Lucky Billy (10 page)

"He's changed his mind on that."

"It's been changed for him, you mean," Widenmann snorted. "You know who calls the shots."

"Where's the Englishman? Hiding?"

"Harry's back in Lincoln."

"He wasn't there when we left."

"Maybe you didn't look hard enough."

Matthews folded the writ of attachment and slid it inside his coat. "What's all this?" He waved at the barricades.

Widenmann became huffy. "We are here to protect Harry's interests."

"Then where is he? Where's—
Harry?
" Matthews held the name at arm's length like a rat caught in pie.

All at once, Dick Brewer shouted from the barricade, "Who's hungry out there? We were just about to eat." Matthews and Widenmann looked at each other, eyes suddenly adrift. Matthews shrugged; his posse dismounted. Inside the barricade, Billy muttered to Fred, "What the hell is Brewer doing?"

"Exercising Christian charity."

"Hell, we just fed."

"Pretend to like it again."

"No kidding, Fred, what's he up to anyway?"

"What's he up to? Better to occupy jittery hands with spoons instead of guns."

Standing out there, Widenmann looked lost. The posse hurdled the wall and inside the barricades milled about looking deadly while Gauss handed out the scraped tin plates and pointed at the pot still steaming on the fire and said, "Chuck away." Sheepishly, Widenmann climbed the wall, too. Dick Brewer asked Matthews where Sheriff Brady was. "Wait," said Widenmann.

Matthews turned to him. "Speak up, clot."

"I have warrants for the arrest of Jesse Evans, Frank Baker, and Tom Hill. Some posse you are—with thieves and criminals!"

"We've been deputized," said Matthews.

Jesse Evans tossed his plate aside and approached Widenmann and swung his carbine by the lever all the way around, catching it cocked and pointing inches from his belly. Billy knew Evans; he liked to terrorize people. His gray eyes were dead and his thin lips cracked but his fashion of intimidation was to smile and kindly angle his head with concern. "You've got a warrant for
me?
"

"That is my business. Why are you with this posse?"

"To enforce the law, Gretchen."

"My law takes precedence. I have the authority."

"A gun is pretty good authority."

Leaning back against the barricade, Frank Baker turned to Buckshot Roberts and declared for all to hear, "What's the use of talking? Pitch in and fight and kill these Englishman's catamites." As Evans had, Baker threw his plate aside and playfully swung his pistol on his finger then held it to his cheek and aimed it at Widenmann. Billy drew his gun; his heart was in his neck. The rest of Tunstall's men levered their rifles and also drew, some squatting, some sitting. They were at a disadvantage; only Widenmann stood. Back in Lincoln, Mr. Tunstall had remarked that Baker's face supported the Darwinian theory, and Billy studied it now; his lowering brow and broad nose and thick neck and small pink ears did resemble an ape's. Both he and Buckshot Roberts had been shoveling stew into their mouths as though stoking boilers, although as everyone knew Roberts could barely lift his spoon due to the buckshot he carried in his shoulder.

On Roberts's other side, Billy Morton asked William Bonney, seated next to Fred with his hat on his boots, "You still piss the bed, Kid?"

"I still piss in your mouth."

"You ought to have smelled his blankets in the morning," Morton told the assembly.

"You ought to have smelled his dick," said the Kid, "when he finished with Baker."

Smiling, Jesse Evans still held his rifle inches from Widenmann's jiggling gut. Baker hawked, a cloud crossed the sun. Don't exhale, Billy thought, just quietly leak air. No one moved. Then it was over. As though shaking off a spell, Evans lowered his rifle, the rest looked around and holstered their guns. But Billy had noticed Matthews and Evans exchanging furtive glances and kept his hand on the Thunderer's butt just in case. Matthews announced that he and the posse would ride back to Lincoln and get further instructions from Sheriff Brady. While they climbed the barricade and returned to their horses, Billy stood and dusted off his pants, Fred continued eating, and Widenmann, shaking, turned to Dick Brewer and remonstrated with him about mollycoddling cutthroats. Brewer said, "It was all we could do. It's clear what their intentions are. They don't care about the stock. They're after Mr. Tunstall. It's a simple trick, Rob. Allow him to take those seven horses and mules then arrest him for stealing them. They'll say they were attached."

