Zeke and Ned (11 page)

“Watch him now . . . watch him now, he's quick,” Zeke warned, from his cell. He felt sure Ned would prevail in the struggle, but there was always a chance Davie would manage some wild move and get through Ned's guard, shoving the big knife into his liver.

If that happened, his own doom would swiftly follow. Charley Bobtail had neglected to arm himself. The bloody Davie Beck would make short work of the Sheriff, who, in Zeke's view, was a slow man in the wrong job.

Ned had no intention of allowing Davie Beck the slightest opening. He squatted down so as to be at Davie's level, and pointed both .44s directly at Davie's bloody head.

“Now, Davie, I want you to scat,” he said firmly. “You had no business coming into this jail and misbehaving. Judge Sixkiller has set a trial, and it's less than two weeks away. You and your brothers will just have to wait until the law has had time to proceed.”

Davie's hands were so slippery with blood that he failed to get his knife open, and Ned had his unloaded gun with the wired-on handle. He had lost all his bullets in a wager at cards, and had only brought the gun in hopes of bluffing Charley Bobtail. Had he known Ned Christie was there, he would have stopped and borrowed some bullets—but of course, it was too late for that now. Ned had the drop on him, and Ned was known throughout the Territory for the accuracy of his aim.

Besides, his ears were ringing from Ned's blows, and another tooth or two felt like they were working loose. The one thing Davie wanted to avoid was swallowing his own teeth. Swallowed teeth could grow in your stomach and puncture you fatally, his grandmother had told him when he was a child growing up in Mississippi.

He managed, with difficulty, to get to his feet. Ned Christie's eyes had a chill in them. Davie could tell the man would not be loath to shoot him.

“I have got to attend to these teeth,” Davie said, once he was up. He started for the door, but turned just before he got to it.

“Goddamn you, Ned,” he coughed. The blood had thickened up in his mouth.

“Scat now, I said,” Ned repeated. “Just go along, or else die.”

“One of these days I'll skin you and peg up your hide,” Davie said, spitting out red froth. “That's my solemn vow.” Then he left.

Ned holstered his pistols, and looked over at Zeke.

“It's a good thing I stayed, ain't it?” he said.

“Yep,” Zeke replied. “I expect I'd be in hell by now, if you hadn't.”

W
HEN
D
AVIE
B
ECK
GOT HOME, THERE WAS SO MUCH BLOOD ON HIS
saddle that T Spade's first thought was somebody had shot his horse.

When Davie dismounted, he did not seem immediately capable of speech. He began to walk around in circles in front of the mill. First one Beck brother, then another, trickled out to observe him. Sam, the eldest Beck, interrupted Davie's circling long enough to determine that he was bleeding from the ear as well as from the nose.

Nosebleeds were a common thing among the six Beck brothers. They frequently inflicted them upon themselves in the course of their many disputes. Frank and Willy, the middle brothers, had scrapped almost from birth and were subject to even more frequent nosebleeds. But it was rare for Davie to receive an injury, either from a brother or from anyone else, the reason being that there was no predicting where a fight with Davie Beck would stop. Once he passed into one of his animal fits, brother or stranger was just as apt to end up dead. The worst thing Davie had on his conscience was the drowning of cousin Simon Beck, which had occurred right after Davie's own wedding to a yellow girl named China Lee. Cousin Simon had kissed the bride a little too enthusiastically for Davie's taste. While the wedding party tippled, Simon and Davie fought their way down a hill, through a thicket, and into a creek. Davie returned to the wedding party not much worse for wear, but cousin Simon never returned. He was found two days later, with a bloody head and his lungs full of creek water. Davie tried to claim that a Choctaw must have jumped Simon, but no one in the Beck clan believed it. No one inquired closely into the matter, either. Davie did not welcome efforts to corroborate his stories.

Davie was always the victor in his disputes; he did not stop fighting
until his opponent was either dead or so damaged that he could not function. Thus, when Davie rode up, his saddle bloody to the stirrups, bleeding not only from the nose but from the ear, the assumption among the Beck brothers was that Zeke Proctor and anyone who might have tried to defend the man must be dead. The thought that someone might have bested Davie in a fight did not occur to any of them.

