Now his eyes were impassive. They were neither menacing or comforting, merely calm. Waiting. In a way, it was even more unnerving than his anger. She picked the last scraps of meat from the bone and swallowed water. Breed corked the canteen and said, ‘Now tell me.’ The woman wiped her mouth, knowing that she had no other choice.

  ‘Luke came courting,’ she said. ‘He’d been round before, but all he ever wanted was …’

  ‘Yeah,’ prompted the half-breed, ‘I know.’

  ‘Well, anyway.’ She sought for the right words, wondering if there was some way she could tell the story without revealing all the details. Not wanting to face the outcome of her revelation. ‘I’d been riding with Con. He’d been visiting, too. He’d talked about us getting married, but Poppa said he didn’t earn enough and, anyway, it wouldn’t be much of a life, being married to a peace officer. He said that I’d do better marrying Luke, because then we’d be rich. I knew Con wouldn’t leave his work, and even if I did marry him, Luke’s father would make things difficult. Poppa said that Jonas would run Con out of town. Even make it hard for him to find another post. And I couldn’t just leave Poppa, not on his own – he depends on me too much.’

  She paused, looking down at the sand where her fingers were tracing a vague pattern.

  ‘Go on,’ said Breed.

  ‘Well.’ She wiped the pattern away, teeth nibbling at her lower lip. ‘When I got back that day, Poppa was waiting. He said he wanted to talk to me, so Con went off. He said he’d come back later to get an answer. He said I had to make up my mind, because he wasn’t waiting much longer.

  ‘Poppa said that Luke had been round, saying he wanted to marry me. Poppa had given his permission, so Luke was coming back. Poppa said he’d send him over from the saloon.

  ‘When Luke arrived, he was pretty drunk. He’d spent most of the afternoon in the Lucky Lady with those friends of his. He said he wanted to marry me. Started telling me how we’d live out on the Box M, and how he’d inherit the ranch when his father died. He said Jonas would put money into Poppa’s store, and it would be the biggest hardware place in all of Texas. He said how we’d get married in San Antonio and then have a big party back in town. How Jonas would invite all the important people, and that would help Poppa’s store. It was like he was trying to buy me.

  ‘I said I couldn’t marry him. I didn’t love him. So then he got angry and started talking about Con. How he’d make sure Con would lose the next election. Run him out, and fix it with his father that Con wouldn’t get another job. Then he kissed me. He smelt of whiskey and his hands were all sweaty. I told him to stop it, but he wouldn’t. He went on.’

  She shuddered, lashes lowering to hide her eyes.

  ‘He got …Demanding … He started pawing me. He tore my dress. He bruised me.’

  ‘I saw,’ said Breed.

  She blushed, not meeting his gaze.

  ‘Yes. Well, anyway, he tore my dress and tried to … force me. I guess Poppa was wondering what was happening, because he came back about then. Luke didn’t hear him come in. Nor did I. The first I knew he was there was when he shouted. He said, “Get off her, you bastard.” Luke had me on the floor, and when he heard Poppa shout, he turned around and started reaching for his gun. Poppa had that Derringer he keeps in his belt. He shot Luke. It was horrible. Luke never got his gun out. He just sort of coughed and fell back with blood coming out of his chest. I don’t think Poppa knew what he was doing, really.

  ‘But then there was a knocking on the front door. That was Con. I suppose he’d heard that Luke was visiting and come round to check. Then you came in. Poppa just lost his head. He dropped the gun and ran out. Then Con found you.’

  ‘And you let him think I killed Masters,’ said Breed. ‘Or was that just an easy answer? Taggart must’ve seen your father.’

  Sarah nodded. Slowly; wearily.

  ‘He saw Poppa. He said that if Jonas found out Poppa had shot his son, then Poppa would hang. He said Jonas would make sure of that. He said it was better to say you did it. I’m sorry.’

  ‘Now,’ rasped Breed, and she heard the same anger in his voice she had heard in the store and at the trial.

  ‘I gave you the Derringer,’ she said. ‘I couldn’t leave you to hang.’

  ‘I might have used it on Taggart,’ said Breed. ‘Didn’t you think of that?’

  Sarah Black nodded again. ‘I couldn’t just leave you. I felt guilty. You killed Con anyway.’

  ‘He knew I was innocent,’ Breed grunted. ‘We both knew that, but he was going to hang me, anyway. I just returned the favor.’

