The pleasant smell of woodsmoke reached him before he came over the hill, and he knew he was nearing Runaway. Dundee stopped the bay horse at the crest and looked down on the rock and log and picket houses clustered west from the sun-bright limestone face of a bluff, just back from the riverbank. He recalled John Titus’ words about Runaway being not so much a town as simply a boil on a man’s backside. The description was apt.
Down the valley perhaps three quarters of a mile he saw men lined up a-horseback, waving their hats and cheering. In front of them, two riders spurred and whipped their horses in a tight race, coming to the turnaround point, sliding and then spurring back to the finish line. Dundee had lost track of days, but he figured this was Sunday. Horseracing wasn’t decent, except on a Sunday. Other days, a man was supposed to work.
The wounded rustler was slumped in the saddle, tied on so he couldn’t slide off if he lapsed into unconsciousness. Dundee considered turning the man’s horse loose here and letting it carry him on down into town where somebody would find him. But that was chancy. It would be like a fool horse to stop and graze, or even head home again, so long as the man in the saddle was unable to rein him or spur him any.
If I got it to do, I’d just as well get on with it. He led the horses down off of the hill.
Dundee had seen a few army-camp “Chihuahuas” and “scabtowns” in his time, the sort of makeshift cutthroat communities that followed in the wake of the military like scavenging dogs. This looked like one of those, except there weren’t any soldiers. Studying an aimless scatter of ugly buildings—most of them saloons plain and simple—he remembered what Titus had said about there possibly being a few good people here.
Damn few, if any, Dundee judged.
The first place he came to was a wagonyard, its fence built of cedar pickets sunk into the ground and tied together at the top by strips of green rawhide. Most wagonyards had a good-sized livery barn, but not this one. Where men slept beneath the stars much of the time themselves, nobody thought of putting horses under a roof. The barn was nothing more than a big shed. A bewhiskered man slouched out front on an upended barrel. A considerable pile of wood shavings lay in front of him, and he was adding to it right along. He squinted at the horses and said: “It’ll be two bits a head. They’ll run loose in the corral. You can sleep under the shed for nothing, provided you don’t get careless and set fire to the hay. That comes extra.”
“I ain’t trying to put the horses up. I got a man here with a bad wound in his leg. Is there a doctor in this town?”
The man got up and lazily walked around to Mexican Hat’s horse. “Who is he?”
“Can’t rightly say. Maybe his name is Damn. That’s about the only word I been able to get out of him.”
“Who shot him?”
“I did.”
The stableman frowned. “Your aim ain’t much good, is it?”
“I asked you if there’s a doctor here.”
“No doctor. Far as I know, there never was. I reckon most people here are straight-enough shots that when a man gets hit he don’t need no doctor; he needs a preacher. But there ain’t no preacher, neither.”
“There ought to be somebody to look after a wounded man.”
“You might carry him down to the Llano River Saloon. There’s a woman down there pretty good at patching up after other people’s sloppy shooting. Ask for Katy Long.” The stableman’s eyes narrowed. “Stranger here, ain’t you?”
Dundee nodded.
“Well, that feller you got there, I recognize him now. He belongs to old Blue Roan. You won’t be a stranger here very long.” His gaze drifted to the T Bar brand on the packhorse. “I expect you got that one awful cheap.”
Dundee shrugged. They’d know soon enough. “I came by him legal. I work for John Titus.”
The stableman said quietly, “May you rest in peace.”
Dundee took his time, studying the town as he moved along. Most of the buildings, he noted, were devoted to the sale of strong spirits and sundry types of entertainment. They ranged from little picket shacks that reminded him of a chicken crate up to one big, long structure built of stone. That one bore a small painted sign saying “Llano River Salon.” They’d left an O out of the last word, but he doubted that many people noticed.
He tied the horses and said to Mexican Hat, “Don’t you run off.”
“Go to hell,” the man mumbled.
Gratitude, Dundee reflected, had gone the way of the buffalo.
A skinny little bartender scowled. From his looks, Dundee judged that he drank vinegar instead of whisky. “What’s your pleasure, friend?”
“I don’t know as it is a pleasure. I’m looking for a woman by the name of Katy Long.”
The frown didn’t change. “I expect Katy is taking her siesta.”
“Wake her up. I can’t wait.”
The frown deepened. “You been steered wrong about Katy, friend. Anyhow, there’s a couple of places down the street where the girls don’t ever sleep. Go try one of them.”
