Elmore Leonard - Last Stand at Saber River

Vern sat relaxed, his hands still crossed on the saddle horn. “You know you wouldn’t have one chance of coming out of this alive.

“How good are your chances?”

“Maybe you wouldn’t have time to pull the trigger.”

“If you think they can shoot me before I do, give the word.”

Twenty feet to Cable’s right, Joe Bob said, “Wait him out, Vern. He can’t stand like that all day. Soon as his arm comes down I’ll put one clean through him.”

Dancey said, “And the second you move the shotgun cuts you in two.”

Vern’s eyes went to the house. “His wife?”

“Look close,” Dancey said. “You see twin barrels peeking out the window. I’d say she could hold it resting on the ledge longer than we can stand here.”

Vern studied the house for some moments before his gaze returned to Cable. “You’d bring your wife into it? Risk her life for a piece of land?”

“My wife killed a Chiricahua Apache ten feet from where you’re standing,” Cable said bluntly. “They came like you’ve come and she killed to defend our home. Maybe you understand that. If you don’t, I’ll say only this. My wife will kill again if she has to, and so will I.”

Thoughtfully, slowly, Kidston said, “Maybe you would.” A silence followed until his eyes moved to Duane. “Go on home. Take your cavalry and get.”

“I’m going,” Duane said coldly. “I’m going to Fort Buchanan. If you can’t handle this man, the army can.”

“Duane, you’re going home.”

“I have your word you’ll attend to him?”

“Go on, get out of here.”

Duane hesitated, as if thinking of a way to salvage his self-respect, then turned without a word and walked off.

Kidston looked at his three riders. None of them had moved. “Go with him. And take your gear.”

They stood lingeringly until Vern’s gaze returned to Cable. That dismissed them and they moved away, picked up the gear Cable had piled by the barn and followed Duane to the willows.

“Well,” Cable said, “are we going to live together?”

“I don’t think you’ll last.”

“Why?”

“Because,” Kidston said quietly, “you’re one man; because you’ve got a family; because your stomach’s going to be tied in a knot wondering when I’m coming. You won’t sleep. And every time there’s a sound you’ll jump out of your skin… Your wife will tell you it isn’t worth it; and after a while, after her nerves are worn raw, she’ll stop speaking to you and acting like a wife to you, and you won’t see a spark of life in her.”

Cable’s gaze went to the house and he called out, “Martha!” After a moment the door opened and Martha came out with the shotgun under her arm. Kidston watched her, removing his hat as she neared them and holding it in his hand. He stood with the sun shining in his face and on his hair that was dark and straight and pressed tightly to his skull with perspiration. He nodded as Cable introduced them and put on his hat again.

“Mr. Kidston says we’ll leave because we won’t be able to stand it,” Cable said now. “He says the waiting and not knowing will wear our nerves raw and in the end we’ll leave of our own accord.”

“What did you say?” Martha asked.

“I didn’t say anything.”

“I don’t suppose there’s much you could.” She looked off toward the willows, seeing the men there mounting and starting across the river, then looked at her husband again. “Well, Cabe,” she said, “are you going to throw Mr. Kidston out or ask him in for coffee?”

“I don’t know. What do you think?”

“Perhaps Mr. Kidston will come back,” Martha answered, “when we’re more settled.”

“Perhaps I will,” Kidston said. His eyes remained on Martha: a woman who could carry a shotgun gracefully and whose eyes were dark and clear, warmly clear, and who stared back at him calmly and with confidence. He recalled the way she had walked out to meet him, with the sun on her dark hair, coming tall and unhurried with the faint movement of her legs beneath the skirt.

“Maybe you’ll stay at that,” Vern said, still looking at Martha. “Maybe you’re the kind that would.”

Cable watched him walk off toward the willows, and he was trying to picture this solemn-faced man kissing Luz Acaso.

For the rest of the morning and through the afternoon, there was time to think about Kidston and wonder what he would do; but there was little time for Cable and Martha to talk about him.

Vern wanted the land and if Cable didn’t move, if he couldn’t be frightened off the place, he would be forced off at gunpoint. It was strange; Vern was straightforward and easy to talk to. You believed what he said and knew he wasn’t scheming or trying to trick you. Still, he wanted the land; and if waiting wouldn’t get it for him, he would take it. That was clear enough.

Cable chopped wood through the afternoon, stacking a good supply against the back wall of the adobe. Soon he’d be working cattle again and there would be little time for close to home chores.

Then, after supper, he heard the creaking barn door. If the wind rose in the night, the creaking sound would become worse and wake him up. He would lie in bed thinking and losing sleep. You could think too much about something like this; Cable knew that. You could picture too many possibilities of failure and in the end you could lose your nerve and run for it. Sometimes it was better to let things just happen, to be ready and try to do the right thing, but just not think about it so much.

So he went out into the dusk to see about the door. Carrying an unlit lantern, Cable opened the door and stepped into the dim stillness of the barn. He hung the lantern on a peg and was bringing his arms down when the gun barrel pushed into his back.

“Now we’ll do it our way,” Joe Bob said.

Royce lifted the Walker from Cable’s holster. He stepped back and Joe Bob came in swinging, hooking his right hand hard into Cable’s cheek. In the semi-darkness there was a grunt and a sharp smacking sound and Cable was against the board wall. Joe Bob turned him, swinging again, and broke through Cable’s guard. He waded in then, grunting, slashing at Cable’s face with both fists, holding him pinned to the boards, now driving a mauling fist low into Cable’s body, then crossing high with the other hand to Cable’s face. Joe Bob worked methodically, his fists driving in one after the other, again and again and again, until Cable’s legs buckled. He had not been able to return a blow or even cover himself and now his back eased slowly down the boards. Joe Bob waited, standing stoop-shouldered and with his hands hanging heavily. Then his elbows rose; he went back a half step, came in again and brought his knee up solidly into Cable’s jaw.

Abruptly, Royce said, “Listen!”

There was no sound except for Joe Bob’s heavy, open-mouthed breathing. The silence lengthened until Royce said, between a whisper and a normal tone, “I heard somebody.”

“Where?”

“Shhh!” Royce eased toward the open door.

“Cabe?” It came from outside. Martha’s voice.

Royce let his breath out slowly. He stepped into the doorway and saw Martha in the gray dusk. She was perhaps forty feet from him, near the corner of the house.

“Who is it?”

“Evening, Mrs. Cable.”

“Who’s there?”

“It’s just me. Royce.” He stepped outside.

“Where’s my husband?”

“Inside. Me and Joe Bob came back for some stuff we left”-he was moving toward her now-“and your husband’s helping us dig it out.”

She called past Royce. “Cabe?”

No answer. Five seconds passed, no more than that, then Martha had turned and was running-around the corner of the log section to the dark shadow of the ramada, hearing him behind her as she pushed the door open into bright lamplight and swung it closed. She heard him slam against it, hesitated-Hold the door or go for the shotgun!-saw Clare wide-eyed and said, “Go to the other room!” Martha was near the stove, raising the shotgun when Royce burst into the room. His hand was under the barrel as she pulled the trigger and the blast exploded up into the ceiling.