The Eye of the Hunter (21 page)

Breathing hard, his lips pooching out with the exhalations, the stableman turned the paper and frowned at it. Then he threw his hat on the floor and shouted at Henry: “You poisoned my water hole, you bastard! Everything was all right till you turned him around!”

Henry said, “Ambrose is right, Gorman. It has to be signed before a witness, or he'll be in hot water.”

“The woman did this! She got you to sour things for me. Fixing to get even with me for ... for turning her down.” Almost sobbing, he said, “God
damn
, I hate a woman like that! She'll tease you, and ... and practically flop down on her back for you, and then scream like a bitch coyote that you molested her!”

“Hey,” Henry said. He made a gesture with his thumb.

“You'd better leave, Budge,” Ambrose said. “I'll explain it later, when you've cooled out a bit.”

“The goddamn chippy has been slandering me! Admit it, Logan!”

“Budge,” Ambrose snapped, “you're drunk. Take off.”

“Slut!” Budge shouted. “Dirty, whoring slut! I'm sick of her running this town!”

Henry hit him openhanded with both palms, and Budge fell back to the floor at the top of the stairs. He rolled onto his belly, like a beetle trying to right itself, and Henry saw the holstered gun he wore between his hip pockets. Budge got onto one knee and one foot, and Henry put Rip's nice alligator boot in his side and sent him sprawling down the steps. He followed as Gorman rolled onto the walk, bellowing like a mad bull, and placed his boot upon the man's Adam's apple, choking off his shouts. Gorman's left hand dug at his calf muscles, but his right hand was trying to pull the revolver.

Men were calling back and forth to each other, like boys on a playground. But those closer to the action were backing away.

“If you pull that gun, Gorman,” Henry shouted, “I'll drive your Adam's apple through your spine!”

But Gorman kept tugging at the revolver, gagging, eyes bulging. What next? Henry wondered. If he pushed any harder, he would kill the man. If he didn't, Gorman might kill him.

Before he decided on a move, Gorman got the gun out. It was a five-inch-barrel Peacemaker that had lost most of its bluing. Henry drove his boot deeper into his throat as Gorman gagged, trying to cock the revolver. Through the uproar Henry heard a desperate, croaking voice warning, “Cut that out, Gorman! Drop that.”

Henry applied more pressure against the stableman's throat. Tears streamed from his eyes as Gorman tried with both hands to cock the gun. Henry heard it click like a beetle, and he dropped to his knees, getting out of line. He reached over to pound his fist into Gorman's nose, as the gun roared. Across the street, a window shattered. Men were vanishing from the sidewalk, and they faced each other on their knees, squared off like two fighting cocks in the pit. Gorman was having trouble seeing, because of the tears flooding his eyes. Blood poured from his nose.

A small-caliber gun made a spiteful crack. The Colt spun from Gorman's grasp. Henry snatched it up and hurled it into the street. Sheriff Bannock stepped in and rapped Gorman over the head with the barrel of his Colt. Gorman sat back on his heels, dazed, then sagged forward onto all fours.

Henry got to his feet, gasping. He looked up; Ben Ambrose stood on the hotel porch, a small, nickeled revolver in his hand—the British Bulldog he had seen in his coat. It was he, not the sheriff, who had shot the Colt out of Gorman's hand. Henry wondered whether he would have mixed in someone else's fight if a story had not been at stake.

* * *

They sat in the sheriff's office, where Henry had just signed his statement of the altercation. In the rear, behind a thin wall, Gorman was shouting in a cell.

“Listen to him,” the sheriff croaked. “Hydrophobia skunk's got a cleaner mouth than that.”

He was holding a cold beer someone had brought him in a large sweating schooner. He had shooed everyone out of the office and locked the door. The room was steeped in an aromatic tobacco smell, a miasma sacred to the memory of a thousand cheroots that had perished here. He was lighting one now, taking a rest from writing his report.

Gorman bawled,
“Rotten whore plugged her husband!”

Bannock whispered, “Will you tell him for me that he's going to the asylum in Tucson if he can't control himself any better than this?”

The cawing voice reminded Henry of a crow that had picked up a little English. He walked to the rear door and shouted, “Sheriff says shut up or you'll go to the loony bin, Alonzo!”

