splashed the herd across with little trouble, then closed on them again and ran them as fast as the foals could move, up the narrowing, left-curving corridor of the valley. After what he judged to be four or five miles farther on, he came in sight of grazing cattle and there Cable swung away from the horse herd. This would be Kidston land.

Now he did not follow the valley back but angled for the near slope, crossed the open sweep of it to a gully which climbed up through shadowed caverns of ponderosa pine. At the crest of the hill he looked west out over tangled rock and brush country and beyond it to a towering near horizon of creviced, coldly silent stone. Close beyond this barrier was the Toyopa place, where Kidston now lived.

Cable followed the crest of the hill for almost a mile before he found a trail that descended the east slope. He moved along the narrowness of it, feeling the gradual slant beneath the sorrel, and seeing the valley again, down through open swatches in the trees. Soon he would be almost above the house. A few yards farther on he stopped.

Ahead of him, a young woman stood at the edge of the path looking down through the trees. Luz Acaso, Cable thought. No.

Luz came to his mind with the first glimpse of this girl in white. But Luz vanished as he saw blond hair-hair that was tied back with a ribbon and swirled suddenly over her shoulder as she turned and saw him.

This movement was abrupt, but now she stood watching him calmly. Her hand closed around the riding quirt suspended from her wrist and she raised it to hold it in front of her with both hands, not defensively, but as if striking a pose.

“I expected you to be older,” the girl said. She studied him calmly, as if trying to guess his age or what he was thinking or what had brought him to this ridge.

Cable swung down from the saddle, his eyes on the girl. She was at ease-he could see that-and was still watching him attentively: a strikingly handsome girl, tall, though not as tall as Martha, and younger by at least six years, Cable judged.

He said, “You know who I am?”

“Bill Dancey told us about you.” She smiled then. “With help from Royce and Joe Bob.”

“Then you’re a Kidston,” Cable said.

“You’ll go far,” the girl said easily.

Cable frowned. “You’re Vern’s-daughter?”

“Duane’s. I’m Lorraine, if that means anything to you.”

“I don’t know why,” Cable said, “but I didn’t picture your dad married.”

Her eyebrows rose with sudden interest. “How did you picture him?”

“I don’t know. Just average appearing.”

Lorraine smiled. “You’ll find him average, all right.”

Cable stared at her. “You don’t seem to hold much respect for him.”

“I have no reason to.”

“Isn’t just because he’s your father reason enough?”

Lorraine’s all-knowing smile returned. “I knew you were going to say that.”

“You did, huh?…How old are you?”

“Almost nineteen.”

Cable nodded. That would explain some of it. “And you’ve been to school. You’re above average pretty, which you’ll probably swear to. And you’ve probably had your own way as long as you can remember.”

“And if all that’s true,” Lorraine said. “Then what?”

Cable shook his head. “I don’t know.”

“What point are you trying to make?”

Cable smiled now. “You didn’t react the way I thought you would.”

“At least you’re honest about it,” Lorraine said. “Most men would have tried to bluster their way out. Usually they say, ‘Well’-with what passes for a wise chuckle-‘you’ll see things differently when you’re a bit older.’ ” Lorraine’s eyebrows rose. “Unfortunately, there isn’t the least shred of evidence that wisdom necessarily comes with age.”

“Uh-huh,” Cable nodded. This girl could probably talk circles around him if he let her. But if she pulled that on Martha-

Cable smiled. “Why don’t you come down and meet my wife?”

Lorraine hesitated. “I don’t think I should put myself in the way.”

“You wouldn’t be in Martha’s way. She’d be glad of the chance to sit down and talk.”

“I wasn’t referring to your wife. I meant my father. He’s coming, you know.” She saw Cable’s expression change. “Didn’t you think he would?”

“Coming now?”

“As soon as he gathers his company,” Lorraine answered. “Not Vern. Vern went up to Fort Buchanan yesterday on horse business.” She looked away from Cable. “You know you can see your house right down there through the trees. I came here to watch.”

She stepped back quickly as Cable moved past her, already urging his sorrel down the path as he mounted. She called out to him to wait, but he kept going and did not look back. Soon he was out of sight, following the long, gradual switch-backs that descended through the pines.

Martha had cleaned the stove for the second time. She came out of the house carrying a pail and at the end of the ramada she lifted it and threw the dirty water out into the sunlight. She watched it flatten and hang glistening gray before splattering against the hard-packed ground. She turned back to the house, hearing the sound of the horse then.

