Текст книги "Streets Of Laredo"

Автор книги: Larry McMurtry

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 29 (всего у книги 35 страниц)

Joey followed the blond woman all the way to Ojinaga. From time to time, he took out his spyglass and trained it on the horse carrying Captain Call. He expected to see that the old man had died. But every time he looked, he saw movement. Somehow the old man still lived.

When he saw the woman lead the horse upriver toward the village, he let her go and rode off a few miles into Mexico, where he made camp. He meant to travel up the Rio Concho and locate the deputies.

The next morning, a little before midday, he found their camp. They were almost a day's ride inside Mexico, and they seemed simply to be waiting.

They were probably waiting for Captain Call.

They didn't know what had befallen him.

Joey was surprised to see that there were now only two deputies and old Famous Shoes. He saw no reason to kill the old man.

Probably the third deputy had met with an accident of some sort.

Joey studied the camp for a while with his spyglass, trying to decide on a method of attack that would provoke the utmost fear. After giving it some thought, he decided to shoot the horses and the two pack animals first. Maybe he could scare the men out into the desert. If he frightened them badly enough, he might not even have to shoot them. He could simply chase them into the desert, shooting now and then to scare them farther away from the river. When he had them exposed and lost, he could simply go away and leave them to freeze or starve to death.

Joey decided to wait until the next morning. Captain Call would not be coming to their rescue. Unless Famous Shoes happened to be wandering around tracking some animal, no one would know he was there. His shots would come as a complete surprise.

The next morning, Joey's first shot killed a pack mule just as Brookshire was trying to extract some coffee from one of the saddlebags.

The mule fell in Brookshire's direction, knocking him back several feet and causing him to spill the coffee. Before he could scramble to his feet, a second shot killed the other pack mule.

Pea Eye had been frying bacon. A third shot kicked the frying pan into the air, causing sizzling grease to burn his hands and wrists. He got to his feet and began to run to his horse, only to have a fourth shot kill the horse before he could even grasp the bridle reins.

Brookshire's big horse was the only mount left, but before Pea Eye could step over his own horse, which was down but still kicking, Brookshire's mount was knocked to its knees.

It scrambled up and was shot again. Pea Eye was in agony from the pain of the sizzling bacon grease, but he knew he had to run for cover or he would be dead and past worrying about a little thing like burned hands.

"Run!" he yelled to Brookshire, who sat amid the spilled coffee, looking dazed. "Get a gun and run to cover!" As he said it, Pea Eye realized he didn't have a gun himself. He had taken his pistol off because the scabbard was rubbing his hip raw, and his rifle was propped against his saddle. The pistol was closer, so he turned and grabbed it.

Brookshire had picked up the big shotgun and was stuffing shells into his pocket.

"No, get a rifle, we need rifles," Pea Eye yelled.

Brookshire just looked addled. Pea Eye decided to try for his own rifle, so he ran back and grabbed it. Then he turned and headed down into the riverbed. Soon he heard Brookshire stumbling after him. Pea Eye ran for a hundred yards or more, then stopped and waited for Brookshire to catch up. He listened, but he could hear nothing other than Brookshire, as he stumbled on the rocky ground.

"Reckon it's him?" Pea Eye asked, when Brookshire caught up. "Reckon it's the Garza boy?" "I don't know who it is," Brookshire said. The dying mule had slammed into him, knocking the breath out of him. He had somehow grabbed the shotgun and made it into the riverbed without having quite regained his breath. He stopped by Pea Eye and gasped for air. He realized he had not made a good choice in taking the shotgun. Carrying it was like carrying a small cannon. But he couldn't immediately spot his rifle or his pistols, and he didn't want to just stand there with a killer shooting mules and horses to death on either side of him.

A little creek cut into the Rio Concho not far from where they stood. It, too, was dry, but its steep walls were pocked, offering better cover than they had in the riverbed. As Pea Eye led Brookshire into the narrow creek, a memory flashed back to him of the time long ago in Montana, when he and the wounded Gus McCrae had hidden in a creek while they attempted to fight off the Blood Indians. Of course, this creek was dry and that creek had water in it, and he'd had to eventually swim out at night past the Indians and walk a long way naked to find the herd and bring the Captain back to where Gus was. Without the deep-walled creek, the Indians would have had them. A creek had saved him once, and perhaps the dry little Mexican creek would save him this time.

