Last Stand at Saber River

7

Soon there would be two of them.

Cable could see the rider now-it would have to be Vern on Wynn’s horse-already on this side of the river and coming across the meadow.

Below, closer to him, was Austin Dodd.

Cable waited until Austin came through the yellow mesquite patches at the edge of the piñon pines. As the man reached the trees, Cable began to fall back. He moved carefully up the slope, glancing behind him, not wanting to stumble and lose time, and not wanting to lose sight of Austin. He caught glimpses of the man moving cautiously up through the trees.

The slope was not steep here and the piñon seemed almost uniformly spaced, resembling an abandoned, wild-growing orchard. It was not a place to stand with one shot in his revolver and fight a man who had two Colt guns and all the time in the world.

Cable moved back until he reached the end of the trees. And now he stopped to study the open slope behind him. It was spotted with patches of brittlebush and cliffrose, but nothing to use for cover; not the entire, gravelly, nearly one hundred feet of it that slanted steeply to the sky.

Perhaps he could make it; but not straight up. It was too steep. He would have to angle across the slope and Austin would have time to shoot at him. But it was worth trying and it would be better than staying here. He would have to forget about Austin-and about Vern, almost across the meadow now-and concentrate on reaching the crest, not letting anything stop him.

He was in the open then, running diagonally across the rise, his boots digging hard into the crusted, crumbling sand. Almost at once he felt the knotted pain in his thighs, but he kept going, not looking back and trying not to picture Austin Dodd closing in on him; or Vern, at the foot of the slope now and taking out his rifle.

Cable cut through a patch of brittlebush, getting a better foothold then and running hard, but he came suddenly onto a spine of smooth rock-it humped no more than two feet above the ground-and here he slipped to his hands and knees. He tried to get up and stumbled again, then rolled over the side of the smooth rock surface before lunging to his feet. He was climbing again, less than twenty feet from the top when Austin’s voice reached him.

“Cable!”

He stopped, catching his breath and letting it out slowly before coming around. He knew he would never make the crest. He was sure of it then, seeing Austin already well out of the piñon, to his left below him and less than sixty feet away. Austin’s Colts were holstered, but his hands hung close to them. He came on slowly, his face calm and his eyes not straying from Cable.

“Pull anytime now,” Austin said. He advanced up the slope, not looking at the ground but feeling his way along with each careful step.

“You want to. But you got only one shot.” He was reaching the brittlebush now. “Count the other man’s shots. That’s something I learned a long time ago. Then when I saw your extra loads still out there with the horse I said to myself, ‘I wouldn’t want to be that boy. He don’t have one chance between hell and breakfast.’ ”

Cable said nothing. He stood facing Austin Dodd, watching him move into the small field of orange-colored brittlebush. There Austin stopped.

“So when you pull,” Austin said, “you have to make it good the one time.” He seemed almost to be smiling. “That could tighten a man’s nerves some.”

Austin was ready, standing on his own ground. And to beat him with one shot, Cable knew, he would have to be more than fast. He would have to be dead-center accurate.

But he wouldn’t have time to aim, time to be sure.

Unless Austin hesitated. Or was thrown off guard.

Cable’s gaze dropped from the brittlebush to the smooth spine of rock where he had slipped. If he could draw Austin to that point. If he could jiggle him, startle him. If he could throw Austin off balance only for a moment, time enough to draw and aim and make one shot count. If he could do all that-

And Vern was into the piñon now.

No-one thing at a time.

Slowly then, Cable began to back away.

Austin shook his head. “You wouldn’t come near making it.”

Cable was still edging back, covering six, eight, almost ten feet before Austin started toward him again. Cable stopped. He watched Austin come out of the brittlebush, watched him reach the spine of rock and grope with one foot before stepping onto the smooth, rounded surface.

As Austin’s foot inched forward again, Cable went to the side, dropping to one knee and bringing up the Walker in one abrupt motion.

Austin was with him, his right-hand Colt out and swinging on Cable; but the movement shifted his weight. His boots slipped on the smooth rock and even as he fired and fired again he was falling back, his free hand outstretched and clawing for balance.

Beyond the barrel of the Walker, Austin seemed momentarily suspended, his back arched and his gun hand high in the air. Cable’s front sight held on his chest and in that moment, when he was sure and there was no doubt about it, Cable squeezed the trigger.

He was sliding down the gravel as Austin fell back into the brittlebush, reaching him then, knowing he was dead and concentrating on prying the revolver from the man’s fingers. Cable took both of Austin’s revolvers, both Colt Army .44s. He waited a moment, but there was no sign of Vern. He rose half crouched, expecting to hear Vern’s shot, expecting to feel it, then ran for the piñon pines.

He went down beneath a tree, feeling the sand and grass patches warm and the thick branches close above him, and now he listened.

