The houseman saw him and nudged Mr. Malson under the table. Mr. Malson looked at him funny, frowning What was the little bald-headed son of a bitch up to? then saw the houseman looking toward the door. Bob Valdez was coming directly toward their table, his gaze already picking out Mr. Malson, who looked at him and away from him and back again, and Bob Valdez was still looking right at him.
I buried him, Valdez said.
Mr. Malson nodded. Good. There were enough witnesses, I didnt see any need for an inquest. He looked up at Bob Valdez. Everybody knows how he died.
Unless his wife wants him buried at home, Valdez said.
Mr. Beaudry said, Let her move him if she wants. Phew, driving that team in the sun with him on the back. Howd you like to do that?
R. L. Davis, who had moved over from the bar, said, I guess that boy stunk enough when he was alive. He looked around and got a couple of the riders to laugh at it.
I havent asked her if she wants to, Valdez said. Its something shell think about later when shes home. But I told her one thing, he said then. I told her wed pay her for killing her husband.
There was a silence at the table. Mr. Beaudry fooled with the end of his moustache, twisting it, and Mr. Malson cleared his throat before he said, We? Whos we?
I thought everybody who was there, Bob Valdez said. Or everybody who wants to give something.
Mr. Malson said, You mean take up a collection? Pass the hat around?
Valdez nodded. Yes sir.
Well, I suppose we could do that. He looked at Beaudry. What do you think, Earl?
Mr. Beaudry shrugged. I dont care. I guess it would be all right. Give her a few dollars for a stake.
Mr. Malson nodded. Enough to get home. Where does she live?
Their place is north of here, Valdez said.
No, I mean where is she from?
I dont know.
Probably across the border, Mr. Beaudry said. She could collect about ten dollars and itd be more than any of her kin had ever seen before.
Mr. Malson said, I suppose we could do it.
I was thinking of more than ten dollars, Valdez said.
Mr. Malson looked up at him. How much more?
Bob Valdez cleared his throat. He said, I was thinking five hundred dollars.
The silence followed again. This time R. L. Davis broke it. He moved, shifting his weight, and there was a chinging sound of his spurs. He said, I would like to know something. I would like to know why were listening to this greaser. It was him killed the nigger. Whats he coming to us for?
R. L., Mr. Malson said, keep your mouth closed, all right?
Why cant I say what I want? R. L. Davis said, drunk enough to tell the manager of Maricopa to his face, He killed him. Not us.
Mr. Malson said, Shut up or go to bed. He took his time shifting his gaze to Bob Valdez, then holding it there, staring at him. Thats a lot of money, five hundred dollars.
Yes sir, Bob Valdez nodded, speaking quietly. I guess it is, but she needs it. What does she have now? I mean, we take her husband from her and now she doesnt have anything. So I thought five hundred dollars. He smiled a little. It just came to me. That much.
Mr. Beaudry said, Thats as much as most men make in a year.
Yes sir, Bob Valdez said. But her husband wont earn anything anymore. Not this year or any year. So maybe five hundred is not so much.
Mr. Beaudry said, Giving that much is different than giving her a few dollars. I dont mean the difference in the amount. I mean you give her a sum like five hundred dollars its like admitting we owe it to her. Like were to blame.
Well? Bob Valdez said. Who else is to blame?
Mr. Beaudry said, Now wait a minute. If youre anxious to fix blame then Ill have to go along with what this man said. He nodded toward R. L. Davis. You killed him. We didnt. We were there to help flush him out, a suspected murderer. We werent there to kill anybody unless we had to. But you took it on yourself to go down and talk to him and it was you that killed him. Am I right or wrong?
Bob Valdez said, Everybody was shooting-
Mr. Beaudry held up his hand. Wait just a minute. Shooting isnt killing. Nobodys shot killed him but yours and there are ninety, a hundred witnesses will testify to it.
I said it before, R. L. Davis said. He killed the coon. Nobody else. The wrong coon at that.
A few of them laughed and Bob Valdez looked over at R. L. Davis standing with his funneled hat over his eyes and his thumbs hooked in his belt trying to stand straight but swaying a little. He was good and drunk, his eyes watery looking and the corners of his mouth sticky. But it would be good to hit him anyway, Bob Valdez was thinking. Come in from the side and get his cheek and rip into his nose without hitting those ugly teeth and maybe cut your hand. With gloves on hit the mouth, but not without gloves. He could see R. L. Davis sitting on the floor of De Spains saloon with his nose bleeding and blood down the front of him. That would be all right.
And who else? No, he should be able to talk to Mr. Malson and Mr. Beaudry, the manager of a cattle company and a government land agent, but he was having one son of a bitch of a hard time because they didnt see it, what he meant, or they didnt want to see it.