by

V.A. Glover

He sat easy in the saddle, a big man who rolled gently with the rocking movements of the big bay. His red shirt was grey with alkali and dark with sweat stains. A blue kerchief lay just beneath his chin, loosely tied about his neck. Grey eyes surrounded by crinkles one gets from squinting at hundreds of Texas suns surveyed the small town ahead. "Whoa, boy." He pulled up gently on the reins then stretched, arching his back and groaning as tight, tired muscles stretched and new life flowed through them.

He removed his battered Stetson and wiped the sweat and grime off his brow, then off the inside of the sweatband. "Don't look like much to me, hoss. Six injuns and a drunk cowboy could tree this town." He sat there for several minutes, silent, studying the small scattering of clapboard structures ahead. Nothing was moving in the town, which was not unusual since it was the hottest part of the day. The big man replaced his hat, gently squeezed the sides of the bay and continued his journey. It was to have been a "passing through" kind of visit to Byson, Texas. That was John Ryre's intent, anyway.

But Ryre was unaware of the trouble waiting for him. And since trouble was something Ryre was riding away from, had he known of the trouble in Byson, he'd have ridden past the town.

His grandfather had been one of the early settlers in Texas and the old man had told Ryre something that had never left him: "Son, you ain't got nuthin' out there but your horse and your gun. Ain't no law to speak of mostly. You treat 'em with respect, make sure they got their bellies full and they'll serve you well. You don't take care of them, they won't take care of you, neither." Ryre never forgot those words. His father was also a careful man and he'd taught his son the same lesson.

Ryre had a Marshall's job once and gave it up after a year because he did not enjoy having to be hard on the local miners and cowboys who went a little crazy on the hooch. But even more, he hated the killing. When his wife, Elana died, something in him died, too. There'd come an emptiness that had never filled. Inside that space, he was scraped as clean as the hard baked Texas ground after a North'r. He remembered how she'd gradually wore down from the hard work on the little ranch he'd managed to finally purchase. It wasn't much but it was theirs. But it was a mind numbing struggle. Perhaps if they'd had children, it would have helped. He'd seen the shine go out of her eyes in the third year. After that, it was one dreary day after another. He'd stagger in from chasing mossy backed steers through razor sharp brush and over ground as hard as a coal miner's head, tired and caked with trail dust, slide wearily into a chair, wolf down a cold meal and get up the next morning to do it all over again. He'd not been much company for Elana in the last few years.

After years of working mines, hunting for the railroad and ranches, serving as guide for the army, guarding coaches and cowboying now and again, he had been ready to settle into something that he felt would keep him still the rest of his days. Elana had been excited about the ranch at first, happy that he was going to settle down and not be traveling so much and elated that he would not be a lawman. She'd always hated that and when he'd talk of returning to that work, she'd argue with him. But the ranch had not turned out to be such a bargain, after all, and Ryre realized later why he'd gotten the place so cheap. It was a miserable stretch of ground that turned white-hot in the summer and had nothing to block the screaming winds that scraped Texas in the winter.

And now John Ryre was headed for Louisiana to run a farm. He liked growing things, was weary of the Texas heat, and was tired of fighting. All his life had been a fight. Texas was raw and the sons that populated Texas were untamed and wild. John Ryre wanted tamer living. He'd seen one too many fight and had the scar running from his left shoulder to the middle of his neck to prove it. The bullet that plowed its way across his back made him realize that to stay was to invite a bullet one day that wouldn't plow across his back, but would dig deep into his heart.

He thought back to the day he'd buried Elana, full of grief and anger at the preacher who'd done the burying. Preacher Walt as they called him, had performed a good job but then, at the end, he'd done something that stunned Ryre and enraged him. He'd stood there behind the casket at the grave site with about thirty people gathered and said: "Jesus took Elana home where she belonged. She needed someone to take care of her because she got so lonely all alone out there on the prairie and Jesus knew that. And she was tired of wondering whether her husband would come home laid across the back of a horse."

Ryre had waited until the burying was all done and the others had left and he'd walked over to the man, placed a hand in his chest and said, "Soon as that last horse leaves, I'll be giving you a beating."

Ryre still recalled the strange smile the man gave him as he looked up at Ryre and replied: "Violence is always the way you answer any insult, isn't it?" Ryre had cuffed the man twice hard with his hand that was as hard as a board.

The man, with blood trickling down one corner of his mouth said, "Mister Ryre, you're trying to take out on me the anger you feel at yourself because you know what I said was true. Elana spoke to me often and even more often to my wife about her loneliness and her fears for you." The man's voice was deep and vibrant with no trace of fear.

That had stopped him. The words had cut him like a knife and for the first time since he could recall, he'd wept. He never remembered weeping, even as a child. And from there, it had been a long, long time there at the grave side with the man, talking some, but mostly listening. He listened as the man gave him what he'd called "the gospel," something John Ryre had avoided all of his adult life. His only exposure to church had been many, many years before in a large meeting with a man who'd stood before the crowd and spoken for hours. The man had the loudest voice Ryre had ever heard then or since. That meeting had lasted four days and Ryre had never gone to another meeting since.

He'd stood at Elana's grave and listened quietly as the preacher-man spoke of the the Christ, and told him how this Christ was really God come down to pay the price for sin, his sin, and how that this Christ hung on a tree and it was this pure blood sacrifice demanded by God and paid by God which enabled mankind to be made acceptable to God. "But it was a gift," said the preacher man, "that had to be accepted and there had to be a turning away from sin and to God." And that was something John Ryre wasn't too sure about.

The preacher told him that a man had to believe that Christ was this sacrifice for his sins, and to repent and ask God to save his soul. Ryre had argued that he ought to stick to his soul saving and he'd stick to his business which wasn't minding other folks' business. And he noted to the preacher, rather sarcastically, that forgiving a man who'd intentionally killed several men was not likely to be something God would forget about, especially since Ryre had trouble forgetting it himself.

