Last Stand at Saber River

6

Janroe came out of the trees, letting the dun mare move at its own pace toward the house. He was aware of someone on the veranda, certain that it was Duane when he saw the pinpoint glow of a cigar.

There was no hurry now. Janroe’s eyes rose from the veranda to the lighted second-story window, then beyond the corner of the house, past the corral where a dull square of light showed the open door of the bunkhouse. There were no sounds from that end of the yard, none from the big adobe that was pale gray and solid looking in the darkness. The cigar glowed again and now Janroe was close.

“Good evening, Major.”

Duane leaned forward, the wicker chair squeaking. “Who is it?”

“Edward Janroe.” Now, almost at the veranda, Janroe brought the dun to a halt. He saw Duane rise and come close to the railing, touching it with his stomach.

“I didn’t mean to startle you,” Janroe said.

“You didn’t startle me.” There was indignation in Duane’s tone.

“I meant you sitting here by yourself…Is Vern about?”

“No, he’s up at his pastures. You wanted to see him?”

“I’d like to have. But I guess you can’t have everything.”

“What?”

“Where’s Vern, out on the horse drive?”

“Getting it started. He’s been gone all day.”

“You alone?”

“My daughter’s in the house.”

“And somebody’s out in the bunkhouse.”

Duane seemed annoyed, but he said, “A couple of the men.”

“I thought everybody went out on the drives,” Janroe said.

“We always keep one man here.”

“You said a couple of men were there.”

As if remembering something, Duane’s frown of annoyance vanished. “The second man rode in a while ago to tell us the news. I’ve been sitting here ever since thinking about it.” Duane paused solemnly. “Mr. Janroe, the war is over. Lee surrendered the Army of Northern Virginia to General Grant on April ninth.”

“Is that a fact?” Janroe said.

“I have been thinking of a place called Chancellorsville,” Duane said gravely. “I have been thinking of the men I knew who died there: men I campaigned with who gave their lives that this final victory might be accomplished.”

“A touching moment,” Janroe said.

Duane’s eyes rose. “If you had served, you would know the feeling.”

“I served.”

“Oh? I didn’t know that. In the Union army?”

“With Kirby Smith.”

“Oh…You lost your arm…were wounded in battle?”

“During the fight at Richmond, Kentucky.”

“Is that right? I was in Cincinnati at the time. If I hadn’t been on my way to Washington, I would have answered General Nelson’s call for volunteers.”

“That would have been something,” Janroe said, sitting easily and looking down at Duane, “if we’d fought against each other.”

Duane nodded gravely. “More terrible things than that have actually happened. Brother fighting brother, friend against friend. The wounds of our minds as well as those of our bodies will have to be healed now if we are to live together in peace.” Duane added, for effect, “The war is over.”

“You’re not just telling me that?” Janroe said.

“What?”

“That the war’s over.”

“Of course it is. The word came direct from Fort Buchanan. They learned about it this afternoon. Their rider ran into Vern, and Vern sent a man here to tell us. Vern realized I would want to know immediately.”

“I haven’t been told,” Janroe said. “Not officially, and your telling me doesn’t count.”

Duane was frowning, squinting up at Janroe in the darkness with his cigar poised a few inches from his face. “How could you learn more officially than this? The message came from Fort Buchanan, a military establishment.”

“You learned it from your side,” Janroe said. “I haven’t been told officially from mine.”

“Man, you’ve been out of the war for at least a year! Do you expect them to tell personally every veteran who served?”

“I haven’t been out of it.” Janroe paused, studying Duane’s reaction. “I’m still fighting, just like you’ve been with your saddle-tramp cavalry, like your brother’s been doing supplying Yankee remounts.”

Duane was squinting again. “You’ve been at your store every day. I’m almost sure of it.”

“Look under the store,” Janroe said. “That’s where we keep the Enfields.”

“British rifles?”

“Brought in through Mexico, then shipped east.”

“I don’t believe it.” Duane shook his head. “All this time you’ve been moving contraband arms through the store?”

“About two thousand rifles since I started.”

“Well,” Duane said, officially now, “if you have any there now, I advise you to turn them over to the people at Fort Buchanan. I presume Confederate officers will be allowed to keep their horses and sidearms, but rifles are another matter.”

Janroe shook his head slowly. “I’m not turning anything over.”

“You’d rather face arrest?”

“They can’t take me if they don’t know about the guns.”

“Mr. Janroe, if you don’t turn them in, don’t you think I would be obligated to tell them?”

“I suppose you would.”

“Then why did you tell me about them?”

“So you would know how we stand. You see, you can be obligated all you want, but you won’t be able to do anything about it.”

Duane clamped the cigar in the corner of his mouth. “You’ve got the nerve to ride in here and threaten me?”

“I guess I do.” Janroe was relaxed; he sat with his shoulders hunched loosely and his hand in his lap.

“You’re telling me that I won’t go to Buchanan?” Duane’s voice rose. “Listen, I’ll take my saddle-tramp cavalry, as you call it, and drag those guns out myself, and I’ll march you right up to the fort with them if I feel like it. So don’t go threatening me, mister; I don’t take any of it.”

