The Big Dry. George Garland
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“Quite accurate, Miss Bonnie. That’s what he said. I was put in a ludicrous state of fluster when I heard his name, I assure you. Shall I call in the others?”
“Go to Mr. Sack. Tell him I said to warn the men against any shooting. And I mean it!”
As the cowboy galloped off into the night, Bonnie stood still and tense. So he had come. She couldn’t understand it. And he had asked for the riders, all bandit chasers now, to return. It simply failed to make sense. Shaking it off with a toss of her head, she went inside and returned with a lantern. She had no sooner placed it on the porch hook than a voice out of the night caused her to whirl.
“Hello, Bonnie.”
He was walking into the yellow lantern light with the payroll sack. Placing it on the porch, he looked up at her, examining her as though he liked all he saw.
An uncalled-for silence gripped her. Words wouldn’t come, and she just stood there unable to believe he had come here. All the while she was seeing his face for the first time. The eyes she had seen, but not the long muscular mouth, now set in a humorous line, or the strong chin and jaws and straight nose. He was the color of bronze and well dressed. She sensed a clean strong pride in him. Maybe he wasn’t the robber. The sandy hair and the pair of eyes said he was.
She found her voice. “You’re a fool to come here,” she said. “I had no idea you’d do it.”
“What about that trap you set, Bonnie?”
Aware that no explanation would sound convincing, she said, “Why did you do it?”
“Because that was part of my plan before I robbed the stage.”
She stared incredulously and sized him up again. This time for a fool. But the memory of his calm of yesterday was poignantly fresh. He was a copy of it now. His chill eyes showed no sign of disturbance. He might be a poke on a chuck line or a notorious gambler, though she could not deny that the open West had stamped him with its brand of self-reliance and vigilance. He was baffling.
“Perhaps you don’t know what happens to stage robbers around here,” she said. “They hang. Why don’t you leave while you can?”
“Thanks. But that isn’t a part of my plan.” His intent look held. He was taken by her large eyes, the directness and challenge and fear for his safety in them. The timbre of her voice, rich and low, attracted and excited him now as much as it had in memory. He was thinking these things and his look told her as much.
Her glance slid away, out into the night where running horses came on at full gallop.
“Very well,” she said. “It’s your funeral.”
He put his back to her and hung his thumbs in belt as the tattoo of hoofs drew closer. She was looking from the A-T riders getting off their horses in the yard back to him with a growing uneasiness. Her father and Sack dismounted and walked toward the porch wary and poised. An electric air hung over the scene, a split second away from either peace or powder smoke. Nothing happened and McQueen and Sack, backed by the riders, stood a few yards away.
Still Young appeared as calm as a guest for dinner. Bonnie followed the direction of his steady gaze, upon her father, who studied the robber intently. She looked from one to the other as their glance held strong and unsettling, each digging deep into the other’s eyes.
Sack was saying: “Well, Kid, I’ve seen all kinds of men, but you take the cake. Didn’t think you’d do it, much less hang around for a reception committee.”
Young made no reply.
McQueen said, “So this is the Sacaton Kid.” It was neither a question nor a statement, but an expression of his regard for outlaws in general. “All right, Sack. It’s up to you now.”
Bonnie said: “You’re wrong, father. He returned the payroll money, so we’re all square.”
“It’s not that easy, Bonnie. He broke the law, robbed, and shot. Just because he turned yellow and sneaked back here with it don’t mean he won’t try it again. A robber is a thief, same as a polecat is a skunk.”
The A-T foreman chuckled out loud. At his signal the punchers laughed.
Young broke the dead expression of his face and said, “That’s about what I expected of you, McQueen.”
His voice was conversationally low and controlled and his eyes were steady, too steady and icy, thought Sack, who took a step between the pair only to face Young’s gun as it came up with incredible speed.
“Don’t interfere now, Mr. Sack, “Young said, adding, “If you please. Nor any of the rest of you out there.”
Seconds later, he replaced his pistol and said: “You don’t know who I am, McQueen. It goes back a few years. That’s why I robbed you of your payroll and rode here to return it.”
McQueen was naturally puzzled. He could not guess at the robber’s identity.
“My name is Young West.”
“I never heard of you,” McQueen said.
“But you have heard of John Hammond West, haven’t you? He discovered the claim you’ve been working for several years. He was my father, McQueen.”
Surprise was written across McQueen’s face.
“So that’s it,” he said. “Well, young fellow, everybody around here knows what happened to West. Victorio’s Apaches got him.”
“Victorio and his Apaches were on San Carlos Reservation at the time,” Young said. “To further prove they didn’t get him, he wasn’t mutilated. And they didn’t take his rifle or horse.”
“What’s that got to do with me?”
“Maybe you can explain it,” Young said.
McQueen stiffened. “Why should I explain anything to you?”
“You got rich off my father’s discovery. Now suppose you prove you got it fair and square.”
“Young man,” came the controlled reply, “why don’t you try and prove I didn’t?”
“I am,” Young said.
McQueen was angry. “You’ve got a gall,” he said, “coming to my place with that kind of talk. All I’ve got to do is lift a finger to turn my men loose on a stage robber.”
“I’m taking that chance,” came the quiet reply.
Sack stepped between them, saying: “Tighten rein, boys, and step off the powder keg. You’re both right and both wrong.”
Sack’s intervention did nothing to thin the air. Bonnie felt helpless under the weight of fresh discovery that the Kid who was Young West was almost accusing her father of murder and theft But Sack was talking:
“West, your old man prospected from the Organs to the High Sierras. He came out here, struck it rich. They found him dead, face down in the creek with an arrow in his back. If he had filed a claim, McQueen couldn’t legally work the Queeny diggin’s.”
“The first thing he would have done is file a claim, Mr. Sack. But there’s no record of it. However, we know that records have been tampered with before.”
“You’re talkin’ mighty strong, Kid,” Sack warned.
“That’s what I came here for,” Young said. “I’m looking for the murderer, and I’m giving McQueen a chance to help me find him if he’s innocent.”
Sack said: “And under threat. Sure. You’re born for vengeance. Alive today, dead tomorrow. That frame of mind won’t take you far, Kid. But let me get this straight—is that the reason you took McQueen’s payroll?”
“That’s right.”
“Why did you go at it that way, Kid?”
“To