Law Of the Desert Born (Ss) (1984) (17 page)

The man knew so well the rules of the game. He was coming as he should come, and there was something about him-an edged quality, a poised and alert strength.

No sound penetrated the clear globe of stillness. The warm air hung still, with even the wind poised, arrested by the drama in the street. Matt Sabre felt a slow trickle of sweat start from under his hatband. He walked carefully, putting each foot down with care and distinction of purpose. It was Tony Sikes who stopped first, some sixty yards away.

-Well, Matt, here it is. We both knew it was coming.
"Sure.
Matt paused, too, feet wide apart, hands swinging wide.
You tied up with the wrong outfit, Sikes.
We'd have met, anyway,
Sikes looked along the street at the tall man standing there, looked and saw his bronzed face, hard and ready. It was not in Sikes to feel fear of a man with guns. Yet this was how he would die. It was in the cards. He smiled suddenly. Yes, he would die by the gun-but not now.
His hands stirred, and as if their movement was a signal to his muscles, they flashed in a draw. Before him, the dark, tall figure flashed suddenly. It was n
o
more than that, a blur of movement and a lifted gun, a movement suddenly stilled, and the black sullen muzzle of a six-gun that steadied on him even as he cleared his gun from his open top holster.

He had been beaten-beaten to the draw.

The shock of it triggered Sikes's gun, and he knew
even as the gun bucked in his hand that he had missed, and then suddenly, Matt Sabre was running! Running toward him, gun lifted, but not firing!

In a panic, Sikes saw the distance closing and he fired as fast as he could pull the trigger, three times in a thundering cascade of sound. And even as the hammer fell for the fourth shot, he heard another gun bellow. But where? There had been no stab of flame from Sabre's gun. Sabre was running, a rapidly moving target, and Sikes had fired too fast, upset by the sudden rush, by the panic of realizing he had been beaten to the draw.

He lifted his right-hand gun, dropped the muzzle in a careful arc, and saw Sabre's skull over the barrel. Then Sabre skidded to a halt, and his gun hammered bullets. Flame leaped from the muzzle, stabbing at Sikes, burning him along the side, making his body twitch and the bullet go wild. He switched guns, and then something slugged him in the wind, and the next he knew, he was on the ground.

Matt Sabre had heard that strange shot, but that was another thing. He could not wait now; he could not turn his attention. He saw Sikes go down, but only to his knees, and the gunman had five bullets and the range now was only fifteen yards.

Sikes's gun swung up, and Matt fired again. Sikes lunged to his feet, and then his features writhed with agony and breathlessness, and he went down, hard to the ground, twisting in the dust.

Then another bullet bellowed, and a shot kicked up dust at his feet. Matt swung him gun and blasted at a
n
open window, then started for the saloon door. He stopped, hearing a loud cry behind him.

"Matt! Sabre?"

It was Sikes, his eyes flared wide. Sabre hesitated, glanced swiftly around, then dropped to his knees in the silent street.

"What is it, Tony? Anything I can do for you?" "Behind-behind-the desk---you-you--
His faltering voice faded; then strength seemed to flood back, and he looked up. "Good man! Too--too fast!"

And then he was dead, gone just like that, and Matt Sabre was striding into the Yellowjacket.

The upstairs room was empty; the stairs were empty; there was no one in sight. Only Hobbs stood behind the bar when he came down. Hobbs, his face set and pale.

Sabre looked at him, eyes steady and cold. "Who came down those stairs?"

Hobbs licked his lips. He choked, then whispered hoarsely. "Nobody-but there's--there's a back stairs.
Sabre wheeled and walked back in quick strides, thumbing shells into his gun. The office door was open, and Prince McCarran looked up as he framed himself in the do
. O
r.

He was writing, and the desk was rumpled with papers, the desk of a busy man. Nearby was a bottle and a full glass.

McCarran lay down his pen. "So? You beat him? I thought you might
.