“Clare!” Her gaze flashed to the children playing in the aspen shade. They looked up and she called, not as loud, “Clare, bring the boys in for a while.”

“Why do we have to-” Davis’s voice trailed off. He made no move to rise from his hands and knees.

Martha looked back at the stable shed, then to the children. “Dave, I’m not going to call again.” The children rose and came out of the trees.

She heard the horse again and with it a rustling, twig-snapping sound. She waved the children toward the house; but Clare hesitated, looking up toward the pines. “What’s that noise?”

“Probably not anything,” Martha said. “Inside now.”

As they filed in, Cable turned the corner of the house. Martha let her breath out slowly and stood watching him as he dismounted and came toward her.

She wanted to say: Cabe, it’s not worth it. One alarm after another, running the children inside every time there’s a sound! But she looked at Cable’s face and the words vanished.

“What is it?”

“They’re on the way.”

Martha glanced at the house, at the three children standing in the ramada shade watching them. “Clare, fix the boys a biscuit and jelly.”

As she turned back, she again heard the rustling, muffled horse sound. She saw her husband’s hand go to the Walker Colt a moment before Lorraine Kidston rounded the adobe.

“I decided,” Lorraine said as she approached, “it would be more fun to watch from right here.” She dropped her reins then, extending her arms to Cable. When he hesitated, she said, “Aren’t you going to help me?”

Cable lifted her down from the side saddle, feeling her press against him, and he stepped back the moment her feet touched the ground. “Martha, this is Lorraine Kidston. Duane’s girl.”

Martha recognized his uneasiness. He wanted to appear calm, she knew, but he was thinking of other things. And she was aware of Lorraine’s confidence. Lorraine was enjoying this, whatever it was, and for some reason she had Cable at a disadvantage. Martha nodded to Lorraine, listened as Cable explained their meeting on the ridge, and she couldn’t help thinking: Soon we could be thrown to the lions and Lorraine has dressed in clean white linen to come watch.

“Come inside,” Martha said pleasantly. “We can give you a chair at the window if you’d like.”

Lorraine hesitated, but only for a moment. She nodded to Martha and said easily, “You’re very kind.”

At the door, the children stood staring at Lorraine. Martha named them as they entered the ramada shade, and reaching them, brushed Sandy’s hair from his forehead. “The little Cables are about to have biscuits and jelly. Will you join them?”

“No, thank you,” Lorraine said. She nodded politely to the children, but showed no interest in them, edging through the doorway now as if not wanting to touch them. Martha followed, moving the children to the table and sitting them down. Cable came in a moment later carrying the Spencer.

As he propped it against the wall between the two front windows, Lorraine said pleasantly, “I hope you’re not going to shoot my father.”

Cable closed both shutters of the right window, but only one shutter of the window nearer to the door. He turned then. “I hope not either.”

“Oh, don’t be so solemn,” Lorraine said lightly. “If Duane does the talking you can be pretty sure he’ll mess it up.”

Cable saw Martha’s momentary look of surprise. She placed a pan of biscuits on the table, watching Lorraine. “Miss Kidston,” Cable said mildly, “doesn’t have a very high regard for her father.”

Martha straightened, wiping her hands on her apron. “That’s nice.”

Lorraine regarded her suspiciously. Then, as if feeling a compulsion to defend herself, she said, “If there is nothing about him personally to deserve respect, I don’t see why it’s due him just because he’s a parent.”

Cable was leaving it up to Martha now. He watched her, expecting her to reply, but Martha said nothing. The silence lengthened, weakening Lorraine’s statement, demanding more from her.

“I don’t suppose you can understand that,’ ” Lorraine said defensively.

“Hardly,” Martha said, “since I’ve never met your father.”

“You’ve met him,” Lorraine said, glancing at Cable. “He’s the kind who can say nothing but the obvious.” Cable was looking out the window, paying no attention to her, and her gaze returned quickly to Martha.

“I know exactly what he’s going to answer to every single thing I say,” Lorraine went on. “One time it’s empty wisdom, the next time wit. Now Vern, he’s the other extreme. Vern sits like a grizzled stone, and at first you think it’s pure patience. Then, after a few sessions of this, you realize Vern simply hasn’t anything to say. I haven’t yet decided which is worse, listening to Duane, or not listening to Vern.”

“It sounds,” Martha prompted, “as if you haven’t been with them very long.”