“So, is the rascal dead, Dave?” T Spade asked. He knew he should have gone to avenge Polly himself, but he had suffered from an overpowering lethargy since her death and had allocated the matter of revenge to his renegade brother.

“No, but he will be, soon enough,” Davie muttered. It galled him to admit failure. Bitterness at Ned Christie flooded his heart.

The news took the assembled Becks aback. It was unthinkable that Zeke alone could have bested Davie—so, what was the story?

“Well, why ain't he dead?” Frank Beck managed to inquire. He was normally fearful of questioning his brother, but in this instance, he was so overwhelmed by curiosity that he could not contain himself.

“Because that goddamn Ned Christie took his part,” Davie admitted. “I didn't have no bullets to shoot the son-of-a-bitch with. Lost them at poker over in Dog Town.”

“Now that was foolish,” T Spade remarked. “Ned Christie's a dead shot. How did you expect to kill him without bullets?”

“I didn't expect him to be there in the first place,” Davie told him. “I expected to get in the cell with Zeke, and cut his damn throat.”

“That was rash. How did you expect to get in the dern cell?” Willy asked.

“I meant to ask Charley Bobtail for the keys and if he wouldn't give 'em to me, I would have cut his goddamn throat first,” Davie said. “But Ned was there with two pistols and a rifle, and he wouldn't back down. He thumped me on the head with them dern big forty-fours until I lost my reason.”

T. Spade Beck was staggered, though he knew Ned Christie was a formidable man. But Davie had bested formidable men time after time—why had he not bested Ned?

“Didn't you fight back atall?” he asked.

“Bit his leg,” Davie said. He was still walking in circles, dabbing at his ear with a piece of rag he found someplace.

“Dern . . . why bite his leg?” Frank Beck inquired. “You could bite his leg till it thunders, and the man could still slap you with them big pistols, or anything else that might be handy.”

Willy was the thoughtful Beck. His brothers all tended to act first, and think later, if at all—but Willy had small belief in taking action without thinking about it for a few minutes first.

What he had to think about now was the fact that Ned Christie, the best shot in the District, had allied himself with the murderer Zeke Proctor. It was an unexpected turn of events, made more ominous by the fact that Ned had managed to best Davie in a direct encounter, something that no one else had ever done—and had suffered only a minor injury in the process, to boot.

“We might have to kill Ned. I don't know why he interfered,” Willy said.

“Well, they're Cherokees, Willy. Besides, that girl of Zeke's married him,” T. Spade reflected. Since Polly's death, he had stopped trimming his beard, which was long and dank from tobacco spittings.

“That's it,” Frank concluded. “Ned married Zeke's girl. That makes him and Zeke in-laws.”

Sam, the silent Beck, was so moved by the spectacle of his blood-soaked brother, that he ventured an opinion, too.

“It's more than the girl,” he said. “They ain't just Cherokees— they're Keetoowahs. They speak in signs to one another and such. They believe in them Little People, and witches and spells. I expect they made some Indian medicine, which is why Davie couldn't whip Ned.”

“I shouldn't have gambled my bullets,” Davie reflected. The fact was, once in a card game, he would gamble anything he had. The power to stop was not in him. More than once he had come home barefooted and beltless on muddy nights because he had gambled his boots and belt.

“It's probably all that saved you,” Willy said. “I wouldn't be shooting at Ned Christie—not me. If you'd had bullets, I expect that old pistol of yours would have misfired and he might have shot you dead.”

Stung by this criticism, Davie whirled into another animal fit, though a short one. He jumped at Willy and pounded him to his knees. Before Willy could catch his breath, Davie kicked him in the pit of the stomach. When Willy fell over gasping, Davie jumped on his
head with both feet and tried to mash his teeth down his throat. He wanted Willy to swallow a few teeth, that might then grow in his stomach and puncture him. It would mean an agonizing death, just the kind he wanted his mouthy brother to die.

Nobody pulled Davie off. When Willy was unconscious, Sam Beck rendered his conclusions.

“Willy ought to know better,” he offered.

“What ought we to do, T.?” Frank Beck wondered.

T. Spade dribbled more tobacco spittings into his beard.

“I expected Judge Parker to send the marshals after Zeke,” he said.

“Well, he won't, the old bastard,” Sam said.