Budge shouted back,
“He's got no jur'sdiction over me, anyhow! Marshal Osterman's gonna hear about this!”

Bannock pressed his fingertips against his eyeballs, as though they smarted or he was very tired. “He's right,” he whispered. “But the marshal's out of town. I'll have to let him go in an hour or two. But he's let off steam now, and he'll settle down. Always that way.”

Henry said, “I don't believe I myself can settle down, though, until he stops bad-mouthing Frances and accusing her of murder. That's slander.”

Bannock whispered, “They're all saying that, the ninnies! I had no use for her father, but the woman is not better or worse than any other person of the female persuasion. Intelligent enough, I have no doubt, for a woman.”

“My wife seen it! Dirty bitch shot him with his own Colt!”

Bannock made a tired gesture with one finger. “In the storeroom,” he said, “you'll find a bucket with some soapy water in it. Would you just heave that over him?”

Henry went through the door in the rear. In a shadowed strap-iron kennel bolted to the floor of the storeroom, he could make out the hairy, roving, beastlike form of the stableman, looking like a particularly revolting sideshow freak in a cage. Gorman began swearing at him and rattling the flat iron bars. Henry looked around. In the shadows near the alley door he spotted a bucket with a brush floating in it. He set the brush on the floor, picked the bucket up by the bale, and gave Budge a steady look.

“What were you saying about Mrs. Parrish?” he asked.

“
Logan, you gonna be the saddest son of a bitch in Nogales if
—”

Henry hurled the bucket of water. Gorman spluttered and choked. Henry said, “Sorry, Alonzo,” and went back to the sheriff, wagging his head. He saw Bannock replacing a small bottle of brown liquid in a drawer, wiping his lips and grimacing. He felt deeply sorry for him, with all his troubles, not the least of which was that he was dying of cancer of the throat. He supposed that Frances's infamous papa must have know it and done what he could, which was not much.

Henry watched the sheriff begin to write again.

“You know,” he said, “I believe we can put a stop to this gossip, Sheriff. Wouldn't you like to clear the books on the Richard I. Parrish case? I gather it's causing you a world of trouble.”

“I can clear the book. When I find him.” Bannock sipped some more beer.

“I think I can help you there. I happen to know where the man's buried.”

“No!”

“He's buried in the graveyard at Spanish Church. Frances Parrish told me about his apparent death, but I think she should be the one to give you the story.”

“Are you a Pinkerton agent, Logan?”

“No. Still a gunsmith. But I've got the bullet that killed him, and the shell that fired it.”

He placed the articles on the sheriff's desk, and Bannock examined them. “For God's sake !”

“I'll tell you how I found these when I have Mrs. Parrish here to attest to the story.”

“Is it your plan. To dig up the entire. Cemetery out there?” asked the sheriff.

“No, sir. I have a specific grave in mind. His name is on it as plain as day.”

“
Parrish's?
”

“Well, it says RIP, which of course stands for ‘rest in peace.' But somebody who thinks he's pretty clever might think that was just the ticket. Somebody who trades on his daring—fires off cannons at will right in town. Get an order, Sheriff, and we'll go out there and dig. How about tomorrow morning?”

The sheriff groaned. “Nasty thought—dig up a ripe corpse and carry it home. Lord ...”

“Get some rubberized canvas. We handled plenty of aging bodies in Cuba—corpses ripe as Camembert.”

In the back room, Gorman came to life again, but now he sounded like a changed man. “Sheriff? Can I talk to you?”

Bannock shook his head, and Henry called, “He says no, Budge.”

“But it's very important. I'm sorry for the fuss I caused. I won't do it again.”

“Go to sleep,” Henry called. “Is he really married?” he asked Bannock.

“Are you asking, ‘Who'd marry him?' A whore, that's who. He had some sort of falling-out.” Cough. “Out with Frances Parrish. I reckon he thought she'd. Consider herself lucky. Marry a dashing moron horse handler like him. So a couple of days ago. He goes over to Bean Town and gets. Drunk and marries this poor soul. Where can I find you, Logan?”

He was gasping, his face pallid and moist. He wiped his brow on his sleeve. Henry had deep doubts about his ability to make the grueling ride to Spanish Church.

