Hewey had made a round looking for screwworms and, as usual, came by the fields to see how the boys were doing in their constant battle against the weeds. The black dog came running out to bark a challenge at him. Hewey spoke back to him in kind.
To his surprise he saw a mule working in the feed, Cotton following close behind him. Hewey rode up to the turnrow, hooked a leg over the saddle horn to show the bronc he wasn’t afraid of him, and waited. To pass the time he lectured the dog on fidelity and true friendship. The dog gave him a haughty look which told him to mind his own business.
In a few minutes Cotton came out to the end of the row, following the mule-drawn contraption he had designed and built. Tommy trailed behind him with a hoe, giving the coup de grâce to any weeds Cotton had missed or left wounded.
Hewey’s mouth hung open. “Boy, does that thing really work?”
Cotton made a cautious, tentative smile. “It’s no go-devil, but it cuts weeds.” The evidence lay behind him, in the row he had just finished.
Hewey marveled at his nephew’s ingenuity. “It ain’t much for pretty. Any honest-to-God farmer was to come by here, he’d die laughin’.”
Cotton said defensively, “While he’s laughin’, we’ll be cuttin’ a good clean crop of feed.”
Hewey looked across the field. The cane was soon going to be ready to harvest. He dismounted and stood there a little, studying Cotton until the boy self-consciously turned away. Hewey put a heavy hand on his shoulder. “Cotton, I been hard on you boys. I ain’t real bright, so the chances are that I’ll do it again. But if I ever fuss at you about takin’ time for an invention, I want you to hit me over the head with that contraption there.”
Cotton’s cautious smile came back. “I hope you’ll remember that.”
“I probably won’t. But you remind me.”
“Uncle Hewey, you reckon when we get this job done and the crop all in, you might talk to Mama about me?”
“You still thinkin’ about that job in San Angelo?”
“I lay awake nights, thinkin’ about it.”
“Your mama doesn’t take much stock in what I say. You’ll need to ask her yourself.”
“I have.”
“What did she say?”
“You can guess what she said.”
The dog looked up, lifting its ears, then went trotting out on the trail that led up from the house. Hewey saw a familiar buggy, this time with a lone occupant. “Damn!” he grunted.
Cotton looked. “Fat Gervin.”
“In the flesh, and there’s a hell of a lot of it. You boys get on back to your weedin’.”
The black dog had reached the buggy and now came trotting back alongside it, tail wagging vigorously.
“Damn dumb dog,” Hewey grumbled. He remounted the bronc, holding the rein up tight. He had no intention of putting on a free show of riding skill for Fat Gervin, a man who did not know how to appreciate true ability.
Fat reined the gray buggy horses to a stop and sat looking across the waving green feed. He pointed his round little chin toward Cotton. “What kind of a rig do you call that?”
“That,” Hewey said evenly, “is a bank beater. That little contraption is one of the things that’s goin’ to beat you, Fat. We’ve got that feed crop as good as made, unless you can stir up a hail-storm or somethin’ pretty soon.”
Fat nodded. “You’ve got some yearlin’s to sell, too, ain’t you?”
“They’re as good as sold already. Walter says him and Old Man Thomas made an agreement back in the spring.”
“Did he get anything written down on paper?”
Hewey began to feel a touch of doubt. “You don’t need anything on paper in this country. They shook hands.”
“That’s not enough anymore. Old Man Thomas can’t help you. He can’t even help himself. He’s overdue on some notes he owes us. We’ve got him tied up to where he can’t buy smokin’ tobacco, much less some nester yearlin’s.”
Hewey swallowed, then caught hold, trying to keep Fat from seeing his misgivings. “Too bad about the old man. But we’ll sell them to somebody else.”
“Who?”
“I don’t know. Somebody.”
“There ain’t anybody this side of Midland’ll buy your cattle, and there ain’t anybody there who’ll come this far and buy them from you. You’ll have to drive them all the way to town.” Fat began to smile, but the smile carried a touch of frost. “That feed you’re so puffed up about … who you goin’ to sell it to?”
“No problem there. Walter’s been sellin’ it to ranchers around here for years.”
“You talked to any of them lately?”
A chill touched Hewey somewhere down below his belt buckle. “No.”
Fat said, “Then I wouldn’t count my chickens till you see them pop out of the shell.” He flipped the reins and brought the buggy team around in a long circle, then set them into a trot on the way back toward town. The black dog followed him a long way before giving up and limping back, its affections unrequited.
