taught me. Caffrey shot a left for my face and, going under it, I hit him with a
right to the heart, rolling inside of his right I smashed my left to the ribs,
then hooked a right to the head over his left.
The right landed solidly, and Caffrey blinked. Moving in, I shook him with
another right and a left For a long minute we slugged. I could feel the buzz in
my head from his punches, the taste of blood from my split lip. I saw his fist
start and brushed it aside, driving my right to his chin inside his left. He
backed up, trying to figure it out, but whatever else he was, Caffrey was no
thinking fighter. Weaving, I hit him with both hands.
Outside, the air was filled with sound, men were shouting, cheering, crying out
with anger. Not with blood lust, but with the excitement of any dramatic
thing—and what could be more dramatic than a fight like this one?
He hit me with a left, but the steam had gone from his punches. I tried a light
left, watching for the move I wanted. And it came again, the same too-wide left
he had tried only a moment before. Only that time my right caught him coming in.
My fist struck solidly on the point of his chin, like the butt of an axe
striking a log, and he fell face forward into the dirt.
For a moment there I stood looking down at him. This was the man whose father
and mother had cheated me and robbed me, and who had gone on to riches on the
money that should have been spent for my education, the education I’d always
wanted. Yet, suddenly, I no longer felt any hatred, all of it washed clean in
the trial of battle.
Stooping down, I picked him up and helped him to his corner, and as I stopped
him there, where of a sudden there was nobody to receive him, his eyes opened
and he looked around.
Me, I let go of him and held out my mitt. “It was a good fight, Dun. You’re a
tough man.” He blinked at me, then held out his own hand and we stood there
looking surprised, like two fools.
And then I turned and walked away and leaned against the roan, which had been
led up for me. The Tinker was handing me my sweater. “Get into this,” he said;
“you’ll take cold.”
Taking it from his hand, I said, “I got to see a man.”
“The one who tried to kill you? He got away.”
“No, he didn’t.”
We walked, the Tinker and me, along the dusty street. Doc Halloran walked behind
us with Captain McNelly and Sheriff Walton.
Their rig was coming down the street toward us, and there for a moment I thought
he was going to try to ride right over us, but he drew up and stopped when we
stopped, barring his way.
Marsha was there in the seat beside her father, and nobody else with them. They
were alone, those two, but somehow I had a feeling they’d always been alone.
Deckrow’s face showed nothing, but it never had. His eyes looked at me, cold and
measuring, with no give to them.
“You shot and killed your brother-in-law, Jonas Locklear,” I said, “and it was
you tipped Herrara off that we were in Mexico, and what for.”
“I do not have any idea what you are speaking about,” he replied, looking at me
sternly. “I am sure I would be the last man to shoot my own brother-in-law.”
“I saw you shoot him,” I persisted, “and Miguel did also. That’s why he died.
That’s why you tried to kill me today.”
“You ought to be ashamed,” Marsha said, “telling lies about my father.”
You know something? I was sorry for him. He was a little man and nothing much
had ever happened to him, and with all his planning and figuring he could never
make any money; while Jonas, who did all the wrong things, was always making it.
And now he had to pay for it all.
Trouble with me was, I was a mighty poor hater. There was satisfaction in
winning, but winning would have been better if nobody had to lose. That’s the
way I’ve always felt, I guess.
Seems to me I’m the sort of man who, if a difficulty arose, might knock a man
down and kick all his teeth out, but then would help him pick them up if he was
so inclined, and might even pay the bill for fixing them—although that’s going a
bit far.
“That property,” I said, “the ranch and the house and all, belongs to Gin and
your wife, unless a will said otherwise … not to you.
“You’ve no claim”—I spoke louder to prevent his attempted interruption—”and you
tried to get one through murder. I will take oath, here and now and in court,
that you betrayed and then shot down your brother-in-law. Furthermore,” I said,
and lied when I said it, “I can get Mexicans to testify they saw it.
“You sign over all claims to Gin and your wife—”
“My wife left me,” he said.
“You sign over all claims or I’ll have you on trial for murder.”
He sat there holding the lines and hating me, but he hadn’t much to say. The
trouble was, he was a man with a canker for a soul, and he would be eaten away
with his bitterness at failure, nor did I care much.
It is wrong to believe that such men suffer in the conscience for what they do
… it is only regret at being caught that troubles them. And they never admit
it was any fault of their own … it was always chance, bad luck … The
criminal does not regret his crime, he only regrets failure. The Bishop was
standing by listening, but I paid him no mind. There had been a time when he
seemed awesome and dangerous, but that was a while back.
“You remember what I said, Deckrow,” I told him, “because wherever it is this is
settled, San Antonio or Austin or wherever, I’ll be there.”
When I came up to the house Pa was there, and Gin beside him. He looked fine …
they were a handsome couple if I ever saw one—but I was sure I’d never get
around to calling her Ma.
I stepped down from the saddle and slid my Winchester from the boot, and Pa
looked at me. “Somebody gave you a beating,” he said.
“He didn’t give it to me,” I replied, “I fought for it.”
“You’ll be coming with us now? I’ve held your share of the gold … it’s been
waiting your return.”
“Buy something with it in my name. I’ll come for it one day… or send a son of
mine for it.”
“You’re going back for the rest?”
“When I left Tennessee for the western lands it was in my mind to become rich
with the goods of this world, but by planning and trade, not by diving for dead
men’s gold. I shall go on to the West.”
“You still want me along?” the Tinker asked.
“We left Tennessee together. I left with you and a mule. It’s fitting we hold to
our course. However, we never did make a dicker for one of your knives. Now, I’d
give—”
“Stand aside, Gin,” Pa interrupted, “there’s trouble.” When I turned around it
put me alongside of Pa, although there was a space between us. And the Tinker
stood off to one side of me. And there facing us were the three Kurbishaws,
three tall men in dusty black, Elam, Gideon, and Eli.
Pa was first to speak. “You’ve come a long way from Charleston, Elam … a long
way.”
“We came for you.”
“You will find most of the gold still there … if you can get it,” Pa said
coolly. “We’ve had ours.”
“It isn’t for gold any more,” Gideon said. “There’s more to it.”
“I suppose there is,” Pa replied, his voice still cold. “You hounded your sister
to death; you hunted my son.”
“And now we got him,” Elam replied, “—and you.”
Pa didn’t want it, I could see that. He was talking to get out of it, to get it
stopped, but they would not listen. Strange men they were, but I’d see their
like again, in lynch mobs and elsewhere. They were men who knew what I did
not—they knew how to hate.
“You wouldn’t try me alone,” Pa said. “Now there’s two of us.”
“Three,” said the Tinker.
“We’ve come a far piece since then,” Elam said, “and we’ve lived as we might, by
the gun.”
“Why, then,” Pa said, “if you’ll have it no other way—”
Gideon was looking at me, so when Pa drew I swung up the muzzle of my Winchester