Читать книгу Showdown at Gila Bend - Kingsley West - Страница 6

GILA Bend hadn’t changed much. What was new Latigo noticed at once. The bank was brick and plaster now and the church had been painted white. The boardwalk followed the corner of the bank and turned east. The day was still bright, shades were drawn, window glass glinted in the light, the street between unpainted frame buildings caked mud, rutted by a thousand wheel rims. He walked the gelding, looking for faces that he knew. Nobody waved a hat or cried his name. Coming back wasn’t what he had expected.

At the blacksmith’s, where he watered the horse, a round-faced sweating man in a split leather apron strode out into the light. “Something I can do for you, mister?”

“Was looking for the Land Office,” said Latigo. “Figured it was over by the bank.”

“Used to be, then the bank got bigger. Land Office moved. Keep going the way you’re headed. It’s up by the sheriff’s office.”

“Thanks.”

The blacksmith wiped his red face. “If you’re looking for work, son,” he said. “Kincaid is the man to see.”

“Hear he’s the big man in these parts.”

The man on the ground nodded. “Sure,” he said. “He’s big but he’s not any bigger than the boots he wears. Doesn’t affect me none. If a man rides a horse he’s got to come to me. Could give you a job myself, if you know anything about smithy work.”

“Right now I’m not looking for work,” said Latigo. “Besides, what I know most about’s not in your line.”

“What do you know about, mister?”

“Cattle,” said Latigo. “Horses . . . know some about guns, too.”

The smith looked him over quickly. “You another hired gun?” he asked sharply.

“No.”

“How come you’re not wearing guns?”

“I’m a peaceable man. Didn’t know I’d need to.” Latigo touched his hat. “Thanks for the information. When my horse needs looking at I’ll bring him in.”

“Sure. Have to wait your turn.”

Four men walked out of the sheriff’s office into the light. All of them wore guns. The sheriff followed and stood on the boardwalk. Three of the men were young lean-bodied fellows with straight backs and narrow jaws. Latigo idled his horse and watched the dark man with the sullen good looks who had come out second best in the fight. Since then he’d washed his face and there was no blood on his lips but the marks of another man’s fist remained. All three men seemed of an age. Hired guns, he thought.

The fourth was older, used to the sun, smooth-faced and clean-shaven. His voice was strong with authority. His boots were polished and the white shirt he wore clean that morning. “You tell the judge what I said,” he ordered and hoisted himself into the saddle.

The sheriff was quick to speak. “Yes, Mister Kincaid, I’ll tell him. I’ll go see him right away.”

“It’s got to be done legal, you understand.”

This was Kincaid. Latigo Lansen watched, searching for the known signs of land hunger; eyes with the strangeness of distance in them, pupils that held on to what they saw with greed and grasp and shone with a pointed light, the restlessness that came out in hands and shoulders and the curious need for haste.

There were no such marks upon the man. He had a powerful body and strong chin. He looked like an important cattleman and not like anything else.

All four mounted and wheeled from the rail. The dark man stared at Latigo on the gelding. Neither spoke. Latigo turned away. The fellow spurred his horse and followed the others. Once he looked back over his shoulders, face clouded in doubt. Latigo made no sign. He watched their dust.

The sheriff stepped out of the shade. He eyed Latigo and the gelding. “You looking for something, stranger?”

“Land Office,” said Latigo.

The sheriff was about to point and then didn’t. “I’m sheriff around here,” he announced. “What kind of business you aim to do at the Land Office?”

“Some looking.”

“Looking for what? I got a right to know, mister.”

“Wanted to find out if the Lansen ranch is still where it ought to be.”

The sheriff looked up. “Lansen. . . ? Yeh, it’s still there. South of town by the river. Won’t do you any good, though. Lansen’s been dead a long time.”

“He has a son.”

“Killed in the war. If you’re looking for work, ride out to the Kincaid place. Tell them the sheriff sent you.”

“Thanks, Sheriff. I’m not looking for work. I’m looking for the Land Office.”

The sheriff’s face tightened. Latigo did not look away nor did the lawman. “Pays to be civil around here, stranger. I’m the sheriff.”

“I know. You’re wearing the badge.”

“We don’t much like strangers who talk out of turn.”

“I didn’t start the talk, Sheriff. You did.”

“Just where’d you come from, mister?”

“Apache country.”

“See any redskins?”

“Killed one.”

“You’re not wearing guns. Kill him with the rifle?”

“No. Killed him with my hands.”

