Head West (The Collected Western Stories of B.J. Holmes) Page 5

  Hopkins nodded. ‘Walking since dawn.’

  The Union man held out his hand. ‘Nathan Smith, Second Maine.’

  He took the offered hand. ‘Thomas Hopkins. Lieutenant, late of the Army of Virginia.’

  Nathan lay on the grass, parallel with him, resting his head on his hand. ‘You going home, Reb?’

  ‘Yeah. You?’

  ‘You bet.’ Nathan nodded to the slope of grass beyond the stand of trees. ‘Reckon I spied some jack-rabbits yonder. Hungry?’

  Thomas grunted. ‘That’s not the word for it. Ran out of hardtack yesterday.’ He indicated his pistol. ‘But I’ve only got this. Ain’t the best weapon for hunting small critters at a distance.’ Another of Grant’s concessions: surrendering officers could keep sidearms, provided they gave their parole not to take up arms against the Union.

  Nathan patted his rifle. ‘Pay no never-mind. I used to hunt a mite back home. That’s if you don’t mind KP––campfire duty––I mean you being an officer an’ all, me being a bottom-ranker.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘OK, Reb. Set it up but don’t light it till you hear me call. We’re downwind all right, but you never can tell with smoke. God’s critters seem able to nose it no matter which way the wind’s a-blowing.’

  Thomas began scratching around for kindle. Nathan moved cautiously along the line of trees and sat down, back against a tree-trunk, eyes on the green slope. He cradled his rifle on his knees and became quite still, as his pa had taught him. ‘The only thing you gotta concentrate on once you’re downwind is keeping still,’ his pa would say.

  ‘You keep as still as a tree. It’s movement the critters see. You don’t move and your prey don’t know you’re there.’ Slowly he raised his rifle.

  Meanwhile Thomas stacked the wood, humming to himself, in a way he hadn’t done for a long time. He put some stones on either side and cut a thin branch which he began smoothing to complete the spit.

  There was a shot. He looked up. His heart quickened. It had been many days since he’d heard gunfire. Then a pause, the length of time it takes to reload. Then another shot, and a yell. Could have been a Rebel yell, if he hadn’t have known it was coming from Yankee lips.

  The fire was crackling by the time the private returned triumphant, his rifle horizontal across his neck and shoulders, his hands over the ends, a jack-rabbit hanging by the ears from each.

  They skinned the small animals and sat in silence savoring to the point of ecstasy the smell of fresh meat cooking.

  ‘Your uniform’s faded,’ Thomas observed later as they picked meat from bones.

  Nathan evaded the implication. ‘It’s seen a lotta rain.’

  Thomas asked more directly. ‘You been wearing it a long time?’

  ‘Eighteen months or more.’

  ‘In war, that’s a life-time.’

  They talked about their families, their hometowns. Then Thomas wiped his mouth and asked, ‘You killed a lotta men?’

  ‘Can’t say.’ Nathan was reluctant to admit it even to himself. Then he added, ‘A few men dropped after I’d sighted ‘em and pulled the trigger. But can’t say whether it was my ball that put ‘em down or somebody else’s Or whether they was killed or wounded. I ain’t one for checking things like that.’

  There was silence. Then Nathan threw a well-cleaned bone away and went on, ‘I don’t cotton to me having taken somebody’s life. I tell myself they’re in some army hospital. Or maybe up and walking about.’ He paused. ‘That way I can live with myself.’

  The officer in Thomas prompted him to justify the actions, even though they were of the enemy. ‘In war, you fire because you have to, because you’ve been ordered.’

  ‘I used to see it that way. Joined up when the Union army came marching through town. Flag-waving, drums a-going. Listened to the big talk. Had to do my bit. Then suddenly, all hell breaks loose. You’re in uniform, there’s smoke and noise. You got a gun in your hands and you’re trying to kill fellow human beings, fellow Americans. That stuff about following orders, that’s an excuse. It was me that volunteered. I know it was me pulling the trigger.’

  Nathan’s voice was low. He didn’t like talking about it. That’s why he didn’t ask Thomas how many men he’d killed. Thomas didn’t know what he would have said if Nathan had asked him. The truth was he’d killed nobody. But he was an officer, a Confederate officer, from a staunch military family. Could he admit he had been to war and not been bloodied? He didn’t know.

