Elmore Leonard - Gunsights

“Go on.”

“I'm thinking.”

“Have you committed murder?”

“No.”

“All the stealing you've done-you've never killed anyone?”

“Yes, of course, but it was not to commit murder. You understand the distinction? Not to kill someone, to take a life; but only to save my own.”

The priest was silent, perhaps deciding if he should go further into this question of murder. Finally he said, “Have you made restitution?”

“For what?”

“For all you've stolen. I can't give you absolution unless you make an attempt to repay those you've harmed or injured.”

Jesus, Ruben Vega thought. He said, “Look, that's done. I don't steal no more. But I can't pay back twenty thousand cows. How in the name of Christ can I do that? Oh-” He paused. “And I told a lie. I'm not dying. But, listen, man, somebody is going to,” Ruben Vega said, his face close to the screen that covered the little window, “if I don't get absolution for my sins.”

He had forgotten how difficult they could make it when you wanted to unburden yourself. But now he was a new person, aware of his spurs making a clear, clean ching-ing sound as he walked out of the empty church-leaving thirty-seven years with the old man in the confessional-going to the depot now to buy a ticket on the El Paso & Southwestern, ride to Douglas, cross the border and go home.

He hung around the yards watching the freight cars being switched to different tracks, smelling the coal smoke, hearing the harsh sound of the cars banging together and the wail of the whistle as an eastbound train headed out for Ochoa and the climb through Dragoon Pass. He wanted to remain outside tonight in the fresh air rather than go to a hotel in Benson; so he camped by the river and watched the young boys laughing and splashing each other, trying to catch minnows. With dark, mosquitoes came. They drove him crazy. Then it began to rain, a light, steady drizzle, and Ruben Vega said to himself: What are you doing here? He bought a bottle of mescal and for ten of the sixty dollars in his pocket he spent the night in a whorehouse with a plump, dark-haired girl named Rosa who thought he was very witty and laughed at everything he said when he wasn't being serious. Though some of the wittiest things he said seriously and they passed over her. That was all right. He gave her a dollar tip. In the morning Ruben Vega cashed in his ticket for the El Paso & Southwestern, mounted his horse and rode back toward the Rincon Mountains standing cleanly defined in the sunlight.

R.J. Bruckner said, “Look. They give me a warrant signed by Judge Hough for the arrest of Dana Moon. I served it over all kinds of commotion and people trying to argue with me and those newspaper men getting in the way. It took me and four deputies to clear them out and put Moon in detention. Now you got a complaint, go see the judge or the county attorney, it's out of my hands.”

“Are you gonna drink that whole bottle yourself?” Sundeen asked.

He reached behind him to close the door, giving them some privacy in the deputy's little office with its coal-oil lamp hanging above the desk.

“I was having a touch before supper,” Bruckner said, getting another glass out of his desk and placing it before Sundeen. “Not that it's any of your business.”

“I see they all went home,” Sundeen said, “the judge, the prosecutor and John Slaughter, leaving you with a mess, haven't they?”

“I'm doing my job,” Bruckner said, pouring a short drink for Sundeen and setting the bottle within easy reach. “I don't see there's any mess here.”

Sundeen leaned close as if to pick up the glass and swept the desk clean with his hand and arm, sending bottle, glasses and papers flying against the side wall. It brought the deputy's head up with a jerk, eyes staring open at the bearded, bulletmarked face, the man leaning over the desk on his hands, staring back at him.

“Look again,” Sundeen said, “Listen when I'm talking to you and keep your hands in sight, else I'll draw iron and lay it across your head.”

It was the beginning of a long night for R.J. Bruckner. First this one coming in and saying he wanted Moon released from jail. What? How was he supposed to do that? You think he just set a person free when somebody asked? Sundeen said he was not asking, he was telling him. He wanted Moon, but he was not going to stick a gun through the bars to get him. He wanted Moon out on the street. Bruckner would send him out and he would take care of it from there.

Ah, now that didn't sound too bad.

Except that Bruckner was looking forward to having Moon stay with him awhile. He owed Moon, the son of a bitch, at least a few lumps with a pick handle but had not gotten around to it yet.

Bruckner sat back thinking about it, saying, “Yeah, like he was shot down while trying to escape.”

“Jesus, it does't take you long, does it?” Sundeen said.

Bruckner did not get that remark. He was thinking that he liked the idea of Moon being shot down even better than taking a pick handle to him…especially if it turned out he was the one pulled the trigger and not this company dude with the silver buckles.

“Yeah,” he said, nodding, “let me think on it awhile.”

Then was pulled up short again as Sundeen said, “You bag of shit, the thinking's been done. He walks out of here tonight at…let's say eleven o'clock, after you show him a release form.”

“A release form? I don't have anything like that.”

“Jesus, you show him something. A wire from the county clerk saying the charge's been dropped. Eleven o'clock, open the door for him to walk out and duck,” Sundeen said. “You do anything else, like try and back-shoot him, you'll see fireworks go off in your face.”

First Sundeen-

Then Bren Early walking into the office, looking at the mess on the floor where the bottle had knocked over the spittoon and the papers lying there were stained with tobacco juice and whiskey.

“Come to see your old partner?”

“In a minute,” Early said, looking down at Bruckner from where Sundeen had stood a little while before. “You owe me a favor.”

“For what?”

“Not killing you three years ago. That would be reason enough to do what I ask, but I'm gonna give you another one.” Early brought paper scrip from his inside coat pocket and dropped it on the desk. “Being practical-why was he arrested in the first place?” Early watched Bruckner pick up the money and begin to count it. “Because he admitted in court trying to shoot somebody. But how're they gonna convict him if he stands mute at his trial? Moon being an agent of the federal government and all-”

“Five hundred,” Bruckner said, looking up.

“Since he'd get off anyway-all you'd be doing is cutting a corner, wouldn't you?”

Bruckner folded the money into his shirt pocket and sat back, getting comfortable, big nose glistening in the coal-oil light. “I would need to do a little preparing, make it look real, you understand.”

“I was thinking, in a few days when you take him to the county seat,” Early said. “Out on the road someplace-”

“No, it's got to be tonight,” Bruckner said.

“Why is that?”

“Because I'm on duty tonight and if I'm gonna do this I want to get it done, over with.” Bruckner paused. He had to think, picture it, without taking too much time. If Sundeen and Early were both waiting outside…If they saw each other as Moon came out…If they went for each other, there'd be guns going off, wouldn't there, and he could maybe have a clear shot at Moon going out and then, what if he put the gun on Early, if Early was still standing up?…Shoot the accomplice…Jesus Christ, shoot Sundeen if he had to, if he saw the chance…Shoot all three of them during the confusion…Shoot those big names in the newspapers, God Almighty, gun them down, all three of them shot dead by Deputy Sheriff R.J. Bruckner…Oh yes, that's Bruckner, he's the one that gunned down Moon, Bren Early and Phil Sundeen, the Yuma terror, during a daring jailbreak…Wiped them out, all three of them. Jesus.