Worry gnawed at Hewey’s belly all the way to the house. He drank a quick cup of coffee and left his dinner untouched on the back of the wood stove while Eve complained about cooking for nothing. He staked the bronc, saddled Biscuit and rode out in a hurry.
Late in the afternoon he came to a ranch house not far back up from the Pecos River. He found the rancher milking a Jersey cow to feed a growing flock of youngsters. Hewey waved, tied Biscuit to a fence and entered the cowpen, watching his feet. He shook hands, getting his right hand wet with milk.
“Howdy, Willis. I noticed comin’ in that your feed stack’s almost fed up.”
The rancher nodded, glancing unnecessarily in that direction. “About time for the new crop to start comin’ off.”
“That’s what I come to talk to you about. We’ll be cuttin’ Walter’s pretty soon. You’ll be needin’ about the same as last year, won’t you?”
The rancher shook his head and looked away. “Matter of fact, Hewey, I won’t. I already got my feed bought. Contracted, anyway.”
Somehow Hewey had known it all the way over here, but it hit him in the stomach anyway. “Mind if I ask who sold it to you?”
“It was Fat Gervin. He come by and contracted to furnish me all I need, and to do it at a little under the Midland market.”
“Under the market? But him and old C. C., they don’t raise any feed; they’re always buyin’. How can he sell cheaper than the market?”
“I don’t know, but he done it. Times like these, Hewey, a man takes his savin’s where he can find them. There ain’t no loose money floatin’ around, you know.”
“I’m beginnin’ to know.” Hewey reached up for Biscuit’s mane and the saddle horn. “You know anybody else upriver who might want some feed?”
“I understand that Fat pretty well made the rounds. I think he’s sold just about everybody.”
Hewey gritted his teeth. “Nice to see you, Willis. You take care of them kids now.”
“Doin’ the best I can. Seems like I been takin’ too good a care of my wife.”
Hewey rode away with his shoulders drawn in. He would visit some more ranches tomorrow, but he already sensed what the outcome would be. A dark and ugly suspicion came to him. Fat Gervin was doing this to box him in. Worse, he was probably figuring on the Calloway feed to meet some of his contract obligations, after he took over the place.
I’ll burn it first, Hewey thought bitterly. He spurred Biscuit a lot harder than he intended to.
He didn’t get in until after dark. He nibbled a little at the cold leftovers and filled up on black coffee. Eve asked what was eating at him, but he gave her no answer.
Next day, keeping his mission from Eve, he visited a couple more ranches. As he had expected, Fat Gervin had been there a few days ahead of him. Hewey knew of a certainty now: they had a crop of feed almost made, and there wasn’t a soul in the Upton City country to sell it to.
* * *
On Sunday morning while Eve sought salvation in church, and in taking the boys with her allowed the weeds a day of grace, Hewey was out on his daily rounds seeking after screwworms to kill. In the afternoon he pursued romance in his own uncertain fashion. He tied some work into it, however. He rode to the Lawdermilk place on one of the broncs he was breaking for Alvin. This served the double purpose of training and transportation. It was an efficiency of which Eve could approve.
The Lawdermilk menagerie was out in force, blissfully unaware of the sacredness of the Sabbath. The peafowl momentarily put Hewey in some jeopardy of a hard fall from the skittish bronc. But Hewey was prepared for the sight, if the bronc wasn’t, and he held the little sorrel down to a couple of short crowhops. He had no intention of ruining the last dress-up shirt he owned.
Julio watched from the shed door, waving. He seldom got to town. He had to appreciate whatever small amusements chanced to pass his way.
Alvin stepped out onto the porch to investigate the commotion, then walked down the steps to meet Hewey. Coming out the yard gate and shutting it behind him, a precaution to protect Cora’s flowers from four-footed invasions, he looked the bronc over with a discerning eye before turning his attention to Hewey. “The bronc looks better than you do.”
Hewey’s good white shirt only accentuated the sun-browned face, the wind-chapped lips. “Maybe he ain’t been workin’ as hard.”
Alvin grunted. “You ought to take better care of yourself.” He reached out to try to touch the bronc on the shoulder. It pulled back, eyes wide enough to show the whites. “I expect you’re about through with a bunch of broncs.”
