Sam Bass (26 page)

“Like death,” he said.

“Well, I won't have to take the bullet out of you. It went clean through.”

“I'm luckier than Seab was at Mesquite,” he said. Then he looked quickly around him. “Where
is
Seab?”

“Still in the alley.”

I got up and untied my saddlebags and opened them, rummaging for my bandages. I wished I had some water to cleanse the wounds. “Sit up straight as you can,” I said, and I wrapped two thick bandages around his middle, tying them as tightly as I could, then tore his shirt into wide strips and tied them around him, too.

While I bandaged his ruined hand, Sam watched me curiously, as if it were happening to somebody else. His eyes were tired and glassy. “Where's Arkansas?” he asked.

“Dead. At Salt Creek. You remember.”

“He was a gooder man than we thought, wasn't he, pard?”

“Yeah, he was real good.”

I got the bottle of laudanum from the saddlebag and uncorked it and handed it to him. “Take a few pulls on this,” I said. “It'll help the pain.”

He drank a swig and made a face. “God,” he said. “Why can't that be whiskey?”

“Take another one,” I said. I helped him lie back on his bloody coat. He handed me the bottle, and I corked it and laid it beside his pistol. “If the hurting gets worse, have some more of that,” I said.

I got up and walked down into the cedars. Tears were coming into my eyes, and I didn't want Sam to see them. I walked to the outer edge of the brake and sat down and hugged my knees and bent my head to my knees and cried. I cried until I couldn't squeeze out another tear, then dried my eyes on my coat sleeve and sat there sucking at the hot, still air.

“Frank!”

I walked back through the cedars. Sam moved his eyes to me. “Where'd you go?”

“To look for the law. It looks like we made it.”

“You done right, crossing the creek and sticking to the roads a while. They'll have a devil of a time finding our trail.” He tried to smile. “What time is it?”

I pulled out my watch and looked. “Five-thirty. What does it matter?”

“I wanted to hear the music,” he said. So I opened the watch again and let the tune play through, then closed it. “You want to hear it again?” I said.

“No. Where's Jim?”

“He wasn't with us. He went back to the old town.”

“Reckon Seab was right about him?”

“I hope not.”

“Yeah, I'd hate to think it, after all these years. I was right about the Rangers, wasn't I, pard?”

“Yeah, Sam. Rest now.”

“Them Rangers will be all over us in the morning.”

“We'll move out when it gets dark. We'll give them the grand slip.”

“We always give them the grand slip, don't we, Frank?” “You bet.”

He closed his eyes. I stayed as still as I could, hoping he would sleep, and I thought he did. I took off my coat and folded it for a pillow and lay down beside him, watching the hot sky through the crooked branches and the leaves of the old oak. I didn't feel like sleeping, and didn't want to. I was just waiting. I lay there a long time, watching the sky change color, moving toward evening.

“Hey, Frank.”

I sat up and leaned on my elbow. Sam hadn't moved. His eyes were still closed. “What, Sam?”

“Give me old Margaret and William, will you?”

Her face was like an April mom

   
Clad in a wintry cloud
,

And clay-cold was her lily hand

   
That held her sable shroud
.

Tears were clouding my eyes again, so I stopped. Sam listened, and when he knew I wasn't going on, he said, “I want it all, pard.” So I began again, haltingly, and made it to the last verse.

Neither of us said anything for several minutes, then Sam said, “Did you know Joel wrote poems?”

“No.”

“He wrote love poems and read them to Maude. Not as pretty as that, though.”

“Hush now, Sam. Save your strength. It's almost dark.”

He got quiet then, and I buckled my saddlebags and tied them on my horse. I sat down against the trunk of the tree and watched it get dark, and when it was full dark I shook Sam's shoulder. “Wake up,” I said.

“I ain't asleep,” he said.

“It's time to go.”

He opened his eyes. “I ain't going. I can't ride no more.” “Then I'll stay, too.”

His eyes moved to me. “No, you ain't. Them Rangers will be here tomorrow.”

“I'll fight them,” I said.