Vern would be close. In the time, he could have come all the way up through the trees. Perhaps not; but at any rate Vern would have seen him running across the open. Probably he was just not in position for a shot. But now Vern knew where he was; that much was certain.

So move, Cable thought.

He pushed up to one knee and waited, listening, then was running again, keeping low and dodging through the brushlike trees. Almost immediately a rifle report whined through the grove. Cable dropped, clawing then, changing his direction and moving down the slope. The firing began again, this time with the sound of a revolver somewhere between fifty and a hundred feet away from him. Cable kept going and the .44 sound hammered after him, five times, until he dropped into a shallow gully.

Cable rolled to his stomach, holstered one of the Colts, and at once began crawling up the narrow wash, up toward the open slope. He moved quickly, using his knees and forearms, until he was almost to the edge of the trees, roughly thirty feet above the spot where he had entered the gully. He stopped then to listen.

There was no sound. Beyond the brush and rock shadows close in front of him, the slope glared with sunlight. He turned, looking back the way he had come, then removed his hat and rolled on his side, resting the Colt on his thigh so that it pointed down the length of the gully.

Minutes passed in dead silence. Then there was a sound; but not close or in the pines. It was the sound of horse’s hoofs, distant, still far out on the meadow.

More of them, Cable thought.

He would have to take Vern quickly, before they came. He would have to keep it even if he expected to come through this.

And if you knew where Vern was maybe you could.

But he didn’t. Vern could be close. Vern could even know he was lying here, and if he ran for the slope, Vern could very possibly drop him. Or even if he moved or stood up.

And if times if equals if, and there’s no getting out of this. No running. Only waiting and letting it happen. Even Forrest waited sometimes. He waited for them to make mistakes. But he would be waiting this time-God, yes, he would be waiting-whether they made mistakes or not.

The horse sound seemed nearer. He concentrated, listening, until he was sure that it was only one horse coming. One rider. One helper for Vern.

Cable pushed up with one hand, trying to see the meadow over the trees below him, but he could see only the far side of the meadow and the willows marking the river and the dark, quiet, cool-looking slope beyond. The rider would be close to this side by now.

Cable’s gaze fell, and held.

Vern Kidston was facing him. Vern not thirty feet away, one leg in the gully, half sitting, half kneeling at the edge of it and partly hidden by the brush. Vern with his revolver extended and watching him.

Neither of them moved. They stared in silence with cocked revolvers pointed at each other. Cable sitting with one hand behind him, the other holding the Colt on his thigh, his face calm and showing clearly in the sunlight that filtered through the trees. Vern’s expression, though partly shadowed and solemn with his mustache covering the corners of his mouth, was as relaxed as Cable’s. The tension was somewhere between them, waiting for one or the other to move. And as the silence lengthened, it seemed that even a spoken word would pull a trigger.

It was in Vern’s tone when finally he said, “Cable,” and waited, as if expecting a reaction.

“I could have killed you,” he said then. “I had my gun on you and you were looking away… Why didn’t I?”

Cable said nothing.

“I could have ended it right then. But I didn’t. Do you know why?” He waited again. “I’m asking you.”

Cable shook his head, though he saw Vern as he had seen him two days ago-a small figure against the front sight of his Spencer-and remembered how he had not been able to pull the trigger. He had thought about it enough and knew the reason why he had held back; but it was not a clear reason; only a feeling and it might be a different feeling with each man. What did Vern feel? At the same time, what difference did it make? Vern had not been able to pull the trigger when he had the chance, and knowing that was enough. But it would be different with him now, Cable thought, just as it’s different with you. The feeling wouldn’t apply or hold either of them back at this point.

Tell him anyway, Cable thought; and he said, “I had my sights on you once. The same thing happened. Though I’m not sure I’d let it happen again.”

“When was that?”

“Two days ago. You were with Lorraine.”

“Why didn’t you shoot?”

“It takes some explaining,” Cable said. “And I’m not sure it makes sense when you say it out loud.”

Vern nodded faintly. “Maybe it’s called leaving it up to the other man.”

“I didn’t start this,” Cable said flatly. “I don’t feel obliged to keep it going either.”

“But you’ll finish what you can,” Vern said. “What about Austin-he’s dead?”

Cable nodded.

“I didn’t think you’d have a chance with him.”

“Neither did he,” Cable said. “That’s why he’s dead.”

“So you killed all three of the Dodd brothers, and Royce-”

“What would you have done?”

“You mean because each time it was them or you?”

“Or my family,” Cable said. “I’m asking what you would have done? Two choices. Run or stand?”

“All right.” Vern paused. “But Duane. That’s something else.”

“I didn’t shoot your brother.”

“There’s no one else would have reason to.”

“Stay with one thing,” Cable said. “I didn’t shoot him.”