That brought it out. Lorraine recited a relaxed account of her life, using a tone bordering on indifference, though Martha knew Lorraine was enjoying it.

Her mother and father had separated when Lorraine was seven, and she had gone with her mother. That didn’t mean it had taken her mother seven or eight years to learn what a monumental bore Duane was. She had simply sacrificed her best years on the small chance he might change. But finally, beyond the point of endurance, she left him, and left Gallipolis too, because that Ohio town seemed so typical of Duane. Wonderful years followed, almost ten of them. Then her mother died unexpectedly and she was forced to go to her father who was then in Washington. In the army. That was two or three years ago and she remained in Washington while Duane was off campaigning. Then he was relieved of his duty-though Duane claimed he “resigned his active commission”-and, unfortunately, she agreed to come out here with him. Now, after over a year with Duane and Vern, Lorraine was convinced that neither had ever had an original thought in his life.

Cable listened, his gaze going out across the yard and through the trees to the meadow beyond. You could believe only so much of that about Vern and Duane. Even if they were dull, boring old men to an eighteen-year-old girl, they could still run you or burn your house down or kill you or whatever the hell else they wanted. So don’t misjudge them, Cable thought.

He heard Martha ask where they had lived and Lorraine answered Boston, New York City. Philadelphia for one season. They had found it more fun to move about.

Even with that tone, Martha will feel sorry for her, Cable thought, watching the stillness of the yard and the line of trees with their full branches hanging motionless over empty shade.

He tried to visualize the girl’s mother and he pictured them-Lorraine and her mother-in a well-furnished drawing room filled with people. The girl moved from one group to another, nodding with her head tilted to one side, smiling now, saying something; then everyone in the group returning her smile at the same time.

Cable saw himself in the room-not intending it-but suddenly there he was; and he thought: That would be all right about now. Even though you wouldn’t have anything to say and you’d just stand there-

He saw the first rider when he was midway across the river, moving steadily, V-ing the water toward the near bank. Now there were three more in the water and-Cable waited to make sure-two still on the other side. They came down off the meadow; and beyond them now, over their heads, Cable saw the grazing horse herd. They had returned the mares and foals.

As each man crossed the river, he dismounted quickly, handed off his horse and ran hunch-shouldered to the protection of the five-foot cutbank. One man was serving as horse holder, taking them farther down the bank where the trees grew more thickly.

Out of the line of fire, Cable thought. Behind him he heard Lorraine’s voice. Then Martha’s. But he wasn’t listening to them now. This could be nine months ago, he thought, watching the trees and the river and the open meadow beyond. That could be Tishomingo Creek if you were looking down across a cornfield, and beyond it, a half mile beyond through the trees and briars, would be Bryce’s Crossroads. But you’re not standing in a group of eighty-five men now.

No, a hundred and thirty-five then, he thought. Forrest had Gatrel’s Georgia Company serving with the escort.

How many of them would you like?

About four. That’s all. Shotguns and pistols and the Kidstons wouldn’t know what hit them. But now you’re out-Forresting Forrest. He had two to one against him at Bryce’s. And won. You’ve got six to one.

He could just see their heads now above the bank, spaced a few feet apart. He was still aware of Lorraine’s voice, thinking now as he watched them: What are they waiting for?

A rifle barrel rose above the bank, pointed almost straight up, went off with a whining report and Lorraine stopped talking.

Cable turned from the window. “Martha, take the children into the other room.” They watched him; the children, Martha, and Lorraine all watched him expectantly, but he turned back to the window.

He heard Lorraine say, “He’s going to die when he finds out I’m here.”

“He already knows,” Cable said, not turning. “Your horse is outside.”

Her voice brightened. “That’s right!” She moved to Cable’s side. “Now he won’t know what to do.”

“He’s doing something,” Cable said.

The rifle came up again, now with a white cloth tied to the end of the barrel, and began waving slowly back and forth.

“Surrender,” Lorraine said mockingly, “or Major Kidston will storm the redoubts. This is too much.”

Cable asked, “Is that him?”

Lorraine looked past his shoulder. Four men had climbed the bank and now came out of the trees, one a few paces ahead. He motioned the others to stop, then came on until he’d reached the middle of the yard. This one, the one Cable asked about, wore a beard, a Kossuth army hat adorned with a yellow, double-looped cord, and a brass eagle that pinned the right side of the brim to the crown; he wore cavalry boots and a flap-top holster on his left side, butt to the front and unfastened.

