Stone spent the afternoon in the woods near the outlaw hideout. He walked, smoked cigarettes, sat on rocks, and watched meandering little streams.
He wanted to get out of the canyon and back to the real world. He felt as if he were in a snake pit. Beau had become deranged, his men were killers, and everything was deadly.
He’d been shocked by how cold-bloodedly Beau had shot Culpepper. Beau never hesitated or experienced a moment of doubt. He’d killed Culpepper the way he’d swat a fly. Beau was even further over the edge than Stone had thought.
Stone knew he’d have to be careful with Beau. There’d be no more arguing, no confrontations. He’d have to be calm and cool, and work toward getting out of the camp peacefully. If he had to shoot his way out, he’d do it, but he’d rather take the easier way.
Toward late afternoon he walked back to the cabins. As he emerged from the sage, he saw Beau stripped to the waist, chopping wood with a long axe.
Beau’s upper body was pale, and as Stone drew closer, he saw the ugly scar on Beau’s left breast. It looked as though the bones had caved in behind the scar.
Beau looked up as Stone approached, then resumed chopping wood. Stone stood a few feet to the side and rolled a cigarette.
The skin on Beau’s torso was flaccid, but when he poised himself to strike the wood, his striated muscles stood out beneath the surface. He gave the impression of strength and ill health at the same time. Raising the axe in the air, he brought it down swiftly and split the round of wood in half.
Stone lit the cigarette, and Beau wiped his forehead with the palm of his hand. “Guess you’re anxious to get moving along.”
“You might say that.”
“You can leave in the morning, if you like.”
“Sounds good to me.”
“Your money’s on the table in the kitchen.”
Stone walked toward the house and entered the kitchen. Hattie stood at the stove, stirring a pot, and the fragrance of baking bread was in the air. He saw the stacks of coins on the table. Sitting in front of them, he tallied them up. The total was fifty dollars.
He puffed his cigarette. His eyes fell on the jug of whiskey in the middle of the table. He’d known it was there, calling out to him as he counted the money, but he’d ignored it.
Now it stared him in the face, and he wanted a drink to steady him. Not that he felt that unsteady, but a good shot of whiskey could make a man even more steady, although after a while it would make him into a stumbling fool.
He pushed the jug away. The door opened and Chance walked into the kitchen, a wide smile on his face. “Heard you got paid back,” he said. “How’s about that game of cards?”
“Not in the mood.”
“If you’re leavin’ in the mornin’, this’ll be our last opportunity to see who’s the better man.”
“Not interested.”
Chance sat opposite him at the table and removed his hat. His head looked like a grinning skull. “Afraid to lose?”
“Don’t feel like playing cards.”
“Stakes don’t have to be high.”
“Maybe later.”
“You should never wait until later, because sometimes later never comes.” He whipped out a deck of cards. “What’s yer game? Not afraid are you? Let’s play somethin’ simple, like seven-card stud.”
“Last time you played poker, you lost your shirt.”
“This time you’ll lose yours.”
“Where’d you meet Beau?”
“In the hospital after the war.”
“What did you do before the war?”
“Just what I’m doin’ now.” Chance gave the deck a fancy shuffle and dealt the cards. “Been a gamblin’ man since I was sixteen. Gambled my way all over this country. You’d be surprised, the amount of information a man can pick up in saloons.”
“Chance, I believe you dealt that last one off the bottom.”
Chance froze, the deck of cards poised in his hand. “You’d better be careful when you say that.” He dropped the cards to the table and got to his feet. “Are you callin’ me a cheater?”
Stone remained seated, and looked up at Chance calmly. “I’m only saying I saw you deal that ace of clubs off the bottom.”
Chance winked. “How d’ya ‘spect me to make money gamblin’ if’n I don’t cheat?” He sat down and reached for the jug. “You got good eyes. People generally don’t catch me.”
Chance sipped some whiskey and Beau entered the kitchen. “Find something to do,” he said to Chance.
Chance gulped down his glass of whiskey and stood, hitching up his belt. Then he walked in long strides toward the door. Beau sat at the table and reached for the jug.
“You’d better sleep here in the main house tonight,” Beau said. “You’ll get your throat cut if you sleep in the bunkhouse. The men are riled up.”
“Doesn’t take much to rile that bunch, I don’t imagine.”
‘They’re good soldiers, and that’s all that matters.”
“Your intelligence officer just tried to cheat me at cards.”
“He brings me critical information. He’s effective.”
“Where’s the honor in associating with a bunch of back-stabbers, dry-gulchers, and petty cheats?”
