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| panda-like calm through fiction | |||||||||
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Indian Gift
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Being kind, the woman serving drinks in the train car might have mistook the pair of men as father and son; being unkind, she would have guessed grandfather and grandson. The younger man, who she’d heard called “Pete” flicked his cigarette out the open window. “Take a care, son. Matt Horner was an ornery son of a cuss. Shot a lot of men dead; cold blood dripped off his hands in the day.”
“Allegedly,” the younger man said, settling into his seat. “Horner’s only been linked to a handful of actual deaths, you know, ones with bodies or kin we can find, ones that aren’t just a part of his legend. And of those, there’s only one we can prove he shot, and that was in an honest duel.” “Parts of legends disappear, son, don’t mean they’re any less true.” “Whiskey?” the woman asked, holding out a bottle and a pair of glasses. “I’m working,” said Pete, with irritation she didn’t deserve. “Figure he’s working hard enough for the both of us,” the older man said with a wink in his eye as he dropped a few coins in her palm; she wasn’t sure if he was being an old flirt or kind, as she’d found in old men the two are almost indistinguishable, at first. She poured his drink then walked away. “You should relax. You’re making me nervous. And Horner’s already a nervous sort; you make him anxious and he’s like to shoot us afore we get a word out.” At the station they were met by a man with two beat up old horses, and a hand-drawn map. They followed it out of the skeleton of a town into the grassy hills. “Used to be Indian territory,” the older man, who went by Gene, said. “Whole country used to be Indian territory,” said Pete, though the way he said it you wouldn’t know how exactly he felt about it. They didn’t say anything else until they arrived at a beat to hell little shack built out of scavenged boards against the side of a squat plateau of red rock. Gene knocked. “Keep your mouth shut and your hand off your goddamned gun,” he said quickly. The door opened, not fast, not slow, just regular, like nothing special was happening. But rather than a man, all that was there was the sawed-down nose of a double-barrel shotgun, and past that darkness. Smoke from the wick of a kerosene lamp wafted out of the black beyond what little light broke through the door. “How can I help you?” asked a voice from behind the gun. Gene glanced nervously to his younger partner, but knew both men they were on a hair trigger. “We work for the government, but we ain’t here in any official capacity, you understand. The Bureau might take an extra interest if we turned up missing, but they like as not wouldn’t. The boy here is young, and stupid; I’d appreciate if you could lower that shooter before he’s moved to get me killed.” Twin hammers on the double-barrel came down, slow and quiet, then the shotgun pointed away as the man carrying it walked back over towards the lamp, and lit it with a match. Gene didn’t wait for an invitation, but he also didn’t move too close, or too fast, just walked into the house, keeping a clear distance. Pete’s instincts wouldn’t let him, move, not at first, but then he caught the other man’s eyes, and he knew that standing outside the front door weren’t an option, either. “Matthew Horner, I feel safe to presume,” Gene said. “I’d put out my hand for you to shake, but I doubt you’re inclined.” The point of a handshake was showing somebody you didn’t have any aggression- or a weapon- and at the moment he had both. “I’m going to advise you to think on this as a business proposition. Now before you object, this ain’t about your skills, which I’m informed you retired from using. Problem is, you’re a wanted man, and the authorities are now aware of your whereabouts. They’re duty bound to take you in.” “But, and this is where that proposition comes in, there’s an Indian fellow up in the hills. His entire tribe sold off their land, collectively, but he won’t budge. The authorities can’t seem to get to him; he’s killed a posse or three in more or less cold blood.” Horner cocked back the hammers on his double-barrel. “What are you asking of me?” “Honestly, Matt, we’re giving you the choice Jesse James never got. You do this for us and me, or the boy here, or whoever comes next after us, doesn’t put a bullet in the back of you. Now, I know that look. You’re a man of his own honor; it don’t sit right to even entertain us in your home, leave be any offer we bring with us. But the boy and I, we’re the pony express, after a fashion. We’re the carrot, or as close as is like to be used. What might follow us is a mighty big stick, indeed.” “My boss don’t want to admit to Indian Affairs that he can’t handle one old redskinned coot, nor does he want to deal with the Marshals Office on account of you. He counts two birds, but he thinks he’s got an idea better than any stone. But I’ve a feeling the first stone he’d throw’d be Pinkerton detectives.” Horner thought a moment, and it last a long time before he spoke. “You’ll answer a question,” and it was plain by the way he said it that he hadn’t asked it yet. “Why?” “We ain’t got to tell you shit,” Pete said with a snarl, his hand trembling over his gun. “Now calm down, son; he’s had you dead to rights since we first came through his door. He’ll shoot you first, I guarantee it, and hope he’s still enough years on me or I’ve gone soft enough- ain’t a dance I’d step to lightly. But you, son, you die, so take your stupid thumb off your hammer or we’ll both turn and shoot you- I swear to your God I will.” The younger man eyed the oldest and realized he wasn’t blowing smoke, then threw his hands up in the air. “I ain’t supposed to say shit, boy’s correct in that, but you want to know because you think a man’s got a right to know the reason for the evil he does. I can respect that. There’s gold in them thar hills- black gold. He