  ‘Oh, God!’ moaned Sarah. ‘I wish you’d never come here.’

  ‘That wouldn’t have stopped Luke Masters,’ said the half-breed. ‘Wouldn’t have stopped you. If I hadn’t been there, who would you have blamed? Taggart?’

  The woman shrugged. ‘I don’t know. I couldn’t let Poppa hang. Could I?’

  Breed stared at her. Somewhere inside her mind there was a thought process that rationalized her lies and made them defensive truths. She had been protecting her father the only way she knew how, against the might of the Masters ranch. In the same circumstances he might have done the same thing. Except for one factor.

  His own life was at stake.

  There was something his father had told him once: When it all boils down, Kieron Gunn had said, you got to look after yourself. I don’t just mean staying alive, but what goes on inside you. You need to follow whatever path you think is right. You got to live with yourself. You can run from a man following you, but you can’t ever run from yourself.

  He saw tears in the woman’s eyes. Ignored them as he stood up and fetched the gray horse over.

  ‘Where are we going?’ she asked.

  ‘To tell Jonas Masters,’ answered Breed. ‘To tell him how his son got killed.’

  ‘No! ’ Her voice trembled. ‘Please! I’ll do anything.’ She opened her dress, easing it down over her shoulders so that her breasts were exposed. Sunlight struck the twin mounds, angling shadows down from the nipples. She looked at him, dark lashes fluttering over gray eyes. ‘Please?’

  ‘Get dressed.’ Breed saddled the horse, ignoring the stir her body roused in his. ‘You got two men killed already. I’ll not be the third.’

  ‘Money?’ She fastened her dress. ‘Poppa would pay you.’

  He belted the cinch tight and checked the stirrups. Not bothering to answer.

  ‘You’ll never make it,’ she said.

  ‘I wasn’t trying,’ answered Breed. ‘Hadn’t you noticed?’

  The woman blushed, then: ‘Jonas won’t believe you. He’ll have you killed.’

  ‘Maybe,’ said Breed. ‘Maybe not. I guess it depends on how I tell the story. How you tell it, too.’

  ‘I’ll say what I said at the trial.’ She stared at him with her face getting angry. ‘I’ll do anything to protect Poppa.’

  ‘Yeah?’ Breed grabbed her arm. ‘You sure?’

  He manhandled her over to the pit in the sand. From the upper level it was like a shiny, scoured bowl. The sun struck the sides and the bottom and got reflected back in a brilliant blur of light that was broken only by the prickly cactus plants around the rim.

  You want to wait there?’ he asked. ‘While I fetch Jonas Masters?’

  Sarah Black shook her head.

  ‘Then let’s ride,’ said Breed. ‘My way.’

  Chapter Nine

  ‘HE KILLED HIM,’ said Fargo. ‘Christ Jesus! He strung him up an’ left him dangling. When we found him, he’d been got at by animals. There wasn’t that much to take. Except this.’

  He handed Con Taggart’s badge to Jonas Masters. The rancher looked at the stained shield. And Fargo anticipated the next question.

  ‘He’s part Cherry Cow, Boss. They’re the meanest streak. He’ll want satisfaction.’

  ‘He won’t come here,’ said Jonas Masters. ‘He wouldn’t dare.’

  Fargo shrugged. ‘You remember when them fellows took young Chato’s wife? He followed them through. Killed them one by one. That’s how a Cherry Cow thinks: he gets hisself a grudge, he don’t give up.’

  ‘So?’ asked Jonas. ‘What you suggesting?’

  ‘We wait,’ said Fargo. ‘Way I see it, he’s got a grudge agin me an’ Jude an’ Cotton. That means he’ll come here.’

  Jonas Masters smiled. ‘If he does, take him alive. I want to see him hang.’

  ‘Right,’ said Fargo. ‘I’ll remember that.’

  The moon was filling back to a round orb as Breed approached the ranch house. It spread a pale light over the adobe of the lower buildings, and the wood that made up the higher level glowed warm in the night.

  Sarah Black was with his horse, in a stand of cottonwoods. Her ankles and wrists were tied together, and there was a gag in her mouth. Breed was on foot. His hair was tied back under the leather war band of the Chiricahua Apache, and he was armed with only his Colt and the two knives.