It had not been an easy listen for Ryre. He'd gone from anger to guilt to curiosity. What had finally gotten his full attention though was when the Preacher had told him about Elana and how she'd knelt with he and his wife and prayed to God for her soul and for his own. The man detailed Elana's prayer for her husband and as the preacher spoke, Ryre had trembled, unsure of the strange feelings that raced through him.

Ryre recalled the day of Elana's change. It was a Sunday afternoon and his wife had come home from church happy and singing, something she'd never done before. He recalled how she'd tried to talk to him about God and pressed him to come to church. He'd brushed her off and ignored her plea. But thereafter, he noticed that she did not seem to have the same attitudes about some things. He knew she'd got religion because she'd said as much, but whatever it was, Ryre hadn't wanted any part of it for himself.

Ryre had been happy about her experience because for the first time in years, she quit yelling at him about certain things. Used to be Elana would yell at him when he'd come in loaded with trail dust. Thereafter, she'd simply ask him to step outside first and dust himself off better. A lot of little things like that happened. But mostly, she seemed to be at peace with her lot in life and that alone was enough to make Ryre glad for his wife's conversion.

After the preacher left, John Ryre had knelt at Elana's grave for a long time. When he arose, his face was moist with tears and inside, he knew something was different. There was a quietness inside that he could not understand, something he'd never had before. The closest he could identify with the tranquility he felt was a feeling he'd had many years before, as a child, when he'd sat alone one long afternoon on a hill, absorbing the stillness of the land. And now, all the rage in him had died. And he knew he had to leave Texas because to stay meant more killing, more violence. He also knew that to stay would be to die.

But although he was different inside, he also knew in some ways he was the same. John Ryre knew that some men in this land would mistake his lack of desire to fight as weakness and would try him. And he'd fight. He knew that. And if he fought, he'd kill someone. That was something he promised himself he'd not do again. So leaving Texas was, for John Ryre, an easy decision. Just across the border in Louisiana there was some cleared land with a cabin and stand of pine trees near the back of it.

He had the deed in his pocket as payment for three winters of hunting for a large spread in central Texas. It wasn't much and he hadn't seen it, but the man had described it and the rancher was an honest man. It had belonged to his parents and the man had grown up there. They were dead and he had no use for the property. Ryre's mind drifted back into the present as his horse clip-clopped its way to the front of the livery stable and stopped. He swung down with the easy grace of a man who knew how to do things quietly, with little wasted motion. The leather barely creaked as his right leg swung into contact with the hard, sun baked dirt. A young boy stood silently by waiting to take the horse. He gave a boy two bits with a promise of more if he'd take special care of the horse and give him a little more grain than usual.

In town, Ryre stepped up onto the narrow plank boardwalk that lined the street. It was a newer town, probably started by the presence of a large ranch in the area. He headed for the larger of the structures, the hunger in him growing as he anticipated the meal. He wanted a bath and bed, but he'd forsake both for a good meal. He stepped into a room that was surprisingly cool. No light showed through any cracks between boards. All the insides of the room were lined with a decorated paper. In one corner, an older black man sat with a broom in one hand and his chin in the other. He was sound asleep. Even the noise of Ryre entering did not awaken him.

Ryre cleared his throat loudly and the man woke with a start. He did not rise but surveyed the stranger cooly. Ryre said, "Looking for a meal, bath and bed, 'bout in that order."

The old man grinned and said, "Don't know why anyone would want to eat out there when Mary Thomas is cookin' in here. But I don't know she's ready. It's kind of early and they don't usually have no meals in here early." He paused, then added, "Ain't usually nobody much around town this early, 'cept me and Mary, the Major and a couple others. And they mostly eat at their place."

Ryre smiled and said, "You tell her that if she'll cook now, I'll pay twice for the pleasure."

The old man rose and walked stiffly out of the room. Ryre could hear the muffled conversation. He surveyed the room. Three tables lined one wall and two other tables were in the middle. Lamps hung in three places in the room and the smell of coal oil permeated the room. In the back of the room was a huge stove, its fire banked.

Suddenly, there appeared a large, matronly woman wearing a bright, checkered apron. She look closely at Ryre, her eyes bright with curiosity, her face hardened with work and time and no doubt, tragedy. In a soft, mellow voice that belied her appearance, she said, "You got a deal, mister. Only thing I serve is steak, beans, Arbuckles, hoecakes and when we got it, which we ain't, apple pie. Ain't had apples in six months." She stood with arms folded, watching Ryre closely, measuring him.

Ryre grinned and said, "Ma'am, give me one of all you got and make that steak at least as big as the cow it come off of. I been feedin' on hardtack for nigh onto a month, now." Three hours, two steaks, seven hoecakes, five cups of Arbuckles finest coffee and a huge plate of beans later, Ryre stepped out of Mary's place, contented for the first time in well over a month. He'd learned Anthony, the old man, ran the livery and for an extra fifty cents, he got to bed down with his horse. There were no rooming houses and although Mary offered to let him sleep in the supply room on the floor, he preferred the straw of the stable. He didn't raise the issue of a bath. There was a river two miles east of town and in the morning on his way out of town, he'd stop on his way past the river and shed some of the dust.

Ryre had been asleep several hours and the sun had long since dropped beneath the horizon when he woke with a start. He sat up and saw standing around him five men and he could see the shadows of two in the stall next to his. He took most of them to be cowboys, though two of them looked more like some of the kind of men he'd seen in a visit to Dodge some years back. They had the hard look about them and their guns were different from the ones the other cowboys wore. Theirs show care and much use. There was no dust and the leather pockets were blackened from use and from gun oil rubbing from the gun and into the leather. But it was the eyes and their stance that marked them as different, more than even the guns.

They stood ready. A normal man stands and is not careful to keep his body in a particular set, nor to angle it, but stands facing the other man square on. These men stood so their guns were not likely to be hampered by another man standing too close, and they stood so as to make a minimal target. And their eyes were flat, dead of expression. Ryre didn't know them. But he did know what they were. He rode Texas too long not to recognize a hardcase when he saw one. These men had rode the night trails. And they'd used their guns for hire long before riding for this brand.

