Fiction spectacular, p.55
Fiction Spectacular, page 55
The little planet rolled steadily toward the sunrise, the cold stars glided above them. Quietly, the dawn breeze simpered among the grasses.
Quite slowly, MacMartree raised his head.
“Abner, Phillips, Cole . . .” They didn’t answer, but he knew they heard him, and were listening, within their individual worlds of aching loneliness and fear.
“I. . . I know what our Enemy is,” MacMartree said.
They came a little closer to him then, venturing out of themselves a fraction to hear what he said.
“Our Enemy,” MacMartree told them, “Is God.”
AFTER a pause, the inevitable question came. Phillips voiced it for the rest.
“What is—God?”
MacMartree shook his head. “A myth—a legend—I thought. There were so many things in all those ancient books I read . . . how was I to know?”
“This is something you read, too?”
“Yes, in a very old book. In many of them, actually, but one in particular. A book called—” the name eluded him. He let it go. “God was a deity. People worshipped Him, thousands of years ago.”
Cole had stopped his crying.
“The book was written as the Word of God. I—I remember a part of it . . .”
“Tell us,” dully, from Abner.
“ ‘I the Lord thy God am a jealous God’. I think that explains it best.” He sighed. “It’s my fault, I suppose. Man is omnipotent, I said. Man is all-powerful. Man can do anything! Yes, it was enough to rouse the anger of a jealous God.”
“Is He going to kill us, then?”
“I don’t know, Phillips. He could have, long before this . . .”
“How can we fight Him,” Cole whispered. “How?”
“We can’t,” the old man said. “God is the only omnipotent One. We are not.” He got to his feet, came around to face them.
“One thing we can do.”
“What?” they wanted to know. “What can we do?”
“We can try to—talk to Him.” The grassy world sped softly toward its dawning. Beyond the hill that rose above them, lean fingers of light came creeping from the lifting sun. It seemed to come in answer to those stumbling, clumsy, fervent prayers—the first prayers that had touched the lips of men in a thousand years.
Lost in concentration, MacMartree felt the sweet breath of the sun’s first warmth upon his back. He opened his eyes, found them dimmed somehow, and a wetness on his cheeks.
Wonderingly, they looked at one another, awed by what they read upon each other’s faces.
“I forgot,” MacMartree said softly. “I forgot that He is also merciful . . .”
Abner slowly raised his arm.
“It’s healed,” he said.
THE END
1954
Trigger Proud
Case Burdick’s guns ramrodded the spread until the day he used them on a squatter and found he’d be taking orders from a new boss—a gent called Death!
IT WAS a fine morning, a bright, sharp looking morning. Case Burdick appraised it from his kitchen window, and thought to himself that it looked like the start of a day in which a man might accomplish something. The thought brought a half-smile to his mouth, because he fully intended to accomplish something today—something that he had been looking forward to doing for some time.
His breakfast finished, Burdick sent the cook down to the bunkhouse for his foreman, Sam Turney. While he waited for Turney to appear, he lighted a long cheroot, and smoked contentedly, idly thinking of what was to happen today.
Turney let himself in by the kitchen door. He stood a moment, while his eyes adjusted from the morning glare to the comparative darkness of the room.
“Sit down, Sam,” Burdick invited. “Still some coffee in the pot—pour yourself a cup.”
Turney obeyed, and sat down, across from Burdick. Burdick continued smoking while Turney sipped his coffee. It became a sort of contest, each man letting the silence pile up, waiting for the other to give in and break it.
In an unusually generous mood, Burdick decided to give in.
“We’re taking a little ride this morning, Sam. I wondered if you’d want to come.”
“If you want me along, sure.”
Burdick nodded absently, his gaze still on the window and the morning landscape beyond it.
“Yeah,” he continued unhurriedly, “thought we’d ride over to the Double U, pick up Johnny Baines, then stop by the Crooked-horn for Potter and his boy—then maybe swing across to the buttes for Massenger . . .”
Turney put his cup down carefully.
