"The night's gettin' on," he said. "You
be all right if I traipse into town?"
"
You know it," Teal Eye told him. "We
call Lije. We have the scattergun and the musket, so all right. Be
all right, too."
He picked up his rifle and started down the hill. A
horse would get him there sooner, but he'd arrive soon enough. No one
would tackle Hig while he played to a crowd.
The smell of the place reached him before he came to
it. This was what men did, what bunches of men did — tear up and
stink up a location and foul the water and leave the land A wrecked
when the gold ran out, leave the land torn and the water nasty until
maybe at last God got around to mending things. No guarantee that he
would.
The sounds of the voice and the fiddle floated
through the open door of the saloon. Higgins was playing and singing
some jig tune to the thumps of boots and whiskey yells. Summers poked
his head inside. Men were dancing, alone and together, some with the
scatter of whores who tried not to look too old for the business.
Higgins had a little platform for himself.
Summers pulled his head back and snorted the stink
out. The place smelled of beer, whiskey, dirt and sweat. Nice place
for a picnic. The street, up and down, was deserted. Now was the time
to drown the work of the day in a jug.
The music stopped, and hands clapped, and yells
called for more.
Summers heard Higgins call out, "Ladies and
gents, time to cool off and get your breath back. Soothin' music it
is now."
Out of his long-ago boyhood Summers remembered
snatches of song. "Pretty Saro" was one, heard again over
the gap of years. The crowd was silent except for one drunken voice.
There was the sound of fist against flesh, and the voice died. There
was another song and another, and yes, now there was "Barbara
Allen." After each came hand clapping, boot stomping and shouts
for still more. Then Higgins played what Summers knew was his own
song.
To me my ma weren't a lady.
To
me she was only plain Ma
Who cooked the grits
and the hog meat
For me and a man known as
Pa.
He wasn't my pa, I can tell you.
He
caught Ma when she was lone
And made out for
sure that he loved her
And then called our
house his own.
I hated his lights and his liver.
I
hated him kernel and shell,
And I prayed the
devil to take him
Down to the furnace of
hell.
Then he met a slim filly named Lily
Who nobody ever called shy,
And
took off with her for the city
And left us to
root hog or die.
We made out, we made out, me and Ma did,
Thanks to her grit and her head.
Looking
back, I cry in my whiskers,
Wishing that Ma
wasn't dead.
Ma, oh, Ma, can you hear me?
Your
touch was so gentle and strong,
I know now
that you was a lady,
But why did it take me
so long?
There was silence when the song ended and then a
sudden blast of hands, voices, stomping feet. In answer to it Higgins
I played the last verse again and then again the last line, adding to
it and putting in more throb.
But why did it take me so long, so long?
Oh, why did it take me so long?
His voice sounded above the other noises. "Ladies
and gents, I thank you kindly. Now I'm sung out."
Summers waited, knowing that Higgins would sit there
until the men had had a chance to sweeten the cup. Then he would
empty the cup into his poke and come out.
He looked up and down the street again. Now was a
likely time, and after a while, sure enough, two men came from in
back of a building. He eased himself into the shadows between two
shops. Higgins walked through the doorway and started down the road,
his fiddle in one hand, his poke swinging from its thong in the
other. The two men came close on his heels. Summers sneaked up from
behind.
One of the men said, "Turn around. Got a gun on
you. Hand over that poke."
"
Oh, don't hurt me," Higgins whined,
turning. "Here's the poke." He swung it as he turned. It
caught the man over the temple. The man staggered and went down.
Hands apart on his Hawken, Summers swung it over the other man's head
and pulled the man to him. A squeak came out of the choked throat.
The man was small. He kicked like a held rabbit.
"
Get their pokes," Summers said.
Higgins collected them. "Not one hell of a lot
in 'em."
"
The pistol."
Higgins lifted it from where it had fallen. "It's
no more'n a toy. One shot if it fired at all." He tossed it into
the street.
Summers let the little man drop. The man squirmed and
tried to get up. Summers gave his head a good-night lick with the
barrel of his rifle. The other man hadn't moved. Men had begun to
come from the Here's Howdy.
"
Time to make tracks," Summers said.
Once free of the town, Higgins told him, "You
was right, Dick, me wrong. I reckon you could say I was what they
call purse-proud."
They walked up the hill, into the starlight and
silence, into the good air, and then a voice reached them, singing.
They halted and went on, and the voice came to them clearer. They
halted again.
"
Nocansee singin'," Higgins said.
The warm of the sun,
The
wet of the rain,
I sit and I hear
That the prairie is wide.
"
It's mostly his, but for the tune,"
Higgins said. "He sings better'n me."
"
Shut up, Hig."
The feel of the wind
And
the stir of the grass,
These things I know
And the prairie is wide.
The voice sounded clear and flowing as spring water,
Summers thought, clear and flowing and sorrowful.
The buffalo bawlin',
The
smell of meat cookin',
I sit and I hear
That the prairie is wide.
"
Pity he don't sing more," Higgins said.
"
Would you? Tell me that."
"
Whoa up, Dick. What's rilin' you?"
Summers felt rage in him, and such a pity as would
melt a man. "Would you in his fix? Makes a man want to goddamn
God. He never had a chance, not one fuckin' chance."
31
GETS TIRESOME, just rustin' here," Higgins said.
"I done smoked my throat raw."
"
Hang to it," Summers told him.
"
I'm hangin' all right, but not spooky. Who
cares about them two measly bastards we banged on the head? Only
about two nights' singin' in their pokes."
