Paulette Jiles - News of the World

Kep-dun, she said.

He looked into her worried dark blue eyes. My dear, he said. Let’s face facts.

He flipped open the cylinder of the revolver and turned his hand so that she could see it was empty. In his other hand he held the remaining fourteen rounds.

She reached out for the shotgun and looked at him.

No good, he said. No. He showed her one of the shells. Nothing but light Number Seven bird shot. It would not even carry very far. He pointed toward Pasha. Then he pointed to her. His bay saddle horse stood stiff as a china figure with fright and his ears were rigidly fixed at full cock toward the ravine. The horse might prove difficult, but among the Plains Indians, even young children could ride and ride well.

Go, he said. He made an “away” motion with his hand. Go.

He had made up his mind and his expression was firm and unsmiling.

They were calling up to him. They were trying to make a deal.

Haina, haina. No, she would not go.

Get on the horse and go, he said. He slid backward and got hold of Pasha’s riding bridle from off the front wheel rim and held it out to her. The Captain knew that with two of the men below wounded she might have a chance. Damn it, go.

Haina.

Suddenly he felt very tired. He could not deal with her and their attackers all at once. With his last fourteen rounds clattering in his hand he crawled again tight behind the lip of rock and found his notch. He loaded the cylinder and wasted three more shots trying to ricochet a round into Almay, who was behind the buttress on the right-hand side. Then one of the Caddos appeared, darting up the ravine and into cover again, and that caused him to uselessly expend another two shots. It was his judgment that was failing him as much as his strength. The only good thing was that the Caddo had a bloody hand.

Johanna, get on that horse and go.

For a moment he dropped his head on his forearm. When he lifted it there was a kind of bloody eye-socket print on it. She had gone somewhere. He pressed the wet cloth against his eyebrow. Again the strange flashes of nerve pain all over his skull. Then he saw her crawling toward him with the shotgun in one hand and the shot box in the other. Somehow she had managed to stack the bag of coins on top of the shot box and shove that along too. She was covered in dirt. He supposed he was too. She pressed the bag of coins toward him and gestured down the ravine.

Johanna, they are not going to be bought off, he said. He patted her arm. Her hair was coming out of the braid and it hung over her young, childish face in swags. He said, They can’t be bribed, they are not going to be made to go away with offers of coin. He looked into her anxious blue eyes and a terrible thought came to him. He felt his eyes leaking tears or sweat. She could not be allowed to fall into their hands. Never. Never. He had eight shots left, six in the cylinder and two in hand. He said, It won’t work my dear.

She pushed the shotgun toward him.

He shook his head. Useless. He opened a shell and poured the tiny lead beads out into his hand and showed her.

Another shot from the left. It struck near one of the shafts of the wagon. The Caddo had got his rifle again and was shooting, wounded or not, and the smoke told him the man had gained higher ground. More than fifty yards away. If he got above them and started shooting down on them they were in serious, serious trouble. The Captain watched for him, saw the bright shifting of black hair.

He felt Johanna tugging at his sleeve. He looked down.

She held up one of the shotgun shells.

It was loaded with dimes.

He stared at the shell resting on Johanna’s outstretched palm.

Then the Captain reached out for it even as another round smashed into the front of the stone in front of him. He jumped but didn’t duck. He lay back and hefted the shell. The dimes fit perfectly into the paper tube of a twenty-gauge hull.

Well, I’ll be damned.

It was very heavy. He looked at the cap. She charged it with the powder charger. He saw her work the thumb lever that gave out twenty grains at a time: one, two, three, four, eighty grains of powder. A heavy load for his old shotgun. The Captain tossed the shell full of dimes up and down in his hand and smiled.

This is amazing, he said. He laughed. Ten years old and a wizard of field expedience.

With the weight of the dimes and the powder charge the shotgun had just become something like a small cannon. Not only that but heavy things flew far and fast and so it might give him a range of close to two hundred yards.

He couldn’t stop laughing. By God, by God, he said. They had a chance to get out of this. Everything had changed now. Good girl, Johanna, good girl. My dear little warrior.

He did not notice that he stank of cordite and that Johanna’s hands were white with flour and that both of them were coated with the red dirt of the Brazos country. The Captain found that suddenly he was no longer tired. She smiled back at him with her bright child’s teeth and then the Captain held up one hand. Wait. She nodded.

First they had some ruses and deceptions to accomplish. He took up one of the dove-shot shells and loaded the old shotgun. As he laid the barrel into the notch he saw her loading yet more dimes into shells, ramming in the wads with a stick, pouring out powder from the old spring-loaded charger, ramming another wad and finally twisting each hull firmly shut.

He fired down the ravine and heard the light beads of Number Seven Dove tinkle harmlessly on the stone.

Far below, Almay’s laugh rang out. He called, That all you got?

Come closer and you’ll find out, you son of a bitch, the Captain called back.

I’m scared. You’re shooting cake decorations or something at me, Almay shouted in reply.

Well come on, then, said the Captain.

He wondered where the Caddos were. Nursing their wounds, hopefully, or better yet, busy bleeding to death. He loaded another Number Seven and fired. It sprayed out its tiny beads into the air as if it had sneezed poppy seeds. He glanced at Johanna. She was busy stacking more dimes into hulls.

Listen to me, said Almay. He was still hidden behind one of the stone buttresses.

I don’t seem to have a choice, called the Captain.

You should be good at a bargain. This ain’t your first rodeo, here.

They don’t need to make a deal. He thinks everything is on his side. What he wants is to kill me and take the girl and the horses. They’ll burn the wagon. It’s too recognizable. Curative Waters. He wants to get close enough to kill me without hitting the girl. He’s not sure of his aim. He’s shooting uphill. Always difficult.

He worked the bolt and the old hull jumped out smoking and she grabbed it. Now he slipped one of her dime shells into the breech. The weight of it should give him a good hundred and seventy, hundred and eighty yards if not more. He laid the barrel into the notch.

What’s your deal? he called.

Reasonable! I can be reasonable.

Come up, we’ll talk.

The blond man held his hat out from the edge of the buttress. There was a hole in it. Captain, he said. You was trying to hit me in the head, here. That’s serious malicious intent. We have some serious talking to do.

So?

Listen to me, said Almay.

You already said that. Stop repeating yourself.

Now, let’s make some kind of deal here.

Why was he delaying? The Captain knew the only reason was to keep him talking while the Caddos crept up. Far to his left a small trickle of sand and rocks spilled down the ravine.

Well speak up, then, said the Captain. Stop your goddamn dithering. I hate dithering.

By now Almay knew the range of the shotgun and its dove shot. He walked confidently out from behind his buttress of stone. He also thought the Captain was out of revolver ammunition. Clearly he was not shooting it and had reverted, in his desperation, to the shotgun and its pepper-light loads. Almay advanced up the ravine. Here and there the water of Carlyle Springs had worn the red sandstone layers down to the strata below, hard and marblelike. White and pure and level. They were like irregular steps going down the ravine, carved through the eons. Since Noah, perhaps. Almay carried his hat in one hand and took long steps to reach from one plate to the next in his knee-high boots. His hair was dark with sweat. They had ridden hard to catch up.