There Really Was an Elfego Baca

There Really Was an Elfego Baca By Sid Hoskins This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and events describ...

Author: Hoskins Sid

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There Really Was an Elfego Baca By Sid Hoskins

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and events described herein are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locations, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. Cover Art © 2007 Michael Leadingham Edited by Jake George Copyright © 2007 Sid Hoskins. All rights reserved. Reproduction or utilization of this work in any form, by any means now known or hereinafter invented, including, but not limited to, xerography, photocopying and recording, and in any known storage and retrieval system, is forbidden without permission from the copyright holder. ISBN 978-0-9782550-8-4 Published by Intellectus Enterprises www.intellectusenterprises.com

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Dedication To my granddaughter Maggie, who has known me all her life and to whom I dedicate this book.

Table of Contents Chapter One ................................................................................................................ 1 Chapter Two ................................................................................................................ 9 Chapter Three ........................................................................................................... 19 Chapter Four.............................................................................................................. 28 Chapter Five ............................................................................................................... 37 Chapter Six ................................................................................................................. 47 Chapter Seven ............................................................................................................ 56 Chapter Eight ............................................................................................................ 66 Chapter Nine ............................................................................................................. 75 Chapter Ten ............................................................................................................... 86 Chapter Eleven .......................................................................................................... 96 Chapter Twelve ...................................................................................................... 107 Chapter Thirteen ................................................................................................... 117 Chapter Fourteen................................................................................................... 129 Chapter Fifteen ...................................................................................................... 135 Chapter Sixteen ...................................................................................................... 145 Chapter Seventeen ................................................................................................. 155 Chapter Eighteen ................................................................................................... 167 Chapter Nineteen .................................................................................................. 177 Chapter Twenty ..................................................................................................... 188 Chapter Twenty-One ........................................................................................... 198 Chapter Twenty-Two ........................................................................................... 207 Chapter Twenty-Three ........................................................................................ 218 Chapter Twenty-Four........................................................................................... 232 Chapter Twenty-Five ............................................................................................ 243 Chapter Twenty-Six .............................................................................................. 255 Chapter Twenty-Seven ......................................................................................... 266 Chapter Twenty-Eight.......................................................................................... 278 Chapter Twenty-Nine .......................................................................................... 289 Chapter Thirty ....................................................................................................... 301 Chapter Thirty-One.............................................................................................. 314 Chapter Thirty-Two ............................................................................................. 325 Epilogue .................................................................................................................... 336 Biography of Author ............................................................................................. 338

Sid Hoskins

Chapter One My name’s Nolo Blunt, and I'm riding along across this New Mexico Territory desert, west of Socorro with a newfound friend of mine, Elfego Baca. My editor back East, one Tom Menace, has me out here in the wooly West to write stories for Frontier Magazine, a small New York publication that's growing in circulation with each story I write. Trouble is my editor doesn't give me credit for what I do. All the risks I take; putting my life in the line of fire in shootouts and riding horseback until my backside feels like the raw part of a bleating calf that's just been branded. But writing is my life and while we're stopped for the night in these New Mexico badlands, I've got my notebook out, and I plan to fill it before morning or write as long as the light from the campfire holds out. It's quite a story to tell. I'm thinking of a way to start and I find one. First snow dusts the top of lofty Eagle Peak. Threatening clouds skim the jutting crags of the San Francisco Mountains on the western horizon. A thin line of a river, deep in the valley, swells its banks with early rainfall and gives promise of a vast supply of moisture for the Mexican farmers and ranchers of Frisco, a tiny cow-town in New Mexico territory not far from Mogollon. A lone red-tailed hawk senses the changing climate and soars out over the sagebrush-covered flatlands, stretching its wings to catch the gusty updraft from the valley. The approaching storm stirs an urging in the bird to find food before every living creature in the valley seeks shelter underground and out of sight. Its telescopic eyes search the dust-gray ground. There is no movement directly below, yet in the distance there is a disturbance. Something is moving over there. The hawk instinctively flutters the finger-tips of its wings, its body shifting slightly toward the earthly objects, its trajectory altered now to one of interception. Two riders on high-stepping horses lope their way along the trail that runs next to the San Francisco River from Apache Creek south. The year is 1884 and one of the men is of Mexican ancestry, American citizen, on his way from Socorro to visit friends in Frisco. The other man, older by several years than his companion, sits his saddle well, but there's something about -1-

There Really Was an Elfego Baca

him that is not western, a movement in his shoulders, a tilt of his head that indicates he may be an easterner. The younger man, Elfego, has dark hair slicked back in the manner of the west, a wisp of it covering his brow just above his right eyebrow. There's a serious look on his face, an unmoving expression that is always there, solidity, teenager becoming a man. A tin badge is pinned to his left breast. He is Elfego Baca, born in Kansas and barely able to speak Spanish but wellknown in his newly adopted home of Socorro as a 19 year old who will make his mark in the world. His trail mate is I, Nolo Blunt, your Frontier Magazine reporter. I have just joined Baca and am riding with him to Frisco to get a story first hand of how this teenage lawman has upset the New Mexico world with his acts of bravery and sharp shooting. The screeching hawk swoops low in the sky, and I note its hungry look, remarking on the beauty of its red tail feathers spreading outward to break its dive. I look up to see Baca behind me. He's reading what I have written. His head is on my shoulder. He nods his head in what I think must be a sign of approval. I'm always thinking about making my story better. I've a question for him. "You ever shoot one of those hawks, Elfego?" The man looks skyward, follows the flight of the bird, and then glances at me. "No. Never shoot hawks. They're good for the land." How many times has this young Mexican hombre ridden this very same trail, talking to himself about the land and its promise for the future? In my opinion it is a good land, a rich land that could bear crops one day, a land for farming, ranching. All it needs is water to make it bloom. It's a land where birds fly free and where only through the cleverness of the hunt, can a hungry hawk fill its empty belly. "My friend, Nolo, see how the bird flaps its wings now. It is climbing to the heavens just before sunset to make another search for food. How I would like to be that hawk, soaring over the land, seeing with sharpened eyes into all its corners. That is what I must be. I must be a hawk to search out the bad men on this earth and bring them to justice with the use of my talons." -2-

Sid Hoskins

With his right hand, Baca reaches to his belt-line and fondles the bone handle of his .44 caliber pistol and pulls it from its holster. It is an ancient piece but well cared for, the shiny barrel reflecting the sparkling light cast on it from the campfire. “I remember my father telling me about how to use a gun,” he says. 'My little son,' my father always called me that. “Always tend to your weapon and it will watch over you. Never shirk your duty to clean it after firing. Keep it well oiled. You never know when a speck of dust can mean the difference between life and death in this wild country.” In the dulling light, I notice Baca's tin badge. It's not the heavy metal star of a duly appointed sheriff or marshal of the New Mexico territory. It's the insignia of a special deputy from the county seat of Socorro, out on the election trail, making speeches, trying to appeal to the voters in the upcoming territorial election. And he's been successful. Among his friends are the Mexicans of the barrios who see him as an example of what a man of Spanish ancestry can become when that man believes in the rights of others. Word spreads fast among the faithful. But the light is failing and the sounds of the local love-sick coyotes reach my ears, and I know it's time to find my blankets, take off my boots, and once again lie down on the unyielding ground to sleep the trail-hard sleep of a weary rider. My horse, Big Mama, whinnies in the night and I call back to her. It's an evening ritual that's been going on for years now, ever since we found each other in a livery stable in Big Springs, Nebraska while on the hunt for Sam Bass, a most unfortunate train robber who met his violent end in Round Rock, Texas fourteen years ago. But that's another story and one I've already written. Every star in the sky is visible now and I count each one and bless the Being who made them and made me and gave me the gift of writing. It's my way of saying goodnight to Mother Nature here among the fragrant sagebrush and cactus plants. I know that by the time I count a hundred stars, I will be asleep. As I begin, I hear Elfego making his preparations for bed. It will be a long night under the stars for him, too. **** -3-


Morning light hits me squarely in the eyes and I know I have overslept. But I look over at Baca's bedroll and there's still a lump in it. He must be a good sleeper. Stretching after a morning on the hard ground has always been difficult for me. My legs just won't undo themselves from their cramped nighttime position and my arms are sore from the hard pointed pebbles of the sandy soil. Slowly I reach for the sky with my hands and I can feel my back muscles tensing. I relax and feel better. Baca has one eye open. “Hey, Elfego, it's almost noon. Why are you still in bed, mi amigo?” He opens the other eye and stares back at me. “I was dreaming of my father and the time my friend and I assisted him to escape a jail where he had been wrongly imprisoned. You want to hear about it?” A reporter is always open to stories. That's how he makes a living. Baca starts. “My father was marshal of Belen, a small town just forty miles south of Albuquerque and a few miles south of Los Lunas. He was not a man to back down on anything and when he had some troubles, actually a knockdown drag out fight over a sporting bet, my father loved the horses, one young man from Los Lunas returned home with some lumps on his face which my father had graciously given him. The people of Los Lunas were also a proud bunch and expectedly, bad blood exploded from this young man's encounter with my father. “Later, my father, the marshal, met up with two rambunctious cowboys who were liquored up and shooting up the peaceful town of Belen; maybe even trying to turn it into their permanent rowdy pasture. In the ensuing gun battle, the two rapscallions proved to be slower on the draw than my father, who was noted for his speed of hand and marksmanship, and both ruffians were dispatched to heaven or hell, depending on their destiny. “But the laws being what they were then, and the folks of Los Lunas being what they were, my father was taken to court in Los Lunas, found guilty of murder, sentenced, and held temporarily in the local jail pending his transfer to the New Mexico Territorial Prison. “Although this happened four years ago, I distinctly remember my thoughts at the time. What was my father, a lawman of Belen, doing in a cell -4-

Sid Hoskins

when he should be walking the streets of his town and making the place safe for women and children? “Needless to say I was disturbed by these events and I determined to straighten things out. “My friend Hector Chavez and I rode to Los Lunas and arrived on a holy day, Saint Teresa's feast day, as I remember. Everyone in town, including the local constabulary, must have decided to celebrate because no one was in the ground floor jail. As I remember it, the building was a sprawling adobe twostory house with the courtroom in the upper floor and directly below it was where my father was incarcerated. “Hector and I searched around the rear of the adobe and found a shed where I spied a ladder. There were some tools lying on a work bench and an idea sprang forward in my brain. A saw, that's what I needed, a sharp saw. I would cut a hole in the floor of the upper level court room and pull my father up and out by his hands. Fortunately there was a hammer and chisel on the bench too. “With combined strength, the two of us hoisted the ladder against the wood-slat wall and with great bravado; I climbed up, ripping saw in hand. Reaching the windows of the second story, I found that one was unlocked, slid it open and slipped through into the judge's chambers. No one was about and knowing almost exactly where my father's ground floor cell was located, I tiptoed to the spot just above it. With hammer and chisel I made a hole large enough for me to work in the point of the saw. With great effort I created a space for my father to crawl through. “We wasted no time. With the help of other prisoners below, my father was pushed and shoved on their shoulders until he stood beside me. Standing tall there, he looked down on me and called me his 'little one.' I think he was proud. “With might and main both father, Hector, and I were able to pull out our new-found also wrongly-accused friends from their prison cells below and then we made our escape”. I had been listening intently to Baca's story, knowing that he was not telling it for the first time. He must have practiced this tale often, perhaps around a campfire or maybe when a jug of liquor made its rounds while the listeners sat, feet up, in front of a pot-bellied stove in Socorro. -5-


And as the good reporter I am, I had a question for him. “How did you get away?” Baca squinted his right eye and nictitated at me. The sun may have been shining in his face, but I had to interpret the wink as an indication that he was enlarging on the tale as he told it. “We found food in the tool shed when Hector and I replaced the ladder. There was jerked venison, dried corn on the cob, and enough chilies to liven up our diet. We packed up what we could carry and headed for the tall grass across from the courthouse, covering our tracks as we went. Not more than a hundred feet in front of the jail, we lay in, scrunched down, and waited. As I remember, it was early morning and nothing much was happening, the law folks getting over their hangovers from the celebration the night before.” My pencil lead broke and I signal to Elfego to hold up his story for a moment. Reaching into my pocket I pull out my faithful knife, flip open the blade and sharpen my writing implement. I have another question for Elfego. “You mean, you and all the others couldn't be seen? Sounds impossible to me.” Elfego cocks his right eye and concentrates his gaze on me. “Se'nor, you are questioning the way I wish to tell my story? I would not do that to you.” “Go on, Elfego, tell your story. It's just that I can't picture in my mind how all of you could hide in the grass in front of the jail and no one would see you.” “Let me finish, Nolo my friend. Then you will see. The barrier was tall like South American pampas grass and it was thick. We could see out, but I was sure no one could see us and no one bothered to look for us in a place so close to the jail. What kind of escapees would hide so near the jail to await capture? My plan worked. “Well, we stayed hidden there all during the daytime, not talking at all to each other, making motions with our hands when we wished to communicate. You know, much can be said with the hands. We ate the fat watermelons that grew within arm's reach and this kept us from getting thirsty. We chewed on the chilies and though our mouths burned, we delighted in the taste as it mingled with the dry corn we munched. A piece of jerked venison took away the sting and life was not so bad after all. -6-

Sid Hoskins

“Through the tall stalks of yellow-green grass I watched the sheriff form his posse, send them out and then I noticed how the men returned later, tongues hanging out, clothes covered with dust, and their horses lathered up to a fair-thee-well. I was glad I had been lying in the cool weeds while they sweated. “When night came, and the city quieted down; my father, Hector and I, chose our route carefully and slipped away to return to Socorro. The other two prisoners headed north toward Albuquerque. “The road south was hard and dusty, but the moon was out and gave us enough light to follow the trail. Eventually we made it to the small town of Escondida and knew we were almost home. Escondida is only three miles north of Socorro.” I stop writing and look up at my new friend. He still has a twinkle in his eye, but from the general appearance of his face, I'd say he told the truth about his experience and I'm certainly not the one to suggest to him that he would lie about such an important event in his life. “What happened to your father? Did he ever return to Socorro? Baca is now putting on his boots and for a moment he remains silent. Then his face tilts up towards me. “My father went to live with a brother in the tiny town of Ysleta in Texas not far from El Paso. He did come back to Socorro, but it was four years after the jailhouse event. When he returned, all was forgiven and he continued his life as a valued citizen of New Mexico.” The tale is over and I put my pencil back in my pocket. I know it's time to ride because Baca is now standing, straightening out his calico shirt and brushing off his waist overalls. “Well, mister reporter. We'll find our horses and be on our way to Frisco. There's much to be done there, votes to gather, people to meet. You been to Frisco before?” “Never been any farther west than right here, Elfego. But my horse needs some exercise today, and I'd like to find a nice soft bed in a plush hotel where I can rest my bones this night. Sleeping on the ground is for cattle.” Big Mama, my mare, sees me coming and she whinnies her morning greeting to me. We've been doing this little ritual for so long now that I would feel strange not hearing her neigh at me when I approach. -7-


She's wearing a halter rope around her neck and as I get nearer, she pulls on the tether and tightens it. She's straining toward me and soon my hand is out to rub her nose and forelock. Her head bounces up and down as I touch her and that's a signal that tells me she's feeling frisky and ready to ride. Who said horses can't talk and people can't understand what they say? Saddling up Big Mama has always been an experience to remember, even from the first time I tried it in the livery stable up in Big Springs, Nebraska. She was much younger then, and I didn't know all her tricks, like her blowing out her sides to make the cinch loosen up when she lets all her air out. But I've saddled her now these 14 years and if she had any more surprises for me, I'd have known them by now. I'm ready, and as I look up from making the final knot that holds the cinch in place, I notice that Baca is already in the saddle and looking at me. “You coming today, Blunt? We ought to be getting along the road. Like to reach Frisco before nightfall; it's about twenty miles you know and that means we'll have to ride right along to get there before the sun goes down. You ain't no tenderfoot, but I detect some laziness in you.” I smile at Baca's last statement because I really know what it's like to be called a tenderfoot. But with all the riding I've done in the last few years, it's second nature to me now to get my horse ready and know the job is done properly. I have to think of a good answer to Baca's challenge. “For someone who sleeps until noon, you certainly have no compassion for us city-fellers. I'm ready. What's holding you up?” With that I swing myself into the saddle as I have done so many times before. We are on our way to Frisco.

-8-

Sid Hoskins

Chapter Two The road from Socorro to Frisco is long, a distance of almost 120 miles through open desert, with only a few places to water a horse or find shelter for the night. Leaving Socorro, it’s a good day’s travel, twenty miles or more, before a rider reaches Magdalena, a small town nestled on the northern slopes of the San Mateo Mountains. Elfego and I have just now successfully traveled the next 50 miles of the trip, passing Aragon, a tiny village guarded by Horse Peak which rises in the east to nearly 10,000 feet. Then for us it was through a narrow valley served by the waters of the San Francisco River. Finally we pass a larger town, much larger than Aragon. It’s only a few short miles to Frisco, our destination, and Elfego has just started a long diatribe about what we will see in the city where we are headed. He tells me about a favorite place of his, a general store that serves as a gathering place for all sorts of people including ones who vote. “Milligan’s store has stood in the same place in Frisco for many years. Milligan himself is an Irishman, red hair, freckles at the corners of his eyes, and a smile as broad as the door through which his customers enter his emporium. “But Milligan sells more than just the common items of the day. In one corner he has set up a bar, a place where dusty miners or trail thirsty cattlemen can sit a spell and soak up a little of the cactus petal. Tequila and pulque are popular drinks and Milligan makes a good living from just the bar itself. “There are times when cowboys enter Milligan’s for the purpose of buying themselves more than just a convivial shot or two of rye whiskey. Been inside when more than one gent has tried to shoot out the lights, more like a sporting gesture than anything mean-spirited.” Elfego’s eyes twinkle again and I have to assume that he is stretching the truth. I’ve only known him a short time, but his sense of humor includes a bit of irony and he really likes to get me deeply involved in his stories, knowing that as a reporter I’m bound to treat everything as the truth unless proven otherwise. -9-


“Tell me, Elfego. Are we going to stop at Milligan’s? Is that why you’re telling me all about it?” “Well, Mr. Reporter, it has been a long three days on the trail and my throat could use a little liquid massage. What say we stay only long enough to drink a couple of cool sarsaparillas? I don’t ever drink anything stronger than that while I’m on duty and I’d recommend the same to you. Never know what might happen. Need a keen eye and steady hand at all times.” Elfego punches me in the ribs with his elbow as he finishes. We are in town now and a store is just ahead. A metal sign hangs slightly lopsided from the roof and it reads “Milligan’s Irish Pub.” We tie our horses at the greasewood rail and enter through the swinging doors. Elfego picks out a table and I notice he chooses a spot so his back will be against the wall. We order our drinks, and I watch as Elfego sizes up the characters in the room. He’s pointing now. “See that cowboy over there? His name’s Irish McCarty and I can tell from his looks that he’s been on the trail for months. Must be the first time he’s had a chance to relax. There may be trouble. He’s had a little too much to drink. Anytime he starts talking about Ireland, you know he’s in his cups. I’ve seen him before in here.” I can hear McCarty now and his voice is high pitched and there’s an accent, originally Irish but now confused with a Southern drawl that he’s obviously picked up from other cowboys while herding cattle. An older man in an apron stands behind the bar. I take him to be Mike Milligan and owner of the establishment. He seems to be a good listener and as such, a good businessman, too. McCarty’s voice rings out. "The old sod. Twasn't a thing like here. The grass was greener, greener than I've ever seen any patch of Texas prairie grass. And the sun did shine, but not like the beatin' down sunshine of the New Mexico dyin' desert east of here." I watch as McCarty sits back in his chair and finishes his sentence, pushes back his hat, pulls out his revolver and spins the six-shot cylinder. "Hey, Milligan, you got anything around here I can use for target practice? Maybe a bottle of that rotgut over there." - 10 -

Sid Hoskins

As McCarty’s words leave his mouth, his gun rises and an ear-shattering explosion resounds off the store’s walls. The owner, Milligan, steps back, then quickly reaches under the counter and I can see the tip of a shotgun appear over its top. Milligan’s voice is a deep bass, and he’s mad. "McCarty. Ain't no way you're gonna shoot up my store. Take your gun and get outa here. Now move along. This old Betsy knows how to speak real loud and there ain't no surgeon gonna put you back together if'n I pull on this here trigger." I observe the action. I know it's not easy to get the drop on a drunken cowhand, but McCarty, being a sensible poker player, knows when to fold. With a twirl of his finger in the trigger housing, he plants his gun in his holster, stands up, staggers a bit, and then faces Milligan full on. "Just cuz I bust one a your dumb bottles a whiskey, you get mad on me. Well here's a dollar and I ain't comin' in here no more." The coin rattles on the counter behind which Milligan stands, and both men watch it as it finally spins itself out, coming to rest beside a half-filled glass of stale beer. Milligan pockets the dollar and looks directly into McCarty's eyes, the shotgun aimed at the cowboy's stomach. Haughtily, McCarty turns on his boot heels and strides out the door. I know he is well aware that the double barrels of Milligan's shotgun are leveled now at his backside. Elfego stirs. He stands and as he makes his move, he fondles the handle of his six-shooter in its holster, lifting it out, and then dropping it back in place. “There’ll be trouble now, Nolo. We’ll be involved. I saw what happened and I’m a lawman. I have a duty to keep anything more from happening. Come on.” With those words, he pulls me by the elbow and leads me to the door. I’ve witnessed gunplay before, and since I don’t carry a hand weapon of any kind and what’s more, I don’t believe in their use. I look around for a place to get away from the action. But Elfego has other plans for me. He pulls me along as we exit Milligan’s and step onto the rough wooden walk that’s just through the door.

- 11 -


Outside there's a crowd. Anytime there's shooting, I’ve observed, people gather to find out what's going on. The cowboy, McCarty, greets them with a wave of his hat. "I say anyone who buys booze at Milligan's is a yellow livered desert rat." With that, McCarty pulls out his six-shooter and aims it at the metal sign above Milligan's store. He blasts away with two well-placed shots and there's a resounding "ping, ping," as the bullets hit their mark. The crowd knows all about ricochets. The people spread out and run for cover, one older man stumbling, falling, and landing headfirst in the dirt. McCarty eyes the man, walks over to him, extends his hand and pulls him up from the ground and dusts him off. "Hey, ain't no way to greet a thirsty cowhand. Come on old bones. Let's get ourselves a little something to moisten our gullets." But the old man pulls loose from McCarty's hold and skitters off toward the board walk that stretches alongside the main street. McCarty watches him and then pulls up his pistol and lets off his remaining three shots, each bullet hitting at the running man's heels. "That'll teach you old man. Honest man wants to buy you a drink; you don't have to run away." But the fun has gone out of the moment and McCarty stops in mid-street to reload. Elfego’s eyes blaze now. He pulls me toward him and whispers in my ear. "Looks to me like we've found our trouble, Nolo, you split off here and circle around behind that man. Grab the rifle out of my horse scabbard. You know how to use a rifle don’t you?” I nod my head up and down. “Looks like no one else in Frisco wants to put that cowboy behind bars, and it may be a job for me. Scoot." I watch as Elfego again loosens his pistol in his holster and heads toward McCarty. I can see in Elfego’s face that he understands the situation. The variable is always there. Is this a man who will hand over his weapon or will there be a shootout? I assume that Elfego is prepared for either event. He knows he can outdraw anyone in New Mexico, but he'd prefer to take the man without bloodshed, I am sure. Elfego’s voice booms out on the night air. - 12 -

Sid Hoskins

"You plan on usin' that pistol or are you just cleaning it?" McCarty looks up at the man before him. I get the impression the cowboy knows Elfego means business. McCarty's eyes move to the star on Baca's chest. "Just havin' some fun with the local residents, sheriff. Ain't seen you 'round town for a while, don’t remember your name." "Name's Baca, now why don't you just put that piece of yours back in its holster, unbuckle the belt and drop it to the ground. Looks to me like you’ve had a bit too much to drink to be handlin' a weapon like that." McCarty glances over his shoulder and his eye catches the glint of my rifle barrel aimed at him. "Tell you what sheriff. I just got myself sober. Tell your pardner over there not to shoot." Baca waves a hand at me and gives me a signal to relax. "Now kindly walk yourself ahead of me until we get to the jail over there in the plaza,” Elfego says. “Keep your props in the air." Citizens of Frisco line the streets now and all eyes turn toward the drama taking place in the middle of the road. It's not often a lawman disarms a drunken cowboy and marches him to the jail. Elfego is creating quite a spectacle with his actions. I follow along behind the lawman and his prisoner, my rifle lined up diagonally across my chest, the barrel pointing skyward and my finger on the trigger just in case. **** Elfego told me that justice in the small town of Frisco is usually quick and final. There is a court system in operation and an elected official, a Justice of the Peace, one John J. Smith, who makes it operable. Up ahead of us now, standing squarely in the middle of the road, is Smith, dressed in dusty boots, well-worn waist overalls, blue cotton vest, and a woven straw hat. He’s been watching our approach and I see him scratch what’s left of his stringy hair that stretches around the fringe of his pate. All he must see is a young Mexican with a small tin badge leading a dusty cowboy towards him. The cowboy is obviously drunk and normally justice - 13 -


would be swift, overnight in the town jail. But the cowboy in tow, Elfego informs me, comes from the Slaughter ranch and Mr. Slaughter is a powerful man in Frisco. Any serious sentence handed out now will have repercussions. This will be a ticklish matter. Elfego strides within arm’s length of Smith. There’s a perplexed look on the Justice’s face. “Hold it right there lawman. I know what you’re goin’ to say before you say it. You’re goin’ to tell me that this here cowboy’s been shootin’ off his six shooter in town while he’s filled to runnin’ over with Milligan’s booze. Well I’m goin’ to tell you that this here case could cause a lot of trouble hereabouts and I ain’t goin’ to hear the matter.” I see Elfego’s mouth drop open. Obviously his sense of what’s right and wrong is jarred and he stares at Smith, his eyes blazing and his eyebrows raised in consternation. “You mean to tell me, sir, that this here cowboy goes free after all the trouble he caused here in this town?” Elfego sneers the words out of his mouth. His anger shows. Justice Smith has a decision to make. If he backs down now the whole town will be laughing at him. If he continues on with his denial of the situation, Elfego might do almost anything. His course of action must come quickly to him. “Well, I’m tellin’ ya that this here cowboy ain’t done nothin’ that any other herder hasn’t done. Just tell your prisoner to go to the bunk house and sleep it off. He ain’t causin’ anybody any trouble now.” With that, Smith strides off in the direction of where Elfego has described to me, stands The Frisco Bar. Elfego is left standing in the middle of the plaza with one hand on McCarty’s arm and his right hand fondling the handle of his six-shooter. But Elfego can make decisions quickly also. He turns toward his prisoner. “McCarty, you ain’t goin’ free. Come tomorrow mornin’ you and me and my assistant here, Nolo Blunt, we’ll be makin’ our way toward Socorro and the County Seat. What’s right is right and you done wrong.” McCarty makes no comment. He just looks at Elfego, rubs his head, and begins walking along with the lawman toward the one story Plaza Hotel, the only decent place in town, Elfego tells me, to spend the night. - 14 -

Sid Hoskins

The hotel room isn’t much. Its windows open out on the plaza that is just now receiving the last few rays of sunlight before twilight takes over. I look at the rain-stained papered walls of the room and am reminded of all the musty, foul-aired places I’ve stayed when on the trail. But there is a wash basin on a wooden stand in the corner and as I pour water from the flowered ceramic pitcher, I notice the clearness of the liquid. I cup my hands and wash my face, sputtering with my mouth as I always do. A clean towel hangs on a metal hook next to the basin and I pull it off the holder and dry myself. There’s a mirror in front of me and I glance back at McCarty who is now lying prone on the single bed, his right wrist secured to the railing of the bedpost by a pair of iron handcuffs. Ahead for me and Elfego is a night of suffering. We will get no sleep, but this has happened to me many times before. A reporter must be ever vigilant in the performance of his duties. And I believe in what I am doing. This will make a great story for Frontier Magazine. I can see the headlines now, REPORTER ASSISTS LAWMAN IN CAPTURING DESPERADO. I search out the only chair in the room, an ancient one, made from the unfinished timber of a pine tree. I seat myself and then my ears become suddenly attuned to a disturbance just outside the open window. I watch as Elfego rises from his chair, casts a glance toward the unmoving McCarty and steps to the window, keeping to one side away from any bullets that might find their way through the opening. He chances a look outside. I join him at the window, and in the distance I see many men on horseback. Leading them is a tall, well-tanned cowpuncher, his face reflecting the mood of the crowd. He urges his horse forward. Elfego recognizes the man. His voice is husky. “That’s Mark Perham, foreman of the Slaughter Ranch. We’re in for it now,” he says. The burly man approaches, and Elfego stands his ground. With the windows wide open, I feel I can reach out and touch the man’s horse. Perham sweats and the drops of perspiration fall off the end of his nose. His shaggy eyebrows pull together toward the middle of his forehead. He’s straining to keep back the anger that is just beneath the surface of his skin. “Ok, sheriff. You’ve had your fun. Now just turn McCarty over to us and maybe we’ll let you get out of town without a rope around your neck.” - 15 -


There is laughter in the plaza as Elfego looks out. He scans the crowd of restless armed men, their horses blowing and snorting in the chill wind. I can tell he senses the import of the event. There is something going on beneath his brow. I know what he says now will make a difference in how this affair turns out. His voice booms out across the assembled crowd. “McCarty’s my prisoner. He stays with me. I will give a count of three and when I have finished, all of you need to be on your way back to your ranch. Otherwise, my gun will speak for me.” Elfego’s hand is now on his weapon and he draws it slowly and holds it at his side. Throughout the history of the New Mexico territory, as well as in Texas, men have been facing each other in gun battles. An unwritten code, of this part of the west, dictates that a man back up his words with action. Reputations are won and lost in these kinds of encounters and no one in this town really knows whether or not this young lawman will stand by the words he has spoken. At the count of one, no one moves. The cowboys are entranced. Here is one man, truly a man with a badge, but only one man, who stands in the way of the successful rescue of their fellow cowhand. Elfego reaches the count of two and there is a stirring. A few men on the fringe of the crowd now rein their horses over and move away. But the others are not the type of men who back down. Poker players all, they want to see whether or not this lawman is bluffing, and they think he is. The world of the cowboy is built on strength. Herding steers day after day in the burning sun or drenching rain makes him strong, strong enough to withstand the attack of coyotes and wolves, of Indians and rustlers. No group of men, anywhere on earth, face the elements of danger any better than the New Mexico cowboy. His life depends on quick decisions and at this moment I believe this band of cowboys believes they have cornered a yellow lawman who will hand over McCarty to save his own skin. But I can tell Elfego is not bluffing. I hear him count three and he opens fire, his rounds aimed cleverly just above the heads of the men on horseback. By now I am cringing in the corner of the room, the rifle I’m holding is at the ready. But I have no doubt that the mob outside would make quick work of me, if Elfego fails in his challenge. - 16 -

Sid Hoskins

Cowboys are usually unbothered by the sounds of random gunfire, but I can see there is something about this pistol-toting sheriff that makes them wary of staying in his presence much longer. There is a time to stand pat and there is a time to fold in any poker game and at this time, it’s best for the cowboys to throw in their hands and start a new deal. In fact, as I peek around the corner of the window, I can see there is a general stampede. Riders are frantically trying to find a way to escape this madman who counts three and opens fire. A cacophony of whinnies from the horses adds to the confusion as cowboys dig in their spurs to get the animals moving. But I can see that the crowd of mounted men has packed itself too closely together and there is no easy way for them to get untangled. These hardened men are now intent on saving themselves. No more is there a thought of saving McCarty. The cowboys are concerned with selfpreservation. Over all the noise of men and horses, one voice is heard. It is Perham’s and he’s yelling at his men. But as I watch the scene, the foreman is thrown from his horse and trampled, his crumpled body finally lying motionless in the middle of the now deserted dirt-swept street. Through it all, Elfego watches what is happening. I see his eyes move toward Perham, and as I too look at the fallen man, I know he is dead. There is no movement. He just lies there in a crumpled heap. There will be great trouble now. Elfego holsters his gun and turns toward McCarty. Walking toward the bed, he stops for a minute, reaches into his pants for the key to the handcuffs, and then proceeds to where McCarty lies. The Irishman is alert. “Heard what happened out there. Thought you’d be riddled with holes by now,” he says. “Won’t take long now, though, those boys will be after you. Better say your prayers, sheriff, and you too Mr. Reporter.” A distinct shudder runs up my back, but I keep my face steady. Elfego turns his head and listens as McCarty speaks. He continues with the business of releasing his prisoner’s hands from the bedpost, and then reconnects the cuffs, putting McCarty’s arms behind his back. “Reckon that’ll hold you. Got to get you out of here and now.” - 17 -


With that, Baca grabs the Irishman by the shoulders, pushes him toward the doorway and the two of them make their way down a narrow hallway. I follow after, my rifle held loosely in my right hand, the barrel pointing at the ground.

- 18 -

Sid Hoskins

Chapter Three It’s obvious to me that Elfego has not lived to the age of 19 in this violent land without learning some things about life. His heart must now be rapidly beating. Outwardly he appears quite calm. There is no time for him to wonder what to do. He must get his prisoner to a safe place in this city of Frisco. I have not discussed this with him, but I know that he must find Justice Smith and convince him that McCarty should be sentenced and detained. Only then will we be able to leave Frisco and return to the relative safety of our friends in Socorro. And Joline, my girl friend, is there in Socorro along with Buck Redwing, my Indian comrade who has seen me through many scrapes and has been at my side when things looked blackest for me, especially when I was traveling with the Bass gang in search of their story. I only wish I could see that huge nose, dark eyes, and braided black hair of my Kiowa friend pop through the door right now and tell me what to do, or feel the cool hand of Joline on my brow as she whispers gentle things into my ear. A door at the rear of the hotel stands ajar and Elfego sees it. He scoots through the opening while dragging McCarty behind him. Which way do we go? Menacing sounds reach us from the front of the hotel, but the alley is clear. Without pause, Elfego moves in a direction away from the noise and toward the last place we saw Justice Smith. He was headed for the Frisco Bar. **** Most saloons in this part of the country are simply places for storage of whiskey in upright wooden cases behind a plank atop two gigantic water barrels. But the Frisco Plaza is not a typical miner’s bar. First glance inside gives the casual viewer a feeling of elegance. Imported oak beams line the ceiling and on the walls are paintings. True, they are not in a class of cultured art, but some local artist spent much time painting scenes of cowboys and dance-hall girls cavorting in various stages of undress. - 19 -


And on the windows there are curtains. A woman’s touch is felt here and Elfego tells me the woman’s name is Katarina, “Wild-Kat,” the men call her. I can see that she’s tall and red headed and wears a short length dance hall gown. She has one of those wispy ostrich feathers stuck in her hair. As she bends to her labors, the feather waves in the air and mimics the motions of her ample body. It’s a fact that she owns the bar, and I can imagine from what Elfego has related to me, that it’s been a long battle with the male element of the town. For a woman, even a durable German-stock woman like Katarina, to fight her way into a man’s world to become the proprietor of this major watering hole in the city of Frisco, would not be easy. At this moment Katarina is unloading what appear to be whiskey bottles from a wooden box and handing them over the bar to a mustachioed, slickhaired gentleman who is dressed in a blue apron that extends from his neck to well below his knees. A few men in the room sit around a massive stain-covered table. From the looks of their attire, they must be the elders of the town and as I listen in, I hear them discussing the events of the late afternoon. Justice Smith is there. I recognize him immediately. He is expressing himself openly. “Only thing that’ll cool that crowd is to turn McCarty over to them. We must find that sheriff and get him to give us that cowboy. Can’t even guarantee that Baca’ll be spared. Those boys outside are mighty angry. I can hear them coming this way.” At that moment Elfego steps into view from behind me. He’s followed by the now swaggering McCarty whose hands are still cuffed behind his back. Elfego moves toward the men at the table. His head tilts to one side, perhaps so he can accurately hear the rumble outside. I hear it too and know our only chance for survival lies in Elfego’s own wits and bravado. Baca speaks. “Well, gentlemen, what we have here is a problem. May I suggest that we find a legal solution to the situation that faces us? What are your ideas?” The noise outside grows louder and the sound echoes through the almost vacant bar. A man, dressed in a black suit, vest and tie stands up. I have heard tell of this man even though I have never met him. I think he is J.H. Cook, a local publisher whom I would like to get to know. He’s a man with money. One - 20 -

Sid Hoskins

can never have too many rich publishers in their circle of friends and eventually I want to write a book or two more about my experiences in the west. Cook looks toward the Justice of the Peace. “Smith, it’s in your hands now. You must charge this cowboy with disturbing the peace, fine him, and settle this whole argument. We’ll have to deal with the death of the ranch foreman through due process later.” The other men around the table nod their heads. It looks like they are in agreement. Obviously Smith is now on the spot and he knows it. But his words are thoughtful. “You gentlemen always have been good counsel to me. Reckon what you say has merit. I thought this problem would solve itself, but it’s not going to.” Smith turns toward Baca. “Sheriff, have your prisoner over to the courthouse in exactly one hour and I’ll handle the matter. For now, you better get outa here and fast.” Many thoughts run through my mind. If this dunderhead of a justice of the peace had only taken the matter out of our hands in the first place, there wouldn’t be all this trouble now. But maybe the way out of the difficulty would be to do as Smith says. Elfego must be thinking the same way. His deep voice resounds from the oaken rafters. “All right, sir. I will have this here prisoner at your courthouse at the appointed time. But I take no responsibility for the condition of this cowboy if that group of madmen outside meets me in the street. Better get them to disperse, else I may tear up this here McCarty with my own bare hands and throw the pieces to his cowboy friends.” With those words, Elfego grabs McCarty by the shoulders and pushes him toward the bar where Miss Katarina is just finishing her barroom tasks. “Madam, would you have a spare room where I might detain this prisoner until the court can open in an hour? Some place where we will have some peace and quiet from unscheduled interruption.” Katarina seems to be aware of what’s been happening. She stands the last bottle of whiskey upright on the bar and turns toward the sheriff. - 21 -


“Come with me. I’ll put you in my room. Ain’t nobody goin’ to go in there lest they want their heads shot off. Up the stairs.” Elfego, pushing one glum Irishman ahead of him, follows her up the steps. I make my way up the stairs also, trailing a few steps behind. I still have hold of the rifle, but it would be little protection against the horde of angry men whose voices grow louder with every step I take. **** Word in the town of Frisco passes quickly. It’s a small town, unhampered by the sprawl of a large population. Townspeople can simply hang out their second-story windows and know what’s going on. Although I’ve never seen it, I’ve been told that the courthouse is situated off the central plaza and sure enough, as Elfego, his prisoner and I scoot down a dusty alley filled with trash boxes and the residue of a hundred years, mostly cans and bottles, I see the simple adobe structure that must serve as a courthouse for this town. I also see a crowd of angry men standing just outside the main door as we approach. They’re in small groups and are talking. Where once there were hand guns, now there are rifles in evidence, and it appears that the men mean business. They want satisfaction for what has happened. How can Elfego face this murderous bunch? But into this crowd of men strides Elfego, his prisoner preceding him as we climb the steps to the courthouse. Shouts of ‘hang him’ reach my ears and I know that a confrontation will soon occur. Could they mean me, too? Would they hang a reporter? Surely not. My editor is back in New York, and if he were here, he would never allow it. His name is Menace, but he’s only a threat to me if I don’t turn in my stories on time. Mostly he sees me as a meal ticket, a human scribbling machine that writes adventure tales to sell more magazines to the news-hungry readers in New York. Up the final steps and through the door goes Elfego, who now has his gun drawn and is prodding McCarty ahead of him. Once again I bring up the rear. We are through the door. Standing before us is Justice Smith. Elfego pushes McCarty towards where Smith has positioned himself. The prisoner, - 22 -

Sid Hoskins

McCarty, now is in front of the official. There is total silence in the hall and even from outside there is no noise. It’s as if the entire town waits to hear what Smith is going to say. Finally the judge makes his move. He looks at Elfego, then me, and lastly, at the prisoner. “McCarty, I fine you $10 for disturbin’ the peace. Pay up now or go to jail.” I watch as McCarty reaches inside his vest, pulls out a money bag. It’s loaded with bills. He must have just been paid for the cattle he’d driven here from Texas and was bragging about in Milligan’s Bar. The cowboy peels off some dollars and hands them to the justice. Smith counts them, sticks them inside his coat pocket, and with an up and down motion of his hand, like he was striking a gavel on his bench, he makes his final declaration. “Fine paid. Let the court record show this here dealin’ is adjuged. McCarty, you’re a free man. Now stay out of trouble.” Elfego smiles, I have the feeling he is pleased that he has discharged his duties as a lawman. With great aplomb he pulls the handcuff key from his pocket and removes the ironware from McCarty’s wrists. Carefully coiling the metal cuffs, he fits them into his belt keeper, returns the key to its hiding place and turns to go. He looks back for a moment at McCarty, then at Smith and gives a sigh of relief. He motions with his hand for me to stand where I am, then steps forward and takes the rifle I’ve been holding. “Might need that piece with that crowd out there, thanks for your help, Nolo.” He opens the courthouse door and steps outside. Already in his teenage life, I know Elfego has faced angry men, but I am sure he’s never confronted such a rabble of rifle-toting, blood-thirsty westerners as he now sees waiting for him just below the bottom step of the courthouse building. In what I’ve been told is typical Baca manner, he strides out onto the top step, and looks over the crowd. I step closer to the doorway to get a better look. Elfego’s voice is steady. “Good evening gentlemen.” Before he can say anything more, there’s an explosion and a bullet whizzes by. I duck and drop to the floor in one motion, but I can still see Elfego, standing there proudly, unflinching. In one smooth motion, faster - 23 -


almost than the eye can follow, he pulls his pistol from its holster, grabs the nearest cowboy and using him as a shield, arm around his neck, he backs away from the mob. The rifle he’s carrying is grasped firmly under his armpit. I get to my feet and follow his progress with my eyes. Elfego is now cautiously striding backward through the alleyway that we have just used to get here. With the cowboy in front of him, Elfego makes his way down the narrow street. He chances a look over his shoulder. I look where he’s looking and see in the distance a low hut, built of what must be the left over handhewn water-stained boards from the town dump, held together by a batch of adobe mud. But Elfego must think it’s his only hope. He moves toward it, all the time keeping the cowboy between himself and the crowd. He reaches the porch of the shaky structure and kicks his hostage in the seat, sending him back the way he came. Although Elfego’s voice reaches me from far away, I can still make out his words. “You get on back there and tell those friends of yours that Elfego Baca fights his battles to the death.” The lawman steps through the front door. The door closes, but soon it opens again just a crack and a mother and child emerge. I believe Elfego is now alone inside, alone to fight his battle with the Slaughter crowd. I suddenly think about my own safety. Justice Smith has been observing the scenes as I have. I turn to him. “Er, Justice Smith. You think I’m in any danger? I’m just a lowly reporter trying to get a story. Do you think the crowd will hold me responsible for what happened?” Smith twists his head my way. He smoothes the short beard that grows from the pointy part of his chin. “Shouldn’t think so. Mostly the boys are up in arms about Baca. He’s the one wearing the sidearm, and he’s the one with the star on his chest. He’s the one they’ll blame for Perham’s death. I believe all the boys would do to you is rub your nose around in some Frisco dust, maybe make it bloody.” The smirk on his face tells me a whole lot. That’s the way I want to keep it, light and easy. I have no urge to fight with anyone and certainly I don’t - 24 -

Sid Hoskins

want to feel myself dangling at the end of a rope. All I have to worry about now is myself. My horse is safely corralled at the livery stable where I put her when we were taking McCarty to see Justice Smith the first time. **** In every Western town is a telegraph office. It’s the lifeline of any reporter as well as anyone else who wants to communicate with someone who is any distance away. I made arrangements with Joline and Buck to send me a telegram when they were ready to join me here in Frisco. Perhaps there is a wire from them waiting for me now. I use the back entrance to the courthouse, slip through the door, look around carefully, and make a dash up the street where I know the telegraph office is located. Sure enough, there it is. Not too many people out on the boardwalks, but there is gunfire reaching my ears. I’ll have to investigate that soon. After all, I have left my friend Elfego in a rather precarious situation. I counted some forty cowboys on the steps of the courthouse. There could be more by now and with each one of them toting a rifle, that’s a lot of firepower. The Western Union office is open and I step through the doorway to reach the inside. A man in a green eye shade and matching green apron meets me at the counter. “And what can I do for you, sir? Looks like you’re in a hurry.” “Name’s Nolo Blunt. Want to know if there’s a telegram here in this office for me. Be from Joline, my friend. She’s in Socorro now.” The man takes off his visor and scratches his scalp where only a fine wisp of sandy-blond hair shows. “Reckon there is a message for you. Now let me see. Where did I put that?” While he searches through a roll-top desk, I step to the door. There’s more gunfire and I know I must get back to the action soon. Perhaps Elfego is already dead. What with forty cowboys all pumping lead into that mudspattered hovel, there couldn’t be very much left of him by now. Oh, well, I - 25 -


can find someone else to write about after he’s gone. But his last battle will make a great story for my editor back east. The clerk returns. He’s holding a piece of yellow paper with printing on it. “This must be what you’re lookin’ for. Addressed to Master Nolo Blunt, reporter for Frontier Magazine, Frisco. You got some way to prove who you are?” Reporters always carry a press card wherever they go, and I dig around in my pocket and finally produce a ragged-edged faded blue piece of cardboard that states in true that I am Nolo Blunt and work for Frontier Magazine. I hand it to the man. “This here card proves something. You been out in the rain too long. Let me see. Yup. Guess you be who you claim to be. Say, I’ve been reading articles in that magazine. You’re the same Nolo Blunt who’s been writing about teaching Indians to read up in Kiowa country? Damn fine stories. Gettin’ to know that Buck Redwing and his family. Pleasure to meet you, sir.” He hands me the telegram and I open it. Nolo (stop) Buck and I will be in Frisco on November 15 (stop) Meet us at the stage office (stop) Love, Joline. That would be tomorrow. I don’t have much time to get my story and meet the stage. But the thought of Joline being with me again gives me new hope that I can accomplish all things. I look at the clock. It’s 6:00 p.m. and I know the light will fade soon. I must get back to where things are happening. **** As I reach the main street, I look around and see a group of determined cowboys, rifle barrels aimed towards the hovel where Elfego is hold up. The cowboys hide behind barrels, water troughs, and whatever else they can find. I can see that all of them are experts in handling rifles and one of them now steps forward to challenge Elfego. - 26 -

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Mr. Cook, the publisher, stands near me. He’s watching the scene as I am, and I know I can ask him any questions I have. “Mr. Cook, remember me? Nolo Blunt, Frontier Magazine. Met you in the Frisco Plaza saloon. You know who that man is?” “Sure do remember you. Yup, I know him. He’s Jim Herne, an unsavory character with a price on his head and known for his hate of anyone with a Mexican surname. Good shot too. I fear for your friend in that shack.” I watch as Herne strips his rifle from its scabbard, cocks it, and cradles it in his right arm. He begins his walk toward Baca’s hiding place. I can hear his voice, although he’s not yelling out his words. He’s talking to himself, but just loud enough for all his friends to hear. “I’ll get that dirty little Mexican out of there.” He takes ten steps toward the hut, stops, plants his feet, and stares toward where Elfego has taken cover. “Come on you. Come outa there and come damned quick.” But there is no answer and Herne raises his rifle to his shoulder. I watch him aim at the side of the building where Elfego must now be crouching. He lets fly with four rounds. Nothing. But as he stands looking at the spot where his bullets hit, there are two loud explosions. I see flashes from the shack and Herne grabs his midsection. He falls to the ground. I don’t think he’s going to get up real soon. Answering cowboy rifle fire tears at the flimsy sides of the hovel. The men wait a beat, then cut loose again, firing their weapons in unison. The sound drives me to cover my ears and I look at Cook and he’s doing the same. With a volley like that, how could anyone still be alive inside that shack? But there is answering fire from Baca and his carefully placed shots nick the leg of a careless cowboy not far from me. The others head for deeper cover. Baca is still definitely alive.

- 27 -


Chapter Four The town plaza is now filled with all sorts of people. At the local barber shop across the street, two aproned hair cutters stand protected just inside the doorway to their tonsorial establishment, the red and white striped barber pole masking them from the action in the street. In front of the Frisco Bar, Katarina watches, the ostrich feather in her headpiece swaying back and forth above the swinging doors she’s hiding behind. Her face is visible for just a moment, her eyes wide with fear. I’m sure she’s thinking about Elfego and his predicament. There may be some romantic link between the two of them, but I’ll have to wait to report on that. Cook still stands next to me, but now he talks with a Mexican young man. I move closer to hear the conversation. “Tell me, Francisquito, do you think the other people from Mexico will help Elfego?” “Yo no se, señor. Baca, he’s in this by himself now. My barrio friends are watching, but they are not that brave to face all these cowboys. And remember, Baca will go back to Socorro if he gets out alive. My friends must stay here and face these same men everyday in Frisco.” “What do you think we can do?” “We must pray that Elfego can last another day. By then there may be help from some lawman. Until then, Elfego will shoot straight. He will take with him many more of these cowmen before he goes.” I interrupt their conversation. “You think Elfego can last. Won’t he run out of bullets?” Francisquito has a smile on his face. “Elfego will make every shot count. You saw how he put a hole in that cowboy’s stocking over there. No one else I know could do that. And he only fires at what he knows he will hit. He always carries a bandoleer of pistol shells in his waistband. Guess he feels it’s good protection against a moment like this.” I turn toward Cook. - 28 -

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“You sound sympathetic to Baca’s cause. Being a reporter I’m nosy. Can you tell me why?” Cook’s forehead shows deep wrinkles. My question must have stirred something within him. “Sure, I am in favor of law and order in this town and in New Mexico. Baca stands for that, although I’m not too sure where he got his badge. Rumored that he took a course in detective work and they sent him a badge for graduation. Later, he was appointed a special deputy from Socorro. But nevertheless, he acted as any responsible citizen should have acted when he arrested McCarty. Yes, I want him out alive. Let the courts decide who’s right or wrong.” “What can you do to help him?” My question is drowned out by a fusillade of gunshots and I repeat it for Cook. “Like Francisquito says, there’s not much we can do right now. But the town council has sent for a lawman. He should be here by tomorrow morning. Ross is his name, Sheriff Ross. Know the man. Honest. All we can do is wait.” I look back at the scene in front of me. I am standing in an alleyway, the same street through which Elfego, his prisoner, and I passed through in the morning on our way to the courthouse. The cowboys are stringing up blankets on ropes in front of the boardwalk that runs the length of the plaza. I imagine their idea is to hide their movements from the hawk-like eyes of Elfego. I’m not about to ask them. I remember what Justice Smith thought they might do to me. **** My bones ache from the night air. It’s almost midnight and I’ve been standing here six hours. I did manage to get over to the Frisco Bar for some refreshment and food, but I didn’t want to miss anything happening in the street. It’s been quiet now for the last hour and I am thinking about Elfego, alone in that hovel, knowing his last hours on earth may be spent hiding from rifle bullets that must seem to be tearing up the very fabric of his hiding place with each ear-splitting volley. - 29 -


A spark of light in the middle of the street draws my attention. Perhaps some cowboy has flipped a hand-rolled cigarette onto the dirt. But no, the light does not go out. It moves and I wonder if Elfego in his darkened hut sees it. It’s a very slow-moving spark. It flickers brightly and then appears to be extinguishing itself. But no, there it goes again, ever closer to the place where Elfego hides. There’s no one around for me to ask. The only thing I can think of is a fuse of some kind, but I’ve seen no activity around the shack. I did see two cowboys a while ago. They had black raincoats on but I thought it must be that they worried about the weather changing. The tiny light is closer to the hovel now and moving faster. An explosion; too late I cover my ears. The noise is deafening. A bright light flares in front of me and I see that Elfego’s hiding place is now collapsing. One corner falls to the ground, mud-caked stakes splinter and the thatched roof is afire and sloping earthward at a rakish angle. The cowboys are alert now. A few to my left try to rush the hovel, but some well-placed shots come from the collapsed shack. They scurry back to their places of protection. My friend, Elfego, is still very much alive and able to fight his battle. What a man he is turning out to be. I wait another hour and when I see nothing happening in front of me, I decide to try to get some sleep before dawn. The only place I know in town that is open is the livery stable where Big Mama must now be dozing in her stall. Sometimes there’s a place in the tack room where weary travelers can rest for the night. I hope this place has one. It’s quiet now on the street as I make my way to the stable. There are no lights in the windows of the buildings I pass, and even the Frisco Bar is dark. Perhaps Katarina has closed up early so she can get her rest also. The stable is ahead of me now and I hurry along. Secretly I want to check on my horse and make sure she’s all right. It’s a big responsibility to have a horse like Big Mama. Not just anyone can take proper care of horses. It takes someone who knows my animal and what her needs are. She doesn’t require much, some oats, fresh hay, clear water and a little attention now and then. The front door of the stable is open. It’s warm this evening and I can smell the mixed odor of horse excrement, decaying straw, and a musty scent I - 30 -

Sid Hoskins

can’t quite recognize. Every stable I’ve ever been in has its own smell and this one is distinct. Must be the scent of the local-grown New Mexico hay I detect. My ears perk up. I hear Big Mama making her squealing noise. How she can tell when I’m near, I’ll never know, but she does. I find her stall and with the help of ample moon light coming through a high-up window, I see her hindquarters backed up against the metal-barred entry gate. She strains her neck at the front of the stall when I get closer. “Well, now Big Mama. They’re treating you all right I hope.” She whinnies and I do believe she’s shaking her head up and down as if to answer me in a positive manner. “Joline and Buck are coming in tomorrow. You’ll be glad to see them I know.” I reach through the grating and pat her on the rump. She shifts her body to the left and the brownish skin on her hip joint wiggles under my touch, kind of like a spasm. I’ll never really know what my horse is thinking, but I do know she recognizes me, and I know she likes me to touch her. It looks to me like she’s being well cared for and I search out the stable boy who is on night duty. I find him. He’s sleeping in the tack room and I wake him with a shake. “Want to spend the night here. Don’t need a blanket. I’ll use my saddle over there for a pillow.” The boy scratches at his eyes, then stares at me, “Sure mister. Fifty cents and you can spend the night here every night for a month.” He holds out his hand and I drop a half-dollar into his palm. “You wake up before I do, about dawn, give me a rouse. Want to see how my friend Elfego’s doing. With that, I bed down for the night. Big Mama whinnies again, and I make my usual answering noise back to her. **** It’s not moonlight coming through the transom this morning. It’s bright sunlight, and I’ve overslept. I glance over at the stable boy and he’s still snoozing away. Lazy lout, he was supposed to wake me. - 31 -


The earth on the stable floor is no softer than what I’m used to on the prairie, but I did manage to stuff some straw under my horse blanket last night, and it turned out to be relatively comfortable. My eyes itch and I scratch them as I stand up. Could be I have some kind of a reaction to hay, a reaction I never had back in New York. Must be this western variety that tickles my nose and makes my eyes itch. I pass by Big Mama’s stall on my way out and she’s taking a snooze, her large body motionless, her eyes closed, and her nostrils breathing out morning steam in a most regular way. Good girl. Get your rest because we might have some hard riding to do if Elfego ever gets out of the box he’s in. Hardly anyone is on the streets, but as my eyes adjust to the full glare of the outdoor light, I can make out several groups of cowboys all huddled behind the blankets they strung up last night. As I move closer, the cluster of three cowboys nearest me turns their heads my way. I recognize one of them as McCarty, the errant cowboy who caused all this trouble. His voice is husky in the early morning hour. “So, it’s the rifle-totin’ bad man who helps that weasel of a sheriff. What do you think we oughta do with this dude, boys? String him up?” My heart beats faster at his words. Whether to fight or flee; I’m undecided, but in a way I have made a decision. I’m still standing in place staring at the three men who now approach me. I can feel a cry of help start to rise within me, but I stifle it. I must remain calm in this situation. A little bravado would help. Maybe I could reason with them. “Hold off there, McCarty. I was just helping Elfego with his arrest, a thing any other citizen would do when requested to do so by a sheriff. I did you no harm.” They’re closer now and two of them get behind me, leaving McCarty in my face. I can smell his breath up close. Stale beer and bad teeth; I wonder when the last time was he saw the town dentist. “Well, Mr. Reporter. Let’s see you talk your way out of this. Maybe you could write something down while the rope goes ‘round your neck and squeezes the last words out of you, but you’ll be busy reachin’ with your hands to get the rope loose. You got any last messages ‘fore we hang you?”

