The Complete Western Stories of Elmore Leonard - Elmore Leonard [123]
“Mister, we owe you an apology, though I don’t imagine it makes your head feel any better.”
Walker relaxed slowly, sitting up, then came to his feet and stood in front of the red beard which was even with his own chin. But his leg buckled under him and he sat down again, feeling the stabbing in his right knee. He winced, but kept his eyes on the officer. He had imagined McGrail to be a much taller man and now he was surprised. Stories make a man taller than he is.… Then he felt better because Major Mc-Grail was not unusually tall. Still, he was uneasy. Perhaps because he had tried to kill him not a half hour before.
“Your knee?” McGrail said.
Walker nodded, then said, “Where’s my horse?”
“It was past saving.”
“You didn’t have a right to fire on me.”
McGrail smiled faintly. “I’m told you had a damn uncommon guilty way of running when ordered to halt.”
“I didn’t hear anything.”
“Perhaps you weren’t listening.”
“I don’t wear a uniform.”
“Did you ever?”
“Are you holding a trial?”
“Someone shooting at me arouses a fair amount of curiosity.”
“So your men chased out and spotted me and thought I was the one.”
McGrail said nothing. He extended his left hand to the side and the sergeant stepped quickly, placing in it the carbine he’d been holding.
McGrail handed the carbine to Walker. “We took the liberty of examining it,” he said. “You see, the bullet struck my mount. From something with a large bore—a Sharps perhaps.”
And mine’s a carbine that hasn’t been fired.”
“A Perry that hasn’t been fired,” McGrail corrected. “A Confederate make, isn’t it?”
“As far as I know, this gun doesn’t know north from south.”
“I suppose not.” McGrail smiled. “Which way are you going?” he said then.
“Valverde.”
“Well, I can repay some inconvenience by offering you a remount home.”
“I didn’t say it was my home.”
“In fact—” McGrail smiled “—you haven’t said anything.”
THE UNION CAVALRY Station, Valverde, New Mexico, was a mile north of the pueblo. McGrail swung his troop in that direction as they approached Valverde and Lou Walker sat his mount for some time watching the dust rise behind the line of cavalry. Then he went on— though the image of McGrail, red beard and tired eyes, remained in his mind.
Before reaching the plaza, he turned into a side street and tied the borrowed mount in front of a one-story adobe and went through the doorway that said EAT above it in large faded letters.
The man behind the bar looked up and nodded as he entered and the waiter, who was Mexican and wore a stained apron, also nodded. There were no patrons in the room, but Walker passed through it to a back room which was smaller and had only three tables. And as he sat down, the Mexican appeared in the doorway.
“You’re limping.”
“My horse threw me.”
“That’s a bad thing.” The waiter considered this and then said, “What pleases you?”
“Brandy and coffee.”
His knee was becoming stiff and was sensitive when he touched it. He rubbed it idly, becoming used to it, until the waiter returned and placed his tray on the table. The waiter poured coffee from a small porcelain pot, then raised the brandy bottle.
“In the coffee?”
He shook his head and watched as the waiter poured brandy into a glass. He looked up as a man came through the doorway.
Walker nodded and said, “Beckwith.”
The man, in his mid-forties, was thin and he wore a heavy mustache that made his drawn face seem even narrower.
He said, “What’s that?”
“Brandy.”
“You better watch it.” Sitting down, Beckwith’s hand flicked against the waiter’s arm. “We’ll see you,” he said and waited until the scuffing sound of the waiter’s sandals had faded out of the room while he watched Walker closely.
“I saw McGrail ten minutes ago.”
“I missed him.”
“That’s like telling me I’ve got eyes. All you had to do was aim at his beard.”
“That’s what Risdon said.”
“Where is he?”
“He went back to del Norte.”
“He was supposed to stay with you,” Beckwith said.
“He went back to tell you what happened. I didn’t know you were here.”
“You don’t seem too concerned