Three-Ten to Yuma and Other Stories Read Online Free PDF Page B

Struggles thought, He looks like a red-dirt farmer leaning against the corner on Saturday night. Only there’s no match-stick in his mouth and a gun’s only six inches from his hand.
    The one with the Winchester, a Mexican, moved up next to him and stood sideways so that the cradled barrel was pointing up to the ledge. The American followed the direction of the barrel, then looked where he thought Struggles to be.
    â€œTell that crazy Indian to do something with his nerves,” he called.
    Struggles lifted his head slightly from the rear sight. “You’re the one making him nervous, not me.”
    â€œThere doesn’t have to be trouble—that’s what I mean.” He pushed the straw up from his eyes. “Why don’t you come out in the open?”
    Struggles’ cheek pressed against the stock again. “You better get to the point pretty soon.” And with the words saw the American’s face break into a smile.
    â€œWell, the point is, you’re sitting on a pile of silver and I want it.” His smile broadened and headded, “And the edge of the point is that we’re six and you’re two.”
    â€œOnly when you come to get us, it’s going to cost you something,” Struggles said.
    â€œNot if we sit back in the shade and wait for your tongues to swell up.”
    â€œYou look a little too skinny to be good at waiting.”
    The American nodded to the ledge. “Ask Juan how good I am at waiting. I used up a lot of my patience while my vaqueros scratched for your sign, but I still got some left.”
    Struggles admitted, “It didn’t take you too long at that.”
    â€œYour boy isn’t the only one who knows the country.” He was waving the white cloth idly. “Look,” he said. “Here’s how it is. You either sit and die of thirst, or else get on your mounts and ride the hell out. Of course, for my own protection I’d have to ask both of you to leave your guns behind.”
    Struggles said, “You don’t have a high regard for our reasoning, do you?”
    The man shrugged. “I’m not talking you into anything.” He waited a few moments, then turned and walked down the slope. The Mexican backed down, keeping the Winchester high.
    Struggles fingered the trigger lightly and wondered what that principle was based on—about not shooting a man in the back. And when the straw hat was out of range he still had not thought of it.
    Through the heat of the afternoon Struggles’ mind talked to him, making conversation; but always an argument resulted, and his mind was poor company because it kept telling him that he was afraid. When the heat began to lift, a breeze stirred lazily over the bench and made a faint whispering sound as it played through the crevices above. And finally, the bench lost its shape in darkness.
    It was cool relief after the glaring white light of the afternoon; but with the darkness, the slope that was still a painting now came alive and was something menacing.
    Struggles crawled back to the slope and stood up, cupping his hands to his mouth, and whispered, “Juan,” then gritted his teeth as the word cut the silence.
    He waited, but nothing happened. He brought up his hands again, but jumped back quickly as a stream of loose shale clattered down from above. And as if on signal, two rifles opened up from below. Struggles went flat and inched back to the rim as the firing kept up, spattering against the flinty slope.
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    W HEN IT STOPPED, he raised his head above the rocks, but there was only the darkness. They’re not a hundred feet away, he thought. Waiting for us to move. He settled down again, pressing close to the rock barrier. Well, they were going to have a long wait. But now he wondered if he was alone. Since the firing there had been no sound from above. Had something happened to Juan?
    Time lost its meaning after a while and became only something