The Hardest Ride Read online

  I went through that fella’s pockets and only found a jackknife, cigarette makings, and some American coins—less than two dollars—and three Mex eight-reales coins worth a dollar each. No papers, no wallet, no name. I laid his bloody bandana over his face. His rig had a .44 Smith & Wesson Russian with only eighteen rounds counting the ones in the cylinder. Those injuns had got the drop on him good. His revolver hadn’t been fired. His boots were fair, but he’d died in them, and I’d leave them be. I hated the thought of them going to waste anyway. I picked up the bucks’ three knives and that tomahawk. Damn injuns. They ain’t had a gun one among ’em. Must be reservation bucks on a fling. I spied an empty whisky bottle. Damn injuns. Marta picked up the fella’s hat, stepped behind the horse, pulled her shawl down to her shoulders, and put the broad brimmed, low-crowned hat on.

  We had to go. That buck’s squealing was getting on my nerves, and it wasn’t doing Marta no good either. There was a green canvas and russet leather shotgun case on the sorrel’s saddle, and I wiped off the scattergun and stuck it in. I started to climb onto Cracker, and Marta grabbed my arm. That was the first time she’d ever done anything like that.

  “What?”

  She had an angry look in her dark eyes from under that big…hat. She pointed at the screaming buck.

  I looked at her. “¿Qué?”

  She pointed again, jabbed her finger hard, and stamped her foot.

  “You want me to finish him off?” I didn’t think she’d care none about his sufferings. Heck, these injuns might be the ones kilt her family, except they didn’t have any guns.

  She jabbed her finger again, glaring mean at me.

  “Well, fine then, dammit! He’s going to croak anyways.” I cocked the rifle. Dang woman, making me waste another cartridge. “These things don’t grow on trees you know!”

  She pointed again, and I could almost hear her say, “Cowboy up and finish the chore!”

  She didn’t turn away when I shot him. We rode off. I was still riling against my marksmanship, “Eight cartridges, eight. Three injuns. Shoulda taken no more than four, five tops.”

  I was thinking about that fella with no name. Going like that, just being left to rot out in the prairie and making a meal for coyotes and buzzards. On days like this, nesters’ soft town life seemed a mighty good idea. I looked back at Marta. At least, she wasn’t scowling no more. She surely looked good on that sorrel.

  Chapter Ten

  We came upon a creek well before sunset. I woulda gone further, but that stream seemed mighty useful seeing I needed doctoring. I unsaddled the two horses and unburdened Burro, simply dumping everything into a pile under a willow. I was starting to hurt enough where it was making me irritable. Marta was kind of looking at me queer like, but she got her fire going. I hobbled the horses, and they kind of hung around each other introducing themselves and biting on one another, seeing who’s boss. Cracker is. I laid my saddle blanket by the fire, sat cross-legged, and doffed my shirt and long johns top to feel the chill.

  Marta got all wide-eyed, not because she ain’t seen me out of my shirt, but because of all the little pellet holes in my arm and side and some smeared blood. She got the coffeepot water boiling directly, and I gave her that fella’s jackknife.

  After washing out my bandana and then pouring hot water on it, she washed me down. “Ouch, that stings.” She popped me on the side of the head and gave me a hard look that said, “Tough it out.” She held the blade in the fire, let it cool a spell, and commenced picking out the birdshot. That hurt more than the process of them getting put there. There were only a baker’s dozen of the little pellets.

  Marta gathered sage leaves while picking up more firewood. She ground up the leaves and stems in a tin cup and added a little water to make a paste. She dabbed that on my wounds.

  “For a scamp of a niña, you sure know what to do. Like a doctor’s nurse.”

  She shrugged her shoulders like she knew what I’d said.

  While Marta cooked up supper, I went through that poor fella’s gear. Most of it was a sorry lot. His saddle and bridle were long hard-rode. His saddle blanket was way too dirty for the horse’s good, and he had the beginnings of back sores. Marta saw that and put some of that sage paste on them. He was fresh shod, though. She took time to wash the sorrel’s saddle blanket. That would help its back. She seemed to know something about horses.