“I’ll be bringin’ them home in a few days to swap you for some more.”
Alvin frowned and tried again to touch the bronc. He managed it this time, though the sorrel was not wholly in favor. “It’d be a lot easier on you if you’d come over here and ride them. Be easier on Walter’s grass, too.”
“I got to be there and watch after things. Got to hunt screwworms every day. Got to keep them boys a-workin’.”
“You sound more like a daddy than an uncle. They probably liked you better when you was just Uncle Hewey.”
“They’ll like me a lot less if they lose the roof from over their heads.”
Alvin’s frown sank deeper. He studied Hewey as carefully as he had studied the bronc. “It don’t fit on you, Hewey. You’re tryin’ to make yourself into somebody you’re not.”
Hewey’s voice was pained. “You got any better ideas?”
Alvin had no answer for that.
Hewey said, “I don’t reckon you need to buy any feed, do you, Alvin?”
“No. Matter of fact, my crop’s comin’ along so good I’m liable to have a little more than I need.” He brightened. “Would you believe Fat Gervin came by here a few days ago and offered to buy any extra that I find I’ve got?”
“I’d believe it,” Hewey said darkly.
Spring Renfro appeared on the porch. Her eyes met Hewey’s and came alive with joy. Hewey’s tired back straightened. A smile flirted with his leathery face, but it didn’t quite come alive.
Alvin looked from one to the other, his brow still twisted. “I believe I’ll go down to the barn and see what Julio is up to. Come down later if you’ve a mind to, Hewey.” He waited for a response but received none. He shrugged and walked toward the corrals.
Hewey stepped up onto the porch, glanced over his shoulder to be sure Alvin wasn’t watching, then opened his arms for Spring. She came to him smiling, saying nothing, needing to say nothing. They held each other in a long, warm silence. She brought him a measure of comfort he had badly needed.
“I’ve missed you,” she said finally. “A week can be a long time.”
“There’s been a lot of work to do.”
She stepped back to arm’s length and looked him over carefully, critically. “You don’t feel well, Hewey.”
“How can you tell the way I feel?”
“It shows in your eyes, your face. You’re drawn, Hewey. You’re not eating enough. I don’t think you’re sleeping.”
“I’m all right. Just got a lot on my mind right now, is all.”
She ran her fingers gently through his hair. She said, “The gray seems to be showing a little more. Taking responsibility is one thing. But you’re letting responsibility take you, and that is something else.”
“I’ve worked hard a lot in my life. It’s never hurt me.”
“It’s not the work; it’s what goes on up there.” She gently tapped his forehead with her finger. “I’m not sure you know how to handle it.”
Defensively he said, “I’ve never had a job of work yet that I couldn’t handle.”
Holding hands, they walked to the porch swing and sat down close together. The touch of her body against his was both bliss and pain, bliss in that it felt so good, pain in that he wanted to do so much more and couldn’t, or wouldn’t.
Hewey heard the squeak of the wheel chair making its way slowly across the parlor floor, and the bump as it was stopped by the screen door. From the doorway came Old Lady Faversham’s voice, raw-edged and cold. “It’s just that Hewey Calloway again, botherin’ our Spring. If I was her I’d tie a dead cat to him and run him off.”
Spring looked at Hewey, her eyes sparkling with laughter.
Cora’s voice came from within the house. “Come here, Mother. I want you to hold this yarn for me.”
“Somebody ought to be out there watchin’ him. That kind’ll take advantage of a woman every time.”
“Mother…”
“It’s an awful thing to be a woman. We yield up so much and receive so little in return.”
Cora’s voice turned strident. “Mother, you come here!”
The chair squeaked again as the old lady reluctantly retreated deeper into the house.
“If they ever hang me,” Hewey said ruefully, “I hope they send that old lady an invitation. It’ll be a high point of her life.”
“She’s just worried about my welfare.”
“That’s for me to do.”
“I’m not your responsibility yet. Right now I’m afraid you have more worries than you know what to do with.”
He stared morosely toward the low blue mountains, the flat-topped desert mountains of the Trans-Pecos. “I’ve never had it like this before,” he admitted. “I’ve worked hard on a-plenty of jobs, but I always knew I could walk off and leave it any time I taken the notion. That made it easy. This time I can’t ride off. It’s like I was chained to a post.”
“Most men are chained to some kind of post. Women too.”