“You sure you want me along? I’ll feel kinda funny—the only hired help in a bunch of big land-owners like that.”
Burdick’s gaze came away from the window and focussed on his foreman.
“Big? You’re ramrod on my spread, ain’t you?” He smiled. “That sets you up as big as any of ’em, Sam.”
Turney smiled back on cue.
“I guess that’s right, too,” he agreed dutifully.
“And after we get our little bunch together,” Burdick went on, concentrating now on the glowing end of his cheroot, “I figure we’ll most likely head over towards the river, and—say howdy to some folks.”
“Oh,” Turney said, seeing at last what It was all about.
“Still want to go?” Burdick asked.
“Sure, sure,” Turney replied, a little hastily.
“It’s all planned,” Burdick said, his tone businesslike now. “They’ll be waiting for us—Baines, Abel and his boy, and Massenger. I didn’t tell you about it because I didn’t want it getting noised around the bunkhouse.”
Turney’s mouth flattened down.
“Sure,” he said, but only because he had to.
“No offense, of course,” Burdick assured him, but it didn’t sound very assuring.
The foreman’s brow wrinkled thoughtfully. He sloshed his coffee dregs around in the bottom of his cup.
“You look for a little trouble, maybe, when you get to the river?”
The other man shrugged.
“They’re funny people, Sam. I guess they think they own that land down there, just because they been squattin’ on it—‘and I think they might offer to fight for what they figure they own. Don’t let that religion of theirs fool you. There’s some men can get as much spit an’ vinegar out of a Bible as others get from a gutful of whiskey.” His cheroot had gone out. He relighted it.
“I don’t figure they can give us more trouble than we can handle, if that’s what you mean,” he said.
“I didn’t mean that,” Turney said.
“We can get going any time,” Burdick told him. “Saddle us a couple horses—I’ll meet you down at the corral.”
Turney stood and headed out. He paused in the open doorway.
“Winchesters?” he asked.
“I’ll take mine. Colts will do for you, I expect.”
“Sure.” The foreman stepped outside and closed the door quietly behind him.
The sunlight was warming to ride in. A mile out from his ranch house, Burdick loosened his shirt collar.
“Might get hot, on towards noon,” he said.
Riding beside him, Turney nodded.
“We’ll all eat something at Massenger’s place, before we ride on to the river,” Burdick added.
“Sure,” Turney agreed.
THEY RODE capably, two strong men, big and solid in the saddle. Of the two, Burdick was the larger. His hair showed gray at the temples; there were lines around his eyes and mouth and on his forehead, and his belly pushed out from behind his belt a little, but these were the only marks of aging on him. Turney was a younger edition, as yet unblanched, unlined and unfatted. They both had a look of coldness about them. You expected a cold wind to follow in their wake, dulling the brightness of the spring-green range land.
“Ain’t nervous about this, are you, Sam?” Burdick asked.
“No,” the younger man answered.
Burdick shifted in his saddle, eyed the other man carefully.
“You don’t look real pleased about it.”
“I figure we could have a little better help, is all,” Turney told him frankly. “They’re all old men, all but young Potter—an’ he’s too much the other way.”
“We need ’em, just the same.”
“Well—you know, I guess.”
Burdick smiled. “I’ll tell you why we need ’em, Sam,” he said. “Those damn hymn-singin’ squatters are on my range. If just me and you, and maybe a couple of the boys went in there, and there come some trouble out of it—it don’t look good. The laws got things in ’em about squatters’ rights, now, and we might get into a potful o’ grief.”
“I suppose,” Turney acknowledged.
“But this way, with the three other big ranchers in the valley ridin’ with us—well, hell, Sam, we’re a delegation.”
“Yeah, I guess we are at that.” Turney thought about it for a time. “How did you talk ’em into coming in with you?” he wanted to know.
“Easy.” Burdick laughed shortly. “They’re scared o’ squatters, for one thing. If the word gets out that there’s green pastures a-plenty here, there’ll soon be a squatter behind every bush. For another thing, they’re scared o’ me. I’m king-coyote on this range—they’ll follow my lead, because they don’t want to be on the other side of the fence from me.”