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The two cowboys behind me grab my arms and hold me. I watch as McCarty goes toward his horse, takes a loop of rope off his saddle horn and comes back to stand exactly where he stood before. His hands work quickly and he forms the rope into a noose, making an “S” loop first and then winding thirteen twists around the coil until he finally ties it off at the top. He tests it, pulls on the noose and it tightens, then he tries to loosen the knot and has to work at it. With a great deal of effort he makes it large enough to fit around a man’s neck. Good Lord. It’s my neck he’s going to fit it around. I struggle to get loose, but the men behind me tighten their grip and I’m no match for them. My mind moves rapidly through a list of all the things I can do to get myself free. I struggle more and jerk and kick, but the cowboys avert my efforts and hold down on my arms even more. Underneath it all my brain is still alert. Something is trying to enter it. It’s the sound of hoof beats, many hoof beats and I think I’m back in Denton, Texas reliving the time when I stopped the runaway stagecoach with Joline inside. I close my eyes and can feel McCarty placing the noose around my neck. The face of Joline crosses in front of my closed eyes and I think I can even hear her voice. “You men stop that. That’s my dear friend. I’ve got this six-gun leveled at your midsection. You there with your hand on that rope. I don’t know your name. Tell me your name so I’ll know what to put on your tombstone.” I hear the sound of a pistol being cocked. I’m still standing on the boardwalk and I open my eyes. I’m alive, because I can see a stagecoach in front of me and the cowboys have let go of my arms. The noose is still around my neck, and I work to get it free, but as I do, I feel a pair of hands doing it for me. I look down and see brown work-hardened hands, the hands of someone who spends much time in the outdoors, strong hands that can pull a bowstring or fire a rifle. They’re the hands of only one possible person I can think of, Buck Redwing. The noose is off my neck now, and I turn to find my Indian friend standing next to me, the rope in his hands and a mile-wide grin on his face. “Cowboys play dangerous games with my blood brother.”

- 33 -


I reach out to him and gather him into my arms. I have never felt so close to anyone, except Joline and Big Mama, in my life. I step back and look at Buck. “Knew you were on your way today. Glad you two took the early stage. Maybe you could hold off these ruffians while I greet Joline.” Buck unlimbers the Sharps rifle he always carries, and holds it at his side. His left hand is on the butt, his right index finger riding lightly on the trigger. Joline is running toward me now, her hands holding up the full skirt she’s wearing, her petticoats blowing in the wind, hair flying free behind her. I run to meet her. Despite the dusty street and the many pairs of eyes watching us, we kiss. It’s a long kiss, kind of like the feeling I get from the whinny that Big Mama gives me at nighttime when we’re out on the prairie. Joline’s arms have found the small of my back and my own arms engulf her and hold her close. I feel her breasts crushing against me and I know everything will be all right. Joline is with me and all’s right with the world again. We stand like this for several minutes, and then I know we must part. I let go of Joline, but still keep my arms around her shoulders. My throat is scratchy where the rope squeezed my neck. “You and Buck timed that pretty close. A few more minutes and I could have been dangling from some rafter.” Joline’s eyes meet mine and there’s a smile on her face. “Never did like seeing you in a necktie. Don’t ever wear one again.” I look up from her face and see a figure running towards us. It’s Katarina from the Plaza bar, and she’s in a hurry. “Mr. Blunt. You better get yourself back on Main Street. Looks like your friend may be in deeper trouble.” Katarina looks at Joline. “Lady, I don’t know who you are, but you sure know how to use a sixgun,” she says. “I do believe you’d a put a bullet through that rascal’s gut. You related to this here word pusher?” “Name’s Joline. Who are you and how do you know my Nolo?” I can tell Joline’s getting her dander up. She always was one to show her emotions and especially, jealousy when it comes to me. Even in the Kiowa - 34 -

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camp when we were teaching Indian children to read English, she kept me on a tight leash whenever she saw one of the young Kiowa maidens making eyes at me. But that’s another story; one I’ll have to write down sometime, maybe even in my journal I’m currently keeping. Buck is still watching over the three cowboys and I leave Joline to join my Indian friend. I look back over my shoulder as I walk, and I can see Joline and Katarina still talking. Looks like they’re talking real nice now as I knew two western women would, when they found out there was nothing to be angry about. I soon reach Buck’s side. “You can let them go, Buck. I really don’t think they would have followed through with the hanging. They just wanted to scare me. Isn’t that right McCarty?” McCarty looks at me. There’s a strange look on his face. I’m not too sure if what I just said was true, but with Buck and Joline to back me up, I can afford to be generous. “Uh, you’re right there, Mr. Reporter. Just tryin’ to give you somethin’ to write about. Maybe you’ll spell my name right when you make the story. Come on boys. Let’s get back to the fight.” I breathe a little easier now, and I clasp Buck around the shoulder. “Got some real problems here, Buck. My friend Elfego Baca is out there in that tumble down hovel they call a jacal. Let’s see what’s happening.” Buck slings his Sharps on his shoulder and the two of us make our way toward the exact same place where I stood last night. It is a protected place across the street from the Plaza Bar and we reach it just as I notice something happening in the middle of the roadway. One of the cowboys has found an old stove door and he’s creeping ever so slowly toward where Elfego is hold up. I can see the man crouching down and peeking through the tiny slots in the metal grating of the door. He’s got himself well hid behind this piece of iron and no part of him extends beyond the protection of his shield. I don’t rightly know what his purpose may be. Perhaps he wants to get close enough to Elfego’s hiding place, then rush in through the partly open door and shoot it out with my friend. He’s creeping closer now, inch by inch, and his body extends out behind his contraption as he crawls. His - 35 -


pistol is drawn and he’s pushing his protective barrier forward with his free hand. Wait a minute. He’s stopped. And now he’s raising his head perhaps to get a better view of the collapsed hut. Maybe he thinks Elfego is dead or seriously wounded. Whatever he thinks, his head pops up above the stove door. There’s the sound of a revolver being fired, and it comes from the hovel. I watch as the cowboy in the middle of the street drops to the ground, grabs the top of his head and pulls his hand away. It’s covered with blood. The man turns around on the ground and starts crawling back toward where he started. There’s another pistol shot that rips the seat of his pants and now the man gets up and starts running for shelter, one hand on his head and the other covering his rump. Seems to me that Elfego must have lived through the night.

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Sid Hoskins

Chapter Five My eyes follow the wounded man until he reaches his friends, who are hiding behind their blanket screen. I turn to Buck for his comments, but he isn’t there. It’s been a long time since Buck and I first met back in Nebraska. I remember now the way he used to disappear from me, sometimes in the middle of a conflict. But he was always there for me to count on in the next emergency. Now he’s gone again. I’m still wondering how he does it. Maybe I’ll write a book someday about the mystery of the disappearing Indian, Buck Redwing. I look back toward the tumble-down shack. I remember that in Spanish, it’s a “jacal.” I put my hand over my eyes to block out the morning sun, and what I see is smoke coming out of the chimney in the only corner of the hovel left standing, the rest having been blown to smithereens by the dynamite last night. Elfego’s preparing his breakfast as if nothing major was happening. What a man. Joline, I left Joline in the middle of the street back there with Katarina. I’ve got to find Joline. **** The swinging doors of the Plaza bar slap closed behind me as I enter the dark interior of this major watering hole in Frisco. My eyes adjust and then I see her. She’s standing at the bar and talking with Katarina. I rush to her side. “Joline. Elfego’s still alive. He’s cooking breakfast.” Joline looks at me as if I were a stranger. “Can you wait a minute, Nolo? Can’t you see? I’m talking with my new friend here, Katarina. At least she doesn’t run off from me when I’m talking to her, and I didn’t even save her life.” I know I’m in big trouble now. There’s no explanation I can give, no expression of love that will heal the wound quickly. Time, that’s what it takes with Joline, time. - 37 -


At one of the tables sits Mr. Cook. I haven’t seen him since last night. I walk over and sit down in a chair next to him. He’s talking with a man, star on his chest, must be a sheriff of some kind. I listen. “Let me tell you about what’s happening, Deputy Ross. Baca arrested a cowboy, one named McCarty. During a riot that followed, Mr. Perham of the Slaughter Ranch was killed, horse trampled him. Crowd became ugly, but Baca escaped them. Brought his prisoner here to this saloon.” Cook turns to look at me. “As a matter of fact, he escaped with the help of this here reporter sitting next to me. Nolo Blunt isn’t it?” I nod my head in an affirmative response. “Anyway, Baca, McCarty and Blunt here take refuge upstairs in Miss Katarina’s private room. Later that night, Justice Smith adjudicates the case and McCarty is fined and released. Baca faces the angry crowd of cowboys who want to hang him for causing Perham’s death.” The lawman Ross listens intently, his right hand pulling on a twist of graying hair that shows prominently above his ear. That man, Ross, could sure use a haircut. He needs a shave too, and there are coffee stains on his teeth. He’s not a young man, but I know it does take experience to be a good sheriff. Looks are not all that important when it comes to facing someone with a loaded pistol. Cook continues. “Baca’s out there in that jacal now and no one knows how he can still be alive. Must have been several thousand rounds fired his direction since this started. The jacal collapsed with a blast of dynamite. You got any ideas how we can end this affair? I’ve discussed it with the cowboys and they agree that Baca should be taken to justice in Socorro. I think they want to end this as much as Baca.” Ross’s eyes close, not all the way, but most of the way. Two large vertical wrinkles form on his forehead just between his eyes. He must be thinking. “I could go out there and tell Baca to come out, but I could end up getting shot. Baca have any friends in town?” My mind races ahead. Francisquito Naranjo. Of course. Francisquito knows Elfego from their days together in Socorro and here in Frisco.

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I blurt out what I’m thinking and Ross looks my way, his eyebrows meeting in the center of his forehead as before, his nose twitching, his pale gray eyes staring at me. “You got a point there Mr. Reporter.” Ross turns toward Cook. “This Francisquito. He’s around here somewhere? Let’s get on with it. Maybe if all of us go out to that tumble-down hovel, we can get Baca to come out. Only problem is, what do we do with him then?” Cook, pulls on his ear, stretches the lobe while holding it between his index finger and thumb, then reaches inside his ear with his little finger and extracts some wax, looks at it and wipes it on the table top. “Might just work. But those cowboys are after blood. You’re right. What are we going to do with Baca once we coax him out. Blunt, you got any ideas?” I am honored that these two men feel secure in asking me for a solution. Must mean I’m becoming important, even though I am just a nosy reporter. “Somehow we’ve got to get Elfego back to Socorro and his home ground,” I say. “Any kind of court action here in Frisco would surely be interrupted by gunfire. And those cowboys will want to see justice done, mainly with a rope or a six-gun. They’ve already used a rope around my neck to scare me. My friend, Joline, over there stopped them just in time.” The two men strain their necks to look at Joline and as if she could feel their eyes boring into her back, she turns around to face them, then walks over to the table where we’re sitting. “You gentlemen won’t mind if I take Nolo away from you. There are some things we have to straighten out.” With those words, she pulls me up from my chair by my arm and heads me toward the swinging doors. She’s still holding on to me when we reach the boardwalk outside. “Nolo Blunt. When are you going to realize that I exist? Here I am, your dedicated six gun-toting woman who is ready to die for you and when I save you from a hanging, all you can do is run off to write some story about a lawman who’s got himself into a bind with eighty cowboys shooting at him. Katarina told me all about it. Now when are we going to make love?” - 39 -


My mouth is open. Making love at this moment is the farthest thing from my mind. I really need to get back inside the saloon to find out how Cook, Ross, and maybe Francisquito are going to save Elfego. This is a delicate situation and one that needs all the tact I can muster. “Joline dear. My dear Joline. I shall forever be indebted to you for saving my life. And you kept me from being hanged. Now I still have blood coursing through my veins so that I can finish my story. That’s the way I see it. I’m a reporter and have a job to do. Later we can make love and the love I make with you will be long and hard. Now find us a hotel room in town, get yourself prettied up and smelling all nice and clean and wait for me. I think this thing with Elfego will end soon.” She slaps me. After all I’ve done for her, she slaps me and with strength. It’s a puzzlement for me how women think. What I just told her was logical to me. How can she react like she did? There’s no chance to get things straightened out now. Joline turns from me and prances off toward the Plaza Hotel. Best to let her go. I’ll find her later and then we’ll make up, and everything will be as it should be. My legs carry me swiftly back to the interior of the saloon and although my eyes are dazzled by the dim light and feel the redness on my face from Joline’s slap, I’m just able to make out Cook and Ross still sitting at the same table where I left them. They look up as I rejoin them. Cook greets me. “Ah, it’s you. We have a plan. We will seek out this Francisquito and with you, we’ll walk out to the jacal and prevail upon Mr. Baca to give up his battle. What do you think?” My spine tingles. Not only would I be putting myself between two opposing forces of marksmen, I would not have any way to protect myself if they should open fire. Would one Tom Menace, my editor, approve of my actions if I were to be killed in line of duty while getting the story of the century for his magazine? Unfortunately I think he would. And what of Big Mama, Joline, and Buck? How would they finish out their lives without my inspirations? But I have a job to do. My answer forms on my lips. “Let’s go. We’ll have Elfego out of there in no time and this whole stupid mess can be cleared up pronto.” - 40 -

Sid Hoskins

I say it and I am glad. Cook looks at me with a new expression on his face, perhaps one of respect for what I just told him. He turns toward the lawman sitting next to him. “All right. Sheriff Ross, it’s up to you now.” I can tell Ross is thinking. Those eyebrows are knitting again, and I wait for his answer. “We’re wasting time here. Let’s be off. Where will we find this Mr. Naranjo at this time of the morning?” I know where Francisquito stays and offer to direct the gentlemen to his whereabouts. **** Our party meets in front of the Frisco Bar. Cook has set up everything with the cowboys. They know what’s going to happen when the four of us walk out toward the jacal, and they agree that this matter should end. Katarina stands next to me and she offers to hold onto any shooting irons that might get in the way of a peaceful settlement to the problem. Ross gives her his six gun and Cook pulls out a double barreled, over-under derringer from his inside coat pocket, and drops it into the bag that Katarina holds. Naranjo has no weapon and neither do I. The cowboys watch us. Ross puts his hands high over his head, so the Slaughter boys will know he is not armed and starts out toward the hovel. Cook follows, then Naranjo and I bring up the rear. One time I look over my shoulder and notice a line of tired looking cowpunchers staring back at me, their rifles at the ready should we fail. I wonder what’s going through their minds. Maybe I’ll never find out because with a few more steps we are at the jacal. The destruction of this modest hovel is nearly complete. Splintered stakes stick up from the ground, and I can smell the fire-charred thatch that once covered the roof. The ceiling timbers project toward the earth at a steep angle and they’re burned nearly through, the gray covering of the wood reminding me of the many next-morning dead camp fires I’ve seen on the trail. - 41 -


Naranjo is first to reach the only window in the hut. It’s open. There’s no glass in it and I watch as he steps closer. “Elfego. Elfego. Are you in there? Are you hurt? It’s Francisquito. Don’t shoot.” A voice echoes from inside the building. “Naranjo, is it you?” “Si, mi amigo. It’s all right. Come on out. Mr. Cook is here and a sheriff too. You know Blunt. He’s here.” There’s a sound of crashing inside and before Naranjo can get out of the way, Elfego comes bursting out through the window. He’s wearing only his underwear, his eyes are ablaze, his hair a rat’s nest. But he’s in one piece and except for some bruises on his upper body, he’s in good shape. Mentally, I’m not too sure. There’s a frantic look about him at this moment. His right hand holds his precious pistol and in his left he has the rifle I returned to him, back on the steps of the court house. “Line up, all of you. This may be a trick and I’ll shoot the first one who doesn’t do what I say.” It’s not the same voice of the Elfego who told me a story back on the desert night before last. It’s a harsh voice. There’s fear in it and yet I can detect a certain logic from his words. After all, this man has been fighting the battle of his life, and he’s not one to give up life easily. I am not one to argue with him. I remember what happened to the cowboys outside the hotel room yesterday when Elfego counted three and opened fire. We line up. I’m last again and Elfego is just behind me. I know his six-gun points directly into my back and if things go wrong, I’ll be the first one to feel a bullet. I turn my head to look at him. “I saw to the horses last evening. Slept in the tack room. Boy in the stable takes good care of the animals. Big Mama’s rested.” I think maybe if I keep talking with him, he’ll realize we are only trying to help him. I cast my eyes around the plaza. Off to one side stands a group of Mexican men. A voice yells out from the group. “Run Elfego. Run while you can. The Slaughter gang will kill you.” I look at Elfego. He’s received the message. - 42 -

Sid Hoskins

“Yes, and if I run for it, those cowboys will cut me down in an instant. No, it is better with Cook and you. I’m glad you watched over my horse.” We are at the Frisco Bar now. Our procession stops and although Elfego still holds his pistol level on us, he looks around and sees a group of angry cowboys moving towards him. They mutter to themselves and then one voice stands out over all the others. I don’t know who he is. “Hang him. Stretch his neck. He’s a murderer. He’s taken four of our lads from us and Perham too. I’ll get a rope.” Cook moves to stand next to Elfego now. He stands up straight, fixes his tie, smoothes back his hair and stares at the crowd of converging cowhands. “Gentlemen. Listen to me. I am the one who got Mr. Baca to surrender along with the sheriff here. I pledged to Mr. Baca that he would get a fair trial in Socorro, and I aim to follow through with that promise. Now you boys know me as an upstanding man of this community, a man of integrity. I will see that Mr. Baca is held accountable for his actions, but it will be in a court of law.” I don’t recognize the cowpuncher who speaks now. But I know it’s the same one who wanted to hang Elfego a moment ago. “We know who you are Cook. And having that sheriff along doesn’t change anything. We’re still going to hang that rascal. He killed Perham.” The moment the man says the name of the dead foreman, I get a mental picture of the lifeless body lying in the street outside the hotel window. I guess that picture will stay with me forever. Cook faces the man who still talks. “Young man. I agree that Mr. Baca has committed acts that could result in his hanging. But it’s not our job to decide that. Leave it to the courts. Mob rule never solves anything. And you’re aware that the Mexican population of this community is watching us. Would you have a race war start in this part of New Mexico just so you can satisfy your moment of revenge? Remember, Baca represents the Mexicans of Frisco and that’s a powerful responsibility of his.” The spokesman stops speaking now. He turns to his followers. “What say you? Do we let this Baca live?”

- 43 -


Through all the discussion, Elfego moves his head from one speaker to the next, all the time holding his weapon in Cook’s back, the rifle pointing loosely in the direction of the cowboy spokesman. Francisquito steps forward. “Gentlemen. Most of you know me. I’ve spent time at your ranch. I’ve eaten from the same bowls of food as you. You know me also as a man of honor. I am a friend of Elfego, but I also know the temperament of my fellow Mexicans. Mr. Cook, he is right. There will be an uprising. More of you will die, and so will your cattle. “Mr. Blunt here will go along, as will Sheriff Ross who represents law and order. Baca will reach Socorro for his trial.” I really feel that Francisquito’s speech reaches the cowboys. They’re in small groups now and talking among themselves. Finally the spokesman returns. “Francisquito, what you say makes sense. We will take Mr. Baca to Socorro, but he must give up all his weapons and travel in a buckboard.” I watch Elfego’s face as these words reach him. It’s apparent that he has other ideas about his fate. “My guns stay with me.” He growls his words and the cowboys nearest me step back as if a northern wind has just blown down through the valley. I do believe they know that they’ll be the first ones to go if Elfego opens fire. Sheriff Ross steps up now. “Where’s that buckboard you promised? Get it around here. I’ll ride in the front seat with three of you Slaughter boys. We’ll take the spokesman there. Don’t know your name. You choose two others. Baca can ride in the back. Blunt, you get your horse and Baca’s horse and meet us back here in fifteen minutes. Now the rest of you all return to your ranch and report to Mr. Slaughter. I’m sure he’ll be glad to see you.” Amazingly the men do what Ross tells them to do. He wears a star on his chest and maybe that has something to do with it. But they move now. Perhaps the spell is broken and now there can be a way out for Elfego. I hurry over to the livery stable, and as I reach the door, I hear a whinny. Big Mama has no way of knowing when I am coming to get her, but she still - 44 -

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has some sixth sense about my approach and always makes the same sound of welcome when I am near. The tack room is just as messy as when I left it this morning, and I dig around to find my saddle, blanket, and leather goods that go with riding a horse. Elfego’s tack lies at the back of the room. I’ll have to saddle his stallion, too. I lead both horses to the Plaza Bar. When I reach there, I see Joline standing next to the wood railing off to one side near the entrance. She looks straight at me, and I know I’m still in trouble. “Well, Nolo. Looks to me like you won’t be sharing the nest again tonight. What do you have to say? Any excuses? Sorry I slapped you earlier.” My ears perk up. She said she was sorry. I pull on Big Mama’s reins, push her around so she’s lined up properly at the railing, jump down and tie her off. I do the same with Elfego’s horse, and then I’m up one step to stand next to Joline. “My dear, you don’t know what I’ve been through. Didn’t know if I’d ever see you again. We got Elfego out of the jacal and I’m going with him to Socorro. You and Buck follow. By the way, where is Buck?” “I heard what you did. You are my man, Nolo, and although I don’t always agree with your methods, I know you are a man of your word, and that we’ll be together in Socorro. I’ll find Buck.” “Let me hold you,” I say. I step closer and enfold my arms around her. She responds to me and our bodies flow together, our knees touching, Joline’s breasts press tightly to my chest. We kiss and I know I’m in love again. A familiar tingle rises in my groin. A voice yells something, but I push it out of my consciousness. The voice is persistent, and I listen. “Come on you love struck pencil pusher. We’ve miles to go before we reach Socorro.” It’s the voice of Elfego. I break from the embrace and step back. “We’ve said goodbye before, Joline dear, but at this moment I only wish I could stay with you this night. Sadly, I must go.” As I reach Big Mama’s side, my horse turns her head around to look at me. It’s as if she’s telling me to stop the mushiness with Joline and get to - 45 -


riding. I really think Big Mama knows what I’m thinking. What is it about a horse and their senses?

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Chapter Six We’re moving now. I’m astride Big Mama. Elfego, now clad in waist overalls and a plaid shirt, sits in the rear of the buckboard, his eyes on the three Slaughter ranch cowboys just ahead of him. The cowhands sit on what appears to be a simple wooden slat stretched out over the body of the rig and resting on the guard rails, the spokesman of the Slaughter group driving the horses and to his right sits Sheriff Ross. Elfego’s stallion trots along behind, a tow rope attached to his halter. There’s enough slack to give him running space without cramping him up next to the buckboard. Beside the carriage, Big Mama, with me on her back, frisks along at a good speed as she tries to keep up. But now she lags behind and there may be a purpose to this. I think she made friends with Elfego’s stallion while they were together in the stable back in Frisco. I catch her now looking toward the male, and I see her nostrils vibrate. Could have a problem here when my mare comes into estrus on the trail. Have to keep that in mind when I set the two of them out to pasture this evening. Must keep them separated, or I could lose my mare to motherhood. But maybe that wouldn’t be so bad. I’d kind of like to see what sort of colt she would throw. We’re on the same trail that Elfego and I passed over just two days ago. It’s interesting to be riding the same trail, only in the opposite direction. It gives a rider a new perspective. The mountain to my right has different shadows than I observed before. The morning sun causes a blue haze in the distance that wasn’t there when we passed this way before. There’s one thing that’s the same. The sandy soil produces dust in great amounts. With a little more speed, I’ll be able to stay out from behind the buckboard and the lung-clogging clouds of New Mexico dirt that the carriage sends into the air. Big Mama recognizes the problem, and I have no trouble in prodding her for more speed. Finding water on this desert is always a problem for the traveler, but when one knows the tricks of nature, water is there. We need some now for our animals and for us too. We’ve brought along enough water in barrels to use in an emergency, but it’s not sufficient to get us to Socorro. - 47 -


I see Elfego sensing the wind with his nose, and I watch as his eyes move across the landscape. With a nod of his head, he confirms a place where there must be water. He knows every available source of the precious liquid in this desert. In Spanish, the wells are called, cenotes. Mostly they’re just a shallow place in the limestone rocks that collect rainwater and hold it. To Elfego, it’s a matter of life and death on the trail. He’s signaling now to the buckboard driver. We’re pulling off the main course to take a side trail toward the low-lying hills off to our right. I remember now that we used this place on our way to Frisco. It was one of the last places we stopped to water the horses before getting to town. There are no trees here. A few ocotillos dot the landscape and several tall Saguaro cacti stand out against the backdrop of the dingy-brown hills. When I see a Saguaro, I’m always reminded of a man holding up his hands when being robbed. Most living things are underground at this time of day in the desert. With the sun beating down on my front, I’d like to be underground, too. But there’s a job to do. When we stop up ahead for the evening and it’s cooler, I’ll write down more of the saga of Elfego’s escape from his almost certain date with death. I still don’t know how he kept from being shot to pieces in the jacal and there is his trial yet to come in Socorro, so we’ll have some talking to do before my story is written. The side trail narrows, and I know the water hole must be just ahead. In fact I can see that the route we’re following will take us directly to the cenote’s hidden place in the rocks. Gunshots! There are gunshots and I see a bullet clip a stone near where Big Mama is about to put her foot down. Someone is shooting at me. I veer off to the right in hopes of zigzagging out of the rifleman’s sights. Then there’s another ping just behind me and immediately I hear the sound of the rifle. I glance quickly toward the buckboard and Elfego is lying prone, his sixgun in his right hand, his rifle in the other. Whoever is firing at me is not shooting at the buckboard. My mind is at a loss to figure out what’s going on. I hear Elfego yelling something. “Get down behind a rock you damned idiot,” he says. “Don’t you know someone is shooting at you?” - 48 -

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Maybe he’s right. But who would want to shoot at me? Up ahead is a clump of gray colored rocks. I urge my horse toward them. Just as I reach the safety of the boulders, I hear another ping, and a bullet whizzes past my ear. Must be a ricochet. I’m off my horse in a flash and move Big Mama to cover. She senses my haste and looks around at me with those big eyes. Her pupils dilate and I know she recognizes danger. I peek around the side of the nearest rock and see the buckboard just now disappearing up the draw that leads to the waterhole. What’s going on here? Why would anyone want to fire at me? Only person I could think of is that drunken cowboy, McCarty, but what would he be doing out here in this desert? We left him back in town. I’m still holding Big Mama’s reins in my hands and trying to figure out what to do when there’s a tap, on my shoulder. My head snaps around and my eyes become large. There, looking back at me is Buck Redwing. My jaws part and my mouth becomes big enough for a jaybird to fly into. “Buck, what are you doing here? I thought I left you back in Frisco.” “I watch over you blood brother. You come close to hanging back there in the town. Know that evil spirits surround you. Best that you do not see me until you need me. Been following you, but you do not see me.” “What about Joline?” “She catch six horse wagon to Socorro. Probably get there before we do.” “Elfego’s up there in the buckboard. He may be in danger. Someone shot at me. Came from that direction. What can we do?” “Come. Leave your horse. We’ll circle around behind.” Fortunately for the both of us, the rocks form a natural barrier for us to follow. The contour of the ground aids us as we edge our way toward the water hole. I can make out the buckboard in the distance, but no one is near it. Buck holds up his hand in warning. “Strange events here. We move like deer. Soft feet, keep cover.” I don’t have to be told twice about danger. In the last few years I’ve had enough danger to last me a lifetime and there are moments when I ache to be back in civilized New York where there are abundant places to avoid being put in peril of losing one’s life. - 49 -


Buck motions for me to get on the ground. Evidently we will crawl to the water hole by a roundabout way, and I’m not too happy with that. Scooting along on my belly in the hot sandy soil is not my idea of ecstasy. But my Indian friend is getting far ahead of me, and I must catch up. His hand comes up off the ground, and he turns his head my way. Now he’s pointing to the front, and I can hear voices. I chance a peek and barely make out several figures standing next to the watering place. Elfego is there, as are the Slaughter cowboys and Sheriff Ross. But there’s another man, a cowboy by appearance. He’s facing them and has a rifle in his hands. He must be the one who shot at me. I strain my eyes to see who it is, but can’t make out the face. Buck and I move closer now. We edge around a large boulder that separates us from what’s happening to our front. I recognize the man with the rifle. It is McCarty and he looks angry. His voice is loud enough for me to hear what he’s saying. “Grab him boys. We’ll stretch that Mexican’s neck on a Saguaro cactus. Don’t butt in Mr. Sheriff or you’ll get your neck stretched too.” The two cowboys aren’t moving, and I think I know why. Elfego has his eye on them and a pistol stuck in the ribs of one of the cowboys. Sheriff Ross looks like he is ready to jump on McCarty. An idea passes quickly through my mind. If I yell out something about having McCarty covered, maybe he’ll drop his gun and Elfego will have a chance to disarm him. It’s worth a try. “Hey, McCarty. I’ve got the drop on you. Put your rifle down.” What happens is not what I think is going to happen. McCarty drops to the ground and gets off a shot at me. But his aim is poor because he’s moving, and the bullet bounces off the boulder I’ve dived behind. Buck is nowhere to be seen and I have to assume he’s disappeared on me again. At least he was there when I needed him. I haven’t seen the last of my blood brother. I peek around the rock and the scene in front of me changes. Elfego makes a move toward McCarty and although the cowboy shifts his rifle to confront Elfego, he’s not fast enough. Elfego steps on the man’s rifle with one foot and his shooting arm with the other. McCarty gives out a squeal that I interpret as a deep expression of pain. - 50 -

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The cowboy’s standing now, and Elfego herds him over to Sheriff Ross who puts handcuffs on him. Everything is back to normal, and I stand up and move toward where the action has just taken place. “That was a close one, Elfego,” I say. He looks my way and smiles. “Nice work, Nolo. Have to make you one of my deputies. McCarty here is fixing to get himself into a whole lot of trouble. Have to turn him over to Sheriff Ross here, until we get him back to Socorro. Interfering in matters of the law can bring a stiff penalty.” I turn toward McCarty. “You’re the one who shot at me?” “Yeh, you no good scribbler. Wish I’d tightened that rope around your neck back there in Frisco before your lady friend and that crazy Indian showed up. No matter where you go, I’ll find you and someday, it’ll be curtains for you.” My blood pressure suddenly shoots up, and I feel my cheeks getting rosy. Although McCarty is in Elfego’s custody, he eventually will get back into circulation, and it’s then I’ll have to be wary. In all the skirmishing I’ve forgotten about my horse. Big Mama knows me well enough to stay in one place, but there is always the chance she might wander off. Hurriedly I make my way back to where I left her. Rounding the last boulder I hear a whinny and know she must be all right. But where is she? My gaze shifts to loud snorting coming from the direction of the now deserted buckboard. What I see is Big Mama and Elfego’s stallion have finally found each other. Despite the warmth of the day and lack of water, love wins out over all. It’s quite a sight when a full-grown stallion mounts a mare in heat. Although this scene is commonplace here in the west, I have only witnessed it once before, when I traveled with Sam Bass and his gang. Right now my emotions rise within me and although my feelings are mixed, I’m pleased that Big Mama is doing something that obviously pleases her. It must be very boring to stand around in a stall and do nothing but chew oats and straw all day. - 51 -


My God, maybe I’ll be a grandfather in eleven months. Somewhere I remember the gestation period for a horse is 330 days. Have to mark this day down in my notebook, so I’ll know just about the time when Big Mama foals. I reach the lovemaking scene just as the stallion decides he’s had enough. He’s dismounting now. He nips Big Mama on the neck, and his forelegs drop to the ground near where I’m standing. A human voice reaches my ears. “Hey, you stupid Easterner. Get away from there. Don’t you know it’s dangerous to get near horses when they’re mating?” It’s the voice of Sheriff Ross and without a conscious thought, I jump back and it’s just in time. The stallion grazes me with his muzzle. I feel its teeth sink into my forearm and although he lets go quick enough, I’m already beginning to feel the pain. I look down and see a perfect imprint of a set of horse’s teeth on my skin. No blood though, and that’s a plus. The others are near me now and Elfego steps close to me. “Let me take a look at that. Horses sometimes go crazy when they’re making love. Like to bite each other and anything else that gets in their way. Looks like you got in his way.” He runs his hand over the bite marks, grabs a canteen, uncaps it and pours some cool water over the bite. “You might have to see the doctor in Socorro when we get there. Horse bites can be dangerous. This one’s not too bad. Seen quite a few in my time.” With these words, Elfego caps his canteen and puts it back in the buckboard where he’s been riding. **** All the horses have been watered except Big Mama and although she’s still breathing hard from her love making, I lead her to the waterhole and watch her as she takes big gulps of liquid, stops and then takes in another draught. I pull her gently by the reins and she responds. My horse-bitten arm is killing me, but my horse comes first. Don’t want her filling up on too much water. It’ll bloat her. She’s had enough for now. I rejoin Elfego and the others at the buckboard. It’s quite a scene. Elfego sits up in the back of the wagon and in front of him are the two cowboys and - 52 -

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Sheriff Ross as before. But now there are two horses tied to the rear of the carriage. One of them is Elfego’s stallion who still has a lot of white showing in his eyes. He’s still aroused, but Big Mama seems like she’s calmer. Next to the stallion is McCarty’s horse and astride the animal is McCarty. His hands are cuffed in front of him, and they rest on the pommel. He’s looking back at me and from his stare; I can tell there is no kindness exhibited toward me at this moment. I wonder about McCarty and whether or not he’ll try to make a break for it once we get started. But then I look at Elfego sitting ramrod straight in the back of the buckboard, his pistol rests on his lap and his rifle is within arm’s reach. I know that McCarty wouldn’t have much success in riding off even if he could. And I believe he’d think twice about it. A man on the desert who is handcuffed and without a weapon would be decidedly handicapped and probably not make it back to civilization. He’d have a few of Elfego’s bullets in him too. **** We reach our camp for the evening, and it’s exactly the same spot where Elfego and I bedded down two days ago. I even remember the shapes of the sagebrush that surrounds the cleared-out spot we’ve chosen. Everyone helps to unload the buckboard and when that’s done, I unload my bedroll that rides along with me, curved over my horse and behind the saddle. Big Mama acts like a frisky colt when I undo the cinch around her middle. I take off the saddle and turn her loose to wander at the end of a tether rope. I search out Elfego. He’s sitting on a rock next to where we’ll make our fire for the evening. His eyes cast toward McCarty who also sits. The prisoner shoots back an angry look at both me and Elfego. It’s a little disconcerting. If looks could kill, I’d have a bullet between my eyes. And I think there’s another round ready to fire at Elfego. “You going to tie him up for the night?” I ask. “Hadn’t thought about it. Just maybe I’ll get the sheriff to reset those handcuffs, so he won’t go traipsing around the camp during the night. Reckon he’s pretty much tuckered out after today’s ride. Probably sleep.” - 53 -


I’ve got my pad and pencil ready and hope this is a good time to get Elfego talking. “What was it like for you back in that shack in Frisco?” “Never thought I’d live through it. Those bullets, each one had my name on it, yet the good Lord deemed that I should live through the terror. I found a corner of the jacal where there was a drainage ditch cut in the ground. Dropped into it from time to time. But I had to keep watch. Those cowboys were clever. Always trying something. That dynamite blast early in the morning near deafened me. I was trying to catch some sleep in the drainage ditch.” I had more questions. “Was there any time when you thought you wouldn’t come through it?” “Every minute of the thirty-three hours I was in there. But something helped me. There was an old plaster cast of a saint, Saint Anna I think. Her presence got me through the deepest part of the night. With those thousands of bullets flying around me, not one landed in the statue. Had my hat on her head all the time and it was bullet-free too. Take a look.” Elfego pulls his hat out from behind him, and I stare at it. There are no bullet holes in it and it is an amazing story. It’s enough to make a Christian out of us both. “Do you think the saint watched over you and kept you from being killed?” “Didn’t do me any harm. Not a scratch on me, and let me tell you, the metal was flying in that shack. Knives, forks, and spoons on the table all had holes in them when the firing stopped. Every dish was cracked and the water container in the corner looked like it had exploded.” “You cooked breakfast in the morning. I saw the smoke coming out of the chimney on top of the roof.” “Wasn’t hungry. But I thought maybe if I heated up some tortillas and made a little coffee, those cowboys with the rifles might get tired of shooting at me since they couldn’t kill me. Did gulp down a few of mamacita’s beans I found in a jar on the floor. Glad she and her little one got out before the shooting started.” “What did you think when you heard Francisquito’s voice outside the shack?” - 54 -

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“Thought maybe there was a chance I’d get out of there. I was surprised to hear his voice so close to where I was napping. Startled me. Thought to myself that if he could sneak up on me like that, others could too. But then when I saw Cook and you and all of you together with Sheriff Ross, I figured it was time to end the battle and see if there was some legal way out of my predicament.” “Are you worried about what may happen to you in Socorro when we reach there tomorrow?” “Not too worried. Figure the law is on my side. All I was trying to do was keep that McCarty from shooting up the town. I’m still not pleased with the way that worked out. I would like to see McCarty behind bars. He’ll end up in jail when we get him to Socorro.” The coffee that’s now brewing over the mesquite bush fire in front of us gets my attention and I find that I’m hungry and thirsty too. I put my notebook down, stick my pencil over my ear and heed the message my stomach sends to my brain. I’ll get more of Elfego’s story tomorrow.

- 55 -


Chapter Seven Noises in the night, I hear something, it’s a scraping sound like someone dragging heavy boots over sandy soil. Could be one of the cowboys getting up to look after the horses, but experience in the west has taught me to be aware of all suspicious noises. I roll over on my right side to see what’s happening and just then I hear a thud where my head was a moment ago. A rock now rests exactly in the middle of my pillow. I look up. Standing over me is a handcuffed man. The feeble light from the fire outlines his face and instantly I know it’s McCarty. I’m up in a flash, but already he’s running away from me and toward the horses. “Elfego, McCarty’s escaping,” I yell. I look over at the place where I know Elfego bedded down and there’s no one in his blankets. Sheriff Ross is up and running toward me. The moonlight is behind him and his lumpy figure is outlined. He’s wearing long johns, yet he has his holster strapped around his waist and he’s wearing a hat. “What’s happening, Blunt? Heard you yell.” “McCarty tried to kill me with a rock. Fortunately I moved just before he slammed it down. He went off that way.” “We’ll get him. Where’s Elfego?” “Don’t know. His blankets are empty. Maybe he’s checking the stock.” A delayed anger surges over me, and I can feel my ears beginning to burn. I have no weapon, but McCarty probably doesn’t have one either. My first instinct is to run off in the direction where the cowboy disappeared, but then I think about my horse. What if McCarty tries to get even with me through Big Mama? I put on my boots, grab a shirt and run at a lope for where I tied down my horse last evening. A gentle whinny splits the cool morning breeze. Only one horse could make a sound like that. When horses munch grass, there’s a low grinding sound that has a hollow quality to it. Horses eat during the night and this group of steeds really sounds like they’d rather eat than sleep. I spy Big Mama’s outline and rush to her. Her jaws move. - 56 -

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“Well, old girl. You’re safe. Worried about you back there; thought you might be in trouble.” Big Mama snorts and sprays me with her spittle. I pat her on the neck and forgive her while wiping away the sticky moisture with the shirt I’m still holding in my hand. A noise behind me causes me to turn. Standing in the shadows is Buck Redwing. Slowly he strolls toward where I’m standing. “You have trouble?” “Sure did. McCarty tried to kill me back there. You see him?” “Saw the man with the handcuffs. That McCarty? Some more men, too.” “Yes. Where did they go?” “I watched them take horses. McCarty had a great problem. No saddle and his hands were handcuffed. Didn’t help much. Finally he got on. Rode off toward Frisco. Three others ride two buckboard horses. Two men on one horse.” “Well, maybe we’ve seen the last of them. Come back to the fire with me. I’ll heat the coffee.” But as I say these last words, I find myself talking to the wind. Redwing is nowhere to be seen. **** Morning comes and I rub my eyes. Was that a dream I had? My mind plays tricks on me. Then I look next to my bed and see the rock, the one McCarty threw at my head in the night. I pick it up and hold it in my hands. “I’ll just keep this as evidence,” I say. My boots are where I left them and soon I’m into my waist overalls. My shirt’s still damp from Big Mama’s spray. I take it to the fire and hold it out in both hands to dry it. It’s cool this morning, and I shiver, even though the glowing coals give out a steady heat. The desert in the early day, just before the sun comes up, is a beautiful thing to see. A soft purple glow rests against the base of the foothills that surround us, and there’s not a sound, or movement, but there are smells. A nearby creosote bush gives off its special odor and there is sage. Even the earth emits a scent all its own, a moldy smell that tells me that - 57 -


many things have died to enrich this soil I stand upon. This land is fertile. All it needs is water. I remember now. Elfego. I look at where his blankets are. He’s still missing and the mystery of his departure grows. Sheriff Ross approaches. He’s fully clothed. “McCarty must have gotten away. His horse’s missing. Buckboard horses are gone too.” Ross grabs a cup and fills it with coffee that’s been boiling near the fire. He takes a sip, spits out some, then tries again. “Boy, someone really hotted up that coffee. Burned my tongue. Hate that when it happens. You seen Elfego this morning? Worry about him.” “No, I was just going to ask you. He could be chasing McCarty, but I doubt it.” I get a cup and join Ross. My mind rushes ahead to all kinds of possibilities. “Sheriff, what if Elfego doesn’t come back?” “Have to swear out a warrant for his arrest. He’s still under suspicion of murder for what he did back there in Frisco. Have to find him before that happens. Could go bad for him in Socorro if he doesn’t get back.” “You mean, after all he’s been through, he could be given a longer sentence for running away from you?” “Up to the court to decide, but I’d testify that he sure acted like a lawman back there at the waterhole. You done good too. Mighty grateful to you back there for distracting McCarty long enough for us to draw down on him. That could of been a bad situation.” I’m about to open my mouth when I see a figure approaching us from the direction of the horses. As the man gets nearer, I recognize him as Elfego. He looks tired. He gets close to the fire and doesn’t say a word. Then he opens his mustachioed mouth and his voice is raspy as he speaks. “They’re all gone. I chased them part way to Frisco, but lost them in the desert brush. Thought I’d catch up to them. Two riders on one of the horses, but my animal gave out, and I had to walk him back to camp. Wonder what got into those cowboys. Kinda knew McCarty would try to escape.” His words land on my ear drums with an early morning dullness. Maybe I’ve been out west too long. For just a moment I no longer feel the thrill of - 58 -

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the early morning sunshine on my back, or the smell of strong black coffee boiling over a creosote fire. I yearn for a nice clean place to lie down and to have my woman beside me, toying with my hair, rubbing my chest, and tickling me in those places where only she knows to tickle. “Best we get on to Socorro,” I say. “What do you say, Ross, Elfego?” They both look at me as if they had made up their minds to travel also. It’s going to be a long road back to Socorro from here. All we have is Big Mama and Elfego’s ailing horse. I wonder if the stallion knows he’s going to be a father in a few more months. Sheriff Ross is thinking. I can tell he’s using his brain because his forehead is all waffled up in wrinkles and his eyes are almost closed. Finally he looks at Elfego, then at me. “Think we ought to take turns riding your horse, Nolo. You ride first, then Elfego. I’ll take the last turn. We got water, and we’ll carry it on Elfego’s horse. The animal can handle that even if he is limping. All right, let’s get going.” Elfego nods his head in agreement and begins to hang our canteens on his horse’s saddle horn. I scramble up on Big Mama, boot her in the rump, and we’re on our way to Socorro. **** I’ve seen a lot of western towns in the last fifteen years, but Socorro is one I’ll never forget. The big city of Albuquerque lies to the north, but Socorro is out here in the middle of nowhere. The Rio Grande River runs in a north and south direction not far from the town’s borders. And there are mountains to the East. They’re marked on my map as being over 8,600 feet. To the southeast is Oscura Peak and north of us is Gallinas Peak. Traveling on the trail between Las Cruces and Albuquerque, Socorro is halfway and many weary wagon drivers are glad to see the town on their way either north or south. There’s a Spanish and Indian tradition in Socorro dating back to well before the sixteenth century. The town is built on the site of the Piro Pueblo Indians. In 1598, the Spanish explorer, Juan de Oñate, visited this place and succeeded in founding the Church of San Miguel in the center of the town. - 59 -


The three of us are very tired. Sheriff Ross scuffs along in the dust of the trail and his eyes are on the buildings we see in the distance. Elfego never shows any wear, but there is a smile on his face. It’s the first time I’ve seen him crack a grin since before we arrived in Frisco and all the trouble began. With a serious court trial ahead of him, I can’t understand his good feelings. But maybe he knows something I don’t. I’m really feeling the tiredness of the trail. Big Mama must feel the same because she’s dragging her feet and barely keeping up with Lawman Ross and Elfego who stride along ahead of us. Elfego holds the reins of his limping horse in his right hand. We’re in the middle of town now and my eyes shift from sign to sign. Where is the hotel in this town? Will Joline be waiting for me? Up ahead is the Wayfarer’s Inn, and that must be the place where she’s staying. I yell at Ross. “Hey, Sheriff, I’m stopping off here. Joline’s here, I think.” Elfego looks back over his shoulder at me. I stop Big Mama and walk over to him. I feel I must say something. “Everything will go well with you my friend. You may be locked up for a while, but with a good attorney, you can win. I’ll testify for you. I saw everything that happened. By the way, why are you smiling?” “You’ve done everything right,” he says. “Sorry I was busy when those ruffians tried to hang you. I’m smiling because I’ve reached Socorro without being shot or mangled.” I give him a pat on the shoulder. He smiles broadly, and then turns to follow Ross toward the city jail. It’s a brand new one I hear and Elfego will be the first customer to use it. The man at the desk in the hotel lobby looks at me, and I can tell he’s sizing me up. I look down at my boots and they’re dusty as are my pants and shirt. There are perspiration stains under both my armpits and my hands are filthy from the trail. With a good bath, I could be a new man. I step up to the counter and look the clerk straight in the eyes. “Want to know if my woman is registered here. Her name’s Joline.” The man holds his gaze on me for a few moments, and then drops his eyes to the register in front of him. He turns the pages slowly, and I get the - 60 -

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idea that he knows exactly who I want, but isn’t about to tell me her room number right away. I reach over the counter and grab him by his collar. “Look, you silly bastard. Don’t you understand me? I want to know where my woman is staying.” I drop my hand and the man clutches his throat. He steps back, and his wild eyes stare back at me. He coughs. “Whoa, stranger. Ain’t no way to treat a mild mannered hotel clerk such as myself. What’s gotten into ya?” He takes a few more steps back, and I can tell that my aggressive actions have taken him off guard. “Sorry about that mister. But you must know I want to see my woman. Now are you going to tell me her room number? I can read it for myself.” I turn around the big book on the counter and consult it to find Joline’s name. I glance back at the clerk. His face is red, and he breathes with a throaty gasp. Maybe I have been too rough on him. “You all right? Remember next time to answer me right away.” I turn and walk out through the open doorway, the sun just now hitting the horse railing in front of where I’ve tied Big Mama. I stand on the boardwalk fronting the Inn for a moment, wondering where my love could be, since she’s not registered here. There is something beating against my leg and I turn. Buck Redwing stands next to me, his doeskin moccasined foot gently kicking against my calf. “Buck. You’re here. Please stop kicking me. I get the picture. You’re unhappy with the way I treated that clerk in there. I know you must have been watching. Do you know where Joline is?” “She waits for you. Bon Ton Cafe. You come. We’ll eat.” I am hungry. There is no doubt about that. Eating meals on the prairie always leaves me ravenous when I reach a town. I forgot just how hungry I was in my search for Joline back at the Wayfarer’s Inn. Now that Buck reminds me about food, I can hardly wait to chomp down on a T Bone steak and wash it down with a gallon of ale. “Where is the Bon Ton? Show me Buck.” “This way.” - 61 -


The Indian takes off at a lope, and by the time I untie Big Mama and start to lead her down the street, Buck has gone. There is no Indian to be seen. He’s done it again. But I know which way to go and I follow my nose and eventually see the sign for the cafe, plastered up against a false front of a hastily constructed building. Eagerly I tie my horse to the railing and step up on the boards that serve as a walkway in front of the eating place. The front door is open, and I step inside. This is a new place for me. I’ve eaten in Socorro before, but it was at the hotel when Joline and I first arrived here. My eyes search the room for my friend. She sits in one corner near an open window. She’s reading a newspaper and hasn’t noticed my entrance, obviously. I start toward her and when I reach halfway across the room, she looks up. Immediately she stands and dashes toward me. We melt into each other’s arms and although I know the other patrons in the cafe are watching, I hold her tight, tighter than I’ve ever held her before. Her face turns up toward mine and we kiss. It’s our welcome home kiss and I know I’ve been forgiven for all the things that happened between us back in Frisco. Our embrace lasts a long time and then we join our hands and walk toward the table. “I missed you, my dear,” I say. My voice shows emotion from all the events that have happened to me out on the prairie, especially the rock that almost ended my life and the tortuous journey I just made through the New Mexico desert to reach Socorro. Someday I may tell Joline about all that. For now, I’m happy to be in her presence and in one piece. Joline sits at my right. She’s still holding my hand. “There’s something different about you, darling,” she says. “No. I’m the same Nolo Blunt. You saw me leave Frisco with Elfego, the sheriff and the men from the ranch. We did have some incidents on the trail, but nothing to keep me from reaching you. Now let’s eat, and then you can show me where you’re staying. I’m desperately hungry and tired, and you said something about making love.” **** - 62 -

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Morning comes in Socorro as it comes in every other town around the world, and I’m not exactly prepared for it. The covers are still tightly wedged under my chin and on my right is my woman, gently snoring. I know I must rise and get down to the jail where Elfego will be waiting to see me. I slip one foot out from underneath the blankets, and carefully I get out of bed so as not to disturb my partner. There is a pitcher of fresh water near the wash basin and silently I pour some into the bowl and splash it on my face. It’s ice cold and although I’m used to cold water out on the trail, the water’s especially icy this morning. There’s nothing like it to drive away the need for sleep, and I do need to have my wits about me for my morning’s activities. I slip on my trousers, tuck in my shirt, and begin the arduous task of putting on my boots. Soon I’m attired, and I gently open the door and slip out. The walk to the jail where Elfego is incarcerated takes only a few moments, but there is much to see. An old yellow dog lies in the middle of the road, and as I pass he raises his head as if to growl, then thinks better of it and goes back to sleep. There are riders on horses passing me and a fourwheeled carriage races by me and nearly puts me in the ditch that runs alongside the dirt road where I walk. Up ahead is the stable where I put Big Mama last night. I’ll stop in and see her. The door to the horse barn is open and it isn’t hard for me to find my horse. She’s standing at the half-door to her stall and looking at me as if she knows I will see her at this moment. But there’s another distraction for her. Across from her is Elfego’s stallion and for once I note that Big Mama is not so much looking at me as at the male horse with whom she mated back at the water hole. For once I know the pangs of jealousy, but when I approach, Big Mama turns her head towards me and waits for me to rub her between the ears and scratch the hard surface of the area between her eyes down to her nostrils. Her big eyes watch my every move and she jerks her head up and down in a sign of recognition. It’s an old trick she’s learned just since she’s been with me. - 63 -


I look over at the stallion and realize that it will take time for him to heal from the injury he suffered back on the trail. But then Elfego won’t be needing a horse for a while, at least until he gets his legal problems straightened out. Elfego, I must get over to see him. I toss a handful of oats into the feeding trough, pat Big Mama on the side of her head and turn to leave. I hear a whinny and I make an imitative noise in response. Big Mama now knows I’ll return to her. I step up onto the boardwalk in front of the livery stable. A few steps and I’m at the jail door. I try the handle and it opens. Inside is a large desk and next to it, a rack of rifles, all carefully chained through the trigger housings with a large padlock securing the chain. I notice a cot next to the window behind the desk, and a body is there. It looks a little like it might be Sheriff Ross, and I walk over to get a better look. It is Ross and his eyes are just now opening. “Oh, Blunt, it’s you. Hope you slept well. This cot’s not the best place to spend the night. But I was so tired last night. A rock with a hollow in it would’ve been good enough for me. “Add some wood to make the fire hotter in the stove over there. We’ll get some coffee together.” Making coffee has been my métier out here in the west. In front of me is the tired looking blue and white spotted enamel pot that I can tell has been used thousands of times before. There are old grounds inside, and I dump them into the cane-woven waste basket next to the desk. A water barrel stands in one corner and with the tin dipper, I add what I think will be the right amount of liquid to make several cups of coffee. The coffee tin is on a shelf just over the barrel, and a measuring spoon is inside the lid. The heat from a banked fire welcomes me at the pot-bellied stove, the rosy-red embers still glowing. I add some sticks and twigs to the coals and soon a flame builds. Very soon, the top is hot. It won’t take long for the coffee to brew. Elfego rests on a crude bunk in the front cell. He’s still sleeping, but I know the smell of coffee will wake him. I walk over to him and watch his face in sleep. It’s a face that normally has many wrinkles, but now in the early morning light it is smooth, as if the man had not a care in the world. But I - 64 -

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know differently. There are many days ahead when Elfego may wish that he’d never seen a man named McCarty or ever heard of a town called Frisco.

