The Hardest Ride Read online

  Outside I stuck the letter in my vest. I guessed Mr. Picket had had to leave early, go back to the San Isidro, and this was directions. I was looking for a real home-cooked beefsteak supper, and I thought Marta might like that too. I sure wasn’t going to buy it at the Maverick because of that uppity clerk. I asked a teamster on the street where a good place was to get a beefsteak supper.

  “That would be the Fitch Hotel.” He gave me directions to Commercial Street. He had no comment of Marta, but I figured him being a freight teamster gave him more sense than most hereabouts.

  Anyways, a hotel might be a good place to find out where I could unload the girl. I was feeling a little bad thinking about unloading her, but I couldn’t be dragging no girl all over Texas. It weren’t no good for her.

  Chapter Twelve

  The two-floor Fitch Hotel faced the river looking into Old Mexico.

  We rode around back into a muddy yard. I told the girl quédate—stay put—and went to the backdoor. Probably best not to barge in through the front with a Mex girl. Taking my hat off and stamping mud off my boots, I knocked on the solid door.

  Presently a lady come to the door.

  “May I help you, young man?”

  At least she ain’t called me “friend.” She was older, lotta lines of gray in her black hair. She wore a real nice shiny green dress with white ruffles and puffy sleeves. Her eyes looked kindly.

  “Ma’am, I’d like to buy a beefsteak supper, but I don’t think you’d let my…” Dang. What do I call her? That was the third time I’d troubled over that. “If y’all don’t want this lost Mex gal to eat inside we can eat out here. It’s no matter.”

  The lady looked us over. “Son, that makes no difference. You’re both welcome to eat in the dining room. Many of our clientele are Mexican ladies and gentlemen.”

  I didn’t know what a clientele was, and I ain’t never heard no Mex being called a lady or gentleman by a white lady. This town was proving strange.

  Anyways, I said, “Thank you much, ma’am. Can I unsaddle and bring my guns inside?”

  “Why surely. You are packing some iron, aren’t you?” She’d noticed the rifle and shotgun.

  “Yes, ma’am. We won’t be no trouble.”

  “I should not expect so,” she said. “You can stow your tack in the stable and water your horses and burro,” pointing to a long shed. “And please do enter through the front door.”

  Once inside she led us down a hallway to washrooms. I guess we were kind of trail-rank.

  Marta came out with her face all scrubbed, but that shawl still covered her head.

  “I’ll show you to your table,” and we followed her across the big room.

  That was surely a queer thing to say. All she’d had to do was point at the table. I could see where it was for my ownself.

  “It’s early, so you’re the only diners.”

  Diners. I guessed that’s someone who’s eating dinner. What was someone eating supper? Suppers? I didn’t want to think about what someone’s called eating breakfast.

  She brought us water in real glasses and filled them up again, and she said there was no charge when I asked. The floor was covered by a green and blue rug, and there was eating gear laid out on the table with big white folded bandanas.

  “May I ask your name, young man? I like to know who my clientele are.”

  Now I knew what a clientele was—we were. “Bud, ma’am. Bud Eugen.”

  “I am pleased to meet you Mr. Eugen. I am Mrs. Moran.”

  “Thank you, ma’am, but shucks, ain’t no need to call me mister.”

  “I’ll call you Bud, then. Is that alright?” She had a pleasant smile.

  “Surely, ma’am.”

  “And your young lady?”

  Young lady? It was surely a strange town. “She’s Marta. That’s what I call her. I don’t know her given name, seeing she can’t talk.”

  The lady looked genuinely sad. “I thought she was unusually quiet.” Facing Marta, “¿Como estás, Marta? ¿Bien?”

  Marta nodded, smiling.

  “Do have a pleasant dinner. Buen provecho.”

  Presently, a young Mex woman in a white dress and blue apron brought out two china plates with big beefsteaks, little taters with no skins, beans—but they weren’t frijole beans—cooked collard greens, and another plate with big baking-soda biscuits, and a tub of butter. I ain’t never seen a feed like that and felt kind of queer. Marta’s eyes were looking at it all like a frog blinking in the rain.

