He took the time to look my way. "Uncle, are you telling me what to do?"
"I can't talk any plainer!"
He grinned . . . didn't get mad . . . just grinned and said, "Uncle, you know better than that. You don't tell me what to do. Not you or any man here." He turned to Lefton again. "I'm the only one doing any telling, ain't that right?"
He poked Lefton with the quirt and Lefton nodded, though he was looking at the floor.
"Let me hear you say it."
Lefton nodded again. "Yes . . . that's right."
Tobin waited. "Yes . . . what?"
Then it was like seeing this Lefton give up the last shred of pride he owned, and you had to turn your head because you knew he was going to say it, and you didn't want to be looking at him because you weren't sure if you'd feel sorry for him anymore.
We heard it all right, the hollow sounding, "Yes sir "
And after it, Tobin saying, "Now you find your left handed curry comb and go on out and rub my horse."
Chapter Three.
All the way back to our headquarters, later on, with the two hundred odd head we'd gathered, not one of us said a word to Tobin, though he made some remarks when we stopped that night as to how fine his big sorrel looked even if it had been curried by a left handed stable boy.
As I said, we'd come over to the east range to gather and by the time we'd got back to the home ranch the trail drive was about to get under way and, thank the Lord, we saw little of Tobin for the next forty some odd days. Chris and Kite and Vicente and I were swing riders when we were on the move; but Tobin, because he was a new man, had to ride drag and eat dust all the way.
We left Sudan, where the El Centro main herd was headquartered, about the first of May, and it wasn't till the middle of June that I had my bath in the Grand Central Hotel in Ellsworth.
I'll tell you the truth: I thought of that one armed man about every day of the drive, though I never talked about him to the others.
Still, I knew they were thinking about him the way I was. Picturing him standing there with his one arm held tight against his belly after Tobin had quirted him holding it like that because he didn't have another hand to rub the sting with. Maybe we should all have jumped Tobin and beat his hide off, but that wouldn't have proved anything. I think we were all waiting to see this one armed man stand his ground and fight back, and though he wouldn't have had a chance, at least he would have felt better after.
Why did Tobin lay it on him? I don't know. I've seen men like Tobin before and since, but not many, thank the Lord. That kind always has to be proving something that other people don't even bother about.
Maybe Tobin did it to show us he had no use for a man who couldn't stand on his own two feet. Maybe he did it just so he could see how low a man could slip. Then he could say to himself, "Tobin, boy, you'll never be like that, even if both your arms were gone."
And probably Tobin would be judging himself right. No one could say that he wasn't like a piece of rawhide. He was hard on himself even, would take the meanest horse in the remuda and be the last one in at night just so he could say he worked harder than anybody else. But that's all you could say for him.
And why did John Lefton, a man who had been a cavalry officer and gone through the war, stand there and take it? That I don't know either. Maybe he had too much pride.
After running for eight years, it was a long way to look back to what he was. And the mescal would blur it to make it farther. I remember sitting in the tub in the Grand Central Hotel and saying, "The hell with him," like that was final. But it wasn't that easy. There was something about him that told you that at least one time he had been much man.
We did see John Lefton again.
No . . . I don't want to jump to it. I'll tell it the way it happened.
We came back from Ellsworth and most of that fall Chris and me worked a company herd up on the Canadian near Tascosa. Then toward the middle of November we were ordered back to Sudan.
One day, right after we were back, the company man, C. H. Felt, said he was sending us over to the east range with a wagon full of alfalfa to scatter for the winter graze. I asked him who was going and he said Chris and Kite and Vicente . . . that's right, and Tobin Royal.
That's how the same five of us come to ride down that gray windy grade into Brady's yard that November afternoon.
No one was in sight, not even the dog we could hear barking off somewhere behind the adobes. Kite swung down and took my reins as I dismounted. Vicente took Chris's. That left Tobin Royal to care for his own. He was still riding that big sorrel.