- 65 -


Chapter Eight The townspeople of Socorro are interested in what happens to Elfego. He’s one of their favorite sons, as his father was a favorite before him. And the citizens of this town are buzzing now. The trial starts this morning, and I’m standing at the bottom of a staircase that leads upward from the ground to the second story of this newly-christened building. Elfego’s still in his cell. I left him only moments ago, and his spirits are good. He has the attitude of a man who knows he is right in what he did and believes it will take a lot of overwhelming evidence to make a judge find him guilty of manslaughter. But I’m not so sure Elfego should be so confident. He does have two lawyers and a county judge working for him. Attorney Shaw is a local man, sharp and wiry, who has made a name for himself in defending local citizens. Elfego certainly fits that category. He also has Judge Warrant, newly appointed to the bench at nearby Belen, the place where Elfego’s father escaped from jail but later was proven innocent. The third man is a B.S. Rodey who is an attorney, but also interested in political matters. It may take the combined effort and talents of all three to map out a successful defense. Up the street, people walk toward me, find the courthouse steps and mount the sturdy staircase to the upper floor. Soon I will have to do the same as Elfego’s case is called for 10:00 am. But for a few more moments, I want to stand here and watch. The sky is blue this morning, but there’s just the hint of white puffy clouds off to the east. I can see through the space between the buildings in front of me, all the way to the mountains that rise so precipitously from the floor of this valley. A sound of people talking causes me to turn my head in their direction. A man with a heavy black beard talks. “Hear he lasted some forty-eight hours in that hovel down there in Frisco. Sure wish I coulda been at that shoot-out. People be talkin’ about that for years to come.” “Come on now. Hurry up them stairs. We don’t want to miss a word of what’s goin’ on up there.” - 66 -

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Out of the corner of my eye, I see Sheriff Ross come out of the jail. Walking next to him is Elfego. Someone must have dug into their own wardrobe to outfit the defendant in a nicely tailored brown tweed suit. He’s even wearing a pressed shirt. A tie is knotted in a bow just under his chin. He’s had a haircut and if I didn’t know who he really was, I might mistake him for a local lawyer. Ross and Baca are now only steps away. They both look at me and stop. “Well, Nolo,” Sheriff Ross says. “The big moment arrives. Elfego here tells me you’re going to testify today. Are you prepared?” “All I can do is tell the truth. You see any of the cowboys from the Slaughter ranch?” Ross stands next to me, and he cocks his head to one side. “Can’t say as I have. Surely be some of those ruffians to testify. Don’t know what the prosecutor, Mr. H.B. Fergusson, has in mind. He’s got two other experienced attorneys workin’ with him. Seems to me one is a Colonel Brethen and the other one is Neill B. Field. I’ll be stayin’ on the fence. Reckon I’ll have to testify, too.” Baca leans against the wooden stair railing, and I know he’s listening to what we’re saying, because he now scrunches up his forehead and with his free hand, scratches a little bald spot on his head. “If you two are finished with your talking, it might be nice to get me to the courtroom. After all it is my trial and I’ve got some ideas about which way it’s going to go.” Baca puts his foot on the bottom step and Ross matches him, step by step up the stairs. All that’s left now is for me to get to the courtroom myself. But as I turn to follow Ross and Baca upstairs, a sixth sense warns me of trouble. I stop with my foot in mid-air, put it back on the ground and slowly turn to my right. No one is there. But in the distance I see a man approaching. He walks like someone I should know and he has the appearance of a cowboy. There’s a black hat shoved down over his right eye and his chaps are well-used, like he’s been on the trail a long time. As he nears me, my throat tightens and my eyeballs begin to itch. It’s McCarty. He stops just in front of me. “So, we meet again Mr. Reporter. If you hadn’t moved that pretty little head of yours back at our campground, you’d be down among the grass roots - 67 -


on Boot Hill. Reckon as how you must lead a charmed life. Now get outa my way ‘cause I’m goin’ up to that courtroom and testify. Got me one of them subpeonas. If you be testifyin’ too, make sure you do it the right way. Otherwise you might end up with a bullet in that Eastern heart of yours. Now move over.” I stand my ground and force the cowboy to walk around me. I can tell by the way he’s walking that he’s angry with me, but after all, he did try to kill me back on the trail. Maybe it’s time for me to learn how to shoot a pistol straight. That McCarty fellow just needs a good killing. That’d straighten him out. My blood rises and I haven’t felt this angry before in my life. It’s a good feeling, one that makes me feel like a man. The power of my manhood surges within me. I know Joline would be proud of me now, if she only knew what I had just done. Joline, where is she? After all, she is the one I’m waiting for here at the courthouse steps. Just like a woman to be late for her husband’s big day in court. More townsfolk come down the little alleyway next to the place where I’m waiting. Most of them are dressed in their Sunday best clothing. A trial like this comes only once in a lifetime and it can be pretty dull otherwise around here. Life in this town centers around merchandising and services. A spectacle like Baca’s arrest and subsequent trial gives everyone a chance to gossip about what might happen. Joline’s coming up the alley now. She’s wearing her pretty yellow dotted outfit with a big bow around her middle, tied at one side. I’ve never seen her look so glowing. Her hair is done up the way I like it, braided and coiled around her ears. Makes me think of a picture I once saw in a magazine, a Swedish lass with the same hairdo. She approaches and I wave a welcome to her. “It’s time for us to be in court my dear. The trial’s about to start, hurry up now.” All I get for my efforts is a frown from Joline. “Nolo Blunt. You can just stop all that nonsense. When are you going to learn that I have certain privileges as a woman and one of them is to be late? Besides, I couldn’t get my bustle hooked up right this morning without you. - 68 -

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I looked over at your side of the bed and you were gone. Too bad you left early.” Now what in the world could she mean by those words? I’ll never figure out a woman and especially Joline, who happens to be the most complex female person I’ve ever encountered. She’s changed since I met her for the first time back on that train in Nebraska. But then again, I guess I’ve changed a little, too. Side by side we climb the stairs to the upper level and enter the courtroom through the rear door. There are seats near the front and I gently nudge her with my elbow and point to a pair of seats near Elfego. She looks up at me and frowns again, but doesn’t say anything. What’s she mad about now? I’ll never know. It’s evident that this courtroom is a new one. The rough-hewn benches look like they just came out of the lumber yard. There’s sap still oozing out of the part where the bark still clings to the timber. But it’s the smell that I really notice. Pine, real pine and this odor gives a certain clean aroma to the trial that’s about to take place. Joline sits down next to me, and I am within elbow range of Elfego. The judge has not yet made his appearance and Elfego seems chatty. “Well, Nolo, we made it this far. All those moments back in that hovel in Frisco keep coming back to me. Couldn’t sleep last night for all the dreaming I did. At least I think I’ll get a fair trial here.” I’m still breathing hard from the climb up the steps, but I manage to answer his comment. “You know the prosecutors, Fergusson, Brethen, and Field?” “Sure do. Fergie’s been the district attorney here in Socorro since time began. Think he’s trying to run for national office. Probably try to make some great moves in this trial to get public notice. The other two are new to me. But to have three attorneys handle the prosecution is something new in these parts. I must be quite an important defendant, politically.” “That may help you. Did you see McCarty come into the room?” Elfego twists his neck around and stares at the back of the crowd and then slowly moves his head back to its original position.

- 69 -


“Didn’t see him at first; he’s back there on the left. Want you to do something for me. Get back there and let me know if he’s got a pistol on him. I don’t trust rattlesnakes even when I can see them.” At Elfego’s request, I get up from my seat, stretch, and walk down the opposite side from where McCarty sits. Casually I make my way over to the seats just behind him and plunk myself down in a chair. He hasn’t noticed me yet. I can tell because he’s in an animated conversation with the cowboy sitting next to him. I recognize the man he’s talking with. It’s the same Slaughter Ranch hand who accompanied us on the first leg of our trip here to Socorro from Frisco. They’re speaking loudly enough for me to overhear their conversation. “Saw that fellow Blunt this morning. Wouldn’t get out of my way at the bottom of the stairs. Wish I’d done him in back at the campsite. Had a rope around his neck back in Frisco. Almost got to see his feet dangle.” “Ah, shucks, Irish. He’s just a scribbler. Ain’t really a man you know. No man’d be writin’ stories for a magazine. Probably couldn’t get a real job back there in the east. Had to settle for scribblin’. Whyn’t you leave him alone? Only make matters worse if you kill him. Look, here comes the judge.” My mouth is dry and my hands are sweaty. But I appreciate the words of the man sitting next to McCarty. The voice of the court marshal reaches my ears. “All rise. Judge Ogden Many is now approaching the bench of this here court in and for the County of Socorro.” The judge swaggers in, his black robe bunching around his knees. He’s not smiling. His hair is neatly combed and he has a stringy handle-bar moustache highlighting the bulbous red nose just above it. I think maybe this Judge Many knows his way around a bottle of whiskey. But Elfego wanted to know if McCarty is carrying a weapon. I tap the man on the shoulder. He turns his head around, and if you ever saw a man with his mouth wide open, you’d know exactly what McCarty looked like at that moment. “You rat. You hear what we were talkin’ about?” “Sure did. Better take your friend’s advice. Leave me alone, or you’ll wind up dead for sure. Elfego wants to know if you’re packing a gun.” - 70 -

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McCarty’s turns almost completely around in his seat now, and I see his hand reach inside his coat. He pulls the butt end of a revolver out of his coat pocket and glares at me. “This is what you’re goin’ to get if you open your mouth here in this courtroom. I want to see that Elfego fella hang.” His mouth is screwed up into a pucker when he finishes talking, and then the voice of the judge reaches my ears. “What’s goin’ on back there? This here’s a courtroom of law. Ain’t no place to be cuttin’ up and talkin’. Bailiff, see to it that those men are quiet.” I stand up. “Your honor. If it please the court. I am Nolo Blunt and a witness in this trial. I have just found out that the man sitting in front of me, one Irish McCarty is carrying a loaded weapon on his person. I fear for my life as well as for the life of the defendant in this trial. Mr. McCarty has, on two occasions, attempted to take my life. He is a fugitive from justice. Sheriff Ross will confirm this.” I sit down. McCarty glares at me and I watch in horror as he pulls his pistol completely out from under his coat. He points it at me and cocks the trigger. But the Bailiff in the courtroom is faster than McCarty. A huge ham-like hand drops down on McCarty’s shoulder and an arm reaches forward and plucks the pistol out of the cowboy’s hand. “Reckon you won’t be needin’ this here piece of iron. Now stand up and come with me.” Red streaks flame upward on McCarty’s cheeks. If a man could chew a bullet in half, McCarty could do it now. Never did see a man so angry. I watch as the bailiff takes McCarty in front of the judge’s desk. It looks to me like the judge is angry too. His eyebrows are together in the middle of his brow and his mouth is caught up in a frown. “See here, you rapscallion. You bring a loaded weapon into my court and aim it at one of the witnesses. That tells me a lot about you. What do you have to say for yourself? Speak up.” From my vantage point I can see perspiration starting to roll down McCarty’s cheeks. At least I think it’s perspiration. It could be tears. “Judge, I got lots to say about that nosy reporter back there but I got more to say about this here no ‘count Elfego Baca up here in this chair. He - 71 -


slapped handcuffs on me back in Frisco when I didn’t do anything more than any other cowboy’s been doin’ there for years. I done been singled out, your honor, and I don’t like it. That’s why I want to see this ornery bastard strung up and the same goes for that sidekick of his, that nosy reporter.” McCarty points a bony finger straight at me and looks at me as if he’d like to snatch me bald. If looks could kill, I’d a been dead long ago.” The judge scratches the top of his head, and I can tell he’s thinking. It doesn’t take him long to come to a conclusion. “You, Mr. McCarty. You’re goin’ to have your say in court later. I hereby remand you to the custody of the bailiff and be chained to your chair and handcuffed ‘til this here trial is over. You’re going to spend some time in jail, my young man. Bailiff, you know what to do.” I look over at Joline. She’s smiling, and I can tell there’s a look of relief on her face. She’s been through a lot already, but she’s a spunky gal and I know she’ll see me through this. The judge is about to say something again. “You, young feller back there. You Blunt fella. Come on down here where I can get a good look at ya. You got some nerve. I can tell. Ain’t many fellas would a done what you just did. Especially with a six shooter aimed at their middle.” I rise from my chair and make my way down the aisle. There’s muttering on both sides of me. I guess the people of Socorro are getting their money’s worth today. I arrive at the same place where McCarty stood only moments before. The judge looks me over, pulls on his beard, closes one eye and squints with the other one. “Well, I must say you don’t look like much up close. But there must be somethin’ about you that would cause a normally calm cowboy to become disrupted. Take your seat. We’re goin’ to get this here trial started.” He raps his gavel on his desk and as he does so, I turn around to find a seat next to Joline. She must be feeling good because as I sit down, she turns toward me and smiles. I kiss her on the cheek, grab her hand and put my arm around her. “That was a moment back there my dear; didn’t know whether or not that McCarty was going to pull the trigger. It was a chance I had to take.” - 72 -

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I hear another rap of the gavel. “You, young fella back there, Blunt. This here’s a court of law and when I rap the gavel that means for everyone to be quiet, including you. Now let’s get started. Mr. Prosecutor, you got a case to present here. It’s a case of involuntary manslaughter brought against this here defendant, one Elfego Baca.” A large man rises from his chair. He’s dressed in black. It’s a vested suit and it’s worn almost all the way through, but it’s had good care. He’s a giant of a man, now that he’s standing full straight. I know him as H.B. Fergusson and I never did know what the H.B. stands for. He nods toward the judge and takes three strides forward. He slowly turns, casts his eyes toward Elfego, then Ross, then me. His pock-marked face indicates he’s had a bout with smallpox, a common ailment out here in the west. His head swivels back toward the judge. “Your honor. This here’s a simple case of something small, getting out of hand and ending up with several men lying out there in Boot Hill in Frisco. Jurisdiction for this here trial has been established in Socorro and I am duly sworn to bring this here self-made lawman, one Elfego Baca, to justice for what he’s done. I will prove beyond a doubt that this man, Baca, did willfully shoot holes through several cowboys and directly cause the death of one Mr. Perham, foreman of the well-known Slaughter Ranch near Frisco.” I can tell the judge has listened to the prosecutor’s words. He looks like he’s mulling the information over in his mind before he speaks. “All right, Mr. Prosecutor. Get on with your case. If you have any physical evidence, it will be properly introduced, then marked for exhibit.” I look over at McCarty. He’s handcuffed now and sitting straight up in his chair. He has two loops of chains crossed in front of his chest and fastened down between his legs. I imagine he’s quite uncomfortable, and that’s the way I like to see him. He notices that I am watching him, and stares back at me, his mouth moving, his eyes squinting like bright lights were shining into them. It looks like to me like there’s hate exuding from every pore of his body, and it’s all directed at me. What did I do to make him so angry? Maybe I’ll know when this trial is over. - 73 -


The Prosecutor’s talking now, and I cut off my gaze of McCarty and turn. “The state calls Mr. Nolo Blunt to the stand. Rise and be sworn, Mr. Blunt.” I’ve testified once before in court, but it was a minor case of someone having stolen objects from the magazine office back in New York. This trial is certainly about something entirely different. A man’s life and reputation are at stake in this one.

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Chapter Nine Fergusson now stands next to me. He’s a bear-like man with eyes that stare straight into mine. Maybe it’s the eyebrows I notice the most. They’re bushy and he’s so close to me that I can see the individual wild hairs that shoot off at angles. “Mr. Blunt. Please tell this court in your own words just how you met Elfego Baca, the defendant in this case.” “Well, you see, I’m a writer for Frontier Magazine that’s published in New York, and I heard about Elfego as someone I could write about. Met him here in Socorro earlier this month and a lot has happened since then.” “Mr. Blunt. I appreciate your use of language, but please restrict your answers directly to the questions I ask you. Now you say you met Baca here in Socorro. When did you decide to go to the town of Frisco with him?” “Elfego suggested we travel together.” “And you arrived in Frisco late in the day?” “Yes, the sun was just going down.” “You stopped at Milligan’s Bar?” “That’s right. Elfego and I were thirsty after our long ride that day.” “And you saw one Irish McCarty at the bar.” “Yes, that’s right. He was drunk and shooting up the place.” “You’re doing it again Mr. Blunt. Please just answer the question. Did you or did you not see Irish McCarty at the bar?” “Yes. He was there.” “What were Mr. McCarty’s actions in the bar?” “He was shooting at some liquor bottles on a shelf. Milligan, the owner, objected to his use of his firearm in this manner and told him to leave. McCarty did.” “And it was after that when Mr. Baca arrested him? “Yes, sir and it was quite a scene. McCarty had just threatened a man on the street and Elfego walked right up to him...” “Mr. Blunt. Please limit your words to a yes or no answer.” “All right Mr. Fergusson, but I think you want to hear the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. I am just trying to give you all the truth.” - 75 -


Fergusson puts his hands on his head, covering his face. He drops one hand and looks at the judge. “Your honor. What we have here is a talkative reporter who will not obey the rules of the court.” “Mr. Fergusson, I quite agree.” Judge Many has a scowl on his face as I look up at him. Looks bad for me. I better answer just yes or no from now on. Many looks down at me. “Mr. Blunt. I realize you are in a profession that deals with words, but the only words I want to hear out of you is yes or no. Now if I hear anything else without the prosecutor asking for it, I’ll consider you in contempt of court and you may get a jail sentence. Now does that put enough emphasis on what I say?” My knees shake and my body reacts. I have to use the toilet in the worst way. “If it please your honor, I hear your message and will obey your command, but I do request a short recess. My bladder’s full.” “All right Mr. Blunt. But let me give you an additional warning. Do not discuss this case or your testimony with anyone including that woman I saw you with earlier. I see she is still in the courtroom. Do I make myself clear?” “Yes, your honor, but my bladder’s about to burst. Could we discuss this later?” A smile crosses Judge Meany’s face. “Go, son, go. Mother Nature is not someone to fool with.” Fergusson takes me through my entire testimony about what happened in Frisco while Elfego and I were there. He finally reaches the end of his questions, or so I think. “And Mr. Blunt, you accompanied Mr. Baca and Sheriff Ross on the journey from your last night’s stay in Frisco to this town of Socorro. Have you anything to add?” I look up at the judge. He gives me a nod for yes. It must mean that I can use my own judgment in answering Fergusson’s request for more information. “I would like to add that Mr. Baca is a straightforward man who has a sense of right and wrong and who, in this case, knew he was right and followed through with the dictates of his heart and mind. I admire him - 76 -

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greatly for his strength of character and his plans of action. I would not be here today if it weren’t for Mr. Baca.” Again, a smile crosses the judge’s face. He turns his gaze from me to Fergusson. “Is that all you wish to ask Mr. Blunt, counselor?” “Yes, your honor, but I reserve the right to call him back to the stand for additional examination following the defense attorney’s remarks.” Judge Many looks back at me. “You may step down, Mr. Blunt. Please remember that you are still sworn and that you are not to discuss your testimony with anyone until this here trial is concluded.” I get up from my seat; look over at Baca, whose face shows no emotion, and then I look back to where Joline is sitting. She’s gone. I wonder what that means? Hurriedly I turn to the judge. He is just about ready to call a new witness and I catch him in mid-speech. “Your honor, may I be excused? I don’t know what’s happened to my woman.” A roar of laughter rises from the audience and there’s even a smile on the judge’s face. “Mr. Blunt. May I suggest that you find your woman. Yes, you are excused and it’ll be a pleasant relief not to have you in this courtroom for a while.” I race out the door and down the steps. My breathing is out of control and my legs feel wobbly, but I continue on to the hotel where Joline and I stayed last night. I go up the steps and through the main door and soon I’m facing the clerk. “My woman, Joline. Have you seen her?” The clerk makes a sour-looking face and scratches his head as if he were thinking. “Yep. Did see a scrawny lookin’ woman come rushing through here ‘bout a half hour ago. She had an Indian with her. Thought it kind of funny for a white woman to be with an Indian. Went upstairs, then came down with a bag. She and the Indian high-tailed it outa here on horses, headed south.” - 77 -


I thanked the man, then ran up the steps to the room. The door stands open and there is just a hint of the perfume that Joline always wears. The room is the same as when I left it early this morning except for a white piece of paper on the washstand. There’s writing on it, and it’s in Joline’s hand. Deftly I grab it off the table and move to the window where there is more light. Across the top is scrawled, Dearest Nolo, You may be angry with me, but I’ve decided to return to Kiowa country with Buck Redwing. He will take care of me on the long ride back to Texas. My darling, you have a battle going on to save your friend’s life. I don’t want to be in the middle of it. I have work yet to do at the Kiowa camp. There are children waiting for me to teach them English. I know you won’t miss me because you have so many things you have to do, so many articles to write. Just remember that I love you still and await the moment when we shall be reunited in Texas. Write to me, my love. Send the letter to general delivery in Denton. I’ll check there every week for a letter from you. Love, Joline I think to myself that Big Mama is down at the stable waiting for me, and my urge is to get on my horse and go after my woman. But with a half hour head start, it would be difficult to catch up with Joline and Buck. My heart is full of emotion and then I take some deep belly breaths and let the air out slowly. My head clears and I decide that maybe it’s best that Joline has ridden off to Texas. I know she’ll be safe with Buck and that life must have been boring for her to watch me chase around with Elfego from place to place. Although, if it hadn’t been for her and Buck, my neck would have been stretched back in Frisco and my body would be rotting away in the boot hill cemetery under a piece of this New Mexico sandy soil. - 78 -

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**** The courtroom is nearly empty when I return. Elfego talks with his attorneys and I stroll over to them and hear some of the conversation. Elfego’s normally loud and raucous voice is now low and soft. “Blunt’s testimony was good. It told the story of Milligan’s bar and the incident with McCarthy. But there’s more that needs to be told. What are you going to do to bring out my story?” Elfego says. Attorney Shaw notices my presence. “Well, Mr. Blunt. You did some fine testifying up on the stand. Sorry the judge got his hackles up about your overuse of words. Don’t think that will stand in the way of Elfego here gettin’ acquitted on the charges. But if you get recalled to the stand, remember what the judge told you about contempt of court. Hate to see you incarcerated.” “I’ll mind my manners. My woman’s left me. She’s goin’ back to Texas to be with the Kiowa. I’m feelin’ kinda low.” Elfego’s eyes brighten. “Joline’s done the smart thing, Nolo. We have this here trial to finish and besides, I got a lot of other adventures I feel that are coming my way, soon as I get elected sheriff here in Socorro. I want you fresh to write about them.” He smiles and his eyebrows arch as if to indicate that he is feeling mischievous. His coal-black eyes stare back at me and I know I want to follow this man anywhere he goes. There’ll be a story in it for me and my editor in New York will keep paying me a large salary to relate these stories to our readers. Actually I feel a little better about Joline leaving me. At least I won’t have her to worry about in any of the dangerous work I do with Elfego. And she’ll be doing some good, while teaching English back at the Indian camp. Buck will see that she’s protected and before long his very own kids will be speaking English. Shaw and Baca continue to talk about the case, but my stomach tells me I am hungry. Silently I slip away and head down the court stairs again. **** - 79 -


The Bon Ton cafe is doing a big lunchtime business. Probably it’s because of the trial going on. There’s a sign in the window. It’s scribbled in rough handwriting, and I can just make out what it says, Manager Wanted. Didn’t know they were having management problems. My mind goes back to the moment I arrived in Socorro with Elfego and Sheriff Ross. I looked for Joline and found her at a table near the window. As I enter the cafe on this day, I head for the same table only in place of Joline, Katarina the Wild Kat, sits there like she is expecting me. “Kate, what are you doing here in Socorro? Who’s minding the Frisco Bar?” “Sold it. Business went out the window when Elfego left town. People resented me for harboring you and that McCarty character. Town folk stayed away in droves after the shooting stopped. Couldn’t figure it out, the bar. McCarty is well liked and he acted like a hero when he got back to town after escaping from Sheriff Ross. I also got quite a likin’ for Elfego and you’re not so bad yourself. Your woman still around?” I sit down at Katarina’s table and as I do, I look her over as if it were for the first time. Nice eyes. Well-groomed hair and as for her breasts, they stand high and firm on her well-corseted chest. Quite a handsome woman at that. “My woman left me this morning. But she’s not too far away. She’ll be with some Indian friends near Denton. Quite a shock to me, but I guess I’ll get over it.” “Well, let’s order some food and maybe a full stomach will make you feel better. I’ll enjoy your company for lunch. Got me some roast beef and apple pie in mind. You hungry?” “Yes ma’am. Beef and pie sounds great to me. You see a waitress around?” “She’ll come as soon as I lift my hand. Been thinkin’ about settling down here in Socorro, maybe take the manager’s job here at this cafe. Have to speak with the owner.” Things sometimes move too fast for me and this is one of those times. Smelling Katarina’s perfume and looking at the soft curves of her cheeks, the long eyelashes, and her ruby lips, I feel an old response rising inside of me. But I’m a taken man and it’s not possible for me to have thoughts like this. - 80 -

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Besides, she said she had set her cap for Elfego. I wouldn’t want to barge in on a budding romance. “It shouldn’t be a problem for you to find a job in this town. And since Elfego will be working here, as soon as he gets this mess with McCarty cleared up, he’ll be near you if you have something in mind.” “Well, Nolo Blunt. You old match maker, you. Elfego doesn’t know I exist.” “Knowing you as I do, Katarina, he will shortly.” She laughs and about that time the waitress arrives at our table to take our order. Once again I am sitting in the courtroom only this time I am on my own. Joline does mean so much to me and her absence has taken me aback slightly. The building is stifling hot and even though the side windows are all open, not a breath of breeze relieves the unrelenting heat that is so famous here in New Mexico. This truly is desert country and I’ll never understand why people want to live here. Elfego enters through the heavy door and Sheriff Ross is with him. They take their seats near the front. McCarty, arrayed in chains, is already sitting next to the Bailiff’s station. McCarty’s head turns toward me and I can read nothing but hate on his face. He’s like a caged lion. If he were turned loose, I know what would happen to me. As long as he’s in chains, I’m safe. Judge Many enters and we all stand until he seats himself. Evidently Elfego was on the stand before lunch because now the judge calls him to take his place in the witness chair. I can tell that Fergusson is back in form. It’s probably the lunch he ate. His questions are pin-pointed toward the action that night back in Frisco when Elfego holed up in the tumble down shack in the middle of Main Street. “Mr. Baca. Please tell the court why you entered that small adobe building in the town of Frisco?” “Mr. Prosecutor, my life was at stake.” “Any other reasons?” “I had to have shelter. A mass of cowboys was ready to fire at me with their rifles.” - 81 -


“And why, sir, were they about to fire on you?” “Don’t rightly know. Guess they were angry about what happened to McCarty.” “And what did happen to McCarty?” “I arrested him, kept him in a hotel room until there was a stampede outside, and then took him to the Frisco Bar. Took him to the courthouse that night; had him arraigned before the Justice of the Peace. He was found guilty and fined. After that I attempted to leave peacefully from the courthouse, but there was a mob of cowboys out front sayin’ things. I took one of them hostage and made it to the jacal just before all hell broke loose. Those were real bullets whistling over my head. What did you expect me to do?” “Now Mr. Baca, let’s not get all het up about my questions. Changing the subject, what kind of authority did you have to arrest McCarty outside Milligan’s bar?” Elfego squirms somewhat in his seat, but then I see him straighten up and touch the badge on his shirt. “I took a course in detective work and they sent me this badge when I graduated. Sheriff’s office here in Socorro made me a special deputy.” “Do you mean to tell me, Mr. Baca, you acted as you did without any actual authority?” “Well if you mean was I an elected sheriff, no.” “Then the arrest of McCarty was illegal.” “No, sir, not the way I see it. I acted as any good human being would act. I made a citizen’s arrest of McCarty. That’s legal in this state and you know it.” “Yes, yes Mr. Baca. It is legal, but you were responsible for the death of several men, were you not?” “That’s right. Self-defense in most cases. That Slaughter boss outside the hotel room caused his own death. I had nothing to do with it. I warned those men before any shots were fired. The boss got tangled up in the stampede that followed and fell off his horse. He was trampled by a horse.” “Your honor. That’s all my questions. I reserve the right of cross examination. The prosecution rests its case.” - 82 -

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The judge’s eyes have been closed, but now he opens them wide and stares at Elfego for a moment. “Mr. Baca, you may step down. Remember that you are still sworn and that you are not to discuss your testimony with anyone except your attorneys. Mr. Fergusson, you’ve rested your case. That means we can get on with the defense. Are the lawyers for the defense ready to proceed?” Attorney Shaw pipes up. “We are your honor.” “Call your first witness.” Shaw stands now and looks at me. “The defense calls Mr. Blunt to the stand.” I hadn’t expected this, but I’m ready to testify to anything I saw while we were in Frisco. I don’t mind the questions that Shaw asks me. I really feel like I’m part of the defense team. And Shaw knows what questions to ask. “Mr. Blunt, you saw most of the action on the night in question. Did you see an attempt by the Slaughter cowboys to blow up Mr. Baca in the adobe hut?” “Yes, I did.” The judge looks down at me and a slight grin starts outward from the corners of his mouth. “And did you see the person who lit the fuse?” “No, sir. “Why didn’t you see the person?” “It was a dark night, sir.” “But you saw the explosion.” “Yes.” “Would you assume that one of the cowboys planted the dynamite near the shack?” Fergusson rises to his full six feet five. “I object your honor. We can’t assume anything. This is a court of law.” “Objection sustained. Continue Mr. Shaw.” “Let’s see if we can get at this, another way, Mr. Blunt, did Mr. Baca have any enemies in Frisco other than the Slaughter cowboys.” “I wouldn’t know, sir.” - 83 -


“But you do know that the cowboys were angry with Baca. You saw them firing their weapons at him during daylight hours.” Fergusson again stands. “Your honor, the defense attorney is leading the witness. I object.” “Objection sustained. Counsel for the defense will ask direct questions of the witness.” Shaw shows no sign of being perturbed. But I know he must be feeling something. “Mr. Blunt. During the day in question, did you see anyone firing a weapon at the hovel where Mr. Baca was ensconced?” “Yes, sir.” “Could you estimate the number of persons firing their weapons that day?” “Yes, sir. I counted them. I’m a reporter and I like accuracy. There were eighty of them.” “Did you see any sticks of dynamite on the day in question?” “Yes, sir.” “Tell the court what you saw.” “McCarty was there firing away. I saw him disappear during the late afternoon. He soon returned and had a box with him.” “Could you tell what was in the box?” “Well, all I could see was the word dynamite on the outside and a skull and cross-bones on the end.” “But you didn’t see inside the box?” “Yes, I did.” “And what did you see?” “I saw McCarty pry back the boards on the top. He reached inside and pulled out some red sticks with fuses on them. He laughed aloud as he looked toward the hovel where Mr. Baca was defending himself.” “That’s all the questions I have. Mr. Fergusson, cross examination?” Fergusson rises and moves toward me. “Mr. Blunt. Would you consider yourself an expert on explosive devices? Have you ever seen dynamite before?” “In answer to your first question, no I am not an expert. In answer to your second question, yes I have seen dynamite before. My daddy was a - 84 -

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miner in upstate New York and he used to take me with him sometimes when they were blasting. I’ve handled dynamite, and I know what it can do.” Fergusson looks dejected. I don’t think he wanted that last part of my answer to be made public. But I was sworn to tell the truth. “No more questions your honor.” Judge Many looks over at attorney Shaw. “Mr. Shaw, who is your next witness.” “The defense calls Mr. Irish McCarty to the stand.”

- 85 -


Chapter Ten The bailiff moves forward and undoes the chains around McCarty. McCarty’s eyes find mine, and I know he would like to kill me on the spot. This could be risky if McCarty suddenly decides he wants revenge. But the bailiff is big and strong, and he’s wearing a giant of a six shooter. McCarty swears to tell the truth. But I watch his eyes as he takes the oath. His orbs have a mean glow about them, and I know that the man is feeling murderous toward Elfego and me. He looks at me then at Elfego. If looks could kill, I’d be a dead coyote strung up by my ears and Elfego wouldn’t be far behind me. The man exudes hate from every pore. Shaw rises from his chair and steps forward so he can look Judge Many in the eye. Shaw’s right hand is slightly twitching, but he stands tall. “Your honor. Before I question this man, I would like to have it on the record that I expect him to be a hostile witness.” “Agreed, Mr. Shaw.” Shaw turns his head and studies McCarty’s face. He’s several feet away from confronting the witness head on, but this must be a tactic he’s worked out. He squares his shoulders and casually makes his way toward McCarty, then stops, stares again at the witness and finally walks right up to where McCarty sits. “Mr. McCarty. You heard what I just said to the judge?” “Yes, I did.” “And are you a hostile witness?” “If you mean, am I in favor of seein’ that Baca hanged and that no account reporter fella shot, I am.” “Objection, your honor. The witness must confine himself to yes or no answers unless I ask for more.” Judge Many looks up from what he’s been studying and casts his eyes on the defense counsel. His face reflects the years of his listening to arguments by prosecutors and defense attorneys. “Objection sustained. Mr. Court Reporter, you will strike out the remarks by McCarty in his last answer. Continue Mr. Shaw.” - 86 -

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“Now then. Mr. McCarty, you would consider yourself a hostile witness?” “Don’t know what that word hostile means, but if it means I’m all out angry, well then, yes I am.” “Thank you Mr. McCarty. Now to continue. What was your reaction when Mr. Baca and Mr. Blunt confronted you outside Milligan’s bar in Frisco on the evening in question?” “I was a little liquored up, but I warn’t lookin’ for no fight. In fact I was fixin’ to put my pistol back in my holster when that Baca fella come down on me with his shootin’ iron. Saw the glint from that reporter’s rifle too. Knew I had too many barrels starin’ down on me, so I just give up.” “You mean you didn’t struggle or attempt to get away.” “Nope. I seen those two pilgrims had guns on me, and I don’t like to fight the odds. Not when my skins up for stretchin’. I just give up ‘cause I knew the JP would let me off with a fine soon as he saw I was a Slaughter cowboy.” “Do Slaughter cowboys get extra privileges in the town of Frisco?” “Wa’al it ain’t exactly like that. It’s just that most a them people who run stores like to see us boys happy. Otherwise....” “You mean, Mr. McCarty that the business owners in Frisco might find their stores burned down during the night” “Wa’al it could happen. Lotsa places leave their wood fires burnin’ to take the chill off the place in the mornin’.” I look squarely at McCarty and can see the beginnings of a grin start at the corners of his mouth. He’s telling the truth all right, but he’s making fun out of it. Shaw continues. “Sounds to me like the Slaughter cowboys run that town. Am I right?” “Wa’al we do lotsa tradin’ there. Can’t help it if folks just wanta help us out.” “Do you trade at the Frisco Bar also?” “Used to. But since what happened with me and that Baca fella and his stooge, ain’t none of us gone in there.” “Are you referring to the stay at the bar after Mr. Baca arrested you?” “Shor am.” “What happened to you after that time at the Frisco Bar?” - 87 -


“That no account imitation sheriff sittin’ over there in this courtroom, he and that Blunt fella hiked me over to where the JP does his judgin’. JP says I got to pay money for my misdeeds and I flushed the dollars outa my pocket and paid him.” “What happened then?” “Me and the boys wanted to skin that Baca alive and do some damage to that there reporter fella.” “What did you do?” “Twarn’t just me. Whole Slaughter crowd got down their rifles. That skinny little imitation sheriff dude, Baca, runs off usin’ one of the boys for cover. We can’t shoot. But he hides out in that tumbledown adobe on Main Street. ‘Twas then we started poppin’ our guns at him. Hoped to kill him for what he’d done.” “Excuse me, Mr. McCarty. You have just admitted in a court of law that you wanted to kill Mr. Baca. Do you really mean that?” “Shor do, and I wanted to cut up that snivelin’ pencil pusher over there, too.” “Just what do you think Mr. Baca did?” “He killed a right good man, our foreman, Perham. Well, he might just as well have pulled the trigger. Perham’s dead.” “Did you see Mr. Baca shoot Mr. Perham?”

“Naw, cain’t rightly say I saw that. But Perham’s dead and it’s all because of that pipsqueak of a sheriff over there.” I look over at Baca. His eyes look red with anger. He makes a gesture with his fist, but stops, catches his breath, and resumes his composure. I imagine he’s thinking about something he might do to McCarty if he could get the man by himself. Shaw relentlessly carries on. His right hand is steady now. “So actually, Mr. McCarty, Mr. Baca did not personally kill Mr. Perham. Will you tell the court how Mr. Perham met his demise?” “Don’t rightly know what all them words mean, but if you mean, how did Perham die, his horse fell on him.” “Mr. Baca, then, had nothing at all to do with the death of Perham.” “Tain’t so. That Baca fella might just as well have pulled the trigger. He had his six shooter out, and he was aimin’ at the sky. Fired off three rounds; - 88 -

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caused the horses to stampede. That’s when Perham died. Watched the whole thing from the hotel window where I was a prisoner.” “Did Mr. Baca warn the cowboys before he fired?” “Yeah, reckon so. But the boys was so mad by then that they wanted his skin.” “You mean then, that anger on the part of the cowboys caused the stampede?” “You and them fancy words, tryin’ to twist me up. The boys wanted to rescue me and woulda done anything to Baca to get me outa that hotel room.” “So they didn’t listen to the warning?” “Nope. Guess the boys was somewhat edgy.” “A few more questions, Mr. McCarty. During the battle that first night, did you leave the cowboy’s siege to recover a box of dynamite?” “Well, since I been swore to tell the truth, I did.” “And what did you do with the dynamite?” “I done opened the top. Pulled back them boards like they was nothin’. Got me some sticks and...” McCarty stops talking. He looks frustrated. I think I know why. He’s just admitted that he had a part in the attempted bombing of Baca’s hiding place. He turns toward me and then Baca. I can see sweat on his forehead and his lips are moving, but there is no sound coming out. Finally he turns back toward Shaw. “You done tricked me. Ain’t right for you to do me that way.” “No, Mr. McCarty. You tricked yourself. That’s what a trial is all about. No further questions, Judge Many.” “Mr. McCarty. You are hereby remanded to the custody of the bailiff who will place you back in irons and eventually back in a jail cell. Mr. Bailiff, do your job.” But I can tell that McCarty doesn’t want to be back in chains, and his brain is so fouled up that he seeks instant revenge. He leaps from the witness chair and takes three big leaps to reach Elfego. Sheriff Ross rises calmly from his seat next to Elfego, drops his hand to his pistol and I watch as he deftly whips the firearm into a horizontal position. But Elfego is ready for McCarty. I know he’s been watching the action in the courtroom and - 89 -


obviously he knows there might be trouble when McCarty ends his testimony. Elfego is up now and just as McCarty reaches him, Elfego makes a fist and punches the cowboy on the chin. McCarty reels and grabs his head. The veins on his temples stand out in relief, and he looks a lot like a man I once saw suffering an attack of apoplexy. Ross now brings his gun into play. “Just stop right there, McCarty. You ain’t goin’ nowhere. Bailiff there wants to make you calm like. Just march yourself over to your chair and sit down. My pistol will watch you all the way.” McCarty puts his hands in the air. He’s breathing heavily, snorting like a bull and his face is red. A blob of something filmy runs out of his nostrils, drops onto his chin and then onto the floor. His eyes narrow. “Don’t shoot you crazy bastard. I ain’t goin’ to hurt you. But let me get my hands on that Baca when this is over and you’ll see somethin’ different.” McCarty twists his body around. Standing next to him is the giant of a bailiff who also has drawn his weapon. I can see McCarty slump down, shoulders almost together in the front, as he and the bailiff head toward the chair where he had been sitting before his testimony. The bailiff quickly wraps the chains around his prisoner and McCarty at last is calm. Elfego and I will have to watch out for him if he ever gets out of jail. Shaw still stands next to the witness chair. He looks up at the judge. “Your honor, I call Sheriff Ross to the stand.” The judge’s face is still in shock, and he looks at Shaw. “Wait a minute Mr. Shaw. I’ve got some duties to perform here.” The judge turns his gaze on McCarty who is now wrapped with chains. I would assume they are a substantial deterrent to any further antics. “Mr. McCarty. I find you in contempt of court for that recent outburst. I hereby fine you $100 and ten days in jail. Any further disruptions of this here court will mean a stiffer fine and more days in jail. Mr. Shaw, let’s proceed.” Shaw points at Ross, and he takes the oath to tell the truth. He appears calm even though he has just had a confrontation with McCarty. He brushes the hair away from his eyes and takes a deep breath. There’s a look of confidence on his rugged face. - 90 -

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“Mr. Ross. You are a regularly elected sheriff for the county surrounding the town of Frisco?” “Yes I am.” “Then would you tell us in your own words just what you observed when you arrived recently in the town of Frisco.” “If you mean, when the Slaughter cowboys were shooting at Baca, I only saw part of what happened. It was early mornin’ of the day after Baca was in the jacal during the night. Heard the boys tried to dynamite him.” Judge Many interrupts. “Mr. Ross. This court cannot accept hearsay evidence. Confine your remarks strictly to what you saw during the time in question.” Ross continues. “Well, I done saw some eighty cowboys shootin’ their rifles at the hovel out there where I assume Mr. Baca was holed up. The boys stopped firin’ for a minute and I saw some smoke comin’ up outa the chimney in that jacal. Old Baca musta been fixin’ his breakfast. Heard the cowboys talkin’. Sounded to me like they thought this Baca must be a magic man. They said they’d been firin’ all night and thought Baca was dead.” Shaw looks up at the witness, his eyes scanning the wallpaper of the courtroom. “Mr. Ross. Did you have anything to do with getting Mr. Baca out of the hovel?” “Yep. Me and that reporter over there along with Francisquito Naranja and a Mr. Cook, all of us walks out to the shack. Francisquito says somethin’ and Mr. Baca jumps outa the tiny window. He’s wearin’ only his underwear.” “What happened then, Mr. Ross?” “Baca has his six gun trained on all of us. He uses us as shields to get past the cowboys and shoves us into the Frisco bar. Mr. Cook gets the cowboys calmed down and says Baca will be put on trial here in Socorro. Guess that does it.” “Just one more question, Mr. Ross. Was it an easy trip to Socorro with the prisoner, Baca?” “Well, sir. The trip was quiet with Baca. It’s that dirty rat, McCarty, sittin’ over there so smug and all. He tried to bushwhack us at a water hole - 91 -


and I arrested him. Then next night, even though he was manacled, he most came close to killin’ that Blunt fella with a rock.” Ross points a finger at me and looks my way. “He got away and showed up here in this courtroom. When you all get through with him, I got some arrestin’ to do myself. Since he’s in chains again, I’ll hold up until this trial is over.” Shaw now moves in front of the judge and looks up at him. He stands erect and appears confident. His hands are at his sides. “Your honor. The defense rests its case. Obviously, Mr. Baca was only doing what any other brave citizen would have done in a similar situation. It’s people like Mr. McCarty over there and others like him that give the West a bad name. I would certainly like to see that cowboy, McCarty, brought to justice. But more than that, my client, Mr. Baca, has done nothing that any other Western man with a moral soul would have done. He acted prudently in his arrest of McCarty, sought out legal means to redress the wrong that McCarty perpetrated, and defended himself quite adequately from certain others who intended to kill him. If they had succeeded, there would be no trial today. I rest my case.” Shaw turns quickly and finds his seat. He begins to fool with the books and papers in front of him and starts stuffing hand written documents into his brown leather bag. **** It’s been days since I last saw my horse, Big Mama, and since the livery stable is on my way back to the hotel, I take a short detour down a trash littered alley, an alley filled with discarded newspapers, Police Gazette magazines, and the flotsam and jetsam of a New Mexico society that has certainly given up on neatness. Soon I am standing in front of a clap-boarded building that has obviously withstood quite a few blistering summers. I don’t think the wood in the building was ever painted and the boards fit together with gaping cracks between them. But the smell is there, horse smell. I’ll never forget that smell as long as I live whether it’s out on the prairie or coming from a stable in town. The smell is a mixture of hay, horse urine, and droppings and with all - 92 -

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the odors blended together. I like to call it the “real west” smell. Certainly there’s a smell like it in New York, but it’s definitely not the same. A boy rakes hay at the entrance. His bib overalls look freshly washed and he has on what looks to me like hand-me-down boots. He’s wearing a blue bandana around his head, knotted in the back, with the triangle shape of the cloth stretching back over his hairline in front. He looks alert and as I approach, he looks up at me. I can tell he’s no older than fourteen, the pimples on his face need squeezing. I want to talk with him. “You in charge of my horse, son.” “Don’ rightly know. Which one’s yor horse?” “Female named Big Mama.” “Oh, her. Sure, know her. She be like a real human-like horse. Heard her moanin’ this morning like a love-sick coyote. Think there may be somethin’ wrong with her. She’s over there in stall number three. I look toward where he points and see my horse’s head just now coming over the stall gate. I talk gently to her from where I’m standing. Her head pops up higher above the stall door and I can see her staring at me. For a moment she drops her head down, but then she brings it up and with her mouth open, she whinnies her sound of greeting to me. Quickly I step to the enclosure, open the gate and step inside. Big Mama moves over so I can stand next to her head. “Well, old girl, how are things going? Are they giving you enough hay? Do you get a bagful of oats once in a while?” I know she can’t answer me, but I talk to her anyway. It makes me feel closer to her somehow. She blows out her belly, and I can imagine a new bulge in it. But my mind must be playing tricks. If Mama were pregnant from her encounter with Elfego’s horse, it would be months before she would show anything. Perhaps I am like any other expectant father eagerly awaiting the birth of his son or daughter. A stallion. That would be something. I could train him my own way and make him the finest riding horse in the west. But a little mare would be nice to have, too. She could carry on the line of Big Mama. Fourteen years. Big - 93 -


Mama is fourteen years old. My faithful pal won’t last forever and this is probably her last chance to have a foal. My hands find their way to Mama’s head and I use my fingers to straighten out the wild hairs of her deep black mane that rest along the left side of her body. I find a brush and use it to remove a year’s collection of cockleburs, seed pods, and hay strands. It’s interesting that a horse has no way of cleaning its own neck hair. Guess the good Lord meant for horses to be with men and women. No other way to get out all the stuff they collect, than for a human’s fingers to work their ways. Big Mama stands quietly. She knows what I am doing, and I think she likes it. I move around in front of her and gently rub the place between her eyes that she likes me to rub. She tosses her head and if I know horses, she’s smiling at me. Her mouth is open and I hold it open as I inspect her teeth. She’s still in good shape, but her back molars are ground down to a nub. Have to see the town vet and see if there’s anything I can do about that. I give her a final pat, open the gate and prepare to leave. Big Mama lets out a whinny, and I turn. “Sorry, old girl. Got to get back to the hotel. Going to be a big day in court tomorrow. Judge’s going to make his decision about Elfego. I’ll be coming for you when this is over. Maybe we can ride the trail again like we used to.” The orange ball of fire that blesses Socorro all day with its radiance is just now disappearing beyond the curve of the earth and I watch as it makes its final illumination. But there’s a desert twilight that continues, and I know I’ll be able to find the Bon Ton cafe before dark. I don’t know what it is about a western cafe, but they’re all much the same. The smell of coffee brewing hits my nostrils and my stomach answers with a growl. It’s been long enough I’ve stayed away from food. How good a piece of longhorn cow meat would taste right now. No reason why I can’t enjoy some. Lord knows I’ve earned it. There’s a table in the corner where I sat before. It’s the same chair I used when I was with Katarina at lunch. Not a new chair by any means. It - 94 -

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reminds me of the ones we had back home in New York, sturdy, toothmarked, and made of oak. I wonder how many famous men have used this same piece of furniture I’m about to use. Maybe Billy the Kid sat here or even Wyatt Earp. I’ll have to check that out. The menu is brief. All it says is “Good Welcome to the Bon Ton Cafe, George Greenstone, proprietor, Katarina “Wild Kat”, manager.” My eyes read the second part again. Kat certainly moves fast. She must have been employed right after lunch and already her name appears on the menu. Leave it to a woman to find ways to accomplish all things quickly. That’s what I like in a gal. Knows how to do the job and gets it done quickly. Maybe this Kat could turn out to be a good friend. I feel a pair of familiar hands on my shoulders and for a moment I think it must be Joline. But no, Joline is on her way to Kiowa country in Texas. She couldn’t be here. I turn around and it’s Kat. I turn to face her. She’s smiling and has done something to her hair. “Well, big boy. Glad to come to my restaurant? What can I get for you, that is, something that can be done here in this eatin’ place?” She drops her head down even with mine and plants a kiss on my lips. What is this? Didn’t know women in the west could be so bold. But it’s nice. Reminds me of the times I’ve had with Joline out on the trail. I come up for air. “Hey, wait a minute Wild Kat. I don’t even know you that well. Kissing is all right, but I’m not used to it in public.” The grin widens on her mouth. “Well, Big fella. You just show me a private place around here and that’s not all you’ll get.” It is the best offer I’ve had this day, but my stomach tells me I must eat first.

