BREED HUNKERED DOWN on the flat terrace fronting an adobe halfway up the cliff. A small fire blackened the sun-washed stone at his feet, the embers surmounted by the carcass of a prairie chicken set on a wooden spit. From time to time he prodded the roasting bird with the point of the Bowie knife, watching the juices spurt out and sputter in the fire. After a while, he lifted the bird away from the flames and began to carve chunks of meat from the breast.
He ate most of the bird, then wrapped what was left in leaves and carried it back into the adobe. The building was cool and very quiet. It had about it the calm distance of time, a stillness like the tranquillity of an old church, as though the ages had permeated the rock to leave an aura of peace. The door was low, framed by pieces of wind-weathered timber that had been set into the original masking of brick and plaster, flanked on one side by a rectangular window. It opened on a single room that ran back into the natural facing of the cliff so that a kind of arch divided the room in two. Beyond the arch, it went back for about twelve feet before another opening presented itself. Beyond this, there was a second room-really a cave, with a platform carved from the rock where a bed might be made, and stone shelves cut into the walls. Most of the adobes were built exactly the same, though some were slightly larger, some smaller. All were empty, scoured over the years of whatever detritus the original inhabitants might have left behind.
Old Sees-The-Fox had shown Breed the place years before, pointing it out as a good hiding place; a refuge.
They had been chasing a bunch of Comanches who had crossed into Apache territory on a horse-stealing raid. The attackers had driven off close on fifteen head of Chiricahua ponies from a rancheria linked to Azul’s by ties of blood and marriage. The chief – a warrior called Dancing Pony had asked for help, and Sees-The-Fox had chosen Azul and four other young men to go with him. They had trailed the Comanches for nine days, the hunt culminating in a running fight that left two Chiricahua wounded and six of the horse thieves dead. Returning towards Apacheria, they had rested up inside the canyon.
I do not know who built these houses, old Sees-The-Fox had said. My father showed them to me when I was a boy, younger than you. They are very old, maybe from the time before even the Spanish came. Not many people dare come here now because they think there are ghosts here. Maybe they are right, but I think that if there are ghosts, they are Apache ghosts, and look friendly on us. Whatever, it is a good place to hide. If you ever need to hide.
I’ll not hide, the young man had said, in his pride. Not from the Nemmenna or the pinda-lick-oyi. Not from anyone.
Sees-The-Fox had chuckled and answered: No one can see his path that far in front. There is nothing cowardly in hiding when you need to. Not if you need time before you go back to repay the debt that made you hide. Going back is the important thing, and waiting is not the same as running.
Breed understood that better now.
He set the remnants of the prairie chicken on a stone ledge and went back into the sunlight. He clambered down the worn steps of the terrace to the ground below, moving with relative ease: his bruises were fading, and the cracked ribs were knitting back together. He looked down the canyon to where the gray stallion was penned inside a makeshift corral of thorn and mesquite, close to the source of the stream. The big horse looked up as he approached, nickering a greeting and presenting its head for attention. He stroked the velvet muzzle and scratched at the ears. The horse pawed the ground, ducking its head: it was anxious to run, needing exercise.
It was close on two weeks since Luke Masters and his cronies had ambushed the half-breed, and the journey to the hidden canyon had taken around three days. Breed couldn’t be sure exactly how long; for most of the ride he had been barely conscious, doing little more than steer the horse in the right direction. Consequently the animal was getting restless.
He came to a fast decision. Ducking under the fence, he slung the saddle on the gray’s back and fixed the bridle in place. Then, holding the reins, he shouldered the barrier away and climbed into the saddle. The horse snorted once, and took off down the canyon at a rising gallop. Breed let it run, giving it its head until they reached the far end and he turned the reins, swinging the pony round to charge back down the length of the rough grass. The fluid motion of the animal simultaneously soothed and hurt him. The pounding hooves sent sparking memories of the beating up through his body, but the sheer joy of being back in the saddle overcame the pain. He rode for almost an hour, criss-crossing the canyon until the sun was fading behind the western rimrock and the bottom was in shadow.