“You mean to say you got close enough to an Apache to kill him with your hands?”

“My hand had a knife in it, Sheriff.”

The sheriff hitched his gunbelt. “You talk real fancy, mister,” he said. “But you don’t look like any card player.”

“Never played cards in my whole life.”

“What’re you doing here, then? You’re not looking for work and you don’t play cards!”

“Looking for the Land Office, Sheriff.”

The lawman turned away. “Right behind you,” he threw back. Latigo watched him disappear and the door close. Kincaid had looked honest, too. He stepped down from the horse.

The clerk in the Land Office wore spectacles.

“What can I do for you, mister?”

“Want to confirm a title.”

The clerk produced a thick wide volume and laid the book on the counter. “Folio number and date,” he demanded. Latigo spread his parchment on the counter. “Eighteen-fifty three,” mused the clerk. “Gadsden Purchase land.” He looked up. “You Latimer Lansen?”

“That’s right.”

The clerk was satisfied. “It’s your land,” he said. “No impediment at all. Certificate includes water rights in perpetuity—that means forever—or as long as the Gila river runs. Good for collateral, mortgage or bank loans.” Any time you feel like selling, you’re free to do that.”

Latigo pocketed the papers. “I won’t be selling,” he said.

The thin-faced man studied him over the rims of the spectacles. “Why’d you confirm your title?”

“To make sure it’s mine.”

“What’re you figuring on doing?”

“Land should be worked. I aim to do that.”

“Cattle?”

“This is cattle country.”

The clerk closed the register. He regarded Latigo soberly. “You want some advice, son?”

Latigo returned the regard. “Only a fool doesn’t want advice.”

The man’s lips puckered. “Most times around here it pays to wear a gun. Two, if you can use both hands.”

The blacksmith had noted that he didn’t wear side-arms, then the sheriff and now the land clerk. There had been the deep-chested man on the wagon, too.

“Especially now,” said the man with glasses. “I’ve had this book open plenty of times lately. Seems to me if I owned any land around here I’d take good care of myself. I’d sure enough learn how to shoot.”

“How much time you think I’ve got to learn?”

“No telling,” said the clerk. “No telling at all, now that you’re here.”

“You mean I should have stayed away?”

“Should have learned how to shoot before you came.”

“Is there a gunsmith in Gila Bend?”

“No. But there’s a general store down the street a piece from the bank. Ed Harrison sells most everything. Besides, a man looks better wearing a gun. If he’s got the shape for it, I mean. Looks better when he’s riding a horse, too.”

“Good advice,” said Latigo. “I’m obliged to you.”

The clerk’s face brightened. “You figuring on wearing guns?”

“Wouldn’t want to be thought a fool, mister.”

“Mallow’s the name . . . John Mallow.”

At the door Latigo looked back. “Why’d you tell me?”

The land clerk shrugged. “Hate to see a young fellow get hurt, that’s all,” he said. “Honest advice doesn’t cost anything. I’m just a land clerk. Maybe that’s all I can give.”

“It’s more than you think.”

The sheriff’s office was stone and brick built with iron bars across the windows. The door lay open because of the heat. Inside the building was shaded. Latigo entered and the sheriff straightened. “Day, Sheriff. . .”

The lawman nodded shortly. “What can I do for you?”

“Like to talk some.”

“Busy right now. Got a lot of work to do. If I was you, mister, I’d keep on riding. This town’s open at both ends.”

“Rode a long way to get here, Sheriff. Gila Bend is the end of my journey.”

The other man’s eyebrows went up. “What’re you talking about?”

“I figured on staying, Sheriff,” Latigo announced. “Soon as I get a gun to wear.”

Impatience edged the sheriff’s voice. He was a big man, had once been strong. “Look, mister,” he said. “We don’t like smart-talking strangers around here. If you’ve got something to say, you say it then start riding.”

“Not a stranger, Sheriff,” said Latigo. “And I don’t figure on doing much more riding. I was born here, belong here.”

The lawman stared hard at him, from forehead to boots and back again. Recognition did not light his face. “Never saw you before,” he said. “Been here nine years, know everybody in these parts.”

“The name’s Lansen, Sheriff.”

The sheriff’s shoulders stiffened. Latigo held out the land deed so that it could be read without being touched. The lawman’s eyes moved down the paper and halted at the name of the owner. He looked up slowly. “You were supposed to be dead,” he said.

Latigo put the paper away. “Lots of men died at Vicksburg,” he said. “Land office is satisfied I’m not one of them.”