- 95 -


Chapter Eleven It’s not hard to wake up when early morning comes to Socorro. Rays of sunshine beat across my brow and reach my eyes. It’s a strong sun here in New Mexico and it’s an unrelenting ball of fire that now sets my brain in action as I greet the new day. I lie in bed for a few minutes and think about what will happen this day in Socorro. Then it strikes me. It’s the last day of Elfego’s trial. Fergusson and Shaw will make their final comments, and then the judge will decide the guilt or innocence of my friend. I’m up now and functioning. Water, that’s what I need, some water to shave my hairy chin. The ewer is handy and I dip a single finger into the liquid inside. It’s cold. This hotel was supposed to have hot water for me in the morning. My temper flares. I grab the pitcher and make my way to the door. Setting the pitcher down, I remove the ladder-back chair I’ve placed under the door knob to keep strangers out during the night. The chair is light-weight and I stand it up next to the wall. Now it remains only for me to open the door. I undo the latch and the door swings open. My eyes blink. Standing in front of me is Buck Redwing with a steaming pitcher in his hand. “Buck. What are you doing here? Where’s Joline?” I say. “I wait for you to wake. Hear you get out of bed. I wait. You need hot water for shaving. Joline travels to Kiowa reservation. I send her with escort, men, women I know well.” “She’s safe?” I say. “Don’t ask questions. Of course she’s safe. You think I would send her with troublemakers? You blood brother. Here. Take the water. It cools quickly.” The handle of the pitcher is hot but I take it from Buck and walk the few steps to the wash basin where I can complete my toilette. I can see in the mirror that Buck follows me. This is really hot water. As I pour some into the basin, the steam collects and rises. I dip one hand into the liquid and pull it back quickly. “Buck, what did you use, a blacksmith’s forge?” - 96 -

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“You always say you want your coffee steaming. I figure you want your shaving water the same.” “How did you keep it so hot while you waited for me to rise?” “I have my ways. Now get busy. Water won’t stay hot all day.” My favorite lather brush is handy and I dip it into the basin. Then it’s the mug of soap and soon I’m slathering foam all over my jaw and cheeks. I hear Buck laughing behind me. “White man with lather on face is funny.” I turn around and look at my Indian friend squarely in the eyes. “Not half as funny as a Redman who seldom has to shave. What is it you do, pull out the hairs one at a time with a clam shell?” Buck laughs again. “Clam shell? I shave as you do only not as often. Joline sends her love to you.” The mention of my woman’s name causes me to stop what I’m doing. How slim a figure she has, how true to me she is, how sad we never married even though we came close one time. “You sure she’s all right?” “She will be with Kiowa. Teach our children to read and speak English. You going to see her again?” That question has entered my mind before. Sure I’d like to see Joline, but she will be far away in Texas and I’m here. Katarina’s fine features flash across my mind and I’m back at the Bon Ton cafe with her. It was only yesterday. “Joline will write.” I say. Buck’s head drops forward so that his chin rests on his chest. “Now, you need to find someone else. No woman in tepee makes for hungry man. I know the feeling.” “I’ll see Joline again when I finish this story about Elfego. Maybe you and I will ride back to Kiowa land when this is over.” Buck’s head is now upright, and he looks happier. I think he wants me and Joline to marry, but what he wants is not foremost in my mind. Right now I have to finish shaving and get to the courthouse. This may be Elfego’s day of freedom. - 97 -


**** The courtroom is packed when I arrive. There’s a smell of perspiration in the place. It’s a musty smell, evidence of the excitement and nervousness here. The windows are closed which concentrates the smell even more. I gingerly open a window next to me and squeeze myself into one of the rough-hewn pine seats in the front row and look back over my shoulder. Elfego is there with Sheriff Ross. There’s no smile on Elfego’s face and he’s busy talking with Ross. I can just make out what the conversation is all about. “We’ve come a long way since Frisco. Glad you stuck with me, Ross.” “Ain’t no way this court can convict you. You just defended yourself.” “Well, you never know about courtrooms and judges. Maybe sometime I’ll try my hand at the law.” There’s a rap of the gavel and the judge, clad in his long black robe, seats himself at the bench. He looks around the courtroom and his eyes settle on Elfego. His dark brown eyebrows raise to form an arch. It’s as if he’s trying to tell my friend something. “Been considering this here case for a few days now and I’ve come to my conclusion.” I watch Elfego’s face as the judge speaks. Elfego sits still, his head twists slightly to one side, his eyes gaze solely at the judge who sits in front of him. There is not a sound in the room except the scraping of a chair on the hardwood floor as a cowboy behind me shifts his weight. Then there’s a murmur. It grows in loudness until I can make out a few words coming from a well-dressed gentleman seated beside me. “The judge’ll hang him for sure. He murdered two men. The foreman’s death is on his head too.” I look around at the man and frown. What gall he has to prejudge Elfego. My thinking is exactly the opposite. With the testimony in court behind him, the judge will certainly let Elfego go free. There isn’t a chance of a conviction. Elfego did his duty as a citizen and as a lawman to arrest McCarty and take him to trial. What other people did in their attempt to free McCarty was their own business. - 98 -

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A rap of the gavel wakes me from my thoughts and the judge’s voice booms out in the small room. “After all the testimony and arguments by the learned counselors, I find the defendant, one Elfego Baca, innocent of the crimes he has been charged with. In addition, I order Mr. McCarty to stand trial for the various heinous acts he has purportedly committed including attempted murder of that there reporter, Nolo Blunt, and the reported bush-whacking of Elfego Baca and the sheriff. I also admonish the prosecutor to review the court record and prepare charges against McCarty for his attempted mayhem against Baca during this trial...” The judge raps his gavel and it’s done. Elfego is a free man. This evening at the Bon Ton Cafe, there’s a celebration going on like no other I’ve ever seen. Elfego is here, as is Ross, the sheriff. Katarina is near the door and wears a low-cut full-length blue-green gown that she must have brought with her from Frisco. Her breasts are squeezed forward by the corset she’s wearing and at this moment I am very weak. Buck Redwing is right. A lone tepee makes for a hungry warrior. I walk over to where Katarina stands. She’s talking to the editor of the local newspaper, and as I approach, her blue eyes light up. “Well, Nolo. It’s about time you paid me some attention. You know Steve here?” “No. Can’t say as I do.” “He’s writing a story about Elfego’s trial coming to a close. You two writers should be together. Steve, you know that Nolo writes for an eastern magazine?” “I’ve heard that. Even seen a copy.” I blink. It’s always gratifying when someone reads one of my articles and to find a newspaper editor way out here in the west, who has taken the time to peruse one of my stories, is pleasurable indeed. “You’ve read my story about Elfego?” “Got the latest copy. Frontier Magazine. Takes a while to get here from New York by train, but it helped me get the back-story for my own pieces on the trial. Thanks.” The editor moves on, leaving me staring at Katarina. “You look especially lovely this evening, Katarina.” - 99 -


“Oh, Nolo. You say that to all us western girls.” “No I don’t. You’ve caught my eye. Can we find somewhere less noisy where we can talk?” Katarina turns her head away, then returns to face me. She looks at me with a steady gaze. I have no idea what she’s looking for, but it must have something to do with our relationship. I stare back at her. I feel her arm grab mine and we’re walking. Out the door we go and soon we’re crossing the street. There are few horse riders passing by in Socorro this evening. Most of the steeds are standing at the railings along the street. Some are grouped at the Bon Ton Cafe, others are tied to posts in front of the many saloons along the road. Tinkling music reaches me and I can imagine what’s going on inside. We’re moving briskly now. Katarina hasn’t said a word since we left the party. To my amazement, I haven’t said anything either. It’s as if both of us are of the same mind. “Katarina. Stop. Tell me where we’re going.” She keeps her grasp on my arm and doesn’t speak. We keep walking, mostly because Katarina pulls me. We’ve reached the end of the main street and Katarina suddenly turns down a side street. I recognize it as the way to the courthouse, but the woman doesn’t stop there, and we continue. It’s dark now. A few lights glimmer in upstairs windows as we pass the houses. Ten o’clock at night is late for most of the population of Socorro. Then, Katarina turns in at an unlighted house. We’re holding hands now and Katarina uses her left hand to unlatch the gate that serves as the only opening through a white picket fence surrounding the building. Up the steps. She fumbles in her black beaded purse and finally pulls out a key. It’s in the lock, and the metallic noise of its turning causes something strange to happen in my groin. Still holding my hand, Katarina leads me inside. She lets go of me. It’s dark, very dark in the room. Then a match flares and the red-orange light blinds me for an instant. I hear the sound of a lantern glass being raised and soon there’s a feeble glow of light in the room. The glass chimney falls back into place and Katarina adjusts the flame with the tiny black valve at the side and sets the lantern on a table. - 100 -

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“You said you wanted to talk. Here we are.” Katarina grabs my hand again and directs me to the sofa. We sit down next to each other. “You are one powerful woman when you want to be.” “People have told me that.” “I like powerful women.” “Does that mean you like me?” My arm reaches out behind Katarina, and gently I slip it over her shoulder. “I think I love you, Katarina.” “You’re not sure?” “Well, I’ve never even kissed you. Nor have I properly thanked you for being on hand to save my life back in Frisco when those rascals were about to hang me. If it hadn’t been for Joline and Buck, I’d be planted somewhere in Frisco. You were ready to help, I know.” Katarina turns her chin toward me. “Knew even then you were worth saving,” she says. “Knew I loved you at that moment. I’ve been waiting for you to catch up.” There’s something pulsing in my groin, and I know what it is. I move my body closer to Katarina, put my other arm around her waist and draw her closer to me. She doesn’t resist. With gentleness I find her lips with mine. A brilliant tingle runs the length of my backbone. I pull her even closer to me and our kiss continues. My thoughts are momentarily of Joline, but nothing I ever did with Joline was as risky as this. My lips press harder against those of Katarina’s and my hand finds the bodice of her gown. My fingers slip into the place where the crevice of her breasts meets the cloth. I feel Katarina surge closer to me, then she pushes me away and ends our kiss. “Well, aren’t you some kind of an eastern Lothario! What are your intentions, Nolo Blunt?” Never has a woman stopped me in a most exciting moment like that before. I’m baffled. “My intentions are to show my love for you. Don’t you feel anything?” - 101 -


“Sure do. Mighty powerful, too. But I ain’t goin’ to give it away until I know what your intentions are.” “Well, if you’re talking about marriage, it’s mighty quick. We just found each other. Wait a spell.” “Just what I thought. You’re just like all the men. You’re after one thing and when you’ve cooled down after gettin’ it, you’ll be off on some other adventure. Ain’t had no man touch me yet. Got me a precious jewel down there. Got to have wedding papers before I open up like a flower.” I stand up and adjust my trousers. My emotions are still raging within me and it wouldn’t take much to arouse me again. But I sure don’t want to get married, just to have a romp in the hay with Katarina. “Guess I thought we could make love and marry later. I was wrong.” “Sit down, Nolo. You wanted to talk to me. Talk.” My trousers are straight in front again, and I feel more relaxed. There’s still a tingle within me and I know it would take only a touch of Katarina’s hand to raise it up in me again. I sit down next to her, but far enough away so that our bodies do not touch. “Katarina, you’re a most interesting woman.” “You want to talk about me?” “That’s what I want to talk about. What you’ve just told me about yourself has registered deeply inside me. I’ll remember what you said about romance leading to marriage. Can we be friends?” “That’s the general idea, Nolo.” “And you’ll always be near me when I need you as a friend? Maybe we could kiss again?” “I wouldn’t mind that. Long as you don’t get any ideas about goin’ any farther.” At the moment I decide that kissing is about as far as I want to go. I’ve had a rope stretched around my neck once back in Frisco and that’s enough times to be caught in a noose, to last a lifetime. **** The party at the Bon Ton is still in progress as I return without Katarina. Elfego looks like he’s had a little too much to drink and Ross has kept up - 102 -

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with him. The two of them are singing as I approach. Words of “My Wild Irish Rose,” echo in the bar. I order a glass of sarsaparilla and stand at the end of the small counter watching them. I’ve never seen Elfego in quite this mood. It’s as if all the troubles of the past few months have been lifted from his shoulders. He sees me and elbows his way through the crowd towards me. “Well, if it isn’t my old pal, Nolo Blunt. Where you been?” “Talkin’ to Katarina.” “She still around here? I’d like to talk to her too.” “Nah, she’s over at her home where I left her.” “You mean you got to see the inside of her house? What a man. She won’t let just anyone go inside.” “I know. I found out the hard way.” “You know what I just decided me?” “No, what, Elfego?” “Goin’ to run for sheriff of this here county.” “Great news. You need someone to run your campaign?” “Sure do. Might just hire me a reporter, someone who knows the west and who has a horse carryin’ my stallion’s foal. We’ll get started on it tomorrow mornin’. Got to get me home now only I ain’t got no home. Stay with you, Nolo. Think maybe I took on too much liquid refreshment. Maybe you’ll give me a----.” Elfego falls headfirst towards me and I catch him in my arms. He’s out cold and I’m without an extra pair of hands. **** Next morning, I lie in bed next to Elfego, listening to him snore. His rhythm is always the same. There’s a snort, then a rumble from deep down inside his throat, and then a thin whistle escapes his lips for the finale. His stomach rises up in a magnificent arc each time he breathes. My mind rushes back to that moment in Frisco when he faced the mob outside the hotel room. How could such a brave and powerful man be so peaceful and vulnerable now? - 103 -


My feet hit the floor, and I am standing, barefooted. A half-closed window shade bars my second story view of the rooftops of Socorro. But as I stoop, I can look through the bottom half of the window. Down below, people are walking, stopping, talking and I begin to remember what Elfego said last night. Something about becoming the sheriff of Socorro County and he wants me to be his manager. Elfego’s still snorting and whistling as I settle myself into a hotel chair at the small desk in my room. A piece of paper is in front of me, and I grab the nearby pencil and begin to write. “Article for the Clarion. Attention Steve, Editor.” Baca Takes a Shot at Sheriff By Nolo Blunt Fresh from his acquittal and absolvement in all crimes against the Slaughter ranch cowboys, Elfego Baca, announces his candidacy for Sheriff of Socorro County in the upcoming election. Baca showed his metal in arresting one Irish McCarty in Frisco and following up his arrest with bold concern for the trial and final justice of the man despite the personal danger involved in doing so. Baca’s stick-to-it morals saw him through a terrible night of gunfire and bombing. A religious icon, Mi Senora Santa Ana, is said to have protected him from bullets all during the ordeal while he was in the tiny jacal in Frisco fighting for his life. No one else came to his rescue or felt the bullets tearing through the shack other than this reporter who lived every moment while watching from the sidewalk. Cowboy testimony at the ensuing trial here in Socorro elicited the fact that Baca was impervious to bullets. Imagine this man as sheriff of the county! I think to myself as I read the paragraphs. Perhaps I have not been as objective as I should be, but I get the message across with these words and the editor will probably write his own version anyway. There’s a stirring behind me, and I look at the bed. Elfego sits up as I stare at him. “Good morning, mi amigo. Are you ready to run for sheriff?” - 104 -

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His eyes are partly closed and his hand is at his head. Methinks he may have imbibed too much last evening since it took both Ross and me to get him up the stairs and into the bed. “How are you this morning, Elfego?” I can hear him clearing his throat to speak. No wonder he snored during the night. There must be a ton of mucus in his esophagus. He blows his nose on the bed sheet and looks at me. “You, Nolo, get me some cold water, now.” I’m not used to being ordered about, but he will be the sheriff and I’ll be able to write many stories about his adventures and thus please my editor, Tom Menace, back in New York. Lucky I found this Elfego Baca to write about. “Sure, Elfego. Get you some hot coffee too. Just lie back and dream some more. I’ll wake you when I return.” I throw on a pair of denim trousers and my brocade shirt and am out the door and down the steps to the lobby of this tiny but hospitable hotel. No one’s there, not even a clerk behind the counter. I look around the large room and my eyes settle on a doorway marked ‘Manager.’ I head for the door across the well-worn carpet and stop at the entrance. A knock on the wood paneling rouses no one. There’s a noise behind me and across the room. I turn in time to catch a glimpse of someone dropping down behind the counter. Something mysterious is going on here and me without a pistol. My first thought is to run up the stairs to my room, but curiosity gets the better of me, and I drop down into a crab walk and make it to the place where the counter ends. I look behind, but there’s no one there. Something cold and solid punches me in my back. I stand up, turn around and look into the barrel of the longest six shooter I’ve ever seen. The hole where the bullet comes out looks like a railway tunnel. At the butt of the pistol is a hand, hairy and rugged. A grizzled index finger rests tautly on the trigger. My gaze shifts to the face of the man who holds the revolver. I’ve seen his hairy chin before, but where? “Meet you again, Blunt. That fancy gal of yours stopped me from hangin’ you back in Frisco, but this time you’re goin’ to lead me to that Baca fella and me and the boys are goin’ to do him in.” - 105 -


I don’t say a word. My heart beats faster and I can feel a tingle inside me that spells out danger in a headline banner three inches tall. The cowboy punches me in my back and I stand up. He motions for me to climb the stairs and there’s nothing left for me to do but obey. I hold my hands over my head and take each stair one at a time knowing that only evil can come from this moment in my life. My friend Elfego will be caught napping with a hangover and never know what happened. We reach the door to my room and I bring my hand down to knock. But before I can make a sound to warn Elfego, I feel great pain in my head and I know I’m falling. Stars and exploding fireworks go off inside my skull and then there’s darkness.

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Chapter Twelve My head aches something awful. I open my eyes and find that I’m in my hotel bed, clad in my nightshirt and under the blankets. Elfego is not here, but someone else is. I squint my eyes to focus on a person walking toward me. It’s a woman, and she has a white towel in her hand, Katarina. She sits down on the bed next to me and places the wet cloth on my brow. I close my eyes and then feel her hands slip into mine. Her fingers curl around my fingers and there is a gentle pressure in her grasp. “You’re back with us, Nolo. I worried so.” I try to speak, but nothing comes out. I clear my throat. “Kat. What happened?” “You spent some time in never-never land. You’ve got a knot on the back of your head that looks like an apple. Someone whacked you good.” I open one eye and look up at her. Her clear eyes stare back at me. There’s a pleasantness about her face. Her lips part and she sticks out her tongue. “Naughty boy. Thought maybe we’d lost you. Hotel manager found me and told me what happened. I’ve been with you since it happened.” I remember now. I was at the door. “Elfego! Where is he?” “He’s safe. He heard the scuffle downstairs and escaped in his nightshirt out the window. Had his pistol. Came up from downstairs and surprised those cowboys who were after him. Put all three of them in the local carcel. Judge hears the case on Friday.” “How long have I been unconscious?” “It’s your third day. Much has happened. Elfego’s running for sheriff. People are for him after the trial and after his arrest of those murdering cowboys. They know he is brave. He’s good with a six shooter, too. It’s a groundswell.” “Always knew Elfego would run for sheriff. Told me so when I first met him.” My head begins to throb, and I lay back down on the pillow. Katarina sits down near me and takes my hand again. A scent of perfume reaches my nostrils and reminds me of springtime. I look up into her gray-green eyes. Her lids flutter at me. - 107 -


“You think I’m going to live?” “Doctor says so. You had a blow to your head that would have stopped a stampeding longhorn. Doc says it takes time for your brain to get back into action. I’ll stay with you.” My eyelids droop and I can feel myself dropping off again. **** Noise. What is that noise? My arms flail out, and I sit up. My eyes are open now, and I can see a glow in the sky from my bedroom window. I glance around the room and see Katarina. She’s asleep on the bed next to me, a quilt covering her. Her face is toward me and I can feel her breath as it expels from her dainty mouth. It’s night or early morning. I’m not quite sure. There’s that noise again. I put one foot out from under the flannel sheets and rest it on the floor. My other leg comes out and then I try standing. I’m light-headed. My body collapses back onto the bed, and I roll over next to Katarina. I hear her make a sound and then her arm is around my shoulders. “Heard you wake up and get out of bed. Better stay flat next to me. I told you I’d take care of you.” Katarina shifts her body. She puts a pillow under my head and reaches over me to grab the alarm clock that rests on the nearby table. Her breasts brush over my face and I feel aroused. Maybe my head is getting better. Wonder what I’ve eaten lately. Don’t remember. “Kat, what’s happening? Heard a noise.” “I’ll look out the window.” She throws back the covers and stands for a minute next to the bed. She squints toward the window, then steps closer to the opening, raises the bottom of the window, bends over and peers out. I get a view of her posterior. She’s clad in a nightgown and as she moves against the light, I can see her naked body outlined beneath the material, especially when she’s at the window. Never known a woman who didn’t want to advertise her charms. Guess Katarina is no exception. “Big fire down the street. Volunteer pumpers there. Spraying horse trough water on the fire, but looks to me like the fire’s bigger than they can - 108 -

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handle. It’s not far from the cafe. Better get down there to see what’s going on.” She closes the window, turns and looks at me. She must see the look on my face because she glances down at her body, then at me. “Forgot. You get a good view?” My head still aches, but something lower in my body pounds and the covers over me are tent-like. “Quite a figure, Miss Katarina. Care to show me more?” “Guess the cripple is better. You save those thoughts for later.” With those words, she moves toward her pile of clothes. “Now be a good lad and cover your eyes. I’m about to get dressed.” I put my arm over the front of my face and close my lids. ‘Play the game, Nolo,’ I tell myself. While my eyes are covered, the headache is only a dull pulse in the back of my brain. Thoughts of seeing Katarina against the window run through my mind. Ideas like that must have had a good effect. I feel better, although there is still tension in my groin. Been away from a woman for a mighty long time. The door slams shut and I know she’s gone. I pull off my arm and open my eyes. The orange glow seems brighter, and I can smell the fire. Once again, I drape my leg out of bed and onto the floor. My other leg follows, and I lie on my back, wanting to stand up, but knowing I might faint again. I try it, and then I’m standing. It’s all right. My strength returns. I walk to the window. The door opens behind me, and I turn around quickly. It’s Elfego. “Welcome to the world my friend. Passed your girl friend in the hall.” “Kat’s been good for me,” I say. “What’s happening outside?” “Been down at the fire. Sheriff’s office and jail are aflame. Those cowboys from the Slaughter ranch won’t stop at anything. Set fire to the place. Irish McCarty and the three hooligans who tried to kill you and me got away. Came to get my gear. I’m goin’ to track them down. You comin’?” Elfego’s brow is creased. He has a serious look about him. His right arm pumps back and forth as he faces me. Ideas shoot through my brain.

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“I sure would like to catch the no good cowpoke who hit me over the head with his pistol. Give me a minute. Want to write Kat a note. She’d worry otherwise.” My mind rushes ahead. Will I be able to ride? Wonder where Buck Redwing might be. Know he’s in town somewhere. Big Mama needs to be readied too. I pack my saddlebags, roll up my blankets and then get dressed. I’m out of breath and my heads aches, but soon I’m standing by the door waiting for Elfego. He’s just now loading his Sharps rifle. He stows it under his arm, grabs his pack and we’re on our way. Down the steps we go looking like two seasoned westerners heading out on the prairie for some kind of sporting activity. Well, we are going hunting and if I know Elfego as I do, he’ll bring back some living trophies or a bunch of dead cowhands, their bodies draped across a saddle, their heads dangling down and arms flailing side to side. I drop off the note for Kat with the clerk behind the counter. He smiles, looks directly at us, then opens his mouth. “You gents be comin’ back tonight?” Elfego is already at the door. I’m left to give the man an answer. “Nope. We’re goin’ ridin’. You see Miss Katarina, give her that note without fail, hear?” “Sure enough Mister Blunt.” What we need is Buck Redwing to do the tracking for us. He’s the best one around that I know. Helped me before. Wonder where that rascal can be. No sign of him near the livery stable where he usually hangs out. Elfego has his horse saddled and waits for me at the entrance to Big Mama’s stall. “She’s comin’ along just fine there, Nolo. Few more months and she’ll foal.” My back is to him, and I’m bent over tying the girdle under Big Mama’s big stomach. Have to let out a few notches because of her condition. She turns her head around toward me as if she knows she’s getting fat. Her ears wiggle and her big eyes stare down at me. “Steady old girl. I’ll finish here in a minute...Elfego, you see my Indian friend anywhere?” - 110 -

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“Can’t say as I do. You expectin’ him?” “He’s always around when I don’t need him.” “Saw him watchin’ the jail fire.” “How much of a lead do those cowboys have on us?” “An hour or two. Can’t catch ‘em if you don’t get saddled.” “I’m ready. I’ll back her out if you’ll get out of the way.” Elfego prods his horse and the dark stallion jumps forward, visible pressure on the reins now halting him again. Big Mama stomps with her foreleg, and I back her out of the stall. Strange. I thought there might be a reaction between the two horses, what with the birth of their foal coming in less than a year. My legs are still wobbly as I get myself into the saddle. Head still aches some, but I’m determined to hunt down the no-good cowpoke who knotted up my head. The fire at the jail still burns, but there’s no time to stop and watch it. Elfego’s horse moves ahead of me and once again I’m on the trail. **** The sun will soon be up. We’ve been riding steady for several hours. Elfego seems to know which way to go, and I follow along behind. How he knows the direction the cowboys went is beyond me, but he’s the experienced one on this trip. The desert is beautiful in the early hours of the day. Gray mountains in the distance harbor deep shadows just before the dawn. Cactus plants stretch out their arms to capture the early morning light. Some are in bloom, their bulging rosy buds promising a good meal for the careful stalker who knows how to pare away the sticky thorns to get at the prickly cactus fruit. I’ve heard tell also of how a man on the desert without water can chop into a cactus to get enough of the precious liquid to survive. I look behind me and retrace the path we’ve taken since we left Socorro. A whirlwind of dust, clouds my eyes for an instant and then it’s gone. I blink several times, rub my hand across my face and when I take it away, someone is riding next to me and it isn’t Elfego. “Buck Redwing. You old haunted ‘possum. What are you doing here?” - 111 -


“Came to help track.” “How’d you know what we were doin’” “Kat tell me. She got your letter. Tells me to find you, protect you.” “I think she loves me. Anyway, it’s good to see you. Hey, Elfego. Look who’s here.” Elfego turns around in his saddle, removes his hat, wipes his brow and glances at Buck, then at me. “Knew he was behind us. Glad to have him here. Always good to have an extra pair of sharp eyes. You know who we’re tracking, Redwing?” “Cowboys, four of them. One horse lame. Two horses unshod, brother and sister. Fourth horse has tear in his hoof. Not go far without rest.” Buck’s knowledge of tracking always amazes me. He probably knows how much each man weighs and what color the horses are. “Hint of smoke ahead in curve of mountain. Dry fire, hard to see. Men rest there. What’s the plan.” I look where Buck points and can’t see anything. But as I stare, there is a slight wisp of white smoke that rises to the treetops, then spreads out as if it hits a solid barrier in the sky. Heard tell of such a thing. Never saw it before, but I have now. Elfego pulls up. “See that valley just to the right of the smoke? We’ll leave our horses there, climb over the crest and surprise those cowpokes before they have a chance to move. You with me?” This will be a new experience for me, sneaking up on hostile Slaughter Ranch cowboys. I know which one hit me. Saw him in the lobby of the hotel when he surprised me. I intend to get my revenge. As I think about it, my blood boils and I can feel a surge of strength within me. I reach down to the holster on my belt and put my hand on the butt of my six shooter, an ancient Colt revolver that hasn’t been fired in a few years. Elfego gave it to me before we set out from Socorro last night. We leave the horse tracks and head straight for the low valley. There’s not much to conceal our moves, no trees or tall grass out here on the desert. But there is just enough cover with the cactus plants, the cholla and ocotillo and their outstretched arms. Some dust rises from our horses, but it’s minimal. The soil here is sandy and a red color. - 112 -

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Elfego stops his horse, puts his hand over his eyes as a shade and peers in the direction of the valley. “Up just ahead,” says Elfego. “That’s the place for our horses. Shade most of the day, small patch of grass. Know there’s a water hole there. Called Garlic Springs.” Elfego knows this country better than Buck does. I take his word for it and soon we’re riding into the valley, the sides of the rocky gray outcrop flattening out in a shale-like projection, flat sandstone. I know it’ll crumble. It’s thin. We pull up in the midst of some juniper trees, the limbs outstretched over a wee grassy meadow. Wouldn’t have known this was here if it hadn’t been for Elfego. I dismount, as do the others. The idea is to stake out our horses so they can reach water and grass. I always carry a metal stake along with me for that purpose. I drive it into the ground in a place where I know there will be shade all day. I tie the rope to the stake and then hitch it to Big Mama. She looks pleased. I think she likes to be out on the trail again and away from city life in the stable. The water looks potable, but I always like to test it out before I give any to my horse. I dip my hat down and bring it up. There’s a green slime on the surface and I dip my hat again. This time I get murky water. I smell it. Seems fresh, but there is a garlic smell to it. In the center of the pool, bubbles rise and I know then that the water is drinkable. It’s truly a spring and only fresh water bubbles like that. I feel a nudge on my shoulder. “Water here no good. Poison. Look over there. That’s good water up on the rocks.” Buck stands over me, a smile crossing his lips as he points with his index finger. “You give that water to your horse, she die. Colt die with her. Trust me.” Guess I’ll continue to learn about this country as long as I’m here. If it weren’t for Buck and Elfego, I’d probably die out here and so would my horse. I lead Big Mama over to the good water, and she nuzzles down and takes a long drink from the clear pool. There’s no scum on this one. Must be a - 113 -


collection of rain water or maybe a spring empties into this shallow hole. Anyway, I take a drink too and fill my canteen. Don’t know where the next watering hole might be. Elfego’s not very tall. He always wears a beat-in hat that looks like it went through the Civil War. Bullet holes let the morning light shine through. Wonder how he’s escaped all the ammo that’s been fired at him. Maybe he is sainted. Slaughter cowboys claim he was back in Frisco during the shootout. Buck motions to me. I respond and join him at the first ledge of the outcrop. He whispers in my ear. “No more talk. Tie gunny sacking on your shoes. Here.” He hands me some pieces of cloth and dutifully I wrap some around my boots, and with a leather thong, I tie each part of sacking in place. Elfego’s doing the same. A hand movement from Elfego sets us on our way, up the escarpment to the crest and then carefully we’ll descend and surprise the evildoers. It’s not easy climbing on the rocks, but we take a zigzag angle course along the sandstone. Just as I think I’m doing well, my feet slip, and I fall to my knees. As I fall, my hands scrape on the rough edges of the shale. I look up to see Elfego and Buck staring at me. They each shake their head from side to side, and I get the message that they’re not too happy with me. I keep my silence, but I’m seething within. How could I be so stupid as to fall and make a noise. Lucky it happened here and not later. **** We reach the crest. Just down from here the cowboys are camped, but they are not visible. Elfego motions with his hand that we should flatten out on the slab of rock where we’re standing. I drop down to a knee-hand position, then stretch myself out onto the shale. The rock is hot to the touch, and I can feel the sun beating down on my back. Who said getting revenge is easy? Down the sandstone we go, Elfego in the lead, Buck next, and I creep along in the rear. Elfego’s hand goes up and we stop. He stares ahead, then motions for us to follow again. It’s like that for the next 20 yards and I’m beginning to heat up. The sun’s at 10:00 o’clock and the reflection of the - 114 -

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light off the rocks causes me to blink. When I open my eyes fully again, I see a wave of heat slither across the shale. I’d like a drink of water, but I know the canteen will make a noise if I take it out. A drop-off is just ahead, and I watch as Elfego crawls up to the edge and peers over. He pulls his head back sharply and uses hand signals to get our attention. He wants to talk. “They’re gone. Fire’s still smoldering. Tracks lead out of the canyon. Think they’re headed for Frisco. Let’s get back to the horses as fast as we can.” **** My feet hurt from the pounding they’ve taken on the rocks. The heat of the day collects around my ankles. My head aches. I really am miserable out here scrambling down the last part of the sandstone face that leads to the water and the trees of the valley where we left the horses. Elfego’s next to me and he’s perspiring. He takes off his bullet-holed hat, brushes it against his body, wipes away the sweat on his forehead, and looks at me. “We’ll catch up with those rapscallions in no time. Know the trail will be easy to follow since it’s fresh. What do you say, Buck?” “Look over there. Trees, water, no horses.” I catch the end of what Buck says. It doesn’t register at first. I’m thinking about the cowboys and their horses. No horses. My God. Big Mama’s been stolen! “Are you sure, Buck? Maybe they just strayed off.” We’re closer now to the place where we tied them. I can see many hoof prints. I know Big Mama’s sign and the others. Next to these are prints just like the ones we saw when we left Socorro, four sets. It is the cowboys who escaped from the jail. I touch the handle of my Colt, undo the strap over the hammer and pull the piece out into full view. A spin of the cylinder shows me there are five rounds ready to be fired, the sixth chamber is empty. I look up. Buck is on his knees and staring at the tracks. - 115 -


“Lame horse worse. No one rides it. Heavy man on Big Mama. Elfego’s stallion bleeds.” Very few times have I felt strong anger deep inside myself. This is one of those times. Some fat cowboy rides my pregnant horse and maybe I’ll never see the foal I’m waiting for. A surge of energy goes through me and I feel stronger, ready for a fight. “What do we wait for?” Elfego looks at me. “Not so fast, Nolo. Better for us to return to Socorro on foot and get fresh animals. No use running around in this desert heat. We’ll wait until dusk, then make our tracks for the town. We can be back here early and trail those varmints.” My urge is to leave my companions and go it alone. I’ve got to get Big Mama back. But another part of my brain tells me to heed Elfego’s words. Better we stick together in this wild country. Patience, Nolo, patience, I say to myself.

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Chapter Thirteen On foot, middle of nowhere, desert all around me and it’s night. Seems like a million stars sparkle in the sky. A passing breeze finds its way around my face, and I catch the whiff of sagebrush. No other smell like it. It’s an acrid scent that always reminds me there’s something different about being out here in the wild country where the sun makes living here unbearable by day and the night makes living equally unbearable by the cold. Buck leads the way. I can make out his figure ahead of me even though he does blend in with the cactus arms that seem to reach out for him. Elfego stomps along next to me, his ever-present hat shoved to the back of his head. “You worried about your horse, Nolo?” “Yup.” “Don’t blame you.” “A good horse.” “We’ll get her back.” He takes his hat off and scuffs his feet in the gravel as we continue walking. My thoughts wrap around my mental picture of my missing horse. “Cowboys respect horseflesh, don’t they?” I say. “Sure do. Never saw a wrangler abuse a mare in foal,” says Elfego. “Slaughter ranch is big?” “Can’t travel from one end to the other in a day.” “Why do they want to control everything?” “Way of our times. Takes hard livin’ to tend cows. All the elements. Sun beatin’ down on your skin all day, rain peckin’ away at night. Never an easy moment. Tough breed of men out here. They’d be happy to have the rest of us leave the earth, ‘cept maybe a few of us to buy their beef and eat it.” “Old man Slaughter must have found himself some mean ones.” “Happens,” says Elfego. My eyes catch a signal from Buck. He motions for us to hit the ground. Without a wasted moment, I drop to the sand and bury myself flat against it, my ear to the ground. I look up to my left where Elfego had been talking to me. He’s not there. Horses. I can hear them. Many of them. Then I smell kerosene. A torch flashes and a hand reaches down, grabs my vest and the rider pulls me up. I - 117 -


feel a rope go around my upper body and I struggle. No use. The lariat tightens, and I’m trapped. “Well, now. If it ain’t that no good reporter. What’s your name? Nolo something?” I recognize the voice of Irish McCarty. “Well, my pretty. You ain’t got no one to protect you now. You’re mine. I’m thinkin’ of plenty ways I can make you die. Shootin’s too short a way. Maybe the old Injun burial torture. Like to see you sweat, all the trouble you done caused me.” I’m jerked off my feet as McCarty kicks his horse in the side with his spurs. The rope tightens around my midsection and I’m dragged along on the ground trying to catch my breath, being banged on the rocks like a bag of flour on a string. My head hits a rock and I can feel blood oozing out. My life in New York comes back to me, riding in Central Park early in the morning, hearing the birds chirping. Out on the lake, a mother duck calls her young to her. A man with a dog on a leash looks at me and smiles. Someone’s bending over me. It’s McCarty. His beer-fouled breath reaches my nostrils. His face is up close to mine. “Look at you. Just layin’ there. Ain’t you goin’ to write my story, Mr. Reporter? Ain’t you goin’ to tell how old McCarty here done roped you and dragged you ‘cross the desert? What ya goin’ to do now, Mr. Reporter?” The rope cuts into my chest now, and I can feel my breath coming in shorter gasps. I try to speak, but nothing comes out. Finally I gather my strength to say something. “You’re a bastard, McCarty.” “Oh, the big writer man with the big words has found his voice. Well, this oughta take somethin’ out of ya.” A boot lands in my side and I’ve a new pain to worry about. I hear a voice. Must be another of the cowboys. “Leave him alone, McCarty. You’ve done him enough damage. Don’t want to kill him. They’ll hang ya. The Baca fella and the Indian was with him. They got to be around here somewhere. Cut him loose. Leave him.” McCarty grunts. But he does untie the rope and my arms flop out at my sides, and I breathe deep draughts of air. I reach up to my head and feel - 118 -

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where the rock hit me. My hands are covered with blood when I pull them away. I grab my neckerchief from around my neck and hold it to my head. Then there’s a sound. It’s a horse sound and I turn my head toward the noise. I catch just an image of Big Mama looking down at me, then she’s gone. I’m alone in the desert, my head aching, my side paining me dreadfully, and my hands and arms too weak to push myself up. I try, but no use. Sadly, I flop back onto the sand. **** A hot wind blows through the fragrant sagebrush next to my head. My eyes won’t open. I try, but they’re stuck shut. I feel my hand at my side and move it. Not much there. I wait. The sun must be up. Its rays burn into my face and neck. A scuffling sound near my head tells me I am not alone. Then I hear a familiar voice. “You need help my blood brother.” Only blood brother I have is Buck. I feel his hands lift my head. Something soft slips in under my head. The round opening of a canteen reaches my lips, the cap hitting against the side and making a metallic sound as water pours over my mouth. Some drains onto my tongue, and I realize I am thirsty, really thirsty. I hear Buck pour water on a cloth. Then his gentle hands wash across my face, and I open my eyes. His head is over me, the great eyebrows bushing out like so many cactus needles, his ears as large as ever, a tuft of hair sprouting from the right one. His breath is steady, his eyes inquiring. “You come close, Nolo one. You live now.” A cloth rips and then a piece of it circles my head and range-worn fingers tie a knot. Buck puts his hands under my arm pits and tries to pull me up. I make it and now I’m sitting. “Where’s Elfego?” “He make rapid movements toward Socorro. Gone to get help and horses. Too many cowboys. Surprised us. Must have muffled horse steps. Couldn’t find me or Elfego. Took only you. My signal meant hide. You drop to ground. Counted twenty of them.” - 119 -


“How long have I been like this?” “Night and most of morning. Cowboys camped nearby. I couldn’t get to you until now. They just left.” “One was McCarty.” “Know him well.” “I’ve got to get him for what he did to me.” “Easy, Nolo one. Your body needs rest. Put you in shade. Elfego come soon.” **** Hot. I’ve never been so hot. I can feel the sun directly overhead, and its rays beat down on me like a smothering mattress resting on my chest and head. My eyes are still closed, and I try to force them open. No luck. My hands are useless. Only the sound of the wind in the sagebrush keeps me company. Where is Buck? A horse snorts and stamps its feet. Those sounds I know too well. I hear voices now. “He should be with a doctor.” It’s Kat’s words! What’s she doing out here? I move my head toward where I hear talking. “We have no time. Dust storm coming. It’ll wipe out tracks. We go now.” That’s Buck. Will they leave me here to die? “He’s got to ride. Brought him a gentle horse. Let’s get him up.” I feel hands under me and though my side pains me greatly and my head throbs, I help as my friends pull me to a standing position. My eyes are still closed. A warm body with bulging breasts pushes against me and my useless arms hang helplessly by my sides. Loving arms circle my body and I feel cool lips pressed to my mouth. I respond and life begins to tingle within me. With some rubbing, my eyes open. Elfego’s on his horse and off to my right, but Kat’s in front of me, her hair blowing in the wind. Her eyes are teary and a drop of moisture slides down her nose and onto her cheek. - 120 -

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“Thank God you’re here, Kat. Never needed anyone so much as I need you.” “Who did this to you?” “McCarty and his cowboy friends.” “We’ll catch them. We’ll get your horse back. Hope she’s not damaged.” I’m standing taller now and I shake myself all over. Seems like I can move. My arms come to life and I reach up to my ears. A thick cloth bandage circles my head, and as I trace its boundaries, I feel rough hands examining my side where McCarty kicked me. “Ouch. What you doin’ Buck?” “Just tryin’ to see if any bones are broken. Looks like you’re in one piece. Nothin’ busted. How’s the head?” “Better before you played doctor. Ribs are sore, but I can ride. Get me up on that horse.” Elfego’s standing near me, and as I stiffly put my left foot into the stirrup, he holds his hands down low so I can get a boost into the saddle. I struggle and other hands push against my bottom and torso. I have the reins in my left hand and my right reaches to grab the leather-covered saddle horn. Somehow I arrive at a sitting position astride the gentle animal beneath me. In the distance a dark cloud menaces. Looks like a rain spot, but from what Buck says, it’s a dust storm approaching. I reach down for the neckerchief I keep tied to my throat for such an occasion. It’s still there after all I’ve been through. My body tells me I should be home in bed, but a few aches won’t keep me from finding McCarty. Elfego’s voice sounds above the gathering wind. “Katarina, you watch Nolo. Buck, you take the lead. Good tracks and plenty of them to follow. Posse’ll be here shortly. They can trail us, find us.” I feel better. Now the hunt is official. A posse. Must be at least thirty men in the group, and they’ll all be sharpshooters. My head clears some and my body adjusts to the saddle. Kat moves her horse closer to mine. “Ever thought about taking up an easier profession, big boy?” “Don’t know what I’d do if I couldn’t write.” “You ain’t goin’ to be alive to write any story if you keep messin’ with that McCarty.” “He’s got my horse.” - 121 -


“I know, but it ain’t goin’ to be easy gettin’ her back in one piece.” “Don’t say that, Kat. She’s not goin’ to die.” “You’re a damn fool for bringin’ her out here in the first place. Just like a man.” Anger rises inside me, and at first I direct it toward Kat. “What do you mean, just like a man?” “You think giving birth is easy?” “No. I expect it pains a body some, human or horse.” “Damn right it pains a body.” “How do you know?” “My mama told me. Sand storm’s comin’. Better find shelter.” Up ahead, Buck waves. He makes a motion with his right arm and then points toward a gravel-bedded wash we are approaching. My horse slips on the stones as I guide him down the bank into the pebble-covered bed of what could be a raging river in a rainstorm. All four of us string along single file, Buck in the lead, then Elfego. Kat’s roan horse finds it rough going through the rocks. My horse has more experience. Buck dismounts and waves the rest of us to do the same. The cloud is rapidly coming towards us, and I can feel swirls of hot wind on my face and arms. I get off my horse somehow and urge the animal to a lying down position. Kat’s doing the same. I leave my mount and join Kat, helping her get her horse down. It’s not easy, even with both of us pulling and tugging. Finally the steed gives in and drops. Kat kneels down, and I’m beside her. The sound of the wind makes speech almost impossible. I put my mouth next to her ear. “Get down flat, Kat. I’ll cover you.” She lies down on her stomach, and I crawl in beside her, my arms and riding jacket over her head. I put my face next to hers. Her eyes are wide open and I can tell she’s frightened. “We’ll get through this Kat. Can’t be any worse than a cyclone, and I’ve already lived through one of those back in Nebraska. Wet your neckerchief with your canteen and put it over your mouth and nose. Keep your eyes closed when the worst of the storm hits.” I pop my head up to see what’s happening. I can barely make out Elfego and Buck. They are on the ground and have their heads covered. I look - 122 -

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toward the direction of the storm. The darkest part of the cloud is nearly over us, and it’s as if night has been declared early. A round hole of a sun cuts through the sand blowing in the sky as I glance upward. Then the storm comes and I feel it beating against my face and head. I duck down under my jacket, my face next to Kat’s once again, my body on top of hers, protecting her. It’s calm now. I push my head up, and sand closes in on the space where my head rested. Blue sky greets me and off to my right I hear the call of a morning dove. I’m buried in sand. I can feel it in my armpits and up my legs. It’s even in my crotch. I move off Kat’s body and stretch out next to her. Kat rouses and as she straightens out, the pile of sand next to her body flows like several rivers to the rock underneath us. She removes her neckerchief and there’s a lighter tone to her skin around her mouth and nose. “We weathered the storm, Kat.” “Some blow.” “Knew we’d make it.” “Thirsty. My water’s gone.” I find my canteen, dust off the sandy surface and hand it to her. She unscrews the lid, tilts the canteen back and swigs off a mouthful. I take it from her and do the same. “Sure tastes good after all that wind and sand,” I say. “We’ll need more water before we get across this desert.” “Buck and Elfego know the wells.” “Posse caught in the sand, too. They’ll find us?” I say. “Reckon so. Look, Buck is up and riding. Elfego’s not far behind. We better go.” Our horses are up and they’ve shaken the sand off their bodies. I love to see a horse do that. My steed comes up like a shudder and the vibrations extend out in ripples throwing sand in all directions. I watch as the animals shake their heads and snort, the reins flopping from side to side. I grab the reins and with Kat’s help, I’m able to get onto the saddle. My bones ache and my skin feels itchy, but I will ride through the fires of hell to find my pregnant Big Mama. She’s alive. I know she’s alive. - 123 -


All the plants are covered with sand. Drifts of the stuff cover some of the smaller sagebrush, and I know the cowboy tracks must be covered too. I leave Kat and catch up with Buck. “You catch wind of where those scoundrels went?” I say. “Hard, very hard. Sand fills in trail. Some marks on rocks not covered by sand. Know direction they went. We follow close. Soon we catch up. They stop for storm, too.” “What happened to the posse?” “They come. Look. Dust cloud piles high against horizon. They see us, we see them.” Elfego rides alongside. His hat’s on straight and his eyes peer straight ahead. He has a determined look on his face, one that I’ve never seen before. His right hand rides steady on his hip, the reins of his animal held loosely. “You have a plan, my friend,” I say. He looks over at me, then back toward the way Buck is leading us. “Storm slowed us up. We could have caught them by now. Only good thing is, they were in it too. Plan. We search ‘em out and the posse gives us support. Saw the boys a comin’ just after the sand storm let up. You look like the devil, Nolo.” “I feel like the devil too. But let’s ride hard. I want McCarty for myself.” “Don’t get greedy, boy. McCarty’ll get what’s comin’ to him. Want to see that man behind bars myself, permanent like. He’s caused me some trouble too.” Up ahead is a place where the mountains angle down to the desert floor. Sagebrush and cactus cover the valley and the bright light of early morn brings out the colors, a mixture of dark green against the light tan of the ground. A few patches of red-rust indicate outcroppings of clay at the base of the gray-streaked mountain base. That’s where we’ll have to ride if we want to catch the cowboys. Kat rides alongside me and Elfego Her hair could use some adjustment, but her figure is fine. She’s riding side-saddle and her full skirt ripples in the wind as the movements of her horse create a cross current. Her eyes are on me and her mouth is open. “I liked you being close to me during the storm.” she says. “Felt good for me too.” - 124 -

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“You know, you’re one tough hombre.” “Been through a lot in New York, also, on the eastside.” “I’ve never seen the big city.” “You’d like it. Central Park. Big as the prairie out here, almost. Great place to ride a horse. Plenty of water, things to see like ducks and people.” “You’ll stay here for a while, I mean like a few years when this is over?” “Whatever my editor tells me to do. I take orders from him. He pays the bills.” “You mean, there’s a chance you’ll leave the west and go back to New York.” “Eventually. But let’s live for the moment. You and I can see each other. I really feel like I know you for the first time. The sand storm brought us together, a bond.” “Don’t get any funny ideas, Nolo. Just because you’ve seen me in my nightie and snuggled up on top of me in a storm, doesn’t mean I’m goin’ to give in to you.” “Don’t expect you to. You stood by while Joline saved my life back in Frisco. Felt that rope around my neck. If she hadn’t stepped in, I wouldn’t have been here to return the same for you. And you were ready to help, I know.” From a corner of my eye, I see Buck stop. Elfego draws up behind him and the two of them dismount. Buck motions for the two of us to halt. “He must have spotted something. Get off your horse,” I say. Kat moves her left leg off the side-saddle metal loop, undoes her right foot from the stirrup and slips to the ground. Her skirt flies up and I catch an eyeful of white ankle. It’s more than I had anticipated. With a little more difficulty I join her. “Over there. See the dust cloud. Good crowd of horses. Must be the cowboys. Big Mama’s in that group.” Buck signals for us to follow him and since he’s on foot, we go after him, walking and leading our horses behind us. The deep sand is hard to trod through, but we manage and before long we’re making progress toward our goal, a smudge on the horizon that indicates horse activity ahead. Buck is down now on all fours. He studies something on the ground, then calls me to come to him using his hand sign. - 125 -


“Your horse bleeds. See the drops here. Mother’s blood.” I look down and sure enough there are some tiny red spots on the sand. “Her fluid break over there. She will not go far.” In the distance I hear a horse neighing, moaning, and I recognize it as the voice of Big Mama. I pull my animal along behind me and despite my many aches and pains, I race toward the sound I hear. Just over a nearby hill, I see a form. It is a horse and it looks like Big Mama. She’s down and that’s not good. I drop the reins to my borrowed horse and run toward her. I reach her and drop to my knees, picking up her head in my hands and holding it in my lap. Her large round eyes look up at me and I can see the whites all around her orbs. It frightens me. She looks scared, and I rub her just above the nose as I always do when I greet her. “There, there old girl. You’ll be all right. Need to get you back up. No one’s been feeding you or giving you water. I can tell.” I hear someone behind me and turn around to see Buck joining me. He makes no greeting, but immediately begins an inspection of Big Mama’s birthing area. My horse stirs. Buck has his hands inside her now. Then he pulls his hands out and takes a few steps to reach me. “Get your horse up if you want her to live. Need gravity for baby to drop. Think little horse dead. Lying down horse never get better. Die.” I’m frightened. I want Big Mama to live. What can I do? I stand up. “Come on old girl. Stand up. Need you up. Up, up.” I move my hand upward at the same time I’m talking to her. She doesn’t budge. “Buck, you have an idea?” “Old Indian method. You help. When I say pull, pull up on the reins. I’ll push from behind here.” He moves around to Big Mama’s backside. Kat and Elfego arrive, and I motion to them to give Buck a hand. “Now, Nolo. Pull and pull hard,” Buck says. I give the reins steady pressure upward and Mama’s head rises off the sand. With three people pushing, my horse gets the idea to stand and with much stumbling, finally Big Mama is upright. But I notice her legs. They wobble and she nearly falls. I pat her nose again and comfort her. “Come on, old girl. Get steady. We’re going to save you.” - 126 -

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I pour some water in my hat and hold it out for her. She tests it, then drinks deeply. I fill the hat again and she drinks it all. “You are thirsty. I’ll find you some sweet grass when this is over. You’ll have nothing but oats and clover to munch on the rest of your life, only don’t let me down now. We’ve been through too much together for me to lose you.” I think she understands. She takes another hatful of water and her legs seem steadier. A shudder starts at her neck and I can see the ripples work down her brown back and to her tail. She looks at me with those eyes again, and I hug her around the neck. Buck is back there doing something. He’s saying something in Kiowa now and I know he’s meeting an obstacle. He always uses his own language when something bothers him. Then he switches to English, and I know he’s solved a problem. “What’s happening, Buck?” “Baby horse dead. Legs all twisted. Don’t know if I can get it out. Life cord around neck. Need help.” I motion to Kat to take my place at Big Mama’s head and I join Buck at the other end. Elfego’s there and holding the horse’s legs apart. I look up at the opening. A nose sticks out and Buck’s hands are on either side of it, pushing out, reaching in and pulling out. More nose appears and then the rest of the head pushes out. Buck motions for me to grab the nose and pull. I take hold and he plunges his hands farther into the birth canal. I offer steady pressure on the head and Buck has one arm all the way in up to his shoulder. “Knee hangs. Must get leg unfolded. Try now. There.” As if a great weight has been released, the colt’s head comes shooting out of the opening and with a great contraction of Big Mama’s stomach, the rest of the body follows. I guide the baby to the ground and lay it there. I reach down and open the mouth. A gush of fluid rushes out. Elfego straightens the baby’s legs. The foal just lies there, no movement, but beautifully formed, looks like a perfect little stallion. Buck stands next to me. His arms are bloody and his face is smeared with stains of sweat and blood. “We bury colt. Boy colts harder than girl ones. Strangled by cord.” - 127 -


It is a male. Big Mama’s had a little stallion. “Hey, Buck. What’s a good Indian name for a young foal?” “Call him Stormy Day. He has a mark on his left shoulder like a cloud. We have sand storm, remember?” “We’ll put that on his tombstone,” I say.

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Chapter Fourteen A cloud of dust covers the horizon to the east. Must be more than thirty horsemen in the crowd, and they’re all riding toward us. Elfego’s posse. At last they’ve arrived. Now we can get on with the business of finding McCarty and his gang of Slaughter Ranch cowboys. I watch as the horsemen pull up on their reins. Their mounts create more dust as the hind legs dig into the soft soil. A thudding noise announces their arrival and the first rider is off his horse and approaching Elfego. “We’re here, Sheriff Baca. Got extra provisions, water. Ready to get on the trail.” Elfego tips back his sweat-stained hat and looks the man in the eyes. “We got a tracker here. Young Indian. Buck Redwing. Knows his business. Be ready soon. Hey, Nolo.” I hear my name and look up. “What you goin’ to do about this here horse of yours and her dead colt?” “Bury the colt. Thought maybe I’d ask Kat to take Big Mama into town. Will you Kat?” The woman stands nearby and strokes Big Mama on the head. She looks at me and smiles. “Knew you’d ask about that. Sure. I’d be happy to get Big Mama to safety. I’ll feed her some oats, and then we’ll be off to Socorro and the stable where she can bed down for a long rest.” I walk over to Kat. In my hand is an entrenching tool I carry with me on each of my treks. It’s one of those kind of shovels that folds up onto the handle, making it easy to carry. I pull down on the shovel part and it flicks into place. My hands are shaky as I start to dig at a hollow place in the sand next to where the colt lies. Kat stands next to me and I stop digging to put my arm around her shoulder and draw her to me. Her body flows into mine and I can feel her womaness pressing against me. We kiss and it’s a long kiss that says much to me about this woman who cares about me and my horse. A sound of cheering causes me to break off the kiss. I look up at the men who compose - 129 -


the posse. They’re applauding and making hooting noises. Guess they’ve never seen an Easterner express his emotions before. I look at Kat. “You’ll have to take your time getting back to town.” “Never you mind, Nolo. I know what to do. You get on with the digging. Big Mama’s safe with me. We’ve got enough food and water now. Ain’t far to Socorro.” I continue digging, Kat standing next to me, tears streaming down her face and little sounds coming from her mouth. She takes the shovel from me. “Let me finish this. You get on with the hunt. Put a bullet in that McCarty just for me,” she says. I hand her the shovel, hug her again and then break away to find my horse. Elfego and Buck are already in the saddle. I put my foot in the stirrup and swing myself up. I look down at Kat. Big Mama twists her head back to look at me, her big eyes staring straight my way. She whinnies and I know she’s saying goodbye and maybe even a thanks for saving her life. My horse stirs beneath me, and I pull the reins against my mount’s neck and lay them to the left. A new spirit stirs within me. I know we’re going to find the gang who escaped from jail and kidnapped my horse. We’re on the move now and I look back one last time at where I left Kat. She has the tip of the digging tool in the ground and throws a shovel load of sand over her shoulder. Kat looks at me and waves. I return her gesture. She’s a tough western gal who knows how to do things on her own. I like that in my women. Buck’s leading the pack. He’s a good quarter mile ahead of us and his eyes search the crumbly earth as he lopes along on his mount. He reads horse sign the same way I used to read a newspaper back in New York. Explaining the way Buck tracks horses will be worth a story in Frontier Magazine when I find time to write it. I’m riding even with Elfego and I look over his way. “You think Buck can find the trail after the storm?” “He’s got it. Don’t quite know how he does it, but he’s readin’ sign. Cowboys have several hours on us. Only hope they take time to rest their horses. That way we can catch up.” - 130 -

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Elfego pulls his hat down tighter over his forehead and adjusts the strap under his chin. The wind is blowing, and I can feel my Stetson wobble on my head. I push down on it from the top, and it feels more secure. The land before us is alive with new buds. Despite the sandstorm, the cactus plants endure, shoving out the bulbous red prickly pear-shaped nodules that soon will burst into a yellow bloom of renewal. I marvel at Mother Nature here on the desert. Life is hard in the heat and dryness of this New Mexico country, but life goes on no matter how miserable the weather may be. Even the saguaro, with its outstretched arms, seems to beckon us to a new day and the beginning of an adventure. The wind really blows now, and the sound of it reminds me of a time long ago on the Nebraska prairie. That wind turned into a cyclone. I wonder what the wind turns into here. I see Buck raise his arm. Even though he’s far ahead of us, his figure in the saddle is imposing. The man is large. He turns his horse around and approaches us. I hear his voice as he gets near. “See that cloud of dust far on the horizon. Know it’s McCarty. Only one pass through mountains. Shorter way cuts off here.” Buck raises his right arm and points toward a range of low hills near us. “Need to follow trail here. I do that. Elfego, you and Nolo lead ten men on shortcut trail?” Elfego pulls out the strap under his chin and removes his hat. He wipes the interior of the hat rim with his kerchief, smiles and as if he has made a decision, puts his hat back on his head. “Fine. I know the trail you mention. True. It comes out at the pass and should save us two hours. We’ll meet you there and catch those no good cowboys in a pincer. Let’s go.” Elfego puts a deputy sheriff in charge of the group that will accompany Buck, and then he chooses the men to ride with us. Looks to me like Elfego knows the men well. I’ve seen some of them in town and they are responsible citizens who know how to handle a gun as well as ride the rough trail. Elfego waves his hand, his arm extends in the direction of the cowboys. “Get up there, Buck. Looks like they’re movin’ again.” - 131 -


I look where Elfego points and sure enough, the dust cloud moves. Buck rides out in the lead and the men with the deputy follow. It will be easier for them to follow the trail now that the quarry is in sight. My hand reaches for the pistol at my side. I pull it out, kick out the cylinder and check my ammunition. All the rounds are seated and I flip the mechanism back into place. I return the piece to my holster and adjust the strap that fits over the trigger housing. My horse snorts and then we’re moving. Elfego’s in the lead, and I ride alongside him. The others follow in twos. The trail’s wide here. “You say you’ve been on this trail to the pass before?” “Many times. Have a cousin name of Conrado who lives in Kelly. He and Frank Shaw run a store out there. Sells cloth and hard goods. Has himself a little bar in one corner of the store. There ain’t much in Kelly except Conrado’s store.” “You see him often?” “Nope. Keep in touch though. Stagecoach driver’s a friend of mine. Sent word to Conrado that I’d been elected sheriff. No law in Kelly. Part of the same county as Socorro though. Technically I’m in charge there.” The trail rises sharply and the horse’s hooves strike metal on rock and there are sparks. It’s barren land around here. It must get water only once every century. The rocky outcroppings suggest mining for gold might be a possibility. A reddish-grey streak flows along horizontally in the granite just ahead. Pressure lines cut in above and below the streak and the scene reminds me of a book I read once about how gold deposits are formed. The horse beneath me is sure footed. He gives evidence of having been on this trail before. Never did know how horses can be so smart. Guess they’ve got enough room in their big heads for a good sized brain. They can’t talk, but they sure know how to communicate their needs. This mount of mine’s a stallion and he’s intelligent, I can tell. His ears stick straight up, one twisting to the right, the other staying stationary. His head continues to bob up and down to the pace, and I can feel the athletic motion of his body as I sit the saddle. I wonder who found this trail originally. It’s a marvel how it cuts and turns through the gradually sloping rock. We’re riding to the peak now, following the natural contour of the land. Ahead is an opening between two - 132 -

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higher elevations and our band of horsemen makes its way through, the country on this side much like what we just left. The only difference is the view in front of us. I can see two dust clouds now, separated by maybe a half mile. The front cloud seems closer to us and coming toward where we are headed. Our lines will cross soon. We’re descending and Elfego still leads the way. His head turns toward the first dust cloud to our left and then he looks at me. “Another half hour. Should have surprise on our side. Our horses are on rocks. No dust. They can’t tell we’re here.” I shake my head in agreement. “Motion to the others. They need to know we’re getting close.” My hand is in the air, and I wave it in a circle then drop my arm toward the dust cloud that grows larger on the horizon. A mumble of voices reaches my ears and I know the men have seen the sign. We drop down into a small “V” shaped rocky area and the rock wall on our left masks us from the dust cloud. Still, we are able to keep our horses moving toward our objective. We’ll come out of this canyon near the mountain pass and it looks like we’ll get there first. Those cowboys won’t know we’re there until it’s too late for them. Buck and the deputies will be right behind them and we’ll have them in a cross fire. It should be quick. I urge my horse to move a little faster as Elfego picks up the speed. He handles his mount like a pro, as I would expect. He rides faster now and the sound of horses hooves on the granite makes a clicking sound, much like the cadence of a train crossing the gaps where the track lengths meet. Takes me back to the first moment I arrived in this western land aboard a train in Big Springs, Nebraska. Joline sat next to me. The thought of Joline and her prim little figure causes a rosy glow to rise within me. Wonder what she’s doing now back at Buck’s Kiowa village in Texas. We’re coming out now. Elfego halts his horse and motions for us to stop, also. He dismounts, holds the reins in his right hand and leads his horse forward. I can see what he’s doing. A barrier of rock still protects us from the left. Elfego stumbles over a small boulder, but his grasp on the reins keeps him from falling. He looks up at me sheepishly. “Damn rocks’ll be the death of me. Your shootin’ iron in working condition?” - 133 -


“Checked it back there.” “Get the men spread out. We’ll hit them head on. Leave your horse here. He won’t go anywhere.” I pass the word on to the men behind me and like a military deployment, the posse members move into action, splitting off by twos, finding protection behind large rocks, their unsheathed rifles glistening in the noonday light. I find a handy hiding place and peek around one side of a boulder. I can make out the lead horse. McCarty’s white stallion stands out against the backdrop of the brown dust cloud that follows behind the group. No more than a hundred yards now. Those cowboys are riding for their lives. They’ve seen Buck and the men behind them and they know the only way to save themselves is to reach the pass first. Once inside the pass, they can disperse and even ambush anyone who might trail them.