  Nathan took a drink from his canteen and then offered it to the other, ‘You’re heading east then?’

  ‘For a spell.’

  ‘Feel like walking now?’

  ‘Yeah. Every step’s a step nearer home.’

  It was some time after noon and the sun was hot when they topped a rise and saw a pool before them. With the hum of insects in the air, it looked cold and inviting. Giving a ‘Yippee’ Nathan ran down the slope. At the water’s edge he shucked his kit and started taking off his clothes. He’d been in the water some minutes before the weary Thomas joined him. Discarded blues and grays lay in crumpled piles side by side. Two teenage boys, old before their time, regained some of their youth as they splashed and laughed.

  Nathan, now clothed and pleasantly exhausted, lay on the bank watching the other pull on his uniform. ‘You got lieutenant’s markings,’ he said. ‘Bet we’re close in years. You must have been a good soldier to earn promotion at your age.’

  Thomas shook his head as he buckled his belt. ‘No, there’s no distinction about my service. It was my pa bought me my commission. Old military family. Pa was too old to join when war broke out. It was up to me to uphold the family tradition. Anyways, that’s what he drilled into me.’ He came and sat beside his former enemy. Nathan crooked his arms and laid his head back on his hands. ‘My folks ain’t got much. Farmers. Make a bitty surplus, but the mortgage eats up most of it.’

  ‘Oh, don’t get me wrong,’ Thomas countered. ‘My family ain’t rich. Reckon pa had to scrape the bottom of the cracker-barrel to get the money for my commission. But he got it together. Family honor comes above everything else. Huh, couldn’t even afford a horse. God, that was humiliating. The only officer in the regiment without his own mount:’

  Nathan didn’t understand such things. In the ranks everybody was equal, that’s all there was to it. He sucked on a piece of grass. ‘You married, Thomas?’

  ‘No,’

  ‘Got a girl?’

  ‘In a way, yes. In a way, no,’

  ‘I don’t get your meaning,’

  ‘Back home in Virginia there’s a family close by. Own the neighboring estate. Their daughter and me, the two families have kinda pushed us together since we were young. Taken for granted we’ll wed an’ all,’

  ‘What’s the matter? Don’t you like her?’

  ‘The other way around. Marybelle, she’s always talking about other fellers. You know, how handsome they look in their uniforms how daring their exploits were in the field. Always taking opportunity to ridicule me.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Tom.’

  ‘Keeps talking ‘bout boys coming back with medals. Don’t think I measure up,’ He lay back and closed his eyes. ‘And what about you? You got a girl?’

  ‘Yeah. Got engaged on my last leave. She’s a real beauty, Thomas, you wouldn’t believe it. I been thinking ‘bout her a lot lately.

  ‘Can’t believe it’s me she loves. We’re gonna start our own homestead when I get back. We ain’t got much by way of money, but we’ll manage. I know it’s a corny saying, but I really believe love conquers all.’ He sighed as he thought about his future. ‘You got that––nothing else matters.’

  He suddenly realized he was stressing his own happiness to a man without it. He felt guilty and changed the subject. His voice became lower. ‘You know Abe Lincoln’s been killed?’

  Thomas nodded. ‘Yes. They told us when we were being discharged,’ He pondered. Then, ‘It wasn’t one of ours that did it.’

&nb
sp; ‘No, I know,’ Nathan sniffed. ‘Just another crazy happening, in a world gone mad. Let’s hope, after what we’ve been through, brother, some sanity comes back into affairs.’ He picked up his knapsack.

  ‘Where exactly you live, Tom?’

  Thomas told him. Nathan produced a map from his knapsack. Red stains on it had dried and were already turning brown. ‘Picked this off a friend. He didn’t need it no more.’

  ‘Was he––?’

  ‘Yes. Didn’t need no map to show where he was going. Poor bastard’ He laid it out on the grass and moved his forefinger over it. ‘There, at the river. That’s where you turn south. I turn north and join that turnpike a mile further on. Till then we can stay together, eight miles or so. That okay with you?’

