Nelson Nye: Rafe

"It's his right," Bender said.

"Rafe was your first son; it should go to Rafe!" Bunny cried. "He's right here with you now—"

"Stop!" Bender's voice was the squawk of an eagle. The blind eyes turned fierce. "Is there nothing you Yankees won't do! Chilton claiming I've mortgaged this place! You Pikes trying to foist an imposter—I told your father when he came here the first time Rafe was killed in the war."

"But he wasn't! He's here! Not ten steps away from you. Say something, Rafe!"

Rafe licked dry lips. "That's right, Pa. I'm here."

For an agony of time Bender stood like a stone. It got so quiet in the courtyard if you had closed your eyes you'd have sworn the place was empty. The sun's lifting face yellowly brightened the west wall and the chirping of birds came sweet and clear, yet no one moved. The trembling lips of the patriarch, firming, cried, "That's the voice of the one who was out here before!"

"Certainly. Rafe," Bunny said. "Don't you know your son's voice?"

"Be still," Bender said, his tone curt with scorn. "Rafe's was never so deep—"

"You're remembering a boy; he's a grown man now."

Luce, coloring, said, "It is Rafe, Pa."

The staring eyes came about. "You said it wasn't, before."

"I know. God forgive me." Her pleading look went to Rafe, shy and shamed.

"She was scared," Rafe said. "I don't hold it against her." He pushed the gun into his belt. "This son that you say is dead—did he have any mark by which you might know him? Somethin', I mean, that—"

"Of course! The mole," Luce said. "You remember the mole, Pa."

Brownwater said, "We ain't got much time," but he might as well not have spoken for all the notice Rafe gave. He was watching Bender.

Hope had come into the old man's face. Though the doubt still showed, there was a surging excitement in the turn of his head. "I remember it well. Put my hand on it, boy."

Rafe shrugged out of his shirt. He walked over to Bender. He said, faintly grinning, "Which side was it on?"

Bender stiffened. "Was under his right arm, just above the elbow."

Rafe reached out the arm. "All right. Put your hand on it. Then tell me Rafe's dead."

Brownwater, back on the gate, softly swore. "There's a dust out there. We better git whackin'."

Bender, with his hand on the mole, was saying "Boy! Boy!" sounding all choked up, his other arm tugging Rafe hard and fierce. Great tears brimmed and spilled unheeded down his wrinkled cheeks; the girls were weeping also. Brownwater, disgusted, caught hold of Rafe and shook him. "I don't want t' break nothin' up, but if you ain't fixin' t' be a dead hero you better give some mind t' how we're to git outa here."

Seeming at last to get through to him, Rafe, giving the old man a final squeeze, disengaged himself, and, stepping back, said with his own eyes smarting, "Bill, you get the horses. We'll—"

"What horses!" The fat puncher, cramming a fresh chew into him, worked his jaws, spat grimly and growled, "You seen them pens! Only nags in sight is the ones we come in on. How far you figure we'd git on them?"

Luce knuckled her eyes. "There's four of you. That's two to a mount, and Rafe—"

"I'm stayin' right here."

"Don't be a boob!" Bunny flared, glaring at him. "If you're going to stay we may as well all stay! Now get that silly grin off your face and, while Luce packs some grub—"

"No time fer that," Brownwater cut in. "That bunch ain't scarcely five minutes away."

"These walls are thick," Luce said. "Why run? We've got food and water."

While the rest were considering, eying each other, Brownwater said, "Food can run out, and when our guns is shot dry what do we use? Time ain't goin' to be no help to us." He put his meaningful stare on Bender.

"You're right," Bunny sighed. "Get that gate open. I'll not be a minute." Whirling, ducking the well curb, she ran off through the pepper tree's green ferny lace, reappearing moments later tugging a big roan horse whose reins she thrust hurried into Rafe's hands. "You take Roanie—he's freshest. I'll get up with your father." Brownwater, dragging open the portal with Luce's nervous help, shouted, "Never mind us—they're goin' t' take after you ! Look for us where you lost the skewbald. Git goin'!"

Rafe, still reluctant, and showing it, climbed aboard Bunny's horse, meaning to argue this further. While his weight was yet on the stirrup, the big puncher, yelling, fetched the blue roan a clip with his hat. The horse took off like a bat out of Carlsbad, the swearing Rafe becoming too busy trying to stay with him to have any breath or time left for gab.

Off to his left as he sailed through the gate a bedlam of furious shouts went up, but he hadn't any attention he could spare them, either. When he got his seat firmly sunk in the saddle and had found his other stirrup he sneaked a quick look and gave the roan back his head. There was six or eight of them pouring in the steel and laying on the leather in a frantic attempt to cut him off before he could pass that tangle of pens.

But all the shouting and shooting only increased the roan's fright. Pinning back his ears he really stretched out and his few hours of rest began to pay off. He tore past the pens in a wild burst of speed. Slowly but surely he began pulling away, opening up his lead a little more with every stride.

The pursuit quit firing but they kept on coming, falling farther behind, painly determined not to quit until they had to. Duke had never given a damn about horseflesh. Rafe guessed Spangler was riled enough to chew carpet tacks. They would kill him, all right, if they ever glommed onto him.

It was obvious now it would not be today. Some of their crew had already pulled up and the most of the others were strung out half a mile. Only Spangler and Duke, on the best of their horses, were still in the race, still spurring and quirting with the fury of frustration; Rafe, with a laugh, gleefully pictured their faces.

He grew sober in a hurry when the rhythm of the roan's hard run commenced to falter. Rafe switched him into a gallop, then a lope. When the ride continued rough he dropped him into a jog. The reaching lunge of his breath was like a bellows. Greatly concerned—even worried, now—Rafe peered behind and, a mile away, saw the pair still after him, indomitable as death.

He was afraid for his lead to ease the horse any further. If they again managed to get within saddle gun range they would probably drop off, do their level best to nail him. He kept the roan going, talking to him now, pleading with him, coaxing, promising oats and turnip greens, anything and everything that came into his head. The lather, on chest and flanks, showed like soap, and Rafe could no longer doubt the horse was limping.

With bitterness he pulled up and jumped down, reaching for the scabbarded rifle. Then he stared, stared again. The day had considerably advanced, the sun being presently almost straight over head in the full powers of its strength, but astonishingly, and in spite of this brilliance, he could find no sign of Spangler or Duke. If they hadn't given up they had at least dropped out of sight.

Rafe picked up the roan's feet. When he got to the off front hoof he found the trouble. A sharp, three-cornered stone had tightly wedged in the frog. While it wasn't by any means a case for shooting, it was a cinch the roan would carry him no farther, not without Rafe irreparably ruining him.

Rafe dug the stone out. The animal would be of no use for several days. Rafe scowled about, trying to find some landmark that would fix his location. But this was all new country to him. Unknown. Haired over with last year's yellow grass it gently rolled toward a blue blur of hills back over his left shoulder which might be the ones that hid his father's headquarters. Where was the old man now? And the girls? Had Brownwater got them out of there?