“We could hire a marshal or two ourselves, then,” T. Spade observed. “Billy Yopps might need the work.”

Davie Beck had stopped walking in circles. Stomping his brother Willy had restored his good humour, to some extent, and he was feeling a little better. For a moment, he was tempted to shoot
all
his brothers—they were a vexing lot. But he had no bullets, and it would be a chore to borrow enough to wipe out the vexing Becks. He went over and kicked at Willy a time or two more, for good measure. Willy groaned, and then proceeded to roll partway down the slope behind the mill.

“The trial day is in about a week,” Davie said. “I mean to go to the courthouse and kill every single person that's on Zeke's side.”

“Davie, couldn't we hire a marshal or two to help?” T. Spade asked. “It'd seem more legal, that way.”

What was legal did not interest Davie Beck in the slightest. While his brothers were trying to revive Willy, he stumbled over to the springhouse and held his head in the cold springwater until the blood stopped dripping out his ear.

N
ED STAYED TWO DAYS IN THE
T
AHLEQUAH JAIL, WAITING FOR THE
Becks to come back in force and try to take Zeke.

Zeke was in a low mood, and spoke little. When he did speak, it was to complain about Judge B. H. Sixkiller and his arbitrary ways. The Judge had led him to believe that he would be released and allowed to go home, once the threat of white marshals had passed. Then the
threat did pass, but the Judge unaccountably lagged about the release order.

Zeke pestered Sheriff Bobtail unmercifully. Several times a day, Charley Bobtail had to chase all the way across the street to the courthouse to see if Judge Sixkiller had changed his mind back so that Zeke could go home.

The news of Davie Beck's fit soon spread far and wide. The common opinion was that both Zeke and Ned were dead men. All the Becks were vengeful, but Davie Beck was vengeful far beyond the norm. Men who had done Davie Beck the most trifling slight months or even years before still slept with two or three guns at the ready in case Davie, bent on vengeance, showed up. Sooner or later, he always showed up, generally with a club in his hand. Given a choice, Davie Beck would usually choose to beat on people. The knife and the bullet were too gentle, in his view.

The only person in Tahlequah who was not apprehensive about Davie was Ned Christie. He considered himself a match for Davie, no matter when he came or what he chose to arm himself with. Ned spent most of his days playing Chinese checkers with Zeke—it was one of Zeke's favourite games. Every time Ned would decide to go outside and stretch his legs, Zeke would demand one more game, and Ned usually gave in. He usually won, too. Zeke had watery vision up close and as a result was not very good at Chinese checkers.

On the afternoon of the third day, Tuxie Miller came to pay Zeke a visit and was immediately sent to the Proctor home to fetch Pete. News had come that Pete was poorly. The dog was so upset by his master's absence that he would take no food.

“Go get him for me, Tuxie, he's pining away,” Zeke said. He had said the same thing to Ned several times, but Ned turned a deaf ear. He was not going to put Zeke at risk by going to fetch his dog.

“I expect he'll eat when he gets hungry enough,” Ned said.

“I doubt it,” Zeke said, gloomily. “He's a one-man dog, and I'm the man. I expect he'll just die.”

Tuxie had a soft spot for Pete. The little black dog's ferocity amused him.

“I doubt Pete knows how big he is,” he said, several times. “He may think he's as big as a bear.”

“No, he don't know how big he
isn't,”
Ned corrected. His view was
that Pete was a noisy little nuisance. He was beginning to be lonesome for Jewel, and he wanted to kiss her—badly. He could not keep his mind on Zeke's dog.

“Go get him, Tuxie,” Zeke said, again. “Davie Beck might go take vengeance on him. He will, if the thought crosses his mind.”

So Tuxie went. He was hoping Becca might make him up some taters and cornbread, but all he got when he arrived at the Proctor house was a little gravy and some salt pork—plus a lot of slobbering from Pete.

“I want my husband home. I want to know about that woman,” Becca said to Tuxie.

“Why, Ma? She's dead. I'd just let it be,” Liza said. She was trying to make Tuxie stay the night, but with no better grub at hand than gravy and salt pork, he declined.

“You ain't me,” Becca replied, to Liza. Becca sat at the table pulling grey hairs out of her head.