He glanced back at the three men standing just out from the trees, saw they had not advanced, then turned his attention again to the house, planting his boots wide and fisting his hands on his hips.

“Sometimes,” Lorraine said, “Duane leaves me speechless.”

“The first one’s your father?” asked Cable, making sure.

“My God, who else?”

“That’s Royce with the flag,” Cable said.

“And Joe Bob and Bill Dancey in reserve,” Lorraine said. “I think Bill looks uncomfortable.”

Cable’s eyes remained on her father. “Where’s Vern?”

“I told you, he went to Fort Buchanan,” Lorraine answered. Her attention returned to her father. “He loves to pose. I think right now he’s being Sheridan before Missionary Ridge. Wasn’t it Sheridan?”

“Cable!”

“Now he speaks,” Lorraine said gravely, mockingly.

“Cable-show yourself!”

Cable moved past Lorraine into the open doorway. He looked out at Duane. “I’m right here.”

Duane’s fist came off his hips. For a moment before he spoke, his eyes measured Cable sternly. “Where do you have my daughter?”

“She’s here,” Cable said.

Again Duane stared in silence, his eyes narrowed and his jaw set firmly. The look is for your benefit, Cable thought. He’s not concentrating as much as he’s acting. He saw Duane then take a watch from his vest pocket, thumb it open and glance at the face.

Duane looked up. “You have three minutes by the clock to release my daughter. If you don’t, I will not be responsible for what happens to you.”

“I’m not holding her.”

“You have three minutes, Mr. Cable.”

“Listen, she came on her own. She can walk out any time she wants.” Behind him he heard Lorraine laugh.

Cable looked at her. “You’d better go out to him.”

“No, not yet,” she said. “Call his bluff and let’s see what he does.”

“Listen, while you’re being entertained, my wife and children are likely to get shot.”

“He wouldn’t shoot while I’m in here.”

“That’s something we’re not going to find out.” Cable’s hand closed on her arm. Lorraine pulled back, but he held her firmly and drew her into the doorway. He saw Duane return the watch to his pocket, and saw a smile of confidence form under the man’s neatly trimmed beard.

“All of a sudden, Mr. Cable, you seem a bit anxious,” Duane said. His hands went to his hips again.

Close to him, as Cable urged her through the door, Lorraine gasped theatrically, “Would you believe it!”

“Go on now,” Cable whispered. To Duane he said, “I told you once I wasn’t holding your daughter. What do I have to do to convince you?”

Duane’s expression tightened. “You keep quiet till I’m ready for you!” His gaze shifted to Lorraine who now stood under the ramada a few steps from Cable and half turned toward him. She stood patiently with her arms folded. “Lorraine, take your horse and go home.”

“I’d rather stay.” She glanced at Cable, winking at him.

“This is not something for you to see,” Duane said gravely.

“I don’t want to miss your big scene,” Lorraine said. “I can feel it coming.”

“Lorraine-I’m warning you!”

“Oh, stop it. You aren’t warning anyone.”

Duane’s voice rose. “I’m not going to tell you again!”

Smiling, Lorraine shook her head. “If you could only see yourself.”

“Lorraine-”

“All right.” She stopped him, raising her hands. “I surrender.” She laughed again, shaking her head, then moved unhurriedly to her horse, mounted and walked it slowly across the yard, smiling pleasantly at her father, her head turning to watch him until she was beyond his line of vision. She passed into the willow trees.

She’s had her fun, Cable thought, watching her. But now the old man is mad and he’ll take it out on you. Cable’s gaze returned to Duane. You mean he’ll try. At this moment he did not feel sorry for Duane; even after Duane had been made to look ridiculous by his own daughter. No, if Duane pushed him he would push him back. There was no time to laugh at this pompous little man with the General Grant beard; because beyond his theatrics this was still a matter of principle, of pride, of protecting his family, of protecting his land. A matter of staying alive too.

Cable said bluntly, “Now what?”

“Now,” Duane answered, drawing his watch again, “you have until twelve o’clock noon to pack your belongings and get out.” He looked down at the watch. “A little less than three hours.”

There it is, Cable thought wearily. You expected it and there it is. He looked over his shoulder, glancing back at his wife, then turned back to Duane.

“Mr. Kidston, I’m going to talk to my wife first. You just hang on for a minute.” He stepped back, swinging the door closed.

“Well?” he asked.

“This is yesterday,” Martha said, “with the places reversed.”