  ‘Sure,’

  Their pace slowed with the miles. They talked of childhoods; of blissful, innocent summers of schooldays. Then, like the ‘vets’ they had now become, they talked of army coffee; of sparse, moldy rations; of fallen comrades.

  Suddenly the river was there, lazing its centuries-old way under basswood trees, unaffected by the wars of men.

  ‘This is it, Reb,’

  They stood on a sandy bar, studying the currents, each with his own thoughts. With neither knowing what to say, it was an awkward parting. Nathan backed away upstream. He raised a hand in a gesture of silent farewell to the still unmoving Thomas, then turned.

  After a few seconds, Nathan suddenly stopped in his tracks. ‘Hey, Reb:’ He retraced a few steps. ‘Catch:’ He threw his rifle. Thomas caught it in both hands,

  ‘Don’t need that anymore,’ Nathan explained. ‘I meet the turnpike in couple of miles. There’s bound to be folks en route glad to feed a returning hero. According to the map it’s uninhabited a-piece downstream. You might be able to bag yourself another jack-rabbit with it.’ He turned a last time and headed north, his knapsack dangling at his side.

  The Confederate watched him. Then he checked the musket was loaded, raised it and fired.

  Nathan took the ball between the shoulder blades. He spun round, face incredulous, then crumpled in the moist sand,

  Now Lieutenant Thomas Hopkins could return home proud––and truthfully claim he’d shot a Yankee.

  Dollar for Dollar

  The flies were the only active things in the street––buzzing like there was no tomorrow. Three droop-headed horses occasionally shuffled their stance at the hitch-rail by the saloon. In the shade of an awning a figure reclined, chair against the wall, unmoving, an opened newspaper covering head and shoulders.

  The scene had remained unchanged for a long time. With temperature at noon high an observer would have thought the chances were it was going to stay that way. But it didn’t.

  The batwings creaked open and three men pushed out onto the boardwalk. They were rough-clothed and unclean but you couldn’t read much into that, not in a two-bit, out-of the way border town. In such a place a man was judged good or bad by what he did, not by how he looked. Without speaking each man went to a horse and began preparations for riding: tightening cinches, checking stirrups, adjusting saddlebags. Looked like they were intending a long ride.

  ‘Let your irons hit sand!’

  The authoritative command was low-voiced but in the quiet of the street it could be heard clearly. The three men looked up from their tasks. The figure previously reclining on the opposite side to the saloon was now standing in the street facing them. The newspaper, once hiding his body, was now gone. Revealed was a lean figure; and a brace of .44s. Despite the latter there was little visual menace. The man looked too ill to present a threat. The tall frame was emaciated, devoid of muscle. The face white, for all the blistering sun.

  ‘What the hell’s going on?’ one of the challenged men chuckled, his voice indicative of the disbelief that a lone man would seemingly instigate a throw down on them.

  ‘You know the name of the game,’ the tall one countered, still talking low.

  The men began to fan out. ‘You mean you––one man––are gonna take us on?’ the spokesman continued.

  The gaunt one didn’t comment. Nor did he step back for a tighter angle, having already allowed for their reaction. His tallness was exaggerated by the black ten-gallon hat, its lofty crown not depressed in the fashionable Texas style. Under its rim a wisp of graying hair fluttered against the pale forehead. ‘Stalling ain’t gonna do you much good.’

  His effrontery in the face of the odds brought lines of amusement to all their faces. Then the expression of one became serious. ‘I know him,’ he muttered, stopping in realization. ‘There’s only one I heard of––on the prod with a dead man’s face: Jonathan Grimm, bounty hunter.’

  ‘Yeah, the Reaper they calls him,’ a second confirmed. ‘And nobody knows where he comes from.’

  ‘Well, folks mayn’t know where you come from,’ the third added, ‘but I sure as hell know where you’re a-going.’ The increased volume of his concluding words together with his going for his guns was the cue for the other two.

  Six explosions merged into one each other, creating an ear-splitting crescendo that sent the till-now-lethargic horses into a panic. The man who was first to put his fist around a pistol-grip was also the first to receive a bullet––right through the vest where his heart would be, impelling his torso into a left-hand spin.

  The middle one took a flesh-rending missile through the throat. Before his body convulsed and crumpled, the tall man’s left hand Colt crossed to the right and blasted the skull of the last in the trio. Each of the three had fired, but without effect.