“Even after he rawhided you?”

“If I’d wanted to get back at him for that, I’d have used fists. I never felt a beating was a killing thing.”

“That could be true,” Vern said. “But how do I know it is?”

“Whether you believe it or not,” Cable answered, “your gun’s no bigger than mine is.” But he said then, “I told you before, I didn’t leave the house last night.”

“And if you didn’t do it-” Vern began.

“Why couldn’t it have been one of your own men?”

Vern shook his head. “Everybody was accounted for.”

Then it was Janroe, Cable thought, without any doubt of it. He said to Vern, “I can ask you the same kind of question.”

“You mean about your house? I never touched it.”

“Then it was Duane.”

“I know for a fact,” Vern said, “it wasn’t anyone from my place.”

“But you put Royce and Joe Bob on me.”

Again Vern shook his head. “They came on their own.”

“What about Lorraine?”

“I knew about that,” Vern admitted. “I should have stopped her.”

“What was the point of it?”

“Lorraine said wedge something between you and your wife. Split you up and you wouldn’t have a good reason to stay here.”

“Does that make sense to you?”

“I said I should have stopped her.”

“Vern, I’ve lived here ten years. We’ve been married for eight.”

Kidston nodded then, solemnly. “Bill Dancey said you had more reason to fight than I did.”

“What did you say?”

“I don’t remember.”

“Do you believe him?”

“I’ll tell you this,” Vern said. “I’d like to have known you at a different time.”

Cable nodded. “Maybe we would have gotten on. Even worked out this land thing.”

“Even that,” Vern said.

“I would have been willing to let you put some of your horses on my graze,” Cable said, “if it hadn’t started the way it did.”

“Well, it doesn’t matter now,” Vern said.

But it could matter, Cable thought. “We were going to wait each other out,” Cable said. “But Royce and Joe Bob got into it. Then your brother. I wonder how this would have turned out if he were still alive.”

Vern was watching Cable closely. “I wish I could understand you. Either you had nothing to do with killing Duane, or else you’re some actor.”

“Like trying to understand why you brought Wynn and Austin with you,” Cable said. “You’re big enough to make your own fight.”

“When a man’s killed,” Vern said, “it’s no longer a game or a personal contest. It was time to get you, with the best, surest way I had.”

“When the man’s your brother,” Cable said. “When Royce and Joe Bob were killed you went right on waiting.”

“I’ve been wrong,” Vern said, “maybe right from the beginning. I let it get out of hand too. I admit that. But there’s nothing I can do about the ways it’s developed.”

“Then in time you would have backed off,” Cable said, “if nothing had happened to Duane.”

“Well, with the war on I could look on you as an enemy. Kick you off your land and tell myself it was all right. But now that it’s over, I’m not sure about anything, not even my horse business. Though I might probably get a contract from the stage-line people when they start up-”

Cable stopped him. “What did you say?” He was staring at Vern intently. “About the war?”

“It’s over. You knew that, didn’t you?”

“When was it over?”

“A few days ago.”

“You knew it then?”

“We learned yesterday.” Vern seemed to frown, studying Cable’s expression. “Luz knew about it. She mentioned it when I talked to her a while ago.”

“Yesterday,” Cable said.

“She would have learned it yesterday.” Vern nodded.

And if she knew it, Cable thought, so did Janroe. Yesterday. Before Duane was killed. Janroe would have known. He must have known. But still he killed Duane. Could that be?

You could think about it, Cable thought, and it wouldn’t make sense, but still it could be. With anyone else there would be a doubt. But with Janroe there was little room for doubt. This was strange because he hardly knew the man.

But at the same time it wasn’t strange, not when he pictured this man who had lost his arm in the war and who had killed over a hundred Union prisoners. Not when he heard him talking again, insisting over and over that Vern and Duane should be killed. Not when he remembered the feeling of trying to answer Janroe. No, it wasn’t strange, not when he put everything together that he could remember about Janroe.

It could have been Janroe who tore up his house. It occurred to Cable that moment, but at once he was sure of it: Janroe trying to incite him, trying to make him angry enough to go after the Kidstons. Janroe wanting to see them-the enemy, or whatever they were to him-dead, but without drawing blame on himself.

Janroe could even be insane. Something could have happened to him in the war.

No, don’t start that, Cable thought. Just take it at its face value. Janroe killed a man you are being accused of killing. He did it, whether he had reason or not; though the war wasn’t the reason, because the war was over and you are almost as sure as you can be sure of something that he knew it was over. So just take that, Cable thought, and do something with it.

He sat up, raising the Colt, then turned the cylinder, letting the hammer down gently on the empty chamber. Vern did not move; though when Cable looked up again he knew Vern had been taken by surprise and was puzzled.

“We’re wasting our time,” Cable said. “There’s a man we ought to see.”