Cable smiled thinly. “We don’t make friends very easy, do we?”

“I don’t think it matters,” Martha said quietly, “whether Mr. Kidston likes us or not.”

“Then we’re staying,” Cable said.

“Did you think we wouldn’t?”

“I wasn’t sure.”

Martha went to the bedroom. She looked in at the children before coming to Cable. “Clare’s doing her letters for the boys.”

“Martha, make them stay in there.”

“I will.”

“Then stand by the window with the shotgun, but don’t shove the barrel out until I’m out there and they’re looking at me.”

“What will you do?”

“Talk to him. See how reasonable he is.”

“Do you think Vern is there?”

“No. I guess Vern does the work while Duane plays war.”

Martha’s lips parted to speak, but she smiled then and said nothing.

“What were you going to say?” Cable asked.

She was still smiling, a faint smile that was for Cable, not for herself. “I was going to tell you to be careful, but it sounded too typical.”

He smiled with her for a moment, then said, “Ready?” She nodded and Cable turned to the door. He opened it, closed it behind him, and stepped out to the shade of the ramada.

Duane Kidston had not moved; but Royce, holding the carbine with the white cloth, had come up on his right. Bill Dancey and Joe Bob remained fifteen to twenty feet behind them, though they had moved well apart.

“You have exactly”-Duane studied his watch-“two hours and forty-three minutes to pack and get out. Not a minute more.”

Cable moved from shade to sunlight. He approached Duane, seeing him shift his feet and pocket his watch, and he heard Royce say, “Don’t let him get too close.”

Then Duane: “That’s far enough!”

Cable ignored this. He came on until less than six feet separated him from Duane.

“I thought if we didn’t have to shout,” Cable said, “we could straighten this out.”

“There’s nothing to straighten,” Duane said stiffly.

“Except you’re trying to run me from my own land.”

“That assumption is the cause of your trouble,” Duane said. “This doesn’t happen to be your land.”

“It has been for ten years now.”

“This property belonged to a Confederate sympathizer,” Duane said. “I confiscated it in the name of the United States government, and until a court decides legal ownership, it remains ours.”

“And if we don’t leave?”

“I will not be responsible for what happens.”

“That includes my family?”

“Man, this is a time of war! Often the innocent must suffer. But that is something I can do nothing to prevent.”

“You make it pretty easy for yourself,” Cable said.

“I’m making it easy for you!” Duane paused, as if to control the rage that had colored his face. “Listen, the easy way is for you to load your wagon and get out. I’m giving you this chance because you have a family. If you were alone, I’d take you to Fort Buchanan as a prisoner of war.” Duane snapped his fingers. “Like that and without any talk.”

“Even though I’m no longer a soldier?”

“You’re still a Rebel. You fought for an enemy of the United States. You likely even killed some fine boys working for that bushwhacker of a Bedford Forrest and I’ll tell you this, whether you’re wearing a uniform or not, if it wasn’t for your family, I’d do everything in my power to destroy you.”

Joe Bob shifted his weight from one leg to the other. “That’s tellin’ him, Major.” He winked, grinning at Bill Dancey.

Duane glanced over his shoulder, but now Joe Bob’s face showed nothing. He stood lazily, with his hip cocked, and only nodded as Duane said, “I’ll do the talking here.”

Like yesterday, Cable thought. They’re waiting to eat you up. His gaze shifted from Royce and Duane to Joe Bob.

Just like yesterday-

And the time comes and you can’t put it off.

Cable’s gaze swung back to Duane, though Joe Bob was still in his vision, and abruptly he said, “There’s a shotgun dead on you.” He waited for the reaction, waited for Joe Bob’s mind to snap awake and realize what he meant. And the moment the man’s eyes shifted to the house, Cable acted. He drew the Walker Colt, thumbed back the hammer and leveled it at Duane’s chest. It happened quickly, unexpectedly; and now there was nothing Duane or any of his men could do about it.

“Now get off my land,” Cable said. “Call a retreat, Major, or I won’t be responsible for what happens.”

An expression of shocked surprise showed in Duane’s eyes and his mouth came open even before he spoke. “We’re here under a flag of truce!”

“Take your flag with you.”

“You can’t pull a gun during a truce!”

“It’s against the rules?”

Duane controlled his voice. “It is a question of honor. Something far beyond your understanding.”

Royce stood with the truce-flag carbine cradled over one arm, holding it as if he’d forgotten it was there. “He makes it worthwhile. You got to give him that.”