"Did you?" Sabre's gaze was cold. If this man had been running, as he must have run, he gave no evidence of it now: "You should hire them faster, prince.
"Well--McCarran shrugged-"he was fast enough until now. But this wasn't my job, anyway. He. was workin' for Reed
.

Sabre took a step inside the door, away from the wall, keeping his hands free. His eyes were on those o
f
Prince McCarran, and the Prince watched him, alert, interested.

-That won't ride with me," Matt said.
Reed's a stooge, a perfect stooge. He'll be lucky if he comes back alive from this trip. A lot of that posse you sent out won't come back, either."

McCarran's eyelids tightened at the mention of the posse.
Forget it." He waved his hand.
Sit down and have a drink. After all, we're not fools, Sabre. We're govvn men, and we can talk. I never liked killing, anyway.''

-Unless you do it or have it done." Sabre's hands remained where they were.
What's the matter, Prince? Yellow? Afraid to do your own killin'?"

McCarran's face was still, and his eyes were wide now.
You shouldn't have said that. You shouldn't have called me yellow."

-Then get on your feet. I hate to shoot a sittin' man."
Have a drink and let's talk."

-Sure." Sabre was elaborately casual.
You have one, too." He reached his hand for the glass that had
. A
lready been poured, but McCarran's eyes were steady. Sabre switched his hand and grasped the other glass, and then, like a striking snake, Prince McCarran grasped his right hand and jerked him forward, off balance. At the same time, McCarran's left flashed back to the holster high on his left side, butt forward, and the gun jerked up and free. Matt Sabre, instead of trying to jerk his right hand free, let his weight go forward, following and hurling himself against McCarran. The chair went over with a crash, and Prince tried to straighten, but Matt was riding him back. He crashed into the wall, and Sabre broke free.

Prince swung his gun up, and Sabre's left palm slapped down, knocking the gun aside and gripping the hand across the thumb. His right hand came up under the gun barrel, twisting it back over and out of McCarran'
s
hands. Then he shoved him back and dropped the gun, slapping him across the mouth with his open palm.

It was a free swing, and it cracked like a pistol shot. McCarran's face went white from the blow, and he rushed, swinging, but Sabre brought up his knee in the charging man's groin. Then he smashed him in the face with his elbow, pushing him over and back. McCarran dove past him, blood streaming from his crushed nose, and grabbed wildly at the papers. His hand came up with a bulldog .41.

Matt saw the hand shoot for the papers, and even as the .41 appeared, his own gun was lifting. He fired first, three times, at a range of four feet.

Prince McCarran stiffened, lifted to his tiptoes, then plunged over on his face and lay still among the litter of papers and broken glass.

Sabre swayed drunkenly. He recalled what Sikes had said about the desk. He caught the edge and jerked it aside, swinging the desk away from the wall. Behind it was a small panel with a knob. It was locked, but a bullet smashed the lock. He jerked it open. A thick wad of bills, a small sack of gold coins, a sheaf of papers. A glance sufficed. These were the papers Simpson had mentioned. The thick parchment of the original grant, the information on the conflicting Sonoma grant, and then . . . He glanced swiftly through them, then, at a pound of horses' hoofs, he stuffed them inside his shirt. He stopped, stared. His shirt was soaked with blood.

Fumbling, he got the papers into his pocket, then stared down at himself. Sikes had hit him. Funny, he had never felt it. Only a shock, a numbness. Now Reed was coming back.

Catching up a sawed-off express shotgun, he started for the door, weaving like a drunken man. He never even got to the door.

***

The sound of galloping horses was all he could hear-galloping horses, and then a faint smell of something that reminded him of a time he had been wounded in North Africa. His eyes flickered open, and the first thing he saw was a room's wall with the picture of a man with muttonchop whiskers and spectacles.

He turned his head and saw Jenny Curtin watching him.
So? You've decided to wake up. You're getting lazy, Matt. Mr. Sabre. On the ranch you always were the first one up."

