Rio Largo

Chapter 12

Saber was having a grand old time. He’d always thought that running a saloon would be the perfect job if he ever decided to give up riding the high lines and become respectable. Not that he ever would. For as fond as he was of whiskey and cards, he was fonder of danger.

Straitlaced churchgoers would find it hard to comprehend, but Saber relished the outlaw life. Stealing, killing, mayhem, they were nectar to his jaded senses, intoxicating in their sweetness—addicting, too, in that once he had started down the bloody and violent path he craved, he couldn’t stop. To always do as he pleased, to satisfy his every whim and craving, that was real living. To do as the common herd of humanity, to abide by laws and rules made by others, was to live in a prison bounded by invisible bars.

On this bright and sunny afternoon, with the surrounding peaks of the Nacimiento Mountains towering high in the sky, Saber stood behind the bar of the Wolf Pass Saloon sipping the best coffin varnish in the place, and gazed out the open door. Some of his men were asleep in the back. Others lounged at the tables, playing cards and drinking.

“Yes, sir, boys,” Saber declared. “This here is the life.”

The comment caused Creed and Twitch to stand and come over. Both were in sour moods, and Saber could guess why.

“What will it be, gents?”

“Enough of this playactin’,” Twitch said. “How much longer do we have to sit around twiddlin’ our thumbs?”

Saber bristled. The merest hint of disagreement always angered him. Only by force of will did he keep his wild bunch in line. They must never suspect weakness, or they would turn on him like a pack of starving wolves. That was how it was done. “How many times must we go over the same damn thing?” he snapped.

“I am bored,” Creed said. “I don’t like doin’ nothin’.”

“Is that what you call this?” Saber gestured. “A roof over our heads. All the booze we can drink. Enough food in the pantry to last us a good long while. And what do you two do? Complain.”

“That’s not fair,” Twitch groused. “It’s not you we’re gripin’ about. It’s the waitin’.”

“We can’t move until the time is right,” Saber said with rare patience, “and the time won’t be right until Hijino and Dunn have the Circle T and the DP at each other’s throats.”

Twitch smirked. “I’ve got to hand it to you, cousin. This is your best brainstorm ever. We’ll make more money than we ever dreamed, once we sell off all those cows and help ourselves to whatever else is worth havin’.”

“I am still bored,” Creed said.

Were it any other member of his gang, Saber would browbeat them into submission. But he had to handle the black with care. They were all killers, but Creed was the worst. He would kill anyone, anything, anywhere, anytime. Creed was the only one of them Saber secretly feared might turn on him if pushed too far.

“Why don’t you go practice with your six-shooters? That always makes you happy.”

“I did that yesterday.”

“Well then—” Saber began, but stopped when Creed shifted and tilted his head as if listening to something in the distance. The black’s senses were uncanny. Creed heard things long before any of them, saw objects too far off for anyone else to see. “What is it?”

“Someone comes.”

Saber smiled in anticipation. Two days ago a rotund drummer had shown up on his way north. An old acquaintance of Mort’s, he had been surprised when Saber told him the former owner sold the saloon and lit out for Denver.

“I thought Mort loved this place,” the drummer had said. “He told me he would live out the rest of his days here.”

Saber had shrugged. “I made him an offer he couldn’t rightly say no to.” He then changed the subject by offering the drummer a free drink, and listened to the fool babble about how hard it was to sell ladies’ corsets for a living.

“Females are fussy creatures. They always want the best corset money can buy, but they always want it at half price.”

“That’s only natural,” Saber commented. He had as much interest in corsets as he did in the mating habits of toads.

“Easy for you to say, my good man. You don’t have to put up with their endless griping.”

“If the work bothers you so much, do something else.” Saber thought that a nice touch, since he had no intention of letting the idiot leave Wolf Pass alive.

“Ah. But there are compensations. I get to travel. I get to meet new people. And sometimes—not very often, but on occasion—a lady will let me help her try on a corset.” The drummer’s piglet eyes sparkled with lust. “Those are the moments I live for, as would any man with blood in his veins.”