“Major”-Joe Bob’s voice-“are you a chance-taking man? I was thinking, if you were quick on your feet-”

“I told you to keep out of this!” Duane snapped the words at him.

Looking at Duane as he spoke, at him and past him, Cable saw the horse and rider coming up out of the river, crossing the sand flat, climbing the bank now.

“I was just asking,” Joe Bob said lazily. “If you thought you could flatten quick enough, we’d cut him in two pieces.”

The rider approached them now, walking his horse out of the willows. A moment before they heard the hoof sounds, Cable said, “Tell your man to stay where he is.”

Joe Bob saw him first and called out, “Vern, you’re missing it!” Royce and Dancey turned as Joe Bob spoke, but Duane’s eyes held on Cable.

“You’ve waited too long,” Duane said.

Cable backed off a half step, still holding the Walker on Duane; but now he watched Vern Kidston as he approached from beyond Dancey, passing him now, sitting heavily and slightly stooped in the saddle, his eyes on Cable as he came unhurriedly toward him. A few yards away he stopped but made no move to dismount.

With his hat forward and low over his eyes, the upper half of his face was in shadow, and a full mustache covering the corners of his mouth gave him a serious, solemn look. He was younger than Duane-perhaps in his late thirties-and had none of Duane’s physical characteristics. Vern was considerably taller, but that was not apparent now. The contrast was in their bearing and Cable noticed it at once. Vern was Vern, without being conscious of himself. Thoughts could be in his mind, but he did not give them away. You were aware of only the man, an iron-willed man whose authority no one here questioned. In contrast, Duane could be anyone disguised as a man.

Vern Kidston sat with his hands crossed limply over the saddle horn. He sat relaxed, obviously at ease, staring down at this man with the Walker Colt. Then, unexpectedly, his eyes moved to Bill Dancey.

“You were supposed to meet me this morning. Coming back I stopped up on the summer meadow and waited two hours for you.”

“Duane says come with him else I was through,” Dancey said calmly, though a hint of anger showed in his bearded face. “Maybe we ought to clear this up, just who I take orders from.”

Vern Kidston looked at his brother then. “I go up to Buchanan for one day and you start taking over.”

“I’d say running this man off your land is considerably more important than selling a few horses,” Duane said coldly.

“You would, uh?” Vern’s gaze shifted. His eyes went to the house, then lowered. “So you’re Cable.”

Cable looked up at him. “I’ve been waiting for you.”

“I guess you have.”

“Vern”-it was Duane’s voice-“he pulled his gun under a sign of truce!”

Kidston looked at his brother. “I’d say the issue is he’s still holding it.” His eyes returned to Cable. “One man standing off four.” He paused thoughtfully. “His Colt gun doesn’t look that big to me.”

Cable moved the Walker from Duane to Vern. “How does it look now?”

Vern seemed almost to smile. “There’s seven miles of nerve between pointing a gun and pulling the trigger.”

Cable stared at him, feeling his hope of reasoning with Kidston dissolve. But it was momentary. It was there with the thought: He’s like the rest of them. His mind’s made up and there’s no arguing with him. Then the feeling was gone and the cold rage crept back into him, through him, and he told himself: But you don’t budge. You know that, don’t you? Not one inch of ground.

“Mr. Kidston,” Cable said flatly, “I’ve fought for this land before. I’ve even had to kill for it. I’m not proud of saying that, but it’s a fact. And if I have to, I’ll kill for it again. Now if you don’t think this land belongs to me, do something about it.”

“I understand you have a family,” Kidston said.

“I’ll worry about my family.”

“They wouldn’t want to see you killed right before their eyes.”

Cable cocked his wrist and the Walker was pointed directly at Vern’s face. “It’s your move, Mr. Kidston.”

Vern sat relaxed, his hands still crossed on the saddle horn. “You know you wouldn’t have one chance of coming out of this alive.

“How good are your chances?”

“Maybe you wouldn’t have time to pull the trigger.”

“If you think they can shoot me before I do, give the word.”

Twenty feet to Cable’s right, Joe Bob said, “Wait him out, Vern. He can’t stand like that all day. Soon as his arm comes down I’ll put one clean through him.”

Dancey said, “And the second you move the shotgun cuts you in two.”

Vern’s eyes went to the house. “His wife?”

