The Bold Frontier (7 page)

Tracy was a big man, with heavy capable hands and peaceful blue eyes looking out at the world from under a shock of sandy hair. He was by nature a man of the earth, and if the war hadn’t come along, culminating in the frantic breakup at Petersburg, he knew he would still be working the rich Georgia soil. But his farm, like many others, had been put to the torch by Sherman, and the old way of life had been wiped out. The restless postwar tide had caught him and pushed him westward to a meeting with Pawker and Jacknife, also ex-Confederates, and the robbery of the bank filled with Yankee money.

Tracy approached the huddle of rundown wooden buildings. The valley was deserted now that the stage had been rerouted, and the Apache Wells Station was slowly sagging into ruin. Tracy pushed his hat down over his eyes, shielding his face from the sun.

Jacknife stood in the door of the main building, hand close to his holster. The old man’s eyes were poor, and when he finally recognized Tracy, he let out a loud whoop and ran toward him. Tracy kicked his mount and clattered to a stop before the long ramshackle building. He climbed down, grinning. He didn’t want Jacknife to become suspicious.

“By jingoes,” Jacknife crowed, “it sure as hell is good to see you, boy. This’s been four days of pure murder, with all that cash just waitin’ for us.” He scratched his incredibly tangled beard, unmindful of the dirt on his face or the stink on his clothes.

Tracy looked toward the open door. The interior of the building was in shadows. “Pawker here yet?” he asked.

“Nope. He’s due in by sundown, though. Least, that’s what he said.”

“You got the money?” Tracy spoke sharply.

“Sure, boy, I got it,” Jacknife laughed. “Don’t get so worried. It’s inside, safe as can be.”

Tracy thought about shoving a gun into Jacknife’s ribs and taking off with the bag right away. But he rejected the idea. He didn’t have any grudge against the oldster. It was Pawker he disliked, with his boyish yellow beard and somehow nasty smile. He wanted the satisfaction of taking the money away from Pawker himself. He would wait. Then Tracy noticed Jacknife’s face was clouded with anxiety. He stared hard at the old man. “What’s the trouble? You look like you got kicked in the teeth by a Yankee.”

“Almost,” Jacknife admitted. “We’re right smack in the middle of a sitcheation which just ain’t healthy. A woman rode in here this morning.”

Tracy nearly fell over. “A woman! What the hell you trying to pull?”

“Nothin’, Tracy. She said she’s Pawker’s woman and he told her to meet him here. You know what a killer he is with the ladies.”

“Of all the damn fool things,” Tracy growled. “With cash to split up and every lawman around here just itching to catch us, Pawker’s got to bring a woman along. Where is she?”

“Right inside,” Jacknife repeated, jerking a thumb at the doorway.

“I got to see this.”

He strode through the door into the cool shadowy interior. The only light in the room came from a window in the west wall. The mountains and the broken panes made a double line of ragged teeth against the cloud-dotted sky.

She sat on top of an old wooden table, whittling a piece of wood. Her clothes were rough, denim pants and a work shirt. Her body, Tracy could see, was womanly all over, and her lips were full. The eyes that looked up at him were large and gray, filled with a strange light that seemed, at succeeding moments, girlishly innocent and fiercely hungry for excitement. Just Pawker’s type, he decided. A fast word, and they came tagging along. The baby-faced Confederate angered him more than ever.

“I hear you joined thee party,” Tracy said, a bit nastily.

“That’s right.” She didn’t flinch from his stare. The knife hovered over the whittled stick. “My name’s Lola.”

“Tracy’s mine. That doesn’t change the fact that I don’t like a woman hanging around on a deal like this.”

“Pawker told me to come,” she said defiantly. From her accent he could tell she was a Yankee.

“Pawker tells a lot of them to come. I been riding with him for a couple of months. That’s long enough to see how he operates. Only a few of them are sucker enough to fall.”

Her face wore a puzzled expression for a minute, as if she were not quite certain she believed what she said next. “He told me we were going to California with the money he stole from the bank.”

“That’s right,” Tracy said. “Did he tell you there were two more of us?”

“No.”

Tracy laughed, seating himself on a bench. “I thought so.” Inwardly he felt even more justified at taking the money for himself. Pawker was probably planning to do the same thing. He wouldn’t be expecting Tracy to try it.

“If I were you, miss, I’d ride back to where I came from and forget about Pawker. I worked with him at Wagon Bow, but I don’t like him. He’s a thief and a killer.”