Janroe watched him calmly. “It’s too bad you didn’t volunteer that time you said. That would have made this better. No, it would have made it perfect-if you had been in command of that Yankee artillery company. They were upon a ridge and we had to cross a cornfield that was trampled down and wide open to get at them. They began firing as soon as we started across. Almost right away I was hit and my arm was torn clean from my body.”

“I think we’ve discussed this enough for one evening,” Duane said stiffly.

“What if you had given that order to fire?” Janroe said. “Do you see how much better it would make this?” He shook his head then. “But that would be too much to ask; like having Vern here too. Both of you here, and no one else around.”

“I would advise you to go home,” Duane said, “and seriously consider what I told you. I don’t make idle threats.”

“I don’t either, Major.” Janroe’s hand rose to the open front of his coat. He drew the Colt from his shoulder holster and cocked it as he trained it on Duane. “Though I don’t suppose you’d call this a threat. This is past the threatening stage, isn’t it?”

“You don’t frighten me,” Duane said. He remembered something Vern had told Cable that day at Cable’s house, rephrasing it now because he was not sure of the exact words.

“There is a big difference between holding a gun and using it. If you’re bluffing, Mr. Janroe, trying to frighten me, I advise you to give it up and go home.”

“I’m not bluffing.”

“Then you’re out of your mind.”

“Major, I don’t think you realize what’s happening.”

“I realize I’m talking to a man who hasn’t complete control of his faculties.”

“That’s meant to be an insult, nothing else,” Janroe said. “If you believed it, you’d be scared out of your wits.”

Duane hesitated. He watched Janroe closely, in silence; the hand holding the cigar had dropped to his side. “You wouldn’t dare use that gun,” he said finally.

“It’s the reason I came.”

“But you have no reason to kill me!”

“Call it duty, Major. Call it anything you like.” Janroe put the front sight squarely on Duane’s chest. “Do you want to run or stand there? Make up your mind.”

“But the war’s over-don’t you realize that!”

Janroe pulled the trigger. In the heavy report he watched Duane clutch the railing, holding himself up, and Janroe fired again, seeing Duane’s body jerk with the impact of the bullet before sliding, falling to the porch.

“It’s over now,” Janroe said.

He reined and kicked the dun to a gallop as he crossed the yard. Behind him he heard a window rise and a woman’s voice, but the sounds seemed to end abruptly as the darkness of the trees closed in on him.

Now back to the store. There was no reason to run. He would tell the women that Cable was not at home, that he’d looked for him, but with no luck. Tomorrow he would ride out again, telling the women he would try again to locate Cable.

But he would take his time, giving Vern time to learn about his brother’s death; giving him time to convince himself that it was Cable who’d killed Duane; giving him time, then, to go after Cable. No, there was no need to run.

It had been a satisfying time. The best since the days near Opelousas when he’d killed the Yankee prisoners.

Bill Dancey had spent the night in a line shack seven miles north of the Kidston place. The day before, after the incident at Denaman’s, after watching Duane demonstrate his authority with a rawhide quirt, after riding back to the Kidston place with Duane and the Dodd brothers and not speaking a word to them all the way, Dancey had decided it was time for a talk with Vern.

But Vern was still away. Since that morning he’d been visiting the grazes, instructing his riders to begin driving the horses to the home range. Vern could be gone all night, Dancey knew, and that was why he went out after him. What he had to say wouldn’t wait.

By late evening, after he had roamed the west and north pastures, but always an hour or more behind Vern, Dancey decided to bed down in the line shack. It was deserted now, which suited him fine. It was good to get away from the others once in a while, to sit peacefully or lie in your blanket with quiet all around and be able to hear yourself think. It gave him a chance to review the things he wanted to tell Vern.

With the first trace of morning light he was in the saddle again; and it was at the next pasture that he learned about Duane. There were five men here, still at the breakfast fire. They told him that Vern had been here; but a rider came during the night with news about Duane-one before that with word about the war being over; it had sure as hell been an eventful night-and Vern had left at once, taking only the two Dodd brothers with him.

By six o’clock Dancey was back at the Kidston place. He crossed the yard to the corral, unsaddled and turned his horse into the enclosure before going on to the house.

Austin and Wynn Dodd were sitting on the steps: Wynn sitting low, leaning forward and looking down between his legs; Austin sitting back with his elbows resting on the top step, Austin with his head up, his stained, curled-brim hat straight over his eyes. Both men wore holstered revolvers, the butt of Wynn’s jutting out sharply from his hip because of the way he was sitting. Austin, Dancey noticed then, was wearing two revolvers, two Colts that looked like the pair Joe Bob had owned.

Dancey stopped in front of them. “Vern’s inside?”

Wynn looked up. Austin nodded.

“He told you to wait for him?”

“Right here.” Wynn leaned back saying it, propping his elbows on the step behind him.

“If that’s all right with you, Bill,” Austin said dryly.