One of them, a lean, sallow faced man said, "You ride the bay over there?"

Ryre stood and moved easily over near the side of the stall where his gun was draped across a rail. "Yeah. That's mine."

"You used to stealing another man's property?" The man's steady gaze suggested raw, unlimited power and Ryre sensed that in this man lay a danger that the slightest wrong could unleash. The man operated on a hair trigger and there was little doubt the man went around looking for opportunity to vent the rage that lay beneath the surface.

"That horse came out of the White Mountains. Ain't likely it's yours since I took him four years ago running with a wild bunch."

"Not talking about your horse, mister. That's my straw your horse is eatin' and my stall your horse is using." The speaker's eyes narrowed and he stared intently at Ryre.

Ryre smiled and said softly, "Now that's something I didn't know, mister. I'll move him." He stepped forward to go towards the stall and in the flicker of an eyelash, a gun appeared in the man's fist, cocked and pointed directly at Ryre's head. He'd never seen a man more quicker with a gun than this one.

Ryre stopped. His grey eyes stared at the other man. There was no fear in them, only a quiet questioning. He waited, not moving, not speaking. The other man spoke, his voice almost as soft as a woman's: "You can't just move your horse out, mister. It's in my stall, so it's my horse now."

The crinkles around Ryre's eyes grew in number as he squinted at the man. A hardness grew in them and from deep within, Ryre fought the growing feeling that came welling up. It was a feeling that he'd known too often. It was that something in him that kept him alive, that made him survive when others would have died. He didn't understand it, but he recognized it. Death always followed that feeling. He understood that this man was about to create conditions which would force him to attempt to survive. That meant he'd be forced again, to kill someone.

Ryre resolved that he would not pull his gun, that he'd not kill again. He resisted the temptation to turn his back, then slap the gun out of the hand of the man and just open the game. He knew he could do it. The man was just an inch too close and he still didn't know Ryre. He'd misjudged his man and Ryre would use that. He knew he'd put three of them down with a bullet before they could react. And then he knew most of the others would be running. Few men could stand up and face death without flinching, especially when they saw their friends suddenly dying. His mind had already sorted out the men, who'd he shoot first and second and third. He could do it. He knew that. But he hesitated.

The rage that welled up inside did not show in his face, but the other man felt it and stepped back. He grinned at Ryre and said, "Mister, since I own that bay, you can leave the saddle that goes with him, too. And you can leave town. " He spat a stream of brown tobacco juice into the dirt near Ryre's left boot, then added, "Now."

Ryre was silent. The other hardcase spoke. "Ely, I think he might need some reasons why not to come back for his horse."

Ely glanced at the other man, grinned and said, "Nate, I think with this one, you might be right. He don't look scairt of us, does he?"

Suddenly, Ryre erupted into action. One second he was standing loose, watching all of them while not seeming to focus on any one of them and the next second, he'd lashed out at the man called Ely. His blow took the man in the throat and swept him backwards into one of the cowboys. Without pausing, Ryre spun around, his move incredibly fast for such a big man. The back of his fist crashed against the side of the head of the man called Nate who had his gun clear of leather and in another fraction of a second, would have emptied it into the big man.

Ryre leaped at the other men, hitting hard, spinning, smashing his elbow into the face of one man, kicking another and slugging another. Blows rained upon his head and body, but he felt no pain. Suddenly, a blinding white light of pain crashed through and his world turned red, then black. He fell forward onto his face. Of the seven men, two lay unconscious, one was vomiting, another sat groaning, nursing a broken jaw. A fifth stood wiping blood from his nose. A sixth was battered and would feel the bruises on his ribs in the morning. The seventh man stood unscathed, holding a shovel. He'd been near the back and had stepped back into the dark when he saw the big man erupt into action. And he knew that if he had been just a little closer, the big man would have put every one of them down. He clenched the handle of the shovel tighter, ready to swing it again if need be.

 

A Texas morning is almost always a brilliant, eye-squinting, glorious moment. This morning was no different. The sun thrust rays of brilliant beams of heat filled light through the cracks of the barn, washing the interior with white light. On the straw, Ryre lay bound tightly with rope. He'd been awake for two hours. Nearby, two of the cowboys sat guard. Both were tired and sleepy.

One man looked at Ryre and said, "Mister, you tied into the wrong bunch last night. Nate, he's wanting to let a wild bronc stomp you and Ely, well, he's probably been dreamin' about what he's gonna do."

Ryre said, "You boys don't look like the kind of men who go around stealin' another man's horse. Cut me free and I'll ride on. We'll all just leave it be."

"Can't do it. One of them two would kill us, certain. They ain't to be trifled with, mister. No. You stay here until they get back from the ranch." The man shifted the rifle he was holding, pointing it carelessly in Ryre's direction to emphasize his point.

"Who is this Ely and who you boys ride for?"

The man with the rifle said, "We ride for the K-Bar. Old man Reston's outfit. As for Ely Cain, I ain't too sure about him. He came in here from the Lincoln County wars up in New Mexico. He was supposed to take care of some troubles we had with some rustlers. After he done that, he and Nate Carden, a fellow he brung in just stayed on. They been here couple years, now."

Ryre shifted around. "Could you loosen the rope. Circulation is cut off in my legs."

"Nope. Orders were to hogtie you and then not to touch you, 'cept with a bullet if need be, and then not to kill you, only stop you."

Ryre look hard at the two men and said, "I don't know where this will end, but I won't be forgetting the kindness you've extended me."

Both men looked away from the steady gaze, unable to meet the frosty, hard look in those grey eyes. And something in Ryre seemed to radiate danger such that one of the men suddenly shook himself, swore and stomped out, muttering to himself about needing coffee. The man with the rifle moved back a little and stared at a point just over Ryre's head.

Near noon, Ryre heard the clip clop of several horses. Moments later, the thin frame of the man he knew as Ely was outlined with the light of the open door and the shadows of the barn. Several men followed him into the barn. Ryre recognized the men from last night. Several wore bandages and he could see his mark on  others.