“A commander must use the material at hand. A commander must make hard decisions. I guess you think I shouldn’t’ve shot that fool who blundered into here today, but I couldn’t let him go. He might’ve ruined my entire operation. This isn’t a carefree little hunt in the country, as in the old days, Johnny. This is war.”
“Don’t tell me about war. I’ve seen a fair amount myself. The main difference between you and me is you love it and I don’t. You’re not happy unless there’s death and destruction taking place. You love the smell of blood.”
“You always take the common view, because you have a common mind. You had more imagination when you were younger.”
“I was dumber when I was young. Let’s talk about reality. I don’t own a horse. How’m I going to get out of here in the morning if I don’t have a horse, or were you planning to get rid of me the way you got rid of Jesse Culpepper?”
“I’ll give you a horse. It’s the least I can do for my old boyhood friend.”
“Is it a stolen horse?”
“All our horses are stolen.” Beau looked askance at Stone. “Wish we could be like the old days.”
“Beau, the owlhoot trail isn’t going to get you anything except a bullet or the noose.”
It fell silent in the cabin, and Stone thought maybe he’d gone too far, but the whiskey had loosened his tongue. That’s the trouble with this damned stuff. Makes you say what you shouldn’t.
Beau gazed thoughtfully at him. “You want to talk about reality?” he asked. “Okay, here’s some reality for you. You’re flat on your ass broke, and how’re you going to find Marie in this country without some money in your pocket? You ride with me, Johnny, and you’ll have money enough to hire a dozen Pinkerton men to look for her. That’s the only way you’ll find her, with money, dinero, and money’s what I know how to get.”
Stone realized what Beau said made sense. What’ve I got to show for my trouble—nothing! The Pinkerton men could find anybody. If he had money, he could have Marie, and Beau sure knew all about getting money.
He’d like to be pals with Beau as in the old days, and not be alone anymore. The frontier sure got desolate sometimes. He could stop drifting, and the Pinkerton men would find Marie.
All he’d have to do was hold up stagecoaches and banks, and one day a poor fool with a snootful of bad whiskey would draw on him, and Stone would have to shoot him, for a handful of dollars.
Stone shook his head slowly. “Can’t do it.”
Beau sighed. “I know you can’t, you poor son of a bitch. You’re bolted to that saddle of yours, and you can’t get out of it.”
“What about you, Beau? You’ve got your dinero, but that’s all you’ve got. How’d you like to wake up in the morning with your head clear, and nobody’s after your ass, you don’t owe anything to anybody, and nobody’s going to shoot you in the back? It’s a nice feeling to be free, Beau. It’s not living in a palace or even your old mansion back in South Carolina, but there’s something to it that’s sweet and fine.”
Stone could see that Beau was thinking about it, but then Beau said grimly; “I can’t drink from that stream, Johnny. I already rode through it on my horse, and raised a lot of mud, which is never going to settle in my life, and sometimes I think I don’t have much longer to go anyway, so I guess it doesn’t matter much either way.”
Stone grinned. “You’re too mean to die, Beau. I wouldn’t worry about that if I were you.”
Beau sipped some whiskey. “Too bad about what happened to us,” he said. “We used to be such good friends, but now we don’t even speak the same language.”
Ewell sat in his little cabin, looking at the picture of his mother above the fireplace.
His only furniture was a bed, chair, and desk. The desk had a book on it and an inkwell. Gloria had been trying to teach Ewell how to read and write, but Ewell hadn’t been a good pupil. He’d rather be hunting in the woods, or going to town and stealing wallets.
The main thing he liked in town was the prostitutes. He spent all his money on them, and had a real good time. One of them tied him to a bed once and whipped his bottom. It was exciting stuff.
But now Beau would never let him go to town again.
It had been humiliating the way Beau slapped him in front of the others that afternoon. Ewell had bruises all over his face. His momma wouldn’t let Beau do that to him, if she were alive.
He looked up at her picture and wished she was there. She died during the war, after the Yankees burned the plantation. Ewell had been twelve at the time.
His hero always had been Beau, and his secondary heroes were John Stone and Ashley Tredegar. They were the three musketeers, in his youthful imagination, always riding horses, splendid in their uniforms.
They’d treated him like a child, and even now Beau looked down on him as if he were a moron. Ewell felt as if something were wrong with him, and his life were split in two. One half had been wonderful, and the last half, since the war, a nightmare.
