Last Stand at Saber River - Leonard Elmore John - Страница 30
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It took him less than an hour altogether. By the time he left the horse trail he had cleared his mind of everything but the Kidstons. Winding, moving more slowly through the sandstone country, he was able to calm himself and think about what he would do after, what he would do about Cable, what he would tell Martha and Luz. Martha…
By the time he reached the edge of the timber stand bordering the Kidston place, looking across the open area to the house and outbuildings, he was composed and ready. He was Edward Janroe who happened to be riding by, say, on his way to Fort Buchanan. He was a man they had seen at least once a week for the past eight months. He was the one-armed man who owned the store now and didn’t say much. He was nothing to be afraid of or even wonder about. Which was exactly the way Janroe wanted it.
Janroe came out of the trees, letting the dun mare move at its own pace toward the house. He was aware of someone on the veranda, certain that it was Duane when he saw the pinpoint glow of a cigar.
There was no hurry now. Janroe’s eyes rose from the veranda to the lighted second-story window, then beyond the corner of the house, past the corral where a dull square of light showed the open door of the bunkhouse. There were no sounds from that end of the yard, none from the big adobe that was pale gray and solid looking in the darkness. The cigar glowed again and now Janroe was close.
“Good evening, Major.”
Duane leaned forward, the wicker chair squeaking. “Who is it?”
“Edward Janroe.” Now, almost at the veranda, Janroe brought the dun to a halt. He saw Duane rise and come close to the railing, touching it with his stomach.
“I didn’t mean to startle you,” Janroe said.
“You didn’t startle me.” There was indignation in Duane’s tone.
“I meant you sitting here by yourself…Is Vern about?”
“No, he’s up at his pastures. You wanted to see him?”
“I’d like to have. But I guess you can’t have everything.”
“What?”
“Where’s Vern, out on the horse drive?”
“Getting it started. He’s been gone all day.”
“You alone?”
“My daughter’s in the house.”
“And somebody’s out in the bunkhouse.”
Duane seemed annoyed, but he said, “A couple of the men.”
“I thought everybody went out on the drives,” Janroe said.
“We always keep one man here.”
“You said a couple of men were there.”
As if remembering something, Duane’s frown of annoyance vanished. “The second man rode in a while ago to tell us the news. I’ve been sitting here ever since thinking about it.” Duane paused solemnly. “Mr. Janroe, the war is over. Lee surrendered the Army of Northern Virginia to General Grant on April ninth.”
“Is that a fact?” Janroe said.
“I have been thinking of a place called Chancellorsville,” Duane said gravely. “I have been thinking of the men I knew who died there: men I campaigned with who gave their lives that this final victory might be accomplished.”
“A touching moment,” Janroe said.
Duane’s eyes rose. “If you had served, you would know the feeling.”
“I served.”
“Oh? I didn’t know that. In the Union army?”
“With Kirby Smith.”
“Oh…You lost your arm…were wounded in battle?”
“During the fight at Richmond, Kentucky.”
“Is that right? I was in Cincinnati at the time. If I hadn’t been on my way to Washington, I would have answered General Nelson’s call for volunteers.”
“That would have been something,” Janroe said, sitting easily and looking down at Duane, “if we’d fought against each other.”
Duane nodded gravely. “More terrible things than that have actually happened. Brother fighting brother, friend against friend. The wounds of our minds as well as those of our bodies will have to be healed now if we are to live together in peace.” Duane added, for effect, “The war is over.”
“You’re not just telling me that?” Janroe said.
“What?”
“That the war’s over.”
“Of course it is. The word came direct from Fort Buchanan. They learned about it this afternoon. Their rider ran into Vern, and Vern sent a man here to tell us. Vern realized I would want to know immediately.”
“I haven’t been told,” Janroe said. “Not officially, and your telling me doesn’t count.”
Duane was frowning, squinting up at Janroe in the darkness with his cigar poised a few inches from his face. “How could you learn more officially than this? The message came from Fort Buchanan, a military establishment.”
“You learned it from your side,” Janroe said. “I haven’t been told officially from mine.”
“Man, you’ve been out of the war for at least a year! Do you expect them to tell personally every veteran who served?”
“I haven’t been out of it.” Janroe paused, studying Duane’s reaction. “I’m still fighting, just like you’ve been with your saddle-tramp cavalry, like your brother’s been doing supplying Yankee remounts.”
Duane was squinting again. “You’ve been at your store every day. I’m almost sure of it.”
“Look under the store,” Janroe said. “That’s where we keep the Enfields.”
“British rifles?”
“Brought in through Mexico, then shipped east.”
“I don’t believe it.” Duane shook his head. “All this time you’ve been moving contraband arms through the store?”
“About two thousand rifles since I started.”
“Well,” Duane said, officially now, “if you have any there now, I advise you to turn them over to the people at Fort Buchanan. I presume Confederate officers will be allowed to keep their horses and sidearms, but rifles are another matter.”
Janroe shook his head slowly. “I’m not turning anything over.”
“You’d rather face arrest?”
“They can’t take me if they don’t know about the guns.”
“Mr. Janroe, if you don’t turn them in, don’t you think I would be obligated to tell them?”
“I suppose you would.”
“Then why did you tell me about them?”
“So you would know how we stand. You see, you can be obligated all you want, but you won’t be able to do anything about it.”
Duane clamped the cigar in the corner of his mouth. “You’ve got the nerve to ride in here and threaten me?”
“I guess I do.” Janroe was relaxed; he sat with his shoulders hunched loosely and his hand in his lap.
“You’re telling me that I won’t go to Buchanan?” Duane’s voice rose. “Listen, I’ll take my saddle-tramp cavalry, as you call it, and drag those guns out myself, and I’ll march you right up to the fort with them if I feel like it. So don’t go threatening me, mister; I don’t take any of it.”
Janroe watched him calmly. “It’s too bad you didn’t volunteer that time you said. That would have made this better. No, it would have made it perfect-if you had been in command of that Yankee artillery company. They were upon a ridge and we had to cross a cornfield that was trampled down and wide open to get at them. They began firing as soon as we started across. Almost right away I was hit and my arm was torn clean from my body.”
“I think we’ve discussed this enough for one evening,” Duane said stiffly.
“What if you had given that order to fire?” Janroe said. “Do you see how much better it would make this?” He shook his head then. “But that would be too much to ask; like having Vern here too. Both of you here, and no one else around.”
“I would advise you to go home,” Duane said, “and seriously consider what I told you. I don’t make idle threats.”
“I don’t either, Major.” Janroe’s hand rose to the open front of his coat. He drew the Colt from his shoulder holster and cocked it as he trained it on Duane. “Though I don’t suppose you’d call this a threat. This is past the threatening stage, isn’t it?”
“You don’t frighten me,” Duane said. He remembered something Vern had told Cable that day at Cable’s house, rephrasing it now because he was not sure of the exact words.
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