"Where is Harry now?" Widenmann asked. "He was supposed to be here. Is he in Lincoln?" He searched Brewer's face but the latter turned away. The handsomest man in Lincoln County gazed at the last of the posse riding off, and seemed detached, unperturbed. He's a soothsayer, Billy thought.

The soothsayer made an utterance. "I don't think he's in Lincoln. I'm not sure where he is."

"Why did you help fortify this place if all you wish is to talk?"

"If they come up firing, that's one thing, Rob, even if they do outnumber us. Let them take the first shot. I believe they did not intend to waste their bullets unless Mr. Tunstall was among us. They want to arrest him."

Billy looked at Fred. "Is that what this was about?"

"Uh-huh."

Widenmann began to splutter. "If that's the case and they back—get back to Lincoln and find Harry gone they'll just return with more men. You know how those fiends play their cards. They want Harry to fight."

"He's thought of asking John Chisum to borrow some of his waddies. Enough of Chisum's men combined with our hands might discourage those hotheads."

"So he does intend to fight!"

"He intends to prevent one. It's wise to be strong."

"It's wiser to give no quarter, Richard. Look at me, I feel—I feel like a coward. I feel like a coward! I have the authority to arrest those cattle thieves and I haven't done it."

"Man up, Rob."

"Now they're getting away!"

"Get a hold of yourself. Lower your voice. You've done dandy so far. We'll have our chance."

The Kid watched Dick Brewer. With his strong nose, blue eyes, high brow, mop of curly hair, and iron-clamp jaw, he gave nothing away, you couldn't ruffle the man. That's the way to be. In front of him, Widenmann continued spluttering. Matthews had said he'd get instructions from Brady but Widenmann now declared he knew better, Matthews would go directly to Dolan. In that case, Rob would return to Lincoln, too, he announced to Brewer, and find Harry and get instructions from
him.
Meanwhile, he paced back and forth—Mr. Tunstall's only error in judgment, thought Billy. Rob took out his warrants, read and refolded them, tucked them back in his coat. He'd write a letter to the Boys, he now announced, and to no one in particular he recited its contents. "It would go like this. Dear Messrs. Evans, Baker, and Hill, you
Hunde,
you ... savages, if you try to collar Harry you will hear the gentle report of my gun, that is the kind of hairpin I am. How does that sound? This thing of horse thieves being on a sheriff's posse may do in some places but it has gotten thin with me. Yours truly, Robert Widenmann."

Fred said, "Try Yours on the first dark stormy night, Rob.'"

"'Yours on this side of hell, Rob,'" said Billy.

"That's good," said Widenmann, pointing at the Kid. '"Yours on this side of hell, Rob.'"

***

MUCH BELOVED FATHER
, I am almost used up, I've just about had it, how dare you cut me short with no further emolument? I am still below par, my machinery was compelled to make forced marches from Lincoln to Roswell before going to my ranch when it should have been standing still for repairs, and when shall I ever find the time to rest up and recruit?

Crossing the desert on horseback, Tunstall made a fist and struck his thigh with it. Mormon Pussy's withers indifferently rippled.

I am at death's door, he mentally scribbled, and certified dead if I don't make this effort, sitting on saddle all day and all night without food or water. I really do think I am as tough as anyone, about as tough as any cowboy and as tough as a merchant like you, Beloved Father, who has to beat out competitors just to get his share of market. Have you ever had to commit bloody murder for the sake of a sale? And what did Mother think of that? Or did you merely sit comforted by a glowing fire while your minions carried out your wishes? I've been adamant that nothing should give the other side an occasion for violence, you'd be proud of me, Father. Lots of fellows ... decent fellows ... in my shoes would not have done as much. I am of course well established, the Mexicans think that El Inglés does not dress and put on quite as much style as they would do if they
vale tanto
(were worth as much as he)
Pero es muy buen hombre, muy rico
(but he is a first-rate man and very rich). I can think in parentheses and capital letters, even italics, and translate my lingo, I have a clarity of purpose, make my points well, good points, very fine points, against ubiquitous chicanery, against thieves, desperadoes, corrupt officials, and cutthroat Irish, all of whom have had the laws altered to suit their greedy purposes. If you could realize the odds I have had against me you would be astonished that I ever made a point. I will beat them as sure as they live. As
they live.

The cold sun over Tunstall's right shoulder cast a foreshortened shadow across the yellow track. Before him, the horizon made a perfect semicircle. He was riding into sky.

