“At least we got the cattle back,” Fuentes said. “Roger said we would,” Ann said proudly. “He told me not to worry. We’d get them all back, and without trouble.”
“I like confidence in a man,” I said.
“Father didn’t want me to come,” Ann admitted, “but Roger said it would be all right. He said such rustlers had little courage, and Twin Baker would probably be gone before we got there.”
Seemed to me Roger was expressing himself an awful lot, and being quoted more than usual. Fuentes was noticing it, too. His eyes carried that faintly quizzical expression.
“It’s the memories that count,” Fuentes said. “And never stay long enough to let ‘em see you just put your pants on one leg at a—“ “The hell with that,” I said irritably.
When we rode into the yard at Stirrup-Iron, all was dark and still. One light showed from the ranch-house kitchen, and a horse spoke to us from the corral. “S’pose there’s any grub in there?” I suggested hopefully.
“We can look. Maybe that’s why the light’s burning,” said Fuentes. Fuentes and I turned our horses in at the corral and I dropped my bedroll and saddlebags down on the stoop.
There was a plate of cold meat on the table, some bread and butter, and a couple of thick slices of apple-pie. The coffeepot was on the stove, so we got cups and saucers and sat down opposite each other in silence and gratitude. “That hombre at the saloon,” Fuentes said, “spoke to me of a man who was just sort of passing by … riding a horse with black legs.” “He should’ve kept his mouth shut.”
“He spoke only to me,” Fuentes said. “Were they waiting for you? Laredo and Sonora?”
“Twin Baker paid them to kill a rider on a Stirrup-Iron horse, no names mentioned.”
“The saloon keeper said you knew one of them?”
“Played poker with him a time or two. He was no friend of mine. He and Sonora had taken money for the job. They’d spent some of it.” Fuentes pushed back from the table. “At the poker table with Laredo that time … Who won?”
“He did.”
“You see? Nobody wins all the time, not with girls, guns or poker.” We walked outside under the stars, and Fuentes lit a cigar. “Nobody … Not even you.”
I looked at him.
“This time it is you who can ride away. The girl will marry the other man but she will remember you, who came so gallantly from out of the distance and then rode, gallantly, into another distance.”
“Are you trying to tell me something?”
“Ann Timberly. She will marry Roger Balch. Did you not see it?”
“Two big ranches, side by side. It figures.”
“And you but a drifting cowhand. You did not mention your ranch, amigo?”
“I told nobody. Nor will I.”
“It is the way of things. I think we should sleep now.”
“Harley and Ben with the herd?” I asked.
“Of course,” Fuentes replied.
“How’d you leave Joe? Still in the house?”
“Of course.” Fuentes snapped his fingers. “Hah! I had forgotten. There was a note came for you. It is in my coat, hanging on my saddle, and in the morning I will get it for you.”
“Get it for me now, will you, Tony?”
“Now? But of course!” He turned away and I walked to the bunkhouse and picked up my blanket roll. For a moment I stood there, feeling the night, knowing the stars. Then, very carefully, I pushed the door open with my left toe and thrust my blanket roll into the door.
A stab of flame punched a hole in the night, and the thunderous blast of a shotgun slammed against my ears. In that same instant my right hand drew, the gun came level, and I put three bullets where the fiery throat of flame had been.
Drawing back, gun in hand, I waited.
A long, slow moment of silence, then the thud of a dropped gun. Then there was a slow, ripping sound as of tearing cloth, and something heavy fell. The night was still again.
“Amigo?” It was the voice of Fuentes, behind me.
“All right, amigo,” I said.
He came forward and we stood in the darkness together, looking from the ranch house to the bunkhouse. We had blown out the kitchen light when leaving, and no new light appeared, nor any sound.
“I have some miles to go before I camp. I’ll saddle the dun,” I said.
“You knew he was there?” asked Fuentes.
“There was a rifle near the kitchen door with prongs on the butt-plate,” I said. “That was his fatal mistake. Leaving it there. I figured he was waiting in the bunkhouse.”
“That was why you sent me away to get the note?”
“It was my fight.”
“Muchas gracias, amigo.”
At the corral I saddled the dun.
“We ride together, amigo … bueno?” he asked.
“Why not?” I replied.
He smiled, and I could see his white teeth.
The ranch house door creaked open, and an old man called into the night.
“John? … John … Twin?” There was no answer. And there would be no answer. Fuentes and I rode out of the ranch yard. When morning came, and the stage stop at Ben Ficklin’s was not far away, Fuentes said, “The note, amigo?” It was a woman’s handwriting. I tore it open.
I enjoyed the dancing. There will be another social soon. Will you take me?
· China Benn
Maybe not on that day. But on another, at some time not very far off.