Texas Drive (18 page)

She stood up and walked toward the window. Sweeping the curtain aside, she pointed to the fields beyond the barn. “That’s our land, Kevin. Yours and mine. Do you understand that?
Ours!
And we act like it isn’t. We act like we don’t give a damn.”

“What can we do?”

“I’ll tell you what we can’t do. We can’t bring a child into this kind of world. That’s one thing we can’t do. And I
won’t
do it, either.”

“Who said anything about a child.”

“Nobody. Yet.”

He looked at her in confusion. The light seemed to break over him in slow motion. “You’re not tellin’ me …”

“I’m not tellin’ you anything, Kevin O’Hara. I’m just saying that I will not bring a child into this world as long as we are here and Ralph Conlee is allowed to roam around like he owns the place. I won’t and that’s all there is to it.”

“Look,” Ted cut in, “let’s not get away from the main problem, here.”

“And what is that?” O’Hara snapped “Why don’t you explain to us, since you seem to have caused it all in the first place.”

“Mr. Cotton caused nothing, Kevin.
You
caused it. You and all the other men who stood by and let it happen, instead of doing something about it.”

“Alright, alright. Let the man speak. Go ahead, Cotton.”

Ted took a deep breath. “We can’t change what happened. I’m not saying we can. But I know that a man like Ralph Conlee will want revenge. It’s as natural to him as breathing. I’m sorry for that, but it was the right thing to do. It was the
only
thing to do.”

“So you tell us.”

Ted ignored the sarcasm. “Look, what’s important is not what already happened. It’s what’s going to happen you have to worry about.”

“It’s out of our hands. You’ve let the tiger out of his cage.”

“No. There never was a cage. That’s what you don’t seem to understand. The only thing keeping Conlee away from you was chance. Nothing more than that. And until you understand that, there is nothing you can do. As long as you keep lying to yourself, telling yourself that he’ll leave you alone as long as you don’t provoke him, you won’t be able to act. But you’re wrong. One day he’ll come riding up the lane out there, and that’ll be that. It’ll be good-bye Kevin and good-bye Millie. The house and barn will be gone to ashes and you two along with them. Is that what you want? Do you want to just sit here and wait for that to happen, or do you want to try and do something about it?”

“What, dammit? What can we do?”

“For one thing, you can get all the farmers together, talk things over. You can set up patrols, you can force the sheriff to use his badge instead of just wearing it.”

“And how do we do that?”

“By demanding it. By showing him how, if he’s not man enough to do it himself. Stand up for yourselves. You came after Johnny and the boys with hayforks, for chrissakes. They had guns, and
you went out, half of you, with garden tools. And you know why you did that?”

“To protect our livestock … of course.”

“No, dammit, that’s not why. You did it because you weren’t already beaten. You didn’t go out there believing you’d lost. But when it comes to Conlee, there’s no contest. He doesn’t win. You lose. You lose because you don’t have the will not to. He doesn’t have to do anything. You hand him the prize and you walk away. No contest.”

“Maybe so, but what difference does it make?”

“All the difference in the world. Put yourself in his shoes. Why would you move on, if you knew there was no reason. Other farmers are out there, hundreds, thousands. Conlee doesn’t bother them. And the reason he doesn’t is because he doesn’t have to. Why should he risk his neck to take something from one of them, when you all sit on your hands and give it to him right here, without a fight? He’s not a fool.”

“Neither am I, Cotton.”

“Then stop acting like one, for God’s sake.”

“Listen to Mr. Cotton, Kevin,” Millie said. “He’s right, and it’s our only chance.”

“I don’t know …” O’Hara shook his head.

“At least we can try, Kevin. We can do that much, can’t we?”

For the next three days, they tried. Kevin O’Hara made the rounds. And, one by one, the
farmers turned him away. Millie talked to the wives, trying to get them to make their husbands see the light, but three days of rejection convinced her it was pointless. It was too late. They had waited too long, and now no one wanted to risk anything, even if it meant saving his own neck.

On the evening of the third day, Ted sat beside the wagon, talking to Cookie. The old man tried to console him, but it wasn’t working.

“You did your best, Teddy. You can’t help it if they don’t want to listen.”

“But they have to listen.”

“No, they don’t. They don’t have to do a damn thing they don’t want to. And you can’t make ‘em, neither.”