The man with the badge on his shirtfront sat back in his chair. “All right,” he said. “The paper says you’re Latimer Lansen. What do you want from me?”

“Protection.”

“From what?”

“Don’t know, Sheriff. Plan to work my land and raise cattle. Want the law on my side, that’s all.”

“The sheriff’s on the side of every law-abiding citizen in the county, mister.”

“That’s what I wanted to hear, Sheriff,” said Latigo and walked to the door, glad of sunlight.

The sheriff was alone. He stared at the green-shaded oil lamp on the desk, pushed a gun into holster and rose. He walked straight to the Land Office. “Young fellow in here a while ago, name of Lansen. . .”

“That’s right, Sheriff. Confirming ownership of the Lansen ranch.”

“Was it in order?”

“Surest thing you know, Sheriff. Nobody owns that land but that young man. Sort of figure he’s going to keep on owning it, too.”

“Was it notarised?”

“All down in black and white. Signed by a judge. The land is his, Sheriff. River land . . .”

John Mallow watched the sheriff out of the office, stayed watching the door even when the man with the badge had gone. When he had pushed the book back into its place on the shelf he stood at the small window and watched Latigo Lansen walk his horse slowly along by the river, moving south. Shadows and hazing outlines warned that night had begun to claim the sky. He reckoned that the flat-waisted man on the horse would bed down somewhere for the night and ride to the ranch first thing in the morning. He’d want to see it in the early light. After ten years, morning was the best time.

Latigo laid a trail over the range and reined when he came in sight of the house. His throat tightened. The gelding stretched the rein to nibble at grass, sniffed air and smelled water. He was alone on the sloping land with the sun in the east and shadow reaching away from him. This was the time for crying out and he remained silent.

Smoke hadn’t risen from the chimney in eight years and that was a long time for a house to be without a fire. A house is not a home until logs are burning on the hearth and feet walking on board floors, until windows shine and the door stays open.

A windbreak of alder and larch rose behind the house and hid the bunkhouse. Five men used to sleep there. Out in front of the house stood the water butt and pump. Two hundred yards farther on the river ran sheathed with sunlight. From the house you could see clear down to the water, not a bush or a tree in the way.

Apache Indians had ridden across this land after buffalo or in the pursuit of war, with painted skins, wearing feathers and wielding lances and the air still echoed to the sound of their cries, the beat of drums and the music of thin reed pipes that made big medicine and was magic. Blood had been spilt and the last Apache lance to pierce the earth only ten yards from the front of the house still stood in a circle of whitened stones, the feathers shrivelled but the lance itself a lonely and barbaric reminder of wind and war on grassy plains and of history in the making.

Latigo looked away. It is only when there are people present to make a welcome of human sound that a man feels like crying out. When he is alone the urge is gone and and he should have known this.

The windows were dusty and the pine log door creaked when he let in the light. His shadow rushed ahead of him into the house. There were no ghosts to rear up at him and he was glad. Jeremiah Lansen had not even died in the house and the memories contained within the four walls were living thoughts.

The gelding came to the open door and kept an eye on him, watching his movements, listening for the sounds he made, being curious and puzzled when he was silent.

The doors and windows he opened wide. The bedding he burned in a smoky bonfire that sent a yellow-black coil into the sky. He inspected the corral and set fallen rails back in place. He rode north and found the stone marker with the name ‘LANSEN’ cut in granite. He turned east and rode until he found another, then south to where the hand of Lansen still clung to the earth. There were no fences anywhere to enclose the wide ranges of hard buffalo grass. Aspen clothed the river edges and willow slanted out over the water. It was all that he expected and it was intact. He could live with everything he saw and he was at a good age to start living.

The first thing to buy was a gun to buckle to his hip.

When the hooves of a single rider beat on the ground Latigo walked out into sunlight. The rider swept up the draw and reined within yards of the house. He was young, hard-faced and lean, like any one of the three who had ridden away from the sheriff’s office. He sat upright in the saddle while Latigo approached then leaned forward, elbow on the horn, and stared, eyes deepset under straight eyebrows but cold, his brown-skinned face clear and lighted. Latigo was sure he was one of the three, all had the same empty depth about the eyes, all seemed ready to squeeze the trigger, all had the look that came from never trusting, never being trusted.

“What can I do for you, stranger?”