When he dismounted and led the horse back into the corral, he was aching. He turned the animal loose to roll on the grass and went over to the stream, stripping off his clothes. His ribs and belly were still discolored, the bruises yellowing into a striated pattern of color that spread across his midriff and sides like a mosaic. Where the boots had stamped on his wrists, there were darker markings like purple-black bracelets. On the surface of the water, his reflection gave back an image of a face rendered ugly by the punches. The gash beneath his eye was healed to a thin red line that cut over the blackish-green of the fading swelling. His lips still looked unnaturally large, laced with a tracery of cuts, and the rest of his skin seemed darker than was normal.
He waded into the water and stretched full length, letting it flow over him, washing away the sweat and the aches. He stayed there until he began to shiver, then climbed out and rolled on the grass the same way the horse had done before standing up with his face turned towards the setting sun. Then he pulled on his clothes and ambled leisurely to where he had set traps.
Two rabbits were snared. He killed them swiftly with sharp chopping motions of his right hand, then took the bodies up to the adobe. He slit the bellies and scooped out the internal organs, saving the hearts and kidneys. Then he skinned the carcasses and put them inside. The hides and entrails he carried up to the highest level, clambering onto the roof of the topmost adobe and hurling the bloody remains up onto the rocks. In the morning the buzzards would come down and clear them away.
It was close on full dark in the canyon by the time he was finished, and he went over to the corral to light a small fire in front of the fence. It was unlikely that prowling coyotes would venture into the canyon now that it was freshly impregnated with man smell, but he was not prepared to risk losing the gray stallion. He banked the fire so that it would bum through the night, then returned to the adobe and built his own small pyre up to full life.
The sun was faded all the way down behind the rim-rock as he squatted with the remains of the prairie chicken in his hands and ate the last of the bird with wild onions and greens taken from what might once – a long, long time ago – have been a vegetable garden.
The moon rose, spreading a pale, cold light over the canyon. It shone on the face of the cliff opposite, shading the openings of the windows and doors of the adobes so that they resembled the blank sockets of bleached skulls. It was, he thought, a good place for ghosts. A very old, very lonely place. Not unfriendly: rather, a place for kindred spirits, a place where the shades of the first Apaches might still dwell.
And if he saw any ghosts in the shadows thrown by the twin fires, they belonged to his memory. To whitemen.
They belonged to Luke Masters.
And Fargo.
And Cotton.
And Jude.
And those kind of ghosts could be laid. Not easily, perhaps, for that would need time and careful planning. But bloodily. And finally.
He swallowed the last of the prairie chicken and went over to the bed of branches and grass spread along the terrace. He stretched out with his head resting on his saddle and the familiar bulk of the Winchester close to his lean body. For a while he stared up at the moon, thinking. Then he closed his eyes and went instantly asleep.
The thought that had been in his mind as he closed his eyes returned when he opened them on a high, bright day. It stayed in his mind as he cooked one of the rabbits and checked out the gray horse. It was still with him as he washed in the stream, and as he checked his traps for fresh game.
It was a thought that had not a single dimension, but many facets. If there was one single direction to it, that was that he would go back to Mattock to find Luke Masters and Fargo and Cotton and Jude.
That was the sure part. The definite part. As certain as knowing that when he opened his eyes the next morning the sun would be lighting the day.
There was no doubt about that.
The facts — the difficult part — was how.
He exercised himself and the stallion thinking about it. And gradually a pattern coalesced.
It was like planning a raid with the Chiricahua: the war-leaders and the shaman and the warriors seated about the council fire, exchanging views, arguing, putting up plans. Only this time – like so many times before — he was alone. So all the arguments, all the proposals and counter proposals, came from the facets of his own mind.
Luke Masters was the son of Jonas Masters, who owned the Box M ranch. And that meant they owned Mattock—meant that people in Mattock did what the Masters told them. Like Luke had said: they made the rules.
Fargo and Cotton and Jude were Box M hands. But closer to Luke than to his father.
