Three Violent People Page #3

- No.

- You love the hills.

- Well, I know them.

I should. I once walked

clear through those. It took me 24 days.

- Were you lost?

- No.

My granddaddy,

he raised me, you know.

My mother and father were killed

in the Apache uprising of '39.

When I was 15, the old man and I

rode clean up to Mesa Grande.

That's nine days on good horses.

He gave me a rifle, 30 cartridges,

a sack of salt, and rode off...

leading my horse behind him.

I learned those hills

by walking home through them.

You mean he just turned you loose

in the wilderness?

- It's a wonder you didn't starve.

- I had a rifle, remember?

What's that?

Just Mr. Bass trying to get loose.

- Colt, let him go.

- Let him...

Please.

All right.

He's already down in his hole

telling Mama how he outsmarted us.

Let him. I'm glad.

- Why did you want that?

- I don't know.

- Bar S.

- It looks like an emerald.

That's what my grandma named it the

first time she saw it, right from this hill.

La esmeralda.

That means "emerald" in Spanish.

Of course, no one ever called it that.

It got to be known as Bar Stubborn,

after my granddaddy.

- Colt, hombre. Gracias a Dios.

- Inocencio.

Thank God you are back.

Five years you have been away.

- It's a long time.

- Hey, vaquero.

Mrs. Colt Saunders.

Lorna, my oldest friend,

the gran vaquero of the Bar S...

- Inocencio Antonio Ortega.

- How do you do?

Welcome, seora,

and much happiness.

Thank you.

There, now. You stand right there

or you'll fall over something.

I think I can still

find my way around in here.

There.

The place looks worse

than I figured it would.

That Inocencio

never was much of a housekeeper.

Don't apologise. It'll be fine.

That's Grandmother and Granddad.

A family thing.

One time or another, all the Saunders

get their pictures painted.

This is the chair.

Once we get straightened up around

here and start sending for furniture...

you can throw this out

and get some kind of a chair...

I should say not!

When our portraits are painted, I'm

going to be sitting in this same chair.

Seora...

we have a saying in Spanish...

that a glad heart

is all that one should ask of God...

for that is real happiness.

My heart is glad.

You, too, have a glad heart.

- It shines in your eyes.

- Does it show so much?

The glow of true beauty

in a woman's face...

is kindled only by first love.

First love.

It's true. I've never been in love before.

Have you been here

a long time, Inocencio?

A long time?

I was born here. My father used to ride

with him every day.

Will you help me

not to make too many mistakes?

Sure, seora.

- I will help you in every way I can.

- Thank you.

Amigo...

couldn't anybody find a broom

all the time I was gone?

That bedroom looks like

a family of pack rats wintered in there.

The times were bad, hombre.

There was much to do,

few hands to do it with.

Maybe tomorrow

you can send a rider to Tres Rios...

and get a woman to do the housework.

Maybe you can get Maria back.

- Sure, I get her.

- Bueno.

- Good night, seora.

- Good night, Inocencio.

Years of dust, I'm afraid.

That's a strange expression

you're wearing.

- The mess, I suppose.

- No.

It's a feeling.

As if for the first time in my life,

I felt I belonged.

North, south, east, and west.

You look around just like your

grandfather used to do every morning.

Why not?

A rancher lives by the weather.

Every morning, the sky tells his fortune.

Light clouds over the Sierra Diablo.

Rains should come early this year.

We don't have to worry about the grass.

But the animals, no good.

I don't like to hand you this.

Since I wrote you, the politicos

have come twice searching.

They didn't find the herd of horses

hidden in the hills.

Cattle?

I kept them scattered

as much as possible.

But they found most of them

and took them.

As bad as that?

But more important, Colt...

last night I took the responsibility

of not telling you something.

A man should not be told bad news

on his first night...

with his bride under his family rooftree...

but your brother is here.

Cinch came home?

Is the Bar S Ranch home to Cinch?

I don't know.

But whether it is his home or not,

he rode in here two months ago.

You haven't changed in five years.

Neither have you.

On the contrary, I have learned humility.

Learned it in New Orleans.

In New Orleans, my money ran out.

You started out

with enough to last you quite a while.

I hurried.

You must be going to make a point

about that.

There's nothing in writing

that says I own any part of Bar S.

Grandpa saw to it that the will said...

I could only have

what you saw fit for me to have.

Grandpa had such a high opinion

of your moral stature.

You figure I'm entitled to a share?

Of course I do.

It's a pleasure to do business

with a man of character.

Better than having a contract.

I'd like my share now,

if you could manage it.

Gold preferably.

You've been around a couple of months.

You know the shape the ranch is in.

You could sell. There are buyers.

Each one with a carpetbag

full of Yankee money.

And you know I won't do that.

I had that figured out.

Especially after Inocencio told me

about a woman you brought with you.

I brought a wife.

My use of words wasn't meant to offend.

When do I meet her?

I've got to go over some tally books

with Inocencio. I'll introduce you then.

Fine.

What did you tell your bride about me?

I forgot to mention you.

That was real thoughtful forgetting.

Uncomfortable position, isn't it?

Even sitting down, Grandma looked like

an arrow about to fly from the bow.

She always sat just like that...

before she came with

the speed of lightning to box my ears.

I'm Beauregard Saunders. Everybody

calls me Cinch. Colt's brother.

Colt's brother?

I didn't know he had any family left.

He told me

he'd forgotten to mention me.

I'm the skeleton in the Saunders' closet,

you see.

Nobody ever expected me to return.

When I left, I announced

in ringing tones...

that wild horses couldn't drag me back.

- Here, let me help you.

- Do me a favour.

Don't ever help me do anything

you wouldn't help a two-armed man do.

I'm sorry.

- Do me another favour?

- I'll try.

Don't ask me what battle of the war

I lost my arm in.

The question makes the hairs stand up

on the back of my neck.

All right, I won't.

Sorry. I almost offered you a drink.

Cinch, pour me a drink.

Right down without a gasp.

- Why'd you do that?

- I don't know.

Yes, I do know.

You sounded as if

you were talking down to me.

- And you can't stand that?

- Failing I have.

I did a favour for you, remember?

- Will you do one for me?

- Sure.

Tell me how you got to be

the skeleton in the closet.

I believe the world is round.

- No!

- You mustn't laugh.

Such new-fangled ideas

haven't been accepted at Bar S yet.

You know, you have very good manners.

I have the sure test.

What's that?

Bad-mannered people just blurt it out,

"How'd you lose your arm?"

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