Her eyes flared with contempt. She cut a slice from the stick. “You’re a fine one to talk, Mister Tracy. You were there too. You just said so. I suppose you’ve never robbed anybody in your life before.”

“No, I haven’t.”

“Or killed anybody?”

No. I didn’t do any shooting at Wagon Bow. Pawker killed the teller. Jacknife outside didn’t use his gun either. Pawker likes to use his gun. You ought to know that. Anybody can tell what kind of man he is after about ten minutes.”

Lola threw down the knife and the stick and stormed to the window. “I don’t see what call you’ve got to be so righteous. You took the money, just like Pawker.”

“Pawker’s done it before. I figured this was payment for my farm in Georgia. Your soldiers burned me out. I figured I could collect this way and get a new start in California.”

She turned suddenly, staring. “You were in the war?”

“I was. But that’s not important. The important thing is for you to get home to your people before Pawker gets here. Believe me, he isn’t worth it.”

“I haven’t got any people,” she said. Her eyes suddenly closed a bit. “And I don’t have a nice clean town to go back to. They don’t want me back there. I had a baby, about a month ago. It died when it was born. The baby’s father never came home from the war—” She looked away for a moment. “Anyway—Pawker came into the restaurant where I was working and offered to take me west.”

“Somebody in the town ought to be willing to help you.”

Lola shook her head, staring at the blue morning sky. Jacknife’s whistle sounded busily from the broken-down corral. “No,” she said. “The baby’s father and I were never married.”

Tracy walked over to her and stood behind her, looking down at her hair. He suddenly felt very sorry for this girl, for the life lying behind her. He had never felt particularly attached to any woman, except perhaps Elaine, dead and burned now, a victim of Sherman’s bummers back in Georgia. He could justify the Wagon Bow robbery to himself. Not completely, but enough. But he couldn’t justify Pawker or Pawker’s love of killing or the taking of the girl.

“Look, Lola,” he said. “You don’t know me very well, but I’m willing to make you an offer. If you help me get the money, I’ll take you with me. It’d be better than going with Pawker.”

She didn’t answer him immediately. “How do I know you’re not just like him?”

“You don’t. You’ll have to trust me.”

She studied him a minute. Then she said, “All right.”

She stood very close to Tracy, her face uplifted, her breasts pushing out against the cloth of her shirt. A kind of resigned expectancy lay on her face. Tracy took her shoulders in his hands, pulled her to him and kissed her cheek lightly. When she moved away, the expectancy had changed to amazement.

“You don’t need to think that’s any part of the bargain,” he said.

She looked into his eyes. “Thanks.”

Tracy walked back to the table and sat down on the edge. He couldn’t understand her, or know her motives, and yet he felt a respect for her and for the clear, steady expression of her eyes. Something in them almost made him ashamed of his part in the Wagon Bow holdup.

Jacknife stuck his head in the door, his watery eyes excited. A big glob of tobacco distended one cheek. “Hey, Tracy. Pawker’s coming in.”

Tracy headed outside without looking at Lola. A big roan stallion with Pawker bobbing in the saddle was pounding toward the buildings over the valley floor from the north, sending a cloud of tan dust into the sky. Tracy climbed the rail fence at a spot where it wasn’t collapsing and from there watched Pawker ride into the yard.

Pawker climbed down. He was a slender man, but his chest was large and muscled under the torn Union cavalry coat. He wore two pistols, butts forward, and cartridge belts across his shirtfront under the coat. Large silver Spanish spurs jingled loudly when he moved. His flat-crowned black hat was tilted at a rakish angle over his boyish blond-whiskered face. Tracy had always disliked the effect Pawker tried to create, the effect of the careless guerrilla still fighting the war, the romantic desperado laughing and crinkling his childish blue eyes when his guns exploded. Right now, the careless guerrilla was drunk.

He swayed in the middle of the yard, blinking. He tilted his head back to look at the sun, then groaned. He peered around the yard. His hand moved aimlessly. “Hello, ol’ Jacknife, hello, ol’ Tracy. Damned four days, too damned long.”

“You better sober up,” Jacknife said, worried. “I want to split the money and light out of here.”

“Nobody comes to Apache Wells any more,” Pawker said. “Tracy, fetch the bottles out o’ my saddle, huh?”