“I got a man outside bleeding to death. I’m told she’s pretty good at patching up things like that.”
The bartender sighed. “She won’t like it, but she’ll come.” He walked through a double door and down a hall. Dundee could hear him knock and call for Katy. In a moment he was back. “She’ll be here directly. Let’s me and you see if we can get your friend in.”
A rider came jogging down the street, half asleep from some long celebration, almost bumping into the tied horses. He came awake at sight of the slumped-over man in the sombrero. “Jayce! Jason Karnes! What in hell happened to you?”
Karnes just mumbled. The rider glanced at Dundee and the bartender. “I better go tell Bunch. And Roan.” He jerked the horse around and spurred into a lope toward the races.
Dundee said to the bartender: “Well, I’ve found out who this is. Now, who is Bunch?”
“Bunch Karnes. He’s a brother to Jayce.”
“Tough?”
“Mixes rattlesnake juice with his whisky.”
Physically, there wasn’t much strength in the little bartender. He lent moral support but not much else. Dundee supported most of the weight as they carried Karnes, dropping his sombrero in the dust. A young woman came through the double doors at the back of the room, still buttoning a high-necked dress. “Bring him on back. We’ll put him on a cot and see what we can do.”
She was a good-looking woman, and Dundee figured she ought to be successful in her trade. She held a door open. He brushed against her, not altogether by accident.
The woman said to the bartender: “Cricket, we’ll need hot water. You better go start a fire in my cookstove.”
Dundee pulled the wounded man’s boots off and pitched them under the cot. “I reckon he’s yours now, Katy.”
She showed resentment at the familiar use of her name. “You can call me Miss Long. You don’t know me, and I don’t know you.”
He started to say, I know you, even if I never saw you before. She must have seen it in his eyes. Her dislike of him was instantaneous. “You’ve got the wrong idea, cowboy. I make enough money selling whisky. I don’t have to sell anything else.” Curtly she said, “Let’s see what we can do for your friend Jayce.”
“He’s not my friend.”
“You brought him in.”
“Figured I ought to. I shot him.”
“Accident?”
“Not especially.”
She carefully unwrapped the cloth Dundee had bound around the leg. Karnes moaned and cursed. The woman said contemptuously: “Why didn’t you just go ahead and kill him? Don’t you know a dirty bandage can kill a man just as dead as a bullet can?”
“I had to make do with what was there.”
“Lucky thing the wound bled some and washed itself clean.”
The bartender brought hot water in a pan. Katy Long cleansed the area around the wound with the skill of a trained nurse. Karnes sucked air between his teeth, but she was careful not to hurt him more than she had to.
Dundee decided to give credit where it was due. “You know your business.”
“My business is whisky, and nothing else. There’s no profit in this.” To Karnes she said, “Grit your teeth and hang on.” Karnes gripped the cotframe, his knuckles going white. He cursed and raved.
The woman glanced accusingly at Dundee. “I’m glad you had to watch.”
Dundee wanted to defend himself, but pride stopped him. He didn’t owe any explanation to a saloon woman. Let her think what she damn pleased.
He heard the strike of heavy boots in the hall. A gruff voice shouted: “Jayce! Where you at, Jayce?”
The woman called impatiently: “You don’t have to holler. He’s here.”
A tall figure filled the narrow doorway. Dundee’s gaze lifted to a dirty, tobacco-stained beard, to a pair of angry, blood-tinged eyes. The tall man demanded, “Who was it done this to you Jayce?”
Katy Long tried to head him off. “He’ll be all right.”
Dundee tensed. He knew this would be Bunch Karnes, the brother.
Karnes seemed not to hear the woman. “Jayce!” His voice was more demanding. “I said, who done this to you? I want to know.”
Dundee was glad he had strapped on his pistol. He let his hands rest at his hips, handy. He suggested: “Maybe you ought to leave him be.”
Hard eyes cut to Dundee’s face. “What business is it of yours?”
The wounded man rasped: “He’s the one done it, Bunch. He’s the one shot me.”
Karnes’ hand dropped. Dundee brought his pistol up so fast that Karnes froze, blinking. At this range Dundee couldn’t miss. Karnes swallowed.
Katy Long watched open-mouthed. For long seconds she held her breath until Karnes slowly raised his hand. Then, the moment of crisis past, she pointed to the door. “Bunch Karnes, this is my place, and I’m telling you to clear out. If you two have got to kill each other, do it someplace else. I don’t want to clean up the mess.”