Saber was of the opinion that if you had seen one naked female, you had seen them all. Oh, some were short and some were tall, some were skinny and some were heavyset, but they all had the same body parts, and one breast was as good as another under the sheets.

Saber had taken as much of the drummer’s prattle as he could stand, and when the drummer went to use the outhouse, he signaled to Creed. Shortly thereafter, Creed came back in with the forty-seven dollars the drummer had on him.

The coyotes feasted well that night.

Now Saber went to the door and gazed at the point where a rutted track merged into the clearing from the southeast. In under five minutes, a pair of riders appeared. Right away, Saber pegged them as prospectors. They were cut from the same coarse cloth: unkempt, weather-beaten clothes, bushy beards. Each man led a pack animal laden with the tools of their hardscrabble trade. Angling to the hitch rail, they stiffly climbed down.

Saber stepped outside, plastering a smile on his face. “How do, gents? Welcome to the Wolf Pass Saloon.”

The pair had rifles crooked in their elbows, and each wore a brace of pistols. “How do, yourself,” said the burliest. “I’m Zeb, and this here rascal is my pard, Roscoe.”

Saber indicated the pack horses. “Off into the mountains after gold or silver, I take it?”

“Either will do,” Zeb drawled. “We’re not particular about how we get rich.”

“Just so we do,” Roscoe amended with a chuckle.

Prospecting was difficult work, the rewards never certain. Saber had a much more practical way of meeting his needs. He regarded nugget hounds as greed-blinded yaks, but he kept that to himself and said, “Care to wet your throats? I’ve got red-eye that will curl your toes.”

“And put hair on our chests?” Zeb joked. He already had more hair than a bear. His wrists and the backs of his hands were covered.

“Heard about any strikes in these parts?” Roscoe asked.

“Afraid not,” Saber answered. “Most folks don’t go that far in, and those that do are more interested in keepin’ their scalps than rootin’ in the ground.” Actually, he had no idea how many used the pass each year.

“That’s fine by us,” Zeb said. “It means the ore is still there, waitin’ for us to find it.”

“We’re overdue for a strike,” Roscoe remarked.

Saber never could understand ore hounds. They were dreamers, chasing elusive wisps. Their chances of striking it rich were about the same as that of a cow sprouting wings. His way was better. He simply took whatever he wanted, whenever he wanted it.

“Never expected to find a saloon so far up in these mountains,” Zeb commented as he strolled in.

“I don’t suppose you have a dove or two workin’ for you?” Roscoe asked hopefully. “It’s been a spell since I fondled me a female.”

“The only doves hereabouts are squaws,” Saber said, “and they don’t cotton much to white folks.”

“I lived with an Injun gal once,” Zeb said. “Bought her from her pa for a couple of horses and a blanket. She wasn’t much of a talker, but she could cook. At night she was a regular wonderment.” He winked at Saber.

Roscoe snickered. “That’s about all women are good for, anyway. Unless you count complainin’.”

Saber went behind the bar, while the two prospectors idly surveyed the room, showing little interest in anyone else. “What will it be?”

Zeb placed his Sharps rifle on the counter with a loud thump and noisily smacked his lips. “Bug juice. I’m not finicky, so long as it burns goin’ down.”

Roscoe stared at Creed as if he had never beheld a black before. “Same here,” he parroted.

As Saber set out glasses and chose a bottle, he debated what to do with them. Other than their guns and their horses, they had nothing of value. He was inclined to let them ride away. Then Roscoe leaned toward him so as not to be overheard.

“How come you let him in here?”

“Him who?”

“The nigger. Where I come from, their kind ain’t allowed to mix with our kind. It’s not decent.”

Saber savored the icy chill that washed over him. He opened the bottle and slid it toward them. “Help yourselves. The first drink is on the house.”

Roscoe resumed digging his own grave. “So what if we can’t keep ’em as slaves anymore. Niggers ought to know their place.”