“I don’t want a drink,” Tracy said. Lola stood in the doorway now, watching, but Pawker did not see her. If he had, he would have seen the disillusionment taking root. Tracy smiled a little. Grabbing the money would be a pleasure.

“Listen, Pawker,” Jacknife said, approaching him, “let’s divvy the cash and forget the drink—”

Suddenly Pawker snarled and pushed the old man. Jacknife stumbled backward and fell in the dust. Pawker spat incoherent words and his right arm flashed across his body. The pistol came out and exploded loudly in the bright air. A whiff of smoke went swirling away across the old wooden roofs.

Jacknife screamed and clutched his hip. Tracy jumped off the fence and came on Pawker from behind, ripping the gun out of his hand and tossing it away. He spun Pawker around and hit him on the chin. The blond man skidded in the dust and scrabbled onto his knees, some of the drunkenness gone. Glaring, he slid his left hand across his body and down.

Tracy pointed his gun straight at Pawker’s belly. “I’d like you to do that,” he said. “Go ahead and draw.”

Cunning edged across the other man’s face. His hand moved half an inch further and he smiled. Then he giggled. “I’m going to throw my gun away, Tracy boy. I don’t want trouble. Can I throw my gun away and show you I’m a peaceable man?”

Tracy took three fast steps forward and pulled the gun from its holster before Pawker could seize it. Then he turned his head and said, “Lola, find the satchel and get horses.”

Pawker screamed the girl’s name unbelievingly, turning on his belly in the dust to stare at her. He began to curse, shaking his fist at her, until Tracy planted a hand on his shoulder, pulled him to his feet and jammed him against the wall of the building with the gun pressing his ribs.

“Now listen,” Tracy said, “I’m taking the satchel and I don’t want a big muss.”

“Stole my money, stole my woman,” Pawker mumbled. “I’ll get you, Tracy, I’ll hunt you up and kill you slow. I’ll make you pay, by God.” His eyes rolled crazily, drunkenly.

Jacknife was trying to hobble to his feet. “Tracy,” he wheezed, “Tracy, help me.”

“I’m taking the money,” Tracy said.

“That’s all right, that’s fine, I don’t care,” Jacknife breathed. “Put me on my horse and slap it good. I just want to get away from him. He’s a crazy man.”

Tracy shoved Pawker to the ground again and waved his gun at him. “You stay right there. I’ve got my eye on you.” Pawker snarled something else but he didn’t move. Tracy helped Jacknife onto his horse. The old man bent forward and lay across the animal’s neck.

“So long, Tracy. Hit him good. I want to get away—”

“You need a doctor,” Tracy said.

“I can head for some town,” Jacknife breathed. “Come on, hit him!”

Tracy slapped the horse’s flank and watched him go galloping out of the station yard and across the valley floor. Lola came around the corner of the building leading two horses. The satchel was tied over one of the saddlebags.

Tracy turned his head for an instant and when he turned back again, Pawker was scrabbling in the dust toward his gun which lay on the far side of the yard. Tracy fired a shot. It kicked up a spurt of dust a foot in front of Pawker’s face. He jerked back, rolling over on his side and screaming, “I swear to God, Tracy, I’ll come after you.”

Lola was already in the saddle. The horses moved skittishly. Tracy swung up and said, “Let’s get out of here.” He dug in his heels and the horses bolted. They headed west across the floor of the valley.

They rode in silence. Tracy looked back once, to see Pawker staggering away from the building with his gun, firing at them over the widening distance. Until they made camp in the early evening at a small grove, with the mountains still looming to the west, Tracy said almost nothing.

Finally, when the meal with its few necessary remarks was over, he said, “Pawker will follow us. We’ll have to keep moving.”

She answered absently, “I guess you’re right.” A frown creased her forehead.

“What’s the trouble?” He was beginning to sense the growth of a new feeling for this woman beside him. She was as silent and able as the hardened men with whom he had ridden in the last few years. Yet she was different, too, and not merely because she was female.

“I don’t know how to tell you this right, Tracy.” She spoke slowly. The firelight made faint red gold webs in her hair and the night air stirred it. “But—well—I think you’re an honest man. I think you’re decent and that’s what I need.” She stuck her finger out for emphasis. “Mind you, I don’t mean that I care anything about you, but I think I could.”

Tracy smiled. The statement was businesslike, and it pleased him. He knew that there was the possibility of a relationship that might be good for a man to have.