The gunman’s fingers flexed, his flashing eyes watching Dundee’s pistol. Dundee didn’t let the pistol waver from Karnes’ belly. He didn’t speak, for at times like this he’d never seen much gain in conversation.
Anger high in her face, the woman said sternly: “Karnes, I told you to git! You-all do any shooting in here, one of you is liable to hit your brother. Damn if I want to see all my work wasted.”
Karnes sullenly backed toward the door. “When you come out, cowboy, I’ll be waiting in the saloon.”
His eyes didn’t leave Dundee until he was in the hall and out of the line of vision. Dundee listened to the heavy footsteps tromping across the floor. His lungs cried out for air, and only then did he realize he had held his breath the whole time.
Katy stood in silence, her face paled.
Dundee told her, “It’s all right now.”
Her voice was sharp. “I don’t know how you figure that, with him waiting out yonder in the saloon. You don’t know this town. You don’t know people like Bunch and Jason Karnes.”
“I’ve run into a few.”
“Bunch Karnes isn’t the smartest man on earth, but he’s hard. Minute you step out into that hall, he’ll put a bullet in you.”
“What difference would that make to you?”
“Blood leaves a dark stain on the floor. It’s hard to get out.”
“I’ll try not to cause you no extra work.” Dundee moved to the deep, narrow window. Its frame was set so that the window moved sluggishly to one side. He didn’t know that he trusted the woman to keep quiet, but circumstances didn’t permit him much choice. He slipped out the window and eased to the ground.
Pistol in hand, Dundee edged up to the one side window of the saloon and peered cautiously with one eye. The bartender saw him but gave no sign. Bunch Karnes sat facing the double doors, pistol lying in front of him on a small square table.
Dundee moved hurriedly past the window and on to the front of the building. He still held the pistol, but in a fight, the carbine would suit him better. He walked up to the bay at the hitching rail, drew the carbine and dropped his pistol back into its holster. He moved quietly up to the door. Inside, he could see Karnes seated, back turned, his attention still fixed on the double doors. The bartender saw Dundee and dropped out of sight behind the bar.
Dundee leveled the carbine. “Karnes, back away from that table. And leave your six-shooter right where it’s at.”
Karnes went stiff. Dundee said: “I got a gun pointed at you. Give me a reason and I’ll blow a hole in you they could run a wagon through.”
Karnes slowly stood up. Dundee held his breath, watching the pistol. Karnes’ hand was only inches from it. He drew clear of the table and turned, hands empty, face raging.
Dundee said: “Why don’t you just quit? I got no wish to kill you.”
“But I’m going to kill you, cowboy.”
“Your brother’s alive. Why don’t you just let it go at that?”
He wasn’t reaching Bunch Karnes and knew it. I ought to shoot him where he stands, Dundee thought. That would be the end of it. There won’t be an end to it till I do.
The man was a thief, and in all likelihood a killer. The world would shed few tears if Dundee cut him down. In fact, it would be a better place. But Dundee knew he couldn’t pull the trigger, not this way.
“Step away from that table, and leave the pistol.”
“I can get another pistol.”
A voice in Dundee kept telling him, Go on and kill him.
Boots clomped on the front steps. Dundee stepped backward toward the corner, not letting the carbine waver from Karnes.
A big man blocked off most of the light from the doorway, the same heavy-built old man who had been at McCown’s.
This was Blue Roan.
Roan Hardesty paused in the door, as if undecided whether to come in or to step back out into the street. He saw then that Karnes was out of reach of his pistol. He cast a long look at Dundee. “You again. They told me some stranger had brung Jayce Karnes to town with a bullethole in him. I ought to’ve knowed it’d turn out to be you.”
Dundee said, “If you got any influence over this man, you better use it.”
Hardesty turned to Karnes. “Well?”
“It was him that shot Jayce. I’m fixing to kill him.”
“With your six-shooter lying over there on the table? You’re just fixing to get your light blowed out, is all. This cowboy looks like he means business, Bunch.”
“So do I.”
“I need you alive, Bunch. Anyway, the weather’s too hot for a funeral. You git yourself along.”
“But I . . .”
“I said git on along. I’ll talk to you later.”
Karnes stared resentfully at Roan Hardesty, his eyes then drifting to Dundee and spilling their hatred. “I’m going because Roan says to. But don’t think it’s over, cowboy. I ain’t even started yet.”