"Drag him up and cut loose his feet." Cain's voice was raspy and full of anger. Ryre was jerked to his feet and the ropes around his legs and feet removed. He stood swaying, while the blood rushing to his legs felt like a thousand needles stabbing him. He remained silent, allowing no trace of the agony he felt to show on his face.

Suddenly, Cain lashed out and Ryre felt a sudden rush of pain sweep over his entire face and head. The man had slugged him with the end of a leaded whip handle. Ryre struggled to stay on his feet. Then another blow came, this one to his stomach, and suddenly blows rained upon him in rapid succession as Cain went berserk with rage, cursing and screaming at Ryre. The big man moved slowly into unconsciousness and the bright slashes of sunlight that pierced the dimness of the barn became faint and straw-like. And then there was blackness.

He awoke to pain like he'd never experienced in his life. His face was swollen and his eyes were mere slits. Dimly, he could make out what appeared to be stick figures standing around. Voices came to him sounding as though they were in the far distance. Suddenly, water covered his face and the shock of the water revived him. He licked greedily through lips that were swollen at the drops of water. Cain stood over Ryre, looking down, his face mirroring the pleasure that he was feeling.

His boot slammed against Ryre's head and then he snarled, "Mister, you picked the wrong man. There's some men you don't ever hurt. I'm one of them. Hurt me, I'll hurt you worse. Only way to hurt a man like me and get away with it is to hurt me permanent. Like I'm hurtin' you."

Carden stood beside Cain, grinning down at the swollen features of the big man lying on the ground. He said, "That goes for me, too, mister. You picked the wrong man to hurt when you hurt him and even if you didn't hurt him, when you laid a hand on Nate Carden, you asked to die." He spat noisily, the yellow-brown juice landing on Ryre's cheek.

Cain squatted beside Ryre's head and said, "In case you want to know what's in your future, the reason you ain't able to move around much is on account of that cow hide you're wrapped in. I figure in a couple days, it'll be squeezin' you like your mama never done. Learned that little trick from the Apache."

The man spun on his heel, walked briskly back to his horse and swung into the saddle. He stared a long moment at Ryre, then said, "See you in a few days." He grinned, his yellowed teeth showing a stark contrast with his pale lips, then added, "Course you won't be seein' me." With that, the man swung his horse around and rode away. The others followed.

Ryre lay there for several long minutes thinking of his situation, realizing that as the cow hide shrunk, his chances of escaping would diminish, but also realizing that the longer he laid there, the weaker he would get. He'd been beaten badly. Although he was a strong man, extraordinarily so, he felt the weakness in him. It was a strange feeling for him. Healthy, he felt he might have managed to burst his way out of the hide and his bonds. But in his weakened condition, he did not think it possible.

John Ryre was a survivor. He'd survived conditions that would have crumpled most men. He'd been stranded without a horse in the white hot sands of New Mexico for three weeks and lived. He'd once tracked a lone Apache who'd murdered a family through desert, through mountains and right into his own lair and killed him. And then, with seventeen desert bred, hard, fighting men on his trail for nine days, he'd managed to escape. Most men would not have chased an Apache into his own land. But John Ryre did it because he made a promise to a dying friend whose wife and baby lay dead in the dirt beside him.

And John Ryre never  broke his word.

The will to live welled up deep within Ryre. He refused to reconcile himself to death. He studied the ground around him. It appeared to be flat, with small rocks and scrub pine around. He exerted himself, arched and leaned his head back into the ground for leverage. The big man choked back a scream as the pain shot through his body. But he had made progress. He'd moved a few feet. He continued, each time moving a few feet. Soon, he was facing the opposite direction.

"Now that looks promising." The sound of his voice was eerie, with the words cracking, brittle with the dryness that shrunk his throat. About fifty yards away there was an arroyo. An arroyo meant possible shade. Staying where he was meant simply waiting for death. Even if the arroyo did not provide shade, it was better than waiting to die. He began rolling himself. In a few minutes, with body numb with pain and a mind that shrieked in protest, he'd willed himself to roll to the edge of the arroyo. He lay on the edge, looking down. It was not steep, but there were rocks, some which were sharp, which would hurt him if he rolled down. There was no other way.

And then it hit him. Sharp! A sharp rock. He studied the rocks closely, looking at each protrusion. It had to be one that was solid in the ground, but one that was not too high out of the ground. And then he saw it. The rock was near the bottom. He wasn't sure of the height, but it had the perfect shape. It was a jagged piece of granite. But getting to it would cost him dearly. He studied the terrain below, steeling himself inwardly for the pain that was to come. Already, the hide was beginning to dry, the hot Texas sun sucking the moisture out with an invisible straw.

He wiped his mind clean of thoughts, maneuvered himself to the very edge, then rolled over. Pain shot through his leg, then his whole body erupted in pain. He grunted and moaned as the blows from the rocks came as steady as the fists that had rained down upon him the night before. A rock slammed into his nose breaking it, causing a sheet of red pain to blind him and then another blow, this one to his head, then another to his neck, his shoulder.... And then it stopped. He lay whimpering, moaning, with blood seeping into the sand from his nose and cheek. He opened his eyes.

The jagged rock he'd sought was three feet up the incline, inviting, tantalizing him with its nearness. He refused to think about the impossibility of what he had to do. Wiping his mind clean of the pain, he maneuvered himself for ten minutes until he was positioned exactly right. Then, with a tremendous effort, Ryre rolled furiously up the incline, only to reach the rock and roll back down. The pain was gone now, replaced by a blind, berserk fury, a rage to live.

He set himself, then rolled again, and again rolled back. He rested a long five minutes, then rolled again, and rolled back. Ryre knew he needed to stop. In his rage, he was robbing himself of precious strength. He studied his situation. And then he knew how he could do it. Ryre rolled himself around until his feet were positioned near some rocks. He bent himself, scraped himself and moved the rocks up near the jagged rock. He repeated this until he had a large row of rocks near the jagged rock. As he rested, he thought about his next move. With every ounce of strength in him, he rolled for the jagged rock. As he hit the layer of rocks in his path he groaned and then grinned as he rolled over them and stopped. He was now right beside the jagged rock.