  His saddlebags were lean pickings. They yielded two tins of Boston baked beans and a tin of peas, a pound can of corned beef, a jar of lick, a handful each of jerked beef and corn dodgers, coffee, salt, a wooden canteen with the cork stopper replaced by a corncob plug, skillet, eating gear, and so on. His bedroll was only four blankets, one threadbare. He had a gum blanket and a brown corduroy coat, a good heavy one, blanket-lined with a canvas collar.

  In a paper packet was three 16-gauge shotshells; that’s all he had. The shotgun was a very fine Parker Brothers double-hammer, which I reloaded. Its barrels were longer than my arm. I pocketed the spent shells. The Russian Smith was good too, but a little old. On his belt rig I found the letters “I.N.”—or maybe the “I” was a “J”. In script writing, they looked the same to me. There was nothing else naming him.

  Looking at his guns and things like that corduroy coat, I’d say this was a once well-off cowboy who’d fallen on hard times. That Parker was at least a forty-dollar shotgun. I wondered if he’d worked around here or if he was heading to Eagle Pass like me. Or maybe going to Uvalde or San Antonio.

  He had a lot of gear I could sell. I don’t think he’d mind. He’d know a cowboy’s lot is tough, and he’d of done the same his ownself.

  Marta was making tortillas, and I was thinking all what I’d sell in Eagle Pass. Watching her press the dough balls flat and throwing them in the skillet, I realized that some of these things would be of use to her. I stood to make a lot of money, with any luck. That sorrel and saddle, for instance. Then I thought about how good she sat the horse, and she’d caught it her ownself. But, it would bring in a lot of money. Then I thought she never looked all that comfortable on Burro. I liked the idea of keeping the horse, and Marta might like it too. It would surely look grand, me coming into town with my…with…with her sitting on a good horse. Not riding a burro or walking behind me like most Mexes do when hooked up with a gringo.

  She could use a couple of wool blankets and that gum blanket and that corduroy coat too. I climbed up—it didn’t hurt too bad—and picked up those things, choosing the best blankets. Folding them up, I laid them beside her, and the canteen too. “For you,” I said spreading my hands toward the gear and then at her, “Por usted.”

  She looked up at me and then at the things, and back at me, shaking her head, kind of confused.

  I nodded and smiled and sat back down. I tossed that fella’s jackknife onto the coat. Everyone needs a good knife, not that boning knife.

  Her eyes were as big as the tortillas she was making. She dropped the knife in her tow sack and picked up the coat. The firelight showed tears in her big ol’ eyes. I don’t know what the big deal was. It was only some poor old drifter’s gear he didn’t need no more.

  Supper was grand, her frijole beans. The way she nursed me, you’d have thought I’d been bad hurt. She even wanted to feed me, but I wasn’t having none of that. Marta cleaned my arm and side up again before we turned in.

  I had to lay on my right side because of the birdshot. Marta spooned against my back, her head against my shoulder. I could feel her tits pressing against me, and she put her arm over me. Strange this, I thought. We could hear coyotes yelping a long ways off. I guess talking about what they’d found, out there on the prairie. We slept warm that night and the next too.

  Chapter Eleven

  Eagle Pass sorta sneaks up on you when riding over a low ridge. Going up that ridge, you’re expecting more mesquite-covered prairie, but there’s the town. You can’t see the Rio Grande, it being down in a wide gorge.

  Marta is sitting the sorrel about as tall in
the saddle as she can, which isn’t much. What a sight. A Mex girl on a shod horse with a saddle and shotgun, and all decked out in that big gray hat and coat. She drew rein beside me and took out that poor fella’s cigarette makings, pulled the tobacco pouch string open with her teeth, rolled a cig, and handed it to me. I lit up, and she rolled another and hung it in her mouth with a look saying, “You gonna give me a light?” I lit her up and said, “If this don’t beat all. I expect you’ll be wanting that fella’s revolver rig next.”

  She clicked her tongue and bumped Cracker’s rump with her foot to get us moving toward town. Coming down off the ridge, we followed the railroad track in, and then took some dirt streets where there weren’t any houses.