“Uh-huh.” Turney sounded dubious.
“You don’t think so?” Burdick demanded. “You watch. If it gets so I have to talk rough, they’ll be in it as soon as I am. Soon as my gun is out, theirs’ll be, too. Like a bunch o’ sheep, Sam—an’ I’m top sheep-dog.”
“Uh-huh,” Turney said.
Old Johnny Baines was waiting on his veranda. His horse was hitched to the porch rail, saddled and ready. When Burdick and Turney rode in, Baines eased himself out of his cane-bottom rocker, and mounted his horse.
“Expected you some earlier,” he said, byway of greeting.
“Too hot to ride fast,” Burdick replied. “Plenty o’ time,” he added.
Baines made a wry face. “All the time in the world, far as that goes,” he admitted.
They turned south from Baines’s Double U ranch, riding stirrup to stirrup across the range. Baines rode as though his spine were one solid bone, straight and unyielding as the barrel of the Winchester in his saddle scabbard.
Studying Baines from the tail of his eye, Burdick felt vaguely amused. It was amusing that a man so old would carry a young-sounding name like Johnny. And Baines looked old. That ramrod back didn’t give any illusions of lingering youth. It looked more as though time had decided to petrify Johnny Baines, instead of corrupting him.
The sun crawled higher, reaching for its zenith. The earth warmed, and sent up shimmering heat-waves. Warmth closed down around the riders as the miles jolted past. It smothered conversation. When they reached the Crooked-horn spread, sweat had already soaked the armpits of their shirts.
Abel Potter and his son Ed, waiting in the shade of their veranda, looked cool and comfortable by comparison. It irritated Burdick. He reined in and sat glowering at father and son as they moved in a leisurely manner to mount their horses.
“Sure wish I could set in the shade all morning,” Burdick said, showing his annoyance.
Young Ed Potter grinned at him.
“Well, now, Case, if you want to swap ranches with us, you won’t have so far to ride, next time.”
Burdick snorted, obliquely flattered at the absurdity of this.
Abel Potter eyed Sam Turney with open disapproval.
“Didn’t know you figured to bring help with you, Case,” he said to Burdick.
“Sam’s a handy man with guns, if it should come to that,” Burdick told him. Potter and Johnny Baines exchanged glances at this, but neither of them said anything more about it.
But young Potter kneed his horse over next to Turney’s.
“Say, you a real curly-headed gunslinger for true, Sam?” he inquired with dry gaiety. “Maybe we’ll get to shoot up a prayer meeting today, eh?”
Turney, his prediction about his feelings in this crowd of landowners coming true, chose to let it pass.
“Sure,” was all he said.
THEY LEFT the Crooked-horn behind them, angling more east than south, now; riding for the low twin buttes that marked the Massenger ranch. The country was open and flat. They rode across it five-abreast, fanned out like a cavalry troop on parade. Burdick held the middle of the line, with Baines and Abel Potter on his immediate left and right, young Potter and Sam Turney riding either flank.
After a time, Abel Potter turned to Burdick.
“How we going to do it, Case? I mean, what are we going to say?”
Burdick shrugged.
“It’s all been said, plenty. They’ve been told to get out—now we got to show ’em we mean business.”
On his right, Johnny Baines shook his head.
“They won’t go easy,” he predicted darkly. “They think the Lord led ’em here, or something.”
“The Lord can damn well lead ’em some place else,” young Potter, offered. “Ain’t that right, Case?”
Burdick smiled. “That’s the ticket, Ed.” He favored his little army with an approving glance, right and left. “Just follow my play,” he told them. “It’ll be easy, real easy.”
“Sure,” Turney said automatically.
At Massenger’s, they stopped to rest the horses, and to eat. Phil Massenger, a noisy bright-eyed little man, sparked laughter with a running fire of crude humor about the squatters and their religious peculiarities. But only Burdick, Abel Potter and his boy Ed laughed with Massenger. Turney was silent, still feeling ill at ease, and there was no telling what Johnny Baines felt. His face was studiously blank. Burdick noticed, and thought that Baines was like so many old men, who profess quiet wisdom with their silences, when actually they are stupid and senile.
