The Complete Western Stories of Elmore Leonard - Elmore Leonard [211]
“Maybe they’ve gone and won’t come,” the girl said.
“That’s right, maybe they’ve gone and won’t even come.”
Though neither of them believed that.
They watched the darkness creep in long shadows down out of the trees and across the meadow. It came dingy and dark gray over the yard bringing with it a deep silence and only occasional night sounds. When the room was dim the girl rose and brought a lamp to the table, but Brady shook his head and she sat down again without lighting it.
Now neither of them spoke and after a time Brady’s hand moved to hers on the table. His fingers touched her fingers lightly. His hand covered hers and held it. They sat this way for a long time, at first self-consciously aware of their hands together, then gradually relaxing, still not speaking, but feeling the nearness of one another and experiencing in the touch of their hands a strange warm intimate feeling, as if they had known each other for years and not just hours.
They sat this way as Brady’s fingers moved and rubbed the back of her hand lightly, feeling the small bones and the smoothness of her skin, and when her hand turned their palms came together and held firmly. They sat this way until the faraway sound of a falling bucket clanged abruptly out of the darkness.
Brady came to his feet. He heard the girl gasp and he said, “Hold on to yourself. Remember now, you stay in here. You don’t open the door unless you hear my voice.”
He went out the front door, closing it quietly, now moving along the front of the house. At the corner he drew his Colt, eased back the hammer, hesitated only a brief moment before crouching and running along the fence to the front of the stable. He stopped to listen, then moved again, around the stable and along its adobe side to the back corner and now he went down to one knee.
Less than forty feet away directly across from him, the door of the barn came slowly open. Someone hesitated in the black square of the opening before coming out cautiously, keeping close to the front of the barn until he reached the corner. Brady waited, his eyes going from the dark figure to the open doorway, but no one followed.
You know who it is, Brady thought, raising, aiming the Colt. You know blame well who it is. He’s alone because he ran out of patience. Too young and full of fire to sit and wait. All right. That’s fine. Albie, you’re digging your own hole and that’s just fine.
He watched the figure leave the barn: side-stepping cautiously out of the deep shadow, facing the house with his drawn gun, but edging one step at a time toward the dim outline of the corn crib.
Don’t give him a chance, Brady thought. But as his hand tightened on the trigger he called out, “Albie—”
Albie fired. There was no hesitation, no indecision. With the sound of his name, his gun hand swung across his body and fired and with the movement he was running, going down as he reached the corn crib.
Silence.
So you learn, Brady thought. But you don’t make the same mistake twice. He stepped out past the corner of the stable bringing up the Colt and lining the barrel on the empty corn crib.
Three times in quick succession he aimed and fired, moving the Colt from right to left across the shape of the crib. The sounds clashed in the darkness: the heavy ring of the Colt, the ripping, whining of the bullets splintering the slats and with the third shot a howl of pain.
Brady moved quickly across the yard to the corner of the barn. He loaded the Colt, listening, watching the crib, then edged around the corner, dropped to his hands and knees and crept toward the crib. Albie was on his knees doubled over holding