"He means the business part," Hector said.
"Not yet."
Jerry said, "There something wrong with you?" "I'm thinking about it."
"You didn't jump on it right away you're not the guy. We don't need you." He said to Hector and Tonto, "You guys do all the work, you need him?"
"If Robert say he wants him," Hector said, and Tonto agreed, nodding.
"That's why I don't ask your fuckin advice," Jerry said, and looked at Dennis again. "You got till after we do this. But you fuck with me you know what happens."
"You're dead," Hector said.
"What kind of thing would I do," Dennis said to Jerry, "you'd think of as fuckin with you?" "I just told you."
"Outside of if I run or cop to a deal." "You're fuckin with me right now." It was in his voice, the irritation.
"He means don't piss him off," Hector said, "that's all," and said to him, "Let me ask you something. You know how to fire a Colt pistol?"
"I know you have to cock it first," Dennis said, "each time you fire. Thumb the hammer back. Or you can squeeze the trigger and fan the hammer, the way Alan Ladd did in Shane, he's showing the kid how he shoots."
"That was a good part," Hector said, "before he faced Wilson, the hired gun."
"And blew him away," Dennis said.
"See?" Hector said to Jerry. "I told you Dennis would know how."
Jerry was shaking his head. "You guys kill me. You're fuckin morons, you know it?"
They stood in ranks while John Rau took them one by one through the safety drill. Each man's rifle, with only a cap in the breech, would be aimed at the ground and fired at a leaf. The rush of air moving the leaf meant the barrel was clear.
Dennis waited his turn, the clean smell of Loretta's soap on him.
He had said to her, "If you saw me dive, why didn't you know who I was?" Last night, when she was guessing what he did for a living. She said because she was never close enough to the tank when he came out, and because he didn't dive in a Yankee uniform with corporal stripes on it. She said, "Let me have your jacket," and snipped off in twenty seconds what had taken Vernice something like twenty minutes, talking the whole time, to sew on.
Yesterday, when he asked her why they called the pie Naughty Child, and she said, "You find out, let me know," he took his first step toward her, getting the feeling they were alike and could talk, not take things too seriously. Then in the evening, thinking of her as a country girl with theme parks in her dreams, he had stepped back for a moment, the daredevil king of amusement parks passing judgment. There was nothing wrong with theme parks. Some even put on high-dive shows.
Standing in ranks at attention he said to himself, You'll dive another three years, if that. What do you and your dive-caller do then?
He didn't know her but he kept thinking about her, seeing her, liking the way she moved and the sound of her voice, and her eyes, the way she looked at him. What was the problem?
Outside of her being married.
For the time being. That could change in an hour.
He saw himself in a dueling pose, in the trees, aiming a Colt revolver at Arlen running toward him.
With a sword, a big cavalry saber.
Could that happen?
John Rau said, "Private, tell me what you're waiting for?"
24
ROBERT WENT DOWN TO THE Confederate encampment in the orchard, his sword hanging at his side, his hand on the hilt to keep it from hitting his leg and tripping him up, swords not being as cool as they looked. Man, all the serious Southron types down here getting ready, Robert estimating their number at a hundred and a half easy, living in dirt and eating bad food and loving it.
He saw squads of them marching through the tangle of trees to drumbeats, some already taking their positions on the line. He saw a half-dozen cavalrymen sitting their horses, and three cannon Robert believed were six-pounders rolled out to aim across the field. There were hardcores who looked like they'd been doing this since Fort Sumter was fired on, along with farbs in half-asked outfits here to have some fun.
Robert came through brush strung along a dry creek bed that separated the main Confederate camp from a gathering of hillbilly-looking rednecks with beards and black hillbilly hats that put Robert in mind of a biker gang without their leathers. He believed he was getting close to Kirkbride's outfit and identified himself to a group passing around a jar of shine.
"How you doing? I'm Forrest's chief scout, looking to report to the general."
What they did was stare with dumb, serious faces, looking at him with the kind of stares Robert was used to. First the sizing up, then the remarks to put him in his place, have some fun with him. Robert didn't let them get to that part. He said, "You fuck with me, I'll bring Arlen over to get on your ass. I laid in the thicket all night spying on the Federal camp and the general's waiting for my report."
Sounding official to confuse them, remind them of what they were doing here. It got him pointed to Kirkbride's tent, over there in that cottonwood shade: Walter Kirkbride with Arlen and his people and their fruit jar, Arlen looking this way and now all of them looking, Walter saying something, and now he was coming away from them, by himself.
Good. It told Robert Walter had been looking at his crossroads and was keeping Arlen out of it, the man cautious now, not wanting to get himself in the middle of any gangsta business. Still, Robert intended to hook him, show the man he wasn't home free.
Walter walked up looking like a general and Robert said, "How you doing? I understand you got little Traci in camp with you."
Stopped the man cold, whatever it was he might've had ready to say now gone.
"That cute girl has the trailer behind Junebug's? My man Tonto saw her walking around the camp. But was Wesley told me she's your sweetheart. Wesley, the bartender out there wears the undershirt?"
The man stood motionless in his officer's uniform, his hat on, his eyes sad, like a general tired of war and about to offer his sword. Bobby Lee at Appomattox.
Robert said, "Listen to me, Walter, I ain't holding Traci over your head, that ain't my business. You go on have your fun. What I'm saying to you, I realize the kind of mental defectives you have to associate with, and I know you're better than having to do that. I maybe even could use you in my business. You understand what I'm saying?"
Walter said, "I've got a pretty good idea," his voice showing some life.
"You don't deserve to go down with Arlen and his people. And they going down," Robert said, looking past Walter, "all of them watching us right now, wanting to know what I'm saying to you, they going down."
"Whatever happens-" Walter started to say.
Robert cut him off with, "Arlen's coming." Walter turned and they watched Arlen coming with his rifle, Arlen looking like a Confederate from out of the past in his uniform, his pistol, sword, pouches and canteen hanging from his belt, straps crisscrossing his chest, all the way hardcore except the cowboy boots.
"Arlen, you looking fierce," Robert said, "like you want to get you some Yankees."
Arlen didn't look at Walter, only Robert.
"Where they gonna be?"
"Up on the north side of the field. The idea is like you drive 'em into the woods and go in after 'em to finish the job."
"Like Tyree Bell 's brigade," Walter said. "Though technically he flanked the other end of the Federal line."
"That's right," Robert said, glad to see Walter getting into it again.
Arlen said, "The one that thinks he's General Grant gonna be there, German-o?" "Wouldn't miss it."
"And that diver?"