Pea Eye took off his hat and crawled up the creek bank to a spot that allowed him to look over the plain. He saw nothing. The only movement on the whole vast plain was a hawk, dipping to strike a quail.

Then Pea Eye remembered Famous Shoes.

The old man hadn't been around when the shooting started. There was nothing unusual about that, though.

Famous Shoes was rarely there in the mornings.

He went off in the darkness to take a walk or track bobcats or badgers or anything else whose track he struck. He would just show up again later on in the morning. If they were traveling, Famous Shoes would just step out from behind a bush or appear out of a gully and fall in with them. Sometimes he would mention interesting tracks he had seen; other times he wouldn't say a word all day.

Now, though, they needed him. Pea Eye himself had never been in that part of Mexico before, and though Brookshire had come down the Rio Concho with Captain Call, he had no eye for landmarks and would be lost without expert help.

"All I know is that if we follow this river to the Rio Grande, we'll come to the village where Joey Garza's mother lives," Brookshire said. He had caught his breath, and his big shotgun was loaded. He had only managed to collect four shells. He had no idea what he and Pea Eye were going to do.

"I wish the Captain would show up," Pea Eye said. Often in the past, when he and some of the men found themselves in a predicament, the Captain had showed up and had taken matters in hand.

Now, though, it was just himself and Brookshire, and an Indian who might appear again or might not.

Their horses were dead and likewise their pack animals. If they survived, they would have to walk out. On foot, the Rio Grande was at least three days away, probably more. They could go back to camp when it grew too dark for the killer to shoot, and provision themselves from the packs.

They possessed adequate food and lots of ammunition. Also, they were right in the Rio Concho.

Unless the killer forced them out of the river, there was not much danger that they would get lost and starve.

Still, Pea Eye felt nervous; but more than that, he felt scared. When the shooting had started, he'd done what he always did when shooting started: he had taken cover. Being shot at was always a shock, and it was not something he had ever gotten used to. It took a while for the shock to subside sufficiently to allow him to think. Sometimes it took a week or more for the shock to subside, but in this instance he wasn't with a troop of Rangers, and he didn't have a week in which to calm his nerves and take stock of the situation.

"Why did he shoot the horses and mules?" he asked Brookshire. That was a question that had nagged him even as he was running up the riverbed.

"Why didn't he just shoot us?" he asked.

"We was standing in plain sight. Except for that big nag of yours, he killed all the animals with one bullet apiece. He could have shot us just as easy as he could shoot a mule. It don't make sense." "Nothing makes any sense," Brookshire said. "This whole trip hasn't made any sense. The Captain ought to have caught this boy by now. He's taking much too much time. If it's the Garza boy shooting at us, then the Captain ought to be here.

"Maybe it ain't the Garza boy, though," he added. "Maybe it's the vaqueros who killed Ted Plunkert. Maybe they came back to get more plunder." "No," Pea Eye said. "It was just one gun and one shooter, and I never caught a glimpse of him. If it was vaqueros, there would have been three or four of them, and they would just have rode in, blazing away. They wouldn't have shot the horses, either. They would have tried to shoot us. Then they'd have been two horses and two mules richer." "Maybe he was trying to shoot us," Brookshire suggested. "Maybe he just missed and hit the horses." "Nope, he hit what he aimed at," Pea Eye said. "He wanted to put us afoot, and he done it. What I don't know is why." Brookshire felt dull. He had felt dreadfully frightened when the bullets started hitting the horses, and while he was running he had felt scared. He had expected a bullet to strike him at every step.

But no bullet had struck him down, and now he just felt dull. Over the course of the trip, he had gradually stopped being interested in his own fate. He knew he had made a great error in coming to Texas. He understood little enough of life as it was lived in Brooklyn, but he could make nothing at all of life as it was lived in Texas; or at least as it was lived by Captain Call and those associated with him. They had gone from somewhere to nowhere, accomplishing nothing along the way except the loss of Deputy Plunkert. All he had expected of the morning was a piece of bacon and a big cup of coffee. Why some maniac would suddenly shoot the very mule that carried the coffee, and the other mule and the two horses as well, was beyond him. It made no sense at all, but it was in keeping with everything else that had happened since his arrival in Texas. Captain Call, who seemed the most rational and most methodical of men and who was the most experienced manhunter in the West, had done nothing that made clear sense from the time they had left Amarillo together. The Garza boy was still free to do whatever he chose to do, including shooting mules and horses, if indeed he was the shooter. The only exceptional thing Call had done on the whole trip was beat a sheriff nearly to death. Admittedly, catching one quick boy in a vast country was a difficult task –but then, that was the Captain's work; his life's work, really. If he couldn't accomplish it in this instance, then he should have resigned.

