Elmore Leonard's Western Roundup #1, Page 5

  5

  McKean's Ranch on the San Pedro: October, 1888

  Moon rode up in the cool of early evening leading the palomino on a hackamore. He dropped the rope and the good-looking young mare stood right where she was, not flicking a muscle.

  “She reminded me of you,” Moon said to the McKean girl, who replied:

  “I hope not her hind end.”

  “Her hair and her eyes,” Moon said. “She answers to Goldie.”

  The McKean girl's mother and dad and three brothers came out to look at the palomino, the horse shying a little as they put their hands on her. Mr. McKean said the horse was still pretty green, huh? Moon said no, it was the horse had not seen so many people before at one time and felt crowded. They kidded him that he was bringing horses now, courting like an Indian.

  Moon told them at supper he had been offered a government job as agent at White Tanks, working for the Bureau of Indian Affairs. He would be paid $1,500 a year and given a house and land for farming.

  All the McKeans looked at Katy who was across the table from him, the mother saying it sounded wonderful.

  Moon did not feel natural sitting there waiting for approval. He said, “But I don't care for flat land, no matter if it has good water and will grow anything you plant. I'm not a grain farmer. I told them I want high graze and would pick my own homesite or else they could keep their wonderful offer.”

  The McKeans all looked at Katy again.

  “They're thinking about it,” Moon said. “Meanwhile I got horse contracts to deliver.”

  “When'll you be back?” Mr. McKean asked.

  “Not before Christmas.”

  “You wait too long,” McKean said, “this girl might not be here.”

  “It's up to me when I get back and up to her if she wants to wait.” Moon felt better as soon as he said it.

  6

  St. Helen: February, 1889

  Bren Early said hadn't they met here one time before? Moon said it was a small world, wasn't it?

  Moon here delivering a string of horses to the Hatch & Hodges relay station. Bren Early here to make a stage connection, out of the hunting expedition business and going to Tucson to sleep in a feather bed with a woman and make all the noise he wanted.

  He said, “Do you know what it's like to make love to a woman dying for it and have to be quiet as a snake lest you wake up her husband?”

  “No I don't,” Moon said, “but I'm willing to hear about it.”

  There was snow up in the Rincons, a wind moaning outside, a dismal, depressing kind of day. But snug inside the relay station. They stood at the bar and had whiskey before Bren shed his buffalo overcoat and Moon peeled off his sheepskin and wornout chaps. Then sat at the plank table with a bottle of whiskey and mugs of coffee, smelling meat frying; next to them were giant shadows on the plaster wall, dark twin images in a glow of coal-oil light. Like two old pards drinking and catching up on each other's life, wondering how they could have spent a whole year and a half apart. Neither one of them mentioned the McKean girl.

  The main topic: Was somebody shooting at you? Yeah—you too? And getting that business finally cleared up. Bren saying he had come out here to be an Indian Fighter and so far had killed nine white men, counting the first two from the bunch in Sonora (the two Bo Catlett had shot), and two he would tell Moon about presently. Moon, not digging up any bodies from the past, said, Well, you're ahead of me there.

  But what about this loving a woman and not making any noise?

  “Something happens to those women when they come out here,” Bren said. “Or it's the type of woman to begin with, like to put a Winchester to her shoulder and feel it kick.”

  “Or the wavy-haired guide giving her his U.S. Cavalry look,” Moon said. “You wear your saber?”

  Bren straightened a little as if to argue, then shrugged, admitting yes, there was a point in that he was a man of this western country; and the woman's husband, out here with his gold-plated Henry in a crocodile case, was still a real-estate man from Chicago or a home builder from Pittsburgh.

  “Get to the good part,” Moon said.

  Bren told him about the party he took up into the Chiricahuas: the man named Bert Grumbach, millionaire president of Prudential Realty in Chicago; his colored valet; a young assistant in Grumbach's company who wore a stiff collar and necktie, as the man did; and the man's wife Greta, yes indeed, who was even rounder and better-looking than that French actress Sarah Bernhardt.