“I’ve just started kind of late. I’m like an old dog tryin’ to learn a new trick and fallin’ back on my tail. I growl an awful lot and learn damn little.”
“Have faith in yourself, Hewey.” She picked up his rough hand and pressed it against her lips. She looked at him so directly and without reservation that he felt his face warming. He tried to think of something to say, but nothing came. Romance had been sadly neglected on his part.
She said, “With all you’ve had to do, I don’t suppose you’ve had a chance to see about making a deal on the Barcroft place?”
He stared at his hands, his eyes troubled. “Spring, I been wonderin’ how to tell you. We’d better not figure on that place for a while. It’ll take everything I’ve got—everything I can get—to keep C. C. and Fat from takin’ that place.”
“I can help. It’s hard to save much out of a schoolteacher’s salary, but I’ve managed. I have a little money set aside. We could put it down on the Barcroft claim, just to hold it.”
He looked at her in surprise. “Use your money? If we get married it’s my place to do the payin’, not yours. A man don’t take a woman’s money.”
“That’s old-fashioned. In a lot of the world a bride brings a dowry into the marriage.”
“We’re livin’ in this part of the world. And here it’s up to me.”
* * *
He went home a little earlier than usual from his Sunday courting, for a dark mood had settled over him, and he feared it might be contagious. To his surprise he saw Walter sitting up in front of the house, his leg stretched out straight in front of him in the cast, a pair of crutches resting against his hip. They were homemade, Cotton’s doing. Hewey went on to the barn and unsaddled, then came back to stand and gaze upon his brother.
Walter’s face was pale from the long confinement. He had never been one to carry any excess flesh, and he was even thinner than usual now. But Hewey saw pleasure in his brother’s eyes at being able to get outside and see the world without a ceiling over it.
Hewey tried to pretend a cheerfulness he could not feel. “I got some broncs that need ridin’, if you feel up to it.”
Walter smiled thinly. “Ask me again tomorrow.”
“You sure it’s safe for you to be gettin’ out?”
“I been goin’ crazy lyin’ in there where I can’t see anything. I never knew how pretty an old barn could be, or even a milkhouse, or several broncs staked out on a flat.” He turned his head in the direction of the fields, though he could not see them from here. “How’s the feed lookin’, Hewey?”
Hewey hesitated. “Fine. It’ll be ready to cut pretty soon now.”
“You’ll need to be goin’ around to the ranchers and tellin’ them. We’ve got to start pullin’ the money together.”
Hewey couldn’t tell him the truth. “I’ll do it, Walter, first chance I get.”
Eve called them to supper. Hewey helped Walter get the crutches under his arms and pull to his good foot. Walter moved awkwardly. It would be some time yet before he could do much for himself. Hewey hung back, brooding, until Eve called him a second time. He sat down at the table but found the food tasteless.
Eve watched him worriedly. “Hewey, are things all right between you and Spring?”
“Sure. Sure, everything’s fine.” He pushed to his feet and slid his chair back. “If you-all will pardon me, I think I’ll go outside and have me a smoke.”
He sat down in the chair Walter had vacated. Down by the grove he saw several freight wagons, the teamsters unhitching. One of them, he could tell, was Blue Hannigan. Somehow Hewey welcomed the company. He couldn’t talk to anyone in the family about his problem. Maybe he could talk about it to Hannigan. Sharing it with somebody might make it easier.
Presently Hannigan and a couple of other men started walking toward the windmill, leading their horses and mules. Hewey moved out to the mill and stood with his shoulder against the tower. Blue greeted him and stopped to study him a minute.
He said, “You look like you been run over by a gut wagon.”
Hewey found a touch of dark humor in that and almost smiled. “You could say that, in a way. I been run over by Fat Gervin.”
Hannigan watered his teams; that came ahead of pleasant conversation or food or anything else when a man’s livelihood depended upon his animals. He said, “Come on down to the camp, Hewey, if you’ve a mind to. We got a pot of coffee started. I expect you’ve already had your supper.”
Hewey gladly walked down to the grove with the muscular, begrimed teamster. He helped him to take the rest of the harness off and tie the mules in their places alongside the wagons, then tie the morrals of feed over their heads.
That done, Hannigan fetched a pair of cups, poured coffee, then sat down for a few minutes of comfort on the heavy wagon tongue. “Now then, Hewey, what’s that fat son of a bitch done to you?”