“Look close,” Dancey said. “You see twin barrels peeking out the window. I’d say she could hold it resting on the ledge longer than we can stand here.”

Vern studied the house for some moments before his gaze returned to Cable. “You’d bring your wife into it? Risk her life for a piece of land?”

“My wife killed a Chiricahua Apache ten feet from where you’re standing,” Cable said bluntly. “They came like you’ve come and she killed to defend our home. Maybe you understand that. If you don’t, I’ll say only this. My wife will kill again if she has to, and so will I.”

Thoughtfully, slowly, Kidston said, “Maybe you would.” A silence followed until his eyes moved to Duane. “Go on home. Take your cavalry and get.”

“I’m going,” Duane said coldly. “I’m going to Fort Buchanan. If you can’t handle this man, the army can.”

“Duane, you’re going home.”

“I have your word you’ll attend to him?”

“Go on, get out of here.”

Duane hesitated, as if thinking of a way to salvage his self-respect, then turned without a word and walked off.

Kidston looked at his three riders. None of them had moved. “Go with him. And take your gear.”

They stood lingeringly until Vern’s gaze returned to Cable. That dismissed them and they moved away, picked up the gear Cable had piled by the barn and followed Duane to the willows.

“Well,” Cable said, “are we going to live together?”

“I don’t think you’ll last.”

“Why?”

“Because,” Kidston said quietly, “you’re one man; because you’ve got a family; because your stomach’s going to be tied in a knot wondering when I’m coming. You won’t sleep. And every time there’s a sound you’ll jump out of your skin… Your wife will tell you it isn’t worth it; and after a while, after her nerves are worn raw, she’ll stop speaking to you and acting like a wife to you, and you won’t see a spark of life in her.”

Cable’s gaze went to the house and he called out, “Martha!” After a moment the door opened and Martha came out with the shotgun under her arm. Kidston watched her, removing his hat as she neared them and holding it in his hand. He stood with the sun shining in his face and on his hair that was dark and straight and pressed tightly to his skull with perspiration. He nodded as Cable introduced them and put on his hat again.

“Mr. Kidston says we’ll leave because we won’t be able to stand it,” Cable said now. “He says the waiting and not knowing will wear our nerves raw and in the end we’ll leave of our own accord.”

“What did you say?” Martha asked.

“I didn’t say anything.”

“I don’t suppose there’s much you could.” She looked off toward the willows, seeing the men there mounting and starting across the river, then looked at her husband again. “Well, Cabe,” she said, “are you going to throw Mr. Kidston out or ask him in for coffee?”

“I don’t know. What do you think?”

“Perhaps Mr. Kidston will come back,” Martha answered, “when we’re more settled.”

“Perhaps I will,” Kidston said. His eyes remained on Martha: a woman who could carry a shotgun gracefully and whose eyes were dark and clear, warmly clear, and who stared back at him calmly and with confidence. He recalled the way she had walked out to meet him, with the sun on her dark hair, coming tall and unhurried with the faint movement of her legs beneath the skirt.

“Maybe you’ll stay at that,” Vern said, still looking at Martha. “Maybe you’re the kind that would.”

Cable watched him walk off toward the willows, and he was trying to picture this solemn-faced man kissing Luz Acaso.

For the rest of the morning and through the afternoon, there was time to think about Kidston and wonder what he would do; but there was little time for Cable and Martha to talk about him.

Vern wanted the land and if Cable didn’t move, if he couldn’t be frightened off the place, he would be forced off at gunpoint. It was strange; Vern was straightforward and easy to talk to. You believed what he said and knew he wasn’t scheming or trying to trick you. Still, he wanted the land; and if waiting wouldn’t get it for him, he would take it. That was clear enough.

Cable chopped wood through the afternoon, stacking a good supply against the back wall of the adobe. Soon he’d be working cattle again and there would be little time for close to home chores.

Then, after supper, he heard the creaking barn door. If the wind rose in the night, the creaking sound would become worse and wake him up. He would lie in bed thinking and losing sleep. You could think too much about something like this; Cable knew that. You could picture too many possibilities of failure and in the end you could lose your nerve and run for it. Sometimes it was better to let things just happen, to be ready and try to do the right thing, but just not think about it so much.

So he went out into the dusk to see about the door. Carrying an unlit lantern, Cable opened the door and stepped into the dim stillness of the barn. He hung the lantern on a peg and was bringing his arms down when the gun barrel pushed into his back.

“Now we’ll do it our way,” Joe Bob said.