  We admired it all for a spell, and I picked up my knife and fork, “Let’s tuck in.” Marta had some trouble working the knife and fork, holding them like hammers, but the beefsteak was so tender you didn’t need no knife. Anyways, I cut mine up in little pieces and swapped plates with Marta. They brought coffee and kept filling the fancy cups. There was sugar too, all you wanted. It tasted a lot better than my own brown gargle. Those cups, I was scart one of us would break one. I ain’t never had beefsteak like that on the trail or in a bunkhouse.

  I don’t think Marta liked the biscuits much, being used to tortillas. They surely were good for me. She picked at the taters and greens, but she finally ate them all.

  Then the lady brought us some hot apple pie. Marta played with it with her fork before tasting it. After she did, she looked at me all wide-eyed and ate that pie faster than I’ve ever seen a starved horse eat oats. It was kind of sweet for me so I gave most of mine to her. She chopped it up with her fork and gulped it down.

  “Did you enjoy your meals?” asked the lady.

  “Surely, ma’am. I ain’t never had no feed like that.”

  “I am pleased you appreciated it.”

  “I don’t know if I can afford all that.”

  “It is two dollars and fifty cents. Yolanda will take it.”

  “Each?”

  She laughed, real nice like. “No, no. For both.”

  That was a relief. That was still a lot of money, but I’ll never forget that meal. And there was another reason coming up for never forgetting that meal.

  “Ma’am, could I ask you a favor?”

  “Certainly, Bud,” as she topped off our coffee.

  I pulled the letter out. It embarrassed me, but the lady seemed like she’d not say anything unkindly. “Could you read this for me. My reading ain’t so good.”

  She gave me a sad smile. “You should open it.”

  “I’ve never opened one.”

  “Simply tear the end off, close to the edge.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” I slid out the paper and handed it to her.

  Unfolding the paper, she cleared her throat:

  “Mathew M. Picket, Maverick Hotel, Eagle Pass, Maverick County, State of Texas, November 22nd, 1886.

  “Dear Mr. Eugen, I am a man who holds his words as a promise if I can. I know I offered you a job at the San Isidro, but it distresses me greatly to report we had ourselves a passel of bad luck here at the Isidro, and I fear I am not able to stand by that offer. The winter is harsh, and of late, Mexican scoundrels have rustled a goodly part of our stock, so we have no use for extra hands. If you need traveling provisions, stop at the ranch, and we will be happy to oblige.

  “My regrets, Mathew M. Picket.”

  It was like I couldn’t hear anything. I had a hollow feeling in my guts. Damn, if that don’t tear it.

  The crinkling noise of her folding the paper made me come back.

  “I am sorry, Bud. That must be a terrible disappointment.” She had a sad look. “I know Mr. Picket well. He has fallen into hard times. Many ranchers have.”

  “Yes, ma’am. It surely is.” I tried to keep my voice even.

  Marta looked at me sad, like she figured something was wrong.

  “May I speak with you?” the lady asked. “In private.”

  “Yes, ma’am, but the girl here, she don’t know any American.”

  “May I sit, Bud?”

  “Surely, ma’am.” It’s her table, but I didn’t say anything, it be
ing a strange town.

  “Could you tell me what your relationship is with your young lady?”

  My young lady? “Surely, ma’am, but she ain’t my woman or nothing. A week ago, I found this dead family, kilt by injuns, and I found Marta here just walking down the road…” I told her everything that happened since. She was a nice lady and easy to talk to.

  When I was through, the lady sat there all quiet like. Marta had lost interest and was smoking a cig and looking out the window after eating a third piece of pie.

  The lady startled me when she finally spoke. “I’ve been watching you and Marta. I know she’s not your woman, although around these parts, she is of age.” She smiled. I started to say it wasn’t like that, but she went on. “I will tell you this, you have been taking good care of her and protecting her. You are a good man, Bud Eugen, a genuine Texican.” She reached over and gave my hand a squeeze. “Let me ask you this. Do you like her?”

  That was a surprise. I’d not thought of it like that. She turned to Marta, who stubbed out the butt and smiled at her. I guess I was quiet for a long spell, because the lady was looking at me steady. “Well, yes, ma’am, I guess I kinda like her. She’s ain’t much trouble.” I was kind of fibbing there. “She don’t eat much…’til now, and she’s a prime cook.”