Dancey moved through them to the porch. He opened the screen then stood there, seeing Vern and Lorraine at the stove fireplace across the room. Dancey waited until Vern saw him before moving toward them.

“I’ve been looking for you.” Vern said it bluntly, and the tone stirred the anger Dancey had held under control since yesterday afternoon.

He wanted to snap back at Vern and if it led to his quitting, that was all right. But now Duane was dead and before he argued with Vern he would have to say he was sorry about Duane. And Lorraine was here. Her presence bothered him too. She didn’t appear to have been crying, but stood staring at the dead fire; probably not even thinking about her father, more likely wondering what was going to happen to her. She seemed less sure of herself now; though Dancey realized he could be imagining this.

He looked at Vern. “Your brother’s dead?” And when Vern nodded Dancey said, “I’m sorry about it. Where is he now?”

“Upstairs. We’ll bury him this afternoon.”

“All right.” Dancey’s eyes moved to Lorraine. “What about his girl?”

“I think she’ll be going back home,” Vern said. “This brought her up pretty short. She might have even grown up in one day.”

“It could do that,” Dancey said. “When was it, last night?”

Vern nodded. “He rode in while Duane was on the porch. Lorraine was upstairs. She heard the two shots and looked out her window in time to see him riding off.”

“Who’s he?”

“Who do you think?”

“Did she see him clearly?”

“She didn’t have to.”

“It’s best to be sure.”

“All right, Bill, if it’s not Cable, who would it be?”

“I know. It’s probably him; but you have to be sure.”

“I’m sure as I’ll ever be.”

Vern moved past him and Dancey followed out to the porch. The two Dodd brothers were standing now, watching Vern.

“There’ll be just the four of us,” Vern told them. He waited until they moved off, then seemed to relax somewhat, leaning against a support post and staring out across the yard. He said to Dancey behind him, “They’ll bring you a fresh horse.”

“I can get my own,” Dancey said.

“I guess you can, but they’ll bring it anyway.”

“Now we go visit Cable-is that it?”

“You don’t have to come.”

“Then I sure as hell don’t think I will.”

Vern turned suddenly from the post, but hesitated then. “Bill, do you realize the man’s killed three people now, one of them my brother?”

“Are you telling me you’re going after Cable because you and Duane were so close?”

“Be careful, Bill.”

“What would you have done if two men came to your house at night-two men like Royce and Joe Bob? What would you have done if somebody busted your house-”

“I had no part of that; you know it.”

“Duane said yesterday he didn’t either.” Dancey paused. “Maybe Lorraine just made it up.” The tone of his voice probed for an answer.

But Vern said only, “Who did it isn’t my concern.”

“All right,” Dancey said. “How would you see it if somebody had taken a rawhide quirt to your face while two others held your arms?”

“I don’t have to see it! The man killed my brother, do you understand that?”

“You’ve got something to say for your stand.” Dancey saw the anger etched deeply in Vern’s eyes, hardening the solemn, narrow-boned look of his face. “But what are you going to do about it?”

“Take him up to Fort Buchanan.”

“You better go in shooting.”

“If that’s the way it has to be.”

“It’s the only way you’ll beat him,” Dancey said. “And even then he’ll fight harder than you will. He’s got his family and his land at stake.”

Vern shook his head. “This has gone beyond arguing over land.”

“You’ve got three hundred horses up in the high pastures,” Dancey said. “When you bring them down they’re going to have water. That’s the point of all the talk. Nothing else. You’ve got horses relying on you. He’s got the people. Now who do you think’s going to swing the hardest?”

Vern watched the Dodd brothers coming, leading the horses, then looked at Dancey again. “I’ll give him a chance to go up to Fort Buchanan peacefully. If he refuses, that’s up to him.”

Dancey shook his head. “You’ll have to kill him.”

“I said it’s up to him.”

“Maybe you’d hold back.” Dancey watched the Dodd brothers approaching. “But they wouldn’t. They’d give up a month’s pay to draw on him.” Dancey hesitated, and when Vern said nothing he added, “You’ve got yourself talked into something you don’t even believe in.”

“Listen,” Vern said tightly, “I’ve said it, if he won’t come peacefully, we’ll shoot him out.”

“But you’re hoping he’ll listen to you.”

“I don’t care now.”

“He won’t,” Dancey said. “And not one person in his family would. I saw that yesterday. I saw it in his wife and kids, his little boy standing there watching his daddy get rawhided and the kid not even flinching or crying or looking the other way. The man’s family is with him, Vern. They’re part of him. That’s why when you fight him you’ll think you’re fighting five men, not just one.”

“There’ll be four of us, Bill,” Vern said. “So that almost evens it.” He started down the steps.

“Three,” Dancey said. “I’ll drive your horses. I will this time. But I won’t take part in what you’re doing.”

Vern was looking up at Dancey again, studying him, but he said only, “All right, Bill,” as if he had started to say something else but changed his mind. He moved to his horse and mounted, not looking at Dancey now, and led the two Dodd brothers out of the yard.