Con Taggart didn’t seem to like Luke much, but he wasn’t prepared to chance his job bucking the rancher’s son.
So: riding straight into Mattock was inviting a fresh run-in with the sheriff. Maybe a spell in jail. Maybe a hanging, or a shooting.
So: the thing was to get Luke and the others alone. Somewhere-or somehow-the four-on-one equation got cancelled out.
The problem was how.
He slept on it, and came up with the answer in the morning. At least it was a kind of answer, or maybe the first step towards an answer. He decided that he needed first to scout his killing ground, to assess the numbers and the position. To check the ground before moving in.
And soon: while the cold fury still burned inside him.
He saddled the gray after eating the last of the rabbit, then rode out through the maze of ravines and dry washes that marked the eastern edge of the mountain. He moved at a steady pace, hoarding the stallion’s energy in case it was needed for a fast escape. Or a swift attack. He had no clear idea how far the boundaries of the Box M extended, but from what he had heard in Mattock it was a big spread, and he was wary of running into cowhands who might share their bosses’ hatred of half-breeds.
He met no one that day, though the next he saw three riders a long way off. On the third day, around midmorning, he came in sight of Mattock.
He skirted round the town, moving south and east in the direction of the Masters’ ranch. It took most of the day before he found clear identification of his destination in the form of a post set up beside a rutted track. The post was set high enough that a man on horseback could read the words burned into the board at the top: Box M Ranch. No Trespassers. He turned away from the track into a stand of cottonwoods and began to ride parallel to the trail.
The ranch was built on a low knoll that occupied the center of a shallow depression. Rolling hummocks of scrubby grassland swung in a circle about the knoll, wooded in places with stands of low, wind-torn cottonwood, but mostly dotted with cholla and saguaro. The knoll was covered with thicker grass, patterned with fences that formed a series of stock pens in which beefy seed bulls or prime breeding heifers cropped placidly. Partway up there was a fence running round the entire circumference, the in-going trail passing through a big gate with the Box M brand set large on a slab of timber hung from chains.
The ranch building itself was a low adobe structure with a second level of wood. There was a balcony running round all four sides, commanding an uninterrupted view of the land. Separate from the main house there was a bunkhouse, then a smithy and a sprawl of sheds that he guessed held tack and fodder. There was a stable close to the main building, and barn the that held wagons.
There was a man at the gate, carrying a Winchester carbine. And two more on the balcony, pacing round the building with their eyes scanning the surrounding country.
Breed watched the place until darkness settled without spotting Luke or any of the others, then turned back towards Mattock.
It was full dark by the time he reached the town, lights shining like beacons over the flatlands. There was the faint sound of a jangling piano, and the louder shouting of men, occasionally broken by the laughter of women. The moon was waned now, shaded down to a thin sliver of silvery light so that the land was shrouded in darkness. He rode in close before dismounting and leaving the gray hitched to a big saguaro that overhung a shallow draw a few hundred yards from the outskirts.
He paused, thinking about the best way to find Luke Masters.
A few moments later he was drifting into the place like a prowling cat: unseen and silent, slipping through the shadows with no more sound than a faint rustling to mark his passage.
He came to the rear of the hotel and sidled down the flanking alley. There was a window opening into the tiny office behind the reception desk, pale yellow light making the shadows in the alley darker as it shone out against the facing wall. Breed eased silently onto the boardwalk and peered in. The office was empty, a deep, cloth-covered chair shoved back from a small desk with a coffee pot, a mug, and a half-finished bottle of whiskey on the surface alongside a dog-eared book. The window was open. He lifted himself over the sill.
The office smelt faintly musty. There were shelves on one wall, supporting dusty ledgers, and a big safe in the comer. The outer door was slightly ajar, letting in a murmur of voices. Breed flattened against the wall, waiting.
The door swung open and the clerk came in. He was wearing the same striped pants and vest, but his shirt was white, and now the tie was fastened under his collar with a gold stickpin. The bruising under his eye was mostly gone, helped by a whitish powdering that might have been just flour. He paused with his back to Breed and tilted the whiskey bottle over the mug. Lifted the mug to his mouth.