  She nodded her head, “Then I will tell you this, Bud Eugen, before you turn her over to some stranger, you need to think hard about it and ask yourself if whoever you are leaving her with will be good for her, that they will treat her right.” She had a look as serious as a poker player with a winning hand. “There are some bad people out there. I do not need to tell you that.”

  “Yes, I mean, no, ma’am.” I didn’t know what else to say.

  “There is one other thing, Bud, since we are speaking frankly.”

  “Yes, ma’am?”

  “If you like her, Bud, and I know she likes you, why would you want to give her away?” She glared at me like a hawk. “You think on that, Bud.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” She was making sense, but I’d have to really think on it.

  “Well, while you think on it and maybe find someone who can take her in, if that is what you think is best, I could use a little help for a few days. There is a caretaker’s room in the stable, and I will provide you meals, including this one, and board your horses too. Would you like that, Bud?”

  “Surely, ma’am. We’re most obliged to you.” I didn’t say nothing about hotel work being beneath a cowboy, but it would feed us.

  The lady put a little smile on her lips. “Do you realize you just said ‘we,’ Bud?”

  There were two cots in the caretaker’s room, and Marta pulled them together because it was cold. Mrs. Moran gave us a big old quilt for the bed, and I laid my puma hide on the floor to stand on in the morning. It surely smelled like a stable, hadn’t been mucked out proper.

  “Do you realize you just said ‘we,’ Bud?” I didn’t figure out what Mrs. Moran meant until that night, after we bedded down. But I had said “we.” I guess that meant I was thinking of someone besides my own ornery self for once.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Mrs. Moran fed us fried eggs, ham, frijole beans—nothing like Marta’s—grits, biscuits with pear preserves, and coffee. Seeing we were hired hands now, we ate in the kitchen, which was all right, because we didn’t have to worry about fancy manners. Directly, after breakfast a coal wagon showed up, and I shoveled its load into a bin. The Mex teamster told me the coal came from Mexico and that Piedras Negras means black rocks, because of the coal mines. Marta helped Yolanda, a handsome, quiet girl, in the kitchen and with cleaning. They surely did a lot of cleaning in that hotel.

  I mucked out the stables, cleaned stoves, shoveled coal, and cared for the hotel’s wagon horses and the clientele’s horses for the rest of the week and then some. They even gave me money tips for taking care of their horses.

  The next day when I came back from buying a blue plaid flannel shirt to replace my holey one, Mrs. Moran had another sit-down with me. She told me Yolanda had been talking to Marta, asking yes and no questions, which took some time.

  “She likes you, Bud.”

  “I don’t rightly know why.”

  “You saved her life.”

  I shrugged. “Only trying to do right.”

  “Marta says you treat her right too. That you are a gentleman.”

  I had to laugh. “No one ever called me that.”

  She laughed too, but said, “Do not undercut yourself.” Then she said, “She is sixteen, having turned last month.”

  I nodded. “She tell her name?”

  “That is hard to figure, Bud. Yolanda asked her a lot of names, but no luck. She is satisfied with Marta.”

  “I like it too.”

  “Marta likes the way you part your hair down the middle.” That made me smile. Mrs. Moran got all solemn looking. “Bud, we know why Marta cannot talk.”

  I looked at her, “Yes ma’am?”

  “Yolanda asked her questions, and Marta parted her hair on the left front. There is a scar there and a bit of dent in her scalp.” She looked grave. “Yolanda worked out that she was kicked by a mule when she was about nine.”

  “So she’s got brain damage?”

  “It looks like it, but it only means she cannot talk. You know yourself she is as smart as you and I.”

  “Yeah. Smarter than me.” So now I knew. It didn’t make no matter. I just felt sorry for her, mule-kicked in the head, her whole family killed, no one wanting her. Life deals you a rotten hand sometimes.

  “She cannot read or write.”

  “That just about makes two of us, ma’am.”

  “There is something else Yolanda told me, something you need to know.”

  I looked at her.

  “She says Marta, well, her family, was what they call nómadas, wanderers. They have no home; they are people of the road. They work in fields and do odd jobs.”