They’ll kill Cable, Dancey thought, watching them go. But they’ll pay for it, and not all three of them will come back.

Cable was in the barn when Luz Acaso came.

Earlier, while he was fixing something to eat and had gone to the river for a bucket of water, he saw Kidston’s mares and foals out on the meadow. He had planned to run them two days ago, but Manuel had come and he had forgotten about the horses until now. So after breakfast he mounted the sorrel and again chased the herd up the curving sweep of the valley to Kidston land.

He was back, less than an hour later, and leading the sorrel into the barn, when he heard the horse coming down through the pines from the ridge trail. He waited. Then, seeing Luz Acaso appear out of the trees and round the adobe to the front yard, Cable came out of the barn. But in the same moment he stepped back inside again.

Two riders were coming along the bank of the river on the meadow side. Then, as they jumped their horses down the bank, starting across the river, Cable turned quickly to the sorrel. He drew the Spencer from the saddle, skirted the rectangle of light on the barn floor and edged close to the open doorway.

From this angle, looking past the corner of the house, he saw Luz Acaso first, Luz standing close to her dun horse now, staring out across the yard. Then beyond her, he saw the two riders come out of the willows. One was Vern Kidston. Cable recognized him right away. The other was one of the Dodd brothers, and Cable was almost sure it was the one named Austin.

But why didn’t they sneak up?

No, they couldn’t have seen him. He had stayed close to the trees coming back from running the horses and he had been in the yard, after that, only a moment. Watching them now, he was thinking: If they wanted to kill you they would have sneaked up.

Unless-he thought-there were more than just the two of them. Vern could be drawing him out. Wanting him to show his position, if he was here.

So wait a minute. Just watch them.

But there was Luz to think of.

His gaze returned to the girl. She was facing Vern, still standing by her horse; but now, as Cable watched, she dropped the reins and moved toward the two riders, walking unhurriedly and with barely a trace of movement beneath the white length of her skirt. Vern Kidston came off his saddle as she approached them.

Cable heard him ask, “Where is he?” the words faint and barely carrying to him. Luz spoke. There was no sound but he saw her shrug and gesture with her hands. Then Kidston spoke again, a sound reaching Cable but without meaning, and he saw Luz shake her head.

For several minutes they stood close to each other, Luz looking up at Kidston and now and again making small gestures with her hands, until, abruptly, Vern took her by the arm. Luz resisted, trying to pull away, but his grip held firmly. Vern walked her to the dun, helped her onto the saddle and the moment she was seated, slapped the horse sharply across the rump. He watched her until she passed into the aspen stand a dozen yards beyond the adobe, then motioned to Austin Dodd.

Austin caught up the reins of Vern’s horse and came on. Cable watched him, wondering where the other Dodd brother was. Wynn. He had seen them only twice, but still he could not picture one without the other. Perhaps Wynn was close by. Perhaps that was part of these two standing out in the open.

Austin reached Vern and handed him the reins. Cable waited. Would Vern mount and ride out? If he did, it would be over. Over for this time, Cable thought. Then he would wait for the next time-then the next, and the time after that. Unless you do something now, Cable thought.

Tell him, and make it plain-

No, Cable knew that to make his stand clear and unmistakably plain, without the hint of a doubt, he would have to start shooting right now, right this second. And that was something he couldn’t do.

He did not see this in his mind during the moments of waiting. He didn’t argue it with himself; but the doubt, the conscience, the whatever it was that made him hesitate and be unsure of himself, was part of him and it held him from killing Vern Kidston now just as it had prevented him from pulling the trigger once before.

Briefly, he did think: You can be too honest with yourself and lose everything. He hesitated because this was a simple principle, a matter of almost black or white, and whatever shades of gray appeared, whatever doubts he might have, were still not strong enough to allow him to shoot a man in cold blood.

Though there was more to it than that. A simple principle, but not a simple matter. Not something as brutally, honestly simple as war. He couldn’t shoot Vern in cold blood. But if he could…If the urge to end this was stronger than anything else, would his shooting Vern end it? Would he be sure of getting Austin, too? Then Wynn and Dancey and Duane…and how many more were there?

It wasn’t good to think. That was the trouble, thinking about it and seeing it as black and white and good and bad and war or not war. Wouldn’t it be good if they could go back six days and start over and not have the Kidstons here or Janroe, not having anything that has happened happen, not even in a dream?

No, it was not merely a question of not being able to shoot Vern in cold blood. It never was just that. It was being afraid, too, of what would happen to his family. To him, and then to his family.

If they would fight, he thought. If they would hurry the hell up and fight, you could fight back and there would be nothing else but that to think about and there wouldn’t even be time to think about that.

He saw Vern Kidston draw his revolver. He saw Austin Dodd dismounting, pulling a Sharps rifle from his saddle boot. Both men walked toward the adobe and within a few strides, from this angle, watching them from the barn and looking past the front corner of the house, they passed from Cable’s view.

They’ll wreck it for good this time, Cable thought.

If you let them.

