night with a dead Indian and I'm almost past patience. Would you kindly take me to my husband.
He looked again at the Apache and then to the woman. Disbelief in his eyes. He started to say something, but Amelia Darck went on.
I've lived out here most of my life, Mr. Street, as you know. I heard Apache war drums long before I a ttended my first cotillion, but I have hardly reached the point where I have to take an Apache for a lover.
Simon Street saw a thousand troops and a hundred scouts in the field. Then he looked at the slender woman walking briskly up the grade.
The Rustlers Most of the time there was dead silence. When someone did say something it was never more than a word or two at a time: More coffee? Words that were not words because there was no thought behind them and they didn't mean anything. Words like getting late, when no one cared. Hardly even noises, because no one heard.
Stillness. Six men sitting together in a pine grove, and yet there was no sound. A boot scraped gravel and a tin cup clanked against rock, but they were like the words, little noises that started and stopped at the same time and were forgotten before they could be remembered.
More coffee? And an answering grunt that meant even less.
Five men scattered around a campfire that was dead, and the sixth man squatting at the edge of the pines looking out into the distance through the dismal ren1/4eection of a dying sun that made the grayish n1/4eat land look petrified in death and unchanged for a hundred million years.
Emmett Ryan stared across the n1/4eats toward the lighter gray outline in the distance that was Anton Chico, but he wasn't seeing the adobe brick of the village. He wasn't watching the black speck that was gradually getting bigger as it approached.
All of us knew that. We sat and watched Emmett Ryan's coat pulled tight across his shoulder blades, not moving body or head. Just a broad smoothness of faded denim. We'd been looking at the same back all the way from Tascosa and in two hundred miles you can learn a lot about a back.
The black speck grew into a horse and rider, and as they moved up the slope toward the pines the horse and rider became Gosh Hall on his roan. Emmett walked over to meet him, but didn't say anything. The question was on his broad, red face and he didn't have to ask it.
Gosh Hall swung down from the saddle and put his hands on the small of his back, arching against The Rustlers the stiffness. They just rode in, he said, and walked past the big man to the dead fire. Who's got all the coffee?
Emmett followed him with his eyes and the question was still there. It was something to see that big, plain face with the eyes open wide and staring when before they'd always been half-closed from squinting against the glare of twenty-odd years in open country. Now his face looked too big and loose for the small nose and slit of an Irish mouth.
You could see the indecision and maybe a little fear in the wide-open eyes, something that had never been there before.
We'd catch ourselves looking at that face and have to look at something else, quick, or Em would see somebody's jaw hanging open and wonder what the hell was wrong with him. We felt sorry for Em I know I did and it was a funny feeling to all of a sudden see the big TX ramrod that way.
Gosh looked like he had an apron on, standing over the dead fire with his hip cocked and the worn hide chaps covering his short legs. He held the cup halfway to his face, watching Em, waiting for him to ask the question. I thought Gosh was making it a little extra tough on Em; he could have come right out with it. Both of them just stared at each other.
Finally Emmett said, Jack with them?
Gosh took a sip of coffee first. Him and Joe Anthony rode in together, and another man. Anthony and the other man went into the Senate House and Jack took the horses to the livery and then followed them over to the hotel.
They see you?
Naw, I was down the street under a ramada. All
He looked again at the Apache and then to the woman. Disbelief in his eyes. He started to say something, but Amelia Darck went on.
I've lived out here most of my life, Mr. Street, as you know. I heard Apache war drums long before I a ttended my first cotillion, but I have hardly reached the point where I have to take an Apache for a lover.
Simon Street saw a thousand troops and a hundred scouts in the field. Then he looked at the slender woman walking briskly up the grade.
The Rustlers Most of the time there was dead silence. When someone did say something it was never more than a word or two at a time: More coffee? Words that were not words because there was no thought behind them and they didn't mean anything. Words like getting late, when no one cared. Hardly even noises, because no one heard.
Stillness. Six men sitting together in a pine grove, and yet there was no sound. A boot scraped gravel and a tin cup clanked against rock, but they were like the words, little noises that started and stopped at the same time and were forgotten before they could be remembered.
More coffee? And an answering grunt that meant even less.
Five men scattered around a campfire that was dead, and the sixth man squatting at the edge of the pines looking out into the distance through the dismal ren1/4eection of a dying sun that made the grayish n1/4eat land look petrified in death and unchanged for a hundred million years.
Emmett Ryan stared across the n1/4eats toward the lighter gray outline in the distance that was Anton Chico, but he wasn't seeing the adobe brick of the village. He wasn't watching the black speck that was gradually getting bigger as it approached.
All of us knew that. We sat and watched Emmett Ryan's coat pulled tight across his shoulder blades, not moving body or head. Just a broad smoothness of faded denim. We'd been looking at the same back all the way from Tascosa and in two hundred miles you can learn a lot about a back.
The black speck grew into a horse and rider, and as they moved up the slope toward the pines the horse and rider became Gosh Hall on his roan. Emmett walked over to meet him, but didn't say anything. The question was on his broad, red face and he didn't have to ask it.
Gosh Hall swung down from the saddle and put his hands on the small of his back, arching against The Rustlers the stiffness. They just rode in, he said, and walked past the big man to the dead fire. Who's got all the coffee?
Emmett followed him with his eyes and the question was still there. It was something to see that big, plain face with the eyes open wide and staring when before they'd always been half-closed from squinting against the glare of twenty-odd years in open country. Now his face looked too big and loose for the small nose and slit of an Irish mouth.
You could see the indecision and maybe a little fear in the wide-open eyes, something that had never been there before.
We'd catch ourselves looking at that face and have to look at something else, quick, or Em would see somebody's jaw hanging open and wonder what the hell was wrong with him. We felt sorry for Em I know I did and it was a funny feeling to all of a sudden see the big TX ramrod that way.
Gosh looked like he had an apron on, standing over the dead fire with his hip cocked and the worn hide chaps covering his short legs. He held the cup halfway to his face, watching Em, waiting for him to ask the question. I thought Gosh was making it a little extra tough on Em; he could have come right out with it. Both of them just stared at each other.
Finally Emmett said, Jack with them?
Gosh took a sip of coffee first. Him and Joe Anthony rode in together, and another man. Anthony and the other man went into the Senate House and Jack took the horses to the livery and then followed them over to the hotel.
They see you?
Naw, I was down the street under a ramada. All
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