“It doesn’t have to be that way,” Martha said urgently. “If we wait, if we can put it off-Cabe, something could happen that would solve everything!”
“Like what?”
She hesitated. “I’m not sure.”
“Martha, I’m awful tired of waiting.”
She looked at him intently. “You could go to Fort Buchanan. Put it up to the authorities.”
“You know who they’d side with.”
“But we’re not sure. Cabe, at least it’s worth trying.”
From the doorway Janroe said, “I’ve got the only way to solve your problem.” He extended Cable’s Walker Colt, holding it in the open palm of his hand. “Right here.”
Martha turned, looking at him coldly. “That would solve nothing.”
“All right,” Janroe said. “Go up to Buchanan. Tell the Yankees you’re a Rebel soldier come home to find a gang of Yankee horse-breakers using your land and threatening to hang you.” Janroe moved into the kitchen. “You know what they’d do? Supply the rope.”
Martha motioned the two children to the back door. She held it open for them, then, closing it behind them, looked at Janroe again.
“Mr. Janroe, I don’t think this concerns you.”
“Ask your husband whether it concerns me or not.” He stopped in front of Cable and handed him the revolver. “Right?”
Cable said nothing. He took the Walker and looked at it idly, holding it in both hands.
Janroe watched him. “You’re going back to your place?”
Cable nodded.
“That’s the right direction,” Janroe said mildly. His eyes remained on Cable’s lowered head. “Did you hear what Duane said about his men going off this evening? They’ll go over to some pastures Vern’s got way north and west of here and start working the herds home. Duane said they’d be gone a week.” Janroe shook his head. “They’ll be gone longer than that. And just Duane and maybe Vern will be home, just the two of them.”
Cable looked up. “You told me that once before.”
Janroe nodded. “And Duane confirmed it.” His voice lowered. “It would be easy for a man like you. Ride in there and take both of them.”
Martha came away from the door. “You’re asking my husband to commit murder!”
Janroe glared at her. “Like any soldier murders.”
“This isn’t war-he isn’t a soldier now!”
“We’ve been all through that,” Janroe said. “Whether it bothers his conscience or not, your husband doesn’t have a choice. He’s got to kill them before they kill him.”
That evening, as soon as it was dark, Janroe slipped under the platform and let himself into the locked storeroom. He measured three strides to the crates of Enfield rifles stacked against the back wall, then stood in the darkness, wondering if there would be room for the wagon-load of rifles due to arrive later that night. The rifles that were here should have been picked up days ago.
You can worry about it, Janroe thought, or you can forget it and ask Luz when she comes. She should be here within two hours. Perhaps they told her in Hidalgo why the rifles had not been picked up. Perhaps not. Either way, there was something more immediate to think about. Something raw and galling, because it was fresh in his mind and seemed to have happened only moments before though it had been this afternoon, hours ago.
He had almost convinced Cable. No, not almost or maybe. He had convinced him. He had handed the man his gun and told him to kill the Kidstons or be killed himself, and Cable had seen the pure reality of this. If he had left at that moment, he would have gone straight to the Kidston place. Janroe was sure of it.
But Martha had interfered. She talked to her husband, soothing the welts on his face with a damp cloth while she soothed his anger with the calm, controlled tone of her voice. And finally Cable had nodded and agreed not to do anything that day. He would go home and watch the house-that much he had to do-but he would not carry the fight to the Kidstons; at least not while he felt the way he did. He agreed to this grudgingly, wearily, part by part, while Martha reasoned in that quiet, firm, insisting, never-varying tone.
Perhaps if he went out to see Cable now? No, the guns were coming and he would have to be here. In the morning then; though by that time the sting would be gone from the welts on Cable’s face and that solid patience would have settled in him again.
He had convinced Cable-that was the absolute truth of it-until the woman had started in with her moral, monotonous reasoning-
Janroe straightened. He stood listening, hearing the faint sound of a horse approaching. The hoofbeats grew louder, but not closer, and when the sound stopped, he knew the horse had reached the back of the store.
Luz? No, it was too early for her. He left the storeroom, carefully, quietly padlocking the door, came out into the open and took his time mounting to the platform and passing through the darkened store. He saw Martha first, standing in the kitchen, then Luz, and saw the girl’s eyes raise to his as he moved toward them.
“You’re early.”
“They’re not coming,” Luz said.
“What do you mean they’re not coming?”
“Not anymore.”
“All right,” Janroe said. “Tell me what you know.”
“The war’s over.”
She said it simply, in the same tone, and for a moment Janroe only stared at her.
“What are you talking about?”
“It’s true,” Martha said. “They told her as soon as she reached Hidalgo.”
He looked at Martha then, seeing her face no longer composed but for the first time flushed and alive and with a smile that was warm and genuine and seemed to include even him, simply because he was here to share the news with them.
He turned to Luz again. “Who told you?”
“Everyone knows it. They told me to come back and tell you.”
“But how do they know? How can they be sure?”
“They know, that’s all.”
“Listen, wars don’t just end like that.”
“How do they end?” Martha asked, not smiling now.
“There’s some warning-days, weeks before, that it’s going to end.”
“You know how news travels out here,” Martha said.
“No”-Janroe shook his head-“we would have heard something. It’s a false alarm, or a Yankee trick. It’s something else because a war just doesn’t end like that.”
“We’re telling you that the war is over,” Martha said. “Whether you believe it or not it ended five days ago, the day we came home.”
“And they’re just finding out now?” Janroe shook his head again. “Uh-unh, you don’t sell me any of that.”
“Would they have lied to Luz?”
“I don’t even know what they told her! How do I know she even went there?”
Martha was staring at him. “You don’t want to believe it.”
“What am I supposed to believe-everything this girl comes in and tells me?”
“Luz”-Martha glanced at the girl-“can I take your horse?”
Janroe saw Luz nodding and he said anxiously, “What for?”
“To tell my husband,” Martha answered, looking at him again.
“You think you should?” Janroe asked. It was moving too fast again, rushing at him again, not giving him time to think, and already it was the next step, telling her husband. They would not just stand and talk about it and see how ridiculous the news was; they would bring Cable into it, and if he argued about the sense of her going she would go all the quicker.
“I mean riding out alone at night,” Janroe said. He shook his head. “I couldn’t see you doing that.”
“I think my husband should know,” Martha began.
“I believe that,” Janroe said. The words were coming easier now. “But I think I better be the one to go tell him.”
Martha hesitated. Before she could say anything, Janroe had turned and was gone. She looked at Luz, but neither of them spoke, hearing Janroe just in the next room.
When he came into the kitchen again he was wearing a hat and a coat, the armless sleeve flat and ending abruptly in the pocket, but bulging somewhat with the shape of a shoulder holster beneath the coat.