Read Online Blood Money and Other Stories (1953) by Elmore Leonard - Free Book Online
Authors: Elmore Leonard
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expressionless. "Lou," he said, "I'm not play actin'. You know what they do to deserters."
"What's he deserting from?"
"Me," Beckwith said quietly. He added, then, "Lou, I'll have to take your word about you not going but get over on the bed out of the way." Walker hesitated and Beckwith turned the pistol on him threateningly. "I can include you as easily as not."
Walker backed against the bed and eased down, keeping his right leg stiffly in front of him. As he sank to the bed, something hard dug against his thigh. His hand moved to the side of his leg, then stopped. It was his pistol.
Risdon was watching his daughter and now he was about to speak: it was on his face.
"Keep it to yourself," Beckwith said to him. "I don't want to hear any more."
"What are you going to do?" Walker asked him quietly. His hand was on the pistol butt now, close under his leg.
"What I have to," Beckwith said. "We can't take chances on either of them."
"Here?"
"Out somewhere."
Walker's fingers closed around the pistol grip. He hesitated, because he wanted to do this the right way, and he wasn't sure what that was. He heard Risdon say, "Beckwith " and saw the agent's head turn toward Risdon. At that moment, Walker raised the pistol and cocked it.
Beckwith heard the click and his head swung back. He looked at Walker as if what he saw could not be possible.
Walker held the pistol dead on the agent's chest.
"I'm not going to try to convince you of anything," he said. "Just let go of the gun."
The surprise passed and Beckwith's drawn face scowled. "You're making the biggest mistake of your life."
"If you don't think I'd shoot, hold on to that gun for three more seconds."
Beckwith's pistol was pointed midway between Risdon and Walker. His eyes held on Walker's face, trying to read something there. Then, slowly, his arm lowered and when his hand reached his side, the fingers opened and the pistol dropped to the floor.
Risdon stooped, picked it up and glanced at Beckwith as he rose.
"You just lost yourself a job."
"You've got to take him with you," Walker said now. "Drop him at maybe Cuchillo by the time he finds help you'll have all the distance you'd need."
Risdon frowned. "You're coming now, aren't you?"
Walker shook his head.
The girl looked at him in disbelief. "Lou, why would you stay now?"
"The same reason as before."
"But it's different now!"
"Why is it? I'm still a soldier. I haven't been serving under a private flag of Beckwith's."
The girl continued to look at him with the plea in her eyes, but now there was nothing she could say.
Risdon shrugged. "Well, you can't fight that."
Walker pulled on his boots, then lifted the shoulder holster from the bedpost and slipped his arm through it and inserted the handgun. He picked up his coat and moved to the girl.
"If you don't understand," he said quietly, "then I don't know what I can say."
She looked up into his face, but without smiling, and then she kissed him.
Risdon said, "She's tryin'." His eyes followed Walker moving to the door. "Lou," he said. "We thought we'd follow the Rio Grande to Cuchillo then bear west toward Santa Rita."
Unexpectedly, Walker smiled, but he said nothing going out the door.
At Yellow Tavern he had killed a Union soldier.
Perhaps he had killed others, but the one at Yellow Tavern was the only one he was sure of. It had been at close range, firing down into the soldier's face as the Yankee's bayonet thrust caught in his horse's mane. He fired and the blue uniform disappeared. That simple. What he was about to do no longer seemed a part of war, because the man had a name and was not just a blue uniform.
He rode out from Valverde to the cavalry station at a walk, moving the borrowed mount unhurriedly, his right leg hanging out of the stirrup. Nearing the adobes a trooper rode by and shouted, but the sound of his running mount covered the words.
The sunlight on the gray adobe was cold, because there was no one about and there were no sounds.
"What's he deserting from?"
"Me," Beckwith said quietly. He added, then, "Lou, I'll have to take your word about you not going but get over on the bed out of the way." Walker hesitated and Beckwith turned the pistol on him threateningly. "I can include you as easily as not."
Walker backed against the bed and eased down, keeping his right leg stiffly in front of him. As he sank to the bed, something hard dug against his thigh. His hand moved to the side of his leg, then stopped. It was his pistol.
Risdon was watching his daughter and now he was about to speak: it was on his face.
"Keep it to yourself," Beckwith said to him. "I don't want to hear any more."
"What are you going to do?" Walker asked him quietly. His hand was on the pistol butt now, close under his leg.
"What I have to," Beckwith said. "We can't take chances on either of them."
"Here?"
"Out somewhere."
Walker's fingers closed around the pistol grip. He hesitated, because he wanted to do this the right way, and he wasn't sure what that was. He heard Risdon say, "Beckwith " and saw the agent's head turn toward Risdon. At that moment, Walker raised the pistol and cocked it.
Beckwith heard the click and his head swung back. He looked at Walker as if what he saw could not be possible.
Walker held the pistol dead on the agent's chest.
"I'm not going to try to convince you of anything," he said. "Just let go of the gun."
The surprise passed and Beckwith's drawn face scowled. "You're making the biggest mistake of your life."
"If you don't think I'd shoot, hold on to that gun for three more seconds."
Beckwith's pistol was pointed midway between Risdon and Walker. His eyes held on Walker's face, trying to read something there. Then, slowly, his arm lowered and when his hand reached his side, the fingers opened and the pistol dropped to the floor.
Risdon stooped, picked it up and glanced at Beckwith as he rose.
"You just lost yourself a job."
"You've got to take him with you," Walker said now. "Drop him at maybe Cuchillo by the time he finds help you'll have all the distance you'd need."
Risdon frowned. "You're coming now, aren't you?"
Walker shook his head.
The girl looked at him in disbelief. "Lou, why would you stay now?"
"The same reason as before."
"But it's different now!"
"Why is it? I'm still a soldier. I haven't been serving under a private flag of Beckwith's."
The girl continued to look at him with the plea in her eyes, but now there was nothing she could say.
Risdon shrugged. "Well, you can't fight that."
Walker pulled on his boots, then lifted the shoulder holster from the bedpost and slipped his arm through it and inserted the handgun. He picked up his coat and moved to the girl.
"If you don't understand," he said quietly, "then I don't know what I can say."
She looked up into his face, but without smiling, and then she kissed him.
Risdon said, "She's tryin'." His eyes followed Walker moving to the door. "Lou," he said. "We thought we'd follow the Rio Grande to Cuchillo then bear west toward Santa Rita."
Unexpectedly, Walker smiled, but he said nothing going out the door.
At Yellow Tavern he had killed a Union soldier.
Perhaps he had killed others, but the one at Yellow Tavern was the only one he was sure of. It had been at close range, firing down into the soldier's face as the Yankee's bayonet thrust caught in his horse's mane. He fired and the blue uniform disappeared. That simple. What he was about to do no longer seemed a part of war, because the man had a name and was not just a blue uniform.
He rode out from Valverde to the cavalry station at a walk, moving the borrowed mount unhurriedly, his right leg hanging out of the stirrup. Nearing the adobes a trooper rode by and shouted, but the sound of his running mount covered the words.
The sunlight on the gray adobe was cold, because there was no one about and there were no sounds.
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