He felt the tenseness inside of him, but he was not squeezing the Spencer and his legs felt all right. Stepping from the barn, he glanced toward the back of the adobe. The clearing between the pine slope and the house was empty. Then he was running across the yard, watching the front now, until he reached the windowless side wall of the house. He edged along to the front, cocked the Spencer and stepped around.

Vern and Austin Dodd were coming out of the front door, under the ramada now, Vern with his hands empty, his Colt holstered again, Austin Dodd holding the Sharps in one hand, the barrel angled down but his finger through the trigger guard. Both men saw Cable at the same time, and both were held motionless by the same moment of indecision.

Cable saw it. He stopped, ready to fire if either man moved a finger, waiting now, leaving the decision with them and almost hoping to see the barrel of the Sharps come up.

“Make up your mind,” Cable said, even though he felt the moment was past. He moved toward them, along the log section of the house, until less than a dozen strides separated him from the two men.

“You came to wreck it a second time?”

“I came to talk,” Vern said flatly. “That first.”

“With your gun in your hand.”

“So there wouldn’t be an argument.”

“Well, you’ve got one now.”

Vern’s gaze dropped to the carbine. “You better put that down.”

“When you get off my land.”

“If you want a fight,” Vern said, with the same sullen tone, “one of us will kill you. If you want to come along peacefully, I give you my word we won’t shoot.”

“Come where?”

“To Fort Buchanan.”

Cable shook his head. “I’ve got no reason to go there.”

Vern stared at him, his full mustache accentuating the firm line of his mouth. “I’m not leaving before you do,” he said. “Either shoot your gun off or let go of it.”

Almost at once Cable had sensed the change in Vern Kidston. Four days ago he had stood covering Vern with a gun and Vern had calmly told him that he would outwait him. But now something had changed Vern. Cable could hear it in the flat, grim tone of the man’s voice. He could see it on Vern’s face: an inflexible determination to have his way now. There would be no reasoning with Vern, no putting it off. Cable was sure of that. Just as he knew he himself would not be budged from this place by anything less persuasive than a bullet.

Still, momentarily, he couldn’t help wondering what had brought about the change in Vern, and he said, “So you’ve lost your patience.”

“You visited Duane last night,” Vern said. “We’re returning the call.”

“I never left this house last night.”

“Like you don’t know anything about it.”

“Well, you tell me what I did. So I’ll know.”

“In case you didn’t wait to make sure,” Vern said, “I’ll tell you this. Duane’s dead. Either one of the bullets would have killed him.”

Cable stared at Vern, almost letting the barrel of the Spencer drop and then holding it more firmly. He could not picture Duane dead and he wondered if this was a trick. But if Vern was making it up, what would it accomplish? No, Duane was dead. That was a fact. That was the reason Vern was here. And somebody had killed him.

Janroe.

Janroe, tired of waiting. Janroe, carrying the war, his own private version of the war, to Duane. It could be Janroe. It could very well be and probably was without any doubt Janroe.

But he couldn’t tell Vern that. Because to convince Vern it was Janroe he’d have to explain about the man, about the guns, and that would involve Luz and Manuel. And then Vern would go to the store and Martha and the children were there now, and they’d seen enough…too much. Besides, this thing between him and Vern still had to be settled, no matter what Janroe had done.

Cable said, “I didn’t kill your brother. If I had sneaked up to kill anybody, if I’d carried it that far, it would have been to put a sight on you.”

“You’re the only man who had reason to do it,” Vern said.

“That might seem to be true,” Cable answered. “But I didn’t. Like you’re the only one who had reason to wreck my house. Did you do it?”

“I never touched your place.”

“So there you are,” Cable said. “Maybe we’re both lying. Then again, maybe neither of us is.”

“You’re not talking your way out of it,” Vern said flatly.

“I don’t have to.” Cable raised the carbine slightly. “I’m holding the gun.”

“And once you pull the trigger, Austin will put a hole through you.”

“If he’s alive,” Cable said, centering his attention on Austin Dodd who was still holding the Sharps in one hand, the tip of the barrel almost touching the ground. The man seemed even more sure of himself than Kidston. He studied Cable calmly, with an intent, thoughtful expression half closing his eyes.

Like you don’t have a gun in your hand, Cable thought, watching him. He’s not worried by it because he knows what he’s doing. So you go for Austin first if you go at all.

In his mind he practice-swung the Spencer on Austin, aiming to hit him just above his crossed gun belts. When a man is stomach-shot he relaxes and there is no reflex action jerking his trigger, no wild dead-man-firing. Then he pictured swinging the carbine lower and farther to the left. Austin might drop and roll away and it would be a wing shot, firing and letting the man dive into it. No, it wouldn’t be like that, but that’s the way it would seem. He thought then: That’s enough of that. If you have to think when it’s happening, you’ll be too late.

The silence lengthened before Austin Dodd spoke.

“He talks, but he’s scared to do anything.”

Kidston said nothing.