He began to tell Vern about Janroe.

Luz reached Cable’s dead sorrel before she saw the two horses grazing along the mesquite at the foot of the slope. These would belong to Vern and the one called Austin. She slowed the dun to a walk now, her eyes raised and moving searchingly over the piñon-covered slope. The firing had come from up there, she was sure of it.

But there had been no shots for some time now. They could be hunting for him among the trees. Or it could already be over.

When she saw the two figures coming down through the trees, in view for brief moments as they passed through clearings, she was sure that it was over, that these two were Vern and Austin coming back to their horses. They left the piñon and were down beyond the mesquite for some time. Finally they appeared again and it was not until now that she saw the second man was not Austin but Cable.

She watched them approach with the strange feeling that this could not be happening, that it was a dream. They had been firing at one another; but now they were walking together, both armed, not one bringing the other as a prisoner.

Questions ran through her mind and she wanted to ask all of them at once; but now they were close and it was Cable who spoke first.

“Luz, did Janroe leave the store last night?”

The question took her by surprise. Without a greeting, without an explanation of the two of them together, without wondering why she was here, Cable asked about Janroe. The question must be so important to him that he skipped all of those other things.

She said, hesitantly, “He went to see you last night. But he said you weren’t home.”

“Where is he now, at the store?”

“He was a little while ago.” She remembered him jumping down from the platform, trying to stop her from leaving. “But he’s acting strangely,” she said. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen him the way he was.”

Vern was looking at Cable. “Your wife and kids are there?” When Cable nodded, glancing at Luz again, Vern said, “I think we’d better go see Mr. Janroe.”

Janroe watched Luz until she was almost out of sight. He turned, pausing to brush the dust from his knees, and was aware of Martha in the doorway. He looked up at her; from her expression he knew she had heard Luz.

“Well?” Janroe said.

“I would like to borrow a horse,” Martha said tensely.

“You can’t do anything.”

“Just let me have a horse,” Martha said. “I don’t need anything else from you, least of all advice.”

“And you’ll take your kids with you?”

“I’d like to leave them here.”

Janroe shook his head. “I don’t have time to watch your kids.”

Martha came out on the platform. “You would stop me from going to my husband? At a time like this you would stop me from being with him?”

“You couldn’t help him,” Janroe said. “Neither could I. Luz is wasting her time whether she thinks she’s doing something or not. I tried to stop her, tried to talk some sense into her, but she wouldn’t listen. That’s the trouble with you women. You get all het up and run off without thinking.” He had moved to the platform and was now mounting the steps. “If Vern’s there to talk to your husband, there’s no sense in stopping him. If he’s there for any other reason, none of us could stop him if we tried.”

“You won’t let me have a horse?”

“Sit down on your hands, you won’t be so nervous.”

“Mr. Janroe, I’m begging you-”

“No, you’re not.” He moved her into the store in front of him. “You want to do something, get out in the kitchen and do the dishes.”

Martha didn’t want to back down-he could see that-but there was little she could say as she turned abruptly and walked away, down the length of the store counter.

Janroe said after her, “Don’t leave the house. You hear me? Don’t even open the door less I say it’s all right.”

He waited until she was in the next room before he moved around behind the counter that extended along the front of the store. From under the counter he took a short-barreled shotgun with Hatch & Hodges carved into the stock-it dated from the time the store had been a stage-line station-checked to see that it was loaded, then laid it on the counter.

From a peg behind him he took his shoulder holster with the Colt fitting snugly in it, and looped it over his armless shoulder. He wound the extra-long leather thong, which held the Colt securely, around his chest and tied the end of it deftly with his one hand.

Just in case, he told himself; though you won’t need them. You can be almost absolutely sure of that.

Everything will go all right. Luz would be back within an hour. She would ride in slowly this time, putting off telling Martha what had happened. Then behind her would come Vern and Austin, probably both of the Dodd brothers, with Cable facedown over his horse. Vern would tell it simply, in few words; and if Martha cried or screamed at him, he would say, “He killed my brother.” Or, “He should have thought about his family before he killed Duane.” Or words that said the same thing. Then they would dump his body. Or let it down easy now that it was over and the anger was drained out of them, and ride away.

Then what? Then he would listen to the woman cry, the woman and the kids. There was no way of avoiding that. Afterward, he might even offer his services to the new widow…

Then what? Kill Vern? No, forget about that for now.

Then think about it when the time comes. There was no hurry. He could go back to St. Augustine. Or he could stay here. That would be something, to stay here and be a neighbor of Vern’s. Talk to him about Duane every once in a while, and Cable, and all the trouble Cable caused. That would be something; but the staying here, the living here and letting the time pass, might not be worth it. He would have to weigh that against the once-in-a-while satisfaction of Vern talking to him and not knowing he had killed Duane.

