the cigar as he got his face back on its resting place and his eye focused on the cabin.
He calculated that the smoke had risen no higher than a foot in the air when three slugs came slamming into the rear bank of the wash, cutting dirt off the leading edge and going right through the smoke. The crack, crack, crack of the rifle boomed loud in the thin air. Longarm was able to see that Shaw had fired around the edge of the door, the near edge, which did not expose his body. Almost as soon as the last blast of the rifle had reached his ears, Longarm let out a faint, but what he hoped was a believable, groan. Then he went very quiet, almost willing himself not to breath. His left eye, peering just over the edge of the wash, was glued on the front and the side of the cabin.
Some time passed. Longarm had no idea how much, except the sun seemed to suddenly get hotter and he developed an itch right between his shoulder blades. It was agony to just lay there, unable to twitch so much as a muscle.
After what seemed forever Jack Shaw said tentatively, “Longarm? Longarm?
Custis?”
Longarm lay motionless, almost afraid to breathe. There was no sign of movement from the cabin, not even a head stuck quickly around the door and then pulled back.
A few more minutes passed and Shaw said, “Aw, c’mon, Longarm. I was jest funnin’ with you. Them slugs never went within ten feet of you.
Now quit hoorahin’ me. Speak up, man. Ain’t you had enough time to work up enough spit to talk?”
Longarm couldn’t be sure, but he thought he detected a note in Shaw’s voice suggesting a fish who was thinking about taking the bait. But until something happened, all he could do was cling to the front face of the wash and watch, almost unblinking. Longarm was acutely aware that if his chance came, and it was a long shot in more ways than one, he’d have the smallest portion of a second to make his play. And he knew he’d be stiff and slow- moving from lying in one position so long.
Shaw said, his voice more urgent, “Aw, cut it out, Custis. Hell, I was jest funnin’ around with them shots. You layin’ in there playin’ possum an’ waitin’ for me to bite. Well, I ain’t gonna do it. So you go ahead and see how long you can lay still and not move or talk.
Meanwhile, I think I’ll have me a drink of whiskey.”
By cutting his eye to the left, Longarm could see one of his last cigars slowly burning up without him getting a puff. A full inch of ash was showing. And the itch had moved until it was now down in the small of his back. Pretty soon, he reckoned, his leg would go to cramping up.
All of a sudden there came a flurry of shots whipping dirt up on the front edge of the wash and clipping through the greasewood. One of the shots hit so close to Longarm’s face that it would have knocked dirt in his eye if he hadn’t shut it just in time. Longarm reflected that the shots were too accurate to have been fired from a pistol, at the distance the cabin was. He guessed that Shaw had fired and reloaded as fast as he could work the lever of his rifle. It had been an impressive display, and served to remind Longarm that he was fooling with a seriously dangerous and competent man. And intelligent.
But Shaw had something else that made him far more dangerous. Or better yet, he was missing something. Longarm knew there was a word for it, but he couldn’t call it to mind. Shaw didn’t seem to care about anything, especially the wrong or right of matters. He just flat didn’t seem to have a conscience of any kind. Longarm had heard it said of some men that they’d “as soon shoot you as look at you.”
Jack Shaw was the only man he’d ever met whom he felt that was completely true of. And yet Shaw could be just as good company as a man could want. Longarm had had many a drink with him, many a conversation, maybe even shared some of the same women. But Shaw didn’t seem to have what most people had inside them, something that told him when he’d come to a stopping place.
Longarm could feel his left shoulder start to cramp, and there was another itch developing at the back of his head. The sun burned down hotter and hotter. The packhorse was still standing near the corral fence, his head getting lower and lower. Maybe the night would bring the animal some relief, Longarm thought. Maybe it would bring him some relief. One of them damn sure needed some.
Longarm could feel his tongue sticking to the roof of his mouth. He wasn’t even sure he could open his lips without pulling skin loose. He was also beginning to wonder how much longer he could last. When he’d chosen the safest and most comfortable position, it had seemed fairly restful. He had his whole body, down to his boots, pressed up against the front slant of the wash, with just his head and neck turned back to the left to watch the cabin. As the minutes passed, another muscle in his body began to cry out for relief. Pretty soon he’d be so sore and stove up that Shaw could just walk out and beat him to death with the end of a rope. He’d known, when he’d put the plan in action, that it was going to be a waiting game of long duration, but now he wasn’t sure if it was worth the risk. He hadn’t had a sip of water in well over two hours, and he knew he was getting badly dehydrated. The only way to use what little water he had was to space it carefully over the time he’d calculated he was going to have to wait. To go too long without water was as foolish as drinking it all at once.
Shaw said, “Now look what you gone and made me do, Custis. Waste ammunition. You know a man in my position ain’t supposed to be doing that. I got plenty, but you can’t never have too much. Why don’t you quit playin’ possum and let’s have a little talk. Tell you what. I got a two-gallon canvas bag of water here I’ll sling over to you if you’ll ask for it. All you got to do is ask and it’s yours. Now, what do you say? You know I’d keep my word on something like this, Custis.
Me and you was good friends a long time. I wouldn’t treat you like that worthless trash I have to use to get my living.” He paused. “Say something’, Custis, an’ I swear I’ll sling you this bag of water.”
Longarm lay still and gritted his teeth. Shaw had to be curious. He wouldn’t be human if there wasn’t some hope in his mind that he had hit Longarm, hit him and killed him. Shaw had suggested the whole business about the cigar with the idea in mind of getting Longarm to expose himself with the smoke. A man of Jack Shaw’s vanity would almost have to believe he was right. At least that was the way Longarm had it reasoned out. Now all he needed was for Shaw to act like he was supposed to. If Longarm couldn’t believe in the success of his own scheme, what could he believe in?
Shaw said, “Custis, if you don’t show yourself I’m gonna go on out back, get me a horse, and ride for the border. I know you ain’t got nothing wrong with you except you eat too much hair pie. Now sing out ‘fore I ride off taking all the horses and leave you to bleach in the sun.”
Longarm was not at all worried about that threat. Before Shaw would put himself on a horse on the open prairie, he’d make sure Longarm was either dead or unable to use a rifle.
It grew quiet again. Longarm now had cramps in three muscles and at least four distinct itches. His mouth was
