The Complete Western Stories of Elmore Leonard - Elmore Leonard [132]
Eugene ignored him and kept on toward Sonny. The Mexican’s hand edged toward his holstered pistol.
“Gene, you sit down now,” Deke said tensely.
Eugene stepped into the rectangle of sunlight carpeting in from the doorway. He was stepping out of it when the rifle cracked and sang in the open stillness. Eugene’s hands clawed at his face and he dropped without uttering a sound.
MCKELWAY RELOADED quickly. He had got one of them, he was sure of that. And it hadn’t looked like the boy, else he wouldn’t have fired. Jim Mission told him it was good shooting. After that McKelway did some figuring.
From the crest of the ore tailing in front of them, they’d be only about fifty yards from the hut. The only trouble was, they’d be out in
the open. He told Jim Mission about it and he said why not go up after dark; then if they didn’t see anything they’d still be close enough to shoot at sounds. McKelway said he was just waiting for Jim to say it.
THERE WAS NO poker the rest of the afternoon. Deke had dragged Eugene by his boots out of the doorway and placed him against a side wall with his hands on his chest, not crossed, but pushed inside his coat. He took the money out of Eugene’s pockets—six thousand dollars—and laid it on the table. Then he sat down and looked at it.
Rich Miller pressed close to the wall by the window, studying the slope, wondering where the man with the rifle was. His eyes hung on the weathered shaft scaffolding, and now he wasn’t so sure if there’d be any fun.
Once Deke said, “Now it’s starting to show itself,” but they didn’t bother to ask him what.
Sonny Navarez stayed by a window. He would look at Eugene’s body, but most of the time he was watching the dying sun. Rich Miller noticed this, but he figured the Mexican was thinking about God—or heaven or hell—because there was a dead man in the room. Sonny had crossed himself when Eugene was cut down, even though he would have killed him himself a minute before.
The sun was below the canyon rim, though the sky still reflected it red and orange, when Sonny Navarez pulled his pistol.
Deke was raising the bottle. He glanced at the Mexican, but only momentarily. He took a long swallow then and extended the bottle to Rich Miller. But the boy was staring at Sonny Navarez. Deke’s head turned abruptly. Sonny’s long-barreled .44 was pointing toward them.
Deke took his time putting down the bottle. He looked up again. “What’s the idea?”
The Mexican said, “When it is dark I’m leaving.”
Deke nodded to the pistol. “You think we’re going to try and stop you?”
“You might. I am taking the money.”
“You’re wasting your time.”
Sonny Navarez shrugged. “Qué va—it’s worth a try. From no matter where you die, it’s the same distance to hell.”
“You wouldn’t have a chance,” Rich Miller said. “There’s somebody out there close with a rifle dead on this place.”
“For this money a man will brave many things,” the Mexican said. “And—I am not leaving until dark.” Then he told them to face the wall, and when they did, he picked up the bundles of oversize bills and stuffed them inside his jacket.
Rich Miller said, “Do you think you’ll get through?”
“Probably no.”
Deke said, “You’re a damn fool.”
“If I get out,” Sonny Navarez said, “I will visit a priest and give his church part of the money, and not rob again.”
“It’s too late for that,” Deke said. “It’s too late for anything.”
No,” the Mexican insisted. “I will be very sorry for this crime. With the money that is left after the church I will buy my mother a house in Hermosillo and after that I will recite the rosary every day.”
Deke shook his head. “Things are going the way they are for a reason we don’t know. But nothing you can do will change it.”
The Mexican shrugged and said, “Qué va—”
It was almost full dark when Sonny Navarez moved to the doorway. He stood next to the opening and holstered his pistol and lifted his carbine, which was there against the wall. He levered a shell into the breech and stepped into the opening, crouching slightly.