No, there was no hurry. There would be time later on to think of what he would do. With two arms he would have stayed in the army; even though the war was over.

Janroe caught himself. Is it over?

All right, it’s over. You’ve had no word, he thought. But if they want to say it’s over, then it is. It was a good war, part of it was; but now, as of right now, you can say it’s over. You can’t fight people who won’t fight back.

First Luz would come, then Vern. Everything had happened just about the way it was supposed to and there was no reason for it to change now.

Finding Luz gone this morning had affected his nerves. He knew she had gone to see Cable, and he had pictured her telling him that the war was over. Then asking him if he was at home last night. Then why, she would ask, would Janroe lie and say you weren’t home? Then he had pictured Cable coming to the store.

But it had worked out all right. Vern was there before her. Vern seeking vengeance.

So now there was no chance of Cable finding out and eluding Vern or beating him or coming here. No, he would come here, all right, but not alive.

But this damn waiting…

Janroe paced the length of the space behind the counter, but it was too confining. He went out to the loading platform and for some time stood gazing out at the sunlit sweep of the valley; then at the willows and the slope beyond. He went inside again, through the store to the sitting room. From here he saw Martha still in the kitchen. Davis, the older boy, was with her, standing on a chair to put the breakfast dishes away.

He heard a noise from upstairs, then remembered that the other two children were up there. Martha had sent Clare up to make her bed and the younger one had gone with his sister. They’d probably forgotten all about the bed and were playing.

He was out on the platform again in time to see the rider come down the slope and drop from sight behind the willows. Waiting, Janroe was aware of the tight feeling in his stomach and the ache, the dull, muscle ache, in the arm that wasn’t there. But the next moment the tension and the pain were gone. He could feel only relief now, watching Luz appear out of the willows and come toward him across the yard.

He saw her watching him as she came, all the way, until she had reached the platform.

“What happened?”

“It’s over.”

“He’s dead?”

Luz glanced at the doorway behind them, then back to Janroe and nodded quickly.

“Where is he?”

“At home.”

“I thought Vern would be coming.”

Luz shrugged. “I don’t know.” She dismounted and came up on the platform. “I’d better go tell her.”

Janroe stepped aside. “Go ahead.” He said then, “You don’t seem broken up any.”

Luz said nothing.

“Didn’t Vern say he was coming?”

Luz shook her head. “I don’t remember.” She moved past him into the store.

Janroe followed. “Wait a minute. Tell me what happened.”

“After,” Luz said. She hurried now to the next room.

Janroe still stood at the edge of the counter after she was gone.

But why wasn’t she crying? She could be nervous about telling Martha, but she would have cried, if not now sometime before, and she would show signs of it.

From this the suspicion began to build in his mind. Why wouldn’t she tell what happened? She seemed to want to get away from him, to see Martha too quickly; not holding back, putting it off, reluctant to face Martha; but wanting to see her, to tell her…to tell her what?

He moved through the store in long, hurried strides, across the sitting room and saw them in the kitchen, Martha and Luz and the little boy: Martha looked at him, her eyes alive and her hand going to Luz suddenly to stop her. “What’re you telling her?”

Luz turned, stepping back as he came in. “Nothing. I was just beginning-”

“What did she tell you?” He turned to Martha abruptly.

“This doesn’t concern you, Mr. Janroe.”

“Answer me!” His hand clamped on Martha’s arm and he saw her wince, trying to pull away. “She said your husband was still alive, didn’t she? She said not to worry that he was all right, that he was coming.” Janroe shook her violently. “Answer me!”

He heard Luz moving. He wheeled, reaching for her, but she was already past him. “Luz-”

She ran through the store ahead of him, out to the loading platform and jumped. Janroe reached the doorway. He pulled the Colt, cocking it, and screamed her name again, a last warning. But beyond Luz he saw Cable step out of the willows with the Spencer in his hand. Then Vern, closer, running past the corner of the building. Janroe pushed back inside. He thought of Martha and ran into the sitting room in time to see her starting for the stairs. She reached the first step before she heard Janroe and turned to face him.

“You couldn’t leave the two upstairs, could you?” Janroe said.

Now they were in the willows watching the front of the store. Vern had been down farther, in view of the rear door, but he had come back as Luz ran out of the store and Janroe shouted at her.

“That nails it down,” Vern said. “He killed Duane. I wonder what he’s thinking, seeing us together.”

Cable, at the edge of the trees, said nothing.

Luz was staring vacantly at the adobe. “I shouldn’t have run,” she said. “I should be there with your wife and children.”

“You did the best thing,” Cable said.

“But I ran, leaving them alone with him.”

“We shouldn’t have let you do it,” Cable said.