  “Yes, ma’am?” I wasn’t following her.

  “Yolanda says she is not like most Mexican girls. She is more of a fighter, defiant, knows the rough ways of the road, and has to be clever to survive. She is more…earthy.”

  I chuckled. “I can see all that in her.” I understood too because I’d been raised rough.

  “Bud.”

  “Yes, ma’am?”

  She fixed me with a stern gaze. “Marta is special. You could do worse in this life than take care of her.”

  With a comfortably snoring Marta snuggled up to me, I thought on what Mrs. Moran had said about me being a gentleman. A cowboy gets needful urges. I pondered on that. I’d taken her under my wing because I knew ruffians would take what they wanted from her. Well, I swore I’d not be that way. This little gal had been through hell, lost everything. I wasn’t taking nothing else from her. It was the only decent thing to do. Besides, there was something else about her, something I couldn’t quite figure.

  »»•««

  One day Mrs. Moran said if I shot some quail and jackrabbits, she’d pay me. It was a nice change from mucking out the stable twice a day. When I saddled after breakfast, Marta was right there. She climbed up on a nail keg, hoisting her saddle onto the sorrel. I said, “You get back inside.” I’d learned she could understand my meaning…when she saw fit. She crossed her arms and glared at me, tapping a sandal atop the keg. I could see there wasn’t no point in arguing.

  All we had to do was walk through the grass outside town and plenty of them old mule-ear jacks and quail were scart up. It was easy shooting. Marta was toting a feedsack, and it was full in no time. She pointed at the shotgun and thumped her chest.

  “You wanna shoot this thing?” The girl was sure full of surprises. “Well, hell, why not? I gotta see this, you getting knocked on your scrawny butt.”

  Taking the gun, she arched an eyebrow like she was saying, “Watch this.”

  She loaded and cocked a hammer like she knew what she was doing, I guess from watching me. I’d noticed she’d watch rea
l close when someone was doing something. She looked funny trying to heft that long-barreled cannon up.

  “Well, fine. Now pull it hard into your shoulder ’cause it’s going to kick like a mule.” I shoved it hard into her showing what I meant. Then I thought that was ignorant to say since she don’t know what I said, and she knew about a mule’s kick.

  She nodded and tramped forward a-hunting. I stayed right behind her not wanting her to swing that cannon around all a sudden. A quail lit out fifty feet away, and she blew that bird clean out of the air before it cleared the sage tops. And she was still standing.

  “Well, I be thumped.”

  She was mighty proud of what was left of that bird. She glanced at me out the corners of her eyes. She might as well have said, “Stuff that in your tobacco pouch.”

  Then I remembered the shot shells where her family been murdered. Her pa must of had a shotgun.

  Coming back, I ran into a greasy-beard cowpuncher in front of the hotel and asked him if his outfit were hiring. He sounded funny because his lip was slit open up to his nose and never healed proper. “We ain’t hirin’ no hotel-chore boy nurse-maidin’ a Mex.”

  Guess I’d not be working that spread. “Thank you, friend,” I said.

  On Friday, Mrs. Moran told me to put my spare duds on because Marta was going to wash clothes. On Saturday after the guests were done, Mrs. Moran said we could use the bath. I’d gone first, put on my clean duds, and was in the stable room repairing a hackamore. It was blowing cold-wind, and Marta came running in wearing one of those white Mex dresses with a towel wrapped around her head.

  Sometime ago I was in a café in Beeville, and this lady had pictures on the wall of her ma and pa. They were black paper cutouts of their heads, what she called sil-lo-wets or something. Marta stepped through the door, and the sun hit highlighting her shape like one of those sil-lo-wets. She pulled that towel off, and thick black hair fell over her shoulders and back. I ain’t even known she had that much hair, all wavy down to her hips. Damp-wet, it glistened like black oil. She saw me then. We sorta stared at each other for a spell—those eyes. Then she got all embarrassed looking and brought that towel up over her hair. I was up and out of there, embarrassed my ownself and feeling queer. Had to feed the horses anyways. Lodged in my head was that sight in the door and all her hair. Pretty amazing.