Elmore Leonard: Valdez Is Coming

“Uh-huh,” Mr. Malson said. “Well, where is she now?”

“I took her to Inez’s place,” Valdez said. “She’s staying there tonight.”

Nobody said anything until he was gone. Then R. L. Davis, as drunk as he was, said, “Je-sus H. Christ. Now he’s turned that Indin creature into a whore.”

He went unarmed, riding south through the darkness, feeling the chill of night settling on the land. He didn’t want to go; he was tired. He had come up this road this morning from St. David on the bouncing, bucking, creaking boot of the Hatch and Hodges stage, throwing gravel at the wheelers and yelling, urging the horses on as the driver held the heavy reins and snapped them over the teams. Sun and dust this morning, and sweat soaking his body under the dark suit; now cold darkness over the same ruts that stretched across the mesquite flats and climbed through barrancas to crest a hill and drop curving into the endless flats again, forever, it seemed, on the boot or now in the saddle of a stage company horse.

He said in his mind, Mr. Tanner, I’m Bob Valdez. You remember, I was out at the pasture today when the man was killed.

When the man was killed. When you killed him, he said to himself.

We were talking about doing something for his wife and Mr. Beaudry, the land agent, said-

He said go out and try to get it from Frank Tanner; you dumb Mexican son of a bitch. That’s what he said. Do you know it?

He knew it. Sure. But what was he supposed to do? Forget about the woman? He had told her they would give her money. God, it would be easy to forget about her. No, it would be good, but it wouldn’t be easy. But with all of them watching him he had had to walk out and get a horse and he would have to ride the ten goddam miles or more to the goddam swing station and, getting it over with, smile and be respectful and ask Mr. Tanner if he would please like to give something for this fat squaw who had lived with Rincon and was having his child.

And Frank Tanner, like the rest of them, would say-

No, they said this Tanner had a lot of money. Maybe he would say, “Sure, I’ll give you something for her. How much do you want?” Maybe it would be easy to talk to him. Maybe now, at night, after it was over and the man had had time to think about it, maybe he would talk a little and say yes.

A mile or a little more from the stage station he saw low shapes out among the brush patches, cattle grazing, bedded for the night, and among them, the taller shape of a rider. But they were well off from the stage road and none of the cattle he saw or the mounted man came near him. During the last mile he was certain a rider was behind him, but he didn’t stop or slow down to let the horse sound catch up with him. It could be somebody on the road, anybody, or one of Tanner’s men watching him; but he had nothing to say to whoever it was. His words were for Tanner, even if he didn’t know how to put the words to convince the man. It would be easier to say it in Spanish. Or in Chiricahua.

Now, coming over a low rise, he could see the glow of their fires, three of them, where the swing station would be in the darkness. Gradually then, as he approached, he could make out the adobe building, the fires reflecting on pale walls in the night. The front of the building, beneath the mesquite-pole ramada, was in deep shadow. Closer now and he could see the low adobe outer wall across the front yard, shielding the well and the horse corral from open country.

Valdez listened as he approached. He could hear the men by the fire, the thin sound of voices coming across the yard. He could hear horses moving in the corral and a shrill whinnying sound. He was aware of horses closer to him, off in the darkness, but moving in with the heavy muffled sound of hooves on the packed sand. He did not look toward the sound but continued on, coming to the wall and walking his horse through the open gate, feeling the riders out of the darkness close behind him as he entered the yard.

A figure by the wall with a rifle said, “Hold it there,” and a voice behind him, in English also but with an accent said, “We have him.” The man with the rifle came toward him, raising the barrel of a Henry or a Winchester – Valdez wasn’t sure in the dimness.

He said in Spanish, “I have no gun.”

And the voice behind him said, also in Spanish, “Get down and show us.”

Valdez swung down. He dropped the reins and opened his coat as the man with the rifle, a Winchester, came up to him.

“The saddle,” the voice behind him said in English.

Not looking around Valdez said, “You make sure, don’t you?” The man behind him didn’t answer. He walked his horse forward and dismounted close to Valdez, looking into his face.

“You go where?”

“Here,” Valdez said. “To speak to Senor Tanner.”

“About what?”

“Money,” Valdez said.

The man who had dismounted continued to study him for a moment. He handed his reins to the one with the rifle and walked off toward the adobe. Valdez watched him and saw the men by the fires, on the side of the adobe, looking out toward him. It was quiet now except for the stirring of the horses in the corral. He saw the light in the doorway as the man went inside. The door remained open, but he could see nothing within.

There was a bar inside the room and two long tables. The station man, Gregorio Sanza, would be behind the bar maybe, serving Tanner. He remembered Tanner did not take anything to drink at the pasture.

He said to the one with the rifle, “The company I work for owns that building. The Hatch and Hodges.”

The man said nothing. Beyond him now two figures appeared in the doorway, in the light for a moment and out of it into darkness. Not Tanner, neither of them. The one who had gone inside called out, “Bring him over.” The two men in shadow came out a few steps and the second one, also with an accent, said, “Against the wall,” motioning with a nod of his head to the side.

Some of the men by the fires had stood up or were rising as Valdez walked toward them. Others sat and lounged on their sides – dark faces, dark leather, firelight reflecting on cartridge belts and mess tins – and Valdez had to walk around them to reach the wall. As he turned, the man who had come out of the house walked over to stand across the fire from him, the men standing or sitting there quickly making room for him.

The segundo , Valdez thought. They move.

He was a big man, almost as big as Diego Luz, with a straw Sonora hat and a heavy moustache that gave him a solemn expression and a strip of beard beneath his mouth. The segundo, with one cartridge bandolier and two long-barreled.44s on his legs.

Valdez nodded to him and said in Spanish, “Good evening,” almost smiling.

“I don’t know you,” the segundo said.

“Because we have never met.”

“I know everyone who does business with Senor Tanner.”

“I have no business with him. A private matter.”

“You told them business.”

“I told them money.”

The segundo was silent, watching him. “He doesn’t know you,” he said then.

“Senor Tanner? Sure, I met him today. I killed a man for him.”

The segundo hesitated again, undecided or taking his own time, watching him. He motioned with his hand then, and the Mexican who had gone into the house before moved away, turning the corner. The segundo continued to stare. Valdez shifted his gaze to the left and to the right and saw all of them watching him in the light of the fires. There were Americans and Mexicans, some of them bearded, most of them with their hats on, all of them armed. He counted, looking about idly, and decided there were at least twelve of them here. More of them out in the darkness.