He stomped to the door, down the steps and out into the street, leaving the pistol on the table. Dundee held the carbine, not pointing it directly at Hardesty but not letting the muzzle drop far, either.
Hardesty’s voice was deep and gravelly. “You can put away the hardware. I ain’t going to do you no harm.”
“You can bet your life you’re not.”
“I promise you. I don’t ever break a promise.” He turned. “Who the hell is tending bar around here? Where’s Cricket?”
The little bartender’s head tentatively rose from behind the pine bar, eyes cautiously appraising the situation before he stood up to full height.
Hardesty said, “Whisky, Cricket.” He started toward the few small tables. Dundee picked up Karnes’ pistol and shoved it into his waistband. Hardesty pulled out a chair. “Set yourself down.”
Dundee sat in a corner, where nobody could come up behind him. He watched Hardesty with distrust. The bartender set down a bottle and two glasses. Hardesty pulled the cork and poured the glasses full. “Here’s to all the bold and foolish men. And there’s a hell of a lot of them.” He downed his drink in one swallow. Dundee didn’t touch his own. Hardesty noticed. “You don’t trust me?”
“I make it a practice not to trust nobody.”
“A safe policy. But I gave a promise. Old Blue Roan has broke most of the laws that was ever passed, but he don’t break a promise.”
Dundee looked at the blue spots on the old man’s broad face. “I didn’t figure they called you that where you could hear it.”
“I’m not ashamed of my face, boy. I bear it like a medal, a thing to be proud of. I got it in the line of duty. I was in the late war, boy, the war between the states. We charged into an artillery emplacement, and the whole thing went up . . . right in my face. I was lucky I kept my eyes. When it was over, I had these marks for life. Sure, I fretted over them awhile, but bye and bye it come to me that they was honest marks. They was like a medal that a man wears all the time and don’t even take off with his clothes. They tell the world that Roan Hardesty done his job.” He paused to take another drink. “People has said some hard things about me, but there’s one thing they can’t take away. I done my duty, and I got the marks to prove it.” He refilled his glass. “Anyway, I didn’t come here to talk about me. I want to find out about you. How come you to shoot Jason Karnes?”
“I come up on him and his partner venting the brands on some cattle. He shot at me first.”
“Where was this?”
“Back up in the hills, close to a cabin.” Dundee pointed his chin.
“How come you fooling around up there, anyway?”
Dundee figured he’d just as well tell it all. “To see what I could find out.”
“What did you find out?”
“Where some of John Titus’ cattle been going.”
Roan Hardesty got up from the table. Dundee took a firm grip on the saddlegun. Hardesty walked to the door and looked out at Dundee’s horses. “I’m getting old, I guess. Never even noticed the brand on that packhorse when I come in. You working for John Titus?”
Dundee nodded.
Hardesty spat on the floor. “What’s old John figure on doing?”
“If I told you that, you’d know as much as I do.”
Hardesty sat down again, taking another sip out of the glass. “Old Honest John. Bet he never told you he was a pretty good hand with a long rope once. As good a thief as I was, pretty near. But he got to letting his conscience talk to him. And then he went and married. Church-going kind, she was. She ruint him; he went honest. Got rich and turned his back on all his old friends.”
“Maybe you ought to’ve done the same.”
“No need to. I always had women. Never had to marry one.”
“I mean, you should’ve turned honest.”
“The meanest, dullest, most miserable people I know are honest. I like it better where I’m at.”
“Somebody may kill you one of these days.”
“You, maybe?”
“I hope not.” Dundee wouldn’t have admitted it, but he found himself drawn to this old reprobate. The old man had the same disarming frankness as John Titus.
“I’d as soon not have to shoot you neither, Dundee. I always had a soft spot for an honest man with guts. Wisht I’d had you with me in the war. A few more like me and you, we’d of whipped them Yankees.”
“We might have.”
Blue Roan stared at him through narrowed eyes, appraising him like he would judge a horse. “Dundee, I know John Titus. Whatever he’s paying you, it ain’t enough for the risk. Join up with me and I’ll show you where the money’s at.”
“Venting other people’s brands? I reckon not.”
“Look at it this way: it’s free range, most of it. Biggest part of the land John Titus uses still belongs to the state of Texas. He’s taking the use of it free, not paying a dime. And who is the state of Texas? Why, it’s me and you and everybody else. John Titus is robbing all us taxpayers. If we run off a few piddling head now and then, it’s just our way of making sure he pays something for the grass. We’re doing the state of Texas a service, you might say.”