This winter is a very cold one, Mother, you would not like it. Or else being fagged out and rheumatic I feel it more than I did the last, though I'm able to drive a hard pull against the wind without using gloves so I guess I am as tough as ever. You must think of me as tough, very, very tough, and I cannot regardless be near death's door though I've suffered a good deal with rheumatism on this ride. There is a local peculiarity in the atmosphere that catches a rheumatic subject every time and my knees ached a great deal as I rode across the flatlands on the way to Chisum's ranch. I was on the qui vive, I saw their purported writ of attachment and discovered an irregularity in it and had it set aside, you'd be proud of your son. Those fellows would steal the eyes out of a man's head if he did not have them peeled all the time, they have not, however, so far scored a single point in my game.
Not a single point.
I made this trip to make
a very fine point
and I think I have made it. Chisum thinks so too. I rode clown to South Spring to ask his assistance and he generously offered it. A few of John Chisum's jinglebob cowboys would supplement my forces and protect my ranch from the best-armed posse.

This anticipative script reassured Tunstall, though he'd not yet managed to stay the court's writ; nor had he quite arrived at Chisum's ranch. Perhaps forethought would function as a kind of charm and become self-fulfilling when he actually got there.

Mother, please explain to Father that an additional £300 per annum for overhead would secure his investments, for the cost of doing business in a country as peculiarly circumstanced as this one couldn't possibly have been foreseen, Mother. I have so far acquired a great deal of good property that has not yet had time to turn around and pay and I am out of pocket on several turns I have not had time to work because—I mean to say—mind you, this unexpected impediment—I am working out my
original
plan as fast as my circumstances (which look pretty sticky) will—Did you think it would be a jolly bed of roses, Mam? I approached Chisum's ranch in the early part of morning beneath a frozen sun. Fruit trees, orchards, cottonwoods, corrals, all poor and naked in the cruel light. The adobe house seemingly abandoned with its
pretil,
its parapet with the portholes on top, for defense against attack. But no one was about.

Tunstall climbed off his mare. The fifty-mile ride all the way from Lincoln couldn't possibly have been a waste of time, could it? He'd begun last night, ridden all clay today, felt dog-tired and bitter, but he would complete the gesture,
by Jove,
what choice did he have? He'd anticipated Chisum's
generous offer
too much to admit he hadn't really expected the man not to be home. When the door swung open and Jim Chisum, not John, stood there smiling—his own comic version of his brother's face dominated by the nose, smiling drearily at Tunstall—his heart shriveled in his chest.

Less than an hour later he was back on the trail having wolfed the eggs and beans the Chisum coosie'd whipped up, having watered and fed poor Mormon Pussy, having ... come a cropper. With John Chisum not home and the jinglebob cowboys out riding the line, there was no help here and all was wrong with the world. Perhaps the cattle baron had known he was coming and conveniently vanished, now that push had come to shove and Lincoln County seemed on the verge of war. Tunstall plunged his hands into Mormon Pussy's mane heading southwest toward his own ranch, another forty miles away. The wind was from the west, deceptively slack, but he couldn't peel the cold off his ungloved hands, and how foolish of him to leave without gloves!

He pictured himself alone on the prairie as though inching across the face of the moon. In fact, he was alone on the prairie. And indeed, it resembled the face of the moon in its yellow-brown featureless vapidity.

By early afternoon the flat land had opened up, the hills begun to rise. He dropped into the canyon though he knew he was climbing it, the entire folded land rolling up from this point. The wind was now unforgiving and bitter; his hands had grown numb. The sky was the blue of solid ice in the mountains. You can fancy me nearly perished with cold, having a pretty tough time all around, Father. All this stealing of my property has put me back terribly. These are surely matters that a comfortable squire like
you
have always been has
no
conception of, in your warm feather bed. In your paneled office. In your coach and four with blanket and fur hat and the hand- and foot-warmers full of hot coals. The cost of securing investments in a land lawless as to business, though holding up a painted picture of judges and warrants and writs and other documents universally known to be farcical is ... is ... I must say ... It is a byword among these parts,
hem hem,
that men expect to be paid, and well paid at that, for going on the warpath. Just like you, Papa. When I get my dander up, I'm liberal but prejudiced, charming but arrogant, humble but righteous, the spitting image of my pater. I've been known to win favor and popularity while seemingly indifferent, above the fray if you please. Not at all, not at all. I came here because it's where California was twenty years ago, the idea being to strike while the iron's ... to get in on the ground...