Then the noon meal was finished, and they sat smoking, pipe and cheroot. Massenger ran out of funny things to say about the squatters.
“What you think, Case?” he asked, after a lull in the talk. “Time to go?”
Burdick let a few seconds of silence fill the gap between Massenger’s question and his reply. He wanted a touch of the dramatic in this—he wanted the jovial mood left here at the table, when they started for the river.
“All right,” he said at length. “Now’s as good a time as any.” He stood up abruptly. His chair scraped back with a sudden grating sound that made Johnny Baines wince nervously. Burdick was achieving the thing he wanted, apparently. It was all grim, purposeful business, now.
Even the horses seemed to sense it. They set out from the Massenger ranch at a crisp gait. The six riders fanned out, less companionable and more militant, joking and light talk replaced by a stern, silent concentration. Burdick secretly congratulated himself for establishing a grim atmosphere so quickly. He overlooked the fact that this was the same mood in which Johnny Baines had cloaked himself all morning long.
The flat land tilted under them after a time, and they were riding down an imperceptible grade toward the valley floor. A current of cooler air moved up to meet them. The horses pricked their ears, and nickered hopefully at the smell of running water somewhere ahead. A tension was building in the men. Abel Potter took to clearing his throat repeatedly, much to Burdick’s annoyance.
Surprisingly enough, it was Johnny Baines who broke the silence at last.
“Don’t figure they’ll be expecting us, do you, Case?” he inquired.
Burdick shook his head. “It don’t matter if they are,” he replied shortly.
Nervously, little Phil Massenger glanced back and up, at the thin haze of dust, rising from beneath their horses’ hoofs.
“They’ll be expecting us, all right,” he predicted. “If the Lord don’t tell ’em we’re coming, our dust will.”
Young Ed Potter snickered at this, but no one else found it compellingly funny. Nevertheless, Burdick felt called upon to reassert the gravity of their mission. He pulled his carbine from its scabbard, noisily levered a cartridge into the firing chamber, thumbed the hammer down to safety position, and then returned the gun to the boot.
No one openly took notice, but after a long minute, Johnny Baines went through a similar ritual with his own carbine, and then, one by one, the others made a show of readying their individual weapons. All but Sam Turney—he had checked his Colts before starting the ride that morning, and he wasn’t so swept up in Burdick’s mood that he felt the need to check them again.
Grass swished rankly beneath the horses’ hoofs now; there was no more plume of dust to betray their coming. On their right, cottonwood and clumps of willow stood green beside the shallow river. Beyond a grove of cottonwoods just ahead, a curl of wood-smoke lifted waveringly to lose itself in the brassy sky. The riders sifted through the screen of trees, and moved out into the fringes of the squatters’ encampment.
Deep-bellied wagons stood empty here and there. Near them, dun-colored tents had been raised, until permanent houses could be built. The ranchers rode past them, and continued along the wide river bank.
“They saw us comin’, all right,” Abel Potter said. “Ain’t nobody in sight any place.”
“They’ll be up ahead,” Burdick told them. “Up where they’ve started their meeting house.”
Massenger and Johnny Baines nodded silent agreement.
ANOTHER GROVE loomed before them. Relentlessly the riders pressed through it. When they emerged, they were moving across a flat meadow, dotted with more wagons, more tents, and grazing animals. Directly ahead a long, log building stood half-completed, and before it a knot of men was waiting.
Burdick didn’t let his horse slow its pace—he urged it forward, then reined back crisply when he reached the waiting group. The others reined in behind him—several feet behind him.
Coldly, Burdick surveyed the silent men. They returned his stare from under their flat-brimmed hats, the square-cut beards of the older ones jutting firm and unmoving. At length, Burdick’s gaze rested impersonally on the man who stood forward as the leader of the squatters.