Hewey squatted on his heels and gritted his teeth. In a way he hated to tell. He felt somehow belittled that he could ever be in the position where another man could take such an advantage of him. But he told Hannigan the whole thing.
Morosely he said, “I don’t know whichaway to turn, Blue. We can do somethin’ or other with the yearlin’s. Midland’s a long ways to have to drive a little bunch of cattle, but we can do it. We can ship them to the Fort Worth stockyards if we have to. But that feed, that’s what’s got into my craw. If we can’t sell the feed we just won’t have the money to pay off that note. We can’t go haulin’ feed all over the country to try to sell it. The freight would eat it up.”
Blue Hannigan scowled. When he did that, his face somehow reminded Hewey of a storm boiling up, about to let loose thunder and fire. Hannigan seemed to withdraw into himself a little while, thinking. At last he said, “It finally makes sense, Hewey. I hadn’t been able to figure out what he was up to, but now I see.”
“See what?”
“Fat hired him an agent in Midland to go out visitin’ farmers and try to tie up all the feed they’re raisin’. I didn’t understand it because him and C. C. never bought that much feed before, not for their own use. Fat’s doin’ it just to nail you up in a box, Hewey.”
“He’s done it.”
“Not yet. Maybe you can crawl out before the lid is hammered shut.” Hannigan got some coffee grounds in his mouth and spat them violently. “He’s a crafty devil, but you could out-craft him.”
“I don’t see how.”
“That agent is buyin’ from anybody who’ll sell to him. He’ll buy from me if I tell him I can line him up some feed. He don’t have to know where I got it. You and the boys, you get that feed cut soon as it’s ready. I’ll get a bunch of the mule skinners together, and their wagons, and we’ll haul that stuff to Midland for you.”
“That’s a long haul, Blue. Time we pay the freight…”
“There ain’t goin’ to be no freight. Half the time we’re empty on the trip to Midland anyway. Most of our haulin’ is out from there, not in.”
“I wouldn’t ask it of you. Neither would Walter.”
“You ain’t askin’. I’m tellin’. All of us boys, we like Walter, and we owe him. You think everybody in the country lets us water our teams without payin’ for it? Hell no, they don’t. And if Fat Gervin gets control of this place, you can damn well bet he’ll charge for water and grass both.”
Hewey could see some logic in that, enough to ease his conscience.
Blue added, “This country ain’t got so many good people in it that it can afford to lose a family like the Calloways. You’re damn right we’ll do it for you, and be tickled to get the chance.” His eyes narrowed. “But we got to keep it quiet. We got to slip up on their blind side or they’ll fly the nest.”
“There won’t nobody know but me and you and whoever you tell.”
For a long time now a stifling, heavy weight had been building on Hewey’s shoulders. Part of it fell away. The evening had just turned dark, but he could see daylight. “Blue Hannigan, if you was a woman I’d kiss you.”
“If I was a woman, be damned if I’d let you.”
Hewey couldn’t afford to tell the family yet for fear the plan might somehow leak out. Besides, none of them knew of the block Fat had thrown in their way; Hewey had kept that to himself. In the days ahead he worked at tying up all the loose ends. In the course of riding, looking for screwworm cases, he started picking up the yearlings that were due for sale and hazing them to the milk-cow pasture.
He began trying to put the finishing touches on the current set of Lawdermilk broncs. Tommy was getting to be a problem there. He was too eager and too reckless.
“Stay out from behind that horse,” Hewey yelled at him. “He’ll kick you plumb into next Saturday.”
Tommy had been too close, but he didn’t recognize it. “Why don’t you let me ride this one, Uncle Hewey? He’s not so tough.”
“You’re too young to be ridin’ broncs like this.”
“I’m older than you was when you started. You’ve told me many a time. Spinner James is ridin’ broncs already, and he’s a year younger than I am.”
“One broken leg in this family is enough.”
But Hewey could tell by Tommy’s actions that he had all the makings of a good cowboy. There wouldn’t be any holding him back much longer. The boys were growing up and getting away from him while he stood there and watched them.
The day came when Hewey knew the feed was ready to cut. He took his string of broncs to Alvin Lawdermilk and pronounced them broken. He gladly accepted the pay which Alvin counted out for him, including a few dollars in extra bonus which Alvin said he felt was due for the speed and thoroughness of the job.