Brookshire no longer believed, as Pea Eye seemed to, that the Captain was still in control of events. He didn't believe that he would simply show up in the right place at the right time and end the career of Joey Garza. While the Captain had been looking for him in Mexico, Joey had robbed a train in Texas. Now that the Captain was in Texas somewhere, Joey was in Mexico, shooting the mule that carried the coffee.

It was a botch. When Colonel Terry heard about it he would be angry, and in this instance justifiably so.

Brookshire had almost stopped caring whether he lived or died. The cold had frozen the will to live right out of him. Katie, his excellent wife, was dead. In the past weeks, he'd had time to remember all the ways in which Katie had been an excellent wife. He was losing his ability to imagine Brooklyn and the office, and the good chops Katie had cooked him, and the cat, and the cozy house. What he had feared that first morning on the windy station platform in Amarillo had actually happened. He had blown away, into a dry creek in Mexico–cold every night, cold every day, wind all the time, sand in the food, sand in the coffee, no houses and no coziness of any kind. He had blown away; now he was so tired that the long struggle upwind, back to where he had once been, back to who he had once been, no longer seemed worth it. Let the young killer walk up and finish him. Maybe he would get off a shot with his eight-gauge, but he didn't expect to eliminate Joey Garza as easily as old Bolivar had eliminated their unfortunate mule.

"What do we do next?" he asked Pea Eye, though he didn't really expect Pea Eye to know. But they had to do something next. Or were they just going to stand in a drafty creek bed all day?

"We'll wait for dark and go back and get our supplies," Pea Eye said.

So they did–they stood in the dry, drafty creek bed all day. When they weren't standing, they squatted. Pea Eye wanted to wait until full dark to go back to camp and secure food and ammunition. It was the longest, dullest, coldest wait of Brookshire's entire life. It was cloudy, and he did not even have the distraction of watching the sun move across the sky. There was no distraction at all, and Famous Shoes hadn't come back from wherever he had gone.

"That's a little worrisome," Pea Eye said.

"I'd hate to be out here in Mexico without our tracker, even if we have the river to show us the way." "Well, ain't the river enough?" Brookshire asked.

"It's enough unless he flushes us out of it," Pea Eye said. "I just got the feeling that he wants us to run. I don't know why, though." When full dark came they went to the camp, where they found nothing–only the four dead animals.

Everything had been removed: the extra guns, the frying pan and coffeepot, the saddles, the packs, the blankets, everything. There were no matches, no knives, nothing. Brookshire stepped on a spoon that had been dropped in the ashes of the fire. The horse killer apparently hadn't noticed it, but it was the only thing he hadn't noticed. Brookshire gave it to Pea Eye, who stuck it in his shirt pocket, though they had no food that could be eaten with a spoon; no food that could be eaten, period, with or without utensils.

When Pea Eye saw that the camp had been cleaned out, his fear came back more strongly.

Any bandit would loot a camp and take what appealed to him. Some would take guns and some would take provisions, and some might take a saddle or a nice blanket. But in his experience, bandits rarely took everything. Bandits had to keep on the move. They didn't want to be burdened with things they didn't need or want.

This bandit had taken everything, though, and not because he wanted it. Their gear was unexceptional. He had taken it because he didn't want them to have it.

He wanted to be sure that they were cold and hungry.

"Don't you even have a match?" Pea Eye asked. Brookshire occasionally smoked a pipe.

Brookshire thought he might have a match or two in his shirt pocket, but in fact, he didn't.

"I guess I used the last one this morning," he said. "I had already smoked a pipe before the man shot the mule." "It's going to be cold," Pea Eye said.

"All we can do is get out of the wind and hunker down." "We could walk," Brookshire suggested.

"We're going to have to walk anyway. Why not start tonight? At least, it'll keep us warm." "Well, we could," Pea Eye said. "I never liked traveling at night, but I guess it would warm us up." They had scarcely left the edge of the camp before a shot rang out. It hit a rock not far from Brookshire's foot and whined away into the darkness. Another shot followed; Pea Eye heard it clip a bush near his elbow. He stopped, as did Brookshire. They were too startled and frightened to say a word. Their assailant was watching them, or listening, or both. The slaps of the shots had been fairly close. The horse killer was probably within fifty yards of them.

