Territory (47 page)

“That’s a mighty good horse,” Ringo observed. “You ever think of selling him?”

Jesse tried to think of a way to answer that would be forceful but not rude.

Ringo laughed. “I didn’t figure you had.”

Ringo turned his horse up the road toward town. Jesse was about to rein Sam around to head down the gulch when Brocius called weakly from Stil-well’s saddle, “Fox. I believe I owe you.”

Jesse looked at his pale, drawn face with the livid wound in the cheek. Once it had been Jesse, lying flat and almost too weak to speak, who’d said to Lung, “I think you just saved my life.”

Jesse shook his head at Brocius and wheeled Sam around. Words wouldn’t pass the tightness in his throat.

He found the gray mare several miles down the gulch, at the foot of a deep cut the water had made over several seasons. She was on her feet—or three of them, anyway. Her near hind leg was broken, and she carried her head low with pain.

Jesse took Brocius’s gear off the mare. “I’m sorry,” he told her. “This is all I can do for you.” He took the rifle out of its scabbard, levered a cartridge into the chamber, and pulled the trigger.

As he bundled Brocius’s saddle and belongings in a blanket and tied it behind his own saddle, he wondered if that was true. No, he couldn’t do anything for a broken-legged horse except put it out of its misery. But Sam wouldn’t have spooked and fallen like that, because he and his rider had been trained to understand each other. He looked back at the body of the gray and thought of thousands of half-broke cow ponies across the West and the drovers who rode them, and all of them in danger of ending up like the gray: a feast for the turkey vultures. Jesse could only train one horse and one rider at a time.

Sam snorted and put his ears back when Jesse added his weight to the load on Sam’s back. “Oh, hush,” Jesse told him. “You’ve done more work than this.” He stroked Sam’s rain-wet neck and watched his ears swivel to catch the sounds of the words. “Let’s go home and see how many weeks it takes us to dry out.”

They followed the gulch back to the road, and the road to town. They’d just crossed the first of the numbered streets when John Ringo’s big bay trotted out from behind a barn and swung in beside Sam. “So,” said Ringo, as if in the middle of a conversation, “you play poker to lose and swim pretty well. Any other surprises under that hat?”

“Since they wouldn’t be surprises to me, how would I know?”

“No offense meant.”

“None taken.” He couldn’t explain to Ringo that he didn’t want company. He could afford to be civil for the few minutes it would take to deliver Sam to the livery stable and Brocius’s gear to wherever it belonged.

“That was quick thinking back there. You do that a lot?”

“Accidents are pretty common in the goldfields.”

“Now, that’s true. I also know that’s true whether you ever saw ’em or not. So you see, I’m not too sure if you told me anything I don’t already know.”

Jesse schooled his face into what he hoped was a good-natured expression and said, “That’s what makes you well-informed fellows so hard to talk to.”

Ringo cackled—a wicked old man’s laugh, out of place in his mouth. “Damned good thing you didn’t go to Mexico after all. I liked what you did back there, and how you did it.”

“Thank you,” Jesse said, since Ringo seemed to expect him to say something.

“If you’re looking for work, I could use a man who thinks fast and acts on it. You and I could be a big help to each other, Mr. Fox.”

“And what is your line of work, Mr. Ringo?” Jesse asked, because he wanted to know what Ringo would answer.

Ringo smiled. “Moving livestock.”

Jesse wanted to ask, “Anyone’s in particular?” But one didn’t accuse a man to his face of being a rustler, even if it was widely known to be true. “Those four men killed near Fronteras a few months ago were doing much the same. The newspapers are full of letters calling for the heads of … livestock movers. It seems like a risky business to be in.”

“I wouldn’t have thought you’d stick at a little risk.”

“Oh, I’m a terrible coward. Thanks for the offer, but I believe I’ll stay as I am.”

“Well, you think about it.” Ringo touched his hat brim and spurred his horse down the puddled street.

Jesse pulled Sam up and sagged in the saddle. He had half an education as a mining engineer, a trade as a horse tamer, and a calling as a … a conjure man. Now here was John Ringo saying he had the makings of a cattle thief. “Tombstone, the land of opportunity,” he said aloud. Sam’s ears swiveled. “Never mind,” he added. “Whatever happens, you’ll get fed.”

 19 

Mildred’s shabby black umbrella had become a butt for jokes in the Nugget office. “Carrying an old umbrella is proof that my mind is on higher things,” she assured Joe Dugan.

Joe pointed his composing stick at the window. “Higher than that rain cloud? If you’ve got nothing better than that bumbershoot between you and it, you’ll have its innards on your mind and everything else.”

She laughed. But on her way to the post office, a gust of wind nearly swatted the umbrella out of her hands, and she heard a snap as a rib broke.

She saw the
Gallagher’s
name on an envelope in her bundle of mail, and tore it open to find the acceptance and payment for “The Spectre of Spaniard’s Mine.” Her thoughts weren’t so firmly fixed on higher things that she couldn’t take a hint. She went straight to Austerberg’s Dry Goods.

Frederick Austerberg laid out half a dozen ladies’ umbrellas on the counter at the rear of the store.

She ought to take the gunmetal-gray one. It was sensible. She was sensible, wasn’t she? The one next to it was red as a cardinal, with a black silk ruffle around the edge and a pierced-work ebony handle. Opened, it was shaped like an Oriental minaret or a dome from a Russian palace.

“That one,” she said, tapping the red umbrella with one finger. Her voice was a little unsteady, as befitted a sensible woman buying a red umbrella.