  In the cordite-pungent aftermath of the eruption the man known as the Reaper waited. There was no movement from two. He holstered his left gun, stepped forward, the right one almost casually trained on the third, heart-shot, twitching, eyes rolling. The ungainly-twisted victim put his last seconds’ effort into trying to focus his eyes and pushing out some words while the muscles in his chest pumped the blood from his system with the same intensity that they had pumped it around his body for over thirty years.

  ‘I…never…would…have…believed… it,’ he gasped before his head slumped to one side.

  ‘We all gotta go sometime,’ the tall one explained to the dead man, dropping his remaining gun into its holster. ‘Your time was now,’ he added still in the low, casual tone. ‘Mine wasn’t. Simple as that.’ He knew something they didn’t. A man moves faster when he reacts to something than when he initiates an action himself. The difference is only a fraction of a second. But is enough. That’s why he was never concerned when someone drew on him. Others may know this fact from books. He knew from experience––and he had a lot of practice.

  The horses had stopped whinnying and stood at odd angles to the rail, eyes rolling. Folk began coming from buildings: silent, apprehensive, stopping at a respectful distance from the lone, towering figure as though witnessing some religious rite.

  ‘Behind you!’ someone shouted. There was the sound of feet on boards and the High Priest of the ritual dropped to the ground, guns coming up in a reflex action.

  There was a shot and a man tumbled onto the boardwalk from the saloon, a carbine clattering beside him.

  Jonathan Grimm scanned the observers from his prone position. One was stepping forward with a smoking Remington in his hand. The raw-boned figure rose from his undignified ground posture. He stepped onto the boardwalk and checked that the man with the carbine was dead, turning him over with his boot. ‘The fourth member of the gang,’ he whispered, virtually to himself. ‘Wondered where he’d gotten to. Thought they’d ditched him thirty miles back.’

  The man with the still-smoking Remington joined him, looking down at the corpse. ‘He sure got you measured for a wooden box.’

  ‘Yeah,’ the Reaper grunted. ‘I figure that was on his agenda. I’m much obliged, mister.’ He sheathed his guns. ‘What do I call you?’

  ‘Er, Johnson,’ the other replied slipping the Remington into its holster. ‘Robert Johnson at your service, sir.�
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  ‘Well, Mr. Johnson, you’re in the money!’ Grimm took out a sheaf of papers from his knee-length jacket, extracted one and handed it to Johnson. It was a tattered reward poster. $1000 on him at the last count.’

  Johnson whistled in disbelief, then raised his hands. ‘Oh, no. I couldn’t do that. Bounty chasing is not my business. Glad to be of assistance is all. I was just passing through here. I’m gonna be gone soon.’

  ‘OK, Mr. Johnson. Let me have an address and I’ll mail a draft when I’ve cashed in the big chip.’

  ‘No, no. Believe me when I saw that guy draw a bead on your back I just acted out of instinct.’

  ‘And I’m right glad you got that kinda instinct, Mr. Johnson. But the point is there’s a going rate for what you just done. Professionally speaking it puts me in an awkward position if you don’t receive just recompense for your action.’

  Johnson was looking agitated. ‘I’m not seeking for no reward.’ He backed off nervously.

  ‘Well, thanks for what you did,’ Grimm replied. ‘For whatever reason you did it.’ He watched in puzzlement as the figure retreated down the street. He saw the man mount up and head out of town without a backward glance.

  ‘Yeah,’ Mr. Johnson,’ the Reaper breathed. ‘I sure owe you one.’

  Later that same day a train of five horses left town. Each of the last four had a gruesome cargo roped to its back. In their vanguard, astride a sable stallion, was a tall, black-clad figure, face incongruously white.

  The nearest bounty paymaster office was over sixty miles away.

  Seasons came, seasons went. There was no part of the American continent west of the Appalachians that had not felt the foot of Jonathan Grimm or resounded to the sounds of his might forty-fours as he plied his trade. From Montana to the Rio Grande, from California to the Mississippi. And, despite his outdoor existence, his face still retained its pallid tone. But now oddly decorated by a patch of black powder burns on his cheek, the legacy of being too close to a detonation.