He wanted to be free of his mean brother and crazy sister, and all the brutes in the gang who laughed at him behind his back. He wanted to have his own money and travel around like the drifters he saw in Clarksdale and other towns.
He had no remorse about the money he’d stolen from Jesse Culpepper. As far as Ewell was concerned, he was at war with the world, and anything went. That’s what he’d learned from Beau, and couldn’t understand why Beau was mad at him. What was the difference between stealing a man’s wallet in a pisshouse, or taking it from him in a stagecoach holdup?
Beau mystified him. He could never predict what Beau would do next. Like at the holdup, when Beau brought John Stone home.
Ewell hadn’t recognized John Stone when he’d first seen him. Stone had gotten a lot bigger and older. Looked awful hard. The old John Stone from South Carolina had been happy-go-lucky, quite unlike this galoot with the two guns and eyes that ran right through you.
It was time for supper, and Ewell dreaded it. Everyone had seen him get slapped around by Beau, and he’d feel like a shithouse rat. That’s the way they always treated him, and sometimes he suspected they were right, and he really was a shithouse rat.
I’ve got to get away from them. He arose, put on his hat, and walked outside. In order to get to Beau’s cabin, he had to pass the bunkhouse, and a bunch of men were outside, sitting around and smoking, shooting the breeze.
Ewell pulled his hat low onto his head until it covered his eyebrows. He walked toward Beau’s cabin with resolute steps.
One of them burped. Another muttered something. “The pisshouse kid,” said a third.
They all burst into laughter, and Ewell’s ears turned red. If you rob a man on the open road, it’s all right, but if you rob a man in a pisshouse, it’s not all right. Ewell tried to figure out the big difference.
He came to the main building and opened the door. Stone sat in a corner, reading an old newspaper. Beau and Gloria were at the table, and Beau had a glass in his hand. Hattie worked at the stove. Nobody said anything to him.
Ewell hung up his hat and sat at the table. He could feel the pressure of the afternoon against his skin. Everybody knew he was the pisshouse kid.
He wished he could sit at a table in a saloon where no one knew him. Then he could feel like a man among men, and there wouldn’t be the pressure against his skin. And he’d have plenty of money: drunks with fat wallets, old ladies who lived alone, and he could try the pisshouse trick in every town. Maybe he could even get together a gang.
Veronica entered the room, a ragged yellow ribbon in her hair. “Time to eat?”
“A few more minutes,” said Hattie at the stove.
“I had the most wonderful afternoon,” Veronica said, sitting pertly on the edge of a chair. “Ashley and I went to a little bookstore, and we found a beautifully illustrated edition of Mr. William Shakespeare’s Macbeth. He insisted I have it, and bought it for me. Ashley’s so generous, isn’t he? And he recited, from memory, those wonderful lines: ‘Life’s but a walking shadow, a poor player that frets and struts his hour upon the stage and then is heard no more: it is a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing.”‘
“Time to eat,” Hattie said, placing a roast-beef platter in the middle of the table.
They ate in silence, except for Veronica’s prattling about Ashley. Everybody was used to it and nobody paid any attention, as if she were a natural form of noise, like a woodpecker or the sound of crickets.
Stone knew it was his last supper with the Talbotts. He looked across the table at Beau, and saw that Beau was looking at him.
“I was just remembering something, Johnny,” Beau said, “that night you, Ashley, and I went AWOL from the Point and took the ferry down to New York City.” A smile came over Beau’s face. “What a night that was. We drank our way across town, in every cesspool of sin on the island, and in many of the finest drinking establishments also. People bought us liquor wherever we went, because we were in uniform and they knew we were cadets. We spent the night in some woods farther uptown. I tell you, Johnny, those were the days.”
“As I recall, you threw up all over your uniform.”
“I wasn’t too used to drinking in those days.”
“And we nearly got court-martialed when we got back.”
“Well,” said Beau, “fortunately Custer was on guard, and he let us through the gate.” Beau shook his head slowly. “Custer never had a brain in his head, yet rose to high command. Goes to show you what the Yankee Army is all about. What do you think about the Indian situation. Johnny?”
“Most of their hard-liners will get killed, and the rest will knuckle under.”
“Don’t have much of a chance, do they? But I admire the ones who fight back. Can’t respect the ones that go onto the reservation. They’re not worth the salt in their hay.” Beau looked at Stone. “I guess that’s what you’ve become in my eyes, Johnny. This white man’s equivalent of a reservation Indian.”
“Think what you like.”
“I’m disappointed in you.”
“That knife cuts both ways.”