A long roll of thunder, like a battery of cannon, sounded outside. “You will get to try it pretty quick, eh?” Mr. Austerberg craned his neck to peer around a pile of folded dungarees at the front window. “Look at that, black as the Wicked Gentleman.” He shook his head. “Such rain already. Look at these shelves!”

Mildred supposed that by Mr. Austerberg’s standards, the store was dangerously understocked, but she didn’t see any empty spaces.

“The freight wagon came not past St. David last week. The road is not safe.
Those canned goods, no more I have in the storeroom. When they are gone, poof!” Mr. Austerberg tended to forget his English syntax when greatly moved.

“Well, we can eat mock apple pie as long as the soda crackers hold out. Harry’s threatening to print the
Nugget
in smaller type to keep from running out of paper.”

Mr. Austerberg harrumphed through his nose. “If we have more law and order, maybe there be not so much news to print.”

“Heavens, we have enough peace officers in Tombstone to start a new town. U. S. deputy marshals, county sheriff, city constable, deputies for all of ‘em—”

“And do we have law? No. That Sheriff Behan will not arrest his friends, though from every honest rancher they steal. Poor Bauer, the butcher— seventy head of beef from his corral he has lost to these cow-boys! I thank the good God I am not a butcher.”

From his language, Mr. Austerberg had been reading the
Epitaph.
“Cochise County is seven thousand square miles of bad travel. The angel Gabriel himself might have trouble serving a warrant.”

“And when they walk down the street of town, these cow-boys? Why do they not fear justice?”

“Because justice requires proof, not hearsay.” Mildred kept her tone light, though it was an effort. “If one of Mr. Bauer’s seventy cows will come forward and identify the men who took it, they can be arrested. Until then, I’m not prepared to hang my neighbors simply because someone is pretty sure they stole some stock from somewhere.”

“Everyone knows these men are thieves!”

“Then everyone should swear out an affidavit. After that the accused men can be arrested, tried, and their guilt or innocence determined on the merits of the case, and if they’re found guilty, an appropriate sentence handed down. You say we have no law, Mr. Austerberg, but that’s what law is. Anything else is lawlessness, even if the people getting killed are the ones you think deserve it.” She had to stop for breath. So much, it seemed, for keeping her tone light.

Mr. Austerberg shook his head sadly. “That is ideal, yes. But here the ones who know do not come forward, and the police their duty do not do. The citizens must act.”

“Doing what?”

“We will form a Vigilance Committee.”

Civilized words for an uncivil thing. Mildred shivered. “Vigilantes are just more lawbreakers stirred into the mix. Citizens should insist the police and the courts do their jobs, not take those jobs over.”

“You do not understand. Men must protect their homes and families.”

If there was one thing Mildred hated, it was being told by someone she was out-arguing that she didn’t understand. “All of us want to protect our homes and families. I don’t think the way to do it is to increase the chance of them being caught in the crossfire.”

“You will see,” Mr. Austerberg said. “When these thieves know that honest men against them stand, they will leave. There will be no danger.”

Mildred thought the rustlers’ resolve was firmer than Mr. Austerberg gave them credit for. But she didn’t want to lose a friend. “I hope you’re right. Now, how is your stock of pen nibs?”

Mr. Austerberg went to fetch his stepstool as the bell over the door clanged. Mildred looked up.

Jesse Fox stood in the door, brushing raindrops off his hat.

After her encounter with Chu, she’d looked for him, and was ashamed of how glad she was that a respectable widowed woman didn’t write notes to single gentlemen. But he’d disappeared. She’d finally asked Chu, who said, “He not come back long time, he say.” That suggested he would eventually come back. When he did, she would know what to do about him.

Here, at last, he was, with no indication of where he’d been or what he’d done. His attention was focused downward; he seemed unaware that there might be anyone else in the room. The light from the door framed him like the center of a painting.

He looked up and saw her. She wanted to school her face to some appropriate expression, but couldn’t think of one. He, on the other hand, looked as if he’d been caught at something.

His shoulders rose and fell. Then he walked straight to the back of the store, and her.

“Mrs. Benjamin—”

She forced her mouth open, her voice to work. “I’m sorry I didn’t believe you.”

He blinked. “What—”

“What you said after the Fourth of July ball.” She was aware that Mr. Austerberg might be within hearing.

“Oh. I came over to apologize. For making you uncomfortable.”

Surprise made her laugh, a stiff, humorless sound. “Uncomfortable. It was that.” She looked past him, which left her staring at the pile of dungarees. “Children want to be told everything is all right. And if it’s not, they prefer to be lied to.”

“But it’s not good to do,” he said rather sadly.

“No, and I’m not a child. Which … which leads me to the next thing I have to say.” She folded her hands tightly over the clasp of her purse just to feel the solidness of it. “Thank you for treating me like an adult. And for sharing what must be”—she lowered her voice—”a considerable secret.”

He frowned as if she were faintly printed type that needed puzzling out. “Do you know more than I told you?”

“Yes,” she said, with care.

“How did that happen?”

“I spoke with Mrs. Holliday. And Chu.”

“Interviewing the witnesses. I should have known.” They stood silent. Should she not have told him? Finally he said, “Does it frighten you?”

“Of course it does,” she snapped. “Any reasonable person would find the very possibility terrifying.”

“But you’re still …” He raised his empty hands, as if he hoped she could fill them with the end of his sentence.

“A reasonable person, once convinced that … such things are possible, would need to understand them.”