West of Nowhere Read online

  Then as we were walking past the bucking horse corral, a thing happened that was going to change the whole dope on that rodeo, and Whiskers Beck's plans, and mine, too, though I didn't fully understand all about that right away.

  Just as we were passing the corral, a horse let out a bawl, and there was some hoof hammering and a cracking sound like a horse kicking a six-inch post right out of the ground. You are always hearing that kind of row around the bronc's, but this time there was a minute of silence right after that, as if everything within earshot suddenly stood to listen. Out of that sudden quiet we heard somebody yell: "In God's name, kill him! Hasn't anybody got a gun?"

  Then noise began horses milling, people running and shouting, and the snap of a rope end.

  We ran over to where a little part of the bronc' corral was divided off, and they were keeping a big black horse in the small part alone. Somebody had dabbed a loop over the fence and got this black horse around the neck, and he and three or four cowboys took on to the end of the rope and was choking him. The heavy barred fence shook like it was going to come down as they tried to hold that horse.

  The big black went straight up in the air, pawing at the rope, then came down on his back. Then I saw that a couple of other boys had jumped into the corral and were dragging something out under the lower bar of the fence.

  Pretty soon I found out that this they dragged out had been a good little rider named Bob Dennis, but he would never scratch bronc's any more.

  Whiskers Beck and Ben and I went over and stood looking at that big black horse kind of gloomy, the way a man looks at a horse that has just killed a man.

  "Boy, boy," said Ben Cord, "I'd give anything I got to draw that pony in the contest!"

  Whiskers said, very dull and flat: "What horse is that?"

  "That's Pain Killer," I told him. "I know that horse. He bucked me down in three jumps at Cheyenne. Pain whirled and jumped to come down on me, but Bill Daly jumped his horse across me and rammed him. Pain reared up and struck Bill out of the saddle and broke his arm."

  "Funny name for a horse," said Whiskers Beck.

  "It's a joke," I explained to him. "The first man he killed was named Payne."

  "You think that's a funny joke?" said Whiskers Beck.

  I was feeling kind of sick, but I had always thought it was funny up to now, so I stuck to it. "Sure, that's funny," I said.

  Whiskers Beck started to say "Well, I...." Then all of a sudden he grabbed hold of one of the bars of the fence, and stared inside at the big black as if he would jump through the fence and bite him.

  I saw the knuckles of his hands turn white on the fence bar.

  "Whiskers, what's the matter with you?"

  "Gil," said Whiskers, "my eyes ain't so good as they was. Look at that horse for me. Look on the inside of his off gaskin...and tell me what you see."

  "I see a half moon scar, like from a wire cut," I told him.

  Whisker Beck's voice was awful quick, but still it kind of quavered. "Gil," he said, "I know that horse! That's a Stillwater country horse."

  "He belongs to the Helmholtz brothers now," I said.

  "So I heard," Whiskers Beck mumbled so I could hardly hear him. "Yeah, I heard that. Only I didn't realize...." Whiskers Beck drummed on the bar of the fence for a minute with the side of his fist. Then all of a sudden he turned, and he walked away.

  "He's got a hate on those Helmholtz brothers," Ben said, "on account of Johnny."

  Still I didn't see why old Whiskers should take it so hard just to find out that the Helmholtzes had a horse, they having more horses than Whiskers had whiskers, many times over. So I got the idea that Whiskers must be somewhat nuts. And I thought no more about it right then.

  It didn't come back into my mind until midnight, when the bronc' fighters came together at rodeo headquarters, in the blacksmith shop, to draw for the bronc's we would ride the next day. There were pretty near thirty riders entered this year, about a dozen from the big desert ranches around there. Old Whiskers Beck was there, and he seemed to know everybody not only people around there, but people from all over. And he had worked it so that he was going to be an assistant arena director, on no pay, as is often the case with these old boys everybody knows.