Breed waited until he had swallowed the liquor and sighed, then cupped his left hand over the clerk’s mouth as his right pressed the muzzle of the Colt’s Frontier against the man’s cheek.
The clerk gasped and froze, his body going rigid.
‘Don’t make any noise.’ Breed’s voice was soft. ‘There’s no need to get hurt.’
The triple click of the hammer going back emphasized his words. The clerk grunted something that sounded like Urmph and might have been Yeah. Breed lowered his left hand. Reached for the bottle with the Colt still tight against the clerk’s face, and refilled the mug.
‘Sit down,’ he murmured. ‘Have a drink.’
He pushed the clerk away, letting the man see the pistol. The clerk stared at it, his eyes seemingly connected to the muzzle by some invisible thread of concentration. He sat down. He picked up the mug. Drank. ‘The bell still work?’ Breed asked.
The clerk nodded and the tall man with the discolored face eased the door almost shut.
‘Have a drink,’ he repeated.
The clerk emptied the mug in one long gulp.
‘What’s your name?’ Breed asked.
‘Levi Brown.’ The words came out in a rush almost as fast as the paling of the clerk’s face. ‘Who’re you?’
Breed stepped closer to the desk, so that the light from the kerosene lantern shone on his face.
‘Christ!’ said the clerk. ‘You!’
‘Yeah,’ said Breed. ‘Luke Masters caught up with me.’
The clerk touched his own face. His fingers came away with a faint dusting of white powder covering the tips. He reached for the whiskey bottle and poured himself a measure.
‘Bastard!’
‘Him?’ asked Breed, quietly. ‘Or me?’
Levi Brown swallowed whiskey and said, ‘You was ready to pay for the room. Luke’s men beat me.’
‘Fargo?’ asked Breed. ‘With Jude and Cotton?’
Brown nodded: ‘Damn’ right. Bastards!’
He poured more whiskey and held the mug towards Breed. The blond-haired man shook his head. Brown shrugged and emptied most of it.
‘Why’d you come back?’ he asked. ‘They been boastin’ how they run you out. They find you, they’ll kill you.’
Breed smiled: ‘Maybe. Maybe not.’
Comprehension dawned on Levi Brown and his eyes got wide as his mouth gaped open.
‘You come back for them,’ he gasped. Didn’t you?’
‘Where would I find him?’ asked Breed. ‘Him and them?’
Brown’s amazement got lost behind a smile. He poured more whiskey. Took a sip this time, and said: ‘Fargo an’ the others will be in the saloon, or Annie’s whorehouse. Luke’ll be either in the saloon, or down to Caleb’s.’
‘Where’s that?’ Breed demanded. ‘Who’s Caleb?’
Brown chuckled. ‘Oh, Jesus! this is rich. Ain’t no one ever come back to pay that bastard off.’
‘Where?’ Breed repeated.
‘Caleb’s?’ said the clerk. ‘The hardware store. They got a place behind. Caleb and Sarah.’
Breed remembered the fair-haired girl who had smiled at him and told Luke Masters not to make trouble.
‘Caleb Black,’ said the clerk. ‘He owns the hardware store. Runs it with Sarah. She’s his daughter. Caleb’ll be in the saloon now. Celebratin’, I guess.’
Breed eased the hammer of the Colt down and holstered the gun. Levi Brown was radiating a feeling of hate that was almost physically tangible when he spoke of Luke Masters: the half-breed got the feeling he could trust the clerk not to give him away.
‘Why?’ he asked.
‘You seen Sarah?’ Brown grinned lasciviously. ‘Best lookin’ woman in the territory. Best I seen in three years. An’ not married. Not even given herself, though enough tried.’
He paused, chuckling. Breed lifted the bottle and poured more whiskey. Levi Brown raised the mug – still chuckling – and drank some more.
