"Gillom Rogers! Is that whiskey?" demanded his mother.
"Heck, no, Ma. Tiger milk."
Books accepted the bottle. "Do you want him to have this?" he asked her.
"I do not."
Books put it away in a pocket of his coat. "Take a walk, son."
Gillom chewed a lip. "Don't call me son, Mr. Books. I have a name."
"Take a walk, Gillom."
The youth looked at one, then the other, grinned as though he knew a secret, and left them, traipsing down the ditch.
Books took Bond Rogers' arm and walked with her along the acequia. The water was swift and clear, a gift from the Rio Grande and the law of gravity. The cottonwoods which lined it were immense, a hundred years old, and the leaves were winter gold.
"He needs a father, and a woodshed, and a strap," said Books. "Why don't you marry again?"
"Are you feeling all right?"
"As well as can be. Why don't you marry again?"
"That is none of your affair."
"I do not have time to be polite."
"Very well. I haven't been asked, for one thing. For another, I loved my husband and still do."
"Why?"
"I can't count the reasons. He was splendid with Gillom, for example. They went to ballgames, fishing, to bullfights over in Ciudad Juárez, everywhere together. Ray played cornet in the McGinty Band, and Gillom would sit through every concert."
"Ray. What did he die of?"
"A stroke, they think. He simply failed to come home for supper one evening. They found him slumped at his desk."
"He was lucky."
"No. He was forty-one."
Books strolled thoughtfully at her side, hands clasped behind his back. "Did he leave you much?"
"Just the house, which we built. By means of a large loan at the bank. And Gillom, of course."
"He worries you."
"You noticed. He certainly does. He refuses to attend school, preferring to hang around Utah Street. Today is the first time I've seen him with whiskey, but I'm sure he drinks when he can. He curses. He has stolen from my purse. He comes in at all hours and won't account to me. If his father were here it would be different, but he isn't."
"Why do you say that?"
"Woman's intuition. Male logic. He loved Ray deeply. Now he hates him for dying and hates me for living. He even hates himself, I suspect—I'm not clear why. Perhaps he thinks he must be the man of the family now, and fears he may not be man enough, and therefore must prove it." She stopped. "How I grieve for him. He bears a grudge against God, I guess. I can't reason with him—all I can do is mother him, and he doesn't want that."
Books had halted. "You could give him another father."
"Who? One like you? So he could be taught how to handle a gun and murder and carouse? Oh, he respects you all right—he's in absolute awe of you. He'd shine your boots if you asked." Her tone grew harsh. "Oh no, thank you, J. B. Books! Don't you dare be his dime-novel hero! Don't you dare let him love you and respect you the way he did his father—ever! You're not worthy of it!"
She glared at him. Books scowled at her, then put hands behind back and resumed their promenade. "Can't you send him away?"
She caught up. "On the next train if I could. El Paso's no place to rear a boy, especially if one is alone. I have a cousin in Massachusetts, and near her there's a private school, the Milton Academy. I'd give anything to send him there for a year or two—but five hundred dollars might as well be the moon." She tightened her shawl about her. "Let's leave the subject. Please enjoy your outing. Why should you care about us anyway, Gillom and me? You have concerns enough of your own."
He turned to one of the cottonwoods and put his back to it comfortably, letting the trunk take his weight. He said, "I have no one else to care about."
The statement disarmed her. She joined him, leaning herself against the trunk, which was five feet in diameter. These trees had great gnarled roots twisting down into the acequia, stealing from it in all seasons their stature and endurance.
"Are you married?" she asked.
"No. I was once. I was eighteen. She died, trying to have a girl. So did the child."
"I'm sorry. You should have married again. The right woman might have changed the course of your life."
"I doubt it. I have a sudden nature."
"It's my turn to pry. How long have you been—been a gun man? Perhaps I should use the term the paper did the other morning—it has so much more dignity—a 'shootist'?"
"I don't think of myself as either."
"You don't? Well, if not, what are you?"
"I have earned a living several ways. I speculated in cotton, down in Louisiana. I bought and sold cattle once, at the railhead in Kansas. I struck a little gold. I have made a good deal at cards over the years, and lost a good deal, too. In general, I have had a damned good time. Till lately."
"Lately, yes. Have you relatives?"
"I used to have, over in San Saba County. I don't know where they are."
"What about friends?"
"No."
"None at all?"
"I have always herded by myself."
"Do you mean no one will come to see you? Or people you'll want to send word to, that you are—"
"Going to perdition? No."
"I'm shocked. I pity you, truly. To have no one now—that is indeed a tragedy."
"Here comes Gillom."
He dawdled toward them, pitching stones into the ditch.
"What does 'J.B.' stand for?" she asked quickly.
"John Bernard. What is yours?"
"Bond."
"Pleased to make your acquaintance, Bond."
"How do you do."
He moved away from the tree to meet Gillom. To her surprise she noted, when they met, that her son was taller than Books. She had never looked at the man-killer that way. She had equated notoriety with height. Suddenly she saw a pistol in his hand.
"Ever fired one of these?" Books asked Gillom.
"A couple times. A guy I know, name of Cobb, let me fire his Colt's. He's got two beauties."
"Want to try this one?"
"Gee, do I!"
"All right." Books pointed. "See the knot in that trunk yonder? It's about sixty feet away. Stand, aim, and fire five rounds. Easy when you pull. It's a hair trigger."
"Why not six?"
"You keep the hammer chamber empty. An extra safety. Never load six unless you're sure you will be using the weapon."
"Oh. Why such a short barrel?"
"Speed."
"Oh. O.K. Ma'll have a conniption, though." Gillom took the Remington, faced the cottonwood, raised his right arm, aimed. "There's no sight!"
"Close in, you don't need one. Steady now. Take your time. Pull easy."
Gillom fired five times, slowly, re-aiming after each round. The shots were muffled by leaves and the lowering sky, and fell like a single syllable upon the ear despite the intervals between rounds, for the echo of one explosion was fused with the explosion of the next round. Through a haze of powder smoke the youth turned, his expression one of such wonder, such ecstasy, that it was almost grotesque, to find Books with a second pistol in hand, a few feet away, aiming at a knot in the tree adjacent to his own target.
The man fired five times, even more deliberately, and lowered his arm.
Gillom jumped to him, returned his weapon, then dashed to examine the two knots while Books reloaded immediately from a box of bullets.
"My spread's no bigger'n yours! Hey, damn if I didn't tie you! Hey, look, Ma!" Gillom whooped. "I tied 'im! Look!"
She had not moved, did not move.
Books put the guns away inside his coat. He appeared disinterested in his marksmanship. Together they walked back to Bond Rogers. Gillom strutted.
When they approached, her lips were a thin, stern line. "Why did you do it?" she accused the man.
"A weapon wants firing regularly. Otherwise it fouls when you need it."