“No,” Vern said. “It was the only way and it had to be tried. It was worth that much.” The plan had been for Luz to tell Janroe that Cable was dead. Then to tell Martha, somehow without Janroe hearing, to take the children and slip out. That would leave Janroe alone in the adobe and in time they would take him. But now they would have to think of something else.

“Where was Martha?” Cable asked Luz.

“In the kitchen.”

“The children with her?”

“Just Davis.” She looked at him then. “Could Clare and Sandy be outside?”

“They’d be close. But I haven’t seen them.” He glanced at Vern. “In back?” When Vern shook his head, Cable said, “Then they’re all inside.”

“He wouldn’t harm them,” Luz said. “He would be too afraid to do that.”

“Now he’ll be thinking of a way out,” Vern said.

“Unless he’s already thought of it.” Cable was still watching the adobe. “I think I’d better talk to him.”

Vern looked at him. “Just walk out there?”

“I don’t know of any other way,” Cable said. He parted the willow branches and started across the yard. Almost at once Janroe’s voice stopped him.

“Stay where you are!”

Luz’s horse, by the loading platform, raised its head at the sound.

Cable’s eyes moved from the screen door to the first window on the right. One of the wooden shutters was open. If Janroe was there he would be in the store, behind the counter that ran along the front wall. Cable started toward the adobe again.

“Stand or I’ll kill you!”

That’s where he was, by the window. Cable was sure of it now.

“Janroe, you’re in enough trouble. Let my family come out.”

There was no answer from the store.

“You hear me? Send them out and nobody will harm you.” He saw Janroe at the window then, part of his head and shoulder momentarily.

“How do I know that?” Janroe’s voice again.

“You’ve got my word.”

“I’ve got something better than your word.”

“Janroe, if you harm my wife and children-”

“I’m through talking to you, Cable!”

“All right”-Cable’s tone lowered, became more calm-“what do you want?”

“I’ll tell you when I’m ready. Go back where you were. Try sneaking up and you’ll hear a shotgun go off.”

Cable stared at the window, not moving.

“Go on!”

“Janroe,” Cable said finally, “if you harm my family you’re a dead man.” He turned then and moved back into the willows to stand with Luz and Vern.

Soon after, Luz’s horse moved away from the platform, the reins dragging. It wandered aimlessly at first, nosing the ground; but finally the horse’s head rose and it came toward them, drawn by the scent of water.

Taking the reins, Luz looked at Cable. “He could threaten us to bring it back. Why doesn’t he?”

“He knows he can do it any time he wants,” Cable answered.

They waited, watching the store and seldom speaking. The afternoon dragged by and there was no word from Janroe; not a sound reaching them from the adobe.

In the late afternoon, with the first red traces of sunset, a rider came down the slope from the horse trail south. It was Manuel, back from Hidalgo. Back for good, he said.

He looked at Vern, then at Cable inquiringly and Cable told it, beginning with Duane and bridging to the present time. They had been here nearly six hours now, waiting for Janroe to make his move. There was nothing they could do. There wasn’t much doubt that Janroe would take a hostage when he decided to make his run. Probably one of the children. Probably, too, he was waiting for dark. But you couldn’t count on anything-it was Luz who added this-because something was wrong with the man’s mind. But Cable was sure Janroe would know they would hold back for fear of harming the child, and Janroe would lose them long before daylight.

The question then, what would he do with his hostage?

Cable said it bluntly, calmly, though his stomach was tight and he felt the unceasing urge through his body to move about and to do something with his hands. To do something.

It was Vern who brought up the question of the back door. “He can’t watch front and back both. Unless he locked the door.”

Manuel shook his head. “There’s no lock on it. But what if he heard you?”

“That’s something else,” Vern said.

The evening came gradually with dusk filtering into the willow grove before seeping in long shadows out toward the adobe store. There were faint sounds of birds up in the ridge pines, but close about them the willows were silent. Later on, perhaps, there would be a breeze and the crickets would begin. But now there was a silence that seemed never to end. They waited.

Luz and Vern sat close to each other and occasionally Cable would hear the murmur of their voices. Janroe had split them apart and now he had brought them back together. Maybe they would get married. Maybe some good would come out of this. Later on-days or weeks, sometime later-he and Vern would talk this out that was between them. Cable remained apart from the others, sitting near the edge of the river and watching the dark water.

After a while he began to think of something Vern had said, about the back door. And Manuel had answered that there was no lock on the door. “But what if he heard you?” Manuel had asked.

But, Cable thought, what if he didn’t hear you?

He pictured himself keeping to the trees until he had reached the barn, then creeping along its shadows, then across the yard and carefully, quietly, into the kitchen. It would already be dark inside the house. But if you bumped something-

No, he thought then, you know the place well enough. You could blind your eyes and walk through the house without touching or bumping anything.