Chris and I went inside the adobe and right away Chris said, "Something's different here."
"You just never seen the place empty, is all."
He kept looking all around to see if he could place what it was. Then I started looking around and it was an unnaturally long moment before it dawned on me what it was.
The place was clean. Not just swept clean and dusted, but there was wax on the bar and three tables and fresh paint on the places it belonged.
"Chris, the place is clean. That's what it is!"
He didn't answer me. Chris was looking down to the back end where the rolltop and the door was. A woman, a black haired, slim built, prettier thanordinary woman, closed the door and came toward us.
She came right up and gave us a little welcome smile, and said, "May I serve you gentlemen something to eat?" Her voice was pleasant, but she seemed to be holding back a little.
Chris said, "Eat?"
And I said, "We ate at camp, ma'am," touching my hat. "We were thinking of a drink."
She smiled again and you could tell that one was put on. "The bar is Mr. Brady's department," she said and started to turn. "He can't be far. I'll see if I can find him." She started to walk to the back, and that's when Kite and Vicente and Tobin Royal came in.
She looked around, but must have reasoned they were with Chris and me, because she went on then until Tobin called out, "Hey . . . where you going?"
She stopped, turning full around as Tobin brushed past us saying, "Now that old man's using his head," meaning Brady, I guess.
The smile didn't show this time, but she said, "May I serve you something to eat?"
Tobin grinned. "Not to eat."
"I don't serve the bar," the woman said. "Mr.
Brady does that."
"Uh huh," Tobin said. Then he laughed out loud. "Like you never been behind a bar before!
What're you doing here then?"
"I'm here," she said quietly, "with my husband."
"You're married to Brady?"
"I'm Mrs. Lefton."
"Lefton!" Tobin's mouth hung open. "You're married to that one armed stable boy!"
The color came up over her face like she'd been slapped, but she didn't say a word. Tobin was grinning and shaking his head like it was the funniest thing he'd ever heard of. "Listen," he said to her.
"You get me a whiskey drink and I'll tell you something about your husband you probably don't know."
Right then Brady came in behind us. His coat was on and he was breathing in and out like he'd hurried. From the look on his face you could tell he'd seen our horses and the El Centro brand and the chances were good he knew who he'd find.
The woman said quickly, "Is my husband coming?" and now sounded frightened and as if she were trying hard to keep from crying.
Tobin added, "Or is he busy cleaning the stable?"
"He's breaking a horse," Brady stated.
I said, "Breaking a horse?"
Brady turned on me. "That's what I said, breaking a horse!"
Tobin must have been as surprised as any of us; but he wouldn't show it. He just shrugged. "Well, I guess one wing's as good as two for that anyway."
Without her expecting it he grabbed Mrs. Lefton's arm. "Honey, your husband waits on me. Why shouldn't you?" He gave her a little push toward the bar and that snaky quirt of his slapped backhanded across where her bustle was.
&n
bsp; Brady said something, but I don't know what . . . because I heard a step behind me. I just glanced, then came full around realizing who it was. John Lefton.
Chapter Four.
But not the John Lefton we had seen the last time.
He didn't have on a hat and his wool shirt was dirty from sweat and dust. His hair was cut shorter than before and hung down a little over his forehead; his jaw was clean shaved, but he was wearing a fullgrown cavalry kind of mustache. That's where the big difference was: the mustache, and the eyes that were dark and clear and looking straight ahead to Tobin.
He walked past us and as he did I saw the quirt hanging from his wrist. I remembered Brady saying that he'd been breaking a horse, but somehow you got the idea he was wearing it for another reason.
He walked right up to Tobin and said, without wasting breath, "Mr. Royal, I've been waiting some months to see you again."
Tobin was half smiling, but you could tell it was put on, while he tried to figure out the change in this man. Tobin moved a little bit. He cocked his hip and leaned his hand on the bar to show he was relaxed.
"First," John Lefton said, "I want to thank you for what you did."
