The way Vern Kidston is now, Cable thought.
There was no difference between the two men, he told himself. Vern was a Yankee; there was no question about that. The only difference, if you wanted to count it, was that Vern didn’t have a blue coat or a flat forage cap with the bugle Infantry insignia pinned to the front of it.
What if the 51st Indiana man had had a different kind of hat on but you still knew what he was and what he was doing there?
You would have shot him.
So the uniform doesn’t mean anything.
It’s what the man believes in and what he’s doing to you. What if Vern were here and you were down there, the places just switched?
The thumb of Cable’s right hand flicked the trigger guard down and up, levering a cartridge into the breech. The thumb eased back the hammer. Cable brought his face close to the carbine and sighted down the short barrel with both eyes open, placing the front sight squarely on the small figure in the trees. Like the others, Cable thought. It would be quick and clean, and it would be over.
If you don’t miss.
Cable raised his head slightly. No, he could take him from here. With the first one he would at least knock Vern down, he was sure of that. Then he could finish him. But if Vern reached cover?
Hit his horse. Then Vern wouldn’t be going anywhere and he could take his time. He wondered then if he should have brought extra loading tubes with him. There were four of them in his saddle bag. Each loading tube, which you inserted through the stock of the Spencer, held seven thick.56-56 cartridges. The Spencer was loaded now, but after seven shots-if it took that many-he would have to use the Walker.
Vern Kidston moved out of line. Cable looked up, then down again and the Spencer followed Vern to his horse, hardly rising as Vern took up the reins and stepped into the saddle.
Now, Cable thought.
But he waited.
He watched Vern come out of the trees, still on the far side of the river, and head north, the same way Lorraine had gone. Going home probably. Either by way of the horse trail or by following the long curving meadow all the way around. But why weren’t they together? It was strange that Vern would let her ride home alone at this time of day. In less than an hour it would be full dark. Cable doubted that she knew the country that well.
Another thing. Where had they been? Why would they stand there talking for a while, then ride off separately?
Instantly Cable thought: You’re letting him go!
He shifted the Spencer, putting the front sight on Vern again. He held the carbine firmly, his finger crooked on the trigger and the tip of the barrel inching along with the slow-moving target. The distance between them lengthened.
You’ve got ten seconds, Cable thought. After that he wouldn’t be sure of hitting Vern. His arms and shoulders tightened and for one shaded second his finger almost squeezed the trigger.
Then it was over. He let his body relax and eased the hammer down on the open breech.
No, you could have a hundred years and you wouldn’t do it that way. There’s a difference, isn’t there? And you’re sure of it now. You feel it, even if you can’t define it.
Cable rose stiffly, watching Vern for another few moments, then trudged slowly back up through the pines.
Mounted again, he felt a deep weariness and he sat heavily in the saddle, closing his eyes time and again, letting the sorrel follow the path at a slow-walking pace. His body ached from the long all-day ride; but it was the experience of just a few minutes ago that had left the drained, drawn feeling in his mind. One thing he was sure of now, beyond any doubt. He couldn’t kill Vern Kidston the way Janroe wanted it done. He couldn’t kill Vern or Duane this way regardless of how logical or necessary the strange-acting, sly-talking man with one arm made it sound.
Knowing this, being sure of it now, was something. But it changed little else. The first move would still be Vern’s. Cable would go home, not hurrying to an empty house, and he would hold on to his patience until he had either outwaited or outfought Vern once and for all.
He descended the slope behind the house, dismounted at the barn and led the sorrel inside. Within a few minutes he appeared again. Carrying the Spencer and the field glasses he walked across the yard, letting his gaze move out to the willows now dull gray and motionless against the fading sky. When he looked at the house he stopped abruptly. Lamplight showed in the open doorway.
His left hand, with the strap of the field glasses across the palm, took the Spencer. His right hand dropped to the Walker Colt and held it as he approached the house, passed through the semi-darkness of the ramada and stepped into the doorway.
He stood rigid, seeing the strewn bedcovers, the slashed mattress, the soot filming the table and the caved-in stove chimney on the floor; seeing the scattered, broken ruin and Lorraine Kidston standing in the middle of it. She turned from the stove, sweeping aside fragments of china with her foot, and smiled at Cable. “I’ve been waiting for you.”
Cable said nothing, his eyes going to the shattered china still on the cupboard shelves, then to the stove again and to the battered chimney flue lying on the floor.
So Vern or Duane, or both of them, had become tired of waiting. Now they were doing something and this was a warning. Fix the house, Cable thought, then another time when you’re away they tear it apart again. How much of that could you take? Do you run out of patience right now or later sometime?
He could release his anger and kick at the broken dishes or yell at Lorraine, threaten her, threaten her father and Vern. But what good would it do? That was undoubtedly their intention-to rile him, to make him start something. And once you did what the other man wanted you to, once you walked into his plan, you were finished.
Lorraine was watching him. “When the wife is away, the house just seems to go to ruin, doesn’t it?”
He looked at her. “What do they expect me to do now?”
“I’m sure I don’t know.”
“Or care,” Cable said.
“Well, I’m sorry; but there’s nothing I can do about it, is there?”
“Did both of them have a hand in this?”
“I doubt if either of them did. They’ve been home all day.”
“I just saw Vern.”
“Alone?”
“You were with him.”
“Do I have to explain what we were doing?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“Vern and I went for a ride after supper. When we reached the meadow he said he wanted to look at his horses. I told him to go ahead, I was going home.”
Cable said nothing.
“Well?” Lorraine looked at him inquiringly.
“All right. Then what?”
“Then I left him.”
“And came to see what he did to the house.”
Lorraine smiled, shaking her head. “Guess again.”
“Some other time.”
She caught the note of weariness in his tone. For a moment she said nothing, watching him stand the carbine next to the window and then move slowly to the table and place the field glasses there. “Did you see my horse outside?” she asked.
Cable glanced at her. “I didn’t notice.”
“No horse,” Lorraine said lightly. “That’s why I’m here.” She watched Cable gather the blanket and comforter and pile them on the slashed mattress.
“I was going up the path behind your house, taking the short cut home, when something frightened my horse. It happened very suddenly; he lost his footing and started to slide back and that’s when I fell off.” Lorraine touched her hair lightly and frowned. “I hit my head.”
Cable was looking at her again, sensing that she wasn’t telling the truth. “Then what happened?”
“Then he ran off. I could hear him way up in the trees, but I couldn’t very well chase after him, could I?”