Elmore Leonard - Gunsights

What else might be asked? Janet Pierson wondered if her name would appear in a newspaper or in Harper's Weekly. “In an interview with Mrs. Pierson, a close friend of the”…legendary, celebrated, renowned…famous…“the well-known figures who are playing important roles in the controversial land war…” What? “Mrs. Pierson stated they are very polite, well-mannered people.”

She said, “I don't understand it at all. I don't. How can you sit there like it's just another day and completely ignore what's going on?”

Bren put on a concerned frown. “Honey, we're just visiting; catching up's what we're doing. You know it's been over three years?”

“Yes, I know it's been three years. You date everything you talk about,” Janet Pierson said. “Sonora in eighty-seven. St. Helen's, some stagecoach station in eighty-nine. The wedding three years ago…”

There was a silence. They seemed content to let it go on, patient people, used to quiet; the Moons sitting together on the sofa could be on the porch Kate had described…Bren with a leg over the arm of his chair. Coffee cups on the end tables…News reporters outside dying of curiosity: Were they at each other's throats or plotting a way to kill Sundeen?

Bren said, you want some more coffee? The Moons said, no, thank you.

Janet Pierson, hands gripping the arms of her chair, said, “Would you like to hear about my past life, my marriage? How I came to live here? My husband, Paul, was a mining engineer. He designed and built the crushing mill up at the works that one day, when he wasn't feeling well and should have stayed in bed-I told him, in your condition you should not be walking around that machinery…”

Silence again.

Finally Kate Moon said, “Do you want them to talk about the situation? What do you want?”

“These two-” Janet Pierson began, almost angrily and had to calm herself. “These two, the heroic figures-some people must believe they're seven feet tall-what are they doing?”

“They're resting,” Kate Moon said. “Ask them. Dana, what are you doing?”

“Wondering if we shouldn't be going.”

“I'm sorry,” Janet Pierson said. “I'm the one acting strange. I'm sincerely sorry.”

Kate said, “Bren, what are you doing?”

“I don't know,” Bren said. “Passing time? It does seem funny sitting here like this.”

Moon looked at him. “What are you gonna do?”

Bren frowned again. “What do you mean, what am I gonna do?”

“Your man lynched my man.”

“He isn't in any way my man.”

“You both work for the same company.”

“I don't work. I told you that. I draw money for my claims, that's all.”

“All right, you're both paid by the same company.”

“I don't have anything to do with this situation. What do you expect me to do, quit? You want me to walk out with them still owing me seventy thousand dollars?”

“I'm not your conscience,” Moon said. “I'm not telling you what to do.”

“You bet you're not.”

There was a silence again.

Kate said to Janet Pierson, “You like it better now?”

“Please-I'm sorry,” Janet Pierson said. She was; though she did not feel guilt or remorse. She had to hear what they thought, if she was going to understand them.

Bren rose from his chair. “I'm going to the latrine-if it ain't full of newspaper reporters.”

“You still call it that?” Moon said.

Janet Pierson said she wanted to fix them something to eat and followed Bren out to the kitchen.

When they were alone, Moon said, “What are we doing here?”

“Be nice,” Kate said.

“I am nice,” he said. “That's all I'm doing, just sitting here being nice. I wonder what that son of a bitch Ison is doing. Probably having a drink and a good laugh with the judge and that other lawyer in his new suit.”

“You knew what was gonna happen,” Kate said. “Don't act so surprised.”

He patted her hand. “I'm glad you're so sweet and understanding. I hope Ison and Hough run again next year so I can vote against them, the asskissers.”

“Well, our old friend Sundeen would've got off anyway,” Kate said. “What did they have to convict him with? Nothing.”

“Let's go home.”

“If she's fixing something, we should stay.”

Moon looked toward the kitchen door. “Do you suppose he's living here with her?”

“It's his house,” Kate said. “He either bought it for her, or so he can say he owns a bigger house than yours-”

“Jesus Christ,” Moon said.

“I'm not sure which,” Kate said. “But she's a nice person, so don't look down your nose at her.”

“I'm not looking down my nose.”

“I like her,” Kate went on. “She's a feeling person, not afraid to tell you what she thinks.”

“Or what other people think,” Moon said. “You two should get along fine. You can tell us what's on our minds and save us the trouble of talking about it.”

“She's worried about Bren; can't you see that?”

“Bren? Christ, nobody's shooting at Bren. He isn't even in it.”

“That's what bothers her,” Kate said. “He won't take sides.” She looked up and smiled as Janet Pierson came into the sitting room. “We were just talking about you.”

“I don't blame you,” the woman said.

Kate made a tsk-tsk sound, overdoing it, shaking her head. “Why worry about what people think? You know what you're doing.”

“Sometimes I guess I say too much.”

“Sure, when you run out of patience,” Kate said. “I know what you mean.”

Moon's gaze moved from his wife to the woman, wondering what the hell they were talking about. Then looked toward the door at the sound of someone banging on it, three times. There was a pause. Janet Pierson didn't move. Then came three more loud banging sounds, the edge of somebody's fist pounding the wood panel hard enough to shake the door.

When Bren appeared again in the backyard, coming from the outhouse, the reporters on the other side of the fence in the vacant lot called to him, come on, just give us a minute or so. What were you talking about in there?…Debating the issues or what?…When's Moon going to meet Sundeen?

Then there was some kind of commotion. The reporters by the fence were looking away, moving off, then running from the vacant lot toward the front of the house. Bren went inside. There were onions and peppers on the wooden drain board in the kitchen, a pot of dry beans soaking. He heard the banging on the front door.

Janet Pierson was standing in the middle of the sitting room, saying, “They're not bashful at all, are they?”

Bren walked past her to the door, pulled it open and stopped, surprised, before he said, “What do you want?”

Deputy J.R. Bruckner stood at the door. Looking past Bren at Moon sitting on the sofa, Bruckner said, “Him. I got a warrant for the arrest of one Dana Moon. He can come like a nice fella or kicking and screaming, but either way he's coming.”

In Benson, Ruben Vega had to find the right church first, St. John the Apostle, then had to lie to the priest to get him to come from the priest house to the church to hear his Confession.

Kneeling at the small window in the darkness of the confessional, Ruben Vega said, “Bless me, father, for I have sinned. It has been…thirty-seven years since my last confession.”

The old priest groaned, head lowered, pinching the bridge of his nose with his eyes closed.

“Since then I have fornicated with many women…maybe eight hundred. No, not that many, considering my work. Maybe six hundred only.”

“Do you mean bad women or good women?” the priest asked.

“They are all good, Father,” Ruben Vega said. “Let me think, I stole about…I don't know, twenty-thousand head of beeves, but only in that time maybe fifty horses.” He paused for perhaps a full minute.