"We'd best go back to the riverbed," Pea Eye said.

"No, let him come and kill us," Brookshire said. "He's going to anyway. He knows right where we are. I guess he's listening.

He's got our ammunition and food. He's just playing with us now. We don't have a chance, and he knows it. I've spent nothing but cold nights since I got to Texas. I'll be damned if I want to spend another cold night, squatting on my heels, just to get shot in the morning. He can shoot me now and spare me the shivering." "No, Brookshire, don't give up," Pea Eye said. "Come back to the riverbed with me. We're armed still. While we're alive there's a chance. There's two of us, and just one of him. We might beat him yet, or the Captain might show up in the morning and scare him off." "What if he's already killed the Captain?" Brookshire asked. "I expect he has, myself. The Captain's five days late, and you said he was never late." "He ain't, usually," Pea Eye admitted. The thought that the Captain might be dead had occurred to him too, but he did his best to push that thought away. People had thought the Captain was most likely dead many times during the Indian wars.

He himself had feared it on a number of occasions.

And yet the Captain had always appeared. If they didn't give up, the Captain might yet appear again.

"Let's go to the creek," Pea Eye said.

"Try it one more night, Brookshire. If we go to him, he'll shoot us, but if we go back, he might let us go." "Go back where?" Brookshire asked.

"There's nothing back that way except Chihuahua City, and we'd starve long before we got to Chihuahua City. I'd rather be shot than starve, and I'd even rather be shot than shiver all night. I'm tired of this shivering, and I'll tell Joey Garza so, if I see him.

I'll tell Colonel Terry something, too, if I make it back to the office. Joey Garza can rob all the trains he wants to.

Ned Brookshire is resigning. I may never hold another job with the railroad, but I'll be damned if I'll wander around Mexico any longer, freezing to death." Brookshire meant it, too. He had blown away, but he wasn't a hat. He could try to walk back. If he didn't make it, so be it. The whole adventure had been a terrible mistake. Katie had died while he was on it.

Captain Call, the manhunter everyone said was infallible, had been plenty fallible in this instance.

Brookshire saw no reason to suffer passively anymore. He felt sure he could walk three days, even without food. He could make it to the village by the river. Then he was going to rent a buggy and drive somewhere and catch a train, one that would take him to New Orleans or Chicago and then home. He had seen the great West, and he didn't like it. There were plenty of accountants in New York–Colonel Terry would have no trouble finding a man to replace him.

Perhaps next time, the Colonel would know to keep accountants where they belonged, in the office with the ledgers.

Pea Eye knew he ought to knock Brookshire out with a gun barrel and make an effort to save him. The Captain might show up at any time. Joey Garza might lose interest in the game and ride off.

"Brookshire, just wait one more night," Pea Eye said. "There's two of us, we might beat him. The Captain might come. One of us might get off a lucky shot. We'd do better sticking together. Just wait one more night." "I appreciate the thought," Brookshire said. "But I've waited and waited, and now I'm going, killer or no killer. I can follow this river as well as the next man, I guess.

Maybe I'll get through. If I don't get through, all I ask is that you send my love to my sister." On impulse, he grasped Pea Eye's hand and shook it hard.

"Well, I don't know your sister," Pea Eye said. "I wouldn't know how to get word to her." "Her name's Matilda Morris, and she lives in Avon, Connectiut," Brookshire said. "I regret that I had no time to write her before I left. Colonel Terry wanted me on the next train, and that was that." He cocked both barrels of the big shotgun and walked past Pea Eye out of the camp. Pea Eye didn't hit him–knocking men out was a tricky business. He might misjudge the lick and hit too hard, in which case he would just cause unnecessary suffering. He couldn't bring himself to do it.

Brookshire went boldly out of camp. He walked along at a good pace, trying to maintain a staunch attitude. Sometimes in Brooklyn, if he was on the streets late and had to walk past bullies or louts, he found that the best method was just to walk along boldly and not give the bullies or louts the time of day. Perhaps the same method would work with this Garza boy, if it was the Garza boy who had killed their animals. He did wish he were walking along the orderly streets of Brooklyn, with solid brick houses on either side of him. Just thinking of the solid brick houses of Brooklyn caused him to be seized by a moment of almost overwhelming longing to be back in his own place once more. If he could be in his own place, he felt that life would swing into firm shape in no time, even without his dear Katie.