Austin Dodd’s eyes still held calmly, curiously on Cable. “I’ve got him thought out but for one thing. Where’d he buy the nerve to kill Joe Bob?”

“Ask him,” Kidston said.

“He’ll say he killed him fair.” Carefully, Austin raised his left hand and pulled on the curled brim of his hat, loosening it on his head and replacing it squarely.

“Maybe,” he said then, “we ought to just walk up and take the gun away from him.”

Cable watched him. A moment before, as Austin adjusted his hat, he was sure the man’s eyes had raised to look past him. And just before that Austin had started talking. Not a word from him until now.

To make sure you keep looking at him, Cable thought. He felt his stomach tighten as he pictured a man behind him, a man at the corner of the house or coming carefully from the direction of the barn with his gun drawn. Austin was staring at him again. Then-there it was-Vern Kidston’s gaze flicked out past him. Vern looked at Cable then, quickly, saw his intent stare, and let his gaze wander aimlessly toward the willows.

Now you’re sure, Cable thought, wanting to turn and fire and run and not stop running until he was alone and there was quiet all about him with the only sounds in the distance.

But he made himself stand and not move, his mind coldly eliminating the things that could not happen: like whoever it was being able to sneak up close to him without being heard; or suddenly shooting Vern and Austin Dodd standing directly in front of him, in the line of fire.

So, it would be timed. The moment they moved, the second they were out of the way, the man behind him would fire. It came to that in Cable’s mind because there was no other way it could be.

And it would come soon.

Watch Austin and go the way he goes.

It would be coming now.

But don’t think and listen to yourself.

You’ll hear it. God, you’ll hear it all right.

You’ll even see it. You’ll see Austin-

And Cable was moving-spinning to the outside, pushing himself out of the line of fire and throwing the carbine to his shoulder even before Austin Dodd and Kidston hit the ground. With the sound of the single shot still in the air, he was putting the carbine on Wynn Dodd, thirty feet away and in the open, standing, holding his Colt at arm’s length.

Cable fired. Too soon! He saw Wynn swing the Colt on him as he levered the Spencer, brought it almost to his shoulder and fired again. Wynn was turned, thrown off balance by the impact of the bullet and his Colt was pointing at the willows when it went off. Still, he held it, trying to bring it in line again; but now Cable was running toward him, levering the trigger guard, half raising the carbine and firing again. Wynn’s free hand went to his side and he stumbled, almost going down. From ten feet, with Wynn’s Colt swinging on him and seeming almost in his face, Cable shot him again, being sure of this one, knowing Wynn would go down; and now levering, turning, snapping a shot at Austin Dodd and missing as the man came to one knee with the Sharps almost to his shoulder.

Austin and Vern had held their fire because of Wynn, but now both of them opened up. Cable’s snap shot threw Austin off and he fired quickly, too wide. From the ramada, Kidston fired twice. Before he could squeeze the trigger again Cable was past the corner of the adobe, beyond their view, and within ten strides safely through the open doorway of the barn.

He brought the sorrel out of its stall, thonging the Spencer to the saddle horn, then mounted and drew the Walker.

Now time it, Cable thought.

He knew what Kidston and Austin would do, which was the obvious thing, the first thought to occur to them; and they would respond to it because they would have to act fast to keep up with him or ahead of him and not let him slip away.

Only one man could watch the barn from the corner of the house. The second man would have to expose himself, or else drop back to the willows, to the protection of the cutbank and move along it until he was opposite the barn, directly out from it and little more than a hundred feet away. If that happened he would be pinned down in the barn until he was picked off, burned out or eventually drawn out by a need as starkly simple as a cup of water. If he waited, time would be on their side to be used against him.

So he would move out and he would do it now while they were still realizing what had to be done, while they were still scrambling to seal off his escape. He knew this almost instinctively after two and a half years with Bedford Forrest. You weren’t fooled by false security. You didn’t wait, giving the other man time to think. You carried the fight, on your own terms and on your own ground.

Now it was a matter of timing. Move fast, but move at the right time.

The sorrel was lined up with the doorway now, though still well back in the barn. From here Cable could see the corner of the adobe. As he watched he saw a man’s shoulder, then part of his head and the dull glint of a Colt barrel in the sunlight. Almost at the same time he heard the horse somewhere off beyond the adobe-the other man running for the cutbank.

Cable’s eyes clung to the corner of the house.

Now move him back, he thought, raising the Walker and putting the front sight on the edge of the house. He fired once. The man-Cable was sure it was Kidston-drew back out of sight. At that moment Cable moved, abruptly spurring the sorrel. He was suddenly in the sunlight and reining hard to the right, the Walker still covering the corner; and as Kidston appeared, coming suddenly into the open, Cable fired. He had to twist his body then, his arm extended straight back over the sorrel’s rump. He fired again, almost at the same time as Kidston did, but both of their shots were hurried. Then he was reining again, swerving the sorrel to the left, passing behind the adobe just as Kidston fired his second shot.