‘Caleb Black is about the only man who ain’t sold out to old Jonas Masters,’ he said. ‘He’s kept that goddam store runnin’ from when all he had was a wagon loaded up with hardware. His wife got killed when a bunch of Yankees raided down during the War, an’ after that he raised Sarah on his own. He won’t sell out to Jonas, an’ Jonas needs his goods. Luke needs Sarah the same way, only she ain’t exactly selling.’
He drank more whiskey and burst into a fresh set of husky chuckles.
‘Luke fancies Sarah the same way a bronco stallion fancies a mare. The bastard’s on heat for her. Trouble is, Sarah don’t fancy him the same way. Word has it, she favors Con Taggart.’
‘The sheriff,’ said Breed. ‘That right?’
‘Yeah,’ said Levi Brown. ‘Poor Con’s caught like a fish on two hooks. He wants Sarah an’ he wants his job. He knows that if he gets Sarah, he loses his office, on account of Luke will put a word to his poppa an’ get Con turned down come the October elections. So Sarah’s been playing them off, one against the other. Jonas wants the marriage, because that way he buys into the hardware business an’ ends up owning all of Mattock.
‘If Sarah marries Con, then Jonas is gonna drive him out the same way Luke got rid of you. If she picks Luke, then Con’s gonna be real mad.’
He chuckled some more and swallowed the last of the whiskey.
‘Feller,’ he said, ‘you might just decide them. Finally.’
‘When I know where they are,’ said Breed. ‘When I know you’ll keep your mouth shut.’
Levi Brown went on chuckling. ‘The house is back of the store, like I said. Chances are Luke will be there right now. Hell! he spent most of today announcing his intentions. An’ don’t worry about me.’ He touched his face again. ‘I got reason enough to want Luke dead. I ain’t about to give you away.’
‘No,’ said Breed. ‘Not for two reasons.’
‘Two?’ Levi Brown shrugged and frowned. ‘How come two?’
‘If I get caught,’ said Breed, his mouth curving in a wintery smile, ‘I’ll say who sent me. If anyone tries to catch me, I’ll come back and kill you.’
The clerk went pale again as the laughter quit his face.
‘I ain’t gonna tell no one,’ he said. ‘I swear it. Jesus! I got no quarrel with you. Just with Luke, for what he had done to me.’
‘Remember that,’ Breed said softly. ‘Remember I’ll come back for you if I have to.’
Levi Brown went on nodding long after the half-breed was gone through the window and lost in the shadows of the alley.
He sat there staring at the empty whiskey bottle and touching his blackened eye until a guest rang the punch-bell on the outer desk and he went out to find the room key.
The guest was a drummer selling imported whiskey to saloons in the major western towns. It got sold as pure Scotch, but the drummer and the people who ran the saloons knew that it was merely laced with a measure – a small measure – of the real thing. The rest was a mixture of the cheapest liquor available that might approximate a taste of the original product. Most of it was made up and bottled in New Orleans, where fancy labels were stuck onto the bottles. After that, it got shipped out to any place the drummer could find to buy it. Mattock was one stop on a long hook from Baton Rouge to San Francisco.
The drummer’s name was Hamish McCartney. He was genuinely Scottish, and when he saw Levi Brown’s face he said, ‘Man, you look like you need a drink.’
Brown nodded, and McCartney opened his bag to produce the real product of Scotland.
Brown swallowed two measures from the silver cup McCartney offered him, and then refused the answers to the drummer’s questions.
That was the night that became known as ‘The Murder.’
Years after, Hamish McCartney was still telling stories about the shooting, and how he knew the participants. The stories sold whiskey very well.
Levi Brown wrote a book about it. It exaggerated the facts and obscured the reasons so that only a cloudy picture of the truth emerged. Levi made a lot of money out of the book, but at least it took the story farther on than the account of the Scottish whiskey peddler. And it made Levi a lot of money; enough that he could quit clerking and live off the proceeds. Until he drank himself to death in a beat-up Missouri hotel.
What he told didn’t necessarily relate to the truth, because he wasn’t there when it happened.
Breed was, but he didn’t make anything out of it at all.