Brookshire had to choke down his longing, though; he was in Mexico, not Brooklyn. He kept walking at a fast clip. If attacked, he planned to give a good account of himself and try to at least injure his assailant.

But when Brookshire, walking smartly along, heard the click of a hammer, it was just behind his head, close enough that whoever held the pistol could have stuck it in his hip pocket.

One more mistake on my part, Brookshire thought. He whirled and saw the boy standing an arm's length away, his pistol pointed at Brookshire's face. Brookshire knew he had no chance to swing up the big shotgun, and he was so numbed by his own folly that he didn't even try.

"At least I've seen your face," he said.

Joey Garza didn't answer. He pulled the trigger instead. One shot did it; he liked to be economical.

When Pea Eye heard the pistol shot, he knew the battle was over for Mr. Brookshire.

He turned and hurried back to the little creek with the steep walls. The little creek was the only place that offered him any protection. There had been no blast from the big shotgun. The Garza boy was unscratched. Pea Eye knew he would have to fight him alone.

He stayed in the creek for an hour, then snuck back to camp, and with his pocketknife began to cut strips of horsemeat off the haunch of Brookshire's horse. He knew he might be in for a long siege. In Montana he had walked nearly one hundred miles with only a few berries to eat. He didn't intend to get that hungry again. There was no need to, either, with four dead animals right there. He sliced and sliced with his little knife. Before he went back to the creek, he had almost a week's supply of horsemeat stuffed into his shirt. If he had to walk out and make a long detour, at least he would have food.

Pea Eye wanted to last, and he meant to last. He had Lorena and his five young children to think of. He could not just hand himself up for slaughter as Brookshire had. His chances might be slim, but for the sake of his family he had to fight the deadly boy as hard as he could.

As the cold hours passed, Pea Eye had a terrible longing to be with Lorena and his children one more time. He wished they could all be together in their kitchen, talking. He imagined Lorena with her coffee cup and himself with his. Clarie would have brought in the milk; the boys would be in their chairs, a little sleepy probably; and Laurie would be in her cradle, which he could rock with his foot.

Pea Eye wanted badly to tell them all how sorry he was that he had left them. He wanted them to know how much he regretted putting Captain Call first, and not them. It had been a terrible wrong. He wanted them to know that never again would he put any duty before his duty to them, to Lorena and his children. He felt a great sadness at not being able to let his family know what he was feeling. If he was killed, they would never know how much he loved them and missed them. They would never know what he was feeling at this moment.

In his sadness at not being able to say to his family what he so badly needed to say to them, Pea Eye began to cry. He didn't know how he could have persuaded himself to leave them; and yet he had. If only it was himself having to pay for his mistake, he could have lived with it and died with it.

But the bitterest knowledge was that his wife and children would be the ones having to pay for his error. No doubt they were paying already, and had been paying since the day he left the farm. The thought he found hardest to bear was that they might never know how much he loved them, or how keenly, how terribly he missed them.

He had left them, though, and he could not undo that fact. All he could do was clutch his rifle and hope that somehow he could prevail when the killer came. He had never risen higher than a corporal in his years with the Rangers. He knew he wasn't smart or an exceptional fighter, like the Captain or like Gus McCrae. But in this last fight, he had to be better than he had been. He had to fight well. He had to for his family's sake.

The long night passed slowly. Pea Eye was shivering in a cold dawn when he saw Famous Shoes coming along the creek.

"Is Brookshire dead?" he asked, when Famous Shoes arrived.

"Yes, Joey shot him," Famous Shoes said.

"When's he coming to kill me, then?" Pea Eye asked.

"He says if you will give him your boots, he will let you go," Famous Shoes said. "He doesn't think you will follow him without your boots." Pea Eye considered that a poor dodge. He didn't entirely trust Famous Shoes anyway. The old man's services had always been for sale to the highest bidder. Pea Eye did not intend to give up his footgear.

"Why didn't he kill you?" Pea Eye asked Famous Shoes.

"He doesn't want to kill me. I am too old," Famous Shoes said. "Captain Call is in Ojinaga, but Joey shot his leg off. He thinks the Captain might die. It was your woman who brought him to Ojinaga." "Lorena?" Pea Eye said, severely startled. "Are you sure?" "It is your woman, she has blond hair," Famous Shoes said. "She cut the Captain's leg off. Joey saw it. Then she brought the Captain to Ojinaga." "Well, I swear," Pea Eye said. "I wonder who's got the children?" He was so surprised by the news that he almost forgot the danger of the moment.