  As soon as he met them at Willcox with the wagon and saddle horses, Bren said he could see what kind of trip it was going to be: the man, Bert Grumbach, one of those know-it-all talkers, who'd been everywhere hunting and had a game room full of trophies to prove it, considered this trip not much more than going out back to shoot rabbits. The wife, Greta, was quiet, not at all critical like other wives. (“How many times you gonna tell that tiger story?” Or, “You think drinking all that whiskey proves you're a man?”) No, Bert Grumbach would be talking away and Bren would feel Greta's eyes on him. He'd glance over and sure enough, she'd be staring, giving him a calm, steady look with her eyes. Christ, Bren said, you knew exactly what she wanted.

  She did not try to outdo her husband either, though she was a fair shot for a woman, dropping a mule-deer buck at two hundred yards with a clean hit through the shoulders.

  Moon asked if they left deer laying all over the mountain and Bren said no, the guides took most of the meat to the fort Indians at Bowie.

  It wasn't all hunting. Time was spent sitting around camp drinking, eating venison steaks, talking and drinking some more, Grumbach belittling the setup and the fare. Bren said he would perform a routine with his .44 Russians, blowing up a row of dead whiskey bottles, which the Eastern hunters usually ate up. Except Grumbach wasn't impressed. He had a matched pair of Merwin & Hulbert six-shooters, beauties he took out of a rosewood box, nickle-plated with carved ivory grips. He'd aim, left hand on his hip, and fire and hit bottles, cans, pine cones at twenty paces, chipmunks, ground squirrels, ospreys and horned owls. He was a regular killer, Bren said.

  “And he caught you with his wife,” Moon said.

  “Not outright,” Bren said. “I believe he only suspected, but it was enough.”

  What happened, Greta began coming to Bren's tent late at night. The first time, he tried in a nice way to get her to leave; but as she took her robe off and stood bare-ass, she said unless he did likewise she would scream. There was no choice but to give in to her, Bren said. But it was ticklish business, her moaning and him saying shhh, be quiet, his nerves alive as another part of him did the job at hand. Five or six nights, that was the drill.

  The morning of the final day of the hunt, Bert Grumbach walked up to Bren, slapped his face with a glove and said, “I assume you will choose pistols. May I suggest twenty paces?”

  Moon had an idea what happened next, since Bren was sitting here telling it; but he did not interrupt or even pick up his whiskey glass as Bren continued.

  Bren said to the man, Now wait a minute. You know what you're doing? The man said he demanded satisfaction, his honor being abused. Bren said, But is it worth it? You might die. Grumbach gave him a superior look and had his assistant draw up a paper stating this was a duel of honor and if one of the participants was killed or injured, the other would not be legally culpable, hereby and so on, attesting with their signatures they were entering into it willingly and pledging to exonerate the other of blame whatever the outcome.

  Bren said they stood about sixty feet apart, each with a revolver held at his side. Bo Catlett would fire his own weapon, the assistant holding a rifle on Bo to see he fired up in the air, and that would be the signal.

  “Yeah?” Moon said, hunching over the plank table.

  “Aiming at a man and seeing him drawing a bead on you isn't the same as shooting chipmunks,” Bren said, “or even wilder animals.”

  “No, it isn't,” Moon said. “He hurried, didn't he?”

  “He dropped his hand
from his off hip, stood straddle-legged and began firing as fast as he could. Having to protect myself, I shot him once, dead center.”

  “What did Greta do?”

  “Nothing. We rolled Grumbach up in a piece of canvas, had a coffin made in Willcox and shipped him home with his legal papers. Greta said thank you very much for a wonderful and exciting time.”

  “Well,” Moon said, “you have come to be a shooter, haven't you?”

  “Not by choice,” Bren said. “There was another fella at Bowie tried his luck when I sold my wagon and string. Announced he was an old compadre of one Clement Hurd. How come they all tracked after me and only one of them tried for you as a prize?”