“Did you hear him?” Saber hollered to Creed. “This gent says blacks have no business minglin’ with whites.”

Everyone in the saloon froze. All sound ceased. Roscoe’s mouth opened and closed a few times until, coughing, he sputtered, “What in hell did you do that for?”

“We don’t want no trouble,” Zeb said.

Creed slowly set down his glass. He slowly turned and just as slowly came toward them. His features might as well have been carved from marble.

Twitch shadowed him, giggling in anticipation.

“We don’t want no trouble,” Zeb said again, to Creed this time. “My partner didn’t mean anything.”

“That’s right,” Roscoe nervously bleated, his eyes on Creed’s Remingtons. “I was makin’ small talk.”

“Pitiful,” Saber said. “Downright pitiful. They have no more gumption than a couple of chipmunks.”

Creed stopped about six feet from the prospectors. “I’ll let you jerk your hardware first.”

“Now hold on,” Roscoe said. “I meant no disrespect. I was just tellin’ this fella how things are in some parts of the country.”

“You should be worried about how things are here,” Creed said. “A minute from now, you’ll be in the hereafter.”

Zeb surveyed the saloon as if hoping someone would side with his partner and him, and when no one did, he appealed to Saber. “What kind of place are you runnin’ here, anyhow? Invite us in for drinks, then stand by and do nothin’ when this darkie threatens to blow out our wicks?”

“Some days it just doesn’t pay to get up, does it?” Saber asked.

“I don’t get this,” Roscoe declared. “Somethin’ ain’t right.”

A human statue, Creed was waiting for them to claw at their hardware. From experience, Saber knew that the black could stand still for hours. Creed was like an Apache in that respect. It was spooky.

“Well?” Zeb prodded. “Say somethin’!”

Saber took a swig from the bottle. Wiping his mouth with his sleeve, he responded, “You brought this on yourselves, boys. The only thing to do now is take your medicine.”

“Damn it.” Zeb was fingering his Sharps. “We’re goin’ to back on out, nice and peaceful like.”

“All we want is to be left be,” Roscoe said.

“You’ll never reach the door.”

Ignoring Saber, moving as if they were stepping on eggshells, the prospectors sidled toward the entrance. “That’s it,” Zeb said, covering the rest. “Don’t anyone be hasty, and we’ll all live to see the sun set.”

Roscoe had not taken his eyes off Creed. He seemed mesmerized, like a bird unable to look away from the snake about to devour it.

“I will give you to three,” the black said.

Zeb grew ashen. “Please. We don’t want to spill blood. How about if we say we’re sorry? Would that satisfy you?”

“One,” Creed counted.

“God Almighty, this can’t be happenin’!” Roscoe exclaimed. “What sort of man are you that you would gun us down over a trifle?”

“Two,” Creed said.

“Please,” Zeb pleaded. “We apologize. We’re as sorry as sorry can be.” He had the Sharps in front of him, the muzzle angled at the tables.

“Three.” Creed’s hands swooped and rose. In unison, the nickel-plated Remingtons gleamed and boomed.

Zeb and Roscoe both cried out as their right knees were shot out from under them. Zeb pitched onto his other knee and tried to level his Sharps, but took a second slug in the shoulder that smashed him to the floor. Roscoe clutched at the bar to stay upright, grimacing in agony, and screeched when the lead bored through his vitals.

Creed methodically emptied his pistols into the pair, shot after shot after shot, until the hammers clicked on spent cartridges. He did not check the bodies for signs of life. There was no need. They were shot to pieces.

Saber rose onto his toes to peer over the bar at the spreading pools of scarlet. “You know, you’re right,” he said. “I’m startin’ to get bored, too. That wasn’t half the fun I figured it would be.”

Twitch hunkered and dipped a finger in the blood. Tittering, he drew red circles on the cheeks of both prospectors, then wiped his fingers clean on Zeb’s shirt. “I hope we hear from Dunn and Hijino soon.”

“Makes two of us,” Saber said. “I have a powerful hankerin’ to kill a heap of cowboys.”