Tobin frowned then. "What'd I do?"
"If you don't know," Lefton said, "I'm not going to explain it. But you must know what I'm going to give you."
Tobin still looked puzzled. He didn't say anything and suddenly Lefton's quirt slashed across Tobin's hand on the edge of the bar.
"You know now?"
Tobin knew. Maybe he couldn't believe it, but he knew and in the instant he was pushing himself from the bar, dipping that stung hand to get at the Navy Colt. The barrel was just clear of the holster when Lefton's quirt cracked Tobin's wrist like a pistol shot, and slapped the Colt right out of his hand. For a moment Tobin was wide open, not sure what to do. Then he saw it coming and tried to cover, but not soon enough and Lefton's quirt lashed across his face cutting him from cheekbone to nose. The quirt came back, catching him across the forehead and his hat went spinning.
Tobin threw up his arms to cover his face, but now Lefton let go of the quirt. He came up with a fist under Tobin's jaw, and when Tobin's guard came apart, the same fist chopped back handed, like a counterpunch, and smacked hard. This man knew how to fight. The fist swung low again, into Tobin's belly, and when he doubled up, Lefton's knee came up against his jaw. That straightened Tobin good. When he was just about upright the fist came around like a sledgehammer and the next second Tobin was spread eagle on the floor.
He must have been conscious, though I don't know how; for then Lefton looked down at him and said, "You know what you're going to do now, don't you? As soon as you find a left handed currycomb."
We just stood there until he got Tobin to his feet and out the door; then Brady said, "Mrs. Lefton, you've got yourself a man." And the way he said man, it meant everything it could mean plus how Joe Brady felt about the matter.
Mrs. Lefton smiled. "I've known that for some time," she said mildly to tell us that there had never been any doubt about it as far as she was concerned. She excused herself right after that.
As soon as the door closed behind her, Brady, like a little kid with a story to tell, filled in the part we didn't know about.
He said on that day last May, after we'd gone, Lefton came back in and poured himself a mescal drink. But he didn't drink it. He just stared at it for the longest time. Maybe fifteen or twenty minutes.
Suddenly, then, he swept the drink off and brought his fist down on the bar hard enough to break a bone. He held on to the bar then with his head down and Brady said he thought the man was going to cry. But he never did, and after a minute he went outside.
The change in him began right after that, Brady told. It was as if Tobin's quirt had jolted him back to reality. He found himself at deep bottom and now there was only one direction to go, if he had the guts.
Not until a few days later, Brady said, did he realize that Lefton had stopped drinking. He started drawing his wages, did his work all right, and about the middle of July he disappeared for three days. When he came back he had four mustangs on a string. The next day he built a mesquite corral off back of the adobes and that night he wrote a letter to his wife.
By the time his wife arrived, the end of August, Lefton had broken and sold better than a dozen horses. Understand now, when he started this he didn't know the first thing about breaking horses.
What happened was, the time he disappeared, he went to Sudan to find something to invest in with the money he'd saved. He happened to talk to a mustanger who told him there was money in horse trading if he could stand getting his insides jolted up.
Lefton hired a couple of Tonkawa boys to scare up green horses and from that day on he was in business. The mustanger in Sudan taught him a few things, but most of it Lefton learned himself. The hard way. He took a beating from those horses, but he never quit and Brady said it was like watching a man do penance. Maybe Lefton felt the same way about it, I don't know.
Brady said that two weeks ago, when Lefton's count had reached forty sold he'd wondered why Lefton stayed around instead of expanding and locating where business would be better. Brady said today, though, he understood why Lefton had wanted to stay.
We all agreed that what we saw that afternoon was one of the finest experiences of our lives. Still, neither Chris, Kite, Vicente or me ever talked about it to anyone. You couldn't tell the second part without telling the first, and we still didn't want to do that.