Even as he entered the horse trail up into the pines, Cable saw the way to throw the fight back at them, to swing on them again while they were off guard in the true hell-raising, hit-and-run style of Forrest; and he left the trail, coming back down through the trees. Then he was in the open again behind the adobe, but now cutting to the right and circling the side of the adobe away from the barn. A moment later he broke past the front of the house.

Twenty feet away Kidston was mounting, looking directly at Cable over the pommel of his saddle. He saw Vern trying to bring up his Colt. He saw Vern’s face clearly beyond the barrel of his own revolver; he was pulling the trigger when Vern’s horse threw its head into the line of fire. Cable reined the sorrel hard to the right then, seeing Vern’s horse stumble and go down with Vern falling and rolling clear.

He caught a glimpse of Austin Dodd already mounted and coming up over the cutbank, but that was all. There was one shot left in the Walker and now Cable was spurring, running the sorrel through the light- and dark-streaked aspen stand, then cutting to the left, reaching the willows, brushing through them and feeling the thick, heavy branches behind him, covering him as he splashed across the river and climbed out onto the meadow.

Get distance on Austin, that was the thing to do now. Get time to reload, and at the same time look like you’re running. Now he would lead Austin, let Austin think he was chasing him, and perhaps he would become careless.

Austin fired the Sharps as he came out of the willows to the edge of the river, but he hurried the shot and now Cable was almost two hundred yards ahead of him, holding the sorrel to a steady run.

Cable was calm now. Even though he was sure only in a general way what he would do. Somehow, he would stop Austin Dodd just as he had stopped Vern.

But was Vern stopped? For how long? He could be coming too. He would find Wynn’s horse, which might or might not take time; but he would come.

So it wasn’t over, or even halfway over. It was just starting. He would have to be careful and keep his eyes open and stop Austin-Austin first. Now it was a matter of leading him on until he found the place he wanted to fight him. He was applying what he had learned well with Bedford Forrest. How to kill and keep from being killed. Though not killing with an urge to kill, not killing Austin Dodd because he was Austin Dodd. Though you could probably even justify that, Cable thought.

He would start up the far side of the meadow and be in the trees while Austin was still in the open. Then Austin would slow up and that would give him time to reload. That would be the way to do it, he thought, lifting his gaze to the piñon trees and the open slope that rose above them.

Yet it was in the same momentary space of time, with the heavy, solid report, with the unmistakable smacking sound of the bullet, that Cable’s plan dissolved. The sorrel went down, shot through a hind leg, and Cable was suddenly on the ground. He rolled over, looking back in time to see Austin Dodd mounting again.

The man had reloaded on the run, got down for one last-chance long-shot with the Sharps at two hundred stretching to three hundred yards. And you weren’t watching!

Cable started for the sorrel-on the ground with its hind legs kicking in spasms. The Spencer was still thonged to the saddle. The cartridge tubes and loads for the Walker were in the saddle bags. But he knew at once that it was too late to get them. If he delayed, he’d be pinned down behind the sorrel. In Cable’s mind it was not a matter of choice. Not with a slope of thick piñon less than forty yards away.

He ran for it, crouched, sprinting, not looking back but hearing the hoofbeats gaining on him; then the high, whining report of a Colt.

Before Austin could fire again, Cable was through the fringe of yellow-blossomed mesquite and into the piñons. From here he watched Austin rein in at the sorrel and dismount. Cable was moving at once, higher up on the slope, a dozen yards or more, before he looked back at Austin again.

The gunman was squatting by the sorrel going through the one accessible saddle bag. But now he rose, holding the Spencer downpointed in one hand, stepped back and shot the sorrel through the head. He threw the carbine aside, looking up at the piñon slope.

“Cable!” Austin shouted the name. He paused while his eyes scanned the dark foliage. “Cable, I’m coming for you!”

Cable watched him, a small figure forty or fifty yards below him and out in the open, now coming toward the trees.

He’s sure of himself, Cable thought. Because he’s been counting shots and he knows it as well as you do. Cable pulled the Walker and checked it to be sure.

One bullet remained in the revolver. Extra loads, powder and percussion caps were all out in the saddle bag.

Luz kept the dun mare at a steady run, her bare knees pressed tightly to the saddle, holding it and aching with the strain of jabbing her heels into the dun’s flanks.

She realized she should have taken the horse trail. It was shorter. But Vern Kidston had sent her off abruptly, and in the moment her only thought had been to keep going, to run for help as fast as the dun would move. And now she was following the curving five-mile sweep of the meadow, already beyond the paths that led up to the horse trail from Cable’s land.

They would find Cable in the barn…She had seen him go in as she approached. And if he showed himself, they would kill him. Even if he didn’t, he was trapped. She pictured Vern and the other man firing in at him, not showing themselves and taking their time. But if they waited, having trapped him, she might have time also-time to bring help.

If her brother was home. She had thought of no one else, picturing him mounting and rushing back to Cable’s aid. He would have to be home. God, make him be home, she thought, closing her eyes and thinking hard so God would hear her; he said he would come today, so all You have to do is make sure of it. Not a miracle. Just make him be home.