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Chapter Fifteen I take out my notebook and begin scribbling. Elfego and I are in Kelly, a small town that’s fifteen miles from Socorro. We’ve just arrived here after meeting with Conrado Baca and Frank Shaw in their store. Conrado is Elfego’s cousin. I try out my new style of breaking into the story. Why not tell it from a bird’s eye viewpoint as I did in the first chapter of this book? A bald eagle perches high on a granite rock, his yellow beak open. He’s panting from the heat, his eyes staring straight ahead at the humans down below in the small town of Kelly, New Mexico territory. The time is 1888, but the bird doesn’t know that. He’s looking for something to eat and knows that rats and mice hide under the stores of Kelly during the day. A gunshot echoes in the scrub-oak canyon next to the eagle. The bird’s head turns toward the sound, his wings fluttering outward, his legs pushing upward as if to propel itself into flight. But the eagle only does a short jump and lands back in the same place on the rock, his tiny heart still pumping an emergency supply of blood throughout his body. The eagle narrows its gaze, the telescopic action of its eyes bringing into focus the source of the gunshot, a cowboy standing in front of a store in Kelly. The eagle recognizes danger and has a healthy fear of humans who have guns and who point their weapons at him sometimes, making explosions that cause pain, a deep scar on his broad wing just now healing from such an incident. Not bad. I read it over and know I’ll have to edit it later. I continue writing. The bird is not alone in its fear of cowboys and their guns. One person, Conrado Baca, Elfego Baca’s cousin, also has a healthy distaste for the horsed riders who come into town on occasion and shoot up his store. At this moment, Baca stands sideways in the doorway of his dry goods establishment, his hands at his sides; his ebony hair falling in bunches across his forehead. He’s looking down at his brand new red and white plaid vest, a - 135 -


button in the middle missing, where only moments before it had held together the two lapels. Baca’s heart pounds. A feeling of fear reaches upward from the soles of his feet to the redness of his cheeks. Should he flee? Should he run away from all this and do something else with his life? Baca stands in place as if he is frozen. He cannot move. He dare not move. It’s as if his size 9 boots are nailed to the pine planks beneath him. Again a blast from a pistol reaches his ears. Baca feels the presence of a bullet pass in front of him. He looks down. Another button missing. Baca jumps to action. He steps inside the store, closes the solid oak door behind him, bolts it shut and runs for the bar counter where in former times, groups of cowboys have gathered to use objects in his store for targets. He drops down behind the heavy wooden bar structure and flattens himself on the floor. Glass shards from the shattered bottles above him press into his flesh. Tears come to his eyes. Above him hang the metal skillets of his trade. Tiny dents in the frying pans indicate the pistol packers have used them for shooting practice. A tiny pile of flour sifts out of a keg where a .45 slug has pierced the wooden side. Shattered whiskey bottles stand in disarray behind the thick plank bar. The rough nude painting of a Western maiden has bullet holes where her nipples once proudly proclaimed her womanhood. The same fate has affected her eyesight and a figure eight of well-placed rounds graces the area of her figure where the legs join the main branch at the pelvis. A series of ragged rips in the intricate weaving of the hanging red and blue Indian blankets attest to the marksmanship of the range riders. Sunlight flows through the blanket holes and highlights Baca in his stretched-out position on the floor next to the bar. There’s a sound of a door opening. Baca cringes even more in his cramped position. Have the cowboys found a way in? His brain conjures up an image of a six-shooter held to his temple, the noise of the hammer cocking resonating in his skull, the sound of the blast echoing in his ears. Baca pinches himself in the arm. No, he is still alive. A familiar voice reaches him. “Conrado, what are you doing all scrunched up on the floor like that?” Baca lifts his head to see the person who is talking. - 136 -

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“Oh, it’s you Frank. Cowboys shot off my vest buttons again. Scared the caca out of me. We got to do something about that my friend.” Frank Shaw, no more than five feet tall when standing upright, moves closer to Baca. With a wrinkled, but smooth-white hand, he reaches down and grabs the shoulders of his business partner and pulls him to a standing position. “Conrado, mi amigo, you’ve befouled your breech. I can smell it. Get yourself cleaned up. We’ve had enough of it. **** The shop is closed now, boarded up with heavy timbers covering the front door and windows. Two saddled horses stand at the rail near the dry goods store, feet pawing the ground, a cloud of dust floating rearward where the two men stand. Conrado and Frank are dressed for travel, their sheepskin coats attesting to the coolness of the morning air. The town of Kelly can be a furnace in the day, but late at night and in the early morn, old timers know to cover their bodies against the cold. “It’s time to go, Frank. Elfego will know what to do.” “He’s now a sheriff in Socorro, isn’t he?” “Got himself acquitted of murder charges. Popular man, got himself elected Socorro County sheriff. He’s my cousin you know.” “Had heard something about that. Nice to have a cousin who’s a sheriff.” “Horses are ready. Let’s ride outa here before the cowboys come down the street again.” **** The booming town of Socorro lies only fifteen miles from Kelly, but there are hills to ride over and deep gullies filled with rocks to cross and the two shop owners are not exactly bronco busters. They’ve been too long behind the counters of their establishment dispensing alcoholic drinks, cutting calico cloth, and measuring out pinto beans in handfuls to the people of Kelly, cowboys included. - 137 -


Most of the folks in Kelly are simple sheep owners who mind their own business and come to town only on Saturdays to replenish their store of supplies that will last them another week. A few miners hang around town trying to get a handout so they can continue their search for the El Dorado mine famed in Indian lore, especially up around Tiguex country. Of course, there are the cowboys from the Slaughter Ranch who come to town on occasion to get a drink or buy bullets for their pistols and rifles. There is no more El Dorado in Kelly for Conrado and Frank. Their lode has given out and there’s only one thing to do, get help from the law and to them, the law is Elfego Baca. A yellow dog, its eyes half closed, lies dozing in the dust of the main street of Socorro. Awakening to a sound, the dog reaches out his rear leg, scratches vigorously along his bony side, farts and casts an eye upward at two horses passing near to him. He doesn’t move an inch with his body, but his ears twist forward to catch the sound of voices. “Sheriff’s office is over there, Frank. Think I see Elfego sittin’ in a chair in front. His feet are up. That’s a good sign.” Frank looks where Conrado points and nods his head in agreement. The riders boot their horses in the sides, into a faster walk and soon they’re at the railing, really only a long curved limb of a pine tree with the smaller branches hacked off. The men pull up, and as one, they dismount, tie up the reins and set foot on the planking in front of the jail. A hollow sound of boots on wood echoes with each step. Elfego Baca opens one eye. Conrado’s jaws are moving. “Mi amigo. It is good to see you again. Rough times, eh, cousin?” Elfego says. The sheriff tips his hat back on his head and stands up. The size difference between the two men is amazing. Elfego is a foot taller than Conrado. His eyes turn toward Frank. “So who is minding the store back in Kelly? Both of you are here.” Conrado is quick with an answer. “Too much. Frank and I’ve had too much. Cowboys shooting off their pistols in our store. Shot the buttons off my vest. Nearly gave me heart failure. Ain’t that right, Frank?” - 138 -

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“Broke our whiskey bottles with their shootin’. Put holes in the blankets we had for sale. Messed up the only good looking thing in the store--our picture of a naked lady that’d been hangin’ behind the bar for years.” If Elfego had a beard, he’d be twisting it now as he thinks. His eyebrows come together in the middle of his forehead and a tiny smile starts in one corner of his mouth and works its way across his lips. “Why didn’t you fellers tell the cowboys not to shoot up your place?” Conrado reaches out and grabs Elfego by the shoulder. “Couldn’t do that, mi amigo. They’d have murdered us on the spot. Want you to go to Kelly and straighten things out. Know you’ve got the backbone to do it. You get things in order there and we’ll come back to Kelly to take over again. Isn’t that right, Frank?” Frank Shaw stands next to Conrado. He’s six inches shorter than his business partner and his hair is thicker. He runs his hand over his head now and brushes back a shock of pure white hair. “He’s right, Elfego. Need some help. You get our store in order again and we’ll go back to Kelly.” The three men look up the wooden sidewalk. A series of heavy footsteps resound along the boards and a man approaches. He’s dressed in cowboy gear, denims, brocade shirt, and a leather vest made from the well-tanned hide of a black and white cow. His hat is pulled down over his forehead and behind one ear is a pencil. Here’s a notebook in his hand. He’s smiling as he nears the trio. “Howdy, Elfego. Nosy reporter in me had to find out who these gents are and what they’re doin’ in Socorro. Is this a private discussion, or may I join you?” Elfego waves his hand in welcome to the newcomer and turns toward Conrado and Frank. “Nolo Blunt. This here Nolo’s been writin’ my life story. Seen the articles he done wrote about the trouble I had in Frisco. Frontier Magazine made me a hero. He was there with me when those cowboys let loose on me with all those rifles. Don’t know what I’d done without him on my side.” Blunt looks at the two men from Kelly. His pencil is at the ready and his notebook is in his other hand. - 139 -


“Heard you gents say somethin’ about Kelly as I was walkin’ up. What’s happenin’ in that dried up hole of a town?” Conrado looks at Elfego, gets a nod from his cousin, and then looks at Blunt.” “Been tellin’ Elfego here about our troubles at the store. Cowboys are out of hand there. Ain’t no law. Shot up the fryin’ pans, put holes in my flour keg, blew out my bottles of whiskey. Me and my partner, Frank, here want help.” Blunt opens his notebook and begins to write. It’s always amazing to me how quickly I can put a story down in my notebook. Always was clever, even in my college days back in New York. Learned how to write quickly in my classes in rhetoric. Only twice in Socorro have I had to sharpen my pencil and by now I’ve almost run out of paper. There’s just enough room left for me to jot down the scene as I see it when the two men rode into town. I give it a title. THE KELLY-COWBOY AFFAIR By Nolo Blunt Two men rode into Socorro this afternoon and made straightaway for Sheriff Elfego Baca’s bailiwick, the town jail. Little was happening in the sleepy-eyed hamlet of Socorro, and Elfego’s eyes were closed. Perhaps he was reliving the murder trial that had ended in acquittal for him on all counts. Maybe he was studying the inside of his eyelids. But his ears were alert and he sprang from his captain’s chair as the men approached. This reporter was soon on the spot and writing, putting together this story for you, readers of Frontier Magazine. I put my pencil behind my ear, stuff my notebook back in my pocket and pick up on my journal that I’ve been writing since the days when Elfego and I were on our way to Frisco. I like being a reporter for Frontier Magazine. My editor, Tom Menace, back in New York, seems to like my stories. At least he keeps the money coming, so I can pay for my bed and food here in New Mexico sticking with - 140 -

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Elfego Baca and writing his story. I’ve already received disgruntled mutterings from Tom. He never was one to come right out and say if something is good. He must be selling lots of magazines or he wouldn’t keep those checks coming. Still gives me a byline. Like to see that By Nolo Blunt beneath the headline of my story. Elfego is still talking to Conrado and Frank, and I think he’s a little disappointed that the two men are not going to accompany him on the trip to Kelly. I have no doubt that Elfego can do the job. He has a jaw of steel and a solid six-gun to back him up. I’ve seen more than one cowboy cringe in his boots when Elfego draws his pistol. Elfego doesn’t get his six-shooter out unless he’s going to use it. I can hear Elfego’s voice echoing in my brain. “Sure, I’ll get after those cow punchers. Had me quite a to do with them in Frisco. May be some of the same bad noses there who shot at me while I was holed up in the jacal. I’ll make quick work of them. Sure you two won’t join me? Great fun to see. You boys don’t deserve havin’ a store if you can‘t take care of it. I’d like to take you with me when I drive those cowboys out of town. Don’t know what might happen to all your goods in the store if you ain’t proud enough to go with me.” Conrado’s lips quiver and his vest hangs loosely, some of its buttons missing. “My cousin. You take care of our store, get those ruffians on the run, and me and Frank will join you when the deed is done. I don’t care what happens to the store. Do with the goods as you will. That right Frank?” Frank shakes his head up and down in agreement, but there’s a look on his face I haven’t seen before. Conrado continues. “Now, I want to get to a hotel and settle down for a spell. My nerves are still jumpin’. Come on Frank.” **** Kelly is a small town, much more like Frisco than Socorro in size. Not much is happening on the main street as Elfego and I ride toward the store where Conrado and Frank sold their goods. The place is open, much to my - 141 -


amazement. Elfego notices it at almost the same moment I do. His brow wrinkles, and I see his eyes focus on what is occurring in front of him. Four horses rest silently at the railing, their tails switching away a swarm of flies, their heads bouncing up and down, the ears twisting toward our approach behind them. “What do you want me to do, Elfego?” “Stay back. There may be trouble. Don’t want you gettin’ plugged.” He doesn’t have to tell me that twice. Elfego loosens a leather thong that holds his pistol in place while he’s riding. He dismounts and loops his reins over the same railing where the other horses stand. I do the same, only I position Big Mama at a railing farther down the street. Don’t want her getting shot. Stealthily, I walk along the wooden sidewalk to the store. I’m keeping low to the ground to avoid being seen by anyone inside. Elfego stands at the door of Conrado and Frank’s dry goods-bar establishment. The sheriff looks like he means business and he does. I’ve seen him once before as he prepares for a confrontation. His chin is out, his hat pushed back, and his shoulders squared. He walks through the doorway, and I’m right behind him. I slide around to his right, behind him, and find a chair near an old pot-bellied stove in one corner of the room. The stove is between me and Elfego, but I can still keep safe even though I peek around it. A man stands poised at a counter across from me. He’s facing Elfego and his eyes move up and down my friend’s body. He evidently has an idea who Elfego is because a smile now appears on his bearded face. His lips move. “Well, if it ain’t my old friend, Elfego Baca. See you’re a sheriff now. You weren’t nothin’ when you nabbed my pal McCarty back in Frisco. How’s old McCarty doin’?” Unsmiling, Elfego stands well-balanced on both his legs, as if he were ready to jump across the room and pop the cowboy in the jaw. “McCarty’s in jail where he belongs. You’re goin’ to join him soon if you don’t change your ways.” “What you mean? Ain’t done nothin’ here. No reason to take me in.”

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“You and the others, you’re trespassin’. This here store belongs to my cousin, Conrado, and he done filed a complaint with me about how you rapscallions been shooting up his place.” “Ain’t true. Sure, we done used a few old skillets for target practice, but only in the spirit of fun. Never meant any harm. Say, I’d really like to find out if you’re some kind of Saint or somethin’. Heard that bullets pass right through you without killin’ you. Heard stories about you. Might be I’d like to find out.” The cowboy reaches for his pistol, but by the time his hand is on the butt of his six-shooter, still in the holster, Elfego’s long iron is aimed at the man’s belly, the light in the room reflecting from the silver barrel, the veins on Elfego’s hand sticking out like prickles on a cactus, the tendons up his arm tensed for action. A look of surprise crosses the cowboy’s face. He slowly draws back his hand and raises it above his head. The others in the room do the same. “Now, you boys go find some cattle to brand or fences to mend. Your stay in this town is over. Don’t want to see any of you around here again. Now git.” Boots scuff on the floor. Two of the cow-punchers get to the door at the same time and bump into each other. The cowboy, who tried to draw on Elfego, backs his way through the doorway and beyond, finally turning to undo the reins of his horse. Speedily he mounts, and all four of them ride up the street, dust gathering in a cloud after them like fog swirls early on a frosty morning. Elfego holsters his weapon and looks at me. “Easier than I thought. Really was ready to drop those boys. Eyed all four of them. Only that one cowboy reached for his shootin’ iron. Looks like this store is ready to open again. Got me an idea. Let’s get somethin’ to eat and bed down for the night in the Saguaro Hotel. Know it’s the best in town. **** Next morning, Elfego and I meet each other at Conrado’s store. Crowds of citizens overflow the wooden sidewalk and spill out onto the main street. Most of them are poor folks and sheep ranchers who have little money to - 143 -


spend on dry goods. My mind conjures up all kinds of ideas about why they are there. “Elfego, you’ve done something to get these people out here at 9:00 in the morning?” “Sure have, reporter. Sent word around last night. Told all the people to be here, nine o’clock sharp. Free food, free blankets, free everything. Figure that those two yellow bellies back in Socorro, my cousin and his partner, ain’t supposed to own a store if they can’t take care of it.” So that’s it. What an idea! Sure, Elfego would think up something like this to send a lesson to his cousin. I find myself a place behind the pot-bellied stove again. I get my pencil out and start writing, just as the horde of Kelly folks burst through the door. Last thing I notice is Elfego standing behind the bar, his right hand grasping a foamy glass of beer, a big grin on his face and a thumb through the corner of his vest pushing out the part where the star is pinned to it. Think I hear the happy cry of a bald eagle echoing towards me from some far off canyon.

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Chapter Sixteen Life is lazy in Socorro in the afternoon. All work stops just after the noon lunch break. The miners and visiting ranch hands seek out the wooden chairs that line the board walkway next to the stores. Outside the jail, Elfego sits in a relaxed position, his chair kicked back against the wall, his slouchy hat brim pushed down over the top of his brow, his hands using a muleskinner’s knife to whittle at a piece of dogwood. Socorro’s a quiet town now that Elfego is the sheriff. Conrado and his partner are back in Kelly. I understand they’ve restocked everything, had the nude painting restored to its original beauty and closed down the bar. No longer will they sell drinks. I guess they feel the cowboys will go elsewhere to soak up the suds and rye whiskey. Not a bad idea, to eliminate their problem. My heels make a click clack sound on the hollow wooden sidewalk as I approach my friend. His eyes snap over toward my direction as I near his chair. “What you doin’, Nolo, out in the afternoon sun? You know it’s bad for you to wander around with a full belly?” “Sheriff Baca. Sheriff Baca. That sounds good on my tongue. How much sheriffin’ you been doin’ today?” “Did me some hand writin’ this mornin’. Expect to get some results.” “Who’d you be writin’ to?” “Took over here with quite a few outstandin’ future prisoners. Former sheriff didn’t believe in keepin’ things up to date. I sent each outlaw a letter. Expect results.” “You mean, you just sent them a letter and you expect them to turn themselves in?” “Yup. That’s what I said. Simply told them I had a warrant for their arrest. They’re to appear in my office here before the 15th of next month. I may have to build a new jail to keep them all.” “Must be a mighty powerful letter. What’d you say?” “Never mince my words. Told ‘em I had cause to arrest them. Told ‘em to report to the jail by the middle of next month. If they choose not to show up, it’d mean I’d consider that resistin’ arrest. Told ‘em I’d shoot ‘em on - 145 -


sight after the 15th when I come after them. Signed my name, Elfego Baca, as sheriff.” “Never heard anythin’ like that before. Let me get my notebook out and write that down.” My pencil’s behind my ear as usual and my writing book is in my back pocket. I reach around for the book and open it to a clean page. “Now let me get this straight. You expect to just sit here in front of the jail and on or before the 15th of next month, those desperados on your wanted list will turn themselves in?” “That’s it, mi amigo,” Elfego says. “Did get one letter back already. A guntotin’ hombre named Art Ford done wrote his death sentence. Challenged me to meet him today out by the big hangin’ tree at the river. Got to be gettin’ on the trail to meet him. You might come along and write the story.” I picture in my mind the confrontation. Art Ford stands near the trunk of the huge tree, his hands on his hips, a non-smile on his face. Surely the man has heard of Elfego Baca and his battle in Frisco. Elfego’s name has been on everyone’s lips for the last couple of months. Only a fool would want to meet up with this hero of a battle with 80 cowboys. Many a man is lying in his grave who took Elfego for granted. “Ready to ride, Elfego.” I say. **** Up ahead is the brush-covered trail that leads to the river. Elfego moves his horse forward and takes the lead. I’m back on Big Mama. The country around here is different from most of New Mexico. There’s a smell of anise in the air and the mustard plants poke their yellow heads above the muddy ground that surrounds this river place. A few dogwood trees line the banks and one tall cottonwood stands out from the others. This is the hanging tree famed in Socorro history as the site of many a final judgment for men convicted of serious crimes, horse thievery, gunplay and other assorted mayhem. As I look up at the lowest main branch that extends out at a sharp angle from the trunk, I can make out gashes in the bark and pieces of rope still tied in place, evidence to the deadly business that has gone on here. - 146 -

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Elfego rides on, and soon he makes it to the cottonwood and halts. His hand is on his pistol handle as he dismounts, and then he’s off in a lope to reach the tree for cover. Never saw him move so fast. I hang back out of gunfire range and watch the sheriff in action. He reaches the big tree and with his right hand still hugging the pistol grip, he crouches low and begins to circle around the trunk. He reappears as he comes around the other side of the tree and looks at me. He takes off his hat and waves it at me to come join him. I boot Big Mama in the ribs and she jumps forward. Soon I’m at Elfego’s side. “No sign of him,” I say. “Didn’t expect there would be. Had to make sure.” “Maybe he changed his mind.” “Don’t blame him. He’d be a dead man by now.” “Tell me, Elfego. What went through your mind as you got off your horse?” “Had me a little prayer.” “You, the great Elfego, believes in God.” “Always have and always will. How do you think I survived back in that shack in the middle of the street in Frisco? Had me a religious statue. No bullet holes in it after all those rifles fired at me all afternoon and evening. Knew then I was a true believer.” “You told me a little about that statue. Who was it?” “Mi Señora Santa Ana. She wasn’t much to look at, but she saved my life.” The sound of a tree branch creaking in the wind causes Elfego to stop his story. He looks over his shoulder, his hand still on the butt of his revolver. Then he relaxes and turns back toward me. “Looks like Art Ford changed his mind,” he says. “Someone may have told him what he was up against.” “Never did like killing a man. Only do it when it’s necessary.” “That may be what keeps you alive.” “Could be you’re right. Let’s ride.” Watching Elfego mount his horse is always a show. He’s not exactly born to the saddle and since his election to sheriff; he’s let his body go. Too many tortillas and pinto beans have caused his belly to bulge, even though he’s not that old. Maybe that’s part of his success. No one expects a chubby sheriff - 147 -


with a belly out to here; I hold my hands far out in front of me, to be as quick on the draw as Elfego is. It’s deceiving to see a man, with a growing pot around his stomach, handle a gun as fast as the sheriff. More than that, it’s Elfego’s attitude of confidence that causes lawbreakers to shy away from a confrontation with him. Maybe that’s what really got to Art Ford, the letterwriting gangster we were to meet here by this cottonwood tree. We ride away from the river and head back for town. “You hear about José Garcia?” I say. “Got a warrant for him. Murdered a man in Belen. Ran away with the man’s wife.” “Heard that too, but what I heard was that they found the runaway woman hacked to pieces and stuck in an oak tree up Bernalillo way. Some sheepherders found her.” “Where’d you hear that?” “Buck Redwing. He told me. Buck knows everything before anyone else.” “What else he tell you?” “Garcia’s headed for Sandoval County. Buck talked to some Indian friends. If you need help tracking Garcia, I can talk to my pal.” “Might just do that.” We reach the edge of town and are within sight of the sheriff’s office up ahead. “Who’s that standin’ outside the jail up ahead?” Elfego says. “Looks like Art Ford. Recognize him anywhere.” The town of Socorro stands sleeping in the late afternoon sun. Dusty whirlwinds spiral up from the dirt street. That same lazy yellow dog, I’ve seen before, stretches his body out full length as we pass his tongue between his teeth. He’s panting. His eyes follow us as we ride down the middle of the street. Elfego’s hand slips down to the handle of his pistol. He’s not smiling and his eyes stare straight ahead. I can make out the figure of the man in the distance. As we draw closer I notice he’s not wearing a gun. His hands are in the air like he’s reaching for a piece of sky. Elfego’s voice booms out on the heavy afternoon air. “Missed you back at the hangin’ tree.” - 148 -

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Ford keeps his hands in the air, and I can see his moustache twitch. May be a sign of nervousness. I’d be nervous if I were in his position. He yells something at Elfego. “Sorry about that, Sheriff. Didn’t mean to cause you any trouble. Just got carried away with my writin’. I’m here like you told me to be. Early too. Coulda waited until the 15th. Don’t shoot.” Ford’s hands reach even higher into the sky, and as I watch, his shirt sleeves slip down his arms and bunch up at his shoulders. He obviously doesn’t have anything hidden up his arms. Wise move on his part. The sheriff notices things like that. Elfego dismounts carefully, keeping Ford in his sight as he hits the ground. Baca’s hand is still on the butt of his gun. He walks up to Ford, still no smile on the sheriff’s face. I’m sure there must be a feeling of relief rumbling around inside of the Elfego, along with all those refried beans and tortillas from lunch. “Well, Mr. Ford. Good to see you. Bad social grace not to meet me at the cottonwood tree. It was your invitation. I was ready to show you a good time.” Beads of sweat break out on Ford’s forehead. He blinks and the perspiration runs down his nose, dropping off at the end to continue the flow to the ground. “Mr. Sheriff, I’m a simple man. Want to pay my debts. You got me dead to rights.” When he says the word “dead” I see him flinch. Elfego walks up to Ford. The sheriff still hasn’t drawn his weapon, but his right hand isn’t far from the holster. “Turn around mister and keep those hands high in the air. Now walk. You’re goin’ to jail and serve your sentence.” The two men disappear into the Socorro jail, and I’m left alone standing on the boardwalk next to the chairs. I choose one and sit down. Socorro, New Mexico. Never thought I’d be anywhere near this part of these United States. My life in New York never prepared me for what I’m doing now, following around a two-fisted sheriff who’s already made a great name for himself in the Southwest and he’s only a few years over twenty. - 149 -


Some men are destined to be famous and there’ll always be a reporter like me who seeks them out to tell the story of what makes them great. I lean back against the wall in the chair, push my hat over my eyes and an image of Kat comes to mind. Haven’t seen her recently. Must make a point to go over to the Bon Ton Cafe for dinner tonight. **** A little bell jingles as I enter the place where Kat is the manager. I close the door and it jingles again. Customers in the place look around and see it’s me, and they turn back to their eating. I’m fairly well known in this town now after my articles about Elfego’s battle in Frisco appeared in Frontier Magazine last week and the copies arrived by train soon after. Only available table is over in a corner near the window that looks out on the main street. I take it and seat myself in a ladder-back chair. A homey green pad separates my bottom from the hard wood surface of the chair bottom, and I’m glad for that. Being back in the saddle always gives me a pain. Lasts only a few days if I keep riding. After that, my backside seems to grow leather, almost like a cow. It’s still those first few hours after a long ride that cause me to reflect on my means of transportation out here in the west. I take out my notebook as I wait for Kat to greet me. Don’t see her in the dining room. She must be in the kitchen. I take out my notebook and read over my last entries. What does a sheriff do when he gets invited to a coming-out party by a ruffian who is wanted for committing a crime? If it’s Elfego Baca, he straps on his gun, mounts his caballo and rides to the river, stops at a place where an old cottonwood tree stands, the place where he’s been invited to meet the ruffian. It’s a hanging tree and many men, and a few women, have ended their days here in Socorro while their necks got stretched as the hangman’s noose tightened, invariably shutting off the precious air that needs to reach the lungs for life. Horse stealing is the most frequent capital offense, murder is the second one, assorted mayhem is the third. Sheriff Baca doesn’t find any wanted criminal at the hanging tree. But he is prepared. His shooting pistol is always well-oiled and he checks his bullets - 150 -

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before he loads them into his six-shooter, cocking the hammer and firing off a round or two, then reloading. Can’t be too careful when you’re hunting desperate characters. Means the difference between continuing to breathe or not breathe. Kat’s at my side when I look up. There’s a smile on her face and a pencil is stuck in the bun of her hair at the back of her head. “Mighty Nolo has returned. What’ll you have to eat?” she says. “T bone, fried potatoes, and some of those tiny peas you’re so famous for. How you been, Kat?” “Missed seeing you. You put Big Mama back in the pasture?” “Yup. Took her over to the ranch after Elfego and I got back to town from our river ride.” Kat folds her arms on her chest and looks at me with a facial grimace I’ve never seen her use before. “You better take care of that horse,” Kat says. “She’s been through a lot, miscarrying and all. I treated her with special care. You got to do the same. Let her rest up before you ride her anymore.” Kat frowns. She wrinkles up her forehead and her eyes become just slits below her eyebrows. Her nose wrinkles too and I can tell I’ve reached a part of her that is maternal. “I’ll get you that T bone steak.” She leaves me and I go back to my writing. Mystery in the sheepherding camps. Seems some of the sheep tenders in Bernalillo, still here in New Mexico, found a dismembered woman in a tree. Reported to be the wife of a man who was murdered in Belen not far from here. José Garcia has been identified as the murderer and abductor of the fair maiden. Rumor has it that the woman wanted Garcia to murder her husband and take her away from Belen so they could live happily ever after somewhere else. No known reason why Garcia would carve up the young lady and leave her in a tree like a mountain lion would do. Seems like a hideous crime for this part of the world where women are revered as idols of purity and motherhood. This Garcia must be a fiendish character without any compunction to murder human beings. Dangerous!

- 151 -


Kat brings me my dinner and without a word, lays it in front of me. I know in an instant that I have offended her and my problem now is how to win her back. “Sorry, Kat. Didn’t mean to hit a sore spot.” “Forget it. I’m all right now.” “You mean that, Kat?” “Sure do. Just as soon as you get through with what you’re writing and you’ve downed that steak, come see me.” She struts off in the direction of the kitchen, her bottom making a twisting motion that intrigues me. I settle myself to carving up the steak **** Morning comes to Socorro like a blast of hot air off the desert. Always takes me by surprise, but this is no ordinary day. We’re off to catch a suspected murderer, and that thought leaves me with an emptiness in my stomach. Not even the battering my head and body took at the hands of McCarty can match the apprehension I feel about facing a man who’s reported to have murdered a husband, stolen the man’s wife and then killed her and sliced her to pieces to hang in an oak tree overlooking the town of Bernalillo, a town up north of Albuquerque. Packed my blankets and traveling kit last night and now I try to think of those little things that make life on the horse trail livable. Must take along a newspaper or two, both to read and use for my private business. Got my pistol, although it’s not much use to me. Never know when it’s going to fire or misfire. It’s a comfort, though, just to be packing it. Makes my hip feel useful. Got me some raw arrowroot to use in brushing my teeth and a small pat of homemade soap wrapped in newsprint. A piece of soft cotton cloth serves as my towel and I include my tiny fold-up pair of Chinese scissors to complete my necessities kit. Got the scissors from a railroad worker near town. Real nice pair. They fold up into a tiny bundle, easy to store in my button-down shirt pocket. By the time I get my belongings downstairs and over to the jail, I know Elfego will be pacing the floor waiting for me. - 152 -

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He’s there all right and he’s not in a very good mood. I can tell by the way his hands move back and forth when he paces up and down on the boardwalk in front of his office. He spies me and waves a hand my way. “Get over here you rapscallion of a writer. Thought we’d leave before the sun is up. Now it’s almost an hour I been waitin’ here for you. Almost left without you.” “Sorry, Sheriff. Had to make sure I packed everything. How long will we be gone?” “May be several weeks. Where’s your horse?” “Have to pick her up at the stable. Told my rancher friend to leave her there, saddled, so I’d be ready to ride with you.” “Well, get over there and get her. I’m ready to ride.” Elfego goes inside and slams the door. Looks like I’m really in trouble. I wonder where Buck Redwing might be, and then I see him standing next to the stable door across the street, his pinto pony pawing at the dirt. It’s moving its head up and down in anticipation of a morning ride. I cross the rutted dirt thoroughfare and reach the opposite side without difficulty. Not much horse-wagon traffic this early in the morning in Socorro. A gentle breeze blows against my face, and I can smell the stale beer air from the town saloon on the wind. The local blacksmith is banging away on an anvil and the smoke from his red-orange fire spirals out from the top of the corrugated pipe that tops out on his roof. Just another normal day in Socorro, but not so normal for us, the trackers of a suspected killer. Big Mama’s saddled and waiting for me by the water-stained double door at the front of the livery stable. I paid extra to have her ready. The reins are looped over the top rail of the nearest stall, and I undo them. I remember what Kat said about taking it easy with Big Mama. I will, Kat, I will. Buck, who has followed me, doesn’t say a word. Then I hear him muttering something. “Noontime cowboy: that’s what I’m saddled up with.” “Don’t give me any of that, you spirit chaser. Already had it from the sheriff. Let’s get to ridin’ now that we’re ready.” I stick my left foot in the stirrup and shift my weight to that leg in preparation for mounting my horse. Big Mama moves ever so slightly as she - 153 -


always does, and I find myself suspended in air. Then I fall, my back hitting the ground with an audible thud, my left leg still caught in the stirrup. I hear laughter behind me, then I feel two huge hands grab me under the shoulders and heft me up, the saddle sliding over to one side and my foot dropping out of the stirrup as it does. Looks like the cinch is loose. Never let anyone else saddle your horse for riding, I say inside my head. “Indian way is to check your horse before you mount her,” Buck says. Once again I’d forgotten one of the rules of the west. Never climb on a horse until you’ve given the cinch another notch if necessary to tighten it. I could have broken my neck if the earth hadn’t been so soft at the entryway to the stable. Thank God for that. Forgotten how heavy the saddle is. By the time I get it in place and straightened out on the body pad, I hear some cursing coming from behind me. “Isn’t that blasted reporter on his horse yet. Presto, presto.” It’s Elfego and he’s still on the warpath. “Easy there sheriff. Had me a slight accident. Cinch rope slipped. Saddle came down on me. Fell down. Darn near broke my back. Keep your shirt on.” I hear a laugh behind me, but when I look around no one is there. I don’t even see Buck and his pinto. He was there just a minute ago. Finally I make it into the saddle. Big Mama turns her head around to look at me, as if she is saying something about my getting into the saddle right the first time. Her nearest eye widens, and I know she’s feeling dismay about my horsemanship. I guess animals have pride too, mostly about their riders. “Where are we off to today, Mr. Sheriff?” “Ride on up to the town of Bernalillo. Where’s your Indian friend?” “He was here a moment ago. Maybe he’s on the trail already. We’ll catch up to him I’m sure. How far is it to Bernalillo?” “More’n a hundred miles. Got to go through Albuquerque. Goin’ to take us a few days. You bring extra food?” “Got me a poke full. Kat made me sandwiches for today.” “Let’s get goin’. Time’s a wastin’ and Bernalillo ain’t no closer.” - 154 -

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Chapter Seventeen We follow the Rio Grande north and pass through Albuquerque, Alameda and the tiny town of Rio Rancho before arriving at the outskirts of Bernalillo. The snow-capped peak of 11,000 foot Mt. Taylor is off to our left, and there’s nothing between us and the rising foothills of the grand mountain, some fifty miles away. Plenty of cactus surrounds our trail, and a few cottonwoods dot the landscape along the banks of the Rio Grande, the roaring river that drains the south-central Rockies. Always have felt good riding my horse along a trail that follows a river. Buck Redwing is with us. We picked him up just outside Socorro. As I expected, he waited beside the trail for our arrival, and when we got even with him, he chided us about being late. I took the blame. Trip’s been good. Got to know Elfego better and talked with him about his early life. Didn’t know he’d been captured by a band of Indians when he was a year old. Happened near Estancia, a town north and east of Socorro. Father and mother were headed for Topeka, leaving the Socorro region and heading east to find a more civilized place to raise their son. Fortunately for me and you readers, the tiny babe of an Elfego was released unharmed two days after his capture by the Redskins and taken in by a kindly old couple who knew his mother and father. Some big sheriff up there in the sky has been guiding Elfego’s life ever since. I have no idea what Elfego will do once we reach Bernalillo. Hope he intends to stay there for a few days. A good hotel bed would feel great right now. My back aches and my legs are tired from the constant beating I take in the saddle each day, not to mention my gluteus maximus muscles that cushion me from the pounding I take in the saddle. Never knew how well I was off when I sat on that train back in Nebraska, not so many years ago in my search for Sam Bass and his gang. All cushions and velvet compared to riding a stiff-backed horse. Wonder what Miss Joline is doing this very day back in Kiowa country. For that matter, I wonder what Kat is doing back in Socorro. I miss both of them. Maybe I miss Kat the most because she’s so close here in New Mexico. - 155 -


Elfego’s reining in his horse and stopping. Why he’s pulling up here I’ll never know unless I ask him. “You got some idea, Elfego?” “Yup. Lookin’ for one Alfredo Montoya. Young kid. Lives around here. Know his papa.” “Why do you need him?” “Kid’s been over every trail in Sandoval County. He and his sister are tough ones. Hard on the trail. Ain’t no one knows the country better. With him and Buck we can track that rascal, Garcia.” Buck’s been listening to our conversation, but when he hears Garcia’s name, he perks up and turns his head toward Elfego. “Hard to pick up cold trail. You right, Elfego. Local tracker, like that Alfredo, can help.” Elfego guides his horse off the trail to the right where a dirt path leads to a ranch house surrounded by green aspen trees. Horse corral extends out from the house, but I don’t see any animals. Mailbox at the junction says Montoya so I guess the mighty sheriff knows what he’s doing. **** A wooden porch extends out from the entryway to the farmhouse and Elfego’s boots make a hollow sound on the boards as he crosses over to knock on the door. There’s no answer. Buck and I are still on our horses. No use dismounting. If no one’s at home we’re ready to ride. A dog barks when Elfego bangs on the door again. Still no one comes to answer his knock. Elfego looks at me and shakes his head. “Reckon the folks are in town, it bein’ Saturday afternoon. Let’s ride down and see if we can find them.” The sheriff has one foot in the stirrup when there’s a noise of a door opening. He loosens his foot and puts it on the ground, then turns. Standing on the porch is a young man, slight build, dark hair and a stubble of what could be described as randomly spaced youthful whiskers. Bet he hasn’t been shaving very long. Age could be sixteen, not a day over. His black eyes match his hair and they dart toward Buck and me and then come to rest on Elfego. “Que te pasa amigo? Do I know you?” - 156 -

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“Name’s Elfego Baca. Sheriff of Socorro County. Last time I saw you, Alfredo, you warn’t no bigger’n a minute. Where’s your dad?” “Family went to town for provisions. Heard my paw talk about you. Who’re the other fellas?” “Reporter here is Nolo Blunt. Writes articles about me. Other fella is Buck Redwing, Kiowa. Good tracker. Need your help too. Huntin’ for José Garcia. You hear about him?” “Fella who carved up a woman and left her in a tree just outside of town? Can’t keep that kind of news a secret. Heard he’s hidin’ out in the country around here. Why you need me?” “Figure you’re about the best for knowin’ every rock and grain of sand around these parts. Your sister, too.” “Might be I’d like to join up with you. Have to talk with paw first. Sounds like something Yolanda would want to do. You fellers come on inside and make yourselves to home. The front room of the ranch house could be described as comfortable. A group of six black and white cow leather straight back chairs are arranged around a square table. Bare wood beams line the ceiling and on the walls are thin strips of pine wood nailed in place with what look like hand-hewn spikes. A hand-woven carpet from Mexico covers the floor. I look out the window to the east and can see Sandia Crest in the distance. Must be 10,000 feet to the top. Snow up there, too. It’s good to sit once again on something other than the back of a horse, and I kick back my chair and balance it with my foot hooked under the table brace that’s just in front of me. Elfego looks at me and shakes his head from side to side and I return my chair to an upright position. Must be some kind of New Mexico social custom that I’ve violated. Have to check with him later. Alfredo’s been in the kitchen and I’ve heard ceramic-ware banging together. That’s a social custom I like, making drinks for tired travelers. The young man enters the room carrying a tray of glasses and sets it in the middle of the table. “You gents like horchata? Mom makes it from pumpkin seeds. Keeps it cool in the herb cellar. Here, I’ll pour you a glass.” - 157 -


Had a snootful of this concoction back in Socorro and learned to like it. Only thing was, that was made from melon seeds, sometimes almonds. This horchata has a distinct flavor of pumpkin and the taste of it takes me back to Thanksgiving in New York. My mom made the best pumpkin pies of anyone I know, even better than Kat. Elfego tosses back his glass and drinks it all in one swoop. He wipes his mouth off with his sleeve, makes a little belch and looks at Alfredo. “My compliments to your mother. Ain’t tasted better in my lifetime. Cool like too. Just right after a day in the saddle out in that sun. You know where they found that woman all hacked to pieces?” “Know the place, sheriff. Down by the Rio Grande. Trees grow tall where there’s water like that, and there’s one tall oak that spreads out its branches fan-like. Overlooks the town. Heard that’s the one where the sheepherders found the body. Been out there a hundred times. Show you where it is. Won’t take more’n an hour.” “Reckon we better start there. This Garcia fella must have at least two days on us. He’ll be needin’ water and a place to stay. You have any ideas about where he might hole up?” “Never met the gent. Only thing we can do is follow his tracks. My only hope is he doesn’t mingle with the sheep. Horse trail’s hard to follow through sheep prints.” Buck sips his drink, then casts his eyes toward me. He makes an up and down motion of his head indicating that the young man is correct in his evaluation. There’s the sound of a wagon pulling up in front. A horse snorts and a man’s voice shouts, “All right you mangy caballo. You can dig your heels in now, we’re home.” Alfredo’s at the front door and has it open. A man enters carrying a large box on his shoulder. It’s filled with cloth bags and in his free hand he drags along what must be a hundred pound sack of flour. At least the word, Farina, spreads itself across the top of the bag. The man hauls his load out to the kitchen and then returns to the living room. “Well, if it ain’t you, Elfego from down Socorro way. Heard about your difficulty in Frisco. Heard about your trial, too. Didn’t know you’d been - 158 -

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elected sheriff. See that badge on your chest. What you doin’ up here in Bernalillo?” “Want to borrow your son, maybe your daughter, too. Got me some trackin’ to do. Murderer to catch.” “You mean that Garcia fella? Bad character. Lot of talk about him bein’ fast with a gun. You can take Alfredo, but you got to promise me you’ll keep him from gettin’ killed. He’s my only boy and I expect him to sire me some younguns to carry on the name. Yolanda’s a mean one on the trail.” “You have my word. Ain’t no harm goin’ to come to your son or your daughter. You put us up for the night?” “Best bed you ever slept on. Out in the barn on the straw.” **** Light comes in between the slats of rough wood that line the sides of the barn. The acrid smell of horse sweat greets my nose, and I immediately know where I am. Others around me are waking and I notice Elfego rubbing his eyes, a piece of straw sticking out of his collar, his blanket covered with bits of straw too. He looks my way. “Hey, reporter. You were supposed to get me up early. It must be noon.” I pull out my railroad watch, open the cover and shout back to him. “You call six in the morning almost noon?” “Yup. We got a job to do and earlier the better.” I watch him throw back his cover. He’s slept in his clothes and at his side is his gun belt, his pistol handle within easy grasp. Maybe he thought José Garcia would slip in during the night and surprise us. My stomach growls and I can imagine the others are hungry too. Wonder what Mother Montoya will create for our breakfast. Elfego has his boots on now, and I see him heading for the horse trough. I walk the same way and am a step behind him. “You have a plan for today?” Elfego reaches the trough and bends over to splash water in his face. The drops from his face spatter over his shirt and make wet spots on the red and blue cotton plaid. - 159 -


“Brrr. That’s cold water. Wakes a fella up, though. Sure. I got a plan for today. We ride to the oak tree where those sheep herders found the naked dead woman.” “You think Buck will pick up the track?” “Sure do. Beginnin’ to think that Indian of yours is a miracle man.” “We need provisions,” I say. “After breakfast, I’ll ride to town, take Buck with me. Got a check from my editor that’s burning a hole in my pocket. Anything special you want?” Elfego takes off his battered hat, scratches his head in several places and looks at me, a grin on his face. “Get some of those canned peaches. Really like that kind of stuff when I’m out on the range trackin’ down some no good murderer. Helps me think, when I eat them things.” “Peaches. Got it. Anything else?” “Make sure you get plenty of coffee. Nights get mighty cool in the high country, and we’re goin’ to be seein’ plenty of that. Sugar too. Always like my sweetness in my coffee.” “I’ll get beans too. And flour mix for stick-bread making.” A clang, clang, clang reaches my ears and I know someone’s calling us to the house for breakfast. A rumble in my stomach is answer enough for me, and I head for the kitchen. Buck pops out of the barn and Elfego’s steps haunt mine. Nothing like food to bring the mighty hunters and trackers together. We all three meet at the door and I hold it open so Elfego can step in, then Buck. The mother of the family’s there as are her son and his father. A young lady sits next to Alfredo. She’s maybe twenty years of age and has dark black hair like Alfredo’s. Her face bears a distinct resemblance to the Montoya family and I assume she is part of the Montoya clan. Although she is seated, I detect a perky body beneath the simple light blue cowboy shirt and darker waist overalls she wears. “Excuse me,” I say. Father Montoya looks my way. “Yes, reporter.” “I have not been introduced to the lovely young lady at the table.” “You must meet my hija. Her Christian name is Yolanda.” - 160 -

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I walk over to where she sits. Her dark eyes stare up at me. Although I am nearly twice her age, I feel a sudden shock run through me as if a carriage I’m riding in has overturned, throwing me out onto the hard surface of a welltraveled road. I bow. “My name is Nolo Blunt and I write for Frontier Magazine, New York based.” She smiles and reaches out her hand for me to take it. I grasp the hand gently and kiss the fingertips. She pulls back her hand, looks at the part I’ve just kissed, looks at me and smiles. “Señor. You are a bold one. I have never had my hand done before in such a manner. Is this some eastern custom?” “Yes. It is a sign of friendship and I hope you will be my friend.” Her eyes drop to the table and I can tell she blushes even though her dark complexion hides much of the redness. There’s an empty chair next to her, and I sit down. A fresh-laundered smell reaches my nose and arouses me even more. The last time I remember such a scent was in school when I sat next to a wellscrubbed girl who helped me through my course in mathematics at the university. But this girl next to me now can only be described as a virgin waiting to meet her one and only future husband. “Yolanda, what a pretty name,” I say. “It is my grandmother’s name, señor.” She blushes again and looks down at her plate of refried beans, eggs and chorizo. She takes a bite, then looks my way again. “You have been to Bernalillo before?” The dimples in her cheeks deepen as she smiles at me. “No, never.” “You must come here more often. There are many stories to write here, señor.” “Please, call me Nolo.” “All right, señor Nolo. You hunt José Garcia with Elfego?” “Yes, I’ll be at his side when the murderer is caught.” “The married woman he murdered, you know her?” “No, did you?” - 161 -


“No. She comes from down Belen way, near Socorro. That man, Garcia, brought her here, then cut her badly I hear and spread the pieces in the tree. I have not seen the body, but I would like to carve up this man Garcia if I were to have the chance. Take me with you.” Her eyebrows press together in the middle of her forehead and she displays a look that communicates to me her sincerity in asking to go along with us. “That’s up to your father and mother,” I say. “Life is rough on the trail, and I am not sure a young lady like you could survive the rigors of a man hunt.” “Señor Nolo, you do not know me. I am known as LaTigre in Bernalillo. I have spent most of my life in the high desert here. You will find me to be most resourceful when it comes to finding ways to live in the wilderness and to track an evil man. Isn’t that right, Papa?” The elder Montoya looks up from his plate and turns his stare toward me. “Yes, mi hija. You are one tough mujer. I will only let you go because I know you will come back to me even more so than any of the others. Señor Elfego, you want my daughter to accompany you on your hunt for this man, Garcia?” Elfego pushes back from the table, glances my way, then at the girl. “I’ve heard about you, Yolanda. Heard about your abilities at tracking. It would be to my great honor if you would help us seek out this monster, Garcia.” “It is done, then.” Yolanda smiles and returns to her chorizo. Inside I am glad she will be going along on the trip even if it means some problems will arise. Women have a way of wanting privacy at times whereas men are accustomed to using the outdoors with great abandon. We’ll have to watch our language also. Mother Montoya has been watching and listening to our conversation. Now she smiles and looks at her husband. “Mi esposo. You of course are always right. But I fear greatly for our daughter traveling with all these men. True, my son will be there to guard - 162 -

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her interests. But I do not know this mister Blunt nor the Indian. True, Señor Elfego is our friend. Who will be there to protect our daughter?” “My dear wife. She will be as safe as the baby rabbit in its mother’s burrow. These men are honorable, and also I will earnestly seek out and remove the huevos of any man who even looks cross-eyed at my daughter.” I certainly get the message. I speak enough Spanish to know what he means by huevos and although I have emotional interest in pursuing a possible romance with this pure young lady, the mention of huevos removal gives me a pain in my mid-groin and I know that my relationship with Yolanda will now be purely platonic. I only hope she will feel the same way. **** Everything is packed including the canned peaches Elfego wanted from the grocery store in town. We split up the provisions into five separate bundles, one for each of the riders on this expedition, and I have the records on what is located in each pack. That way we won’t have to undo all the bundles each night to find just what we want to cook. Five pounds of pinto beans takes a lot of room, and I load that package myself. The coffee and sugar are with Buck, canned goods with Elfego. Alfredo and Yolanda have an equal load of flour, salt, pots and pans. I also carry the metal grill we use for the wood fire. It’s a good morning to be traveling. Sun’s out bright and the sky is clear in the east. This signals to me that there’s no bad weather brewing in that direction. Some clouds in the west might give us trouble later in the day. Elfego’s putting the last touches on packing his saddlebags. Now he looks toward me, takes off his hat and waves it, says something I can just make out. “Let’s be gettin’ on the trail. Wasted enough time already.” Mother and Father Montoya stand on the house porch. I’m in the saddle and Buck has already departed. I can just see the rear end of his horse disappear over a slight hill in the direction we’ll travel to the oak tree on the other side of town this morning. Yolanda and Alfredo wave to their parents and we’re off. **** - 163 -


Every step of my horse brings me to new country. I’ve never seen this land before, although I’ve been south of here for much of this year. Land changes so imperceptibly while riding a horse. Tall mountains off to our left. Still some snow left on the high tops. Must be over 11,000 feet. Don’t think we’ll have to cross them. We’re headed north to where the woman’s body was discovered some months ago. I have no idea how Buck will pick up the trail, but I have every confidence he’ll find something to follow from the scene of the murder and dismemberment. Hate to think what that woman looked like up in that tree. Images keep coming to my mind and I try to drive them out, but they persist. I can see an arm caught between two branches, in the fork of the giant oak. Her torso lays dripping blood in the crotch of the tree where the largest branches make an off-angle turn. A leg dangles from another branch and the head is stuck on a tiny limb reaching out from the main trunk. There’s a smile on the dead woman’s face as if she never knew what hit her, hair all mangled and stuck together with blood. Much of what I see in my mind comes from the description that Alfredo gave me when we were having dinner at the Montoya ranch last evening. A pale white-grayish dust blows up in front of me as Yolanda’s horse digs into the sandy earth of the simple trail we follow. Not a bad view of Yolanda either. Her backside matches the movement of the horse, sliding to the left, then the right, the two halves of her bottom separated by the western saddle, the obvious two paths of her waist overalls forming an arrow which directs my attention to her womanly parts. Have to watch myself on this ride. Way up ahead is Buck Redwing. His pinto stands out against the blueblack color of the mountains we’re riding toward. The white parts of the horse form a distinct pattern that looks like the white of an egg being broken and I can keep him in sight easily. He’s not hurrying. Guess he wants to make sure we’re going to reach the correct tree. Alfredo’s up there with him and guiding him. Should be another half hour before we reach the murder place. **** - 164 -

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The tree is about as I expected it would be. It’s a large one, and the only oak within miles. It’s easy to see the town folk in their daily wanderings down below. Wonder how that José Garcia found this special place to hang the evidence of his bestiality. He must have known about the tree before he set about on his grisly business of cutting up the woman. Wonder how she died. Hope he did it quickly. I remember reading about early days in Europe when a horse was tied to each limb of a prisoner and then the command to the horses caused them to pull arms and legs from the person. Wouldn’t want to go that way. Give me a sharp bullet to the brain if you have to. Elfego stops under the tree and looks up. There are red spots on the limbs where blood has dripped down and stained the bark. Elfego dismounts and walks around the base of the majestic oak, its leaves just now beginning to bud out at the end of a long winter. How could an oak get planted out here at just the right spot to overlook the town of Bernalillo? Must be an underground source of water. Oaks need lots of moisture. Off in the distance Buck is cutting trail. He’s making a circular route around the oak and staring at the ground as if he expects to find horse tracks after all this time. Wouldn’t put it past him if he did find Garcia’s horse prints. Yolanda and Alfredo have drawn up next to me. “You saw the body parts in the tree, Alfredo?” “Si, señor Blunt. Never want to see anything like that again.” “You see it too, Yolanda.” “Yes, I too came to the tree before the woman was removed. The smile on her face will stay with me always.” “Any trace of how she died?” “Bullet in the back of the head. She didn’t know,” Alfredo says. “Maybe that accounts for the smile on her face,” I say. “He’s a monster and must be caught,” Yolanda adds. Elfego is now searching the ground under the oak, looking for clues. He stoops down and picks up something. Looks like a shell casing. I walk over toward him. “Bloody mess, murder,” I say. “Man must be loco to do something like this. Look there. That’s where he did much of the cutting. Why didn’t he just bury her? Why did he leave - 165 -


all this mess around? It’s as if he’s daring us to catch him and catch him we will.” In the distance Buck is waving his arms. He’s found something I’ll bet. I gather up my horse’s reins and walk toward him.

