Moon and Bren Early seemed patient, waiting for him to get to it.
“We looking for friends of ours,” the Mexican said. “We wonder if you see anybody ride by here the past hour.”
Bren Early said, “Haven't seen a soul.”
The Mexican took time to look past them and study the adobes, seeing the white smoke rising from the first chimney and vanishing in the glare.
“Where your horses?”
“Out of the sun,” Bren Early said.
“You good to them,” the Mexican said. “What else you got in there?”
“Troop of cavalry,” Bren Early said and called out, “Sergeant!”
Bo Catlett, with a Spencer, appeared in the door-way of the first adobe, calling back, “Suh!”
The Mexican began to shake his head very slowly. “You got the Uninah States Army in there? Man, I like to see that.” His gaze returned to Bren Early and Moon. “Soldiers…but you don't have no uniforms on.” He paused. “You don't want nobody to know you here, huh? Listen, we won't tell nobody.”
“You don't know what you've seen what you haven't seen,” Bren Early said. “Leave it at that.”
The Mexican said, “You don't want to invite me in there?”
Moon drew his Colt from the shoulder rig and put it on the Mexican. “You got a count of three to move out of here,” he said. “One…two…three-”
Espere,” the Mexican said. “Wait. It's all right with me.” He began to back away, his gaze holding on Moon's revolver. “You don't want to be friends, all right, maybe some other time. Good afternoon to you.”
7
The Mexican, whose name was Ruben Vega, forty-four years of age, something like seven to ten years older than the two men at the wall, said to himself, Never again. Going there like that and acting a fool. Good afternoon. How are you today? They knew, those two. They knew what was going on and weren't buying any of that foolish shit today. Never again, Ruben Vega said to himself again, walking back to the stock tank…Sundeen waiting for him.
Sundeen with his eyes creased in the sun glare, pulling the funneled brim of his hat down lower.
“He was bluffing you. Don't you know when a man's bluffing?” Like the joke was on Ruben Vega and Sundeen had seen through it right away.
“Sometimes I don't see the bluff if the man's good at it,” Ruben Vega said. “These two mean it. Why is it worth it to them?, I don't know. But they mean it.”
“Eight to three,” Sundeen said. “What difference is it what they mean?, the Indin's ours.”
“I don't know,” Ruben Vega said, shaking his head. “You better talk to them yourself.”
Sundeen wasn't listening now. He was squinting past the Mexican and touching his two-week's growth of beard, fondling it, caressing himself, as he studied the pair of figures at the wall. One of them had yelled, “Sergeant,” and the booger had stuck his head out. Soldiers-chased after the Apache and now had him in there. That part was clear enough. The girl, she must be in there, too. But eight guns against three was what it came to. So what was the problem? Ask for the Apache. Ask at gunpoint if need be. Those people would have no choice but to hand him over and be happy to do it.
He said to the Mexican, “Send two around back to make 'em nervous. The rest of us'll walk in.” The Mexican didn't say anything and Sundeen looked at him. “What's the matter?”
“It isn't the way to do it.”
Sundeen looked at the Mexican's old-leather face, at the thick, tobacco-stained mustache covering his mouth and the tiny blood lines in his tired-looking eyes.
“You're getting old, you know it?”
“I think that's it,” Ruben Vega said. “I'm getting old because I'm still alive.”
Sundeen wanted to push him and say, Goddamn it, quit kicking dirt and come on; there's nothing to this. But he knew Ruben Vega pretty well. He paid him fifty dollars a month because Ruben Vega was good with men, even white men, and was one trail-wise first-class segundo to have riding point with a herd of rustled stock, or tracking after a loose Apache with a Mexican price on his head. Like the one-eyed Mimbre, Loco: 2,000 pesos, dead or alive.
When Ruben Vega spoke, Sundeen generally paid attention. But this time-Ruben had been bluffed out, was all, and was trying to save his face, sound wise, like he knew something as fact; whereas it was just an off-day for him and his back ached or his piles were bothering him.
Sundeen looked over at his riders, part of them hunkered down in the stingy shade of the stock tank: four Americans and two skinny Mexicans with their heavy criss-crossed gunbelts. He said to Ruben Vega, “I'll show you how white men do it,” grinning a little. “I'll send your two boys around back where it's safe, and march in with the rest of these ugly bronc stompers myself.”
“I'll watch you,” Ruben Vega said.
Sundeen looked over at the riders again, saying, “Who wants to earn a month's wages this fine afternoon?”
8
“Now we're getting to it,” Bren Early said, seeing the five men assembling, starting to come out from the tank, spreading out in a line. “I don't see a rifle amongst them; so they intend to come close, don't they?” And told himself not to talk so much, or else Dana would think he was nervous.