  We crossed over the bridged ravine separating the town from Fort Duncan on its east side. I said howdy to the guard and told him I had some injun gear to sell. He called the corporal of the guard, and the corporal called the sergeant of the guard, and he called the first sergeant and a bunch of troopers collected. There wasn’t much to do around there, I guess. I laid them three knives out and bidded them off. Marta squatted by the horses watching bored-like.

  I sold the first two knives for a dollar and some change each. When I showed them the one that scalped a white man and still had blood on it, the bidding got lively.

  “I got two Morgan dollars,” shouted one big soldier straight off.

  “I’ll match that and ten cents,” muttered the corporal of the guard.

  “Two-twenty,” and so it went.

  Two injun scouts, black Seminoles, stood off to the side laughing at the goings-on. They had Comanche knives on their belts, and I can guess how they got hold of them—which ain’t no easy thing to do. They might laugh, but I got three dollars and two bits for that killing knife.

  I brought out the tomahawk. It was only an old trade hatchet that I’d tied on some buzzard feathers to fancy it up. Still it’d been used by an injun and he’d tried to kill a white man with it, me. “I took this off a buck that missed me by a hair’s breadth before I shot him.” I was kind of grateful Marta couldn’t understand my tall tales. It’d be embarrassing to fib in front of her. I showed them my shirt’s birdshot holes and pointed out the shotgun on the sorrel. Marta’s eyes narrowed when I pointed at the scattergun. I guess she suspected I’d sell it.

  The tomahawk brought almost as much as the scalping knife.

  An officer came up. He had gold doodads on his shoulders, and everyone saluted. He asked me about how I got the injun gear, and I told him the story. He seemed miffed seeing he missed out on the bidding. That’s when I brought out the Russian Smith.

  The officer said straight off, “I’ll give you fifteen US dollars for the whole rig.”

  I’d heard officers like the Russian S&W because it’s fast reloading. I didn’t think it’d be too smart to offer it to a higher bidder, him being an officer. Heck, those soldier boys only get thirteen dollars a month anyways.

  “Seventeen,” I said.

  “Sixteen,” he said.

  “That sounds good to me, captain.” I didn’t know if he was a captain, but he didn’t say nothing otherwise. We shook on it, and I’d made twenty-two dollars all told. With my own money and what I got off that poor fella, I had fifty-four dollars. I’d never seen that much money in my twenty-two years.

  Marta was back on the sorrel before I got through.

  The first sergeant said, “Your woman there. Queer she’s carrying a shotgun.”

  “She ain’t my woman.” I didn’t know what to call her. “It’s my shotgun. She just carrying it.”

  »»•««

  Leaving Fort Duncan, we rode Garrison Street downhill to the river landing. That’s when we started to draw notice, or Marta did with her riding that sorrel with a shotgun. I’d already decided to keep that shotgun for game hunting. I tried not to think about all what I could get for that sorrel and saddle. I’d made up my mind though to keep it, so long as she was tagging along. Most folks I saw were Mexes. Maybe I could unload the girl here, and then I’d be rich after selling the sorrel.

  I didn’t have much luck at the river landing. There were a couple of boats going back and forth; not too many folks about. I’d never seen a tramway before. It was this steel cable stretched all the way over the Rio Grande from the Texas shore up to the bluff on the Mex side. Up there sat Piedras Negras town. I wondered if I might unload the girl over there. That tramway was pretty neat; it was a big wooden box slung on the cable. A Mex, speaking good American and selling bent nails he’d hammered straight, told me they had oxen up there that pulled the box up and then let it slide back down slow. They put coal and goods, animals, and even people it in. Pretty amazing.

  I stretched my lariat between two saplings and hung that poor fella’s two old blankets on it along with his spare shirt and long johns and set out his other gear. Other folks were selling tools, empty jars and bottles, old clothes, sacks of charcoal, and other stuff. Mex hucksters hawked their goods. One said something to Marta, but she pointed to her mouth and shook her head. I got a silver dime for the old blanket and twenty cents for the other. His cooking gear and shaving gear didn’t bring much more. I ended up selling his spare duds to a clothes dealer. He was going to only give me a dime, but Marta haggled and doubled it, purely with finger-jabbing, stamping her foot, shaking her head, and using her eyes. Pretty amazing. She gave the old shaving brush to a Mex kid.