“I'm staying at Alice Gary's.”

“Excellent cook. Very fine lady,” Bannock whispered.

“For a woman?” Henry smiled.

Bannock smiled but looked puzzled. Was this outlander joshing him?

“But I'll be at the
Globe
for a while. Maybe I can help Ambrose set type.”

Henry smiled in reflection. “You know, Sheriff, I had a little printing set once, when we lived at Fort Bowie. I remember making up some stationery for my father for Christmas. ‘John B. Logan, Captain, U.S. Army' it read. Had a letter from him on that very stationery a couple of years back. He'd saved it, all these years. I don't mind admitting I shed a tear or two.”

He had reached the door and was unlatching it when the sheriff called, “Don't you mean ... more like ten years ago?”

“No. Little better'n two. Read the
Globe
tomorrow,” said Henry with a wink.

Frances and Josefina were packing the things Frances could not imagine living without. Late sunset tinted the windows. Both women broke down and wept from time to time, and Frances, packing books in an old trunk, had to stop and open each book and read a few lines her father had loved—mostly poetry she had been raised on.

I am part of all that I have met;

Yet all experience is an arch wherethrough—

She walks in beauty, like the night of cloudless climes and starry skies—

My heart leaps up when I behold a rainbow in the sky.

And one of Dr. Wingard's favorites, from
Verses on the Death of Dr. Swift:

He never thought an honour done him

Because a Duke was proud to own him;

Would rather slip aside, and choose

To talk with wits in dirty shoes!

Lovely! It almost described Henry. Would he come down to Hermosillo to visit her? To press his suit, as they said? She was sure he would, and she smiled as she imagined his appearing at her barred window some night....

Two trunks were packed with books now, and her nice silver toilette set of brushes, combs, and mirror. No clothes yet—she had clothes in Hermosillo. She wrapped in tissue paper some little dancing shoes that had been her mother's, pink satin and ribbon. Souvenirs from
bailes
in Hermosillo.

Then she picked up her mandolin and held it to her breast, biting her lip; strummed it and found it out of key; looked for her pitch pipe but couldn't find it; and managed to tune it after a fashion.

Josefina murmured, “
Las Mananitas, Panchita!
”

Frances strummed a few twanging chords and sang the beginning of the beloved Mexican folk song. Then they wept again, in each other's arms. Alejandro tapped on the doorjamb, pointing toward the front of the house.

“Hay un soldado con dos caballos, y un canon!”

“Dónde?”

“
Alla! En frente! Lo apunta a la casa!
”

A soldier with horses pointing a cannon at the house? He must be joking. Could it be Henry? Hardly, though she was hoping he would appear with some money forhertrip. He'd offered to exchange the bag of pesos for gold pieces, so much easier to carry when you traveled. Then for some reason she slung the mandolin over her shoulder,
estilo paisano
.

Wake up, Frances—the cannon! With all the distractions, her mind would not stay fixed on anything. She hurried into the parlor and pressed close to a window. Beyond a thicket of cactus and mesquite enclosing the house, a piece of machinery, red and black, gleamed in the dusk. She saw a pair of tall wheels and a cannon barrel, which seemed to point directly at her window. Alejandro was right: It
was
a cannon! A couple of draft horses stood at a distance, near a dusty caisson. A guidon, yellow and black, flapped indolently on a staff fixed to the caisson.

The cannoneer—if that was what he was—stood behind the piece, a rifle slung across his back, the lanyard in one raised hand, a revolver in the other. He wore a tan uniform, a curl-brimmed field hat—and an eye patch.

Instinctively, as his hand jerked at the lanyard of the cannon, she screamed and put her hands over her ears.

There was a flash—a sudden shocking roar—a cloud of smoke and dust rushing toward the house like a whirlwind. The windows rattled. Dust sifted from the roof beams. She heard something go whistling over the ranch house, and a moment later a smell of brimstone tainted the air.

General Stockard now began shouting. She uncovered her ears but could not distinguish the words. She went to Josefina, who was weeping in the middle of the room.

“It's all right!” she told her. “It's just that crazy old general.
“Oiga—traigame la carabina de Señor Reep—”