“And now, Alvin,” Hewey said, “could I ask you for the borry of your row binder?”
Alvin’s own feed was probably about ready to cut, but he didn’t have a big note falling due at the bank. “You can have it on one condition. I’ve got a couple of green-broke work horses that sure do need the practice. Take them and you can take the binder.”
“I won’t charge you a red cent for the trainin’.”
Cutting and bundling the feed was hot, dry, dusty work. The chaff got into Hewey’s shirt despite his buttoned collar and sleeves, and it itched like a rough-wool coat on a sunburn. It was a type of work he would normally have ridden a hundred miles on a lame horse to avoid. But he gloried in this because it marked the end of his captivity, the payment of his debt. An added pleasure, like a side bet, was that he would be able to kick Fat Gervin in the butt with his own boot.
Hewey sang as he worked, a manifestation to the boys that their uncle had been kicked in the head by a bronc without their knowledge.
The black dog, lying at the turnrow and watching for rabbits to flush ahead of the binder, raised his head and turned to stare at something. He got to his feet and went trotting off, wagging his tail. Hewey’s curious gaze moved past the dog and picked up an approaching buggy. He broke off singing “Bringing in the Sheaves” and groaned, “God Almighty damn!”
The gray horses and the buggy belonged to C. C. Tarpley and Fat Gervin. Fat was driving. Easing the binder team on up to the turnrow, Hewey assumed the second man would be C. C. But as he stepped down from the binder and wiped the gritty sweat from his face onto his sleeve and then onto a handkerchief, he noticed a dun horse tied behind the buggy. Hewey blinked his chaff-burned eyes and stared at the second man. He combed his memory, and suddenly his breath went short.
The marshal from New Prosperity!
Fat Gervin reined up and looked a moment at Hewey. He turned to his passenger. “Marshal, is that your man?”
The marshal held a pistol in his hand. It was pointed at Hewey. “That, sir, is sure as hell him.” To Hewey he said stiffly, “Hugh Holloway, I arrest you in the name of the law.”
The breeze was light, but it worked through Hewey’s sweaty shirt. He felt a chill. “The name is Calloway.” He stared into the muzzle of the pistol. It looked as big as a cannon in a courthouse yard.
The marshal said curtly, “You raise those hands, Holloway.”
“If I turn a-loose of these lines, this green team is apt to take fright and run over all of us.”
Cotton and Tommy watched wide-eyed. Hewey motioned for Cotton to come up and take the reins.
Fat said, “I’d watch that man closely, Marshal. He is a slippery character.”
Hewey frowned. “Fat Gervin, I hope when you get home that your old mother comes runnin’ up to you on all fours and bites you on the leg.”
Tommy trembled. “Uncle Hewey, what’s this about? What does that man want with you?”
Hewey looked at Cotton, but he spoke to Tommy. “Your brother can tell you.”
The marshal smiled coldly. “I had just about given up on you, Holloway. I wrote letters to sheriffs all over the country, and not a one of them answered me. But your kind always floats to the surface like a dead fish. You want to know how I caught up with you?”
Staring at that pistol and feeling that chill, Hewey didn’t much give a damn. But the marshal told him anyway. “Last week our paper picked up an old item that had been printed in San Angelo. The name wasn’t quite the same, but a little bird lit on my shoulder and whispered in my ear. So I came to Upton City. The sheriff here wasn’t no help. He swore he’d never heard of no Holloway. Left me feelin’ kind of low. But I went to the bank to get me some travelin’ funds and happened to mention my trouble to Mr. Gervin. Now, he’s a good law-abidin’ citizen, Mr. Gervin is. He knew right away who I was after. So here I am, Hugh Holloway, and justice is fixin’ to be done.”
Hewey and the boys all glared at Fat Gervin. Fat said, “I’ve always tried to do my civic duty.”
Hewey argued, “I never done anything to you, Marshal, at least nothin’ to justify you takin’ all this trouble.”
“You ignored an order from an officer of the law, and you attacked that officer in the carryin’-out of his legal duties. Let one man get away with such as that and you open the doors for all kinds of dangerous elements to come in and take over the country.”
“I ain’t no dangerous element.”
“Any man who disrespects the power of the law is a dangerous element.”
Hewey turned his head and surveyed the field. It wouldn’t take long to finish the cutting. “I got a job of work to finish here. If you’ll let me do that, I’ll go along with you real peaceable.”
