“If you’d come in and faced it out, like you said,” Charlie MacCorry told them, “I don’t believe there’d ever been any case against you at all.”
Four years in the Rangers had done Charlie good. He seemed to know his limitations better now, and accepted them, instead of noisily spreading himself over all creation. Within those limits, which he no longer tried to overreach, he was very sure of himself, and quietly so, which was a new thing for Charlie.
“I said I’d come in when I could. I was on my way to Austin now. Until I run into Lije as I stopped over.”
“He spoke of that,” Aaron Mathison confirmed.
Resentment kept thickening Amos’ neck. He shouldn’t have been asked to put up with this in front of the whole Mathison family. Mrs. Mathison came and went, staying with Lije Powers mostly. But there had been no way to get rid of Tobe and Abner, who kept their mouths shut in the background, but were there, as was Laurie, making herself as inconspicuous as she could.
“And you had my bond of a thousand head of cattle, in token I’d come back,” Amos said. “Or did you pick them up?”
“We couldn’t, very well, because you didn’t own them. Not until the courts declared Deborah Edwards dead, which hasn’t been done. I don’t think Captain Clinton ever meant to pick them up. He was satisfied with your word. Then.”
“Captain, huh?” Amos took note of the promotion. “What are you—a Colonel?”
“Sergeant,” MacCorry said without annoyance. “You’ve been close to three years. Had to come and find you on a tip. Your reputation hasn’t improved any in that time, Mr. Edwards.”
“What’s the matter with my reputation?” Amos was angering again.
“I’ll answer that if you want. So you can see what us fellers is up against. Mark you, I don’t say it’s true.” No rancor could be heard in MacCorry’s tone. He sat relaxed, elbows on the table, and looked Amos in the eye. “They say it’s funny you leave a good ranch, well stocked, to be worked by other men, while you sky-hoot the country from the Nations to Mexico on no reasonable business so far as known. They say you’re almighty free with the scalping knife, and that’s a thing brings costly trouble on Texas. They say you’re a squaw man, who’d sooner booger around with the Wild Tribes than work your own stock; and an owlhoot that will murder to rob.”
“You dare set there and say—”
“I do not. I tell you what’s said. But all that builds up pressure on us. Half the Indian trouble we get nowadays is stirred up by quick-trigger thieves and squaw men poking around where they don’t belong. And your name—names—are a couple that comes up when the citizens holler to know why we don’t do nothing. I tell you all this in hopes you’ll see why I got to do my job. After all, this is a murder case.”
“There ain’t any such murder case,” Amos said flatly.
“I hope you’re right. But that’s not my business. All I know, you stand charged with the robbery and murder of Walker Finch, alias Jerem Futterman. And two other deceased—”
“What’s supposed to become of Yellow Buckle, while—”
“That’s up to Captain Clinton. Maybe he wants to throw the Rangers at Yellow Buckle, with you for guide. You’ll have to talk to him.”
Watching Amos, Mart saw his mind lock, slowly turning him into the inert lump Mart remembered from long ago. He couldn’t believe it at first, it was so long since he had seen Amos look like that.
“I’ll ride there with you, Amos,” Aaron Mathison said. “Sol Clinton will listen to me. We’ll clear this thing once and for all.”
Amos’ eyes were on his empty hands, and he seemed incapable of speech.
“I’m not going in,” Mart said to Charlie MacCorry.
“What?” The young Ranger looked startled.
“I don’t know what Amos is of a mind to do,” Mart said. “I’m going to Yellow Buckle.”
“That there’s maybe the worst thing I could hear you say!”
“All I want to do is get her out of there,” Mart said, “before you hit him, or the cavalry hits. Once you jump him, it’ll be too late.”
“Allowing she’s alive,” Charlie MacCorry said, “which I don’t—you haven’t got a chance in a million to buy her, or steal her, either!”
“I’ve seen a white girl I could buy from an Indian.”
“This one can talk. Letting her go would be like suicide for half a tribe!”
“I got to try, Charlie. You see that.”
“I see no such thing. Damn it, Mart, will you get it through your head—you’re under arrest!”
“What if I walk out that door?”
Charlie glanced past Aaron at Laurie Mathison before he answered. “Now, you ought to know the answer to that.”
Laurie said distinctly, “He means he’ll put a bullet in your back.”
Charlie MacCorry thought about that a moment. “If he’s particular about getting his bullets in front,” he said to her, “he can walk out backwards, can’t he?”
A heavy silence held for some moments before Amos spoke, “It’s up to Sol Clinton, Mart.”
“That’s what I told you,” Charlie said.
Amos asked, “You want to get started?”
“We’ll wait for daylight. Seeing there’s two of you. And allowing for the attitude you take.” He spoke to Aaron. “I’ll take ’em out to the bunk-house; they can get some sleep if they want. I’ll set up with ’em. And don’t get a gleam in your eye,” he finished to Mart. “I was in the bunk house before I come in here—and I put your guns where they won’t be fell over. Now stand up, and walk ahead of me slow.”
The lamp was still burning in the bunk house, but the fire in the stove was cold. Charlie watched them, quietly wary but without tension, while he lighted a lantern for a second light, and set it on the floor well out of the way. He wasn’t going to be left in the dark with a fight on his hands by one of them throwing his hat at the lamp. Amos sat heavily on his bunk; he looked tired and old.
“Pull your boots if you want,” Charlie MacCorry said. “I ain’t going to stamp on your feet, or nothing. I only come for you by myself because we been neighbors from a long way back. I want this as friendly as you’ll let it be.” He found a chair with the back broken off, moved it nearer the stove with his foot, and sat down facing the bunks.
“Mind if I build the fire up?” Mart asked.
“Good idea.”
Mart pawed in the woodbox, stirring the split wood so that a piece he could get a grip on came to the top.
Charlie spoke sharply to Amos. “What are you doing with that stick?”
From the corner of his eye, Mart saw that Amos was working an arm under the mattress on his bunk. “Thought I heard a mouse,” Amos said.
Charlie stood up suddenly, so that the broken chair overturned. His gun came out, but it was not cocked or pointed. “Move slow,” he said to Amos, “and bring that hand out empty.” For that one moment, while Amos drew his hand slowly from under the tick, Charlie MacCorry was turned three-quarters away from Mart, his attention undivided upon Amos.
Mart’s piece of cordwood swung, and caught Mac-Corry hard behind the ear. He rattled to the floor bonily, and lay limp. Amos was kneeling beside him instantly, empty-handed; he hadn’t had anything under the mattress. He rolled Charlie over, got his gun from under him, and had a look at his eyes.
“You like to tore his noggin’ off,” he said. “Lucky he ain’t dead.” “Guess I got excited.”
“Fetch something to make a gag. And my light reata.”