The sun had passed from straight overhead, burning as
it lowered toward the hills. The women made out to be busy. Lije was
coming back from watering the horses. Nocansee sat silent as if he
never had sung a word.
Summers called out to Lije, "Keep the horses
close in."
"
I swear, Dick- " Higgins said and didn't
say more.
"
I keep tellin' you, you can't trust 'em, not
the law in these diggin's. The butcher — Con, you know — he told
me private and secret, not as he was too sure. But seems like the
outlaws are the law. They don't want anyone hornin' in on their
thievin's."
"Why not leave now?"
"
As it is, they'd just foller."
"
Strikes me you're seein' things under the bed."
"
Maybe so."
Grasshoppers jumped and crawled along stems. A big
one flew out in front of Lije's horses, making a buzz like a
rattlesnake. High overhead two birds soared, looking down, Summers
knew, with eyes that could make out a mouse. The women talked back
and forth, now and then laughing. The sun lowered itself, inch by
inch, and gave up some of its fire.
It was then that Summers saw the man. He pointed
toward him, saying nothing.
On a prancing horse, to the jangle of spurs, the man
rode to them. He had on a clean jacket and a clean shirt and a
glinting star. His boots were new. "Got some business with you
boys," he said. "I'm Stimson, deputy sheriff. I know your
names."
Summers and Higgins got to their feet. Stimson stayed
on his horse. He had a six-shoot Colt at his belt.
Higgins said, making out to be meek, "Pleased to
meet you."
The women stood at the tepees, watching.
"
That's nice," Stimson said. "Now it
appears that you two beat up on a couple of our worthy citizens last
night."
"
Worthy?" Higgins asked. "Lord help
us." Step by careful step he was working his way to one side of
the horse, opposite Summers.
Stimson laughed a rich laugh. "Don't get me
wrong. We don't make much of a scuffle. Boys will be boys."
"
That's good to hear," Summers said.
"
But robbery now, that's a different matter. I
came for the pokes you took. just hand them over, and there'll be no
charges against you."
"
You see any pokes, Dick?"
"
Nary a one."
Stimson smiled, just biding his time. He had a full,
confident face with whiskey burn in it.
"
We shall see what we shall see. Another little
thing, men. The community has laws and licenses. There's a fee of
twenty-five percent for wild animals brought in for sale. And an
entertainer's license comes to twenty dollars a night. Sorry, gents,
but you haven't paid."
Summers asked, "Who makes these laws?"
"
They're mining camp laws. The sheriff enforces
them with the help of his deputies."
"
Who's the sheriff?"
"
Henry Plummer, though that's not your concern."
"
And him and you keep the money, that's if you
tell him your takin's. We ain't of a mind to fork over."
Stimson touched the butt of his Colt. "I'm not
here for trouble, but if you want it you'll get it. Hear me, dad?"
From the other side of the horse Higgins let his
voice out in a screech. "Who you callin' dad? He's a better man
than you'll ever be, you pus-gutted son of a bitch."
Stimson turned toward him. Summers grabbed Stimson by
the arm, yanked him from the horse and thumped him on the ground. The
pistol flew from the holster. Like a monkey Higgins ran in front of
the plunging horse and gathered it up.
Nocansee had got out of the way.
"
Now," Higgins said mildly, "shall we
go ahead with our talk?"
Stimson sat on his butt in the dust. "You'll pay
for this. By God you'll pay. Wait till the sheriff hears."
Summers let a smile come to his face. "That's
just what we'll do. Wait. You and us both." He called out to the
women,
"
Break camp."
Lije came running up, his eyes wide. They took in
what there was to see. "Don't need no help, I see." He
sounded disappointed.
"
We do, though," Summers said. "Bring
the horses back, son. We're takin' off."
He turned to Higgins, who was holding the Colt steady
on Stimson. "Keep it lined up while I get his poke." Then,
"Lordamercy, it's right heavy."
"
You dumb bastards." Stimson was still
sitting in the dust.
"
Now, Hig, I reckon that bob-tailed shootin'
iron will fire, but it's shy on reach. I'll get my rifle. Happen he
makes a run for it, I can shoot his lights out, fur as I can see
him."
"
You're making one goddamn big mistake,"
Stimson told them.
"
Looks to me like you made the mistake,"
Summers answered.
"
Tryin' to rob two innocent citizens. Ain't
there a law against that?"
"
We'll forget the law. Keep the Colt, you
jugheads. Give me my poke and my horse, and we'll call it even."
Higgins said, "Plumb reasonable, ain't he,
Dick?"
"
We'll let him go all right."
Lije had brought up the horses. The tepees were
coming down. Nocansee held a nervous horse while Lije packed it.
"
Hig, get a piece of rope, will you? We aim to
see Mr. Stimson don't fall off his horse. Get some for his hands,
too. He won't be usin' reins. First, though, fetch his horse. I'll
keep him covered."
"
They hang people for this," Stimson said.
"
Sure do. Now get up and get on that horse, else
I'll shoot you or club you with this here iron. That's the stuff.
Now, Hig, tie his feet tight under the horse. Hands come next. We
don't want no accidents and have to shoot the law."
The camp was clean. Horses packed. Horses saddled.
Only the ashes of old fires left. Summers put a halter on Stimson's
horse, saying, "I'll lead him, Hig." They were used to this
way of travel. Horses for the two women, a horse for Nocansee with
Lije leading on another, pack horses to be led by one rider or
another, one travois that they might have to drop. Higgins swung into
his saddle and called out, "Hi-yi."