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Chapter Eighteen Buck stares at the ground as he stands next to his pinto. I move up alongside him and look at the place where he looks. The ground doesn’t look any different to me, although there may be a horse print there. Time has covered over anything that might be distinct. “What do you think Buck?” “Garcia’s roan.” “How do you know that, you crazy tracker?” “Asked in town. Talked with blacksmith. He showed me kind of shoe on Garcia’s horse. He said horse was a roan.” “Can you find the trail?” “Clear as day. See, it heads that way. We follow.” Before I can add anything else, Buck is in his saddle and moving away from me in a northwesterly direction. I turn back toward Elfego and the Montoyas. I wave my arms and motion to them to follow. Elfego sees my gesture and mounts his horse. Alfredo and Yolanda are already in the saddles, and they spur their steeds. Soon they are next to me. “Buck found a track here,” I say. I point to the ground at the rough place in the dirt. It still doesn’t look like much, but Alfredo eyes the spot, and then looks toward where Buck is just now disappearing in the distance. I jump onto Big Mama’s back and we’re off, all four of us in pursuit of a Kiowa Indian who is a magician when it comes to following a trail or disappearing. **** It’s hard for me to keep my mind on the tracking business. My eyes continue to settle on the rear end of the young lady who rides ahead of me. The rhythmical twisting of her bottom keeps my brain busy, conjuring up images of bare cheeks that may be rubbed a bit raw by the chafing of the saddle. Knowing I can’t approach Yolanda makes my dream richer. I imagine what she would be like in bed, twisting, turning, moving up and down, kissing the life out of me. La Tigre. I wonder if she’s a tiger in bed. - 167 -


Buck stops up ahead and waves his arms in a signal of caution to the rest of us. Hurriedly I push Big Mama into a gallop. Soon I’m next to my Indian friend. “What’d you see?” “Jicarilla sign.” “What’s a Jicarilla?” “Apache. Fierce warriors. Hunt in small packs. Take anything they can get.” “Where are they?” “All around us.” “I don’t see anything.” “When you don’t see anything, that’s when they’re here.” “What’ll we do?” “High ground. Head for high ground. Follow me pronto.” Big Mama doesn’t take a lot of urging. I think she senses the danger, and she picks up speed as Buck prods his horse toward some low hills just in front of us. There are large boulders at the base of the hill, and I think that’s what Buck sees. I look around and the others follow, perhaps not knowing why we are rushing ahead. I turn my upper body around in the saddle, still holding tightly to the reins. I make a motion of an Indian shooting an arrow with a bow, and I see Alfredo shake his head up and down in a ‘yes’ response. He tells the others. Elfego reaches down and pulls his Sharps rifle out of its scabbard. Alfredo and Yolanda also have rifles, and now they have them crossways in their laps. The sky is clear, and it’s about noon. The sun beats down on my back and sweat pours from my forehead, clouding my eyes and making it difficult for me to see the course I must take to reach the hills. Fortunately, Big Mama knows to follow Buck’s Pinto and soon we reach the cover of the rocks. Elfego, Alfredo, and Yolanda are right behind me now, and all five of us dismount, moving our horses to the safety of a large outcrop of boulders to our rear. Buck uses his arms, and points to where I should station myself. Two huge rocks form a safe cover from enemy fire and between the rocks is a cleft where I can use my own weapon in our defense. - 168 -

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I scrunch down flat just as an arrow zings past my ear. I look up. High on the hill behind me is a fierce looking savage preparing his next missile. I aim. It’s about 100 yards. A good shot will bring him down. I imagine my windage and elevation and pull the trigger. There’s a puff of dust at his feet. Not bad for an amateur. He disappears behind a rock. I make a mental correction and aim again. In my mind I play a guessing game. Will he pop out at the same place where he disappeared? I say ‘no’ and move my aim to the opposite side of the rock. I count to ten and squeeze the trigger at where the Indian’s head would be if he exited at this moment. A flash of skin tells me I may have hit home, then there’s a wail and the sound of a body hitting the ground. I look at Buck and he smiles back at me. Although these are his brothers, he recognizes the need to defend ourselves. Apaches are known for not taking prisoners unless there’s an economic need, such as holding them hostage in exchange for money. I have a moment to observe where Elfego and the others have ensconced themselves. The sheriff is flat on the ground and peers through a crack in the rock in front of him, his rifle close at hand, and his pistol lying within easy grasp. I don’t see Buck. Alfredo is near his sister and the two of them are preparing rifle ammunition, laying the bullets out in a row on a cloth in front of them. Heat waves quiver on the dry sand, and as I stare, squinting my eyes, a lake appears, color of the sky, silvery, shimmery. It’s a mirage, but looks real to me. As I continue to watch, a wavery figure on horseback approaches. Seems like it’s out of a dream. Colors blend. Waves of glimmering light ripple across the rider, but steadily he gets larger. He’s carrying a white flag. Never knew Apaches to palaver. Maybe they’re interested in why Buck leads us. Now I can make out his face, and I see stripes of blue and white war paint on his cheeks, a slash of red covers his neck area and he’s holding a long spear, a Remington repeater rifle rests across his lap. He stops and looks at us. Buck holds up his hands to indicate we should hold our fire.

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I hear Buck say something in his native language. The warrior in front of us answers him, then turns and rides his horse back through the mirage the way he came. Buck calls us over to where he squats behind a rock. “Jicarilla say we are doomed unless we give up our horses and food. He knows where José Garcia is, but won’t tell. Wants our rifles and pistols. I tell him to tell us where Garcia is and then put his penis in a live bear’s mouth. He gets the message. We’ll soon be shooting.” Elfego removes his hat, scratches his head, and looks at Buck. “Good. Indians only want our possessions, but they’d kill us anyway if we gave up. Too bad we can’t capture just one of them and find out where the murderer is. Six hours until sundown. Conserve water. We’ll sneak out after nightfall. Jicarillas never do battle in night time. We’ve got to make tracks to find that Garcia fellow, Indians or no Indians.” Alfredo pulls at his chin, looks at his sister and smiles. “Right decision. A few good bursts of gunfire will soon cure those savages of their lust for loot. Stay down, Yolanda, so you won’t be hurt.” Fire flashes from Yolanda’s eyes and her mouth moves, but nothing comes out. She clears her throat. “My brother. You protect me? I am La Tigre. Let those Apaches look out for themselves. I play you a game, my brother. For every Indian you kill more than I do, I make you cold horchata for a month anytime you want it. For every one I kill more than you, you do my chores at the ranch for a month.” Alfredo stares at his sister. He smiles and nods his head up and down in agreement. “We will see, my little gatito. That cold drink will taste good going down my throat. Anytime I want it! It’s a deal.” An arrow zings through Elfego’s hat and he’s startled into action. He drops to the ground and starts crawling toward the cover of the rocks. Reaching his defensive position, he looks up behind him. I parallel his line of vision and sure enough, there’s a hint of color just disappearing behind a boulder. The others scatter and prepare for an attack. Nothing happens. I strain my eyes to the front and the mirage is still there. Nothing disturbs it, nothing wavers. Shimmery waves continue to - 170 -

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appear in what looks like a lake, but there’s no water out there. I get thirsty and reach for my canteen. A hand stops me. It’s Buck. “Hold off my friend. Just what those warriors want us to do. Drink up our water, and when our tongues are hanging out, they attack. Wait a little longer.” Buck always makes good sense, and I swish my tongue around the inside of my mouth and dream that I taste that cool horchata I had back at the ranch. I’d love to have some now. Silence. No movement. Maybe they’ve gone. I scan the horizon from my right to my left and nothing is out of place. Except maybe over there near a grove of pine trees. A slight waver in the shadows, a flicker of light reflected from some object, maybe a bear’s tooth necklace. I close my eyes into a squint and peer toward where I thought I saw movement. Nothing now. Buck is an arm’s length from me. He too is staring at the same place where my eyes saw something. “Buck, what do you think?” “Nolo one. Indians pull out for now. We can go.” “How can you tell?” “Never mind. They go. We must watch for them while we travel. They may follow us.” Elfego has heard Buck’s words, and he stands up now. Just as he reaches his full height, another arrow spears his hat and knocks it to the ground. Elfego reacts violently. He turns toward the hilltop where the arrow originated. Another arrow whizzes past his ear and makes a thudding zing sound as it bounces off a rock near his head. The sheriff looks angry now. He picks up his rifle and darts to his left and begins climbing the hill to our rear. He’s halfway up now and I’m following him in my vision although at times it’s hard. The heat waves bounce off the ground and cause shapes to become blurred. There he is, now. He’s at the top and standing. I see him push his rifle at an object, then pull the weapon back and push again. I hear a thud as if a body hits the ground. I wonder what he’s doing. Buck looks at me. “Sheriff find warrior who shoots arrows at him. Warrior must have missed signal to depart. Maybe we can talk with him.” - 171 -


And before I can digest what Buck has just said, I see Elfego dragging a body down the hill. I don’t know whether or not the Indian is still alive. He’s limp and the sheriff is not gentle. He has hold of the man’s hair and with every bump in the ground, the well-tanned body of the Indian jerks and twists. Finally, Elfego reaches us and drops the head of the Jicarilla to the ground. “Get some water. He’s still alive. Want you to talk to him, Buck.” I take off my hat and pour some of my precious water into it. I hand it to Elfego and he splashes the liquid on the Indian’s head. “Wake up you cross-eyed arrow stringer. We got some questions for you,” Elfego says. The man stirs and opens one eye. He stares up at Elfego and closes his eye. Elfego bats him on the cheeks with his hand. The man opens his eye again. Buck bends down and looks the man squarely in the eyes. He speaks to him in Indian talk and hand signals. I guess Kiowa words are not so much different from Jicarilla and signs with the hands are almost universal. Even I can understand some of those. Our guide translates for us. “I tell him that we let him go if he tells us where this Garcia is.” The man squirms, but Alfredo holds one arm and I hold the other. Yolanda sits on the man’s legs. The prisoner relaxes and looks up at Buck. He says something I don’t understand. I look at Buck. “He says he is a good Apache. Good Apaches won’t talk, but he wants to see his family again. He tells me that Garcia is not far away. Travels with some sheep herders. We follow the trail to the north and find him, maybe a day’s ride from here. Jicarilla says raiding party wants sheep and Garcia’s horse too. We may run into them again. Competition.” Elfego relaxes his hold on the Indian’s head and as he does, the man jerks free from Alfredo’s grasp. Yolanda is thrown off the man’s legs and suddenly the five of us are facing an angry savage. Somehow he has found a knife and he crouches before us, arm moving, hand holding the knife in a threatening position. He pokes forward with the knife toward my body and I jump back. The roar of a pistol breaks the quiet of the situation and the Jicarilla steps back, his knife on the ground, a round red hole appearing in the hand that - 172 -

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held the knife. He grabs his wrist with his good hand and there is a look of great pain on his face. Apaches hurt like anyone else. Elfego puts his revolver back in his holster, steps forward and strikes the Indian on the chin. His powerful blow causes the man to fold up like a leaf and drop to the ground. “Maybe now you won’t shoot arrows at me again and ruin my Sunday hat. You’re a spunky little guy. That knife bit took courage. Enough of this. Let’s be on our way.” Before I can react, Elfego’s finds his horse and is in the saddle ready to ride. Big Mama neighs, and I know she’s ready to ride too. **** Buck ranges ahead of us now. He’s got a lead all right. His head bobs up as his horse moves forward toward a small rise in front of us. Buck’s over the rise now and disappears on the other side. I punch up Big Mama to a faster gait, and soon I am at the rise and on top. I look out over the valley beyond. Buck is nowhere to be seen. How does he do that? The others join me and together we scan the horizon. Nothing much straight ahead. A string of low brown hills stretches to our front and off to the right is the line of this crest where we find ourselves. A grove of scrub pines extends to the left and that’s the only place where Buck could have gone. A man on a pinto appears at the edge of the forest. It is Buck and he waves at us to join him. I’m the first to ride up to him. “You find something in the pines?” “No Indians,” he says. “You think we’re going in the right direction?” “Better idea?” “No. Don’t want to waste time on a false trail,” I say. “Saw print over there.” Buck points at the ground, but naturally I don’t see anything. He continues pointing as Alfredo and his sister ride up. Elfego is up ahead moving his head from side to side, sniffing the air, and looking up into the sky. There are a few clouds and off to the west a flash of lightning highlights - 173 -


the peak of a dark blue mountain. There’s still snow on the top, not much, but there’s snow. The sky’s darker over there. This is the way of northern New Mexico. Boiling hot one minute, storm approaching the next and then a flood surging down the mountainside later. I’ve read about the water that gathers from the runoff during a storm and causes the canyons to become wild rivers that sweep every living thing ahead of it. No wonder Elfego smells the wind. I stick my nose in the air, and I can sense it too. Ozone. No mistaking it. Smelled it before when an electric storm approached. While I’m sniffing and looking upward, I feel soft drops of rain strike my face, and I know we’re in for a storm. Fortunately we’re on high ground, but that’s where lightning strikes. I shudder from the thought. Buck’s waving at me. With a strong movement of his arm, he indicates that we should follow him. I spur Big Mama into action. She looks back at me with those big eyes, and I can see the whites. She feels the storm too. It’s raining harder now. I reach down to my saddlebag, undue the leather strap and grab for my poncho that’s inside. I pull out the oilskin, find the hole for my head, take off my hat and wrestle myself into it. I replace my hat and as I do, the poncho drapes itself over my body like an umbrella. My horse snorts and blows out at her nose. Steam rises from her skin. I look around me. The others are far up ahead of me, and I don’t want to lose them. I urge Big Mama forward and carefully she strides through the now deepening red mud, a whoosh, whoosh sound from her hooves, telling me the earth’s getting wetter and before long the going will really be tough. Sheets of rain slash down in front, and I put my arm up in front of my eyes to protect my face. Hope my horse knows the way. I can’t see a thing. How do I get myself into these situations? I could be back in New York in front of a roaring fire, drinking brandy and reading a good novel. Instead I’m out here in this God forsaken country, hunting a murderer, dodging arrows and wet to the bone from a storm that increases in intensity as I sit here on my faithful horse. Where are the others? I pull my arm away for a moment and try to see through the torrential rain that now falls. Can’t see farther than my hand in front of me. Big Mama continues to plod through the sloppy footing. She’s - 174 -

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steady with each footstep and places her feet with care, throwing her body weight forward only when she knows she won’t stumble. What a horse. A hand reaches out for my shoulder and shakes me. I look to my left and Buck’s there. “Hurry,” he says. He grabs my reins and pulls them out of my grasp. The reins flop over my horse’s head, and I feel myself being towed, I hope to safety. We’re in the trees now and less of the liquid stuff falls from the sky here, the cover of leaves offering some protection from the rain. My horse stops. Buck hands me the reins again and I sit on my horse next to a tree trunk. Buck is next to me on his horse. “Trouble. Others ahead. I came back for you,” he says. “What kind of trouble?” “Water in gullies. Rushes towards us. Must get to higher ground away from here,” he says. A bolt of lightning reaches down from the sky and electrifies the tree next to me. I fall off Big Mama and she shies away, no doubt blinded by the flash of light. The sound of thunder is suddenly on me as I lie on the ground next to the tree trunk. I put my hands over my ears as the noise grows louder. I open one eye. The tree where the lightning struck is on fire, flaming out great patches of orange and red, smoke rising now in huge billows. The rain keeps pelting down and soon the tree fire is extinguished. It’s the smell that gets my attention. Not only is there the familiar ozone odor, there’s a smoke and wet fire aroma that clogs my nostrils, and I cough. My mind begins functioning again, and I think to myself how lucky I am to be alive. I look around. There’s no one near me. Where’s Buck? A groan tells me soon enough that someone is injured. I listen. It’s off to my right where the tree burst into flames. I stand up and listen. There’s the sound again. I squint in the direction of the moan and see nothing. My feet seem planted in the ground. They won’t move. Where’s my horse? I feel a nudge at my shoulder and look in back of me. Big Mama’s there. Her eyes are wild and she’s moving her head up and down as she does when she’s frightened. I reach up and pat the bridge of her nose with my hand. “You’re all right, girl. We’re together, and we can lick the world.” - 175 -


The groaning gets louder, and I grab my horse’s reins and move in the direction of the sound. It’s Buck and he’s flat on the ground, his buckskin pants are singed and smoke rises from his head. There’s not a hair left there, and where once there was a pony tail tied with a piece of leather, there’s nothing. His neck is bare and his face is turned sideways at a funny angle, water splashing onto his eyebrows as the rain continues to fall. I reach down and touch his shoulder. “Buck. Buck. You all right?” A hand moves, and the eye nearest me opens. He’s trying to say something, but nothing comes out that I can understand. I begin at his neck and gently inspect his spine from his upper body to his midsection. Everything seems to be in order. There isn’t any blood. Maybe he’s just stunned from the electric shock. Obviously the lightning struck close to where he sat on his pinto, only a few moments ago. “Buck. Buck. Talk to me.” “Lightning. Can’t see. Head feels like it’s on fire.” Carefully I grab his prone body and turn him over on his back. I sit down at his head and cover his face with my hat. The rain pours down on both of us without letup. Buck’s looking up at me now, but his eyes are closed. “Can’t see. Can’t open my eyes. Hurts.” I reach down and touch an eyelid. He screams. “Don’t touch me there. Fierce pain. You must help me,” he says. I cradle his head in my lap and reach out to touch his shoulder. I’m drenched to the bone and so is he. I must find shelter for both of us on high ground somewhere. The roar of water in the canyon sounds louder and I know that at any moment it will come like an avalanche down through the gully and sweep both of us away.

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Chapter Nineteen It’s important in life to have friends. Back in New York I have friends from high school and college. I also made friends when I worked in the Frontier Magazine office, while I wrote my stories about the old west, even before I came out to this God- forsaken country known as New Mexico. It’s my friends who urged me to go west and find new sources to write about. I found out what it’s like to write directly from the experiences I had while chasing after Sam Bass in my last great story. Now Elfego Baca has led me on a merry hunt through his life as he’s lived it. My mind takes me back to the hovel in the middle of the street in Frisco, and I can see Elfego jump out of the window with only his underwear covering his body. How fortunate he was to escape great harm at the hands of the cowboys from the Slaughter Ranch. I wonder where the rest of our party may be. Elfego and the two Montoya youngsters can’t be far from here. What I’d give to see their faces again. The rain is letting up now. Looks like the storm might pass without any future incidents, although Buck may never recover his sight and that would be a catastrophe. He’s alert now, and although he’s still not able to move, his eyelids open and at the moment he’s looking up at me. “You there, Nolo?” “I’m here Buck. Just as you were there for me during my snake bite while we were on the prairie near Waco several years ago. Wish I had some magic to heal your eyes. You feel like sitting up?” The Indian’s hands raise, and I watch as he puts his hands on himself, starting with his shoulders and working his way down his body. “Guess I’m all here,” he says. “You’ve really had a shock, Buck. Lightning hit close to you. You know parts of your hair are missing, like you’ve been scalped by a drunken Apache. Buck reaches up to his head with his hands and feels around his hairless pate, then to the back of his head where his pony tail once dangled down over the back of his neck. “Wife wouldn’t know me,” he says. The corners of his mouth crease, and I know he’s feeling better. “It’ll grow out by the time you see her again,” I say. - 177 -


“You see the others?” “Haven’t looked. Raining so hard I stayed with you. You feel good enough, I’ll go find them.” “Find them. We must stay together. I’ll be all right. You see my horse?” “He’s dead. Lightning killed him. We’ll have to use one of our pack horses to get you moving again.” I touch him on the shoulder. “Stay right here old pal. I’m taking Big Mama to find the others. I’ll be back for you.” I unstrap his canteen and put it in his lap. He feels for it with his hand and smiles. “May need water again once rain lets up,” he says. **** The earth is still tender from the rain. Fortunately Big Mama knows how to accommodate for the mushy ground beneath her. Guess you’d call her a “mudder,” if she were a race horse. She places her hooves in the muck with great care, and I feel secure sitting in the saddle. There are no surprises, like falling off. Don’t know quite where we’re going. I just give my horse her head and she seems to be following the scent of the other horses, even though that scent must be mighty fragile after such a hard rain. It’s clearing up now, and I can see farther ahead than before. Won’t be hard finding my way back to Buck. I look over my shoulder at the trail I have left. Definite hoof prints lead back to the rear. Now give me a set of prints like that and I could be an expert tracker too. The canyon water still runs strong, and it looks like I’ll have to cross it to find Elfego and the others. Big Mama balks when she gets to the edge. The water is running swiftly, and I don’t quite know where the bottom is. Rocks tumble along on the surface of the downwash, and I decide the best idea would be to ride upstream a ways to find a better crossing place. I see movement ahead, and I pull up Big Mama. A lone rider exits the trees and heads for the storming gully. He stops, stares down at the roiling - 178 -

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water, then looks right, left. He sees me and a funny feeling begins in my gut, a sort of quiver and an uneasy sense, kind of like being scared. No one is around to protect me. I’m definitely on my own. Buck won’t show up at the last minute to save me. Buck’s back where I came from and he’s blind. Although it’s decidedly cool in the later afternoon air, I feel perspiration flooding under my armpits. The man, and it is a man, rides towards me. He has dark skin. I can make out a streak of blue paint on his face and immediately I know he’s an Indian. What kind of Indian he is, I don’t know. Could be a Jicarilla. My hand is on my pistol, and I gently pull on the butt to loosen it. I know it’s loaded, saw to that back when I left Buck next to the tree. It’s been like this always I suspect. Men and women who go through a calamity together suddenly find kinship where none existed before. At least the hunched-over man coming toward me doesn’t look like he’s going to attack. He reaches me and holds up one hand. “You Blunt?” “That’s my name.” “My name’s Red Dust.” That’s a relief. Now maybe I can get the back story of what happened with Garcia. At least the man speaks English, and he seems gentle enough. “How do you know my name?” I say. “Met up with Buck Redwing back there. He told me. Followed your tracks. You left quite a trail.” I smile to myself. Inside my head I make up an Indian adage. “Man who makes big trail has no trouble finding way home.” Not bad for a gringo. “You smile like that often?” Red Dust says. “Only when I meet a fellow traveler. You a Jicarilla?” “Same. Saw the battle back there. Know all about why my friends pulled out when they did.” “Why was that?” “All because of Buck. He’s well known in these parts even though he’s Kiowa and from Texas. Word spreads quickly in the West. We know about you, too.” “Why are you here?” - 179 -


“After José Garcia, same as you.” “You have something to settle with Garcia?” “My father is dead by the hands of Garcia. My father was a great Jicarilla Apache. Met my mother in Belen, married her, settled down, raised me to be like him. I learned the Indian ways.” “Your mother was the woman in the tree?” “The same.” “No wonder you have revenge in your heart. Let’s ride together.” “Can’t do that. I go back to pick up Buck and bring him along. You leave good trail. I’ll follow.” With those words, Red Dust throws his reins to one side and his horse steps off in a new direction, the way I have just come. It relieves my mind to know that Buck will soon be back in the chase with us, even though blinded. **** Following a trail in the West isn’t hard, if a body keeps in mind what human beings out here are like and how they think. Now take that José Garcia. He’s just committed a heinous crime, perhaps the most despicable of all crimes. He’s chopped up a human being into little pieces and strewn those parts in a tree where everyone can see his handiwork Now is that the action of a sane individual? I’d say not. The woman in the tree has no more worries. She’s beyond help. Her soul departed this earth the moment José Garcia killed her. What was in Garcia’s mind when he did it? I’ll have to ask him when we catch up with him. It’ll make a sensational story for the folks back east. That issue of Frontier Magazine will sell out, no doubt. The water in the river flows slower now. I think the storm is definitely over, and the runoff danger has passed. If I ride upstream, I know I’ll come to a place where I can cross. Big Mama senses the finality of the storm, also. She’s slogging in the mud with her hooves, but there’s a new calmness about her, calmness that only a rider can feel when he’s on the back of a horse he’s ridden many times and on all kinds of trails. The gurgling of the stream changes now and it’s not a rushing sound, but one of bubbling water being pushed forward by more bubbling water. It - 180 -

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always amazes me how water knows where to go and how to flow. It’s as if a river has a heart and a mind that tells it how fast to go, and where to seek out the lowest level of land. Water always flows toward the easiest way it can, down slope. Never did hear of any stream flowing uphill. Skies are gray now, but there’s not the threatening flashes of color we had when the storm came on us. It’s getting late in the afternoon and soon the sky will be dark, and I’ll have to feel my way along. Elfego and the Montoyas await me. I know they’ll be waiting, because that’s the normal thing for them to do. They’re sane as opposed to Garcia who appears to be an irrational person. Just a little farther now. I’m heading upstream, and as I look at the river still rushing along beside me, I note that the level of water has gone down. It’s almost back to where it was before the storm. I can tell by the west bank and the foliage that clings to the side. It’s like reading a story in a book, actually the receding of the flood in the Bible. I’m using all my senses now. Have to. First time I’ve been alone out here in the mountains of New Mexico. Up ahead is a place that looks promising. A natural barrier of rocks has made a dam and above the barrier is what looks like slow-moving water. Might be a good place to swim Big Mama across. She has a good sense about her. Knows what’s good for her and as much, she knows what’s good for me. I’ll try her. She’ll tell me right away if I’m right or wrong. Could still be a strong current just beneath the surface of the water. I give her some head at the edge of the river, and she takes a tentative step into the shallows. I urge her ahead and then she’s up to her chest in water and suddenly we’re floating. Horses are good swimmers. Their powerful legs act as the rudder of a ship, and through a natural walking motion in the water, a good mount can make progress through even the most resistant of waters. Big Mama does that now, and we’re swimming, me on her back, my horse moving the big muscles in her shoulders to keep us headed toward the opposite bank. The current underneath the surface of the water must be strong, though. We’re being swept downstream toward where the rock barrier has formed. I urge Big Mama, and she responds. I can feel heavy action under the water and note, that now we’re making our way quicker toward the west bank. - 181 -


My horse finds the bottom. She struggles forward to capitalize on her find. I hold on tight to the saddle horn. Nothing quite like a horse that’s moving in all directions at once. Enough to throw an inexperienced rider into the drink. With a mighty lunge, Big Mama scrambles up the bank and once again we’re on solid ground. I look back at where we’ve come and once again marvel at the stamina of my mount. Despite everything that’s happened to her in the last month, she’s every bit a winner. I thank my lucky stars I found her back in Big Springs, Nebraska in that out-of-the-way livery stable. Best thing that ever did happen to me. Now to find the others. The rain did its best to wash away any trace of their tracks, so I have to use my head to figure this out. Now where would they be? Somewhere on this shore I hope. They were ahead of me when the storm opened up. Elfego, Alfredo and Yolanda must be waiting nearby. I’ve found through experience that if I want to find something, I just keep looking at the horizon and heading that way. As I move along, the scenery opens up for me, and I discover the next part of my world. Works, too. I head Big Mama toward the woods ahead, and sure enough, I find a trail through the forest. It’s a trail big enough for anyone to follow. It must be the main path through these parts. The tall trees close in over me. It’s almost sundown, and it’s dark on the trail. Anyone could be hiding in the bushes including an entire war party of Jicarilla Apaches. A shiver runs down my back when I think about it. The birds are not even singing. That could mean they see something I don’t see. Their silence could be a message to me. I pull on the reins, and Big Mama halts. She shakes herself all over, and I assume it’s to get rid of the water she gathered while crossing the stream. Her ears go up, and I know I’m in trouble. I listen as carefully as I can. Voices. I hear someone talking, and I can’t make out whether it’s English, or Apache talk. I strain my ears toward where the sound comes from. It’s over toward my left. I dismount and hang my reins over a nearby bush. Big Mama won’t stray as long as she knows I’m around. The underbrush covers everything in this patch of the woods, but I’m able to push my way through toward where I still hear words being spoken. - 182 -

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The sound is louder now. I drop to the ground to listen. It’s definitely not English, but every so often I hear what I think are words in Spanish. I creep closer to where the sound comes from. I part the branches of a creosote bush and before me is a scene I hoped I would never see. Elfego, Yolanda and Alfredo are individually tied to trees. A group of Jicarillas sit cross-legged in front of them, each one holding a sharp spear. They’re taunting their prisoners, poking the lances at the three. Not a sound emanates from my friends who are tied up. I look at Elfego’s eyes and sense that he knows I am nearby. He looks my way and his eyebrows scrunch up toward the center of his forehead. I take it as a signal of warning. There’s a soft scuffling sound behind me, and as I look back over my shoulder, a heavy body shoves through the brush and steps out into the clearing in front of me. It’s Red Dust and he has Buck by the hand, and is leading the sightless one behind him. The seated Jicarillas look up, their lances turning toward the intruders. One of them stands and says something in Apache lingo. Red Dust drops Buck’s hand and faces the standing Indian. More words are exchanged. I look at Elfego’s face. He may know what’s going on, but he gives no sign. Yolanda stares at the men who talk. There’s an indication on her face that she knows what they are saying in Indian talk. I suspect she speaks Apache. Alfredo has his head down on his chest. He evidently feels life is over for him, and I think he’s given up. Little does he know that I am lying in wait in the bushes, my hand on my drawn pistol, my senses attuned to the slightest movement of the hostiles in front of me. Red Dust speaks now. He motions with his hands as if to tell the three Apaches that all is well, his right hand moving across his chest three times, palm downward. Whatever is being discussed must be finished. One of the Apaches, the one who stood up, now moves toward Elfego. I raise my pistol and click back the hammer, my sights on the Indian’s chest. If he makes an aggressive move toward my friend, I’ll pull the trigger. The man reaches toward his belt and pulls out a knife. I’m ready to shoot, and then I see him use the knife to cut the rope surrounding Elfego’s middle. He’s freeing the sheriff. He moves toward Yolanda and cuts her ropes, then does the same with Alfredo. - 183 -


I reset my pistol and watch. What’s happening now will make a great story for Frontier Magazine. I must remember each detail. I look at Buck and his face is expressionless, but his ears are alive. His head turns toward where I am hiding. He listens, then smiles, his big lips parting, his teeth showing through. Crinkles form around his eyes and I can see the smile turn into a wide grin. He says something to Red Dust, but I can’t make out what it is. Red Dust looks my way and squints, his young face alive with humor, his eyes scrunching together as if he can see me. “You can come out now, Nolo,” Red Dust says. I stand up and the three war-painted Jicarillas look toward me. It’s as if they really didn’t know I was there. I am pleased. For once I was able to sneak up on a group of Indians without their knowledge. Mentally I pat myself on the back. Elfego has his hands free now and he looks my way. He is all smiles, too. Yolanda blows me a kiss and Alfredo nods his head up and down. “It all turned out well,” I say. I move toward the group in the center of the clearing. “You were ready to save my life,” says Elfego. I smile and with great aplomb I drop my pistol into its holster and look back up at him. “You would have done the same for me,” I say. “I know, but you did it on your own. When I heard you cock your pistol, I knew I would be saved. My only thought was about the accuracy of your shot.” Elfego lets out a great guffaw and the others join him, including the Indians who don’t really understand English, but pick up on emotions. I move toward Buck, and when I reach him, I take his hand in mine He’s still smiling, but now he squints his eyes at me as if he can see me. “Your sight’s coming back, isn’t it?” Buck nods his head up and down. “How much can you see?” “See enough to know a great warrior when I see one,” he says. “Wasn’t anything. You taught me well. You ready to ride?” “Feel almost normal. Want my sight back. Someone can lead me.” “Maybe the Indians know which way to go,” I say. - 184 -

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“Red Dust is a good friend now. He will lead us,” Buck says. He holds up his right arm and motions toward the west. “We go now,” he says. Red Dust takes Buck by the hand. “My Apache friends will come with us,” Red Dust says. “We have just become a larger posse in search of José Garcia. The murdering hombre has no chance now.” Red Dust smiles and I look toward Elfego, Yolanda and Alfredo. Elfego’s voice booms out in the darkening shadows. “We’ll stay here for the night. Good place to camp. Unload the horses,” he says. **** It’ll be a cool evening here among the trees. We settle in for the night, a brilliant campfire sends out sparks from its center. A pot of coffee gurgles on a rock next to the fire and the smell of frying bacon reaches my nose. Yolanda sits next to me, an empty metal cup dangling from her right hand. I look at her face, and she looks back at me. Her tiny mouth opens, revealing the red tip of her tongue surrounded by a set of sterling teeth. She’s smiling. “Nolo, I was really scared. You are such a brave man.” “When you become my friend, you are my friend for life,” I say. I take her hand in mine and hold onto it. I continue to watch her face, and she’s blushing now. “You are such a gentleman. I’ve never met anyone quite like you,” she says. She pulls her hand away from mine and with it she brushes away a strand of hair that droops down over one eye. “Are you married?” “No,” I say. My mind shoots back to thoughts of Joline and Kat, and I think to myself how close I have come to marriage, especially with Joline. “You must have many boy friends,” I say. “My father drives them away,” Yolanda says. “I’ve seen that happen before,” I say. - 185 -


“I owe you something,” Yolanda says. She reaches out to grab the lapels on my shirt and pulls me toward her. Her lips find mine and the resulting kiss is long and hard. The metal cup in her hand falls to the ground and her arms are instantly around my neck pulling me close to her. I can feel her body pressed against mine and there is a real woman there. Then I think about what her father said to us as we left the hacienda back in Bernalillo, something about removing the huevos of any gent who might fool around with his daughter. I pull away from our embrace. I know my face is red with emotion, but I must set the record straight. “Never have I been thanked like that.” I smile and stand up. It’s not easy to hide what my emotions have done to me, and I turn away from Yolanda and pretend to brush some dirt away from my trousers. I peek at her as I busy myself and see her eyes staring at my crotch. “Thank you Nolo for saving my life. Maybe sometime I can save yours.” She picks up the coffee cup that fell to the ground, stands, and walks to the bubbling pot next to the fire. She pours herself some coffee and takes a sip. She gazes back at me over the top of her cup and her eyes are bright. I look around the camp to see if anyone notices my predicament and nothing has changed. Elfego sits next to Red Dust and they talk. Buck lies back on his bedroll with his eyes closed. The three Indians are huddled together at a separate fire, and Alfredo rests his head on his saddle, dozing. Maybe no one noticed that little event with Yolanda and me. A coyote howls and I feel right at home again. City life, like back in Socorro, is all right if one likes the night noises of cowboys throwing up, guns going off and carriages rumbling through town. I’d forgotten how peaceful it is in the open night with stars so close, I’m sure I can reach out to touch one. Another coyote gives a call and maybe that’s the answer the first coyote wanted. Ah, love in the wild. Guess I’ll have to wait until I get back to Kiowa country to find Joline again. I spread my blankets out on a flat place near the fire. Big Mama’s somewhere out there nearby. She’s tied to a picket rope now. I can hear the horses chewing, and I know they’re stoking up energy for tomorrow’s ride, a ride that will bring us closer to finding José Garcia. - 186 -

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I’m glad we’ve added three intelligent Jicarillas. Along with Red Dust, we’re sure to track down that varmint who murders innocent people. I really feel a sense of justice will take place when we catch up to him. I loosen my boots and remove them, placing them next to me. I undo my belt and crawl between the blankets, my saddle forming a pillow for my head. It’s been a long day and I’m sleepy. My eyes close and the sound of the coffee pot bubbling near the fire makes a fitting background noise for another night in the wilderness. The scent of Yolanda’s body comes in through my nose, and I’m lost in a fantasy world. She’s bedded down next to me.

- 187 -


Chapter Twenty Early morning light creeps up behind the mountains facing me, and I am awake. First light always does that to me, and especially out here on the prairie. My back aches and my legs tense as I try to get out from under my blankets. Maybe I’m getting old, but sleeping on the ground just doesn’t have the same feel it used to have. When I first came to this country, I could huddle down in a rattlesnake’s hole and never feel anything. Now I have to encourage myself to even stand up after a night on the hard ground. I’m up now and looking around the camp. The three Indians are gone, along with Red Dust. I assume they’re out looking for tracks. Elfego sits by the fire and looks my way, a blue tin cup dangling from his middle finger. Alfredo and Yolanda still sleep. As I look over toward where Buck spread out his blankets last night, there’s nothing there. I move closer to the fire. The warmth feels good. It’s a chilly morning. “Where’s Buck,” I ask. “He was up before sunrise. Took his horse and rode off with the other Indians. His eyesight must be better,” Elfego says. He takes a sip of coffee, wipes his mouth with his sleeve and stands up. “Best we be riding. Wake up the two kids and get yourself saddled up. We may find José Garcia today.” Elfego shifts his pistol in his holster, pulls out the piece, looks it over, blows dust out of the barrel, twists the revolving cylinder, then finds the one chamber where there is no bullet. Cowboys always do this so they won’t shoot themselves in the foot accidentally. Even I do it, when I think of it. I move toward the sleeping brother and sister. Yolanda has her eyes open, and she’s smiling at me. “Good morning La Tigre,” I say. She reaches up to kiss me. Her lips are soft, her face is warm and once again I feel a growing tension in my groin. It must be love because I never feel that, unless I am in love. What am I to do? I break off the kiss and turn toward Alfredo. Fortunately he still sleeps, and I punch him roughly on the shoulder. “Wake up you sleepy head. Time’s a wasting,” I say. Alfredo groans, opens one eye, and turns over onto his left shoulder, while pulling his blanket up over his exposed body. - 188 -

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“Leave him to me. I know how to rouse him,” says Yolanda. “We ride soon so be prompt,” I say. Elfego is no longer near the fire. He’s out at the picket line untying his horse. I watch as he leads the animal closer to the encampment, his saddle and soft pad leaning up against a tree near the fire. I must find Big Mama and get her ready. I hear a yowl and turn around. Yolanda stands over her brother, a pail in her hands and the former contents of the pail dripping over her brother’s forehead. So this is how she wakes him in the morning. I’m glad I’m not in her family. Alfredo reaches out to grab Yolanda by the ankles, but she’s too fast for him. She darts to one side and the young man gathers nothing but air. He’s angry. I can see that by the rosiness of his cheeks, and the frown on his face. “You didn’t have to do that,” he says. He’s standing now, his yellow blanket draped over his body, his arms raised in a menacing gesture. I think he could commit murder at this moment in his life. Yolanda laughs now, a hearty laugh that comes from deep down inside her. Evidently the two of them have been doing this kind of thing for many years. I’m sure Alfredo has done the same to her in the past. I watch as Yolanda moves like a deer away from her brother. Her breasts jiggle up and down and her thin legs carry her rapidly away from the scene, her hair tossing in the wind as she moves her head from side to side. She’s fast. Never have I seen a young woman cover so much ground so rapidly. Antonio stands unmoving in exactly the same place where he spent the night. There’s a look of frustration on his brow and then I see him change. He makes a movement with his hands as if he is giving up, drops the blanket to the ground and reaches down to scratch his groin. It’s typical of the cowboys I’ve seen in the morning. Must have something to do with the hardness of the terrain. Elfego pulls his horse up next to me. “That was some action,” he says. “Kids,” I say. “Glad they’re along. You’re sweet on Yolanda?” “She’s just glad I saved her life back there with the Indians.” - 189 -


“More Red Dust, than you. Although I will say you were ready. Kind of glad you’re along on this ride. We need to get out there. Our Indian friends may have found the trail to Garcia. I don’t know how they do it, but they’ve instincts beyond my grasp. Get your horse saddled, and speed up those kids.” I feel like saluting, but I hold back and head toward Big Mama who just now raises her head and looks directly at me. She still munches some prairie grass and parts of it stick out of her mouth, some of it falling to the ground as she chews, the hollow-sounding crunching sound reminding me of the many times I’ve been near when she eats. I reach her, and I could swear she smiles at me. What a horse! Always ready for her master. Always gentle, but fiery enough to cross blazing hot trails at noontime, or stomp through deep snow to reach a new camp. She’s wearing a night rope that’s tied to another long rope stretched between two poles. That’s the picket line. I untie the hemp and pull gently on it. It’s attached to Big Mama’s giant head and she moves along behind me, her big hooves making a clip, clop sound on the hard pan of the mountain. A flash of light in my eyes suddenly alerts me. Must be a reflection of the bright morning sun. I follow the gleam to the valley floor and the light catches me again. Someone’s trying to send a message. A good cowboy always carries a pair of binoculars in his saddlebags, and I’m a good cowboy. I work at it every day. I take the eyeglasses out of the container and fit them to my eyes. I adjust the scope and try to find where the flash comes from. Hard to pinpoint. I move the glasses, and then I spy five horses. Indians. Must be our new friends with Red Dust and Buck. One of the men holds a piece of a mirror and he’s flashing it my way. Up, up, down, down, signal of new discovery and a separate flash, means hurry. I put the binoculars back in their leather case and fit the whole thing into my bag. Big Mama’s saddled now. Elfego sits on his horse and glares at me. I wave back and mount up on Big Mama. I ride toward him. “Flashes down there,” I say. “Saw them. Means they’ve found something. Let’s ride.” “What about Alfredo and Yolanda?” “They’ll catch up. See, now, they’re dressed and heading for their horses.” I look at Yolanda, her slim figure outlines itself against the blue sky in the background. She’s tall, and her dark hair bounces as she walks, the back tied - 190 -

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up in a bun on top of her head. She glances at me and smiles. Her brother catches her glance and looks at me, then back at Yolanda. I wonder if he knows what’s happening between the two of us. If he does, I’ll be dead when we get back to the ranch house in Bernalillo. She’s moving rapidly now. I assume she’s trying to catch up with me, and before the thought is out of my head, she’s by my side, her brother still struggling with his horse. “You have nice lips in the morning,” she says. “Your brother is suspicious, I think.” “Oh, he won’t say anything to father.” “How do you know?” “We have a blood promise.” “And what is that?” “When we were five years old we cut each other on the finger and let the blood mingle together. We promised to keep each other’s secrets thereafter.” I sigh. Her horse is even with Big Mama and we are in step together. I look back at Alfredo. He’s within a hundred yards of us and coming faster. “Your brother,” I say. I point my hand back in the direction he comes. “He always wants to nose-in on me,” she says. “Probably hasn’t forgiven me for waking him up this morning.” “I’d be mad if you did that to me.” “Maybe I’ll get the chance before this trip is over.” We descend a steep trail and the going gets tough. Manzanita bushes strangle the path and their spiny arms reach out to grab at my trousers. Never did like Manzanita. Too hard to cut, too tough to use for anything. It makes a good fire though. Burns hot and long. Get a Manzanita fire going, and it’ll last all night. I take a deep breath and waves of sagebrush smell come to me. I think when I’m back in New York and working on the streets of the mammoth city, I’ll still smell the sagebrush. A small deer jumps across the trail in front and disappears into the pine trees that line this roadway in the wilderness. The valley floor is cut off from my view at this point, and I only hope our Indian friends are still there when we reach the place where they flashed the mirror. - 191 -


The descent is steeper now and Big Mama feels the change. Her large muscles are really working to keep both of us from sliding down the mountain. I often wonder who made a trail like this. Could have been a mountain goat originally, and I suspect it was. Yolanda is behind me and behind her is Alfredo. I’ve lost sight of Elfego. He always likes to be first, and I’m sure he’s almost to the valley by now. The churned-up red earth of the trail tells me Elfego has come this way. I’ve learned to read horse print signs. His stallion has a definite print with its left hind hoof. I asked Elfego about it once, and he told me the horse had been injured as a colt when its leg rubbed up against some barbed wire on a fence. Evidently doesn’t affect its riding stride, but it sure leaves a tell-tale print. We come out of a grove of pine trees, and now I have a beautiful view of the valley. Green, nothing but green to the front of me. Over near the foothills, pine trees push their limbs skyward. A hawk drifts along my vision, its wingtips fluttering skillfully to correct its flight path. The Indian horses are no longer where I saw them last. I do see Elfego riding toward the place of the flashing mirror. I watch as he halts his horse, dismounts, looks at the ground, raises his head and stares off in a westerly direction. He remounts, and I make an adjustment in my scheme of things. I head Big Mama toward Elfego rather than to where the Indians were this morning. Might as well forego whatever Elfego found on the ground. He’ll tell me about it anyway. The trail widens now, and Yolanda rides up alongside me, her brother following and riding up alongside her. The three of us reach the flatlands of the valley at the same time and we pick up speed in order to catch Elfego. Yolanda reaches out her hand to touch mine. “What do you suppose Elfego found. I saw him stoop over to look at something on the ground,” she says. “Indians must have left a sign there. Elfego reads Indian signs real well.” “So do I. I’d like to know what they left. Want to ride that way?” “No, I’ll follow Elfego.” “I’m going over there. Want to see for myself what the mystery is. I’ll catch up.” She turns to Alfredo. - 192 -

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“My brother. Come with me. We have some signs to gather. I promise not to spray you with water again.” “I’ve heard that before, my sister. But I will ride with you only to protect you from yourself.” Alfredo smiles and the two of them break off from me and head toward the spot where Elfego stopped to read sign. It’s up to me now. I urge Big Mama forward. Elfego rides a mile to my front and I must catch up with him before he reaches the next mountain pass, or I could get lost. I don’t have Buck to guide me. My horse seems to know my predicament and at my urging, she shifts into a gallop. I’ll let her run a bit before I slow her down to a trot. She needs the exercise. I watch the mounted figures of Yolanda and Alfredo disappear in the distance. Early morning in the valley is a great time. The dust storms of the day are yet to come and later in the day, the heat from the sun will create mirages and wavy lines that make seeing difficult. Now, it’s perfectly clear and the ridges to my front stick out in contrast to the pale blue sky of this New Mexico morn. It’s great to be alive and riding a good horse who won’t get me lost. Big Mama’s ears come up and her head arches. She only does that when she’s gotten wind of something. I wonder what it could be, and then I see a dust line at the horizon. Must be another horse. The rider is in a hurry. Looks like his trail will cross Elfego’s, and as I watch, the lone rider falls forward on his horse’s neck. He may be injured or just trying to make better time. The line between the rider and Elfego grows shorter and then they meet. I halt my horse and reach into my saddlebag to pull out my binoculars. There, I have it. Looks like Red Dust and he’s talking animatedly to Elfego. He’s using his hands to gesture. He’s pointing off in the direction from which he just came. Elfego looks that way, holds his hand up above his eyes to shade against the morning light and stares. He drops his hand, grabs his reins, and he’s off on a new trail with Red Dust riding by his side. - 193 -


Looks like I’ll have to change directions too, and I do. My track now cuts a new intersection point. I stow the spyglasses in my bag, take hold of my reins and urge Big Mama onward. Not much stands between me and Elfego. Some small outcroppings of creosote bushes make riding cross country difficult, but I’m able to skirt most of them and still keep a fairly straight line toward my quarry. I’d love to know what Red Dust said to Elfego. Maybe he’s found José Garcia, and we’ll be in the final phase of this chase. I hope so, but my backside’s getting tired bouncing against this hard saddle all day. Was I really cut out to be a cowboy? I’ve made up some ground, and I keep my eyes on the two riders ahead of me. Elfego’s horse does have a noticeable limp, Red Dust’s pinto is speedy. Only a few hundred yards and I’ll be up with them. I think about Yolanda and Alfredo farther down in the valley and hope they find the way we’ve gone. They are experienced in the ways of tracking, so I expect to see them at our campfire this evening. Not much farther now. Elfego looks back as I approach, and he holds his finger to his lips. I ride up alongside him. He looks at me, and I get his message. He moves his hand up, then down and that indicates something is just over the next rise. Up hill now. Some pine trees give cover, and we’re riding toward a cliff that must overlook the next valley. Elfego raises his hand as a signal to stop. I pull up on Big Mama’s reins, my grand horse understanding instantly. She halts so suddenly that I’m almost thrown over her head. I recover and jump off her, grab the binoculars out of my bag and offer them to Elfego. He takes them. Now the three of us, Elfego, Red Dust and me, lie prone at the top of the cliff. Down below us is a herd of sheep grazing in the late morning sun. Elfego screws the focus ferrule on the binoculars until he gets what he wants, a clear picture of what’s down below. Red Dust uses his hand above his eyes to cut out the glare that now faces us from an unrelenting sun. I look toward the herd. Must be at least a thousand sheep. There’s a wagon nearby. It’s covered with canvas, and that must be the cook’s tent, a trail of wispy smoke exiting from the stovepipe in the center. - 194 -

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I can just make out three of them. The sheepherders lie near a piece of sagebrush. A giant tumbleweed rolls past them, the wind gathering more force for a possible attack this day. I look up at the sky and see clouds highlighting the curves of the blue mountains to our front. Beautiful place here. Like to have a ranch in this valley. It’s so picturesque. Elfego crawls backward now. He signals to Red Dust and me to do the same. We back off the crest of the cliff and Elfego hands the binoculars back to me. His voice is hushed. “He’s down there with those herders.” “How do you know?” I say. “Saw a poster of him back in Bernalillo. Never forget his face. Saw him good down there just now in the valley with those spyglasses of yours.” “What’s the plan?” I say. “We’ll keep an eye on them, and wait for dark.” “Know where the other Indians might be?” I say. “Red Dust tells me they’re camped on the reverse slope of this hill. We’ll join them. Where’re the kids?” “Back at the place where you first knelt down. Yolanda wanted to see for herself what you’d seen.” “Hope they find their way here. Wouldn’t want them wandering into the sheep camp alone. That José Garcia is a mean character.” Red Dust pipes up. “I’ll backtrack, find them and bring them to camp.” Elfego nods, rises and grabs his horse’s reins. But he doesn’t mount. He leads his horse back onto the trail we just made and then veers off to the right. I follow with Big Mama and Red Dust mounts up. **** I see Buck first. He sits in a squat position in front of a smokeless fire. How do these Indians do that, a fire without smoke? I’ll have to discover that method. - 195 -


I greet my old friend with a pat on the back. He looks up at me. His eyes look much clearer now than they did just after the lightning strike two days ago. “You can see?” He shuts his eyelids, then opens them again. “Some.” “That’s sure better than it was. You had me frightened, my friend.” “Never see my wife and children again. Bad, very bad.” “You will see them, and soon. Our murderer is down below with some sheepherders.” “Know that?” “Elfego will find a way to catch him. Look at the sheriff over there, sitting under a cedar tree. He’s thinking, I can tell.” Elfego has his forehead in his hands. His eyes are closed, and I can almost see the machinery in his skull working. He’s plotting out a route to the sheep camp and a ruse to catch José Garcia off guard. I walk over and sit down beside him. “Do we go in at night?” I say. Elfego looks at me and smiles. “You’re becoming a real good detective. I can make you a deputy sheriff,” he says. “I was just thinking that night might be the way to go.” “Who’ll you take with you?” “Yolanda. Girls always throw off a bunch of horny sheepherders. She’s quite curvy too. I got an idea about myself, too.” “So tell me about it.” “Later. Now I’ll get some food, and then some sleep. It’ll be a long night.” I walk over to where I left Buck a few moments ago. He’s still sitting against the pine tree, his hands at his head, his eyes closed. “Hey, old partner. Can I get you anything?” I say. “Cloth. Wet cloth for my eyes.” I take out my handkerchief and grab my canteen. I soak the cloth in water. Gently I lay it across Buck’s eyes. He moans. “Hope that helps,” I say. He smiles and grabs for my hand. I oblige. He holds onto my fingers. Seems like he just wants to know another human being is near him. - 196 -

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“Could see well this morning, but by afternoon, my eyes tire,” Buck says. “We got plenty of eyes out here to help you, Buck.” “Think I’ll just rest them now. You take care of my horse?” “Sure will. Tie her next to Big Mama. Looks like we’ll be here for a while. Elfego has some plan for capturing Garcia.” I move off to take care of the horses, and I look around as I do. Red Dust rides into camp, and he doesn’t have Yolanda and Alfredo with him. He pulls up where I’m standing and dismounts. “Where are they?” I say. “Couldn’t find them.” “You looked hard?” “Everywhere. Saw some tracks. Looks like they were headed for the valley where we saw the sheep.” “Better tell Elfego. I’ll just take care of these horses and be over,” I say. Big Mama whinnies as I approach, and when I reach her, I pat her on the head. She whinnies again, and I know she’s pleased that I’m at her side. I tie her loosely to the guide rope, and walk over to where Red Dust talks with Elfego. “...rode toward the valley where we saw the sheep.” Elfego looks up, then at me. “We’re in deep trouble, and so are those kids. Garcia’s a killer. He thinks no more about killin’ someone than lookin’ at them. Help me get this black cork on my body. It’s part of my plan, and if we get there early enough, maybe we can catch Garcia and save Yolanda and Alfredo from walkin’ into a death trap. Here, burn some more cork and work on my arms.” I have no idea what Elfego plans, but I help rub the blackness on his body and head. I reach up into what hair he has and scrub the black stuff in between the strands on his scalp. I wipe some on his nose and cheeks. He opens one eye to see what I’m doing, then closes it. I cover his eyelids with blackness and then the part above his eyes. Whatever he has planned for the evening is about to take place.