Janroe wouldn’t expect anyone and there would be no sound. Janroe would be by the window watching Martha and the children, but glancing outside often. He would creep to the doorway that led into the store, see Janroe and be very sure of killing him with the first shot.

An hour passed. It was dark in the willows now and the last red traces of sun were gone from the sky. Cable kneeled at the sandy edge of the river to drink, cupping the water in his hands.

In the other time, Martha would be getting the children ready for bed now. They would come in and kiss him goodnight before Martha sat with them on the bed, their eyes wide and watching her, while she told them a story.

There had been a story the children liked and asked for often, about the little girl and her brother who were lost in the forest. When night came, the little girl began to cry and her brother put his arm around her. They sat huddled together, shivering with cold and listening to the night sounds. And when it seemed they could bear no more, neither the cold nor the frightening sounds, the little girl’s guardian angel appeared and led them through the forest to their home.

The children liked the story because it was easily imagined and because of the good feeling of being safely at home while they pictured themselves in the frightening dark.

Soon part of this story would come to life for one of his children. Janroe would take one of them as a hostage, because a child would be easier to handle than Martha. He would need only one horse and hold the child in front of him on the saddle, moving south toward the border and keeping to the wild terrain that offered good cover. But somewhere along the way, when he was sure he had lost the ones trailing him, when he no longer needed his hostage, Janroe would drop the child.

He would have no concern for the child’s life. There was no reason even to hope that he might. It could be Sandy. Three years old and alone somewhere in the vast, trackless rock country to the south. If they didn’t find him-and it would be almost as miraculous as the story if they did-the boy would survive perhaps two days.

So you have no choice, Cable thought. He would have to stop Janroe before he left the store.

Or while he was leaving it-

Cable pushed himself erect. Perhaps that was it. With the back door idea to make it work.

Perhaps as Janroe came out with the child in front of him. But it would be a long shot, too far, and even now there wasn’t enough light. But say Vern worked his way around to the side of the adobe and waited there. That could be done.

Janroe would come out, would call for one of them to come unarmed with a horse, threatening to shoot the child if he wasn’t obeyed. He would mount first and pull his hostage up in front of him. Or he would put the child up first. Either way, there would be a moment when Janroe would be seen apart from the child.

That was the time. You’ll be there, Cable thought. Through the store as he walks out, right behind him, and fire from the doorway, from close range.

But if the child was in the way then it would be Vern’s shot. Vern shooting from about fifty feet, in the dark.

There was no other way.

When he presented his plan to the others there were objections; but finally, after talking it out and seeing no alternatives, they agreed to it. After that each of them thought about what he would do.

Martha sat on an empty packing case with her arm around Davis next to her. It was dark in the store with the night showing in the doorway and in the window behind Janroe. The counter separated them. On it, pointed at Martha and the boy, was the shotgun. It was within easy reach of Janroe sitting on a high stool with the cold revolver in his hand.

Davis stirred, squirming on the wooden case, making it creak and causing Janroe to look at them. Martha’s hand, with her arm around him, patted Davis gently. There was no sound from the other children now.

They were still locked in the upstairs bedroom and through the long afternoon Martha had listened to the faint sounds of their crying. Perhaps they were asleep now, even though they were frightened and had had nothing to eat since breakfast.

That seemed such a long time ago.

First Luz coming, riding in with the excitement on her face and talking to Janroe. Then returning, coming into the kitchen and telling her that it was over and that Cable was alive.

Then Janroe. She remembered the fear, the desperation in his eyes as he herded them upstairs, pushing them to make them hurry. He made Davis go into the bedroom where Clare and Sandy were playing; but as if something occurred to him, he brought Davis out and locked the door. He herded them downstairs again; closed the kitchen door and kicked at it angrily when he saw it had no lock. From the kitchen he moved them into the store, where they now sat.

When Cable came out of the trees and Janroe called to him to halt, Martha stood up. She caught only a glimpse of her husband in the yard before Janroe ordered her to sit down. Once Cable’s voice rose threateningly and Martha tensed, seeing the strained look of desperation come over Janroe’s face again.

But as the morning stretched into afternoon, Janroe seemed to gain confidence. Gradually his expression became calm and he sat quietly on the stool, his movements, as he looked from the yard to Martha, less nervous and abrupt.

Martha noticed it. She watched him closely, noting each change in his manner as he became more sure of himself. Occasionally, as he looked outside, her eyes would drop to the shotgun on the counter. It was five feet away, no more than that; but it was pointed at her. It would have to be picked up and turned on Janroe; while all he had to do was raise his revolver a few inches and pull the trigger.

Twice she asked him what had happened, why he was holding them; but both times he refused to talk about it.

Janroe came off the stool when Luz’s horse wandered from the platform to the trees. He stood at the window, his attention turned from Martha longer than at any time before. But finally he sat down again.