He made a noise that may have been a laugh. “I'm gone, Dr. Jackson. You know that. You take Jenny. She'll take you farther than that nag of yours. And bring you luck, too.”

“No. You'll want her when you're feeling better.”

“Take her. I promised you could ride her someday.”

“No, goddamn it!” I was angry. My heart was breaking, and I was crying again, and I hated it.

“All right. But go, Frank. Right now.”

I was about to stand up, but he said, “Frank?”

“What?”

“Kiss me.”

I knelt and kissed him on the lips. He patted my shoulder with his good hand. “Go, brother,” he said.

I untied my horse and climbed into the saddle. I didn't look at him again. I walked my bay through the cedars, then spurred him to a gallop and turned him west.

Dad Egan

By the time my train got to Waco the coaches were buzzing. Some said all had been killed. Some said only one. Some said two officers were killed and the whole gang escaped. It was impossible to find out the truth. But something big had happened, and I had missed it, and from Waco to Round Rock was the longest ride of my life.

The depot was full of Rangers, many just arrived. I introduced myself to one standing on the platform. Yes, Sam Bass had been in Round Rock, he said. He or someone in his gang had killed A. W. Grimes, a Williamson County deputy sheriff, and badly wounded Maurice Moore, a Travis County deputy who had come up from Austin with Major Jones. One of the bandits had been killed, but he didn't know which. The trail of the others had been lost on Brushy Creek, but Major Jones would resume the search at daylight. “Where is Major Jones?” I asked.

“At the jail,” he said. “The Judas has been taken there.”

“The Judas?”

“Jim Murphy.”

He gave me directions to the jail, and I lifted my saddlebags to my shoulder and went into the depot. The floor was strewn with saddles and blankets, and about two dozen men, most of them Rangers, lounged on the benches and sat on the floor against the walls, cleaning rifles and pistols and talking quietly. I picked my way through the clutter and stepped into the warm night. The buildings were brightly lit, and the streets and sidewalks were crowded for such a small town so late in the night. There were few women, and nearly all the men were armed. It looked like Denton had a month or two before. Another Bass war was in the making. The crowd was thickest and noisiest around a small building down the street, and I knew it was the jail. Two Rangers stood in the door, guarding it, but they stepped aside when I gave my name. A lamp burned on the jailer's desk, and another in one of the cells, among several men. “How do you know this is Seaborn Barnes?” someone asked.

“Take off his pantaloons if you don't believe me,” said another. “He's got three buckshot holes in his right leg and one in the left. He got them at Mesquite.”

The voice was Jim Murphy's. “That won't be necessary,” I said. “I'll confirm the identification.”

The men in the cell looked at me. A small man wearing spectacles held the lamp. I took him to be a doctor. Jim looked pale and sick. He glanced at me, then quickly looked away. The others were Rangers, and I didn't know them.

“I'm Sheriff Egan of Denton County,” I said. “I'm sure I'll know the man.” But when I saw him in the shadowy light I wasn't sure. The bullet had struck in the middle of the face, almost in the nose, and had crushed the bone. His dark hair was matted with blood. “Well, maybe you'd better take off the pantaloons,” I said.

One of the Rangers lifted the body while another worked with the belt and buttons until he bared the body's legs. The scars were there, scarlet against the pale skin. Another Ranger laid his hand on Jim's arm and said, “You're under arrest.”

“Let him go. He's working for us.” The voice came from behind me. I turned around. Major Jones was sitting alone in a dark corner of the office. “Hello, Dad,” he said. He stood up and shook my hand. The Ranger removed his hand from Jim's arm and looked at him with more contempt than I've ever seen in human eyes. Jim slid out of the cell and joined Major Jones and me. “Come to the hotel with me, Dad,” the major said. “We've got to talk.” He moved toward the door, and Jim started to follow us, but Major Jones said, “Go hide yourself, Murphy. And pray that Frank Jackson doesn't find you. I'll see that you get the money.” His voice was heavy with contempt. Jim looked at me with pleading in his eyes. I pitied him, but followed the major out the door.

