Robert Parker - Resolution

We didn’t talk as we went, in a wide circle around Resolution, and on south downhill toward his land. Redmond was having trouble keeping his throat open. He swallowed often. He drank frequently from his canteen.

The lumber and tools rattled in the wagon bed. The harness creaked. The mules blew occasionally. Otherwise, no sound on the ride until we got to the top of the little hill where he could look down at the lots that had been marked out on the land where his house once stood. We stopped.

“Jesus,” he said.

I nodded. He looked around.

“I don’t see any of the others, Cole, those fellas.”

“You’re not supposed to,” I said. “They’re here.”

“How do you know?” he said.

“They said they’d be here.”

“Well, what if something happened? Can’t they just let us know they’re here?”

“And anyone that might have spotted us and is laying low with a spyglass?” I said.

“Well, could they maybe just whistle or something?”

“No,” I said. “Now, you remember what we told you. Build a cook fire, send up some smoke. Park the wagon near where you’re working. Leave the Winchester in it. If things start to happen, get behind the wagon. Take out the Winchester. Defend yourself.”

He nodded painfully.

“Where you gonna go?” he said.

“I’m goin’ downhill to the west, like I’m headin’ on. Then I’m circlin’ back in behind them cottonwoods along the creek.”

“You really think somebody is watching us?” he said.

“Nope.”

“But you’re acting like they might be.”

“Yep.”

“’Cause you don’t know they’re not.”

“Correct,” I said. “Remember, stay close to the wagon. Trouble starts, get behind it.”

“You scared, Everett,” Redmond said.

“Of what? Dying? Fella asked Virgil Cole that question once, when we was marshalin’ over in Appaloosa. Virgil says to him, ‘You think me and Hitch are in this line of work ’cause we’re scared to die?’”

“So you ain’t?” Redmond said.

“Don’t look forward to it, but no, I ain’t scared enough so it gets in the way,” I said.

“And Cole ain’t scared.”

“Hell, no,” I said. “But, tell the truth, I don’t think it really occurs to him that he might.”

“I got a wife and kids,” Redmond said.

“I know,” I said. “That makes it harder.”

I gestured toward the house lots at the foot of the hill. He slapped the reins and the mules started down.

“Don’t forget to unhitch the mules,” I said. “No reason they should get shot.”

He nodded as he drove down the hill. I turned my horse and rode west like I said I would and when I was out of sight, looped back and came in behind the cottonwoods.

It was probably the smoke from Redmond’s fire that did it, but with the sun just a little west of noon, they came down the south side of one of the hills in the distance. Too far to be sure, but it looked like six of them riding two by two. They disappeared into the valley and came up over the next hill. They were six, a full squad of Lujack’s deputies. Redmond saw them. He stood frozen for a moment, then looked furtively around.

Don’t look, goddamn it .

The riders kept coming down into the next valley, out of sight, then reappearing on the top of our hill. They sat their horses for a moment, looking down at Redmond. The mules were unhitched, grazing toward the creek near my cottonwoods. Redmond stood frozen with a shovel in his hands in front of the wagon.

Get behind the wagon.

Redmond didn’t move. He looked at the rifle under the wagon seat, then back at the riders.

Behind the fucking wagon.

The riders began to walk their horses down the last slope. I looked at the sky. The sun wasn’t an issue. They were coming from the north. I was coming from the west, but the sun was so nearly straight up that it wasn’t a factor. The riders came on. Close enough now so I could hear the sound of the horses’ hooves on the dry surface of the prairie. Nobody had his gun out. These were essentially town men. Nobody was bent out of the saddle reading sign, seeing how many different horses had ridden by here. Probably weren’t good at sign. And they were sure of themselves. They knew how to do this, and Redmond didn’t. They’d probably spent a lifetime scaring clodhoppers.

Behind the goddamned wagon.

And suddenly Redmond moved. He turned and ran around the wagon as if his knees wouldn’t bend. He looked again at the Winchester under the wagon seat. But he didn’t touch it. Probably scared to start trouble.

The riders came to a halt in front of him and ranged out in a single row of six. One of them, probably the squad leader, spoke to Redmond.

“What are you doing?” he said.

Redmond stared at him for a moment. The squad leader was tall and narrow, with sloping shoulders and a big hawkish nose.

“It’s my land,” he finally said.

Redmond’s voice was hoarse.

“You think so,” the squad leader said.

Redmond nodded. The squad leader took a big revolver out of his holster and held it easily by his side.

“What do you think,” the squad leader said, “’bout being buried on it.”

Redmond’s voice was squeaky.

“I don’t…” He started and didn’t finish.

He looked at the cottonwoods, where he knew I was.

“Say good-bye to it, pig farmer,” the squad leader said.

On the hill, Virgil Cole’s horse stepped out from behind the rocks with Virgil sitting in the saddle. The horse stopped. Virgil drew and fired in the easy, liquid way he had and shot the squad leader between the shoulder blades. The squad leader pitched forward and draped over his horse’s neck. The gun fell from his hand. The horse seemed disinterested. From behind the next hill down from Redmond, Cato and Rose came, pushing their horses hard, bent low over their horses’ necks. I took out the eight-gauge and pushed my horse out of the trees, through the shallow stream, and came at the squad’s right flank on a gallop. Virgil came somewhat more sedately down his hill and shot at least one more as he came. Redmond yanked the Winchester from under the wagon seat and dropped to the ground behind the wagon. I cut loose with the eight-gauge. It is not easy to shoot from a moving horse. But if you’re going to do it, an eight-gauge is the thing to do it with. The rider nearest me had his gun out and was turning toward me when the pellets hit him, about everywhere, and knocked him backward off his horse. The horse scrambled away from him as he fell, and then stopped and stood.

It was over very quick. Four of the deputies were on the ground by the time all of us reached the wagon. The other two were retreating at a gallop. One of the men on the ground was still moving in spasms. Cato rode over and from his horse shot the deputy in the head.

“Hate to see him suffer,” Cato said.

“You want to ride the other two down?” Rose said.

The two runners were already over the second hill.

“Nope,” Virgil said.

Redmond crawled out from under the wagon.

“I shot one,” he said. “I think I shot one.”

Virgil and I looked at each other.

“What?” Redmond said.

Virgil shook his head.

“Sort of ain’t considered, ah, sportin’,” Frank Rose said to him. “Counting up who shot who.”

“Like counting your money,” I said, “while you’re playing poker.”

“Why not?” Redmond said. “I don’t get it.”

Virgil looked at him briefly.

“No,” Virgil said, “you don’t.”

He turned his horse and began to ride north toward the lumber camp. Redmond stared after him.