Texas Drive by Bill Dugan

from more than the strain. He brought a hand up as the Comanche turned toward him, pivoting on his legginged knees.
    Ted felt the slit in his shirt, the sticky blood soaking the severed edges. At the same instant, he saw the knife in the Comanche’s hand. He grabbed for his Colt as the Comanche curled the corners of his mouth in what might have been a sardonic smile. The brave waved the knife, its broad, flat blade catching the sunlight and sparkling for a second, then he stuck the knife into its buckskin sheath and stood up.
    Ted felt the sweat on his palms. The Colt was slippery in his grip as he backed away, scrambling on his hips. The Comanche shook his head, the slightest nod, and Ted turned to see two more, watching him. The Comanche stepped toward him, reached down with one hand, and hauled Ted to his feet. Then, without a backward glance, he stepped past. A moment later, all three Indians were gone.
    He sat there on the rock, wondering what it all meant. Had the Indian suggested they were even? It couldn’t have been more than that, certainly. It could have been less. A life for a life, it seemed to say. Or did it?
    Ted got to his feet and dusted himself off. His shoulder had begun to throb, and he squeezed it closed with one hand, squeezing his Colt in the other. He heard the horses below for a moment, then nothing.
    He was all alone on the lip of the canyon. He looked up at the sun. It was already beginning to turn red, slipping low on the horizon. His shadow, tinged with orange at its edges, speared out from him as he turned his back to the sun.
    Walking back to his horse, he took several deep breaths, trying to purge himself of the fear and the confusion. The horse backed skittishly as he approached. Snatching at the reins, he got the pony calmed down. Ted clapped a hand on the pommel and hauled himself into the saddle. As he settled in,he felt something against his leg, something that shouldn’t be there. He looked down. Then, realizing what it was, he leaned over the side and threw up.
    Dangling from a rawhide thong was a bloody scalp that could only belong to Jack Wilkins.
    When his guts stopped churning, he realized the Comanche had settled accounts. All bets were off now, and the next time, if there was a next time, they were even. The slate was now clean, in a way even the Comanche did not understand.
    He wondered what Jacob would think, if he told the old Quaker what had happened. He wondered whether he would tell him anything at all. He prodded the pony with his knees, turning back toward home.
    And he knew the answer to both questions.

11
    ELLIE SAT ON the grass. Her skirt spread out around her legs, she patted the ground alongside her. Ted shook his head. “I’d rather stand,” he said.
    “You have to put it out of your mind.”
    “I can’t.”
    “You did the right thing.”
    “How?”
    “Would it have brought Mr. Wilkins back, if you had killed that man?”
    “Of course not, Ellie, but that’s not what I mean.”
    “But it
is
what you mean. You understood it, even though you don’t understand
how
you understood. But that doesn’t matter. There has to be another way. People can’t kill one another until there is only one man left alive. What would be the point?”
    “It would leave the planet for the fish and the birds. There’s something to be said for that, maybe.”
    “Only as long as you can’t accept that God intends us for better things. But we have to be ready for them. It can’t happen until we are, because He won’t allow it.”
    “God was not on that ledge. I was. It was me who grabbed that Comanche and pulled him back, not God.”
    “But they could have killed you. You told me so, and I believe it. You have already made a difference. That Indian will remember what you did for the rest of his life.”
    “It won’t change him none.”
    “You don’t know that.”
    Ted didn’t answer. He bent down to snag a fistful of grass and stuck a long blade between his lips.