bought his Dawes Act allotment, good, legal, and proper, back before anyone thought there might be oil there. But the rest of the tribe upped stakes and sold, and a court of the law says his deed went with theirs.” “Now I could give a shit, you want to reason with him, or shoot his legs out from under him while he’s taking a shit. Your means are your own; ends are all I’m concerned with. And if you don’t mind, I’ll take my leave. I hope, sincerely, this is the last time I see you.” Gene tipped his hat; Pete eyed the other man, not wanting to turn his back on a man with a gun. “He ain’t going to shoot you in the back, son, but if you linger too long he might feel inclined to shoot you in the front.” A grim smile poked out through Horner’s dark whiskers. Pete walked away. The next morning Horner kissed his wife and got on his horse. It’d been years since he’d rode with such grim purpose. He’d seen Indian Joe several times at the general store, maybe even spoke a word to him, once. It felt like he was standing over some poor man’s grave, walking up to the front door. There was blood in the dirt, dried. Horner didn’t knock; policemen knocked, soldiers sometimes, too, if there was anyone higher than a lieutenant in sight. “Joe?” he said, and there was a tremble in his voice he hated to betray. There was a long pause, but before he gave a thought to calling out again, he heard another door, slamming as it caught the wind. He didn’t bother trying to turn fast or draw- by that point Joe had him dead if he wanted him. “You here to steal my land?” Joe asked. The question, the possibility Matt might be some lost fool, was the only thing keeping him alive. “No. But I would like to have a jaw at you.” Joe lowered his rifle. The old Indian nodded at the door. “It’s open.” Horner led the way inside, and once there Joe fixed him with a stare, then flicked his eyes towards a round table with a chair. “Sit.” Horner did; the old Indian was wilier than he looked, because drawing from a chair would slow him down. “You with them oil men?” Horner’s eyes told most of the story. “They-” Joe held up his hand to cut Horner off. “What are they holding over you?” Horner lowered his eyes, not proud of his reply. “Got a past.” “Don’t we all?” asked Joe, and for the first time Horner looked into his eyes and saw another man, there, and the same kind of pride and shame hiding behind an old man’s smile. Then he looked back to the table, steeling himself. “Ain’t looking for sympathy, but before I kill a man, or before I even try, I owe him to look in his eyes and tell him why. In my young, wild days, or maybe if I didn’t have a missus and young one at home, I’d barricade here with you and help you defend your homestead. But this ain’t a fight you can win; ain’t a fight I could, either.” Joe walks over to a cabinet; Horner doesn’t look up, half expecting the old Indian to produce a pistol. “Rum?” he asks, and instead he pulls out a bottle and a pair of dirty glasses, and Horner nods. Joe poured two big shots before Horner could protest, then tossed his back with abandon. Horner’s pupils narrow to slits, dancing from the rifle propped against the table, to Joe, his head still back as he swallows; he could shoot the other man down without a care. He doesn’t. Horner takes up his glass and swallows it, and the burning liquid sears pictures of his family alone, and that hard, bitter life, if he dies, into his mind. Joe sighs, and Horner tries not to let it be seen that he’s reaching for his gun, thinking the Indian’s sighing over their gunfight until the old man says, “I’ll go.” Horner’s surprised enough his hand drifts away from his pistol, and he asks, “Did I hear you correctly.” “I don’t even want the land- I’ve just been stubborn. I hate it here. Land’s terrible. Nothing grows. Cattle won’t graze. You passed my herd on the way in, probably mistook them for deer. And everyone I knew left a long time ago.” He’s sad, but he’s tranquil in his sadness. “It ain’t right,” Horner says. “When was it?” asks Joe. Joe asked for one thing, that Horner stall the oil men a few days, long enough to remove his personal belongings, and to drive as much of his herd would go, and he obliged him gladly. Six days after he sent a telegram east, Horner received a return visit. He recognized the knock at the door, and like last time shooed his family into the back room; he wondered if they were reneging on the deal. Horner saw Gene, the older man, first. “We come in?” He stepped out of the way to let them through. A long, tense moment passed; Horner couldn’t get a read on Pete, and the older man was stifling something. “Seems they didn’t trust Joe, so even with your assurances, they brought some hired guns to his place.” Then Gene almost smiled. “Apparently, the old Indian dynamited his place before he left, so that when they arrived to force him away, the whole place went kablooie. It was big enough the oil well caught fire, and the oil company’s still trying to get it put out.” “Best of all possible outcomes- not for my employer, mind you- but for the general state of justice in the world. Now, for your troubles, I wish I could give you a pardon, but the governor’s a hard man to bribe, besides which it’s not clear that crimes committed in the territory would have been covered, anyway. But we got you the next best thing.” The older agent handed Horner a newspaper from the day before, and at the bottom of the front page was a story titled, “Notorious Outlaw Matt Horner Dead.” Horner’s eyes flicked to the kid, assuming that was the moment he’d feel a bullet in his chest, but Pete was standing with his shoulders low, shaking his head. “You’re dead,” Gene beamed. “Me and the boy claimed the bounty off some drifter couldn’t take ‘No’ for an answer, roughly fitting the description. And Marshals don’t hunt dead men.” Gene turned on his heel, and tipped his hat. “Do enjoy your little slice of heaven, son, I do believe you earned it.” Pete slunk out behind him. |
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