Carefully, Ryre worked himself sideways until his body lay flush to the jagged rock. And he began to work. It was tedious, rocking, pressing, painful work. His muscles ached. His mind screamed at him to stop. His body shrieked with pain. But he knew he could not. He knew if he stopped, he was a dead man. And patiently, painfully, he sawed at the hide. When the first piece of rawhide broke, Ryre wept waterless tears. It got easier after that. In three hours, with the sun long set, Ryre managed to saw away the hide. It took him another half an hour to saw away the ropes that bound his feet and hands.

Two days later, Ryre stumbled into a small trading store. It was the same store nearly twenty miles from town that he'd stopped in just before he'd hit town. His face was swollen, his lips cracked and his eyelids crusted. And he stunk with the blood of the cow and himself. His clothes were black from blood and dirt.

"Irene, get on out here!" The trader stood wiping a glass, his mouth frozen with disbelief as he stared at the hideous caricature of a man standing in the door way. An Indian woman wiped back a blanket covering the entrance to a back room, took a long look at Ryre, then disappeared.

In a few minutes, she came back, a bucket of water sloshing at her side. She took Ryre by the arm and pulled him back outside. Once outside, she had him sit down on a stump near the cabin. The trader came out to watch. He stood upwind, not caring to get too close to the blood covered man.

"Mister, you run into injuns? You look like you been skinned alive and then baked." Ryre did not answer. It was all he could do to keep from screaming from the pain as the woman peeled away his clothing and softly bathed him.

She worked silently. And as she worked, she remembered seeing a man who looked very much like this one many years before. Only that man died. He was a settler who had been caught by the Apache and sewn into the hide of a deer. The man had been taken out alive, his bones broken, the life ebbing from him. She'd seen them drive him by on a wagon.

It took Ryre five days before he could manage to walk without limping. The pain was still there, sharp and gut tightening and the stench of the rotting hide was still in his mind. All over his body, there were welts and bruises that ran bone deep, and cuts that would heal into heavy scars. But he was alive. More, he was fit enough to travel. He'd slit his boot top and the gold pieces there were more than enough to buy an outfit. He hadn't liked the selection of hand guns, but he'd spotted a used, well cared-for .44 revolver with an oil blackened holster that suited him fine. He'd carried such a gun for many years before he'd traded it in for a new Colt .45 model.

He also bought a shotgun, shells, and a mare that had seen her better days. But it was either the mare or a high stepping, wild-eyed stallion that had a gleam in his eye. Ryre wasn't up to that kind of horse. He'd debated about taking a jack-mule, but the price was too high. The trader still believed he'd been wrapped by Indians. Ryre knew if he told the trader what really had happened, word might get back to Cain.

The trader lived too close and Ryre didn't trust him. He trusted the woman, though. She was kind and Ryre gave her a twenty dollar gold piece for her kindness to him. When he gave it, he looked at the cabin and shook his head, then pointed at her and said, "You keep this. For you. Not him." She'd grinned, then dropped the gold piece in a small pocket in her greasy skin dress.

One week later, in the cool of the evening, John Ryre was sitting at the edge of the same little sleepy town he'd come to in what seemed now, to him, so long ago. He'd eaten, rested and healed some. He was still without his full strength, but he felt fit and up to the task ahead. He'd found a small mountain stream and bathed several times a day in the cool waters. And his mind now was as cold as the mountain stream. 

The clip clop of his horse was not heard by those in the saloon. A dozen horses were in the street, tied at several posts. The yellow flicker of the coal oil lamps licked the wood planking outside the batwing doors of the saloon and filtered through the cracks.

He tied his horse outside, methodically checked his gun, pulled the shotgun from the leather thong and mounted the planking. His hat was tugged down and he'd not shaved for ten days. Blood still stained his boots. For a full minute, the piano continued to play, the talk continued, cards continued to fall, glasses rattled and laughter rolled out from the crowd. And then everything fell silent. There wasn't even a whisper. Every eye was staring at the tall, gaunt man whose appearance was startling, even for men who were used to seeing men in ragged and poor condition. Ryre swept the crowd, looking for those men whose image he'd burned into his brain. He spotted one of the cowboys drinking alone near the front. Another sat playing poker with two men Ryre didn't recognize.

And then he saw the man he knew as Nate Carden. The lean, black eyed gunman stood at the bar beside a tired, dead-eyed whore, sipping at a glass of whiskey. He was staring at Ryre, not recognizing the man, yet recognizing something familiar about the man.

With his voice barely above a whisper and still hoarse from the terrible parching time he'd endured, Ryre spoke: "Seven men beat me, stole my horse, tied me in a fresh cow hide and left me to die in the desert out there." The words came out slowly, raspy and matter-of-fact. He paused, gazing about the room, watching carefully for any sign of movement. "They rode for the K-Bar. I've come to pay my respects to those gentlemen. All others can leave."

Chairs scraped as men moved away. They knew the story. One of the men who'd been in on the beating tried to move towards the door and Ryre glanced at him at him and shook his head. Ryre remembered the man kicking him in the chest and roweling him with his spur.

Ryre said softly, "Not you." And then Ryre turned his eyes towards Carden. Without hesitation, the man Ryre had spoken to, took advantage of what seemed to him to be opportunity. He jerked at his gun. Almost carelessly, as though he were swatting a fly, Ryre swung the shotgun just slightly and pulled the trigger. The boom was followed by a grunt as the man was flung backwards across the table and against the wall.

Ryre's eyes had never wavered from the face of the man called Nate Carden. The big man called out to the cowboy near the back. "You there at the table. Get up here."