  He got up to the fence surrounding the ranch house and slithered under the poles. A Hereford cow snorted nervously and he paced gently towards her, clasping the moist nose as she prepared to bellow and blowing into the deep funnels of her nostrils. The heifer snorted contentedly and he went past her.

  There was a space between the inner circle of the corral and the house itself. He got down on his belly and began to move over the open ground like a snake. No one saw him, and he reached the side of the house and folded into the shadows under the porch.

  A door opened, and he slipped inside. He was in a kind of hall, white walls leading forwards to a dark wood door. He opened the door and went into a dark room. There was a tall clock against the far wall, its sound echoing loud in the stillness. The hands of the clock both pointed vertically. A gong somewhere inside struck a single, belling note.

  He crossed the floor and climbed the stairs leading up to the gallery.

  A light showed from under a door.

  He opened it, the Colt in his hand.

  Jonas Masters looked up from the book he was reading and opened his mouth. Then shut it as Breed came into the room with the gun pointed on the old man’s face.

  ‘Don’t try anything,’ said Breed, moving across the carpet to the wheelchair. ‘I got nothing to lose.’

  Jonas folded a marker into the book and tossed the volume onto the bed. It was something called Gunlaw by Charles Garrett.

  ‘You’re dead,’ said Masters. ‘The moment you squeeze that trigger.’

  ‘I know,’ Breed replied. ‘But so are you. So listen.’

  ‘To what?’ Jonas palmed his chair clear of the bed. ‘To a half-breed who killed my son?’

  Breed faced the old man, the Colt leveled on the lined face.

  ‘I didn’t,’ he said. ‘Caleb Black shot your son.’

  Jonas laughed. ‘Sure, I believe you. Trouble is, the judge didn’t.’

  ‘Sarah Black is close by,’ said Breed, ‘She knows the real story. Listen to her.’

  ‘Why?’ Jonas shook his head. ‘You killed Luke.’

  ‘No,’ said Breed. ‘I didn’t.’

  ‘You got convicted,’ said Masters. ‘Why should I believe anything else?’

  ‘Because,’ said Breed, ‘I’ll kill you if you don’t listen.’

  ‘Sarah would have spoken up,’ said Masters. ‘Before now. At the trial.’

  He ignored the threat, confident of his supremacy. Too assured of his station in life to countenance the arguments of a half-breed Apache. Too safe in his own home – his own empire – to believe that some intruder might threaten him.

  Breed lifted the pistol and pressed the muzzle against the old man’s face.

  ‘You’re going to talk to Sarah,’ he grated. ‘You’re going to listen to the truth.’

  The silver-haired man ignored the gun. Where fear should have shown in his eyes there was only contempt He chuckled.

  ‘How the hell you think you’ll fix that?’ His voice was bitter. ‘It takes two men to get this goddam chair downstairs. You try to carry me out, someone’s gonna spot you—my boys are waitin’ for you.’

  ‘They didn’t see me come in,’ grunted Breed.

  ‘They’ll sure as hell see you go out,’ said the old man. ‘All the way.’

  As he spoke, he glanced at the door. He seemed unafraid, as though the prospect of his death left him unmoved. Instead, he seemed to be waiting. And for the first time, Breed understood the full extent of his injury: Jonas Masters could no more get himself into bed than he could walk down the stairs. Yet the bed was prepared for sleep; pillows were stacked against the headboard and the covers were turned down. Masters was still dressed: he wore a dark blue shirt, and from under the blanket covering his legs, there protruded the tips of highly-polished boots. Breed realized that he was waiting. Realized that he needed someone to help him into bed. And was expecting that someone to arrive and give the alarm.

  The clock in the room below chimed the half-hour. Masters smiled and said, ‘You’re dead, boy.’

  ‘Not yet.’

  Breed clamped his fingers tight about the old man’s neck. The tips probed for the nerve points below the jaw, and Jonas Masters’ eyes opened wide in surprise as the sudden pressure reduced his body to the same numb state as his legs. His eyes glazed over, the lids slowly closing as his head lolled to the side.

  Breed stepped away from the wheelchair as a discreet knocking rang against the door.

