Massey’s gun seemed to explode with flame, but his own bullet must have hit the renegade one hair’s breadth sooner, for the shot went high, and he felt the angry whip of the bullet past his ear. But Matt had stepped a little to the side and fired again as his foot came down.
Clive Massey’s body jerked sharply, and sobbing with fury, he tried to bring his gun to bear, but Matt stepped again, and again as his foot planted his gun boomed. Massey’s gun coughed sharply again, but the shot went wild, and he dropped the derringer into the dust and clawed for the gun at his hip. Matt fired his fourth shot, lifting the six gun carefully and firing right at the man’s heart.
The renegade went down to his knees, his face contorted with a fury that was glazing over with a gray ugliness that presaged death. He stared at Matt, his hand clutching at the gun, and in the last breath he drew, he lifted the gun and twisted to get a shot at Jacquine. Matt sprang forward and kicked the gun from Massey’s hand and it flew high, then fell into the dust. Massey struck out at the foot, slapping at it like a petulant child, and the effort toppled him into the dust where one foot straightened slowly, and his jaws worked spasmodically, as with unspoken words.
Jacquine rushed to Matt. “Are you hurt? Are you shot?” He slid his arm around her waist, his lungs feeling tight and his pulse pounding with suddenly released tension. “No, honey, I’m all right.”
“A sleeve draw!” Murphy exclaimed. “I’ve heard about them. Never did see one before.”
“It’s a gambler’s trick, and sometime ago, that night of the killing of Joe Rucker, I noticed his hand go to his lapel when it looked like a showdown. That started me thinking. He had the gun hanging down his sleeve and all he needed to do was drop his hand to shoot the gun right into his palm. They say when you’ve practiced it, it is the fastest draw there is. That’s how he killed Deane.”
Matt Bardoul kept his arm around Jacquine’s waist. “Let’s get away from here,” he said. “Let’s go down by the pool until they get things straightened up.”
Suddenly, he happened to see Pearson, and the former Army officer stood at one side of the group as if lost. For a moment, Matt looked at him, realizing that in a sense the man had always been lost. By some mischance he had made the Army a career, and he had become a colonel when he should have been teaching in a grade school or the floor walker in a department store.
Captain Sharp’s message came to his mind. “Colonel,” he said, “at Fort Reno Captain Sharp wished me to tell you that Arch Schandler was dead … in the confusion I’ve been unable to tell you until now.”
“Schandler? … Dead?” Orvis Pearson uttered the words with a queer, shocked unbelief that held Matt Bardoul where he stood, with Jacquine at his side.
“He was someone near to you?” Matt asked gently.
Pearson looked up at him, a sort of dazed misery in his eyes. “Why, yes,” he said, “he was my son.” He let his eyes wander off over the camp. “He was a soldier, sir. A very good soldier. He was with us … down there. He was one of them, one of the soldiers the day I … failed.”
Pearson’s hand trembled as he lifted it to his chin. “He changed his name, after that. But he was a fine soldier, Bardoul. A very fine soldier. A better man than his father.”
“I’m sure he was a good soldier,” Matt said gently, “why, if he was the Schandler I recall, a corporal, he was one of the best men that day.”
“Yes, he was a corporal.” Pearson turned away, his face still and white.
“Sir… ?”
Pearson turned back to Matt, waiting.
“What are you going to do now, if you don’t mind my asking?”
“Why … no. Not at all.” The Colonel looked suddenly old, tired. “Why, as a matter of fact, I don’t know. I guess …” he seemed shocked, dazed.
“Listen,” Matt suggested, “why not try ranching? Down here where I’m going, in the basin? There’s good grass there, and water. I know there’s room enough for both of us.”
“You’d have me, Bardoul? There’s nothing left at all unless I’m honest. I wouldn’t admit it down there, but … well, I’ve failed at most things. Maybe this time … ?”
“Sure. There will be room for us both. We can probably help each other a good deal.”
“Thank you, sir. Thank you, Bardoul.” His face flushed a little. “I’ve been a proud man. A very proud man, and I am afraid it cost me a lot. Bardoul, you were fine that day. I wish my son could have seen me … like that. That was the worst of it, you know, him being there.”
Matt put his hand on Pearson’s shoulder, feeling oddly choked up. “He probably understood. It was a bloody mess that day. I’d forget it, if I were you.”
As they moved off. Jacquine tightened her hold on his arm. “Why, Matt, he seemed so different!”
“I know, honey. He’s like all of us, probably. Each man has his illusion of himself, only most of us are never called to face the truth as he was that day. Had he been in battle before he won a command he would probably have been all right.”
“Matt … all that time you were gone, Buff Murphy would never let me believe you were dead. Always he told me not to believe it, he said you would be a hard man to kill.”
Bardoul looked down at her as they stopped by the pool. “This looks like some sort of an end … or is it a beginning?”
She leaned back against the clasp of his hands on her elbows, looking up at him, her face flushed, her eyes very bright. “Matt, do you think I would make a good rancher’s wife?”
“Why not?” he said seriously. “You can learn to herd cattle, cut hay, split wood…”
“Mathieu Bardoul!” Jacquine protested. “If you think I’m going to do all that, why you’re sadly mistaken!”
“All right! All right! Anyway, with all those kids you’d be busy enough without that.”
Jacquine’s expression grew ominous. “All what kids? How many?”
“Oh,” he shrugged carelessly, “maybe fifteen or so. Fifteen seems like a good number!”
“Fifteen?” She was horrified. “Fifteen? If you think…!”
He drew her close, laughing at her, turning her chin up with his fingers, and bending his own head lower. Her lips trembled as his met them, and then slowly they relaxed and lost their fright and became warm and soft and yielding.
After awhile with her head against his chest, she said softly half pleading. “Matt? Would it have to be fifteen? Couldn’t we sort of compromise?”
“Well,” his expression was judicious, “we might! Now maybe we should go back. We have wagons to unload, and the rest of a town to build.”