“I liked the old days better. That’s the way I want to remember you.”
“The old days’re gone. I think it’s time you got that through your head.”
“You want me to come onto the reservation with you, Johnny? You won’t find me there. I’m not a reservation Indian.”
“Neither am I.”
“If you’re not a reservation Indian, what are you?”
“A future cattleman, I hope.”
“What do you know about cattle?”
“It’s honest.”
“Your implication is I’m not honest.”
Stone looked at him unswervingly. “You’re a bandit and a cold-blooded killer, but that’s all right, that’s your life. And who knows—maybe you really are a great guerrilla commander. Either way, I don’t give a damn. I’m going to Texas.”
Beau poured whiskey into his glass. “Let’s have one last toast together, can we?”
“I’ve stopped drinking.”
“Since when?”
“Last hour or two.”
Beau pushed a glass toward him. “We’ll probably never see each other again, Johnny. We ought to have a last toast. If we meet again, we shall smile. If not, this parting is well-made.”
Beau reached for the glass. He filled it and waited for the others to fill theirs. Beau looked sloshed on the other side of the table. They raised their glasses in the air.
“To all the men in gray,” Beau said, “wherever they may be. May the good Lord protect them and keep them, because they were all brave hearts.”
They touched glasses, and Stone drained his every drop. He lowered his glass to the table and looked at the jug. Now that he’d had one drink, another wouldn’t hurt. It’d help the dinner go down easier. Tomorrow he could stop drinking.
He reached for the glass again.
Stone lay sprawled in drunken slumber on the sofa in the living room, wheezing through his nostrils. The blanket had fallen off him and his feet hung over the floor, because his body was too long for the sofa. The window was open and the fragrance of the sage blew over him.
He heard a sound, and his mind stirred. Footsteps approached, and he opened one eye.
It was Veronica, wearing a long white nightgown, approaching with one finger in front of her lips. “Sssshhhhh,” she said. “It’s me.”
Stone sat up on the sofa and rubbed his eyes. She dropped down next to him and turned in his direction.
“I was quiet,” she said. “Daddy would spank me if he knew I was here, Ashley. But I couldn’t stay away.”
The cosmetics were gone from her face, and in the darkness she looked as she’d been before the war.
“I’m not Ashley,” he said hoarsely.
She touched his cheek. “Oh, Ashley, you’re always playing with me. Sometimes I think you don’t love me anymore. You do still love me, don’t you?”
“I’m John Stone.”
“If you think you’re being funny, you’re wrong. Hold me in your arms, Ashley. I want to feel your body against mine.”
She reached toward him, and he held her wrists. “Wake up, Veronica. Snap out of it.”
“I think you’re being just horrid to toy with me this way when you know how much I love you, Ashley. Haven’t I already proved to you how much I love you?”
They heard Beau’s voice in the doorway. “Go to bed, Veronica.”
An expression of alarm came over her face. “Beau—what are you doing here!”
Beau took her arm and gently raised her from the sofa. “Come to bed, dear.”
He led her to her bedroom, disappearing into the darkness. Stone rolled himself a cigarette in the darkness and lit it. After a brief interval, Beau came out of the bedroom and closed the door softly.
“Can I have a word with you in the kitchen, Johnny?”
Stone pulled on his boots and followed Beau into the kitchen. Beau lit the lamp on the table and reached for the jug.
“Have a seat.”
Stone dropped onto a chair and puffed his cigarette. Beau poured two glasses of whiskey and pushed one toward Stone.
“I appreciate what you just did, Johnny. Another man would’ve taken advantage of her, but not you. You’re still a man of honor—I can see that now. I could trust you with my sister or anything else that was dear to me, and know you’d do the right thing. Times change and people get older, but it’s nice to know some things remain the same.” Beau sipped his whiskey, looked into the glass, then raised his eyes to Stone. “We’ll probably never see each other again, Johnny, and I’d like to tell you something. I know what you think of me, and sometimes, to tell you the truth, I don’t know what to think of myself.
“Many a night I’ve sat here, looking out over that valley, and I’ve said to myself: What happened to glory, what happened to honor, how in hell did I end up here? You think I haven’t had doubts? Sure I have. I’ve said to myself: Beau Talbott, you’re the lowest of the low, you’re the scum of the earth, the kind of man who belongs behind bars. And I think of my father, if he could look down and see me, he’d say to himself, that’s no son of mine.”
