The Complete Western Stories of Elmore Leonard - Elmore Leonard [140]
“That’s all right,” Fisher said. “Hand me your gun and go through their pockets. We got to move.”
He watched Buz search them, stuffing bills and coins into his pockets as he went along. “About how much?” he asked when he had finished.
“Not more than a hundred and fifty.”
“What about that satchel there?” He pointed to the business case on the floor.
INSTANTLY SELLERS said, “Those are government papers!” More calmly he said, “Bureau statistics.”
Ed Fisher said, “Buz, open it up.”
The gunman lifted the case and looked at Fisher with surprise. “If there’s writin’ in here, it’s cut on stone.” He carried it to the table and unfastened the straps and opened it. He brought out something folded
in newspaper and unwrapped it carefully. A leather pouch. He pulled the thongs quickly, eagerly, and dumped the pouch upside-down on the table. The coins came out in a shower.
“Ed! Mint silver!”
Fisher was grinning at Sellers. “How much, Buz?”
“Four, five, six pouches …about two thousand!”
Corsen was looking out of the window. There was something, a movement high up on the slope. Then, hearing Buz, he glanced quickly at Sellers. That was it, plain enough. Sellers didn’t make that kind of money with a Bureau job. It could only come from selling Indian rations. But now, as the others watched Buz at the table, Corsen’s eyes narrowed, looking out into the glare again, and now he could make out the movement. Far out, coming down from the slope, reaching the flat stretch now, were tiny specks, dots against the sand glare that he knew were riders. They were coming from where he had seen Bonito that morning, and suddenly, abruptly, Corsen realized who the riders were.
Ed Fisher was saying, “Get two horses and run off the others. One’s saddled already.” He looked at the men in front of him. “Whose mount is that in the shed, the chestnut?”
Corsen looked from the window as the screen door slammed behind Buz going out. “The chestnut’s mine,” he said.
“Thanks for the use.”
“You’re not going anywhere.”
Fisher looked at him quickly, then smiled, his eyes going to Katie. “If you want to play Mister Brave for your girl, wait for when I got more time.”
“It’s not me that’s stopping you,” Corsen said, “but I’ll tell you again—you’re not going anywhere.”
“You can talk plainer than that.”
“All right. Call to your partner.”
“What’ll that prove?”
“Just see if he’s still there.”
Fisher, yelled, “Hey—Buz!”
There was a silence, then boot scuffing and Buz was at the door. “What?”
Fisher looked at Corsen, then back to Buz. “Nothing. Hurry up.”
Buz looked at him queerly and moved off again.
“Now what?” Fisher said.
“It’ll come,” Corsen said. “He hasn’t seen them yet.”
“Seen who?”
And there it was, as if answering his question—the sound of running, boots on packed sand. Buz’s voice yelling, hoarse with panic. Then he was at the door, stumbling against it. “ ’Paches!”
“STAY WHERE YOU ARE!” Fisher held his pistol on the men at the bar and backed toward the door. He glanced out. “How many?”
“Six of them! Let me in!”
“Keep watching!”
Through the window Corsen could now see the cluster of riders plainly, walking their ponies. They were in no hurry—not six, but five, coming across the flat stretch.
“They’re peaceful.” It was Sellers who said this. “There hasn’t been a war party around here in over a year.”
Corsen looked at him. “They’re twenty miles off the reservation.”
“They’ve been known to wander, but when they do, they have to be taught a lesson. That was your trouble, Corsen—too easy on them. Verbiest, you come along with me and see how it’s done.”
Corsen said quietly, “Bonito doesn’t learn very fast.”
“Bonito?” Sellers showed surprise. “He’s down in the Madres.”
“He wasn’t this morning when I talked to him.”
“And you’re just now telling me?”
“I was fired.”
Fisher glanced out the door again, then back, his eyes stopping on Sellers. “Have you got something to do with them?”
Sellers did not answer, but Teachout said, “He’s with the Bureau of Indian Affairs.”
“Then this is your party,