As he expected, the marshal vigorously shook his head. “I been lookin’ for you ever since last spring. I’ve finally got you, and you’re goin’ back with me right now.”
Hewey looked at first one of the boys, then the other. “It’s up to you two, then, to finish here. You know what you’ve got to do.”
Cotton protested, “I don’t know if we can do it without you, Uncle Hewey.”
“You can, and you’ve got to, for your mama and daddy.”
Cotton’s lips were tight. Tears came to Tommy’s eyes.
Hewey couldn’t look at the boys anymore. His eyes burned, and not just from the chaff. He turned back to the marshal. “I need to go down to the house first and speak to my folks.”
“And have them help you escape? No sir, you’re comin’ with me. We’re leavin’ from right here.”
“My horse is down at the house too.”
“You can take one of those out of harness.”
“These don’t belong to me; they belong to Alvin Lawdermilk.”
The marshal clearly didn’t believe him. “They’ll do.”
“I’ll still need my saddle.”
“You can ride bareback. By the time this trip is over with, you’ll be more impressed with the majesty of the law.” He fished a set of handcuffs out of his pocket. “Will you please put these on him, Mr. Gervin? I’ll keep him covered so he won’t try anything.”
Gervin said, “The pleasure will all be mine.”
Hewey agreed, “It damn sure will.”
He had had a few minor run-ins with the authorities in his time, but never had steel cuffs been snapped shut around his wrists before. Their embrace was cold. He felt that chill again.
He was sorry the boys had to be here to watch this. He felt humiliated, demeaned. But he brought himself to look back at them. “It’s up to you boys to keep on. Finish the job just like I was here.”
Cotton said, “We’ll do our best.” But his doubt was painfully clear. Hewey wanted to hug the boys, but he couldn’t, not with these cuffs on. His throat went tight again, and he turned away from them. He chose the horse he thought might be the easiest to ride, and he started unhitching him from the binder. The handcuffs made it difficult.
Cotton moved to help him. The marshal swung the pistol toward the youngster. “Boy, you stand back from him.”
Cold fear struck Hewey. “Marshal, don’t you point that gun at the kid.” He stepped back away from the horse, away from Cotton. “If you got to point it at somebody, point it at me.”
The marshal seemed to realize what he had done. He let the muzzle dip a moment, then brought it back to bear on Hewey.
Cotton swallowed hard. His face had paled. He said finally, “If it’s any comfort to you, Uncle Hewey, I know now that you and Wes Wheeler were right.”
“It is a comfort.”
When Hewey had mounted the plow horse bareback, and Fat Gervin was satisfied that everything was proceeding according to his pleasure, he bid his goodbyes to the marshal and turned the buggy around. He set the team of grays into a good trot and departed whistling. The black dog followed after him a way, wagging its tail, hating to see him go.
Hewey watched him, wondering if Fat knew anything about Blue Hannigan’s wagons. He was glad they hadn’t been here yet, for if Fat had seen them he might have been able to figure things out for himself.
The dog came back in time to bark at Hewey as he rode off in a northeasterly direction with the marshal, leaving the boys standing desolately to watch.
They rode across country awhile, Hewey’s head down as he darkly pondered the misfortunes he had brought upon himself and others. The marshal talked incessantly, mostly about other desperate criminals he had managed to bring to justice. Try as they might, they had never been able to escape the long arm and longer memory of the law at New Prosperity. Listening to him, Hewey wondered why the state hadn’t disbanded the Texas Rangers and saved itself a lot of money. The marshal of New Prosperity could have handled the whole job by himself.
They came eventually to a barbed-wire fence. Nowhere up or down as far as they could see along the length of it was there a gate. Hewey said, “This is Alvin Lawdermilk’s. If we follow along a ways we’ll find a drop-gap tied with wires instead of fastened with steeples.”
The marshal contemplated him in dark suspicion. “We’ll cross right here.”
“Alvin’s kind of narrow-minded about people messin’ with his fences. We’d better find where he’s made a place to cross.”
Suddenly the pistol was back in the marshal’s hand. “I am the law, and I can do what I goddamn please!”
Hewey swallowed. He shuddered, fearing the man might get overwrought and accidentally squeeze the trigger. There were no witnesses. He could tell any story he wanted to. “I sure wisht you’d point that thing off to the side a little.”