  So now it worked out that Whiskers Beck was the hombre who went down the list and gave numbers on little slips of paper to throw in a hat. Leaning over his shoulder, I saw him give Pain Killer number thirteen. When you go to a rodeo, take special notice of the horses numbered seven and eleven, and sometimes thirteen, because it is a kind of custom to give these special numbers to the worst bronc's.

  Riders are always anxious to get seven or eleven in order to show off their stuff in a hard ride, but sometimes they are not so crazy to get number thirteen. Like in the case of Pain Killer, for instance.

  Pain Killer finishing Bob Dennis had taken the starch out of some of the boys. These were good game boys, but they didn't look forward to being purposely tromped on, and there was hardly anybody there who really had any idea he could cowboy this horse. So they were quiet, not mentioning his reputation had grown until he pretty near overshadowed the rest of the show.

  Ben Cord now came in kind of tipsy, crazier than ever, and he started right off by telling everybody in a bashful, quiet tone of voice, hardly any louder than the whistle on a steam engine, that, as sure as hell, he hoped he would draw Pain Killer that was all he wanted out of this rodeo and if ever he got hold of that horse, he was sure going to ride the tail off him, and show Pain Killer he had met up with his boss.

  Mostly the riders didn't pay any attention to him, having seen tall talk before. But, you know, I think Ben Cord really wanted to get that horse. I don't believe he ever doubted for a moment that he could ride that horse right down into the ground. Those of us who had seen him ride, we knew better. From what Ben had showed so far, he couldn't have rode Pain Killer the best day of his life.

  We waited around for time to draw, and pretty soon Ben went out, looking for another drink, and it happened that right then Whiskers Beck called up the riders to make their draws.

  That drawing wasn't like any other drawing you ever saw. Mostly riders are anxious to see what they've got to ride on tomorrow, but this time, instead of trying to make out they weren't interested, the riders were trying to let on it wasn't their turn, and they didn't know the drawing had been called. And they were hanging back, just casual, not wanting to stick a hand in the hat and make the test. I believe the feeling was on everybody that Pain Killer, who had killed one boy today, was going to kill another before the twenty-four hours were out. You'd have thought there was a sidewinder in that hat.

  I took a step forward, fixing to draw, and I'll be darned if that same superstitious feeling didn't come over me, and I stopped. I couldn't any more have gone up to stick my hand in that hat than if the devil had me by the hair. I rolled a cigarette, figuring to let just one number go by.

  "We got to get going some way," Whiskers said. "You're all so backward, I'll draw for some of the riders that has stepped aside. I'll draw for Ben Cord." He stuck his hand in the hatful of numbers.

  I don't know how many saw what I saw then. Sometimes I'm not dead sure I saw it myself. Only, it seemed to me, that something was palmed in Whiskers Beck's hand that went into the hat, and, as he drew his hand out again, I suddenly knew that the number he had brought out had never been in that hat to begin with.

  "Ben Cord draws Pain Killer!"

  Right away you could feel the whole works kind of draw a breath and ease down. Death was not in that hat any more. How many of them knew it never had been in that hat? I don't know. But whoever knew, there was none who begrudged Ben Cord the Pain Killer horse. Ben had asked for the killer, and he had got him, and he was welcome to him from them all.

  Pretty soon I drew, and got just an ordinary bucker. I went on over to the dance hall and danced with a girl rider from down in the Great Bend country, three or four dances, and got in a fight with a calf roper who had fig
ured to dance them dances himself, and I got disbarred from the dance floor for a little while.

  So then I stood outside smoking, waiting for the bouncers to forget that I was a source of disturbance. I was thinking about Pain Killer and the boy he had just killed, and wondering if Ben Cord might get by with just a lay-up in a hospital. And while I stood there wondering over these things, here came Whiskers Beck.

  Old Whiskers was quiet and casual, but there was a gleam in his eye so that I knew for some reason he was on the warpath and going strong.

  "Gil," he said., "you've got to side-ride me."

  "All right, Whiskers," I said.

  We went off, and we sat on the tailboard of a horse truck.