“But…”

“Look, Teddy. Maybe you and me ought to head back to Texas. I’ll bet old Rafe is gettin’ mighty lonely.”

“I can’t, Cookie. Not yet.”

“Son, you ain’t gonna get them sodbusters to do nothin’. And you can’t take Conlee on alone. You know that, don’t you?”

Ted didn’t answer him. Instead, he got up. He was about to walk away when Millie stepped out onto the porch. She carried a lantern turned down low and walked toward the wagon.

“Evenin’, ma’am,” Ted said.

“Good evening, Mr. Cotton.”

“Pretty night, isn’t it?”

“No, it isn’t. Nothing about this place is beautiful. Not anymore.”

“Can’t blame it on the world, Mrs. O’Hara. It’s people make it this way. What’s right is right, and what’s pretty is pretty. And it’s a pretty night.”

Millie shook her head. “You’re right. It
is
a pretty night.”

“You shouldn’t be so hard on Kevin.”

“Hard on him?”

“I know how he feels. I was that way, once. After the war, I just … I’d had a bellyful of killin’. I …”

“You blame yourself for what happened to your brother, don’t you?”

“Yes, ma’am, I do.”

“It wasn’t your fault, you know. You weren’t even here.”

“Shoulda been.”

“That wouldn’t have changed things. You might both be dead now. Would that be better?”

“Yes, ma’am, it would.”

He walked to his horse. After swinging up into the saddle, he leaned down and patted Millie’s shoulder. “We do what we can, Mrs. O’Hara. Seems like, right now, I got to do somethin’ I shoulda done before this.”

“Where are you going?”

“Same place I go every night.”

“I see, and where is that?”

“Never mind.”

He kicked the pony and moved off in the darkness. She called after him, but he didn’t respond. Still staring into the night, she said, “Where’s he going, Cookie?”

“Conlee’s camp.”

“He can’t do that, they’ll kill him.”

“Oh, he ain’t going
in
the camp. Just to watch. One of these nights, Conlee’s bound to make a mistake.”

“But still…”

“He don’t want to die, Mrs. O’Hara, if that’s what you’re thinkin’. But he sure enough wants to kill Ralph Conlee. And he will, too, unless I miss my guess.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“Knowed him a long time. He was confused for a while, but he’s alright now. Just like his daddy. And his daddy’s daddy, I suppose. See, he’s a Cotton, and he knows what that means.”

“What does it mean, Cookie?”

“Don’t know ma’am. I ain’t a Cotton.”

TED GAVE UP
after another fruitless night of watching. Once, he thought he might have hit pay dirt, when a small knot of horsemen left the camp in a hurry. He followed them for five miles before he got a good enough look to know that Conlee wasn’t one of them. He thought about following them anyway, taking them on and cutting the odds a little, but if he got killed, it would be a waste.

He didn’t mind dying as long as Conlee died first. Anything else was a bad bargain. So he returned to his post and spent half the night, convinced that his day would come. When it was clear Conlee wasn’t going anywhere, he mounted up and headed back to the O’Hara farm. Every night the ride got longer. This night was the longest so far, and it seemed like nothing would ever change. The rising sun reminded him of that permanence.

Ted’s heart sank when he saw the smoke rising beyond the hill. There was only one farm he knew of in that direction, and the smoke was too voluminous to be the stove or the chimney. Pushing his pony up the next hill, he never broke stride as he crested the ridge and plunged down the far side.

From the next hill, he could see for sure, but there was no doubt in his mind what he’d see. He lashed at the pony, appalled at his own fury, and the pony tried to outrun the sting of the reins, its feet barely touching long enough to complete a stride and start the next.

Careening up the hill, the pony missed a step and stumbled. Ted hung on, but it was too late. The pony fell and Ted flew from the saddle, tumbling forward over its head and landing heavily on his back. Only the thick cushion of grass saved him from serious injury, but it did nothing for the pony. The animal squealed in pain as it tried to rise. Favoring its right front leg, it kept losing its balance and falling back to the ground.

Ted knew, without having to look, that its leg was broken. The animal lay on its side, pawing at the earth with its one good front leg, and Ted climbed to his feet, wiping the dead grass from his clothes. His left shoulder hurt, but nothing seemed to be broken. He walked slowly toward the injured horse and knelt by the quivering head. The pony looked at him, its flat, expressionless eyes following his every movement.