- 197 -


Chapter Twenty-One Moonlight streaks down upon my shoulders and head. There’s a full moon in the sky, and it’s nearly overhead by the time I hear Elfego scuffling about near the fire. I look toward him. He’s emptying the dregs of his coffee, and there’s a hissing sound as the liquid reaches the hot red coals. Elfego looks up at me. I’ve never seen him like this, all covered in black from head to ankles. I know it’s only fake black, because I’ve helped apply it. To someone else it probably looks real. Elfego’s bright eyes shine through the darkness and as he blinks, his face disappears into the blackness of his background. What an idea. He walks toward me, and I know we’re about to ride off after the killer Garcia. How Elfego is going to capture this man, I’ll never know at this moment, but he obviously has a plan. He’s at my side now. “You like my disguise?” “Should do the job,” I say. “Garcia’ll never expect a black man.” “I think you’re right. Might work.” “Let’s get moving,” Elfego says. “Maybe we can save those younguns from gettin’ themselves killed. Any word?” “Haven’t heard anything. Suit me fine to have Yolanda back here, her brother too.” I’m off to get Big Mama, and Elfego is already in his saddle. Just the two of us will approach the sheepherders down in the valley. Elfego is sure that Garcia is with them. He’s sure he saw the man through the binoculars. If he is, there’ll be some gunfire. I check my pistol and make sure there’s an empty chamber in front of the hammer. The firelight is bright enough for me to see what I’m doing, and I slip the weapon into my holster, pull it out again to make sure it’s not stuck there, and then return it. I fasten a strip of rawhide across the curved top of the hammer and tie it off in a slip knot. Must remember to undo it before any shooting starts. This is my graduation ceremony as a gunfighter, and I don’t want to fail the last course. Good thing Big Mama knows her way around in the dark. Despite the light from the moon, the evening shadows make riding hazardous, if the horse you’re riding doesn’t know the way. Never had any doubts about Big - 198 -

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Mama. She’s a horse for all seasons, and I feel confident she’ll navigate her way down to the valley. We’re riding now, Elfego in the lead. Far to the rear are the Indians. Buck stays behind at the campfire. His eyesight is much better now, but he still loses vision at sunset. I can just make out the blue feather-decorated hat that Red Dust wears. He certainly has a personal interest in all this. Terrible shock to find one’s own mother cut to pieces and hanging from in a tree. A strong fire must burn inside him. He alone could accomplish this mission, but it’s just as well that an authorized sheriff does the job. Saves Red Dust from any implications. We’re really descending now. I feel my horse shift her weight as we follow the flow of the land downward. Scents of the night reach my nose, and I detect the familiar smell of cactus blossoms. There’s a hint of pine in the air, also. Always have liked that smell. Seems like I’m home again in Central Park back in New York City. Elfego holds up a hand. I’m able to make it out because he’s wearing a white cuff on his left wrist. The sheriff thinks of everything. I slow up on Big Mama, and pull up alongside him. “This’ll be the last time we can speak out loud,” he says. “After this point, we’ll be too close to the sheepherder’s camp. Only whispers. Stay up next to me. We’ll ride in together. Sure could use Alfredo and Yolanda about now. Had plans for them to ride into the camp up front. Alfredo surely knows some of these boys.” We’re at the bottom of the trail. Off in the distance is a wavering campfire light. Must be the one we’re headed for. Elfego prods his horse forward, and I give Big Mama the boot. Elfego pulls up short. Two figures on horseback merge into our tracks, and I instantly recognize them as our missing teenagers. I want to know where they’ve been, but Elfego lifts a finger to his mouth. I keep still. Alfredo and Yolanda fall in behind us as if this entire maneuver had been planned from the beginning. The two young ones seem to know exactly what Elfego is planning to do. Whatever it is he has in his mind, I’ll go along with it. I think about the - 199 -


rawhide strip across my hammer, and I reach a hand down to untie it. Won’t be long now before I might have to use my gun. We don’t kick up much dust. The night air is still, and only a soft breeze blows coolly across my face. Elfego stops his horse and motions for me to come close to him. He speaks softly, directly into my ear. “You go in first. I’ll make like I’m your servant. Alfredo will be beside you. The boys in the herding team will know him. You can introduce yourself as a rich elk hunter from New York, and I’m your hired valet. That should throw them off the track. Alfredo can bring along his sister. Always throws off a bunch of sheepmen if there’s a beautiful girl present. It’ll give me time to sight out that Garcia feller and get him in my sights. If shooting starts, get down on the ground and pray.” I watch as Elfego moves closer to Alfredo and Yolanda. He may be repeating to them what he told me, or he may be giving them further instructions. A coyote howls mournfully in the night. Must be a male seeking out a friend to share his prairie bed. I think of Yolanda and how neat her shape looks in the moonlight. There could be something there for the two of us. I know she likes me. The smell of the campfire reaches my nose, and I detect the scent of frying meat. These sheepherders may have hired Garcia to do their hunting for them. They wouldn’t butcher one of their own sheep when there are plenty of rabbits and deer around. Garcia must be a good shot besides being handy with a skinning knife. The thought of that woman back in the tree makes me shudder. We’re getting closer now. I can just make out the faces around the campfire, and I know what I must do. We’re within earshot. My mind flashes back to New York, and I practice silently saying what I must say. “Hail the fire.” Elfego is next to me. He perks up and fingers his pistol. He’s still outside the light of the fire. The sheepmen stand now, their rifles cradled in their arms, the barrels pointing our way. Any group on the prairie must constantly be on the alert - 200 -

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when strangers approach. Staying alive in the wilderness has to do with staying ever ready to repel invaders if they turn out to be evil. I clear my throat and get ready to yell. “Hail the fire,” I say. I ride first into the circular light of the fire that spreads before me. Big Mama knows enough to halt, and I sit on my horse, holding the reins in my upward stretching hands, in a gesture of friendship. Any sign of a pistol in my hand would bring instant death to me and the others. “Saw your fire. Looked inviting. Out hunting elk and my servant, my valet got me lost. Have someone with me you might know, Alfredo’s his name. Sister Yolanda’s with him,” I say. I motion my hand forward as a signal for the two youngsters to ride up. The sheepmen relax when they see Alfredo and Yolanda. I take the moment to get down off my horse, still keeping the reins and my hands in plain view. Elfego brings up the rear. He’s almost invisible against the night that surrounds him. He clumsily gets down from his horse and stumbles on the ground as he does. His eyes sweep the crowd around the fire, and I follow the line of his gaze. He’s looking at a man standing next to the horses, tying off a pinto onto the picket line. I walk to the fire, still with my hands in plain view. The men with the rifles eye me. I can tell they’re suspicious, but they’ve let down their guard as Alfredo approaches them and says something in Spanish. Elfego positions himself just outside the ring of firelight, and the only reason I know he’s there, his left cuff reflects white against his dark sleeve. His right hand may be holding his revolver at the ready. Alfredo looks over at me. “I explained to them that you’re from New York. They’ve seen hunters come through here before, some from as far away as England and France. They’ve been on the trail many days, and it’s something different for them to talk with an old friend like me. They also know and like my sister.” I look over at Yolanda. She’s pushing out her budding breasts toward the herders. Light reflects brightly from the V of her trousers where her legs meet her pelvis. It’s like an arrow pointing downward toward the place between her legs that’s tailor made for a man’s pleasure. A voice behind me booms out loudly. - 201 -


“Stay where you are, Garcia. I’ve got you in the open. Now move away from those horses and come toward the fire.” There’s a scurrying sound behind me and an explosion scares me out of my skin. The man near the horses grasps his shoulder and a weapon he holds drops to the ground. The man’s face reflects the obvious pain of his wound. He falls down. Elfego is on top of him in a single leap. I’ve never seen anyone move faster. The scene is made all the more eerie by the color of the sheriff’s skin. He’s like a blackened phantom flying through the air. He stands over the wounded man now, his pistol pointing downward, the hammer cocked. “Get up you no good son of a bitch, Garcia,” Elfego says. The man on the ground twists his legs as if to rise, then falls back to the earth. Elfego stretches his foot out and kicks the man’s revolver into the prairie night. Alfredo jabbers in Spanish. He may be telling the sheepherders about Garcia, how he murdered the mother of Red Dust and left the dead woman in the tree back near Bernalillo. Yolanda talks too and together they must have convinced the group. Elfego has Garcia standing now, and he roughly moves the man toward the fire. I notice that sweat has eroded some of Elfego’s makeup and white vertical streaks line his face. Have to remember this scene when I describe it to the artist who’ll do the pictures for my story, when I send it to Frontier Magazine. A noise behind me causes me to turn my head. It’s Red Dust and his Indian friends. This could mean trouble. I can imagine how I would feel if I confronted the accused murderer of my mother. Red Dust is off his horse in a flash, and he dashes toward the wounded man. “You’re sure this is Garcia, sheriff?” “Damn sure. Got my description directly from those tradesmen back in Bernalillo. Even have a wanted poster.” He pulls out a wrinkled piece of paper from under his shirt, and hands it to Red Dust. The Redman takes it, looks at it by campfire, then looks at the face of the wounded man. The man drops his head to his chest in an act of what appears to be total submission. “Same man,” Red Dust says. - 202 -

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The Indian grabs the man by his hair and pulls his head up. The wounded man grimaces, his eyes close, a piece of something vitreous emerges from his nostrils. He opens one eye. “So you’re Garcia, the one who cut up my mother.” There’s no answer from the man. “Give him to me, sheriff,” Red Dust says. “Know how you must feel young feller, but this man’s my prisoner. He’s going to stand trial back in Bernalillo. Now back off ‘fore I have to put a bullet in your leg,” Elfego says. Red Dust is not stupid. He knows the reputation that Elfego has in New Mexico. He lets loose of the man’s hair and drops his own arms. “My friends and I will make sure you get him to the jail. This man will hang back in Bernalillo,” Red Dust says. He turns toward the other Indians standing behind him. “Come my friends. We have much to do. We must guard this man by night and day.” Elfego pulls out a set of handcuffs and claps one end on Garcia. The man moans as the cuffs go on him. He’s turning white like a ghost, and I expect him to faint. Elfego props him up and puts the man’s good arm around his own shoulder. “Now you drag along here, Garcia, and I won’t shoot you again.” The man grimaces and turns even whiter. “Give me a hand, Nolo,” Elfego says. “I’m going to cuff him to you. Won’t have a problem. He’s winded.” The man really looks like he is out of it. I feel the cuff cut across my wrist, and I instantly know how a criminal must feel when the sheriff arrests him. Not a good feeling. Garcia grimaces again and then passes out, feeling limp attached to my wrist. Must be a horrible pain in his shoulder. For the man’s sake, I’m glad he fainted. Elfego looks at me and together without a word being spoken, we lower Garcia to the ground. I’m still attached, and I hang my arm down as I kneel next to the prone man. “Take these stupid handcuffs off my wrist,” I say. - 203 -


“Not a chance, Nolo. I want this man attached to someone I know. If he dies, you go into the ground with him.” I notice a small smile curl up from the corner of Elfego’s mouth. I’ve known all along that there’s no arguing with him when he makes up his mind. Anyway, this would add to my story I was already preparing mentally. The headline will say, “Nosy Frontier reporter handcuffed to the Butcher of Bernalillo.” This would be a first in American reporting. I sit down on the hard ground and pull my knees up under my arms. The fire is blazing, and the game meat that is on the spit, looks well done. The smell drives me wild. “What’s cooking there Alfredo?” I call on Alfredo because he’s the only one I know who can translate. He walks a few steps my way, then sits down beside me. “Mountain squirrel. These sheepherders would rather eat squirrel meat than butcher one of their precious animals. Never did understand that. They’re all alike. Garcia hunted for them. Not much of a hunter if all he could find is squirrel meat.” For some reason I think about my pistol and the leather thong I tied over the hammer before we left the camp on the hill. I reach down to make sure the leather is still attached and feel around the holster. The pistol’s gone. Now what could have happened? I tied it in place... And then I feel a piece of steel sticking into my midsection. I think I’ve found my pistol. Garcia opens his eyes. His voice is a whisper, and I lean over to hear him. “Easy for me to pull this trigger. You just ease yourself up to a kneelin’ position at the same time I do.” My mind races ahead and now I see a headline that reads, “Frontier Reporter Dies While Handcuffed to the Butcher of Bernalillo.” But without me, Garcia is dead. He kills me, and I’m called “dead weight.” Elfego would open fire and blast the man out of his shoes. I think Garcia knows this. “You go along with me, and we’ll get these cuffs removed at a blacksmith’s shop,” he says. - 204 -

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Yeah sure, and then he’ll cut me up and put my arms and legs on different branches of a tree. There must be another way. Alfredo looks over at me. “You’re sure actin’ funny, Nolo. You got a pain or something,” he says. I turn my head toward him and smile. I drop my eyes toward the gun that’s pointed in my midsection. Alfredo’s gaze follows the direction of my eyes, and he jumps up and backs up toward where Elfego stands. I look at the sheriff’s face. He knows something’s not right. His hand is already on his piece. The pistol’s halfway out of his holster. Garcia stands now, and I go with him. His voice has a Spanish accent, but he’s clearly speaking English. “Now, sheriff. I got me a pistol and it’s aimed at this here Nolo feller. Won’t shoot him ‘cause he’s my ticket out of here. I will shoot me a couple of youngsters, this here Alfredo and the young lady over there. You wouldn’t want that to happen now would you sheriff?” I feel Garcia go limp against me. Something has happened to him. Maybe he’s fainted again. Then I hear a broad laugh behind me. I turn my head and Red Dust stands there with a medium sized rock in his hand. “Badman feel no pain now,” he says. I’m down on the ground again, pulled there by Garcia’s collapse. Elfego walks toward me. He has a tiny key in his hand. Without a word he reaches down and unlocks the handcuffs on my wrists. He grabs the gun out of Garcia’s hand and gives it to me. “Now put that thing in your holster and really tie it down. You almost became an obituary. I had that no account murderer in my sights, but shooting by campfire has always been risky at best. Might have got you between the eyes,” Elfego says. “Glad Red Dust wasn’t bashful,” I say. “Rather have Garcia lyin’ on the ground with a crack in his skull than me with a bullet where a third eye would be,” I say. “Don’t think he’s dead. Still goin’ to hang him after the trial,” Elfego says. I look down at Garcia. He is moving a little and he reaches up with his good arm to put his hand on his head. He really moans now and then passes out again. - 205 -


“Alfredo, get some rope. We’re goin’ to make this feller as uncomfortable as we can. We’ll hogtie him and throw him over the back of a horse. What town are we close to?” “Grants. Only about 5 miles. Make it by morning if we get started. New Railroad line there. Train goes direct to Albuquerque. Bernalillo’s only twenty miles north, “Antonio says. “That’s what we’ll do then,” Elfego says. “Now get me some rope.” **** Somehow Garcia gets loaded onto a horse. His head hangs down one side and he’s limp. His arms are tied behind him and there’s a piece of rope that loops over the saddle horn to keep him from falling off. Never thought I’d see another human being treated in this manner, but this man is no human being. He could have shot me back there out of plain cussedness, although I guess he knew he’d end up with bullet holes in his body. I look up at the night sky and thank my lucky stars. I’m still breathing.

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Chapter Twenty-Two Elfego sends Alfredo up the mountain to bring Buck Redwing down into the valley where we are. Buck will bring with him all the camping equipment we left up there, before our profitable trip to the sheepherder’s campfire. We sit around the fire now, Garcia grumbling about his predicament. He hangs there on the horse. What a sad looking character. I can’t even imagine how he could hurt anyone, seeing him on a horse’s back, tied to the saddle horn, his head hanging down. No way he can escape now, and Elfego knows it. The lawman has his feet propped up on a tree stump, and he’s chewing on some of the squirrel stew. I’ve tasted the squirrel meat. Not to my liking. It’s stringy, and although I know the little animals eat only seeds and nuts, I can discern a wild flavor to the meat. I’d much rather have a bite of young lamb that’s been roasted over a campfire for an hour or two, the outer crust dark brown, dripping juices, the inner part pinkish, but cooked. That and some browned potatoes with snow peas, and it’s a meal I’d give a twenty dollar gold piece for. I’m next to Elfego. It seems he’s in a reflective mood. “What’d you think when you saw Garcia with that pistol aimed at him when we first arrived?” I say. “Had my bead on him before he knew it; covered my eyes before, so the fire wouldn’t blind me when I opened them. Glad I did. Easy to spot the no good murderer before he spotted me. Never could have done it without you.” “Glad to be of service. You scared me when you handcuffed him to me. I thought I might be going to die.” “Never let you get out that easy. “Later, I saw Red Dust creepin’ up behind Garcia. Knew the Indian wouldn’t let me down. He bashed the no good bastard pretty hard on the head, didn’t know for a minute whether or not we’d have anything left to take back to Bernalillo.” “How did you know Alfredo and Yolanda would show up?” I say. “Know the ways of these people,” Elfego says. ‘You could call it putting our minds together. Those two kids knew I was onto Garcia. They just - 207 -


waited until we came off the mountain to join us. They’re smart kids or I wouldn’t have picked them.” Elfego leans back against his saddle and closes his eyes. He’s had a busy day. I watch the lanky Yolanda as she takes a bite of squirrel meat. I move to where she sits by the fire and squat down next to her. “Elfego says he had mental contact with you. Did you feel it?” I say. Yolanda smiles at me and a piece of squirrel drops from her lips and falls to the ground in front of her. “Alfredo and I did some scouting on our own. Yes, I felt Elfego’s message and knew he counted on the two of us to join him before he arrested Garcia. We did even more than that.” She lowers her head and pokes some beans onto her plate, brings them to her lips with a fork, and shoves them into her mouth while sucking on the fork as she pulls it out. “What do you mean you did more than that?” I say. “Alfredo and I went into the sheepherder’s camp this morning. We talked with the men. Told them we were running away from home and needed someone to talk to. Saw Garcia while we were there. He had just returned to camp with these squirrels. He’d strung them along his belt. Dropped them for the cook, and then set about currying his horse.” Yolanda chews vigorously now, the cooked squirrel obviously being more of a match for her jaws than she expected. “Sheepherders gave us good counsel,” she says. “Told us to go back to Bernalillo and ask forgiveness from our parents.” Yolanda looks directly at me. Her eyes sparkle in the firelight and for a moment I am entranced. “That was brave of you,” I say. “You waited then for Elfego and the rest of us this evening?” “That‘s how it happened. Told Elfego what we did. He seemed glad we’d spied Garcia,” Yolanda says. “Mighty brave of you, too, Nolo. Garcia could have shot you dead several times,” Yolanda says. “I’ll do anything to get a story. Why do you look so beautiful tonight?” It may be heat from the fire, but Yolanda’s cheeks turn a bright red and she looks down at the ground. She puts her tin dish on a log next to her, and - 208 -

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then looks up at me. I feel the heat she sends me. Her arms extend and in the next moment she’s hugging me, the feel of her young, solid breasts digging into my chest. She tilts her head up and kisses me. Never before have I been kissed like this. It’s a long kiss, a sweet kiss, the tips of our tongues meet, and it’s a love kiss. This girl captures my very spirit and takes it inside her. I am lost. But only for a moment, I quickly think of the admonition her father gave us when we were about to leave his ranch a few days ago. If there were to be something between Yolanda and me, it would have to be forever. Marriage would be the only way her father could accept me. I can’t get the memory of Joline and Kat out of my brain, but the passion of the moment sweeps through me and once again I am lost in a kiss. I feel a tap on my shoulder and break off the kiss to look up. It’s Alfredo. “Father would not be glad to see this,” he says. I stutter as I say, “She just wanted to show me her gratitude.” What a dumb thing to say, but it’s all I can think of at this moment. Yolanda breathes hard and her cheeks are really rosy now. She sits back on her log and looks at her brother, her mouth still moist, her eyes brightly agleam in the campfire light. “And if you say a word of this to father, I’ll personally see that your boots are filled with scorpions every night,” Yolanda says. “Nolo is a brave man. He deserved a reward, and I gave it to him. Now it’s over, let’s move on.” Buck rides into camp on his pinto. He’s trailing behind him a string of ponies with all the camp gear neatly packed on their backs. Looks like we’re about ready to hit the path for the railroad town of Grants, along with our very important passenger, who’s moaning now and muttering something about getting him off the horse. He has to pee. **** Over the mountains to the east, the sun just now squeezes itself between two peaks, and all of a sudden it’s morning. We’ve been on the trail all night. The estimated five miles to Grants seems more like twenty, but ahead I see the beginnings of the railroad town, wooden ties stacked next to the train - 209 -


station, a gigantic water tank standing on stilts nearby, its giant hose bent upward and clipped to the top. Reminds me of an elephant’s trunk. Our horses seem to know where we’re headed. The clip clop of their hooves makes a staccato rhythm. It amazes me how quickly word travels in the West. We’ve been tracking Garcia in the middle of an unknown hidden valley of northern New Mexico where no people live. Yet up ahead is a group of citizens, men and women, who obviously know what we carry on one of our horses. Even though it’s early morning, the town folk appear in aprons and work pants as if it were noon. These are hardy settlers, who know the need for a full day’s labor by rising early. As we approach them the noise of their greeting rises. I hear one man shout, “Let’s lynch the son of a bitch. I got me a piece of rope here.” Now the crowd yells even more and rifles appear where there had been no rifles before. Elfego continues on toward the train station as if nothing bothers him. His head does turn from side to side, and I suspect he’s sizing up the crowd and sampling their depth of anger. We reach the passenger platform. Elfego holds up his right hand to halt the rest of us. I ride up beside him. “Nasty crowd,” I say. “You stay back and guard the prisoner. I’ll handle these people,” he says. I pull back on Big Mama’s reins and turn her sideways. She responds, and we head for Garcia’s mount. He’s still in the same position he was in when we left the sheepherder’s camp last night. “You may get your neck stretched early,” I say. His eyes glare at me, and I can almost see fire coming out of his mouth. “You got to let me go. Give me a chance. Don’t want to be hanged by no lynch mob. Got me a right to a trial,” he says. “You’ll get your trial. Elfego’s not one to back off,” I say. Now the clamor rises, and I see one man tying a rope around the lower limb of a tree that grows just next to the station. The rope has a noose with thirteen twists. I can count them from where I sit. These citizens evidently mean business. - 210 -

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A rifle goes off and when the explosion reaches my ears, I cringe. That sound always does make me edgy. I can imagine how Elfego feels. I bring up the rear with the tied-up Garcia, and as I reach the horse rail, I feel something poking at my stomach. I look down and see the end of a rifle shoving at me. “Hey, back off,” I say. “I’m just a lowly reporter out to get the story of Garcia,” “Get down off that horse. We’re takin’ Garcia prisoner. Gonna hang him,” a rough looking unshaved man in his forties says. “Ain’t goin’ to hurt you or the sheriff, but this no account rattlesnake is gonna die, and soon.” The crowd surrounds me, and I watch as they pull Garcia off the horse. He still has the ropes around him, and as I look at his face, I can see real terror. It’s the sound of Elfego’s pistol exploding that stops everyone in their tracks. He’s up on the platform. His revolver points in the air, in his right hand. His face remains calm, yet there are worry lines above his eyebrows. His mouth is open. “Now hold on there, folks. Ain’t no one takin’ my prisoner from me. He’s goin’ to stand trial in Bernalillo. Then we’ll hang him,” Elfego says. A man points a rifle at the sheriff. “You, there with the rifle. Get that thing outa my face and now,” Elfego says. The man retreats and drops the nose of the rifle to the ground. There’s something in the way Elfego says things that makes others obey. Elfego turns toward me. “Nolo, get help from Red Dust and Alfredo and move Garcia to the train. We’ll have to do it quickly,” Elfego says. I motion to Alfredo, and he understands immediately what has to be done. I see Red Dust eyeing the situation, and I wave my hand at him, then point to Garcia. Alfredo comes towards me. Elfego still speaks. “And this Indian here is Red Dust. He’s the son of the murdered woman. He’s going to see that Garcia gets a trial. Now all you people go back home. The show’s over. We’re goin’ to load Garcia on the train. Don’t want any interference from you. My pistol will speak for me from now on.” - 211 -


Amazingly the crowd begins to separate. Many of the women begin walking away from the platform, their gingham skirts swishing softly in the morning breeze. Some of the men follow, but there are a few crusty characters who persist to stand around. Maybe they want to be sure Elfego does what he says he will do. They’re grumbling now, and their words sound louder. “Still say we should lynch him,” says one man. “Agreed,” says another. “Ain’t no sheriff can stop us,” another man says. I don’t know any of these citizens of Grants, but I do know Elfego, and it’s not the kind of talk he likes to hear. The sheriff’s head turns towards the last group of five men. “Now you fellers done had your fun. Leave this to me. You want to see justice carried out, buy yourself a ticket on the train and come along. Always can use good sworn-in deputies,” Elfego says. The men look at each other. One of them speaks. “Sworn-in? Sheriff, you got to be crazy. Ain’t no way we want to be lawmen.” “Then back off,” Elfego says. He brings the barrel of his gun up even with the men’s faces. He cocks the trigger. His face reflects solid confidence in what he can do with a pistol. The men get the message. “Now, sheriff. Ain’t no call to point that there weapon at us. We’ll go in peace. But if we hear this Garcia ain’t hanged for what he did to that woman and her husband, we’ll be on the next train to Bernalillo and your hide won’t be worth two bits.” Elfego uses his thumb to release the hammer gently back to its rest position. As he does this, he aims the pistol skyward. “You boys get outa here and now. We got work to do,” Elfego says. He holsters his gun and strides toward where the train will stop to pick us up. He’s the picture of self-confidence. He turns his back on the group of five men. I hear them talking among themselves. “Mean lookin’ sheriff. Heard of him, though. Shot it out with some 80 cowboys down Frisco way,” one of them says. - 212 -

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“His trial in Socorro. Must a been somethin’ to see,” another one adds. “Reckon he’ll get that low down skunk to trial,” a different man says. The group of grumblers moves off now. They head for the local saloon that’s across the rutted street. I look at the name, The Silver Palace. I only hope we get out of town before these men get a snootful of rye whiskey. They might change their minds about being so cooperative. **** I’ve never loaded Big Mama onto a train before. She snorts, and turns her head around toward me. I smile, and pat her on the neck. “Now, now old girl. It’s just a free ride back to Bernalillo. You won’t have to trot all those miles across lowland and highland anymore. All you have to do is eat your hay, and watch the world go by. You can do that, can’t you?” I say. Big Mama’s eyes are large, and I know she’s thinking over what I said to her. Finally she snorts, turns her head toward the flat car, and with a push from me, she hobbles up the loading ramp, and steps out on the surface of the flat car she’ll ride to Albuquerque. The rest of our crowd prepares to lead their horses on board, and I know Big Mama won’t be by herself for long. Elfego beckons to me, and I walk over to him where he stands against a post that holds up the station roof. “Good chance for you to get Garcia’s story,” he says. “You’ll let me talk to him?” I say. “Talk away. It’s cheap.” “Where is he?” “Loaded into the mail car. Red Dust’s watching him.” “I’ll get on over,” **** Inside the mail car a man with a green visor sits before a sorting table. He’s pulling letters out of a bag and placing them in cubby holes, a hole for each city the train will pass on its way east. Nothing seems to bother him, - 213 -


not even the man in the corner who is roped to a chair, his ankles chained to the front legs, his arms dropping down the sides, the wrists chained to the back legs. The man, Garcia, makes no smile. His eyes close for a moment, and then they open wide. Red Dust stands behind him, a Sharps rifle cradled in his arms. It takes me several strides to reach Garcia, and as I do, he spits on the floor in front of me. “No account reporter,” he says. “You almost got me hanged back there. No guts.” “You’re the one they were after,” I say. “If you hadn’t cut up that woman back in Bernalillo, those folks woulda treated you like a human being. “Why’d you do it? Why’d you cut up that woman after you murdered her?” Garcia snorts. A glob of saliva oozes out of the corner of his mouth and drops to his bare chest, the moisture glistening there, then evaporating. “You ain’t got no passion. I can tell, scribbler,” he says. “Got to have passion to live out here in the west. Sissy easterners.” He spits again and the spit doesn’t make it. It dribbles down his chin. “Have you cut up every woman you’ve had passion with?” I say. “Gave me a thrill,” he says. “No good woman. All she wanted was my money, and I got plenty a that back in Bernalillo. Hid it away. No woman or sheriff is goin’ to find it either.” “That’s why you murdered her and cut her up?” I say. “She was gettin’ nosy; got along just fine with her before that. She hated her husband anyways. She was glad I killed him, at least she was glad after I twisted her arm a mite.” Red Dust’s been listening, and now he rises from his chair, pulls out a tomahawk and makes one swipe with the flat side against Garcia’s head. The murderer slumps in his chair, and it looks like my questioning will have to wait until he revives. “Hold on, Red Dust,” I say. “Let’s get him back to town so we can get him tried by a court. Don’t want you to get in trouble.” “He’s a no good bastard,” Red Dust says. “Killed my father. Tortured my mother. Doesn’t deserve to live.” “I know, but you deserve to live,” I say “Give me the tomahawk.” “Can’t,” Red Dust says. - 214 -

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“Well, at least put it away,” I say. “Get some water so we can revive Garcia.” A canteen hangs from a peg by the door, and Red Dust pulls the strap off the hook, opens the top, takes a drink, and then hands it to me. “He doesn’t deserve water,” Red Dust says. “I know, but I’ll pour some over his head anyway. Want him to keep talking. I’ve got a story to write.” The water hits Garcia’s head, and I hear him give a long moan. He tries to pull his hand up, but it’s tied securely to the chair leg. He opens one eye and stares up at me. “You want me to talk, keep that Indian away from me,” he says. “Red Dust’ll keep his tomahawk in its keeper,” I say. “Continue on about the treasure you hid.” “Think you can trick me. Don’t want to talk about no treasure,” Garcia says. His speech slurs. I really think he’s having trouble in his brain. Course he’s only been hit over the head with a rock and slapped with a tomahawk. A few more jolts like that and he’ll be an idiot. I’d better hurry. “You made love to her?” I say. “She had moves like you’ve never seen,” Garcia says. Red Dust rises out of his chair, his hand reaches for the tomahawk. I wave my hand and the Indian relaxes. “Red Dust, why don’t you go on outside and make sure the horses are being fed?” I say. The Indian shakes his head in agreement, puts his hatchet back in its holder and walks toward the door. “Soon enough, he’ll hang,” says Red Dust and he pulls back the heavy door of the mail car and steps down. The door remains open and the man with the green visor looks towards it. “Damn fool. Can’t sort my mail if the wind keeps blowin’ in,” says the man. He gets up from where he’s sitting, looks at me and Garcia, then walks to the open door and shuts it.

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“You strong enough to keep that prisoner in line?” he says. “Don’t want no problem with my mail, otherwise you’ll have to put that dodo elsewhere. Can’t be havin’ these letters messed up with blood and the likes.” I reassure the man that I’m capable of taking care of Garcia, and I point to the ropes and chains that hold him in place. “He’s tied up real good and besides that, I have my trusty revolver in its holster here by my side,” I say. I haven’t thought much about my pistol lately. I reach down and its still there, tied with its leather thong so I won’t lose it while I ride Big Mama. Garcia eyes the gun too. “All you have to do is give me that there pistol, untie me and we’ll go together to get the treasure I hid. It’s gold. All of it, must be ten sacks full. Split it with you,” he says. He drools and the spittle once again runs down his chin. “No possibility, Garcia. All I want is your story. I’ll get my gold that way. Editor’ll pay me a lot for your tale. Now tell me the rest,” I say. Garcia straightens his neck and looks directly at me, his eyes wide open, his brow pinched as if he were thinking. “Tell you what scribbler. I’ll tell you everything if you put a picture of me in your magazine story. Always did want to be famous and now may be my chance. Course I could use some money, too. Goin’ to have to hire me a lawyer. Don’t want to dig into my savings. What you got to offer?” he says. “A hundred bucks and that’s as high as I’ll go. That’s a lot of money,” I say. “A hundred bucks and my picture?” “Done,” I say. Garcia smiles, one corner of his mouth rising higher than the other. A piece of snot comes out of his nose. Rather than look at it, I take a piece of rag off the floor and wipe him. “Life ain’t been good to me,” he says. He snorts and sucks in through his nose. “Grew up in Belen, north of Socorro. Small town then. Worked on some ranches. Got good with a rifle and did some huntin’ for the ranchers. Tried my hand at trappin’ and made a livin’ with otter pelts. - 216 -

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“Trappin’ up in Tiguex country. Spied two miners down by Cripple Creek. Out there all by themselves, countin’ their profits. Peeked through the bushes. Saw ‘em doin’ it. Simply pulled out my six shooter and blasted them. Loaded my horse with the bags of gold. Hid it, then looked for a woman to help me spend it.” “That’s when you met Red Dust’s mother and father?” I say. “Yup. Lived in a shack out of Belen. Followed the woman home. Liked her style. Nice figure, brown eyes, long black hair. She knew I was followin’ her too,” Garcia says. “How’d you kill the husband?” I say. “Sneeked up to the cabin window, broke the glass with my gun and shot the bastard in the throat,’ he says. “Man gasped, blood runnin’ down his shirt front. Woman looked scared. I rushed in through the door and grabbed the pretty gal. Took her to my place near the bottom of the hill, up Tiguex way; tied her up.” “And then you raped her?” I say. “Don’t know if you’d call it that. Simply removed her bloomers and put my pecker in her. Felt good. She screamed a little, but I stuffed a rag in her mouth.” “She stayed there with you?” I say. “Tried to get away. Caught her peekin’ when I weighed my gold. Had to cut her up. She’d a told on me if she’d gotten away. Put her in a tree near Bernalillo to show others what happens when they deal with me, Garcia.” “So the gold is still at your place near the bottom of the hill, Tiguex country?” I say. “Wouldn’t you like to know, reporter.” Garcia closes his eyes.

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Chapter Twenty-Three Red Dust comes back to guard Garcia, and I walk toward the door that leads to the platform between the mail car and the car where the passengers sit. I look over at the gent at the sorting table. He looks up at me and our eyes meet, the green eyeshade now pushed down over his brow so that only his eyes show. Wonder if he was listening when I talked to Garcia about the gold. Probably he was too busy putting envelopes into their proper slots. Guys like that are serious in what they do and nothing bothers them while they work. He turns his head, breaks eye contact with me, and returns to his sorting, his green eye shade now pushed up in place. I mosey on through the doorway and across the platform. The train moves slowly out of the station, and the clickety clack of the wheels on the rails makes a singing sound I haven’t heard for many months. The door to the passenger car sticks, and I pull mighty hard to open it. I press my knee gainst it and shove. Finally it gives and I step in. Far ahead Yolanda sits by a window. She waves at me, and I wave back. I head toward where she sits. A young girl in a pinafore, dusty hair, smoothes her apron as she walks toward me down the central aisle. She looks up at me and smiles, her thin lips forming a perfect bow. I look at her and smile also. What a life it must be for little ones out here on the prairie. Brave people have come west to make this place their home. This group must be going back home because this train is headed east. Must be some stories to tell right here in this car, stories of success and defeat. I look up at the ceiling. The coal oil lamps that hang there have their own rhythm as the car rocks them from side to side. It’s almost like walking on one of those tug boats in New York Harbor on a stormy day. Seems like the west is my home now and the tug boats have turned into trains. I sit down next to Yolanda. The bench is none too comfortable. It’s made of finished wood, ash I think, and there’s every convenience for the weary traveler. Straw-stuffed pads covered in dark leather hang against the uprights, and the same type of cushion is on the seat. Yolanda moves closer to me as I rest on the bench. She pushes her breast into my arm and I can feel - 218 -

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the softness of the flesh beneath her dress. “Got a good story from Garcia,” I say. “What did he say?” she says. “Told me about some gold he has at his old haunt near Bernalillo. Tiguex country. Might be something to look into.” “I know that part of the country well,” she says. “You take me with you. Place is just off the main trail to Bernalillo. Turn off at the trail to the Tiguex Indian Village. We’ll find the gold together then get married,” she says. Her lips form into a smile; the corners of her mouth turn upward, the inside of her mouth showing, her tongue sticking out between her teeth. What a beautiful pink tip it has! I flinch, and then move closer to her. Her breast presses even harder into my arm. What’s happening to me? “Get married?” I say. “That subject hasn’t come up before between us. I’m too old for you.” “You’re just right. Pa always said I like older men and I do.” She raises an arm and plants her fingers under my chin. “You’ve a good job,” Yolanda says. “You write and you’re handsome and brave. Can’t understand why some other gal hasn’t snapped you up already.” “Almost did get married awhile ago: still engaged to Joline Collins, sister of Joel Collins of the Sam Bass gang. She’s on the Kiowa reservation in Texas teaching Indian kids to speak English,” I say. “Forget her. You’ve got me now,” Yolanda says. Now her hips crowd mine and her hand lands in my lap, the fingers probing my groin. I remove her hand and place it in her own lap, then stare out the window and think of a monstrously cold morning I had back in Nebraska when I was on the prairie searching out the Sam Bass gang. My efforts do no good. Something grows below my midsection, and I’m embarrassed. I cross my legs and scoot my body away from Yolanda. She’s still looking at me with that silly grin, and I hope she doesn’t feel rejected by me. I do like her and marrying her would not be such a bad idea. She’d have to move to New York when I finish my writing out here in the west. She’s - 219 -


certainly resilient enough to change. Life in Bernalillo will always be rural. Life in New York will always be bustling and noisy. It would take a girl like Yolanda to make the change. My mind rushes ahead to an image of Yolanda lying in bed naked, her bare breasts rising to my touch, her mound of Venus writhing in anticipation to the act of love. And I’m stretched out beside her, equally nude. As quickly as it comes, the picture leaves my brain, and I’m sitting next to a fully-clothed Yolanda on a train heading for Albuquerque at an exorbitant rate of speed. “You’ve made up your mind have you?” I say. Yolanda snuggles up even closer to me, smiles and pushes back her hair and wraps it around her ear. “I’d like to live with you for the rest of my life,” she says. “Anywhere you say.” “You’re wearing me down,” I say. A shout at the rear of the car causes me to turn. Red Dust stands swaying in the doorway, blood streaming from his hairline, his hand trying to stem the flow. He drops to the aisle way in front of the same little girl I saw in the pinafore. I’m out of my seat and rushing toward him before anyone else. I reach him and take a handkerchief out of my pocket, and with it, I try to blot up the blood on his head. I kneel, and raise Red Dust’s head off the floor. He looks up at me and there are tears in his eyes. “Garcia escaped,” he says. “How’d he do that?” I say. “Had to untie him so he could use the toilet,” Red Dust says. The Indian relaxes and his head drops to one side. I fear he’s gone. I move his head gently to the floor and stand up. Yolanda stands next to me. “Watch over him. I’ve got to tell Elfego,” I say. “Do you think he’s dead?” she says. “Could be. Look at all that blood,” I say. **** I find Elfego sitting in a passenger car just ahead of the one where Red - 220 -

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Dust now lies dying on the carpeted aisle. I rush toward the sheriff. “Garcia’s escaped,” I say. Elfego turns his head quickly to the side to face me. “How’d that happen,” he says as he rises to his full height. “Red Dust untied him so he could use the toilet,” I say. Never have I seen anyone move so fast. Elfego heads down the aisle way, his body swaying from side to side as the motion of the train infects his stride. I follow. He reaches the end of the car, jerks open the door to the vestibule, and I catch it before it can swing shut, and hold it open for myself. Elfego reaches the place where Red Dust lies in his own blood. But the sheriff doesn’t stop. He’s out onto the next vestibule and again I follow. No time now to lose the story I’ve come out West to write. And write it I will when the action slows down some. The jerking of the train causes me to fall against the last seat in the car where the little girl in the pinafore sits staring at me. I flop awkwardly to the floor grabbing what I can to stop my fall. Through all this I see the wide open and sharp eyes of the young girl follow my progress. I reach the carpeting, and my legs and arms spread out in a pattern like the four directions of the wind. My breath leaves me, and I find myself gasping for air. The little girl reaches down and offers me her hand. I take it, and she pulls hard to help me right myself, at least the upper part of my body. I find myself sitting in the middle of the aisle. I look at the girl. “What happened,” I say. “The train stopped,” she says. Elfego. He must have pulled the emergency chord that stops the train. He’s probably right now at the horse car getting ready to unload his stallion. I’ve got to hurry. “Thank you,” I say to the girl. My feet are under me now, and I’m through the door at the end of the car, my mind racing ahead to what I must do in the next few moments. Big Mama. I have to get her saddled and ready to ride. And where is Buck? He’s the only one I know who can track Garcia through this Godforsaken New Mexico territory. There’s hope for us to catch the escapee if Buck’s eyes are healed from the lightning bolt of more than a week ago. - 221 -


Up ahead is the open car where just now I can see Big Mama’s nose sticking in the air, sniffing. She must sense that I’m coming for her. Elfego and some of the trainmen have the rough-hewn wooden ramp down, and the sheriff is already leading his horse to the bottom. I grab Big Mama by the mane and pull her gently forward, the reins and bit in my hand. I offer her the metal bar of the bit and she takes it in her mouth. What a good horse. It’s as if she understands the situation and she’s ready. I have the pad and saddle over her back as quickly as I can, and cinch the leather belt under her belly. No longer does she blow out her stomach like she used to do when we first met back in Nebraska. She knows I won’t hurt her, and that I must keep the cinch tight if I am to ride without the saddle falling off. I look around. Buck is not to be seen. Maybe this action will be accomplished with only Elfego and me. I’m not that good a tracker. I hope Elfego knows what he’s doing when it comes to trailing a desperate killer who has a fortune in gold back at his digs near Bernalillo. The only good thing about it is that Garcia is on foot and we’ll have horses. Big Mama’s saddled now, and she starts down the ramp. I coax her with a pat on the neck, and she steps forward, and then stops on the slant. Her head is up and her nostrils sense the wind, ears twisting to the front to pick up any sound. I look at the place where her head points and there is movement in the brush. It is almost noon and light bounces off the nearby granite rocks and into my eyes. Hard to see. I pull on the reins and my horse follows, her ears still perked up, her nose sensing with every step. There is a sound of someone scuffling, and then I see Buck emerge from the edge of the greenery. He has his pinto in tow and he’s smiling at me as he steps closer to where I stand. “Can see fine,” Buck says. “Need to hurry.” “You scared me. Thought it was Garcia,” I say. “Garcia not far from here,” Buck says. “We go.” **** It’s good to be in the saddle again and riding the prairie. The wind is at my back and I tie my hat down under my chin so it won’t blow off. I can - 222 -

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smell the sagebrush. The valley is covered in wild flowers, blues, pinks and yellows. What a glorious country this is. Buck is already far ahead of me, his healed eyes scanning the ground for sign. Elfego’s on the trail riding just behind Buck. We’ve trusted my Indian friend to find Garcia’s track, and I have confidence he will. He’s never failed me before. We’re backtracking the way the train came and hoping to find the place where Garcia jumped off. We know he left the train because the man with the green eye shade in the mail car told us so. My thoughts go back to the train that’s now disappearing in the distance in the opposite direction to where we ride. Hope Red Dust isn’t dead. I’d like him to see his mother’s murderer strung up in Bernalillo. Buck stops now and he’s off his horse. Typically he stoops near the ground and studies the formation of the earth. He raises a hand and points in an easterly direction. Elfego sees the sign and changes course to follow the guidance Buck gives us. I’m right behind, and Big Mama smoothly alters her steps as I pull the reins against her neck on the left. We’re headed due east, the sun just now achieving its highest point of the day directly overhead, its rays beating down on my back, the shadows of my horse apparent on the ground. Buck catches up and once again he’s off at a lope, his clear eyes scanning the ground as he moves forward. There really isn’t anywhere for Garcia to hide out in the open. I wonder why he chose to jump off the train and go on foot. Does he have water and food? I doubt it. The Indian’s pinto picks up speed, and I can see why. A man runs far ahead. He staggers, then falls. Looks like we’ve found our murderer and now we can conclude the grand search and get this prisoner to Bernalillo for trial. Elfego prods his horse. He must have seen what I saw. Buck reaches the man first, but he waits for the sheriff. There’s a frown on the Indian’s face, and it’s hard for me to interpret his expression, that is until I see the face of the man on the ground. It’s not Garcia. Elfego dismounts and moves toward the man. I’m off Big Mama and on the ground in a flash. “Who are you?” Elfego says. “Please, please don’t shoot me. I’m innocent. That man on the train - 223 -


threatened me. Told me he’d kill me and my family if I didn’t jump off the train and run. I was scared. He looked mean. Nearly broke my arm. My wife and children are still on the train. My little girl wears a pinafore,” the man says. “The oldest trick in the book,” says Elfego. “What do you mean?” I say. “Garcia’s hiding on our train that’s headed for Albuquerque. Only Yolanda and her brother are there to identify him,” says Elfego. My God. I get a picture of Yolanda tending to Red Dust’s wounds, stopping the flow of blood and then Garcia pops into view. He sees the girl and attacks her, throttling her perhaps even worse, raping her. We’ve got to catch the train! But how? I can tell Elfego’s thinking. His brows are up and there’s a far away look in his eyes. “We’ve got to get to a town that’s on the telegraph line,” he says. “Buck, you know any nearby town?” Buck stands next to his horse. His hand goes to his brow and he’s thinking. “Indian town, Laguna, nearby. Big town for Indian Reservation. They have telegraph office. Sent a wire there, myself a few years ago.” I don’t picture the plan, but I’m willing to try anything if Yolanda is in danger. **** I pull up the father onto Big Mama. He’s out of breath and frightened. I don’t blame him. I’d be frightened too. “Your daughter helped me on the train,” I say. “I fell down in the aisle, and she helped me up. She’s a good girl.” “Yes, I love her dearly,” he says. “That’s why I took off running, hoping to save her from harm. That man knew all about my family. Mail car sorter is my brother.” “You mean, that guy with the green eye shade?” I say. “He’s the one. Can you imagine your own brother doing that? Must be after something big to do that to me and my family. He pointed me out in - 224 -

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the passenger car.” The man behind me settles down, and I pay attention to the trail. We’re riding like the wind in the direction of the rails. It’s not far and soon we reach the track, the same track over which Yolanda just passed as she innocently rides in the passenger carriage. My God, if that demon harms any part of her, I’ll shoot him on sight. Out of reflex I check my revolver that’s safely ensconced in my holster. The leather thong is still in place, the hammer resting on an empty chamber. I undo the thong, pull the piece out and twirl it around my trigger finger, replacing it in the holster with a deft move and retying the piece of leather. We’re following the rails and the telegraph line that parallels it. Laguna can’t be far up ahead and the best way to find it is to stay with the railroad line. Big Mama snorts. She’s breathing harder now. Must be the weight of the two of us on her back. Out in the west, men know how to pace themselves; doesn’t do any good at all to run a horse as fast as you can without giving the animal some time to recover. Horses do have endurance, but for the long haul, they need to be paced. Elfego knows this, and despite his urge to race ahead and recapture Garcia, he maintains a steady mile-eating stride with his horse and the rest of us follow. **** The scenery remains much the same, as we cover the last miles to Laguna. Prairie grass sprouts next to the railroad ties and Big Mama snorts. She knows this is prime eating grass that’s probably never seen the mouth of a cow or horse. I know she’d like to stop and chew a spell, but we have things to do. Catching an escaped murderer takes precedence over eating grass. Buck’s far up ahead, and I see him halt his horse. He puts his hand over his eyes, and I know he’s found something. As I watch, I see him point ahead. It must mean we’ve reached the town where the telegraph office is located. **** - 225 -


Laguna Pueblo is a bustling town, filled with Tano, Keres, Shoshone and Zuni Indians. Government schools abound at the little Laguna settlements. Nearly everyone speaks English. It’s kind of like what Joline is doing, teaching English at the Kiowa reservation near Denton, trying to get the Kiowa children to join modern times. They’ll sure need English in the future. We follow the trail of the telegraph lines, and I can see where wires drop down from the main line to an office just below. That has to be our stop. Elfego is there already and he’s dismounting before I even get close. He’s into the office, slamming the screen door behind him. I get there a few minutes later, drop off Big Mama and go through the same door Elfego just banged shut. There’s a smile on Elfego’s face. “Message received. Albuquerque sheriff will intercept the train when it arrives. They’ll take Garcia into custody,” he says. **** Albuquerque is one big place these days. Seems like the town keeps growing with every day that passes. We rode through here on our way to Bernalillo a week ago and I swear, the place has grown double since that time. Not hard to find the sheriff’s office. Right on Main Street, a large brass sign identifying the place. There’s a big replication of a sheriff’s badge hanging from a pole. Inside the office, there’s activity. Jail cells are off to the rear and the sheriff sits behind his cedar desk, his feet resting on top, a toothpick sticking out of the corner of his mouth. He’s got his hat on and the brim’s pulled down over his eyes. His eyes might even be closed, but it’s hard to tell with the hat brim in the way. Elfego takes out his revolver and taps the sheriff on the boot. The man stirs, grabs his hat with his right hand and pushes it up on his head. He stares at Elfego, then a smile crosses his face. “You old dog. If it ain’t Sheriff Baca,” he says. The Albuquerque sheriff drops his feet to the floor and sits erect in his - 226 -

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chair, his hands resting on the circular piece that forms the back and sides. It’s one of those captain’s chairs like they have on the tug boats in New York Harbor. I wonder who makes those things, and how they get so far out west. Good salesmen no doubt. Call them drummers out here. Comes from the thumpin’ and poundin’ they do when they’re trying to sell something. “You got Garcia, my prisoner?” Elfego says. “Not exactly,” the man behind the desk says. “What you mean, not exactly,” says Elfego. “Caught the train. Met your friends Yolanda and Alfredo. They’re on their way home to Bernalillo. Red Dust lies in the back of the barber shop. Barber knows how to stop a blood flow. Has enough practice every time he cuts a head of hair. Your Indian’s still alive, but barely.” “That’s good, but what about Garcia?” Elfego says. “Didn’t find him. Searched the train from steam stack to caboose. Ain’t no Garcia on board. Either that or he jumped train before it arrived at the station. You need help?” “Don’t need no help. Got me this reporter here and his Indian friend. We’ll track the bastard down and hold him for trial in Bernalillo. Goin’ to have to backtrack the train tracks again. Find out where that murderer jumped off and trail him. We’ll leave that father, there, with the sheriff. He can add a description of Garcia. “Come on Nolo, Buck. Let’s get out of here,” Elfego says. Big Mama whinnies when she sees me come out of the sheriff’s office. Her head moves up and down, and her big eyes focus on me, as she turns her head my way. I love it. Someone loves me anyway. Someone in Bernalillo loves me too, and I hope I see her soon. At least she’s safe with her brother Alfredo. Wonder what Yolanda will tell her father about me. I’m in the saddle with haste, and Buck has already pulled his pinto away from the tying post and is in the middle of the dirt street. Must have rained here recently, mud holes pot the road and the afternoon sun reflects in the standing water. I look down at Big Mama’s feet and find caked mud there. Hope that won’t slow her down. Have to get out my mud scraper and fix her up, the first time we stop. My sheriff friend pulls his horse back from the railing and mounts. “Let’s get over to that barber shop,” he says. - 227 -


The three of us turn our horses toward the main street of Albuquerque. Up ahead is the red striped barber pole that I’d recognize anywhere. How the barber got the job of taking care of sick folks with bashed-in skulls, I’ll never know. But barbers are important in these western towns. True, they do cut a face or nick an ear now and then. Have to know how to slop up the blood, quickly. Guess that’s why they have the red in the striped pole outside their establishments. We haul up in front of the place and dismount. Elfego leads the way and we enter. The door’s already open. It’s busy inside. Two barbers in their white coats look up as we enter. One of them must be the owner. He looks at us. “You gentlemen have a seat. Be right with you. And oh, yes. We don’t do Indians,” he says. Buck looks at me, and I look at him. A frown crosses my face. “Don’t want a haircut,” I say. “Looking for Red Dust. He’s in the back room?” “Oh, right,” the barber says. “Got him patched up; almost lost him with the amount of blood that drained out of his head. But he’s awake. Somebody goin’ to pay me?” Elfego reaches in his pocket and pulls out some gold coins. He hands them to the barber. “This be enough?” he says. The barber looks down at the coins in his hand. “Sure enough,” he says. “You must be the sheriff that’s chasin’ that no account man, Garcia. Red Dust told me the man had escaped.” “Yup,” says Elfego. “Like to see Red Dust now.” The sheriff turns toward the back door to the one room tonsorial palace. He pulls on the handle. The door opens and he steps inside. Buck and I follow. Red Dust lies on an army cot in the center of the room. His eyes are closed, but his hand twitches. There are two coffins resting against the sidewall. Guess the barber doubles in undertaking, too. Heard tell that barbers do that in the west. Red Dust opens an eye and looks up at us. He tries to sit up, but changes his mind and lies back down. - 228 -

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“Thought I was a gonner,” he says. “Yolanda cared for me. Alfredo helped carry me over here to the barber shop. Wouldn’t of made it without those two. Barber’s a real sharp doctor. Got the blood stopped. Feel weak. Where you headed?” I look down at him. “Goin’ up the trail to Bernalillo,” I say. “Get that bastard for me,” Red Dust says. “I want to be at his hanging. I’ll head for Bernalillo when I’m well.” He turns his head to one side, and I can tell he’s out of it. Sleep, best thing for him. **** We ride out of town and head up the trail toward Bernalillo. There’s a lot of ground to cover. Fortunately our horses are fresh, having spent a lot of time riding and eating on the train. Elfego has his jaw set at an angle, and I know what that means. He’s determined to find Garcia and quickly. I have an idea where the murderer might be. I yell over to Elfego, who’s now in the saddle and ready to ride out of town to the north. He pulls up his horse and waits for me when he hears me speak. “Gold,” I say. “What gold?” says Elfego. “Gold that Garcia hid,” I say. “You think we ought to head for his lair?” says Elfego. “Why not? We might surprise him.” Elfego signals to Buck who is now about a hundred yards ahead of us. Buck halts his horse and waits for us in the middle of the mud-strewn street, his pinto prancing and doing sidesteps. What a nervous horse, I think. “Maybe you’re right,” says Elfego. “We could save time by heading directly for Garcia’s digs. Wouldn’t surprise me if Alfredo and Yolanda might be there now, just waiting for the no good murderer to show up.” Elfego’s mention of Yolanda’s name causes a chill in my backbone. Guess I have it pretty bad, now that the danger on the train is over, and there’s the chance I will see her again. In my mind those breasts press against my arm - 229 -


again, and I’m ready to ride. I remember what Yolanda told me. It’s hard to recall something said when so much emotion filled the air, but the name Tiguex comes back to me, because it sounds so much like tiger, and I think of Yolanda as La Tigre of the trail. She certainly is persistent in the hunt, and I am glad for this. Gives me more to write about. **** Our pace is steady and the trail is broad. We’ve made good time since leaving Albuquerque, and a low range of mountains appears before us. I’ve been watching the jagged peaks and wondering if the trail went over the top. Doubt it. Looks to me now like the trail veers off to the west, then turns north again. This is big country, this New Mexico. All kinds of terrain around here. Desert now, then we’ll get into the mountains, and there’ll be pine trees and running water. If someone could only get the water and the trees down here to the desert, this place would bloom. Soil’s good. Cactus grows. Sagebrush survives, but with a few trees, the sun wouldn’t bear down so strong on the ground and plants could grow. Need some kind of an aqueduct to get the water down here. I’ve heard also that there may be water deep down under the desert. Nobody’s found that yet. **** We reach the turnoff to the Tiguex reservation. Elfego pulls up. Buck has already moved ahead of us and is descending the winding mountain path. His pinto is sure-footed as it walks downward, its buttocks shifting weight with each step, the tail swishing from side to side to flick off the flies. I halt Big Mama. “Best we think about a plan,” says Elfego. “It’s good that Buck’s up front. He’s savvy in his ways, knows when to be seen and not seen. Don’t see how that Garcia could be around here already. No horse, but never know about him. You got your piece well-oiled and handy?” “I’m ready for what comes,” I say. “Guess you mean we should shoot the - 230 -

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bastard on sight. Never killed a man, but that loco killer is deranged.” “No. You don’t shoot on sight. Man deserves a trial, got another crime on his hands, Red Dust. It’s time we got this Garcia thing solved.” I look down the trail, and I can just barely make out Buck. He’s halfway down the mountain, and we haven’t started yet. “Best we be riding, sheriff,” I say. “Keep your eyes open,” Elfego says. And then there is silence except for the plodding of Big Mama’s hooves on the dry pan ground. No rain here for months. Dust swirls boil up on the flatland below, and cloud shadows scud along the flat terrain far ahead. I look up at the sky and there’s nothing but blue, save for the meagerest of white smears overhead. No rain in sight. I’m following Elfego down the near vertical trail that switches back and forth on the mountainside. Buck is out of view to us, but I know he’s down there leading the way, and that makes me feel secure. A broad-winged red hawk coasts over my head, his wings barely moving as he gathers the updraft from the valley below and soars effortlessly; the finger-like tips of his wings working the air like a maestro with a baton. The large bird’s head moves sideways, and he tilts it downward, no doubt looking for some small animal he can use for an evening meal. My ears are blasted by a resounding gunshot, the echo reverberating against the mountain sides and repeating the sound over and over again. I think instantly of Buck, then Yolanda and Alfredo.