Men are strange creatures. With the exception of myself, Major Jones wanted more than anybody to see justice done to Sam Bass. And Jim Murphy had been responsible for the end of Seaborn Barnes's ignominious career and might yet help bring the bandit chieftain himself to bay. He had saved the Williamson County Bank, too. Yet there was no more friendless creature in Round Rock that night than Jim Murphy. Seaborn Barnes, burning in whatever pit Satan reserves for his kind, at least had the company of kindred souls. And he had the respect of those who had killed him. But there wasn't a man in Round Rock who would have lifted a hand to save Jim Murphy from Frank Jackson or anybody else. In the minds of some men there are causes higher than justice. I remembered the Ranger at the depot calling him “Judas,” and I regretted it, for I had always considered Jim a decent man. But the name fit. To Pontius Pilate our Lord was an outlaw, of less consequence to him than Sam Bass was to Major Jones and me. But to Judas Iscariot he was a friend sold for silver, and I knew Jim Murphy would never have another friend, nor would his soul be at peace again.

I wondered why Major Jones had warned Jim against Frank Jackson and not Sam, but I withheld my questions until we had worked our way through the crowd and the major had poured himself a glass of whiskey in his hotel room. “Bass was wounded badly,” he said. “He'll probably be dead when we find him. I/we find him. If he died, Jackson may have hidden his body or even buried him by now. That young man was still very healthy when we last saw him.”

The major was weary and not at all elated to be so near the end of his mission. He told me of Jim's letter, a duplicate of my own, and the mad dash to beat Sam to Round Rock. When he received the letter on Wednesday, he immediately telegraphed Lampasas, the station of the nearest Rangers to Round Rock. The major and Deputy Moore, who had been wounded in the battle, then came the twenty miles from Austin on the train. He was disappointed that only three Rangers had arrived before him. The rest of the Lampasas squad had been sent the previous day to San Saba, but were notified to ride for Round Rock at once. He had telegraphed Austin to send most of the men stationed in the capital, and had prayed the trap be sprung quickly, for his decision left the state treasury almost unguarded.

But the battle had occurred before the Austin and Lampasas men arrived, before anyone was ready. Grimes and Moore had been fools to confront the bandits alone, even if they didn't know who they were up against. The barn door had been opened prematurely, and only one of the escaping horses had been caught. “We've damn sure shut the door behind them, too,” the major said. “Bass and Jackson aren't going to ride back to Round Rock. The worst thing is, I don't know whether there are enough decent horses in this town to mount my men. The Lampasas men practically killed theirs getting here. The bunch from San Saba rode a hundred and ten miles in twenty-three hours, and their mounts might as well be shot. We had nothing but livery stable nags this afternoon, and they gave out before we were three miles out of town.”

He had men scouting the ranches and farms for horses, he said, and hoped they found some. “Goddamn it, Dad,” he said, “I hate working with local officers. They're politicians first and officers second, and don't know beans from billiard balls.”

I must have flushed, for he said, “I didn't mean you. Anyway, Grimes and Moore should've known better. They both used to be Rangers, and in my command, too.”

I tried to think he meant no harm. Sam Bass had haunted the minds of both of us for months, and until today we had only Arkansas Johnson to show for all our trouble and expense. And even Salt Creek had happened by accident. “I'd like to turn in,” I said. “I wonder if they have another room here.”

“I reserved you one,” he said. “I figured you'd show up.”

I went downstairs and registered at the desk and took my saddlebags to my room. For once, I wished I was a drinking man like the major. I paced the tiny room, unable to sleep, unable even to sit down, listening to the shouts and laughter of the drunks in the saloon below, all claiming credit for the bullet that smashed Seaborn Barnes's face. Finally I pulled on my boots and walked down the stairs and headed for the livery stable at the end of the street. The door was open, and a lantern hung lit inside, but I found no one until I climbed to the loft. A boy was sleeping there. I touched him with my toe, and he sprang awake. “Are you the hostler?” I asked.