“The other two,” Dana Moon said. “Leaving or what?”
Two with Mexican hats, mounted, were moving away from the tank, off to the right, heading out into the scrub.
“Do we want them behind us?”
Uh-unh,” Bren Early said. He picked up his Spencer as Moon hefted his Sharps, watching the two Mexican riders swinging wide, going out to nearly two hundred yards as they began to circle at a gallop.
“The horses first,” said Moon, “if that's agreeable.”
“I suppose,” the cavalryman answered, “but it's a shame.”
“If they keep coming, you finish it. I'll tend to the others.”
Moon stole a look at the five on foot coming out from the tank, taking their time, one remaining back there with the horses.
He said, “When you're ready.”
They pressed Spencer and Sharps to their shoulders and almost instantly the hard, heavy reports came BAM-BAM in the stillness and the two running horses two hundred yards out stumbled and went down with their riders in sudden burts of dust, the tiny figures flying, tumbling.
Moon turned his empty Sharps on the line of five, saw them stop dead.
Bren Early called, “Sergeant!”
Moon didn't look around. He heard off behind him, “Suh!” And Bren Early calmly, “Two on the flank. Keep 'em there. They move, shoot 'em.” And the black voice saying, “Suh!” and that was done.
The five had broken line and were looking out that way, losing some of their starch maybe. But the one with crossed gunbelts and silver buckles was saying something, getting them back in business and they were coming again, the line of men about fifteen feet wide-Sundeen in the middle-every one of them shaggy and scruffy, rannies with hard squints trying to look mean, and they did.
The last exchange made between Moon and Bren Early was Moon saying, “If it comes to it, work from the ends,” and Bren Early saying, “And meet at the silver buckles.”
Now the floor was Sundeen's, bringing his line to a halt at a distance Moon's eyes measured as a long stride short of forty feet. A good working range: close enough for a sawed-off, far enough you'd have to aim a revolver if you had nerve enough to take the time. Who were these brush poppers? Were they any good? Moon and Bren Early were about to find out.
Sundeen said to the two at the wall, “Are you nervous or something? We come to talk to you is all.”
He waited a moment, but they didn't say anything. Then looked off into the distance at the two dead horses and the riders stranded out there before bringing his gaze back to the wall.
“Like shooting a buck, that range. I guess you've done it in your time. But here looking at it close to earth is different, huh? You see what you got on your hands? Now then,” Sundeen said, “you also got that red nigger in there by the name of Loco we want you to hand over to us. Do you see a reason to discuss it any?”
“He's mine,” Bren Early said. “He goes home with me.”
“Oh, are you the gent in charge?” asked Sundeen. “Then tell me something. What difference does it make who takes this Indin, long as we rid the earth of him?”
“I was sent to get him,” Bren Early said, “and I did.”
“A long piece from home without your uniform on, soldier boy. I bet you shouldn't even be 'cross the border here. What I'm saying, it looks like I got more right to the red nigger than you have. I got the law on my side.”
“But I've got the Indian,” Bren Early said. “What remains is how dearly you want to pay for him.”
“Turn it around,” Sundeen said. “Why would you put up your life to keep him? I'm gonna ride out with him, one way or the other.”
Moon said then, “You ever mount up again you'll do it bleeding to death.”
Sundeen shook his head. What was the matter with these two?-and had to make himself calm down. He said, “Listen to us grown men arguing over a little one-eyed Indin.”
“What's he worth,” asked Moon, “couple thousand pesos?”
“Sure, there's something in it, or we wouldn't be talking,” Sundeen answered. “But you can't hand him in and collect the bounty, not if you're U.S. Army. They find out back home, they'll cut your buttons off, won't they? Drum you out. It may be duty with you, if you say it is; but it's pure business with me. Way to make a living.” Sundeen paused. He said then, “It gives me an idea. What we might do is divvy him up. You give me his hair and his eye patch, something to identify him to the Mex gover'ment, and you take the rest of him back where you came from. And if that ain't a deal I never heard one.”
Sundeen glanced both ways at the pair of riders on either side of him, then looked at the two behind the low wall again, pleased with himself, his display of wisdom and generosity.
Bren Early did stop and think a moment. Yes, if they'd had to shoot the Indian they'd be bringing him back dead anyway. But how would they explain his tonsured head, the scalplock ripped from his skull? Then realized, No, that wasn't the point at all. It was a question of principle, beyond reason or even good sense. A question of standing at the drawn line and never backing off.