  “You advertise,” Moon said. “Captain Early, the great hunter and lover. When did you get promoted?”

  “I thought it sounded like a proper rank to have,” Bren said. “Well, I've bid farewell to the world of commerce and won't be advertising any more. It's a good business if you have an agreeable nature and can stand grinning at people who don't know hotcakes from horseshit.”

  “I'm leaving my business, too,” Moon said. “Gonna try working for the government one more time.”

  Bren Early was off somewhere in his mind. He sighed, turning in his chair to sit back against his shadow on the plaster wall.

  “Down in Sonora that time, we stood at the line, didn't we?”

  “I guess it's something you make up your mind to,” Bren Early said, “if you don't care to kiss ass. But my, it can complicate your life.”

  5

  1

  Young Maurice Dumas of the Chicago Times looked at his list of THINGS TO DO:

  Interview W.A. Vandozen, LaSalle Mining v.p. staying at Congress.

  How? The only chance would be to run into the man accidentally, as he did with Early, and show the man he was courteous (took his cap off), industrious and did not ask personal or embarrassing questions or make brash assumptions.

  And then kiss his heinie, why don't you? Maurice Dumas thought.

  It had been pure luck with Brendan Early, the timing, catching him in a talkative mood. Then being invited out to the desert to watch him shoot: amazing, studying the man as he calmly blazed away with two different sets of matched revolvers: one pair, Smith & Wesson, big and mean-looking; the other, ivory-handled, nickle-plated Merwin & Hulberts that Early said were given to him by a wealthy and grateful lady from Chicago. Not saying why she had been grateful. At first—out there shooting at saguaro and barrel cactus that were about the girth of a man—Early seemed troubled about the accuracy of his weapons. But within an hour his confidence was restored and as they rode back to Sweetmary Early told about the Sonora Incident and what he knew of Phil Sundeen. Which covered the next item on Maurice Dumas' THINGS TO DO.

  Find out about this Sundeen.

  Early said he had assumed the man was buried beneath Mexican soil and was surprised to learn he was alive and kicking. Different other LaSalle Mining people said that Sundeen had been hired by the company as Supervisor in Charge of Protection and Public Safety and was to see that no one infringed on company leases, destroyed company property or exposed themselves to harm or injury in areas related to company mining operations.

  What?

  The news reporters in the Gold Dollar said what it meant in plain English: Phil Sundeen had been hired to bust heads, shoot trespassers and run them off company land. And that included all the Indians, niggers and Mexicans living up in the Rincons. For months the two sides had been threatening and calling each other names. Finally, as soon as Sundeen arrived, there would be some action to write about. Yes, the company had called him in, a spokesman said, as an expert in restoring order and maintaining peace.

  Good, the newsmen said, because it certainly wasn't much of a war without any shooting.

  “I said restore peace,” the company spokesman said. And a reporter said, “We know what you mean.”

  But wait a minute. Why hire Sundeen? Why not let Bren Early, known to be a shooter, restore order and maintain peace?

  Because Mr. Early had his own responsibilities as Coordinating Manager of the Southwest Region, the company spokesman said.

  According to the journalists that was a pile of horseshit. Not one of them, including Maurice Dumas, had yet to see Bren Early sitting at a desk or coordinating much other than a draw poker hand. Bren Early had been hired as part of the deal when the company bought his claims, and his executive title had been made up out of thin air. They could put him to work if they wanted. Otherwise Early was to keep himself available to show visiting dignitaries and politicians the Works: which meant the local whorehouses and gambling parlors and—if the visitors were inclined—take them out hunting or to look at some live Indians. It was said the company was paying Early a guaranteed $100,000 over ten years, plus a one-percent royalty on all the milled copper sent to market. He was a rich man.

  O.K., but now Early and Sundeen were on the same side. What about the bitterness between them—as reported by Maurice Dumas? How would it affect the Early-Moon Feud? Would it be like a preliminary event, winner getting to go against Dana Moon?