The man hesitated, then rose slowly, the fear in his face and uncertainty in his movements. He walked towards Ryre. "Cowboy, you were on guard that morning in the barn. You recall my words to you?" The man nodded and his jaws were clenching. Ryre continued, "I remember, son. I remember how you beat me with them. I recall how you sat that morning and ignored my plea for mercy. I said I'd ride out and we'd call it even. You remember that?"

The man did not respond, the fear settling deep within him. Ryre continued, "I didn't come to kill you, but I do plan to hurt you. Time was, you'd be dead by now. Reckon I've mellowed some. But I will be hurting you some. You got to pay the piper. And there's no law around here, so I'm it." The cold stare of Ryre bore into him and suddenly, as Ryre let the shotgun tilt to the floor, the man reached for his gun. The shotgun leaped out and before the man could tilt his gun up at Ryre, he was shrieking with pain and lying on the floor clutching his legs, rolling from side to side. Another man squealed in pain as a stray pellet struck him and the crowd thinned even more and those whose curiosity was greater than their fear crowded back towards the rear of the room.

Carden did not move. He appeared unfazed by it all. He'd not flinched, nor moved, nor given the slightest evidence of fear. Now he tossed off the rest of his drink, looked long at Ryre and said, "You plan on shooting me down with that? If you are, I want you to know I'll get two hard ones in you before you can slip another shell out of your pocket."

Ryre shook his head slowly. "No. You're one of those men who like to make cowards think you're tough and dangerous. You boys said something to me about picking the wrong man to hurt." His voice stopped and then, in gravely tones, added, "I'm that man." With that, Ryre laid the shotgun on a nearby table and stepped back. His hand hung loosely by his gun.

Ryre's voice was low and almost sad as he said, "Likely you've murdered some good men in your day, Carden and probably hurt a lot more, like you hurt me. If someone don't step on you, there'll be other good men dead and hurt before your run is ended. You got one of those cowboys killed and another bad hurt. You drug them in on this deal. They ought to have had sense enough to stay out and a man has to answer for himself, but they're paying the piper on account of you and your partner." Ryre paused a long minute, then added, "And there ain't a Texican alive now or born tomorrow who'll ever follow your whistle again. Today, I'm doin' the state of Texas a favor."

He stood there silent, staring at the man called Nate Carden, waiting, watching. Carden pushed the woman aside and poured himself another drink. He did not appear nervous. His confidence was unshaken. He was good and he knew it. The shotgun had worried him. But it was laying on the bar empty. And without it, the big man facing him was but a dead man. Nate Carden knew what he could do with a gun. This man could not know. Almost all of the men who knew just how deadly he was with a hand gun were dead. The man standing so confident before him could not know the hundreds of hours he spent working with a pistol. A gun was a natural extension for Nate Carden, like a part of his right arm.

"Before I kill you, what might you be called, stranger?" Carden moved slightly away from the bar. His eyes were narrow now, focusing on his target, readying himself, the blood rushing through him now. He was smiling as the sheer pleasure of the moment filled his being.

"John Ryre."

Carden blinked. He lost some of the intensity that radiated from him and felt the constriction of the rush of blood. The exhilaration he felt changed to uneasiness and caution. He said softly, "The Ryre from the White Mountains?"

"The same."

Carden swallowed hard, visibly unnerved. It has shaken him some that this man had somehow survived the beating and the cow hide. He'd assumed the man had been rescued by someone. Now, he wasn't so sure. The White Mountain Ryre was talked about over many camp fires. The man, they said, couldn't be killed. The tale of his fight with the Apache was well known. And Nate Carden knew another story about the man, one few others knew. He knew about the time Ryre went after four outlaws who'd treed his town while he'd been on a hunting trip. Three had come back across the saddle. The fourth had escaped. That fourth man had told the story to Carden and if the man's tale was true, then John Ryre was about to kill Nate Carden because Ryre had first taken down one of the four, James Harden, one of the most deadly men Carden knew, then had faced down three of the men and shot them all. Only one man, Will Slate, had managed to fire his gun. Carden knew Slate and knew Slate had been every bit as good as himself.

His blood was now cold and his stomach hollow. "Ryre, maybe we were hasty. I think we mistook you for a drifter who's been slipping cows out on us." For the first time in his life, Carden was afraid of dying. He never feared any man, not even Cain. He was afraid of this man. It swept through his veins, widening his eyes. His nostrils flared and a nervous twitch started above his left eye.

"You picked the wrong man, son. Best make your peace with God now. Might be you'll find mercy there. I'm fresh out." Ryre paused a long moment, his eyes sad, yet an aura of finality emanating from his entire being. He looked a long moment deep into Carden's eyes and added, "Some mistakes you can only make once. You never get a second chance."

Carden took a deep breath, looked at the whiskey bottle, suddenly desiring to tilt the bottle up and drink as much of it as he could. Instead, he looked back at Ryre. And then a calm swept over him and he felt the whiskey working, felt his confidence returning. He no longer thought of the stories of this man but remembered the times he'd faced death and won. He smiled as old feelings came back and he knew he would be as good as he ever was, and more.

Without thinking longer, knowing instinctively that to delay was to lose his edge and die, he drew. But the big, grizzled man from the White Mountains moved like a big cat, his long arm whipping up the pistol quicker than the eye could follow. Two shots boomed from his gun just as Carden's gun was tipping the edge of his holster. And Nate Carden, back shooter, killer of twelve men, five of whom he'd shot in the back, died with his face resting against a spittoon in a bar, his gun still holstered.

Ryre looked long at the crowd, then said, "One of you want to ride out to the K-Bar and tell Cain he can come in and bury his friends. Tell him John Ryre is waiting for him." Two men slipped out the back and soon the sound of horses could be heard running.

Ryre motioned to Carden's body and said, "Best drag him and the others out of the way." He slipped through the door and into the night, stiffly mounted his horse, stifling a groan as he swung his big frame aboard. With a kissing sound he directed the horse back and headed out of town. Ryre knew Cain would not come alone. And it was likely the man would come with far more than the three others who'd help beat him. But they'd come relying on Cain, mostly. They weren't gunmen and they'd know soon that they'd never seen the day they were up to John Ryre.