"Joey wants me to bring him your boots," Famous Shoes reminded him.

"If the rascal wants my boots, let him come and get them," Pea Eye said. The knowledge that his wife was less than a day's ride away filled him with hope. If he could outfight the killer, he could look on Lorena's face again.

It was a chance. He meant to use every ounce of fight he had in him to beat the killer and get back to his wife.

Long ago, Gus McCrae had teased the Rangers by calculating how much fight each man had in him, as if fight could be measured like oats or some substance that could be placed on a scale.

"Call, now, he's about ninety-eight percent fight," Gus had said. "Take away the fight and he'd be so weak, he couldn't mount his horse.

But that's unusual. I'm only about forty percent fight myself. Pea, I expect you're about twelve percent or so, and old Deets about fifteen." Twelve percent didn't sound like much to Pea, but he resolved to use every oat of it to struggle past the killer and get to the river where Lorena was. If she was there, it was because she had come to get him and take him home. She must have traveled all that way just to bring him home. It was amazing to Pea Eye that Lorena would go to all that trouble just for him. But since she had, he meant to see that she hadn't wasted her traveling.

"Where is Joey Garza?" he asked Famous Shoes.

"He is by the Concho," Famous Shoes said.

"If you go toward the village, I think he will kill you. If you go the other way, he might let you go." "I reckon I'll go where my wife is," Pea Eye said. "If she was home safe, I might run, but if she's here in Mexico, I guess I'll fight the rascal." "Can I borrow your knife?" Famous Shoes asked. "I want to cut myself some of that horsemeat. I'm going to walk to the Madre, and I want to take some food." Pea Eye lent him the knife. In a few minutes, Famous Shoes returned and gave him back the knife. He had a few strips of horsemeat tucked under his belt.

Pea Eye felt the blade of his knife and saw that it was a little dull. He took a thin whetstone out of his pocket and began to sharpen the pocketknife. As he was sharpening it, a thought struck him. Brookshire had walked off with the big eight-gauge shotgun. It was an ugly weapon, and no one but an inexperienced Yankee would have considered bringing it on a long expedition.

Joey Garza was known to prefer pretty guns, and the eight-gauge was anything but pretty.

Maybe he had neglected to take the shotgun from Brookshire. Maybe he had just let it lay.

"Did you see that big shotgun?" Pea Eye asked Famous Shoes. "Did Joey gather it up, or is it still there?" "Joey didn't take it, it's there," Famous Shoes said. "He only took the man's watch." Pea Eye wanted the shotgun. He didn't trust his rifle that much, and he knew he was inept with a pistol. But with an eight-gauge shotgun, if Joey Garza was fool enough to come in range, he ought to be able to pepper him, at least.

"Whose side are you on?" he asked Famous Shoes. "Mine or his?" "I am going to the Madre," Famous Shoes said. "Joey might change his mind and kill me if I stay here. I don't know what he will do." All Pea Eye could think of was the big shotgun. In his mind it had become the thing that might save him. He needed to figure out a way to get it without getting shot. He couldn't forget his wife. She was not far away, and he had to get to her. Joey Garza was the one thing in his way.

Pea Eye sat down and took his boots off.

"Take my boots," he said, handing them over to Famous Shoes. "Tell him I'm going away." Famous Shoes didn't believe Pea Eye. He took the boots, but he felt nervous. "You don't want to go away," he said.

"You like your woman too much to go away." "That's right," Pea Eye said. "I oughtn't to have left her, and now I've got to try and get back to her." "If Joey kills you, can I have your knife?" Famous Shoes asked.

Pea Eye gave it to him. "It's yours, one way or the other," he said.

Then he dug in his pocket and came out with a gold piece. He knew Famous Shoes was greedy. It was a five-dollar gold piece; it might tempt him.

"This is yours," he said. "When you're walking back to Joey, stop a moment where Brookshire's body is. I need to know where to run to, to pick up that big shotgun. Just stop a moment, look down, like you're looking at a track." Famous Shoes felt a little disquieted. Pea Eye didn't know Joey and didn't realize how coolly and easily he killed. Famous Shoes thought that Pea Eye liked his woman too much, so much that he might get killed trying to return to her. No one killed as easily as Joey Garza. Probably Pea Eye was being foolish. But Famous Shoes could not wait around all morning discussing the matter. He had to get to the Madre.