Stone looked at Beau, and the features of Beau’s face were uneven, as if they were falling apart. “Don’t be too hard on yourself, Beau,” he said softly. “I know things didn’t turn out the way we wanted. The sun beats down—it burns all of us. I’ve had my thoughts too. Do you think I wanted to lose the war? Do you think I like riding around alone, drifting from here to there, always broke, nobody cares about me, and all the men I commanded are wandering around just like me, all of us with nothing, while the goddamned politicians who sent us to war are richer than ever—you think I like that? Why couldn’t the glory have been ours, Beau? Why couldn’t it have been? Many times I’ve dreamed and seen us with the flag of victory waving over us, and sometimes I think I’ll make my own little victory any way I have to, any way I can. I’ve thought of robbing stagecoaches myself, and a bank, and a whole lot more, but I didn’t do it, and God only knows why.”
Beau laughed bitterly. “So here we are,” he said, “a couple of southern gentlemen hiding from the world. Johnny, it’s hard to believe. But you know, I can’t change now. I’ve gone too far into blood to change. I’ve waded all the way in, and I’m going clear through to the other side. And I guess it doesn’t matter how much blood I wade in, because that’s how the cards turned up for me, you understand that. I can’t let anything get in my way. Nor anyone.”
“I understand,” said John Stone. “I understand better than you think.”
‘Thanks for that, Johnny. Let me drink to your health one last time. May you find whatever you’re looking for, and may the good Lord bless and keep you.”
They touched glasses and drank. Stone felt the burning liquid glide over his tongue and down his throat. He refilled the glasses.
“Let me drink to you, Beau. May the good Lord give you peace.”
They touched glasses again. Beau pushed his empty glass forward and banged the cork into the jug with the heel of his hand.
“I imagine you’ll want to leave early,” Beau said. “I’ve picked out a good horse for you, and given orders that it be saddled and ready at dawn. You’ll have a canteen and provisions in the saddlebags. If you maintain a steady pace, you should be in Clarksdale by midnight. I probably won’t be awake when you get up, so I guess this is it.”
Both men stood and moved toward each other. They shook hands firmly, looking into each other’s eyes.
“I wish you could see your way to riding with us, Johnny.” Beau cocked his head to one side and said thoughtfully: “We’re made differently, I guess. Probably always were, only we never realized it till now. Well, happy trails to you. Maybe we’ll meet again someday in the other world.”
Beau released Stone’s hand and blew out the lamp, plunging the room into darkness. He turned and walked away, closing the door behind him. Stone stared at the door for a few minutes, then arose and trudged to the sofa, dropping down, lying with his eyes open for a while, staring at the ceiling.
And the flaming sword of Orion shone over the two officers huddled in their hideout in the night, and over how many more like them scattered like tumbleweed to the winds, lost and desperate, while the cold stars twinkled down from far, far off. The gods smile, and young men die.
It was dark in Ewell’s cabin as he put on his hat. He threw the saddlebags over his shoulder and walked out the door.
The sky was aglow with stars, and the valley stretched out before him. He knew there’d be a guard at the entrance to the valley, but Ewell came and went all the time, and nobody ever stopped him.
He walked toward the stable, the saddlebags over his shoulder. He intended to ride hard and reach Clarksdale by noon. He knew the shortcuts and if his horse got tired, he’d steal another one.
He entered the stable and found his horse, a grulla. “Hello, Dan,” he said. “We’re goin’ for a little ride, and we ain’t never comin’ back.”
He threw the blanket on the horse, then placed the saddle atop it. Soon he’d be free, with no one to tell him what to say or do again, and people would treat him with respect for a change.
He climbed onto the horse and rode out of the barn, heading toward the waterfall. He never once looked back at his home as the horse paced across the valley. He thought of the girls at the Crystal Palace, and smiled. Tomorrow he’d spend the night with one of them, instead of with a bunch of brutish old war veterans and his crazy sister.
He saw the guard on the cliff, waved to him, and entered the tunnel.
The roaring and hissing of the waterfall struck his ears, and moisture from the ceiling of the cave dripped onto his hat. The waterfall came closer and the grulla shied back a bit, but Ewell gave him the spurs, and the horse advanced into the rushing wall of water.
The waterfall poured onto Ewell, drenching him to his skin and running down his legs into his boots. He held on to his hat, and the horse continued walking. They came out the other side and heard a new sound, the trickling of Rattlesnake River.
Nobody ‘d ever better lay a hand on me again, Ewell thought as he recalled how Beau had slapped him in front of the men. I’ll kill anybody who tries.
Ewell spat some water out of his mouth as the horse walked downstream, heading toward Clarksdale.