He had placed the Winchester rifle in the gun rack inside the door, his first act of possession, so he was unarmed. The man on the horse wore a gun on each thigh. The rider stared, not taking his eyes from Latigo’s face. He straightened and clasped the saddle horn with both hands. “You the owner around here?” he asked; a question only, with no real interest in any kind of answer.

“That’s right.”

“Name of Lansen?”

“Something you want?”

“I got what I came for, Mister Lansen.”

Latigo stood forward and looked up so the man on the horse could see his face. “A good look at me. Is that what you came for?”

The rider did not answer. He stared longer then wheeled the horse. Latigo watched him ride down the draw and out of sight. He whistled and the gelding stretched a long neck out over the corral fence. He carried the saddle to the rail.

At the livery stable he said: “Can I borrow your buck-board? Got lots of stuff to hitch out.”

“Where you at, mister?”

“Lansen ranch.”

“Sure. Hitch up one of the work horses. You’ll find the wagon out back.”

In the general store Ed Harrison listened and nodded his head. “Can give you almost any kind of gun being used. You name it, mister. Almost sure to have it.”

“A Colt would suit.”

“Got a real nice pistol handy. Reckon one’s all you want.”

“Only takes one gun to kill a man.”

“Who’re you aiming to kill, son?”

“The fellow who’s aiming to kill me.”

“You’re sure somebody is?”

“It’ll turn out that way.”

Harrison laid the Colt six-gun on the glass-topped showcase and moved to the front of the store as the doorbell tinkled. Latigo selected a gunbelt and buckled the leather so the hang and feel were right. He was opening the chamber of the gun when the fair-haired woman came in and he turned to wait and to watch. There was no fury behind her eyes. She did not wear a hat and her yellow hair was plaited in a thick rope and bound up at the back. She wore a short fringed and beaded buckskin jacket and was still the finest looking woman he’d seen.

But she rode a high horse. Someday somebody would take her down a peg or two and when it happened dust would cloud the air inside the corral and there’d be noise and anger and she’d be hurt. He looked away before their eyes could meet.

“Father needs tobacco,” she said carelessly to Harrison.

Latigo picked up bullets and handled the six-gun. She walked to where he stood. “There’s something I’d like to know,” she said.

He touched his hat to her. “Yes, ma’am?”

“You saw the fight yesterday, Joe Erskine and Ben Nevin. . .”

“Yes, ma’am. I saw the fight.”

She remembered what he had said to her, how he had looked at her and the movement of his body as he swung himself easily up into the saddle. She had been troubled all day afterwards because she wasn’t sure that he was only what he looked like, a cowhand on a horse, something you see every day of the year; men who rode from town to town or spread to spread for sometimes less than thirty dollars a month and keep, putting down no roots, running with the cattle, growing lean and hard and lined and, with loneliness shining out of their eyes, being spoiled forever for anything else because the promise of men had been beaten out of them. So far he hadn’t been to the ranch to ask for work but if he was a cowhand he would come. They always did.

“What were they fighting about?”

“Didn’t ask, ma’am.”

“But you were there. You saw it.”

“Still didn’t ask. Figured it was none of my business.”

“It’s my business,” she said sharply.

He ignored the heat in her voice and the ring of command. He thrust a bullet into the chamber with unusual slowness. “That doesn’t make it mine, ma’am.”

She could have been angered by that and chose not to be though the edge on her voice remained.

“Did you see anything. . . and don’t tell me you saw them fighting. I know that much.”

The feel of the pistol was smooth and clean and comforting, different from the Winchester; closer to you and more like a part of you; an arm, maybe, or a hand. In Gila Bend a gun could be a friend.

“Saw what I was looking at.”

Her breasts rose with a sharp intake of breath. He found her eyes uncertain, ready to be exasperated but afraid. “You’re not on a horse now, ma’am,” he said calmly. “Wouldn’t talk down to people if I were you.”

She didn’t look away and the wrath didn’t rise. “Are you a cowhand, looking for work? If you are I can help you.”

“No, ma’am.”

She was disappointed. “You’re stubborn!” she said.

He nodded. “Yes, ma’am. I’m stubborn.”

“I’ve broken horses before, mister!”

He placed the last bullet and with a twist of the fingers spun the chamber. “Ever break men?”

Her eyes did not leave his face. She should have flared up by now. He was surprised that she hadn’t. “Yes,” she said slowly. “I’ve broken men. I did it with a whip in my hand.”

“I guess they never fought back, ma’am.”

“I had the whip!”