Ted didn’t know what to do. He couldn’t leave the horse to die, and he couldn’t risk a gunshot. He still didn’t know what was happening in the next valley, but if it came anywhere close to what he feared, a gunshot now might be his own death knell. He patted the animal on the shoulder and rubbed its muzzle. The horse nickered, bucking its head against his palm. He scratched between its ears, trying to decide what to do.

He didn’t really have any choice, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it. Not yet. He left the animal behind and started up the slope. He wanted to know for sure what lay ahead of him. Then, if he was convinced that he had no alternative, he’d come back and do what he had to do.

The smoke grew thicker as he climbed, and Ted steeled himself for what he knew was coming. Just below the line of the hill, he dropped to his knees and crept forward like some bizarre medieval penitent. His mouth was dry, and his shoulder was beginning to throb. It wasn’t possible to put any weight on his left arm, and every twist of his upper body seared him with a wave of fire.

Then he could see over the hill, and the pain washed away. What he saw was even worse. The chuck wagon, parked a few yards from O’Hara’s corral, was a mass of flames. Half a dozen strange horses milled around alongside the corral, some hitched and some dragging their reins. The yard was empty. He saw not a soul.

Ted slammed his fist into the unyielding earth, and the tremor ripped up through his arm and exploded in his left shoulder. He cursed once, so softly he wasn’t even sure he’d done it, then crept back away from the hilltop and got to his feet. He sprinted downhill, heedless of the uneven terrain, even half hoping he would break his own leg and someone would put him out of his misery.

He got his saddlebags off the injured pony, pulled the Winchester from the boot, and unsheathed a thick-bladed knife. It was an ugly thing, one he chose not to use, but never failed to carry with him. He’d seen it used during the war. It was the kind popularized and, according to some, invented by the legendary Jim Bowie, and it had a dozen purposes, but only one that really counted. It was meant to kill, quickly and surely.

He knelt again by the horse, patted its neck and allowed the head to rest against his knee. Closing his eyes, he brought the knife against the horse’s neck. He felt with blind fingers for the throbbing artery, found it, and pressed the edge of the knife against the pulsing flesh.

He counted to ten, slowing with every number, conscious that time was wasting and yet no more able to speed himself through the ritual than if nothing had been wrong. He tightened his grip on the knife and gritted his teeth.

But he couldn’t do it. He cursed again, again softly. Then, resheathing the knife, he draped the
saddlebags over his shoulder and turned toward the hill behind him. The first step was the hardest. He trudged upward, away from his own failure, wondering whether it was humanity or cowardice. Even as he neared the crest of the hill, he thought about turning back. But he knew it was no use.

He broke over the ridge, no longer caring whether anyone saw him or not. As he started down the far side, a single gunshot cracked somewhere beyond the house. He saw Kevin O’Hara in the doorway to the barn. It looked for all the world like he was drunk. The big Irishman stumbled once, but kept on staggering toward the house.

A second man appeared in the doorway, a pistol in his hand. Deliberately, he sighted on the Irishman’s broad back as Ted dropped to his knee and raised the Winchester. He found the gunman there, a speck just beyond the gunsight, and squeezed slowly. The discharge sounded like thunder, and he saw the gunman fall back into the barn and out of sight. O’Hara fell at the same instant, and Ted got to his feet and started to run. Every step jarred his aching shoulder, but he couldn’t stop, even if he wanted to.

Ted recognized Conlee’s horse as he drew closer to the house. He cursed himself for a fool and wondered whether Conlee had tricked him, or if it was just coincidence.

He’d seen Kevin, but there was no sign of Millie or Cookie. And Margaret Reynolds was in the
house, too. Ted was determined to spare her a repeat of the agony she had already lived through. “If there is a God in heaven,” he whispered, “he’ll give me the courage and whatever else I need. I don’t give a damn what happens to me, but I will not stand for this. Not again.”

He ripped open the saddlebags and grabbed a box of shells for the Winchester. He was two hundred yards from the porch when a man stepped out of the front door. The man walked toward the barn and stopped long enough to kick Kevin O’Hara once in passing, the way an angry drunk might kick at a sleeping dog.