He headed his horse into a small stand of trees, pulled into the deep shadows and waited. Nearly an hour passed before he heard them. They were riding hard, bunched tightly together. He watched as they passed and tried to number them but could not because of the darkness. Cain was the lead rider. Ryre waited until they were well past, then followed. He steered his horse into the shadows as they pulled up in front of the saloon, then dismounted. All but three of the men entered the saloon. Two of them slipped into the night headed for the rear.

Ryre tied his horse, pulled the shotgun loose and headed for the rear. The two men stood at the door, one peeking in, the other standing, looking around nervously. Ryre waited until their attention was away from him, then he stepped out of the night and firmly closed the door. The harsh click of the hammer of the shotgun froze both men instantly. "You boys want to live?" They nodded in unison, backing away from the door as Ryre prodded with the barrel. He moved them several feet away, then said, "You boys weren't in on the beating, so I'm going to pass on by like we never met. You're going around front and you and your friend there watching the horses will lead your mounts down the road a piece and then you'll ride on out." He paused a long moment, then added, "Unless you want in on my fight with Cain."

One of the men spoke up instantly, "Not me. Mister, if the boss was home, we wouldn't be here after you. We wasn't for this, but none of was ready to brace Cain. He's snake-mean." Ryre moved them around the front. As they reached the front, he said, "I'm taking your guns. You come back for them in the morning. If you're back with them or without them before morning, you won't see the sun rise. Understood?"

They nodded and moved towards the front. He watched from the shadow of the porch as they stepped up to the other man. The three spoke briefly, then hurriedly untied their horses and walked them down the street. Ryre waited until they'd mounted and were riding away before he stepped back into the shadows and headed back to the rear of the saloon. He eased the door open slightly and did a slow scan of the room. Cain stood at the bar with a drink, supremely confident, talking with two other men. Two men stood nearby, nervous, looking at the entrance. Two others stood to each side of the entrance, guns drawn. One man he recognized as one of the seven, sat at a table with another man he didn't recognize.

He slipped through the door and eased it shut. No one noticed him enter. He stood for a long moment in the shadows of the corner watching. Suddenly, he stepped out into the light, the shotgun pointed generally in the direction of the two men at the doorway. His pistol was out and pointed towards Cain and the other two men. The men at the table were out of the line of his fire, but he could swing the shotgun just slightly and cover them.

"Everyone just stand easy, now, or there's going to be a lot of blood running." His voice was calm, matter-of-fact, and its effect was instant silence. He nodded at the two men standing at the door. "You two toss your guns out the door." They hesitated, staring questioningly at Cain. Ryre's voice thundered "Now!"

The men tossed their guns through the doors and resumed their positions. Ryre looked at the two men at the table and said quietly, "I see one of you moving his hand down his leg. If I don't see hands on the table in half a second, you'll be dead at the end of that second."

The man's hand leaped from his thigh as though burned. He laid it quickly on the table with the other. The man opposite him moved his hands slowly to the table top. When his hands reached the table top, he said, "I'm not part of this, mister. Me and him was just talkin'." Ryre did not look at him. "If you're not part of this, quit acting like it. Keep your hands where they are."

Ryre moved into the room, shifting so he could spot anyone coming through the back door and placing a center post between himself and the single window. He motioned with his shotgun to the men at the door and the other two standing near Cain. "Move slowly over by the window, gentlemen. He looked at the man at the table and said, "You too." The other man remained frozen in place.

Ryre adjusted his angle as the men moved. When they stood at the wall and in front of the window, he said, "You two shuck your guns. Slide 'em across the floor." His eyes moved quickly back to Cain and he said softly, "Easy, Cain. You move again and I'll cut you in half."

Cain relaxed visibly. He'd been set to draw, waiting for the slightest mistake on the part of the big man. So far, there had been no mistakes. The big man was like a giant cat, alert to the slightest move. Cain had only seen one other man act like that and he'd soundly beaten five men in a brawl. That man had battered his way through five grown men with the speed and savagery of a wild beast. He'd never seen anything like it. And this man Ryre put him in mind of that man.

"Ryre, we made a mistake. Your horse. We got it over in the barn. Saddle's there, too. Take it. And for your trouble, I got some gold." He moved his hand slowly to a vest pocket and slid out a small leather pouch. He laid it on the bar and shoved it towards Ryre.

The big man did not look at the money. Indeed, he seemed not to look directly at anyone, other than now and then when he'd look at Cain. He said, "Cain, you chose the wrong man to hurt. Might be God had something to do with you hurtin' me, though, because I've come back to see that you don't hurt anyone again."

"Now that was a mistake. We didn't mean nuthin' by it." Cain's voice dripped with sincerity.

Ryre stared hard at the man, the disgust showing on his face and as he spoke, his voice dripped with contempt. "You're not even a man. You beat me half to death, sew me in a cow hide, leave me in the desert to scream my way out of this world, and now when the piper comes to play, you want to crawl on your belly, wag your tail and lick my hand." Ryre's upper lip curled and he added, "You've been foolin' growed men all this time, son. But I'm not fooled. I know what you are. There's no foam in your mouth but I know what you are." The last words were almost whispered.

Cain's face flushed and he glared at several of those standing around. Suddenly he shouted at the men in the room, "What are you standing there for? Ain't but one of him." His face red with anger and the whiskey, he glared at them and promised: "I'll remember. I will remember. And...."

Ryre's voice cut him off. "You won't remember a thing tomorrow, Cain. Your tomorrows are all gone. You used 'em up the day you put me in that hide." Ryre stared at him.

Cain screamed at him, "So shoot! You going to talk me to death?"

Ryre shook his head. "No, the time for talking to you is gone. But first, I need to deal with your friends." He turned slightly to the men at the wall, the shotgun still held level and said, "There's some of you who beat me and helped tie me in that hide. Rest of you just rode in here tonight because this dog that thinks he's a curly wolf told you to ride. Now three of your friends have seen the error of their ways and are probably layin' on their bunks right now. You want part of me, you stick around. If not, shuck your guns and ride out."