He recognised the barrier of starch and stubbornness between them, a barrier he could walk away from but which imprisoned her because there was something on his side that she wanted. That put him on the horse and the woman on the ground. Her face didn’t change at all when she spoke again but her voice was different.

“Was there . . .” she asked. “Was there . . . a woman present?”

That changed things. She was a woman after all, not so high, not so mighty as she appeared, like all women who were uncertain or with cause for jealousy, sheltering behind the armour of pride. But now, because this was something she needed to know, she will willing to step from behind the shield and ask.

Joe was the good-looking man and he had an eye for the dark girl on the horse. The man with the moustache could be the girl’s father and that might mean that Joe wasn’t welcome in one quarter and forbidden from another.

This woman wasn’t sure of herself, or of Joe.

“I’m a stranger here, ma’am,” Latigo said deliberately. “Don’t know anything about a woman.”

The anger came back with a rush, stronger for being held down. Her eyes blazed and his cheek stung when she slapped his face.

“You’re a liar!” she said.

He watched her out of the store and past the window, his face smarting. Ed Harrison came round to the gun counter. “Heard the last part of it,” he said. “I liked the bits with the venom in them.”

“I’ll take the Colt,” said Latigo.

“Suits you. Sam Colt’s a busy man these days. Want something else?”

“Got a list of things here. Make it up while I fetch the buckboard.”

“Sure. You figuring on staying a while?”

“I’ll be here for a long time.”

“You want I should open an account with you? This here’s quite a list.”

“You trust me?”

“Never saw you before but you sure wouldn’t want all this stuff unless you were planning to stay. If you aim to stay then I reckon you also aim to pay your bills. I’ll put your name down in the book. What’re you called, mister?”

“Lansen.”

Ed Harrison’s eyes were sharp. “You Jeremiah Lansen’s boy?” he asked. Latigo nodded. The big storekeeper looked at him. “That why you bought the gun?”

“No,” answered Latigo. “Vanity, pure and simple. John Mallow down at the land office said I’d look better wearing a gun.”

Harrison eyed the gunbelt. “He was right, mister. You do look better. You know who that high-stepping filly is who just slapped your face?”

“Somebody important?”

“Hildy Kincaid. Her father owns most of the valley by now. Pity she’s so uppity. Best looking woman hereabouts.”

Hildy Kincaid and Joe, thought Latigo. Her father owns the valley and Joe looks like a cowhand. It didn’t seem right. “Where does Joe come into it?” he asked.

“He’s Kincaid’s foreman.”

“They’re more than friends, I’d say.”

“You might be wrong,” differed Harrison. “Joe wants to be more than friends. Fact is, he wants to marry Hildy.”

“And she doesn’t?”

“Seems to me like she’s not sure. Reckon she wants to get married all right but maybe she doesn’t want it to be Joe.”

“She keeps a pretty tight rein on him.”

“That’s because he does what she tells him. He knows what’s good for him. The way I figure it, Joe’s not the man she really wants.”

“Why not? He’s beautiful.”

Harrison ruminated, pursed his lips. “Strange thing about Joe, mister. Good cowpoke, good foreman, good with guns, always looking for a fight, but he never broke a horse in his life. And she sure is uppity.”

It came out without thought. He didn’t know he was going to say it. “You reckon there’d be a chance for somebody else?” asked Latigo.

Harrison nodded. “For the fellow who can tame a horse, son, I’d say there was lots more than just a chance.” Latigo walked to the door and the storekeeper spoke again. “You do look better wearing a gun, mister.”

“Latigo’s the name. Latigo Lansen.”

He loaded the buckboard and started for home knowing that he would itch all night in new blankets and maybe not sleep on the mattress. The gelding trotted alongside the wagon.

The sky was westering when he reached the ranch, calm and still in a breathlessness that reached back through the furrow of years to when the first light paled the dark and rushed forward into years not yet spent for its effects of magnitude and wonder. Soon his thin column of blue smoke rose from the stone chimney into the vastness above. Even the river was silent in the face of heaven-burning glory. Creation displayed itself in every variation of splendour, for him alone it seemed, since he had the world to himself.

The narrow shadow of the Apache lance traversed the circle of whitened stones, faded and disappeared. Darkness came, then bright moonlight. When the shadow of the lance appeared again in ghostly white radiance from the night sky Latigo raised his head from the pillow and listened.

The house was still and silent. There was no creaking of wood. There was hardly a rustle of wind in the alder and larch behind the house. Then he heard it again.

The sound of horses.