“My horse left me,” Janroe said, looking at Martha. “But all I have to do is call and they’ll bring it back.” He seemed to be reassuring himself.

Martha watched him. “Then you’re leaving?”

“In time.”

“Alone?”

“Now wouldn’t that be something.”

“I didn’t think so.”

“Your boy’s going with me.”

Martha hesitated. “Will you take me instead?”

Janroe shook his head. “Him. He’s big enough to hold on, little enough to be managed.”

Martha felt Davis close to her. She glanced down at his hand in her lap, then at Janroe again. “What will you do to him?”

“That’s up to him. Tell him if he cries or tries to run, I’ll hurt him something awful.” Janroe’s eyes moved from the boy to Martha. “He’s no good to me dead; least not while I’m getting away from here.”

“And after that?”

Janroe shrugged. “I suppose I’ll let him go.”

“Knowing he’d be lost, and possibly never found?”

“Honey, I’ve got to look out for myself.”

“If you leave him or harm him in any way,” Martha said quietly, “my husband will kill you.”

“If he finds me he’ll try.”

“He gave you his word,” Martha said. “If you release us, he’ll let you go.”

“But will Vern?”

“At least talk to him again,” Martha urged. “Tell him where you’ll leave our boy.”

“That would be like giving myself up.”

They spoke only occasionally after that. Now the room was silent but for Davis’s restless movement. Martha watched Janroe, seeing his heavy-boned profile against the dull gray light behind him.

She thought of Clare and Sandy upstairs and of Davis, not looking at him, but feeling his small body pressed close to her side. If Janroe left with him she might never see her son again. Janroe would sacrifice Davis, admitting it with an offhand shrug, to save his own life. Could that happen? Would God let something like that happen?

No, she thought, don’t blame God.

Cabe had an idea about that. People, he said, blamed God for bad luck because they had to blame somebody. Some things you can do something about, and with God’s help you can do it even better. But others you can’t do anything about, so you wait and try not to worry or feel sorry for yourself.

Which was this?

You can do something, Martha thought. Because you have to do something.

Her eyes went to the shotgun. A dull, thin line of light extended from the breech to the blunt end of the barrel. Two steps to the counter, Martha thought. Her right hand would go to the trigger, raising the gun, swinging it on Janroe at the same time. Three seconds to do that. Four at the most. But it would take him only one.

Janroe turned from the window. “All right. Tell him he’s going with me.”

“You won’t talk to my husband again? To Vern?”

“Tell him!”

She saw Janroe turn to the window again and call out, “Cable-send Luz over here with the horse!” He waited. “You hear me? Just Luz. If anybody else comes I’ll kill your boy.” His voice rose to a shout. “I mean it!”

Then it’s now, Martha thought. She could feel her heart beating as she bent close to Davis and whispered to him. The boy started to speak, but she touched his mouth with the tips of her fingers, her own lips still close to his ear, telling him calmly, carefully, what he would have to do. The boy nodded and Martha kissed his cheek.

Janroe was looking at her again. “Is he ready?”

Martha nodded.

“As soon as she starts over with the horse, we go out to the platform.”

Janroe’s elbow rested on the window sill, his right shoulder against the side frame. The Colt in his hand was close to his body and pointed to just below the top of the counter.

When he moves it, Martha thought. The moment he turns.

Janroe looked out, but the Colt remained in the same position. Martha’s gaze held on it. She heard him call out again, “Luz, bring the horse! You hear me? Luz-”

Janroe wheeled, seeing Martha already at the counter. She was less than four feet from him, raising the shotgun, turning it on him. He slashed out with the Colt, knocking the barrel aside as Martha’s finger closed on one trigger. The blast was almost in his face and he struck the barrel again, lunging against the counter and turning Martha with the force of the blow.

“Janroe?”

Martha heard it-Cable’s voice-and in the same moment saw Janroe’s Colt swing toward the sound of it. Cable was in the doorway to the sitting room. He fired and Janroe stumbled against the wall. Cable fired again, but this shot smashed into the window frame. Janroe was already moving. He had been hit in the body, but he reached the doorway and lunged out to the platform.

Vern stepped away from the corner of the building. He fired three times, deliberately, taking his time, each shot finding Janroe, the last one toppling him from the edge of the platform.

Martha felt Cable move past her, past Davis, moving, quickly but making almost no sound in his stockinged feet. She thought of the children upstairs.

“Davis, get Clare and Sandy.”

She heard the boy run into the darkness of the next room before she turned and walked out to the platform to where Cable stood at the edge. Martha looked down, not seeing Janroe on the ground, but thinking of her children and her husband and wanting to be held.

The shotgun barrel slipped through her fingers until the stock touched the boards. She let it fall, feeling Cable’s arm come around her.