And if he’s not? Then Mr. Janroe.

No! She rejected the thought, shaking her head violently. God is just. He couldn’t offer something that’s evil to do something that’s good.

Yet in the good act, saving Cable, Vern Kidston could be wounded or killed. And there would be nothing good in that.

She closed her eyes as tightly as she could to see this clearly, but it remained confused, the good and the evil overlapping and not clearly defined or facing one another as it should be. Because the wrong ones are fighting, she thought.

But why couldn’t they see this? Vern Kidston and Paul Cable should be together, she thought, because they are the same kind of man; though perhaps Paul is more gentle. He has a woman and has learned to be gentle.

But Vern could have a woman. And he could also learn to be gentle. She knew this, feeling it and knowing it from the first time she saw him; feeling it like a warm robe around her body the time he kissed her, which had been almost a year ago and just before Janroe came. Then feeling it again, standing close to him and seeing it in his eyes as they faced each other in front of Cable’s house.

She had told him Cable was not at home and he said, then they would wait for him. I will wait with you, Luz said. But Vern shook his head saying, go on home to Janroe. She told him then, without having to stop to think of words, what she thought of Edward Janroe, what kind of a half-man half-animal, what kind of a nagual he was. And she could see that Vern believed her when she said she despised Janroe.

She had pleaded with him then to put his guns aside and talk to Cable, to end it between them honestly as two men should. She had thought of the war being over, saying: see, they ended after seeing how senseless it was that so many men should die. End your war, too, she had said.

But he had taken her arm and half dragged her to the dun mare and told her to go. Because now it was this business with Cable and not a time for gentleness. He did not say this, but Luz could feel it. Just as she knew now why he had stopped seeing her after Janroe’s coming.

Because Vern Kidston was proud and would rather stay away and clench his fists than risk discovering her living with or in love with Edward Janroe. That meant only one thing. Vern Kidston loved her. He did before and he did now.

But don’t think of it now, she thought. Don’t think of anything. Just do what you have to do. She told herself that this was beyond her understanding. For how could there be room for love and hate in the same moment? How could good be opposed to good? And how can you be happier than you have been and more afraid than you have ever been, both at the same time?

Within a few minutes she was in sight of the store with the dark sweep of willows bunched close beyond. She kept her eyes on the adobe now and soon she was able to make out a figure on the platform. She prayed that it was Manuel.

But it was Janroe, standing rigidly and staring at her, waiting for her as she crossed the yard and reined in the dun.

“Where’ve you been?”

She saw the anger in his face and in the tense way he held his body. But there was no time to be frightened; she wanted to tell him, she wanted to say all of it at once and make sure he understood.

“I went to the Cable place,” she began, out of breath and almost gasping the words.

“I told you I was going there!” Janroe’s voice whipped at her savagely, then lowered to the hoarse tone of talking through clenched teeth. “I told you to stay home, that I was going later-but you went anyway! I told you he wasn’t there last night and I would see him this morning-but you went anyway!”

“Listen to me!” Luz screamed it, feeling a heat come over her face. “Vern Kidston is there-”

Janroe stared at her and slowly the tightness eased from his face. “Alone?”

“One man with him. Perhaps more.”

“What happened?”

“Not anything yet. But something has happened to Vern and he wants to kill Cable. I know it!”

Janroe’s chest rose and fell with his breathing, but he said calmly, “He probably just wants to talk to Cable.”

“No-he was armed. Vern, and the one called Austin with two guns and a rifle on his saddle… Listen, is my brother here?”

“Not yet.”

“He said he was coming today.”

“Probably later on.”

She was looking at him intently now, trying to see something in him that she could trust, that she could believe. But there was no time even for this and she said, “Come with me. Now, before they kill him.”

“Luz, Vern just wants to talk with him.” Janroe was completely at ease now. “Vern’s a patient man. Why would he change?”

“Then you won’t come,” Luz said.

“There’s no need to. Come in the house and stop worrying about it.”

She shook her head. “Then I’m going back.”

“Luz, I said come in the house. It’s none of your business what’s going on between them.”

She saw the anger in his face again and she raised the reins. Janroe came off the platform, reaching for the bridle, but the dun was already side-stepping, wheeling abruptly, and Janroe was knocked flat. Luz broke away and was across the yard before Janroe could push himself to his feet.

She held herself low in the saddle and kept the dun running with her heels and with her voice, making the horse strain forward and stretch its legs over the grass that seemed to sweep endlessly toward the curve of the valley.

She would do something, she told herself, because she had to do something. There was no one else. She wouldn’t think of it being over. She would arrive before they found Cable and plead with Vern, not leaving this time even if he tried to force her. He would listen. Then Paul would come out and they would talk, and after a while the thing between them would be gone.

But only moments later she knew she was too late. Luz slowed the mare, rising in the saddle and pulling the reins with all her strength to bring the dun finally to a halt. She sat listening.

Now, in the distance, she heard it again: the flat, faraway sound of gunfire, and she knew they had found him and were trying to kill him.