Tobin Royal stayed with us. I'll give him credit for that. Working with us after what we'd seen. After that day he didn't talk so much. But those times he did start, after a few drinks or something, I'd look at him and touch my cheek. His fingers would go up and feel where the quirt had lashed him and he would shut up. There was no scar there, but maybe there was to Tobin. One that would always stay with him.
*
*
The Longest Day of His Life.
Chapter One.
New Job.
Through the down pointed field glasses, his gaze inched from left to right along the road that twisted narrowly through the ravine. Where he sat, hunched forward with his legs crossed and with his elbows resting on raised knees to steady the field glasses, the ground dropped away before him in a long grassy sweep; though across from him the slope climbed steeply into dwarf oak and above the trees a pale orange wall of sandstone rose seamed and shadowed into sun glare. Below and to the right, the road passed into tree shadow and seemed to end there.
"How far to Glennan's place?"
"About four miles," the man who was next to him kneeling on one knee said. He was twice the age of the man with the field glasses, nearing fifty, and studying the end of the ravine his eyes half closed, tightening his face in a teeth clenched grimace. His name was Joe Mauren, in charge of road construction for the Hatch & Hodges Stage Line Company.
"Past the trees," Mauren said, "the road drops down through a draw for maybe two miles. You come to grass then and you think you're out of it, but follow the wagon tracks and you go down through another pass. Then you're out and you'll see the house back off a ways. It's built close to deep pinyon and sometimes you can't see it for shadows, but you will this time of day."
"Then twelve miles beyond it to the Rock of Ages mine," Steve Brady, the man with the field glasses, said.
"About that," Mauren said.
The field glasses moved left again. "Will you have to do any work along here?"
"No, those scrub oaks catch anything that falls."
"Just back where you're working now."
"That's the only dangerous place."
"The mine's been hauling through for three months," Brady said. "Rock slides don't worry them."
"The driver of an eight team ore wagon isn't a stage full of passengers," Mauren said. "If we expect people to ride over this stretch, we have to make it near presentable."
"So two miles back to your construction site and eight back of that t
o Contention," Steve Brady said.
He lowered the field glasses. "Twenty six miles from Contention to Rock of Ages."
"You'll go far," Mauren said dryly.
"I see why we need a stop at Glennan's place,"
Brady said.
Mauren nodded. "To calm their nerves and slack their thirst."
"Will Glennan serve whiskey?"
"He blame well better," Mauren said, rising.
"Else you don't give him the franchise. That's an unwritten rule, boy." He watched Brady get to his feet, brushing his right leg and the seat of his pants.
"New job, new suit," Mauren said. "And by the time you get to Glennan's the suit's going to be powder colored instead of dark gray."
Brady turned, his free hand brushing the lapels now. "Does it look all right?"
"About a size too small. You look all hands, Steve. Like you're ready to grab something."
Mauren almost smiled. "Like that little Kitty Glennan."
"She must be something, the way you talk."
"It'll make the tears run out of your eyes, Steve.
She's that pretty."
"The suit's all right then, huh?"
"Take the shooter off and you'll be able to button it." Mauren was looking at the Colt that Brady wore on his right hip.
"It feels good open," Brady said.
Mauren studied him up and down. "Suits are fine, but you get used to wearing them and before you know it you're up in Prescott behind a desk.
Like your pa."
"That might'n be so bad."
"You try it, boy. A week and you'd go back to driving or shotgun riding just to get away." They mounted their horses and Mauren said, "You've wasted enough time. Now do something for your pay."
"I'll try and come back this way," Brady said.
"Do that now," Mauren answered. He reined tightly and moved off through the pinyon pine.
For a moment Brady watched him, then slipped the glasses into a saddlebag, tight turned his own mount and slanted down the slope to the road below. He reached the end of the ravine and followed the double wagon ruts into the trees, feeling the relief of the shade now and he pushed his hat up from his forehead, thinking then: Maybe I should've got a new one. The tan Stetson was dusty and dark stained around the band, but it felt good.