  The journalists sat down to have a few drinks and think about that one, see if they could develop a side issue cross-plot to lay over the main action. They fooled with possible headline themes such as:

  Prospect of Preliminary Showdown Delays War

  Will New Man Live to Take Command?

  Shoot-Out Expected on LaSalle Street

  All this even before Phil Sundeen arrived in town. If he had the least intention of gunning for Bren Early he would find the atmosphere most conducive.

  Meanwhile, Maurice Dumas was working on the third item on his list of THINGS TO DO.

  Interview Dana Moon.

  2

  When Maurice Dumas arrived at White Tanks he didn't know what was going on: all these Apaches, about a hundred of them out in the pasture near the agency buildings and stock pens, sitting around campfires, roasting chunks of beef while others were chanting and a line of women were doing some kind of shuffle dance. Like it was an Indian Fourth of July picnic or some kind of tribal powwow. Some of the men wore hats and parts of white men's clothes, a pair of trousers, a vest; though most of them still wore skirts and high moccasins and thick headbands wrapped around their coarse hair.

  Maurice Dumas found out it was Meat Day. When the beef allotment provided by the government was delivered, the Apaches always butchered a few head on the spot and had a feast. They would stuff themselves with meat, eating it straight, drink some corn beer, or tulapai, as it was called, spend the night here in the agency pasture and, in the morning, drive their skimpy herd up into the mountains to their rancheri´as. Maurice Dumas remembered being told that Apaches always camped high and wouldn't be caught dead living down in the flats. It was part of the problem in this land dispute which he wanted to discuss with Dana Moon—if he could find him.

  Well, it seemed he was getting luckier all the time—just by chance arriving on Meat Day—dismounting his hired horse in front of the Indian Agency office, a one-story adobe building with a wooden front porch, and there was Moon himself sitting in a straight chair tilted back, his boots up on the porch rail, at rest. Perfect, Maurice Dumas thought. The Indian agent in his seat of governmental authority, while his charges performed their tribal rites.

  Moon looked exactly as he did in the C. S. Fly photos, though not as buttoned up and strapped together. He did not appear to be armed. His belt buckle was undone and he was smoking a cigar. When Maurice Dumas introduced himself, Moon asked if he would like something to eat. The news reporter said no thanks. He handed Moon a paper bag saying, “A little something for you,” and watched as Moon took out the bottle of Green River bourbon whiskey and read the label unhurriedly before placing the quart on the plank floor next to him. “Thank you,” he said.

  “I just wanted to talk to you a little,” Maurice Dumas said. “Ask your opinion of a few things.”

  “Ask,” Moon said. />
  “I didn't think you lived here at the agency.”

  “I don't. I'm a few miles up that barranca,” lowering his head and looking west, beyond the pasture and the gathering of feasting Indians. “I'm here for Meat Day and will leave soon as I'm able to.” He seemed full but not too uncomfortable.

  “Do you live up there alone?”

  “My wife and I.”

  “Oh, I didn't know you were married.”

  “Why would you?”

  “I mean nobody's mentioned it.”

  “Does it make a difference in how you see me?”

  “I mean I'm just surprised,” Maurice Dumas said. “If there's gonna be trouble and all—I was thinking, having your wife there could make it harder for you.”

  Moon said, “Do you know how many wives are up there? How many families?”

  “I guess I hadn't thought of it.”

  “You call it a war, you like to keep it simple,” Moon said. “These men against those men. Line 'em up, let's see who wins. Well, to do that we'd have to get rid of the women and children. Where should we send them?”

  “As I said, I hadn't thought about it.”

  “What do you think about?” Moon asked. The front legs of the chair hit the plank floor as Moon got up and went into the agency office.

  Now what? Was he offended by something? No, Moon came out again with two glasses, sat down and poured them a couple of drinks.

  Maurice Dumas pulled a chair over next to Moon's. “I'm only an observer,” he said, sitting down and carefully tilting back. “I don't take sides, I remain objective.”