  "You know these Helmholtzes?" he began.

  "Not personally," I said.

  "You're lucky," he said. "They're crooked, and they're mean, and they're hard. This boy, Johnny Fraser, that Ben and me have been working for on the Tonto Rim, he's the whitest kid that ever stood up, yet they've got him tied in a sack. They're going to strip him clean as a steer horn, and they're going to take off him everything that Johnny's paw worked for and fought for all his life. If ever there was a shame in the West...."

  "It won't be the first time the Helmholtzes have picked the bones of a good outfit," I told him.

  "The kid has made a good game fight," Whiskers said. "He's come so close to winning, the crack of a bull whip don't separate him from holding on to his own. But every friend he's got has had to help him, and they've helped him all they can. More than a hundred thousand dollars has gone pouring through this fight, and now I tell you...Gil, you wouldn't believe it. I can't hardly believe it myself. But if that boy could lay hands on just five thousand dollars more, it would see him through!"

  I looked at Whiskers in the dark. There's men who go through all their lives getting nowhere, just playing easy come, easy-go. But if one of these men takes a liking to you, he'll fight your fight right down to the last penny or last cartridge, doing for you what he never would have done for himself.

  "The Helmholtz brothers have papers on the key water holes of Johnny's range...one in particular," Whiskers said. "If Johnny could raise five thousand dollars more, he could save that one hole, and it would be the turning point of the fight. But when he loses that hole, the bankers will go out from under him like quicksand, and he's through. Just five thousand dollars, in a fight that's seen a hundred thousand gone."

  Whiskers Beck sounded as if he could fight or cry, either one, at the drop of a hat. I never seen a dead loyal old man more tied into another fellow's fight.

  "At the last minute before I come here," he told me now, "Johnny scraped together fifteen hundred dollars. I got him to let me take those fifteen hundred dollars, as a last chance, to see if I could win the five thousand with this little fast pony of mine. Well, as you know, the way things stand here there's no winning any five thousand on that horse."

  "It sure looks bad," I said.

  "But there's one bet I can make with this fifteen hundred. And adding to that a hundred of my own and a hundred that I borrowed, I've placed twelve hundred through different fellers...every cent bet with the Helmholtzes. Some of it I got at three-to-one, some of it at two-to-one, some even. Now I want you to take the other five hundred and somehow fix it to bet it with the Helmholtzes, at any odds you can. And, by God, we'll make them Helmholtzes furnish the rope!"

  "What is this bet?" I said.

  "That Ben Cord will qualify on Pain Killer!"

  "You're crazy!"

  He didn't seem to hear me.

  "Ben Cord come and begged me to fix it so he would ride Pain. Every rider in the contest was praying that some such fix would be made. When I talked to the judges, they told me go ahead, work it if I could. Gil, I fixed that draw to throw Pain Killer to Ben Cord."

  Well, I already knew that. I asked him: "Does Ben know this? And about your bets?"

  "He doesn't know anything about it. He asked for the horse, and he got him, and he's happy. God knows," said Whiskers, "if I was twenty years younger, I'd have thrown it to myself. But...Ben will have to make the ride for me. And he'll make the ride."

  I've never seen a rodeo without some kind of shenanigan, but as old Whiskers told me about this one, a kind of cold chill ran down my back. It seemed like he was telling me he'd as good as killed Ben Cord.

  Suddenly I realized that this old man had real guts, more guts than it ever would have taken to set out to make the ride himself. It's one thing to take your own life in your hands, and another to throw the job to some other kid. Riders will always pretend they would rather see the other fellow take the chance any day, but anybody that believed that is a fool.

  And on top of that....

  "I'm betting every cent of Johnny's money," Whiskers said, "and all I can scrape together on my own, that Ben Cord will qualify on Pain."

  For a minute I couldn't hardly believe him.

  "Then," I said straight into his beard, "you're a damned old fool! You're going to look good, explaining to this kid boss of yours that Ben Cord is crippled or dead, and that you frittered away his money betting on the ride."

