Read Online Far Bright Star by Robert Olmstead - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Robert Olmstead
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laugh.
“It looks like we have gone and gotten ourselves into a pickle,” Extra Billy chuckled.
He turned away from his men to face their pursuers. He lifted the field glasses and studied them again as he awaited their onslaught. He found the one woman and far distant he found the other. But they did not attack. They gathered within gunshot range and seemed to be deciding what to do. Although they had the overwhelming advantage, he trusted they knew they would pay a fearful toll in uprooting their fixed position.
“Now what’s entered your mind?” Stableforth called out.
The trouble right now, he thought, is that there is no trouble.
Napoleon watched them intently as they held their council. He could not divine what their game was. They fought or they did not fight. It was not like them to play around this way. Patience in battle was not one of their traits and the reason their ranks were so winnowed. They struck and they struck hard. He stepped out in front of his thin line of men and then raised a hand and stopped. He waited and they made the sign that they would talk.
Three riders came forward and he walked out to meet them. One of them, the horse trader, stopped and then it was two that came forward, a man and a boy. The man wore the gold insignia of the Dorados. He was an old man and wore an eye patch and silver conchas adorned his belt. There were so few of these men left in their ragged uniforms, their dirty Stetsons, their ranks broken and diminished by their audacious method of battle.
The boy was an American. He wore leather cuffs and batwing chaps buckled up the backs of his legs. He wore a vest and beneath his vest he wore an orchid-colored shirt with a placard front. A silk bandanna was knotted at his neck. Napoelon figured him a swamper on some remote and desolate ranch living alone in a line shack and fed up with the life and come south to seek his fortune. The boy had sharp clean features and maybe at one time a sweetness of nature, but in his face his eyes were those of a schemer and this he could not mask.
“I would speak a word with you,” the boy said.
“How’s wages?”
The boy leveled on him with a flat stare. His cheeks and lips reddened and his head suddenly seemed uncomfortable on his neck. The boy wasn’t much older than Bandy, but already he was ruined.
“I know my price,” the boy said.
“It’s some bloody business you’ve taken up,” Napoleon said, but he felt no particular hatred for the boy.
“That ain’t none of your business,” the boy said.
“I was just asking.”
“I follow myself,” the boy said.
The man said something to Napoleon and made a gesture, pointed to the .45 he wore in his shoulder rig. Napoleon knew some words in their language but he would not speak them. The man was interested in how the harness was strung that carried his holster. He then unholstered his own .45 and held it out. Its grips were inlaid with mother-of-pearl. He wanted Napoleon to take it in his hands and hold it and admire it.
“Very nice,” he said, nodding his head, and the man nodded his head, pleased with their agreeing. Napoleon admired the inlay and sighted down the barrel. Then he returned it to the man who was still nodding.
“It ain’t what you think with me,” the boy said.
“I have eyes to see.”
“Maybe you ain’t seen what I seen.”
“Maybe I ain’t,” he said. “Maybe I seen worse.”
“If you’re waiting for me to fall down on my knees and beg your forgiveness, it ain’t going to happen. I ain’t going to beg you. There’s nothing you have that I want from you.”
“I don’t want anybody begging.”
“That’s good because I have begged all my life. Begged men and begged God and begged the land.”
“Who are they?”
The boy looked back over his shoulder at those he represented and then back at him.
“They are their own selves,” he said.
“What do they want?”
“They want him, the tall one,” the boy said, pointing
“It looks like we have gone and gotten ourselves into a pickle,” Extra Billy chuckled.
He turned away from his men to face their pursuers. He lifted the field glasses and studied them again as he awaited their onslaught. He found the one woman and far distant he found the other. But they did not attack. They gathered within gunshot range and seemed to be deciding what to do. Although they had the overwhelming advantage, he trusted they knew they would pay a fearful toll in uprooting their fixed position.
“Now what’s entered your mind?” Stableforth called out.
The trouble right now, he thought, is that there is no trouble.
Napoleon watched them intently as they held their council. He could not divine what their game was. They fought or they did not fight. It was not like them to play around this way. Patience in battle was not one of their traits and the reason their ranks were so winnowed. They struck and they struck hard. He stepped out in front of his thin line of men and then raised a hand and stopped. He waited and they made the sign that they would talk.
Three riders came forward and he walked out to meet them. One of them, the horse trader, stopped and then it was two that came forward, a man and a boy. The man wore the gold insignia of the Dorados. He was an old man and wore an eye patch and silver conchas adorned his belt. There were so few of these men left in their ragged uniforms, their dirty Stetsons, their ranks broken and diminished by their audacious method of battle.
The boy was an American. He wore leather cuffs and batwing chaps buckled up the backs of his legs. He wore a vest and beneath his vest he wore an orchid-colored shirt with a placard front. A silk bandanna was knotted at his neck. Napoelon figured him a swamper on some remote and desolate ranch living alone in a line shack and fed up with the life and come south to seek his fortune. The boy had sharp clean features and maybe at one time a sweetness of nature, but in his face his eyes were those of a schemer and this he could not mask.
“I would speak a word with you,” the boy said.
“How’s wages?”
The boy leveled on him with a flat stare. His cheeks and lips reddened and his head suddenly seemed uncomfortable on his neck. The boy wasn’t much older than Bandy, but already he was ruined.
“I know my price,” the boy said.
“It’s some bloody business you’ve taken up,” Napoleon said, but he felt no particular hatred for the boy.
“That ain’t none of your business,” the boy said.
“I was just asking.”
“I follow myself,” the boy said.
The man said something to Napoleon and made a gesture, pointed to the .45 he wore in his shoulder rig. Napoleon knew some words in their language but he would not speak them. The man was interested in how the harness was strung that carried his holster. He then unholstered his own .45 and held it out. Its grips were inlaid with mother-of-pearl. He wanted Napoleon to take it in his hands and hold it and admire it.
“Very nice,” he said, nodding his head, and the man nodded his head, pleased with their agreeing. Napoleon admired the inlay and sighted down the barrel. Then he returned it to the man who was still nodding.
“It ain’t what you think with me,” the boy said.
“I have eyes to see.”
“Maybe you ain’t seen what I seen.”
“Maybe I ain’t,” he said. “Maybe I seen worse.”
“If you’re waiting for me to fall down on my knees and beg your forgiveness, it ain’t going to happen. I ain’t going to beg you. There’s nothing you have that I want from you.”
“I don’t want anybody begging.”
“That’s good because I have begged all my life. Begged men and begged God and begged the land.”
“Who are they?”
The boy looked back over his shoulder at those he represented and then back at him.
“They are their own selves,” he said.
“What do they want?”
“They want him, the tall one,” the boy said, pointing
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