The reasoning brought Dundee a smile. He wondered if Roan Hardesty had ever actually paid a dollar of tax to the state of Texas. “I made John Titus a promise. I’ll keep it.”
The outlaw regretfully accepted Dundee’s judgment. “I like a man who keeps a promise. But I can’t guarantee you your safety. I can’t be responsible for people like Bunch Karnes who think slow but shoot fast.”
“I’ve always took care of myself.”
“Keep on doing it. I’d sooner not have you on my conscience.” Hardesty stood up to leave, then turned again. “What connection you got with the McCowns?”
“Like I told you, I stopped there and they fed me.”
“That’s all?”
Worry started building in Dundee. He hadn’t intended to get the McCowns any deeper in trouble than they already were. “That’s all, and I’ll swear to it. I never saw them before.”
Hardesty paused in the doorway. “You’re worried because you think this is going to cause me to bear down on them. Don’t fret yourself. Them and me, we had our trouble before you ever come here.” A faint smile tugged at his big mouth. “That girl is the one you’re really thinking about, ain’t she? You know, she reminds me of the one old John Titus married. Pass her by, Dundee. She’s not for you, all that honeysuckle and home cooking. She’d hogtie you like a slick-eared yearling.”
When the old man was gone, Katy Long came back. “I heard most of that. You really come from John Titus?”
“And you tell anybody who asks you?”
“I never been one to lie.”
“There’s a time and a place for everything. In your place, I’d lie.”
“Way I heard it, a couple of other fellers come into this country and lied. They got killed. Me, I just come to find out who’s been taking John Titus’ cattle, and where they’re going with them, that’s all. Maybe you’d like to tell me, and save me some trouble.”
“You’re already in trouble. I’m keeping clear of it.”
Through the front door Dundee could see the corner of a small mercantile building across the rutted road that passed for a street. He saw a shadow move. He stood up, the carbine in his hands.
Katy Long caught the tension. “What is it?”
“You said you didn’t want no trouble. Just stay put.” Keeping within the darkness of the room, he moved to a point where he had a better view of the mercantile. He watched a few minutes, waiting for more movement. He saw a hat brim edge out, and then part of Bunch Karnes’ face as the tall man peeked around the corner. He saw a little of a gunbarrel.
Well, Dundee thought regretfully, I tried. I could as well have shot him while ago.
He maneuvered toward the door, staying close to the wall. He paused a moment, his shoulder to the wall, gauging where the horses were tied. He didn’t want a stray shot to kill his bay or the pack animal. He glanced at the wide-eyed bartender, at the silent woman. He took a deep breath, leaped out the door and lit running.
He took Karnes by surprise. Dundee made three long strides before Karnes stepped out into the open, the pistol extended almost to arm’s length in front of him, swinging to try to bring it in line with the running target. Dundee threw himself to the ground. He saw the flash as he brought the carbine up. He aimed at Karnes’ chest and squeezed the trigger.
Karnes was flung back grabbing at his shirt in open-mouthed bewilderment, the pistol falling from his hand. He crumpled in a heap.
Cautiously Dundee moved forward, trying to watch Karnes and at the same time looking up and down the street for trouble. He kicked the pistol away, then knelt. He touched Karnes and drew his hand back. Karnes shuddered once, then lay still.
Dundee arose, turned and walked back to the saloon, the carbine smoking in his hands. In the front door stood Katy Long and the little bartender.
A bitter taste in his mouth, Dundee said, “Well, at least we didn’t leak blood on your floor.”
She didn’t back away from him. “Don’t take it out on me. When you came here for John Titus, you knew you might kill somebody, or maybe get killed yourself.”
He nodded darkly, watching a small crowd begin to gather around the body.
“Then don’t blame me. All I do is operate a saloon.”
“In an outlaw town.”
“Look, cowboy, nobody’s taken care of me since I was fourteen. I’ve minded my own business and left everybody else’s alone. I just sell whisky. And you’re shooting my customers.”
From down the hall Jason Karnes’ voice called weakly: “What’s happened out there? Somebody tell me what’s happened!” In a moment, when no one went to him, he shouted again, anxiety rising: “Bunch! Bunch! Where you at, Bunch? What’s happened out there? Bunch!”
Katy Long’s handsome face twisted with regret. “I suppose now it’s up to me to tell him. Cowboy, I wish to hell you’d ride out of here.”
“I was just fixing to leave.”