  The night was cool, but Whiskers Beck mopped the perspiration off the top of his bald head. "I know," he said. "This is a tough box for me, Gil. But it's the only chance in the world here at the last minute to save Johnny's lay-out."

  "And a fat chance that is," I told him. "I know Cord, and I know the horse. There's not a chance in a million that Ben comes through."

  But now suddenly Whiskers Beck seemed to be sure of his ground. "The boy will ride," he said. "He'll ride, and he'll ride slick!"

  "For maybe three, four jumps," I said.

  Whiskers Beck shut his mouth and did not come back at me, and now I saw that he had some idea up his sleeve. I waited, but it did not come out. It took me quite a little work to find out just what Whiskers did have in mind. But finally he gave me the story, to get me to place the final bets.

  "I picked that colt up off the range two years ago," he said, "this horse they call Pain Killer. He was three then. He was a hard colt to handle... impossible for most fellers, because he was one you couldn't force. But I took him gentle. Gil, I've been on the back of this horse, Pain Killer, without saddle or bridle!"

  "You sure must be mixed up," I told him.

  "He would have worked... for me," Whiskers insisted. He leaned close to me. "He'll work for me yet," he said.

  "You figure...?"

  "I can take the hell out of that horse just with my voice," he said. "I'm riding pick-up tomorrow in that arena. I'll be at the chutes when Pain Killer is saddled. You'll see him take the saddle easy and steady for once, with just me growling at him through the bars. I'll be riding close as Ben comes out, as close as I can keep my horse to the bucker. I'll be talking to him like I always talked to him back there when he would work for me and for no other man. I used to say... come on, boy...come on, boy....just like that, and that steadied him any day in his life."

  Whiskers Beck had one of these deep kind of chesty voices when he sung out to a horse, the kind of voice some men have who can lift a horse over a fence, or hold him down, just by talking to him. This idea of his was something I had never heard of before, exactly. But as I listened to him, I was actually beginning to wonder if there could possibly be anything in this.

  "He'll buck," Whiskers was saying. "He'll buck honest, and hard, but the edge will be off him, and the killer will be out of him. You'll see Ben Cord make a pretty ride."

  I began thinking about a couple of other things I'd run into one place or another. I've seen more than one horse that would work for only one man. I've seen buckers that couldn't really come unwound if you kept shouting their name. Those things gave a kind of color to what Whiskers Beck said, so that I saw that maybe there was one long distance chance that the old man might be right. Not enough of a chance, though, so that I wanted to be mixed up in his losing his kid boss's money.

  "Whiskers," I said, "you can
't do it. I won't lay your bet."

  He looked at a big fat turnip watch he had. It was so late that pretty soon it was going to be early, but the Helmholtzes and their like would be around for an hour yet.

  "Come on," Whiskers said, "I'll show you I know what I'm doing."

  We got hold of a little broke-down flivver and run the mile out to the arena. There wasn't anybody around the bucking horse corrals, and we went over to where Pain Killer stood in that little small corral alone.

  It was awful quiet there in the starlight. The calves for the roping had quit bawling and bedded down, and about all you could hear was sometimes a kind of shuffle of hoofs as some mean-headed bronc' laid his teeth into some other bronc' that had drifted too close. Pain Killer was standing quiet, and in the dark he looked half again as big as he should, and two times blacker than the night. As we came up to the bars, I could see his ears prick up against the sky, and he blew out a long, ugly sounding snort. That Pain Killer had a salt-pickled heart, if ever a horse had. Whiskers Beck crawled through the bars.

  Pain Killer stood still, watching him. He was one of those killers that stands quiet, never making a move, until suddenly he moves all at once. Whiskers did not go toward him, but just stood a little out from the fence, his thumbs hooked in his big belt.

  "Boy," said Whiskers Beck, in that deep, hoarse talking voice, "what's got into you?"

  They stood looking at each other for maybe a minute. Pain Killer moved his hoofs and woofed an uneasy breath.