  Next stop was the gunsmith near the courthouse. Marta stayed out with the horses to watch the guns.

  The shopkeep was a skinny dude in a leather apron. Could of taken a bath in a shotgun barrel. “Good day to you, friend,” he greeted me.

  “Howdy,” I said. “It’s been a good day so far, but I don’t like them clouds.”

  “It does make for a dreary day. How can I help you?”

  “I need a carton of 16-gauge. What’s good for rabbits and such?”

  “That would be Number 6 shot.” said the shopkeep. “Good for squirrels and birds too. What kind of shotgun you got out there?” he asked looking through the window.

  “Parker Brothers. You give me anything for these?” I set the six empty 12- and 16-gauge shells on the counter.

  “Penny for two. You let your woman out there have a shotgun? Don’t mean to pry, friend,” he added quickly.

  “She ain’t my woman.” What would I call her? A trail pal?

  “She got her own shotgun?” He sounded troubled.

  “She’s just carrying it for me. Everybody here ask a lot of questions about other folk’s business?”

  He put on a shopkeep’s smile. “I’m sorry, friend, not being nosey. We seldom see Mex girls toting shotguns. No offense intended.”

  “None taken. How about a carton of them Union Metallic .44-40 cartridges and a bottle of paraffin gun oil.”

  “Sure enough. Four-ounce or eight?” Holding up one of each.

  “The little one. You got any buckshot for that 16-gauge?”

  “Sure enough. Single ought or Number 1?”

  “Do I have to buy a whole carton? I don’t need no twenty-five shells.”

  “I’ll sell them to you singly. Two for a nickel.”

  “Give me eight of the Number 1’s, then. No, ten.”

  It all came to almost three dollars.

  “Friend, can I give you a little friendly advice? I ain’t trying to nose into your business”—he sounded a little antsy—“but it might be a good idea to carry that shotgun your ownself.” He was trying to smile. “Folks in these parts arn’t used to that.”

  “I’ll think on it. What would a Russian Smith, a Number 3, be going for with a rig and all?”

  “I’d give you twelve, thirteen dollars, depending on the condition. You got one to sell?”

  “Not no more.” I figured I’d made a good deal with that captain.

  “You staying in town long, friend?”

  “I guess folks are nosey round here.”

  “Don’t mean nothing, friend. Only hoping you’l
l be back.”

  “I’ll think on it.”

  I didn’t hang the shotgun on my saddle until we were around the corner. Marta frowned when I moved it. I don’t know why, seeing she didn’t know squat about using it.

  Most buildings in the town were adobe and some whitewashed. Some were brick. The streets were potholed and muddy, no board sidewalks. About the only trees were mesquite. I asked a scarce white man wearing bib overalls where the Maverick Hotel was. He weren’t no cowboy.

  He gave me directions, but said, “That your woman there?”

  “Folks surely are nosey around here.”

  “I’s just sayin’ she’s well mounted, friend.”

  “I surely got a lot of friends today.” I thanked him anyways for the directions.

  Marta stayed with the horses again at the hotel. It was big place, two floors. I walked right through the front door, and the fella behind the counter gave me a hard look over his spectacles. “Can I help you?” Something about the way he said it made me think he didn’t much approve of a trail-muddy punch walking in like he belong there. The lobby smelled of cigars and brandy.

  “I’m looking for Mr. Mathew Picket of the San Isidro Ranch.”

  Still looking over his spectacles, “Mr. Picket departed three days ago. Sorry.” His “sorry” had a way of saying, “Skedaddle, drifter.” “However…” He turned around and looked in a bunch of little boxes on the wall. “What’s your name?”

  I told him.

  “He did leave this for you,” and handed me a letter handed me a letter. It had my name on it and a date. I ain’t never got a letter straight to me before.