Bren Early said to Moon, but for all to hear, “Do you want to tell him to stick it in his horse, or should I?”
Sundeen was a grunt away from giving in to his violent nature; but knew his men had to look at him or hear him and all of them pull at the same time to do the job right. Put the two off guard and then hit. It wasn't gong the way he thought it would-that goddamn Ruben Vega telling him, knowing something. With the hook still in his belly but holding on to good judgment, Sundeen said, “I'm gonna go talk to my partner a minute. See if we can think of a way to satisfy us.”
Moon and Bren Early watched him turn away from them, his rannies looking at him like, What's going on? Sundeen dropping a word as he glanced left and right, all of them moving off now.
Bren said, “He's used to having his way.”
Moon said, “But he didn't come prepared, did he?”
“I'll give them three more steps,” Bren said and pulled his matched Smith & Wesson .44s. Moon drew his Colt's, gathered the sawed-off Greener from the wall in his left hand.
Three more strides-that was it.
The five came around with weapons in their hands, Sundeen hollering something, and his two men on the ends fell dead in the first sudden explosion from the wall, before they were full around, Bren Early and Moon with revolvers extended, aiming, firing at the scattering, snap-shooting line, Bren holding both the big .44 Russians out in front of him and moving his head right and left to look down the barrels and fire; Moon holding the Greener low against its hard buck and letting go a Double-O charge at a half-kneeling figure and seeing the man's arms fly up with the big-bore report, swinging the Greener on Sundeen and raking his boots with a charge as Sundeen stumbled and Bren Early fired, shooting his hat off, firing again and seeing the man let go of his revolvers and grab his face with both hands as he sank to the ground.
They went over the wall and walked out to where the five lay without moving.
“Four dead,” Bren Early said.
Moon nodded. “For no reason. This one looks to be right behind.”
Sundeen was still alive, lying in the sun as his life drained from shotgun wounds in both legs, bullet wounds in his neck, through his left cheek and where part of his left ear had been shot away.
Ruben Vega came out to them, looking at the men on the ground. He said, “Well, I tried to tell him.”
The Mexican began to think of how he would get Sundeen to Morelos, or if he should try; and if he should take the others over their horses or leave them here. He walked around them, nudging one and then another with his boot, making sure they were dead; then began to recite the names of these men, as though saying last words over them:
Lonnie Baker.
Clement Hurd.
Dick Maddox.
Jack McWilliams.
Moon and Bren Early heard him, but they were looking toward the adobe now, seeing the girl and the sergeant and the Indian in the yard, and they didn't listen to the names carefully and store them away. It could have helped them later if they did.
3
1
When the news reporters first came here to cover the War they had to look for the “angle.” The Big Company trying to run off the little homesteaders was good stuff; they could write it as factually as need be from both sides. But it would be far better if Personalities were involved: names of newsworthy individuals that readers would recognize, or, feel dumb if they didn't after the news articles described their colorful and exciting past histories.
What could you do with William A. Vandozen, the LaSalle Mining vice-president who was completely lacking in color, appeared in town once in awhile but would not talk to anyone when he did?
What kind of story would you get from an Apache Indian homesteader named Iskay-mon-ti-zah who didn't speak English anyway?
This was, in part, the reason Dana Moon and Brendan Early were elected to be the principal antagonists, bound to come together sooner or later, which would be the climax, the Big Story: two living legends in a fight to the finish.
Fine, the editors of the newspapers would wire back to their reporters. But who are they? What did they do? GET TO WORK AND DIG UP SOME BACKGROUND! was the tone of the wires if not the actual words.
The news reporters hanging out at the Gold Dollar would shake their heads. Just like a goddamn editor-like asking what Wild Bill Hickok did for a living. (What did he do? No one asked.) They all nodded their heads in agreement as to editors.
All right, they'd go talk to the principals involved.
But try to get a straight answer from Brendan Early, who was stuck-up, high-and-mighty, vain and rude when interviewed. They would ask him questions such as: “What is it like to kill a man?” He would stare back at them and not answer. “Do you think you will die by the gun?” Answer: “If you don't leave, somebody will.” Or they would ask a question in a group none would dare ask alone: “What turned you against humanity?” The famous Bren Early: “Pains in the ass like you people.” They would see him drinking whiskey and playing faro, then not see him for days while he remained holed-up in his room in the Congress Hotel or visited the mysterious Mrs. Pierson who lived in a house on Mill Street without any visible means of support.
Or try to locate Dana Moon, having to go all the way up into the mountains on a two-day pack. Finally, there he was. Ask him a list of shrewd questions and have him say, “You people don't know what you're talking about, do you?”