  He moved on silent feet to the wall, watching as the door swung open and a Mexican in a white tunic and huaraches came in with a tray. The man smiled as he saw Masters, and he began to tiptoe across the room. He set the tray down on the bed and stooped to pick up the fallen book. While he was bent over, Breed came forwards and hit him once. On the side of the neck, using the butt of the Colt. The Mexican grunted and slumped flat. Breed lifted the tray from the bed and settled the Mexican under the covers. He dragged them up to the man’s chin, then shifted a pillow so that it hid most of his dark hair. Then he doused the light and stooped down to drag Jonas Masters from the wheelchair, onto his shoulder.

  The old man was heavy, one hundred and seventy pounds or more, and his unconsciousness made him pure dead weight, limp as a waterlogged sack. Carrying him down the stairs was difficult.

  Taking him out was harder.

  Breed got him onto the porch and halted there, panting as he listened to the slow pacing of the guard on the balcony. The footsteps halted at the corner, then a muffled voice said, ‘Got a light, Duke?’ There was a grunt of affirmation and the guard moved round to the rear of the building. A match scraped on a striker and tiny glow of flame showed through the underpinnings of the verandah. A voice said, ‘I don’t know what the hell we’re doin’ out here. That ’breed ain’t gonna risk comin’ in.’ And the first voice answered, ‘Orders. Beats ridin’ line.’

  Breed tugged Jonas Masters’ belt from his pants and fastened it under the man’s arms. Clutching the leather in his left hand he began to ease towards the fence, dragging the old man behind him.

  It was difficult getting the supine body up on the gray horse, and then he needed to lash it in place. He put Sarah Black in the saddle and ran a line under the stallion’s belly, fixing her ankles to the stirrups. Then he took the reins and began to trot away from the Box M. It was hard going, but he was wary of overburdening the stallion.

  He halted at dawn, somewhere south of Mattock, gagging both the woman and the old man before he rode away.

  It was noon by the time he returned with two horses, a piebald mare and a roan gelding.

  ‘Horse stealin’s a hangin’ offense,’ grunted Masters as Breed tied him to the saddle. ‘You ain’t got a chance.’

  Breed just laughed and led the way out on a wide-swinging circle that took them clear of the town and into the badlands beyond. He went back through the arid country north and west of Mattock, moving steadily towards the hidden canyon.

  When he reached the place, he put the horses inside the corral and carried Jonas Masters up to the adobe, then he untied Sarah and helped her up the steps to the terrace.

  ‘This is crazy,’ said the old man. ‘What the hell you doin’ this for?’

  ‘Like I said,’ Breed’s voice was cold as he answered, ‘I want you to hear the truth.’

  He looked at the woman. She shook her head.

  ‘Tell him,’ he said. ‘Tell him what you told me.’

  Sarah was abruptly reminded of the tiger again. Of the moment it turned in its cage, yellow eyes blazing, the great claws extending from the pads. She remembered that sudden explosion of movement, of raw, feral anger, when it had hurled itself across the cage. And now there were no bars separating her from the raw fury.

  She told Jonas Masters what she had told Breed.

  ‘Oh Jesus!’ said the cripple. ‘I never knew.’

  ‘What’ll you do to Poppa?’ the woman asked.

  Masters shrugged. ‘Ain’t much I can do. It depends on him.’

  He looked at Breed as he said it, his mouth curling in distaste.

  ‘He was guarding his daughter’s honor,’ said Breed. ‘Why not leave him be?’

  ‘That mean you’re lettin’ us go?’ Masters asked. ‘After I promised to hang you?’

  ‘Why not?’ Breed stared back at the old man. ‘I squared things with you. You’re out of it now.’

  ‘What else you plannin’?’ asked Masters. ‘More murder?’

  Breed shook his head. ‘Murder?’

  ‘You killed Taggart.’

  ‘He was ready to kill me. I owed him as much.’

  Within the tenets of Apache justice it was a reasonable argument: a life taken for a life threatened. That side of the half-breed’s nature that still thought in the way of his mother’s people saw the logic of the argument. Not even an argument, merely a rational extension of the law – often brutal – of survival. At the same time, that part of his mind that was governed by his father’s influence told him that no white man would see it the same way. The pinda-lick-oyi would kill, sure. To shoot a man wearing a gun was acceptable. It need not matter that one man -gifted with speed and skill-must inevitably kill the other; that was not murder. Not in their eyes. That was a fair fight. Unless the white man’s law decided differently, and the killer was taken out and hung. That was fair, too – by their rules. But for a half-breed to take a man who had tried to kill him, and do the same – exactly the same, save for the difference of parentage – that was wrong.

 

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