“You pull the steeples out of that post.”
“I’ve got no pliers.”
“You’ve got a pocketknife, haven’t you? Use that.”
Hewey poked around and broke a blade out of his good Barlow that he had bought one time in Miles City, Montana. But he managed to worry the steeples out. The wires were fairly tight, but the posts were far enough apart that he was able to put his weight on the barbed wires and push them down to ground level with his foot. He led the plow horse across, then looked up expectantly at the marshal.
The marshal’s dun must have had some bad experience with wire at one time or other. It rolled its eyes and made worried noises in its nose as the marshal tried to make it approach the fence. He made two tries, both unsuccessful. Each time he circled the horse out a little way and came back, never taking his eyes or the pistol off of Hewey.
The third time the horse shied a little, then nervously picked one forefoot up high and stepped across the wires that Hewey held stretched. He picked up the other forefoot and brought it over, trembling. For a moment he stood that way, half on one side, half on the other, fearful about bringing his hind feet across. The marshal cursed and spurred him, and for a moment he let the pistol point upward.
On impulse Hewey let go of the wires. They sprang up, the top one catching the dun horse just a little past mid-paunch. The horse squealed in fright and went straight up. The surprised marshal let the pistol fly and grabbed at the saddle horn with both hands. He bawled louder than the horse. The second jump brought the dun clear of the fence, and also clear of the marshal.
There was only one small clump of prickly pear within fifty feet, and the marshal slammed down on his back squarely in the center of it. He lay there rigid, the breath knocked out of him, his startled eyes staring straight up into the sun.
Hewey saw a badger hole dug beside a fence post. He picked up the fallen pistol, dropped it in and caved off the edge of the hole with his boot. The marshal lay groaning and rolling his eyes, seeing little or nothing, struggling for breath, impaled on the mushy green but hostile round pads of the prickly pear.
The dun had stopped pitching and stood looking back, trembling in the aftermath of panic. The saddle was half turned, resting on the horse’s right side. Hewey mounted the plow horse and rode to the dun, talking softly. “Whoa, son. Ain’t nothin’ goin’ to hurt you now. Whoa there.” He caught the trailing reins, got down and lifted the saddle back into its proper position, then led the horse to the marshal.
By now the man had partially recovered his breath. He lay staring at Hewey in terror, sure Hewey was going to murder him in cold blood.
Henry looked the dun horse over carefully for cuts. He found none of any account. To the stricken marshal he said, “You’re awful lucky. This horse ain’t hurt a bit, hardly.”
Not daring to move, the marshal groaned. “I think my back is broken. I’ve got pain in a thousand places.”
The prickly pear had cushioned his fall. Hewey knew the pain was not caused by broken bones. But a broken back was much more dignified than a butt full of thorns. If the marshal preferred the importance of a catastrophic injury, who was Hewey to deprive him?
“You do look like you’re in a bad way,” he agreed. “If I was you I wouldn’t move a muscle. I’ll ride over to Lawdermilk’s and send help.”
For the first time the marshal realized Hewey wouldn’t kill him. “You wouldn’t leave me here?” he protested hoarsely.
“You might die if I don’t get somebody here who knows what to do. Don’t you worry; there’s some good ladies over at that house who’ll take care of you. And don’t you worry about me, either. I’m goin’ to finish up that job I was workin’ on, and then I’ll come back and turn myself over to you. That’s a promise.”
Losing his prisoner seemed a mild concern to the marshal at the moment. He groaned piteously.
Hewey said, “Till Alvin comes with a wagon, you’d better lay real still. Try to be comfortable.”
He fished in the marshal’s pocket for the handcuff key. It took some doing to fit the key with his teeth, and he had to hook it into a steeple in a fence post to turn it. But in a few minutes he had freed himself from the cold embrace of the cuffs and hooked them over the horn of the marshal’s saddle. He tied the dun horse, pushed the wire down, led the plow horse back over it, then set out in an easy, swinging lope toward Alvin Lawdermilk’s.
When he finally got back to the field he saw that the boys had finished the cutting. Blue Hannigan’s freight wagons were there, the men starting to load the bundle-feed. The boys came running. Both threw their arms around him.
Cotton demanded, “Uncle Hewey, how did you get away?”
“I didn’t. The marshal just decided to take himself a rest before we start all the way back to New Prosperity.”