The two men who'd been standing at the door stepped away from the wall. One of them said, "Mister, we was wrong and played the fool. You won't be seeing us again." He looked directly at Cain and said, "And if you make it out of here, which I'm hopin' you don't, I'll be waiting at the bunk house for you. I see now you ain't much man. Dunno why you scared me, Cain."

Cain was silent but the rage in his eyes promised death. The two men disappeared into the night. Ryre looked at the three men who'd helped beat him. They stood along the wall waiting, silent, fear on their face like a mask. "You boys hurt me bad. I'm not a vengeful man and I don't want your blood. Did once. Don't now. But I do want your names."

He looked at each one as they spoke their names, then Ryre said softly, his voice low and intense: "If ever I hear your name connected with doing harm to someone, I'll be real regretful about letting you live. See, I'd feel like it was my fault. And so I make you a promise: I promise that if I ever hear you hurt a body, long as I'm alive and able to set a saddle, I'll come and hunt you down and kill you like I would a mad dog. I'd feel personally responsible for what I let you do." Ryre paused a long minute, then added, "I never broke a promise in my life, gentlemen. I will hunt you. John Ryre is a man of his word." He leveled the shotgun at them and said sharply, "Now git!"

Two of the three men moved as though jerked by a string. The third stayed put. The fear had subsided in him and he said, "Mister, I'd count it a privilege if you'd let me do two things for you. I owe you that."

Ryre's eyes arched and he looked at the man. "What's that?"

"Let me stay and see this snake crawl on his belly. He's run us scared a long time, now. Ain't a one of us can look in a mirror at hisself. We let him do some bad things and never stopped him. I'm sorry for not siding you, mister. But let me stay, because if he gets out of this somehow, I don't want to wait for him at the bunk house. He's got to kill two men, tonight, to see his tomorrow."

Ryre managed a shallow smile. "Sounds reasonable. What's the other thing?"

"Let me get your horse and stuff ready. Your gun's in the saddle bags and they're still in the barn. And your money's in that little sack on the bar."

Ryre nodded and then turned his gaze back onto Cain. The man was frozen in place. His eyes had not moved from Ryre. He spoke. "Ryre, I know your rep. I know I chose the wrong man. I never met anyone like you. I see you're a man of mercy. So I'm asking for you to let me off. I'll ride out, leave everyone be and never come back."

Ryre studied the man for a long minute, then said, "Cain, I guess if I thought you could change your stripes, I'd be inclined that way. A few years ago, I'd have shot all of you dead without a chance. I'd have hunted you down like I hunt wolves. I never once gave a wolf warning. I just track 'em and shoot 'em. I give some serious thought to doin' that to all you boys. I really did. Some of your boys can thank a Texas parson for being alive today"

He paused for a long moment and his eyes narrowed as he added, "But you're different, son." Ryre moved slightly closer to Cain, then continued, "Killin' don't come easy for me like it used to. Even killin' something like you." He took a deep breath, then continued speaking, his voice even, almost husky, "But I seen too many men like you and Carden in my day. Men like you don't change. And lettin' you ride out would mean I'd be causing someone to die who didn't deserve it. Your kind prey on those who don't take to fighting. So I can't let it pass." His voice dropped to almost a husky whisper as he added. "You got to pay the piper."

With that, Ryre dropped the shotgun on the table and stepped out into the center of the room. He shifted himself, giving less of a target to Cain. His calm, relaxed appearance was a stark contrast to Cain who was as taut as the rope on a calf trying to pull away. His eyes bulged slightly and he rejected the thoughts of regret that attempted to come through. He'd made his bed. He'd die the man.

Cain moved slowly to face Ryre. His hand moved out, his fingers spreading slightly. His countenance began to take on a hard, almost hungry look. His eyes locked onto Ryre's and his breathing suddenly became shallow. Ely Cain was said to be the equal of Hickock with a gun. He did things with a pistol that no cowboy ever thought of doing. And that night, he was never better.

His gun was out and firing before Ryre could even line up his pistol. He was incredibly fast. But his first shot went wild, punching a hole through the wall. He had two shots fired before Ryre's first shot. Cain's second shot burned its way across Ryre's shoulder and slammed through the thin board wall. Ryre's first shot was quick, yet sure. Even as he squeezed the trigger, he did not flinch when Cain's third shot scorched its way across his cheek. Ryre fired, then fired again.

Cain staggered back, tried to raise his weapon, could not, then sat down heavily. He looked at Ryre and whispered in an almost child-like voice: "You've killed me." Ryre stepped forward, his face hard, but his words tinged with sorrow. "No, son, you killed yourself. You did that when you hurt the wrong man."

And so it was that on the headboards of Nate Carden and Ely Cain, beneath their names and the date they died, the inscription reads: THEY HURT THE WRONG MAN.

John Ryre rode out of town that same day and into Louisiana where he lived the rest of his days peacefully, eventually raising three children by his second wife, Eloise. And it's told that in his later years, he even took up teaching a Sunday School class in the local Baptist church. Of course there's still come cowboys on the K-Bar in Texas who'd argue on that story. John Ryre was a lot of things, but a Sunday School teacher surely wasn't one of them. Not in a hundred years.

The End

What happens when a former lawman, a man dedicated to maintaining law and order, finds himself stripped of everything he loved, and inside, shrivels emotionally? What happens when a man becomes driven by vengance? What about justice? Where is that bright line? These are issues that confronted Weston Teague in the novel, Bloody Wes Teague. Teague had been a lawman in Texas in his early years, and he'd earned a "rep" as a tough man—a man who'd not back down from a fight. But, when he became a rancher in Wyoming, he left behind those years and that life. He married a beautiful New Yorker and brought her into the West. But, someone followed them. That man would earn the wrath of Wes Teague. His actions would also call into question everything Teague had once stood for as a lawman. Click here to read more.

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copyright 2000 Voyle A. Glover

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