Jane Stockdale was taking clothes down from the line. She removed the pins from a large bedsheet, then took it down.
“Oh!” she gasped.
Removing the bedsheet exposed a man standing behind it. He was holding a pistol.
“Where at is your man?” he asked.
“He’s in the house,” she said. “And if he sees you here, he will shoot you.”
In fact her husband was not here. He and Timmy had gone into town to buy some supplies. But Jane was afraid to tell the man she was alone.
“Is that a fact?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t believe you. If your man was here he’d be out here right now, wantin’ to know what is goin’ on. That is, if he was a man.”
“He’s here,” Jane said, though her declaration sounded weak even to her own ears.
“Uh-huh. Then who was that man and kid I seen leavin’ in the buckboard about fifteen minutes ago?”
“Who are you?” Jane asked. “What do you want?”
“The name is Monroe. And what I want is a little food, that’s all. Just a little food and I’ll be on my way.”
“All right,” Jane said, fighting to keep her voice calm.
“I would never like it said that I turned away a hungry man.” She started toward the house.
“Hey, you, wait a minute,” Monroe said. He pointed at Jane. “I know who you are now. You was on that stage, wasn’t you?”
Jane gasped. She had realized, almost from the moment she first saw him, that he was one of the men who had robbed the stage, killed the shotgun guard, and later killed Cloud Dancer. But she had thought it might be dangerous to let him know that she recognized him, so she had not challenged him.
“I don’t know what you are talking about,” she said, still trying to pretend he’d made a mistake.
“The hell you don’t. You was on that stage all right. You, your kid, a drummer, an Injun girl, and MacCallister.”
“Why did you kill her?” Jane asked, no longer trying to keep up the pretense of not knowing him. “Why did you kill Cloud Dancer?”
“Cloud Dancer? That was her name?”
“Why did you kill her?” Jane asked again.
Monroe started to tell her that it was Ponci who killed her, that he didn’t have anything to do with it. But he changed his mind, deciding it might be better if she feared him.
“I killed her because she wouldn’t do what I wanted her to do.” He leered at Jane. “Do you get my meanin’?”
“I ... I suppose I do,” Jane admitted.
“Good, good, I’m glad we understand each other. So, just to show me that you do understand, I want you to take off your clothes.”
“What?”
“You heard me. I said take off your clothes,” Monroe said.
“I ... I thought you were hungry. Let me get you something for you to eat.”
“There will be plenty of time for food later,” Monroe said. “Take off them clothes.”
“Please,” Jane said in a pleading voice. “Don’t make me do this thing.”
“I ain’t goin’ to ask you again,” Monroe said, pointing his pistol at her head and cocking it.
Slowly, reluctantly, and fearfully, Jane began unbuttoning her dress.
She pulled the dress over her head, then began unlacing the camisole. When she had it completely unlaced, she looked at him pleadingly.
“Please,” she said. “Don’t make me do this.”
Monroe’s eyes were clouded with lust, and Jane thought she could see something red deep down inside them. She opened the camisole and felt the effect of the air on her bare nipples.
Then, to her shock and surprise, the side of Monroe’s head seemed to explode as blood, brain matter, and bits of bone spewed out from his temple. Monroe’s eyes rolled back, showing all white. Not until he was falling did she hear the distant report of a rifle.
Jane gasped, but she didn’t scream. Instead, she just looked down at Monroe’s body as she dispassionately relaced the front of her camisole. She had herself covered by the time the man who shot Monroe came strolling up.
“Mr. MacCallister,” she said. “I might have guessed it was you.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Falcon said. “Are you hurt?”
“I’m all right,” Jane replied. She turned her back to him as she continued to lace up the camisole. “If you’ll forgive me, I’ll try and recover my modesty, if not my dignity.”
“You don’t need to worry about that, Mrs. Stockdale,” Falcon said. “Your dignity was never compromised.”
“Five,” Keytano said, counting the scalps Falcon laid on the ground before him. “You have killed five of your white brothers.”
“They were white,” Falcon said. “But they were not my brothers.”
“You also killed six Apache,” Keytano said.
Falcon shook his head. “I killed only five. One of your brothers was killed by another.”
Keytano shook his head. “They were Apache,” he said. But they were not my brothers.”
Keytano put his hand on Falcon’s shoulder, and Falcon did the same.
“You and I are brothers,” Keytano said.
Falcon smiled. “It’s good to hear you say that, Keytano,” he said. “Because I’ve got a silver mine that needs to be worked. And as it turns out, it’s pretty close to your territory.”
“Hear me,” Keytano called out, loud enough that the many who had gathered in the center circle could hear his words.
“This is Dlo Binanta. From this day forward, he is my brother. For him, I will be a white man, and for me, he will be an Apache.”
“Well, I thank you for that,” Falcon said.
“It is okay,” Keytano said. He smiled. “For I know you will share twenty percent of your silver mine with me.”
“You want twenty percent of my silver mine?”
“Is it not the way of the white man to take what is not his?” Keytano asked innocently.
Falcon laughed out loud. “Keytano,” he said. “All I’ve got to say is, you are one hell of a fast learner.”
AFTERWORD
Notes from the Old West
In the small town where I grew up, there were two movie theaters. The Pavilion was one of those old-timey movie show palaces, built in the heyday of the Mary Pickford and Charlie Chaplin silent era of the 1920s. By the 1950s, when I was a kid, the Pavilion was a little worn around the edges, but it was still the premier theater in town. They played all those big Technicolor biblical Cecil B. DeMille epics and the corny MGM musicals. In Cinemascope, of course.
On the other side of town was the Gem, a somewhat shabby and rundown grindhouse with sticky floors and torn seats. Admission was a quarter. The Gem booked low-budget B pictures (remember the Bowery Boys?), war movies, horror flicks, and Westerns. I liked the Westerns best. I could usually be found every Saturday at the Gem, along with my best friend, Newton Trout, watching Westerns from 10 AM until my father came looking for me around suppertime. (Sometimes Newton’s dad was dispatched to come fetch us.) One time, my dad came to get me, right in the middle of Abilene Trail, which featured the now-forgotten Whip Wilson. My father became so engrossed in the action, he sat down and watched the rest of it with us. We didn’t get home until after dark, and my mother’s meatloaf was a pan of gray ashes by the time we did. Though my father and I were both in the doghouse the next day, this remains one of my fondest childhood memories. There was Wild Bill Elliot, and Gene Autry, and Roy Rogers, and Tim Holt, and, a little later, Rod Cameron and Audie Murphy. Of these newcomers, I never missed an Audie Murphy Western, because Audie was sort of an anti-hero. Sure, he stood for law and order and was an honest man, but sometimes he had to go around the law to uphold it. If he didn’t play fair, it was only because he felt hamstrung by the laws of the land. Whatever it took to get the bad guys, Audie did it. There were no finer points of law, no splitting of legal hairs. It was instant justice, devoid of long-winded lawyers, bored or biased jurors, or black-robed, often corrupt judges.