He stared at her. She had never looked half so charming, and that was bad. It was bad because it was time to be out of here and on a horse.

-How long have I been here?"

-Only about a day and a half. You lost a lot of blood." "What happened at the ranch? Did Keys get there in time?"

-Yes, and I stayed. The others left right away."

-You stayed?"

-The others," she said quietly,
went down the road about two miles. There was Camp Gordon, Tom Judson, Pepito, and Keys. And Rado, of course. They went down the road while I stood out in the ranch yard and let them see me. The boys ambushed them."

-Was it much of a fight?"

-None at all. The surprise was so great that they broke and ran. Only three weren't able, and four were badly wounded."

-You found the papers? Including the one about McCarran sending the five thousand in marked bills to El Paso?"

-Yes," she said simply. "We found that. He planned on having Billy arrested and charged with theft. He planned that, and then if he got killed, so much the better. It was only you he didn't count on."

-No." Matt Sabre stared at his hands, strangely white now.
He didn't count on me."

So it was all over now. She had her ranch, she was
a
free woman, and people would leave her alone. There was only one thing left. He had to tell her. To tell her that he was the one who had killed her husband.

He turned his head on the pillow. "One thing more," he began. "I-"

"Not now. You need rest."

"Wait. I have to tell you this. It's about-about Billy." "You mean that you-you were the one who--?" "Yes, I--
He hesitated, reluctant at last to say it.

"I know. I know you did, Matt. I've known from the beginning, even without all the things you said."

"I talked when I was delirious?"

"A little. But I knew, Matt. Call it intuition, anything you like, but I knew. You see, you told me how his eyes were when he was drawing his gun. Who could have known that but the man who shot him?"

"I see.
His face was white. "Then I'd better rest. I've got some traveling to do."

She was standing beside him. "Traveling? Do you have to go on, Matt? From all you said last night, I thought-I thought--
her face flushed-"maybe you-didn't want to travel any more. Stay with us, Matt, if you want to. We would like to have you, and Billy's been asking for you. He wants to know where his spurs are.

After a while, he admitted carefully, "Well, I guess I should stay and see that he gets them. A fellow should always make good on his promises to kids, I reckon." "You'll stay then? You won't leave?"

Matt stared up at her. "I reckon," he said quietly, "I'll never leave unless you send me away."

She smiled and touched his hair. "Then you'll be here a long time, Mathurin Sabre--a very long time."

*

Author's
Note:

STEIN'S PASS

One night when I was not quite seventeen years old I was put off a freight train at Stein's Pass, New Mexico, high in the mountains near the Arizona/New Mexico border. I'd been at sea on a merchant ship and needed to save what money I had, so I caught a freight to the west. It was a miserably cold night, and when day broke and I saw some stirring of life, I walked from the depot over to the only lunch counter for coffee.

At the counter I started talking to an old cowboy. Stein's Pass, he said, was where it all happened: holdups, Indian fights, and nearby, in Doubtful Canyon, one of the most desperate desert battles, a fight between the Apaches and the passengers of a stagecoach, all of them salty veterans of many a battle. When all were killed, Cochise is reported to have said they were the bravest men he ever knew.

A few years ago, after watching some work being done on a movie of mine near Tuscon, I drove over to the area I was to write about in SHALAKO. I stopped briefly in Stein's Pass. A few buildings remained with empty windows staring blankly across the desert mountains, and a wild burro was wandering around the street. It was a ghost town and properly named. There could be many ghosts around Stein's Pass. The old cowboy told the truth.

Sleeping echoes of many a battle still wait in the shadow of the canyon.

*

Morgan Clyde studied his face in the mirror. It was an even-featured, pleasant face. Neither the nose nor jaw was too blunt or too long. Now, after his morning shave, his jaw was still faintly blue through the deep tan, and the bronze curls above his face made him look several years younger than his thirty-five.