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Chapter Twenty-Four Gunshots have always frightened me, like the one I just heard. No other sound of gunfire reaches my ears, and the stillness following the explosion is more frightening than the actual blast. It’s an eerie silence. No longer do I see the hawk in the sky. It must have flown to safety, probably to its aerie high in a mountain crag. Only man is foolish enough to search out a disturbance and become involved. Birds know when and how to flee. Elfego is just ahead of me, and I get a strong scent of sewage gas from his horse. Riding behind someone is not for the faint hearted I decide. We’re on a downward trail that wends its way around red-crusted boulders that give evidence of having been in place since the beginning of time. The rocks reach right up to the sky. I’d hate to have to climb to the top on foot. There’s not a glimpse of anyone ahead of us as we switchback down the dusty route. Hoofprints are on the ground, and it looks to me like many horses have preceded us. I am so good now that I can make out the marks of Buck’s Pinto. Two other prints mingle, and vaguely, I recognize them as those of Yolanda’s and Alfredo’s horses. We’re nearing the bottom of the canyon, and only a sharp rise of solid granite keeps us from seeing what may be happening ahead of us. Elfego holds up his hand as he reaches the valley floor. I pull up. Big Mama gives a snort, and spittle drops from her mouth. Must get her some water soon. Horses up ahead. No people, just horses. We reach the animals, two of them, but Buck’s Pinto is nowhere around. I squint, and put my hand over my eyes to shade out the sun. Nothing on the horizon except a few scraggly trees growing out of the sandy soil, and occasionally, a yucca plant proudly displaying its tightly-grouped white blossoms. Spanish sword they call it. There’s no place a man could hide in this country except maybe over to the right, a dark brown clump of brush. I wonder where Garcia’s hideout might be. And where are Yolanda and Alfredo? Elfego recognizes that it’s the teenager’s horses that wait patiently for - 232 -

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their owners to return, their big heads drooping and gently pulling what blades of grass they can find. What they really need is water, and I don’t see any around. Must be an aquifer somewhere in these rocks. Hasn’t rained here in a long time. Dust is deep. The horses are still bridled, and Elfego takes one set of reins and motions for me to take the other. Now I’ve got two horses to worry about. Never had that experience before, but Big Mama nuzzles the other animal, a stallion, and I don’t think there’ll be any trouble between them. Big Mama isn’t due for estrus until the 20th of this month. We’re leading our horses toward a shady place near a jutting red rock. Elfego has his “I’m looking for you, Garcia” look on his face. His pistol fits economically in his right hand, his left, busy with two sets of reins. He crouches down as he moves toward the shade, always keeping his horses between him and the unknown. Smart man. I untie my weapon also, but my fingers get twisted up with the leather thong and my pistol drops out of my holster onto the sandy ground. Damn, now I’ll have to clean it before I can fire it. I stoop to pick it up. Looks like earth particles got into my empty cylinder just under the hammer. I blow as hard as I can and get most of the dirt out of the weapon. At least it might fire now. Later, it’s going to need a major cleaning job. I return the piece to its holster. Next thing I know I’m flat on the ground, a shot ricochets off a part of the gray metamorphic rock just above us. My hand automatically reaches for my pistol, my thumb on the hammer. I let go of the reins, but Big Mama knows enough to stand near me. The stallion stays close to my mare. My head is buried in the sand, and all I can see is the movement of two giant brown ants, antennae waving as they struggle to carry a sandalwood twig ten times larger than they are, toward their nest. Another shot “ka-pings” off the rock over my head. Someone is shooting at me. I snuggle farther down in the sand hoping that maybe I can get low enough so I won’t be hit. My eyes are misty. Guess it’s from the excitement I’m experiencing. With my blurred eyes, I look up at where I last saw Elfego. He’s not there. The horses he held are gone also. How can I be so unnoticing at a time like this? I suddenly realize that I’m all alone, and someone’s trying to kill me. Where - 233 -


are the shots coming from? I stick my head up an inch or two and another shot sounds. This one is close. I drop my head back down, and reach up to my hat with my left hand. I feel a neat round hole in my new Stetson. Someone will pay for this. I’ll put this one on my expense account. My editor back in New York will question my buying another hat, just because there’s a bullet hole in the old one. I’ve got to move my position. If I stand and run, the sharpshooter will no doubt wing me. If I stay on the ground, he’ll pick me off one part at a time, starting with my head. I decide to creep toward the protection of an outcropping of rock only ten yards ahead of me. With great care, I move my torso forward, thrusting with my legs in the sand. I hear an answering “ping” as the bullet meant for my head misses and chips a sandstone rock to my front. Now there’s an answering gunshot. It’s Elfego firing back. More shots, this time not aimed at me. I take a chance and rise to a stooping position and make a dash for the sheltering rock. I’m there just as more “pings” tell me that I’m not out of danger. These sound like rifle shots. There’s a difference in the tenor of the sound between a pistol shot and rifle shot. My right hand still grips my unfired pistol, and cautiously, I peek around the base of the rock that guards me. A piece of stone drops on my head as I hear the rifle fire again. Good shooter. Wonder if it’s a Remington or a Sharps. Sights aren’t too accurate. This gunman must be a natural with weapons, to come that close without hitting me. I don’t think he really wants to kill me, only scare me. I stick my pistol around the rock and without looking I pull the trigger three times. Nothing happens. I pull the trigger again. No action. I pull the piece back and inspect it. A small piece of gravel rests between the hammer and the lever mechanism. I reach into my pocket and pull out the knife I always carry there. The small blade is just right for digging out the offending piece of rock, and I swirl the bullet cylinder back to the blank space, releasing the hammer as I do. I return the knife to my pants. Never know when I’ll need it again. No sounds of weapons now. I wait. Still nothing. Elfego’s voice reaches me. “You can come out now. They’re gone,” he says. - 234 -

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Reaching down to me is Elfego’s gnarled hand, the hair on the back of it matted by the sweat that must have poured down over it. I take his hand, and he pulls hard to bring me to a standing position. A look of consternation stretches across his face, his eyebrows scrunched together in the middle of his forehead. “What happened? I say. “Never know who fired,” Elfego says. “Gone, now though. Saw two men hightail it up the rocky cliff over there. We’ve got to follow them. Must be Garcia and maybe someone who helped him escape from the train.” Elfego points to a dark place on the side of the mountain. I close my eyes against the sun that’s bearing down overhead. Even with my hand on my brow, I don’t get a clear picture of what’s happening over there. “What about Yolanda and Alfredo?” I say. “Shack over there hidden by brush. Let’s move,” Elfego says. We reach the door of the wooden shack at the same moment, but Elfego wants to be the first person to enter. He pushes me back with one hand, and then kicks at the bottom of the door. It swings open. It’s dark inside, very dark. I hear a moan and then a grunt. I feel my way to a window, and pull on the boards covering the opening. The wood crumbles in my hands, and light comes into the room, maybe for the first time in ages. I look over where I heard the moan. Yolanda! She’s tied up and sitting on a three legged stool. Her eyes meet mine, but there’s a red bandana tied over her mouth, so all she can do is moan. Her eyes are lively now that she sees who has come to her rescue. I rush toward her, grab the bandana, and pull it off her mouth. Yolanda gasps, then looks up at me. “You’re my hero once again. I love you,” she says. A heavy rope encircles her body, and I reach around behind her to start undoing the strands. She keeps talking. “Hurry up, Nolo. I want to be free with my arms, so I can hug you. We’ve been tied up here all day. Garcia. How did he get away from you? He threatened to kill us. I was scared. Me, La Tigre, was scared. Can you imagine that?” I finish untying her and Elfego’s making progress with getting the rope - 235 -


off Alfredo. Yolanda frees herself from the last coils and leaps into my arms. Her warm body blends against mine. She kisses me on the mouth, and we hold the kiss until I back away. But Yolanda won’t let go. She continues to hold me tight against her. Finally she lets go and steps back, still holding my hands. I notice rope burns on both arms. Her light brown hair tangles down over her face, yet her green eyes sparkle, especially when she looks at me. “How’d you get tied up?” I say. “Alfredo and I left the train and started riding home. We left the main trail and got onto the Tiguex Tribe path. Rode right into a trap. I knew Garcia’s hideout was here. I’d passed it many times while herding sheep. My brother wanted to look in here. I backed him up, but Garcia was too fast for us. He held a gun on my brother and convinced me to tie up Alfredo. “Then he tied me up. When we were roped, Garcia fled. Saw him go up the hill in back of the shack. Another man with him. Man had on a green eye shade. Garcia had himself a rifle, Sharps I think. Saw your man Buck ride in. Garcia fired on him, but Buck was too clever. He just disappeared. Couldn’t believe my eyes. I could see the look on Garcia’s face. He was puzzled too. That Indian sure knows magic.” I caress her face after breaking away from her grasp. “You poor thing. Did Garcia do anything to you?” I say. “He was rough with me when he tied me up, feeling around my breasts when he attached the rope. Never felt that before. I want to skin him alive,” she says. “And I will for what he did to me.” Alfredo looks over at Yolanda, then at me. “We were sure surprised to see Garcia here,” Alfredo says. “How could he get from the train to his shack so fast? Must have had help,” What Yolanda said before comes back to me. A man with a green eye shade. Must be that fella back in the mail car. I thought he was listening too intently. Must be the gold he’s after. Garcia probably talked the man into finding horses in town with a promise of a goodly share of gold. What even good men won’t do to line their pockets. Don’t think the train mail sorter is a murderer, though. He’s just got big eyes to match his big green eye shade. Must be the gold that got in his way when he pointed out his own brother on the train. - 236 -

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I look at Alfredo and smile. “I think I know how they got here so fast, Alfredo, but more on that later. Right now we’ve got to find Buck, and then search for Garcia and the other man. Your horses are right outside. Let’s move,” I say. The old door on the shack bangs shut as I exit the cabin. I’m the last one out, but I take a look around me. Where could Garcia have hidden his gold? No sign of fresh diggings around here. He wouldn’t plant it near the cabin anyway. Too easy for someone to stumble over it. Bet he’s got it hidden up in those hills where he fled with Mr. Mail Sorter. Some little canyon with a natural cave. That’s where he’d hide it. I search for Elfego, but he’s no where around. There is a trail leading up the side of the hill that looks inviting, but I’m not one to mess up my boots on a muddy trail that leads through sticky brush. Give me my horse and I’ll ride all day, but get me off my horse, and I’m like a hippo at the New York Zoo when it gets out of the water. Yolanda and Alfredo see what I’m doing, and they get on their horses. “Let’s get around through that canyon over yonder,” I say. “Maybe we’ll find a track to the top of this hill. Maybe beat Garcia and his sidekick to the crest. Think he’s heading for the place where he hid the gold.” A simple nod of their heads tells me I’m on the right track. At least we’ll have Mr. Garcia and his mail pusher caught in a trap. Elfego, and I hope Buck, are creeping up on them from the rear, and the three of us will be riding down on them from the front. I check my revolver. It’s well seated in my holster and once again I’ve tied the leather thong over the trigger. I’ll remove it later when we get to the head of the valley. Yolanda rides up next to me. Alfredo hangs back guarding the rear. The girl reaches out her hand to me. I take it. “You are so handsome when you’re in action,” she says. “Your hair strings back under the brim of your sombrero, and that’s a nice round hole in your hat. Oh, my dear. Someone shot at you, and he was close. Was that Garcia? I’ve got to catch that man.” I look at Yolanda and see a young woman in the prime of her development, proud chest flung forward, long legs that accent the hips, straight back, hair flowing away from her body in the wind, and a red color - 237 -


to her cheeks. She’s a healthy specimen. Make a good mother for my children. In back of me Alfredo scans the top of the hill. He’s seen something. He looks at me and points. I turn my head and try to see anything moving. There is something up there. Looks like two men running along the top, their bodies outlined against the afternoon sun that blazes away to my rear. “Ride hard,” I say loud enough for my two partners to hear. “We can cut them off in the valley over there.” I point to a place where the hill falls away, sharply, revealing an entryway into a hidden valley. Big Mama’s giving me a gallop, and Yolanda is close behind on her gelding. It’s rough going. We meet a wall of brush, mostly tumbleweeds, that keeps us from going any farther. I’m off my horse, and I look behind to see Alfredo jumping down. Yolanda stays mounted. “We’ll have to find a way through,” I say. “Here, help me pull these branches away from the main part. Think there may be a way through if we can manage to dislodge enough of this brush.” Alfredo has muscles I’ve never noticed before. He has his shirt off, and his rippling strength is evident as he dives into the barrier that is before us, pushing, pulling and tossing the sticky branches aside. I stand to one side so I won’t be hit by any flying twigs. We could set fire to this brush-dam, but it would take too much time. Alfredo has the best idea. Before long he has a path cleared that’s big enough for a small horse. I wave at Yolanda and she rides up to me, and then keeps going through the hole. She’s on the other side now. I reach back for Big Mama’s reins, and lead her toward the opening. She balks. I pat her on the head and tell her how pretty she is and her big eyes rotate down on me. I reach in my back pocket for the oversized bandana I keep there, and with great care, I tie the cloth around my horse’s head, protecting her eyes from any harm. She must know what I’ve done because she relaxes, and lets me lead her through the hole. Now I’m on the other side. Only Alfredo needs to do the same, and we’ll be on our way again. It’s taken a long time for mother nature to build up this pile of brush. Tentacles of tumbleweeds grab at me as I lead Big Mama through the hole. She’s a big horse and the scratchy branches grab at her sides, yet she persists, - 238 -

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and now we’re through the mess and into the clear. I glance ahead at Yolanda sitting her horse, her straight back arching slightly, her hair blowing with the wind, her eyes cast up toward the ridge. I look where she looks, and there’s our quarry. Has to be Garcia. I’d recognize him anywhere. The shorter man following him must be the mailman from the train. Farther back is the familiar outline of Elfego, leading his horse along the ridge of the hill. The cast of characters is set. It only remains now to play out the game. My team’s ready here below. Alfredo has his denim shirt back on, and he’s emerging from the brush hole. He still has puddles of perspiration on his forehead. His armpits are stained. “Alfredo! Look up there,” I say. I point toward the skyline. Yolanda looks at me, and puts her index finger across her mouth. “Sound carries in this canyon,” she says, and her eyes twinkle toward me. I nod my head in understanding. I climb on Big Mama, Alfredo does the same with his horse and we’re off, heading in a direction up the V of the canyon. **** Any venture like this involves risks. Gunplay is a distinct factor in my mind, and I reach down to untie the leather strip guarding my revolver in my holster. Better to have the weapon fall out of the keeper than to be caught trying to get my piece out of the holster and not succeeding. I pull out the pistol and hold it in my right hand, my left toting the reins to Big Mama’s bit. I could shoot Garcia right now. He’s outlined against the afternoon sky, and he’s an easy target. But what about the gold? Maybe he’s leading us to a hideaway, or maybe he’s just leading us off into the brush so we’ll get lost. Wonder where Buck is? Haven’t seen him in a while. My guess would be that he’s somewhere ahead of Garcia, and waiting for him to catch up. Our party of three proceeds up the canyon trail. Rough going now. More brush impedes our progress, and Big Mama snorts as she sees another pileup of the sticky branches. But there’s a way around the blockade, and we make - 239 -


good time riding on the hardpan earth of the canyon floor. Looks to me like a giant water gully-gusher came through here to pile up all the brush like this. The canyon narrows, and there’s only room for one horse at a time to follow the trail. Yolanda leads, I’m second and Alfredo comes behind. My horse breathes heavily, and I can tell we’re going uphill. Up ahead is a place where the crest of the hill descends, and it’s there that I expect to see Garcia and the mailman. I whisper to Yolanda. “May be action ahead,” I say. I point. “We need to get on the ground,” she says. She stops her horse, and like an agile Indian, she slips to earth, her gentle breasts bouncing slightly as she puts down her feet. She looks at me and smiles. What a woman. Alfredo is at my shoulder, his Colt in his hand. “This man’s crazy. Remember that,” he says. “I’m ready,” I say. Yolanda moves to the wall of the canyon and leads her horse. She too has her pistol in her hand, and a Sharps rifle under her left arm. She too knows we could meet trouble ahead. As I see it, Garcia doesn’t have a chance to escape. He can hide out on the side of the hill and take pot shots at us. He can try to retrace his steps, but Elfego is behind him. Who knows where Buck is? My team is in place to intercept him. He has a gun. I know that. Sound in this canyon echoes, and I hear an explosion that sounds like it comes from on top of my head. A fragment of rock drops on my shoulder, and I can see where the bullet struck, six inches from my ear. I look up, and standing above me is Garcia, a wretched smile on his face and a daring gleam in his eyes. His hat tilts back revealing the whiteness of his forehead. Before I can do anything, there are more gunshots and Garcia disappears from view. Yolanda and Alfredo have both fired their weapons. Did Garcia want to kill me? He could have done it easily, but he missed. I cringe against the red rock of the canyon wall, and my breathing increases. Is it the adrenalin pumping in my arteries, or am I getting old? I tell myself it’s the adrenalin. Read an article about that. New discovery. - 240 -

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Adrenal glands in the human body. What won’t they find out next? Anyway, I’m feeling strong, and I want to get a shot off at my antagonist. I watch Yolanda and Alfredo. They work well together, creeping on their bellies and leaving their horses behind. I do the same, knowing that Big Mama will stay put as she has done countless times before. I too drop to my stomach and crawl after the two young ones. Yolanda reaches a turn at the end of the canyon wall, and stands up, motions for me to join her. Alfredo already stands and soon I am next to them. “Look at that valley,” Yolanda says. “Green grass, trees. Never knew this was here.” It’s a pretty valley. I scan the walls that surround this opening. There’s no sight of our prey. Not a thing moves. The wind pushes mightily on the leaves of a nearby willow tree, and I watch the ripple move along the valley like a giant hand that tickles all the treetops, as it moves in a circular fashion. But no one walks or runs. I know Garcia has no horse. Elfego must be closing in on him from behind, but I don’t even see my sheriff partner. It’s a mystery to me how a man can be shooting at me one second and lost in the wilderness a minute later. Yolanda looks at me, and Alfredo joins in the staring. “What’s happened to Garcia?” Yolanda says. “He’s here somewhere,” I answer. “Keep still,” says Alfredo. He cups his hand behind his right ear and turns his head toward the valley. I can tell he’s found something. He’s intent on listening. “What is it, Alfredo?” I say. “Sh, thought I heard something. Footsteps nearby,” he says. A deep voice reaches my ears. I look up, and Garcia stands at a rock outcropping not ten feet from us. He points his pistol directly at us and motions with it for us to move out in the open. I don’t think he’d miss at this range, although he could have picked us off easily while we talked. I drop my weapon, and put my hands in the air. Yolanda and Alfredo follow suit, and we take a step or two away from the guarding wall where the canyon ends. I watch Garcia and he’s smiling again. That damn smile. Somehow I’m going to wipe it off his face. - 241 -


His boots scrape on the bare rocks as he comes down off the hill to us, jumping the last four feet to hit the ground in front of us, his gun still pointing squarely at my stomach, his finger on the trigger. “Well, my dear,” says Garcia. “We meet again and this time you’ll be my shield.” The man with the green eyeshade drops off the hill in front of Garcia, and for just a moment, I could have a chance to recover my pistol from the ground and shoot the murderer. But the chance passes, and the mailman from the train moves to his left, leaving me open once again to Garcia’s line of sight. “Blunt, get the horses,” Garcia says. “I know you won’t leave this classy chunk of woman here by herself with me. Be quick about it.” Without thinking, I turn and run to where our horses stand, each one with its head down, grazing on the green grass that grows at this place in the canyon. Never noticed the grass before. Too busy crawling on my stomach. I reach the horses, gather Big Mama’s reins in my hand and pull her over to where the other two animals stand. The grinding of the horse’s jaws reminds me, that I, myself, haven’t eaten in a long time. The grass looks good, but I’ll have to wait for my kind of food. Right now I need to get these horses back to where Yolanda waits. I want nothing to happen to her. I grab the reins of the other two horses, and then stop in my tracks. There’s a rifle in a scabbard in front of Alfredo’s saddle.

- 242 -

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Chapter Twenty-Five Gently I pull the rifle out of the leather scabbard. It’s been a long time since I fired one of these. Let’s see now. I pull down on this part underneath and that cocks it. As I talk to myself, I carry out my plan, and sure enough the rifle reacts to my touch. There’s a decided click as I return the lever to its home position. If there are shells in this gun, I’m ready to knock out one José Garcia. I stow the rifle under my left arm, grab the reins for the three horses and stride confidently toward where Yolanda and Alfredo are held hostage. A hand pulls on my shoulder, and I swing down the rifle to a firing position. Another hand pushes the rifle barrel skyward. “Don’t shoot, old friend.” It’s Buck and he’s smiling. “You scared me, you silent footed Kiowa,” I say. “How’d you get here?” “Few men see me. Know what’s happening. Quiet. Follow me. Keep the rifle handy. You know how to fire it?” There’s no time for an answer as Buck crouches low to the ground in front of me. We’re almost back to the place where Garcia and the funny little man from the train mail car stand. I peek around the corner behind Buck. The scene is different. Garcia still has his gun pointed at Yolanda’s chest. The green eyeshade man stands off to one side. Alfredo sweats, and the drops from his forehead flow onto his denim shirt and make dark blue spots. Then I see the reason for the action. Elfego stands tall on the slope of the hill and has the drop on Garcia. It’s a Mexican standoff. No one speaks. Yolanda’s chest. A bullet hole there would certainly undo all my expectations for her as mother of my children. The rifle hangs heavy in my hands, its shiny barrel pointed generally in the direction of Garcia. But the man doesn’t see me. He’s too busy watching Elfego. A plan develops in my head. I remember the shooting I used to do as a boy. Every summer, my father would take me to Coney Island, and there was always a carnival there. One gallery I had to visit was where pellet rifles sat on a counter enticing me to pay my dime and take my chances on winning a kewpie doll. Got pretty good at it too. Won many dolls. Think they’re still back home in New York. Anyway, sighting this rifle must be the same. Only the doll I want to win - 243 -


breathes air, and right now she is in the hands of a murderer who has the means to make her dead. Buck watches me with a downcast eye, as I stoop to one knee, bring the rifle up to my shoulder and begin sighting toward where I wish to hit Garcia in the chest. I line up the sights on his chest, take in a deep breath and let part of the air out. I pull the trigger and nothing happens. God, the safety’s on. Quickly I flick it off, but it’s too late. The click of the safety going off causes Garcia to swing his pistol toward me. He fires. I feel something sear the top of my head, and then I’ve got him sighted again and I fire just as I hear a gun go off above me on the hill. Garcia drops to the ground, but more importantly, Yolanda runs to her brother and is safe for the moment. My head aches and wavy lines appear before me. The rifle drops to the ground, and although I am on one knee, the ground comes up to meet me and darkness engulfs me all around. Last thing I remember is that I close my eyes. **** My lips have a new sensation. I’m being kissed and kissed hard by someone. I hope it isn’t Big Mama, but as I open my eyes, I look up at the prettiest gal I’ve ever seen. Yolanda continues kissing me, and I think she’s saving my life. I blink my eyes at her, and she looks back at me through the tousled hair that hangs down from her forehead. The smell of it is like the roses my mother grew in her garden near the apartment, back home in New York City. How can a woman like Yolanda go through so much torture and still have silken hair that smells of flowers? It’s a mystery to me. I break off the kiss, and Yolanda looks startled. “Can’t keep me down,” I say. My hand goes up to the top of my head, and I feel a groove that wasn’t there before. Garcia really came close to splitting my skull wide open. “Am I all right?” I ask. “Think you’ll live,” Yolanda says. “Let me make a bandage for your head.” - 244 -

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She pulls her blouse out from her waist, tears off a strip, and uses it to bind up my head. She ties the cloth over the top and makes a knot below the bump on the back. Feels a little tight, but I don’t say anything. “How about Garcia?” I say. “He still alive?” “He’ll make it. Stand trial,” Yolanda says. “Elfego plugged him in the shoulder, after the man shot at you. I bandaged him to stop the bleeding. You saved my life again with your rifle trick. Nice of you to click the safety and draw Garcia’s attention away from me. I dropped to the ground, and was out of the action when Elfego fired.” She looks down at me again and her mouth descends to my mouth. Once again I’m being kissed solidly on my lips. I relax, lie back and enjoy it. Who knows when my next kisses will come. This girl has a thing for me, and I for her. Looks like I’m hooked once again. I’ll have to forget Joline and Kat if I want to take home a prize like Yolanda. I still wonder what her father will say. I sit up, but Yolanda holds me and still kisses me as I rise. I pull away, holding her body against me. There’s nothing that will cure a man’s hurts quicker than a woman’s breasts pressed against his chest. And Yolanda’s are firm. I can feel them separately drilling into my upper body. Gradually I stand. My head feels light, and I sit down again, Yolanda moving with me. She holds me under my arms and again I try to stand. This time I make it. I move back from Yolanda and dust myself off. There’s a lot of activity now. I look over at Garcia lying on the ground, a smile on his face. He’s still alive. I’m standing, and with the rifle still pointed toward Garcia, I mosey toward him while watching his hands. If he reaches for his gun that now lies next to him, I’ll blast his belly with a bunch of lead. But he just lies there, his smile growing in intensity. He keeps his hands by his side, and I have no idea what is happening. Has he finally gone over the loop? Elfego strolls down the slope of the hill and meets me next to Garcia. We look down at him. “You missed me you ugly reporter,” Garcia says. “Rather have Elfego shoot me. He’s a better shot.” Garcia guffaws loudly, then his eyes close and he’s out of it. - 245 -


The man from the train with the eyeshade stands a few steps away. There’s a puzzled look on his face. His mustache droops, and his eyes are red. He still wears that funny looking piece of green over his eyes and the sun shines through the clear part making his nose a pale color, green, the same as the visor. I’ve only heard his voice once before and that was in the mail car on the train. “Gold. He promised me gold,” he says. “What about the gold?” I say. “Said it was hereabouts,” the man says. “Gave me some directions.” My ears perk up, and I can tell Elfego is interested. The sheriff turns toward the man in the eyeshade. “It’s my duty as a lawman to get the information you have as to the whereabouts of any stolen gold,” Elfego says. “Only told me it was hereabouts in a cave,” says the man. “I should get a reward for finding it. I put up with that no-account murderer for two days, just to get him to tell me.” “What else do you know,” I say. “Cave is in this valley,” the man says. “You must know more than that,” I say. The man takes off his green shade and holds it in his hand. His eyes cast toward the ground, and some of his gray hair now falls over his ears, giving him the appearance of a hay stack. “Do know some more,” he says. “Ain’t goin’ to tell you though unless the sheriff here promises me a reward.” Elfego takes off his cowboy hat, dusts the brim on his left hand and returns it to his head. He scowls, and then looks at me. “Hey, Nolo. You remember if there’s a reward for the gold Garcia stole from those miners,” he says. “Seems to me you mentioned something about it after talkin’ with that no good murderer, lyin’ here before us.” He motions toward Garcia with his hand, and the shadow of his movement makes a design on the ground in front of him. “Garcia never talked about it,” I say. “Must be a reward of thousands though on Garcia’s head, dead or alive.” “You’re right,” says Elfego. “Think it must be ten thousand anyway.” - 246 -

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I look at the mail car man. “You heard the sheriff,” I say. “Good enough for me if I get part of it,” the man in the green eyeshade says. “Well, what else do you know,” I say. The man twists his visor around in his hand so that just the band shows in front. His hair sticks up on his head like he hasn’t combed it in ages. “See over there,” he says and points to a part of the green hill in front of us and not too far away. “There’s a cleft.” He moves his index finger up and down to indicate the exact place where we should look. I strain my eyes, but I don’t see anything that looks like a cleft. “We been there,” the man says. “Saw the gold. Just layin’ there to be picked up. Easy as pie.” Elfego pushes his hat back on his head and again looks at me. “What are we waitin’ for?” Elfego says. He turns around and retraces his steps up the hill, finds his horse and returns to the place where I stand. “Let’s go,” he says. “Buck, you mind watchin’ out for this here wounded murderer?” Buck shakes his head from side to side, draws his pistol and stands over Garcia. “Red Dust was my friend. I know what to do if he makes a move. Reward says dead or alive. Easier to take him to jail if he’s dead. Put him over his horse, ride slow.” I run back to where I left Big Mama, the rifle flopping easily by my side. Yolanda and Alfredo join me, and as I reach the horses, I hand the shooting iron to Alfredo. “Never thought this rifle would come in so handy,” he says. He grabs it out of my hand and restores it to the scabbard on his horse. He’s in the saddle in a flash and Yolanda mounts up too. I’m the last to reach my horse and Big Mama moves around as I reach my right leg over the saddle and sit down in place. She’s been doing that lately. **** - 247 -


Never before have I seen such an expanse of grass. Looks to me like my horse could eat here in this valley forever and never need to go anywhere else. And where there is grass like this, there’s water. The green stretches for what seems like miles ahead of me, and yet, this valley is secluded. Doubt that anyone ever came here before, except maybe that no good Garcia, who lies on his back yonder behind us. I move Big Mama up to get even with the mail car man. “What you goin’ to do when this is over?” I say. “Your brother’s not too happy with what you did to him on the train.” He looks over at me and the green eyeshade droops over his right eye giving him a jaunty look. “Guess the shiny gold got in my eyes,” he says. “Forgot about my family when I thought about all those sacks of gold. Brother’ll probably never speak to me again. “Ten thousand reward. That’ll go a long way to make me feel better about that.” “You expect to get it all?” “Most of it. That’s only fair.” “You’ll go back working on the train?” “Never again. Federal employee. Left my post.” “Where’ll you live?” I say. “Far from here.” “You give me an exclusive story and I’ll make it worth your while,” I say. “Done,” he says. “Oh, by the way. May be a slight problem getting the gold,” he says. “What you mean?” I say. “Cave’s full of rattlers,” he says. “Elfego knows this?” “Don’t think so,” he says. Up ahead is Elfego. I smile to myself as I think about what the mail man told me. I personally know that Elfego hates rattlesnakes with a passion, and I’m not too keen on them myself. Seen a few while I’ve been out here in the west. - 248 -

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Had one try to crawl in bed with me back in Texas, down Round Rock way. I discouraged him from seeking out the heat of my body. Hit him with my hat. Big rattles too. Must have been seven or eight of those rattling bones on his tail. Shooed him away with a toss of my sweat-laden blue work shirt. Rattlers out here are sure bothered by some smells. I ride Big Mama up beside the sheriff. Yolanda and Alfredo trot their horses along next to him. Elfego looks over at me and smiles. “Almost there, Nolo,” he says. “Just beyond that next little rise. Can see the mouth of the cave. We’re goin’ to be famous, returning the gold that Garcia stole.” I hesitate to tell Elfego what I need to tell him. But then my conscience gets the better of me. “There’s a little problem,” I say. He looks over at me, and the smile leaves his face. “You know something?” he says. “Train man says rattlesnakes,” I say. “Where?” “In the cave,” I say. “Maybe he’s wrong,” Elfego says. “Might be,” I say. “But I doubt it. He’s been in there in the last two days.” “Those critters scare me,” Elfego says. “It’s all that wrigglin’ and poison in their fangs.” “Me too,” I say. “Ever tell you about the big one that bit me near a wood pile. It was near Waco, Texas and...” “You sure did,” Elfego says. “Buck found an herb that cured you and you lived.” “Yes, I did,” I say. “Better get a sharp stick and pray for sun, no rain,” I say. Those rattlers will be hard to dislodge and they sure hate wet weather. They’ll stay there in the cave, lest we can coax them out.” We reach the place where the narrow cave opening slashes across the red rock. It’s hard to see, even as near as I am. Kind of like a crack in the stone front. Not apparent unless you’re up close. Elfego pulls up his horse and dismounts. He looks around behind him, then cautiously walks to the opening and sniffs. - 249 -


“Sure enough snakes in there,” he says. Always can smell ‘em. Goin’ to need some torches. Nolo, gather some of those tree branches and bind them together. Fire’ll drive those slitherin’ bastards away from the gold.” Yolanda and Alfredo are right behind me. Alfredo leans over toward me while still in his saddle. The creak of the leather grabs my attention. “Got an idea,” he says. “How about that brush back there? Remember, we cut a hole through that bunch of tumbleweeds. We can gather them up and fill the front part of the cave with it. Set fire.” “Good idea,” I say. My answer still blows in the wind, but Alfredo turns his horse around and scampers off toward the head of the canyon where we entered through the brush. Yolanda remains steady in her saddle, and she looks over at me and smiles. I move Big Mama over to where her horse drops his head and grazes, the reins loose around his neck. There’s nothing like the sound of a horse eating fresh green grass. The munching noise stays with me even when the animal has his fill of fodder and dozes in the noonday sun. Even at night I hear the crunch, crunch of the powerful jaws grinding up the equine staff of life. It’s a friendly sound, one that makes me feel at home on the prairie. I know my horse gathers strength for another strong ride. I touch Yolanda’s hand, and she doesn’t pull away. “You gave me great comfort back there,” I say. She leans over toward me and takes me by the shoulders. “You’re worth every moment I’ve known you,” she says. With a twist of her body, she’s out of her saddle and sitting in my lap. Big Mama doesn’t move an inch. She obviously knows what is happening and being a good horse, doesn’t flinch with the added weight on her back. My reins drop as I grab Yolanda. I hold her body close to mine, her knees double up, and her arms go around my neck. She pulls forward and kisses me. What a moment this is! I could boot my horse in the sides, and we’d be off to some secluded spot where trees would cover our lovemaking activities. I could ride away with her to some prairie far away, maybe near Bernalillo, and settle down to raise sheep and children. What a temptation it is. Her lips are fiercely pressed against mine, and I respond. An electric charge scoots from my brain to my loins, and I’m ready to proceed to the - 250 -

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next level in our love making process. A sound creeps into my skull even though my attention is directed toward my thoughts of Yolanda’s body and what could happen when the two of us finally are alone to explore each other. “Hey, you two lovebirds.” Elfego’s deep tones register in me, and I break off the kiss and look at the sheriff. “We got rattlers to roundup. Get some branches. We’ll get started.” he says. Yolanda grabs the saddle horn on her own horse and with a fluid motion, jumps down to the ground. I’m left sitting my horse alone and at the moment it’s not easy for me to think about jumping anywhere. “I’ll go check on Buck. He may need some help with Garcia,” I say. With enthusiasm, I turn Big Mama around, and before Elfego can argue with me, I’m off toward where we had the showdown with the murderer. I ride like the strong breeze that wafts across the valley plain, and the rushing air seems to dispel the erotic thoughts in my mind. Gradually I feel myself returning to normalcy as I race ahead. I can see Buck. He’s sitting near Garcia’s body. Looks like the no account wounded thief is still out cold. I ride up for a closer look. “Need a moment to yourself, Buck?” I say. I can tell he’s been watching me approach, and he smiles now that I’m next to him. “Could use a bush call,” he says. “Garcia’s pale. Lost much blood. He may not live long.” Buck disappears around a bend of the hill, and I’m left alone with the injured murderer. True, Garcia does look ashen white, especially under his eyeballs. Wonder if he’s breathing. I dismount, take a step toward him and bend over. I put my ear over his heart and listen. There is a sound. Deep in his chest a thump, thump comes back to me. Sounds strong enough. I’m trapped. A strong arm pins my head to the chest of the wounded man. Did I misjudge this murderer? Has he regained his strength? Obviously he has. Only thing I can count on is the bullet in his other shoulder keeps him from using both arms and hands. - 251 -


I jerk my head, but to no avail. I really am stuck to the man’s chest and there’s not much I can do about it. I hear a throaty laugh just above my right ear. “Hey, there you stupid reporter,” Garcia says. “Looks like you’re my ticket out of here. Now just stay still and you won’t get hurt. Pull that pistol out of your holster and give it to me.” He pushes my head harder into his chest, and I can feel my left ear burn. I know I can’t give him my pistol, but what am I to do? “How do you know I won’t shoot you,” I say. “You ain’t got the brains to shoot me, not the guts either. Now hand over your six shooter!” “Ain’t goin’ to do it,” I say. This man had to be strong to cut up a woman and distribute her parts in a tree back in Bernalillo. But I didn’t know he was this strong. My circulation is cut off in my neck, and I’m about to pass out. “All right,” I say. “Let up on my neck and I’ll hand you my weapon.” There’s a slight lessening of the pressure on my arteries, and I reach down to my holster, undo the leather thong I keep in place there, draw the pistol out of the holster while flicking on the safety. Might be just the moment I need to save my own life. “Let me up, and I’ll give you the gun,” I say. “Nothing doing. Put the gun up on my chest and put your hands down to your sides,” he says. I reach up and lay the pistol alongside my head, then drop my hands and arms down to a resting position next to my body. With only one good arm, Garcia has to let me free to gather up the gun, and he does this deftly. I pull my head up quickly, and my hand goes to my throat. I rub the sore place, and when I look up, my own pistol stares me in the face, the barrel looking like a four inch cannon, hollow, menacing. What have I done? Garcia tries to sit up, but it’s too much for him. He stays in a supine position. His face is still pale, and I don’t think he has too much steam left in him. But I’m sure he has enough strength to pull the trigger and blow a wide hole in my chest. I sit very still, the afternoon sun pouring into my eyes and making seeing uncomfortable. - 252 -

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“Now Mr. Reporter. I’ve got you right where I want you. I’d just as soon put a bullet in you as look at you. Might as well be hung for a sheep rather than a lamb. Only thing I want to know is about the gold.” “We found the cave. Mail man from the railroad showed us,” I say. “That no good dude. Knew he’d be trouble. Needed him though to get me a horse in town. Promised him gold. He got excited.” Sweat appears on Garcia’s forehead and his eyes fog over. I think he’s going to pass out soon. Hope Buck gets back, or maybe Alfredo will see my fix. I’m in danger, and I want someone to know it. “Sure goin’ to be a good story I write,” I say. “I’ll spell your name right. Murder me and there’s no tale. Put the gun down, and I can take care of you in the magazine. I’ll make your life famous. Got all the details. Just have to put them down. Wrote some notes already. Want to hear it?” I figure if I keep talking long enough, he’ll lose consciousness again, and I can grab the gun. I reach into my shirt and pull out my notebook. Garcia eyes me doing this, but he doesn’t say anything. Actually I have nothing written down. I’ve been too busy chasing the killer to put anything in writing. “Here’s the start,” I say. Admitted killer, José Garcia, fooled us in Santa Fe. He may have gained the assistance of the mail car worker to find a horse and ride out from the train station. While reporting his escape to the local sheriff, we found that the clerk in the mail car was missing. Man must have overheard Garcia tell about some gold he had hidden in the hills near his shack. I look at Garcia’s eyes. They’re closed now, and as I watch, the gun sinks to his chest, but his index finger still curves around the trigger. He’s dead to the world. I stand up, then bend over his body from a new direction keeping the barrel of the gun pointing away from me. I reach down to uncurl his good hand from the pistol, and he stirs. But then I sense that he falls into a deeper sleep. I begin to pry his index finger off the trigger and am successful. Soon the weapon is in my own hand, and I breathe easier. I inspect the gun. Safety still’s in place, but when I tilt the - 253 -


pistol upward, the rotating part of the barrel drops out and falls onto the sand. ‘Lord a mercy,’ I say to myself.

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Chapter Twenty-Six Wish I’d known the gun wouldn’t fire. It would have made life a little more enjoyable. Now that I know, I breathe easier as I drop down on my knees to gather up the revolver parts. Sand everywhere, deep down inside the rotary piece and in the chambers. The bullets I drop into my hand have sand on them also, and it’s going to be a big job to get everything clean. Big Mama stands next to me looking over my shoulder. Her eyes stare at me as if she knows my predicament. There’s even the beginnings of a smile on her face, and I can feel her horsey breath on my cheek. It’s like she’s saying, “Well, stupid. You did it again. Why don’t you learn how to take care of your weapon?” But then, horses can’t talk, at least not out loud. I reach into my saddlebag and pull out a clean cloth. With great care I begin the task of wiping each cylinder of the rotary piece. Doesn’t actually take long. I finish with the sixth hole and hear Garcia grunt. Not a loud grunt, just a muffled one that tells me he’s either dreaming or about to come to. I look down at him. His eyes are open, and there’s a half-stare in them. Reminds me of the last time I saw someone die. Skin color’s mighty pale also. He’s turned white, somewhat like the sand I’ve been scraping out of my six shooter. I have a small mirror in my pack and with great care, I get it out and hold it up to his lips. There is some mist on it after Garcia takes a couple of breaths. I know he isn’t completely gone, but there’s not too much life left in him. I get my canteen down from Big Mama’s back, kneel down and lift Garcia’s head up off the ground. His eyes tilt toward me, but they don’t sparkle anymore like they did when he almost had me back at the campfire two days ago. “You want some water?” I say. He nods his head up and down, and I take it for a yes. I open the rusted canteen and lower it to Garcia’s lips. I dribble some of the water on his lips, and then tilt the canteen up so a few more drops go into the man’s mouth. He grunts. I stop pouring. “Nuff,” he says. “Give me some more in a minute. Sorry I had to pull your gun on you. What happened?” - 255 -


“It’s OK,” I say. “Bullet part fell in the dirt. Don’t think the piece would have fired anyway. Safety was on.” Garcia smiles. I lay his head back on his folded-up jacket. With my body, I shield the sun from his face. “How’d you get those rattlesnakes into the cave with the gold?” I say. He looks stronger now. The water sips must have revived him. His growth of beard has beads of water sparkling on individual hairs. “Knew that snake den was there,” Garcia says. “Simply dropped the gold in on top of them. Knew it would keep anyone else from taking it. Finders would have to fight off fifty snakes, and all of them with fangs. Snakes like to do that, you know.” “Like to do what?” I say. “Sleep together in a den when they’re hibernatin’,” he says. “You mean those rattlers been sleepin’ in there?” I say. “Yep. ‘Bout time for ‘em to come out. Any day now, any moment.” he says. His eyes close, and I fear he’s off to dreamland once again. I marvel at his stamina. He’s lost a lot of blood, yet he’s strong enough to grab me by the neck. What a constitution he must have. Maybe all murderers are built that way. I’ll have to look into that when I get back to New York. Buck comes roaring up to me, and he’s out of breath. “Saw you, far away. Man had you in his grip,” he says. “Thought I’d lost it. He had my gun,” I say. “You have no holes in you?” Buck says. “Safety was on, and the round part that holds the bullets was loose,” I say. “You’re quite a man with a pistol,” he says. “Never fails,” I say. “Remind me to teach you,” he says. Buck sits down next to Garcia and shades him with his body. Despite our hate for this man, he is wounded and he’s a human being. We have a responsibility to get him back to Bernalillo for trial and our feelings are strong. This is America and every person is innocent until proven guilty, although I also believe in fate. Should something happen to Garcia, it would serve him right for what he’s done to me and Red Dust and the woman in the tree. - 256 -

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A cloud of blowing dust peppers my back, and I hear horse’s hooves. I turn around, and there’s Alfredo. He’s dragging the biggest bunch of tumbleweeds I’ve ever seen. He waves to me to follow him, and I jump up on Big Mama. Alfredo passes, and I’m right behind him. This is something I want to see and record in my notebook. Burning out a bunch of nasty snakes is high on my list of things to report about. I can just see it now. Big headline. SHERIFF BACA BLAZES CAVE. EVICTS RESIDENT RATTLERS FROM GOLD HIDING PLACE. I’ll have to write a story to match that screamer. Folks back east will drop their false teeth when they read that. It’s not far to the cave, and Alfredo rides right up to the lip of the slanting hole in the side of the mountain. Elfego’s horse stands grazing next to a picket line. Yolanda’s mount is there, too. But neither Elfego nor Yolanda are anywhere to be seen. Only the man in the green eyeshade is present. He lolls supine under the shade of a nearby sycamore tree. His head is back, his green shade over his eyes and hands clasped on his chest. I suspect he’s studying the inside of his eyelids and probably he deserves it. He’s been following Garcia for a couple of days and that could tire out anyone. My attention comes back to where I am. Elfego and Yolanda! Surely they haven’t gone into the cave. But that’s the only place they could be. No one other than the mail clerk can be seen for a mile in any direction from here. Mystery. Alfredo halts his horse abruptly and is off onto the ground in seconds. He looks at me, and I look at him. “You left them here?” he says. “Horses are over there,” I say. “Must be around. But where?” “Let’s look in the cave,” he says. Alfredo detaches the tumbleweed pile from the rope that attaches it to his saddle. He pulls a batch of the brush over next to the cave entrance, and I help him drag more. An echoing voice tells me that someone is in the cave. I grab the edge of the rock entrance and gently move my head and body around to stare inside. A flare of light greets my eyes, and I blink. It’s dark in here and my eyes have not adjusted to the blackness. The burning torch-light makes it worse. - 257 -


“Where’d you go, Nolo?” Yolanda says. She’s next to me now, but I can’t see her. My eyes close against the glare. I feel her hand touch my shoulder. I feel her lips on mine. I take a peek, but it’s too bright. I shut my eyes again and feel for her. She slips into my grasp, and I hold her body tightly next to mine, her chin reaching to the lower part of my neck. She snuggles up against me. I feel her warm body nudging mine, and it’s a good feeling. “Garcia’s still alive,” I say. “Lost a lot of blood. We’ll have a time getting him back to Bernalillo in his condition.” I try opening my eyes again and this time I have no problem. My vision adjusts to the darkness. The burning flare shines only in the distance. Must be Elfego looking for the gold. I look down at Yolanda. There is nothing quite like sharing bodies in a cave where rattlesnakes abound. The hint of danger gives me a surge of passion, and my body trembles. I’m sure Yolanda can feel it too. The flare deep in the cave suddenly gets larger, and I hear Elfego’s voice. “Get out of here. They’re coming,” he says. He passes us like a hawk sweeping after a mouse, and with two steps more, he’s out the cave entrance. I turn and pull on Yolanda. She responds, then I feel something whack against my trousers. I jump and shove Yolanda out the cave slit and follow after her. Behind me slithers the largest rattler I’ve ever seen. Must be three inches around and looks mean. Maybe that’s how rattlesnakes are when they’ve been cooped up with fifty of their brothers and sisters over the winter months. I’m in the open now, and Yolanda stands next to me. Her mouth is agape, as her eyes view the scene at the cave entrance. Snakes come slithering out, climbing over each other, their rattles rubbing against the bare ground and making a dry bone clacking sound. Diamondbacks they call them. The everchanging design of the snakes on the earth, reminds me of a crazy quilt pattern I once saw back in Round Rock, Texas. Had snakes on it in a dizzy whirl that certainly wouldn’t help a person drop off to sleep. Glad no one ever gave me a blanket like that. I stare down at my trousers where I felt the whack against my leg. Gently I pull up my pant legs hoping to find everything there in good order. My trousers are torn, but luckily there are no fang marks on my leg. If that - 258 -

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monster had reached my skin, I’d be on my back writhing in pain by now. I remember the last snake bite I had back near Waco when I traveled in search of Sam Bass. If it hadn’t been for Buck and his Indian knowledge of plants, I’d have died. This is a scene I’ll always remember, snakes crawling over snakes, and all of them headed for the open land around us. Fortunately they stay clear of us and the horses. I think they may be as frightened of us as we are of them. Elfego stands next to the picket rope, a knife in his hand. He slices through the cotton strands and is on his horse in a flash. “You two lovebirds better get your mounts,” he says. “Never know what those nasty critters might do.” Perhaps he’s right. I whistle for Big Mama, and she comes to me. Yolanda finds her horse and settles herself into the saddle. Alfredo is already mounted. “Better let those wigglers get settled before we try for the gold,” he says. “Agreed,” I say. “Big one almost got me.” “Monster, I’d say,” says Elfego. “Big around as a tree limb,” I say. “Hate to meet his mother,” says Elfego. He grins, but I know deep inside him there is the tingle of near-death. Imagine being slashed by the fangs of fifty rattlesnakes itching to reach their freedom Can’t say as I blame the rattlers. If I’d been cooped up that long with a bunch of horny snakes, my fangs would be out and dripping with poison too. We’re about to leave, and I remember the green eyeshade man. I look over at the tree trunk where I saw him resting. He’s not there. In his place are several big rattlers wriggling through the dust and leaving a crisscross pattern on the ground. The mail man must have awakened with all the disturbance, and fortunately, he got himself free. Then I look up in the tree. All I see is a set of arms clutching around the lowest branch as if life itself depended on how hard the arms could hold. A head with a green eyeshade presses against the top of the branch, and a gentle moan reaches my ears. Guess there’s not much chance for a mail man to be caught in a nap by fifty crawling “messengers of death” headed in his direction. How he got up the - 259 -


tree so fast amazes me. But then fright can produce great energy to accomplish sometimes impossible feats. The rattlers, near the trunk where the mail man sat, weave their way into the tall grass behind the tree. I ride Big Mama to a place under the limb where a pair of arms still hold tight to the main branch. “You goin’ to stay up there?” I say. The green visor is in the open now. The head underneath it sticks up from the branch, and I notice the grim-faced mail clerk staring back at me, eyes red-rimmed, hair disheveled. “Never did like them creepy crawlers,” the man says. “You comin’ down?” I say. “Ain’t no more a them around?” he says. “Reckon they’ve all gone. Safe now,” I say. The head, crowned with the green cap, peaks around the branch, and the man looks down and studies the ground. “Move over here, and I’ll drop onto your horse,” he says. Big Mama must already understand what’s happening. She moves her legs and soon we’re directly under the limb. I swear! My horse knows the English language. The mail man hangs down from the limb with his arms still encircling the branch. He spreads his legs into an upside down “Y” shape, and I guide his torso onto a place behind my saddle. He lets go of the tree branch, and jolts himself into position astride my horse. He grabs onto the back of my belt, and I give Big Mama a boot. We’re off to somewhere to get away from the snakes. Probably make camp around here. **** Buck is not alone when we reach him at the place where Garcia lies. Six of the Indians, who were Red Dust’s friends, sit cross-legged next to Buck. A campfire blazes in the center of the conclave, and as we ride up, Buck looks up at me and holds my attention. I dismount, and walk toward him as I steadily gaze into his eyes. “How’d your Indian pals find you?” I say. “Indians know many things. We are of the soil,” Buck says. - 260 -

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“What’s the parley about,” I say. “Life or death for Garcia,” Buck says. “We have to get him to Bernalillo for trial,” I say. “No matter,” says Buck. “Man took the life of one of us.” “I know, but there is justice in America,” I say. “White man justice,” he says. “Nevertheless we live by laws,” I say. “We give Garcia a good burial in ground with head only showing,” says Buck. “Pour syrup on his head. Let creatures of the ground find him, eat him into small pieces.” “No, Buck. Elfego will have something to say,” I say. Just as I say that, the sheriff comes up next to me. “Heard somethin’ about puttin’ Garcia in the ground,” says Elfego. “This man’s goin’ back to Bernalillo with me if I have to drag him along by a rope tied to my horse. Man’s goin’ to be tried and hanged from a live oak tree.” Garcia may have been playing possum while all this conversation goes on. He now opens one eye and looks at Buck, then at Elfego. His face shows pain and his hand goes to his wounded shoulder. The corners of his mouth droop. “I like what the sheriff says. Put me on a horse. I can ride,” he says. Buck translates all this to the other Indians sitting on the ground. There are grunts and raised eyebrows, but none of them go for their weapons. Evidently they have respect for Elfego, too much respect to go against him. “My friends say they will accompany the prisoner to Bernalillo,” says Buck. Make sure white man’s law does justice.” The mail man in the green eyeshade drops to the ground off Big Mama. He is really dirty, his shirt covered with bits of tree bark and his trousers full of dust. He strides up, looks at Garcia, then at me. He twists the green part of his cap around to the rear. “Gold. What about the gold?” he says. “We’ll take it with us,” says Elfego. “Have to split it up. Probably too heavy for one horse.” “Good. Just give me mine, and I’ll be off,” the mail man says. “No sir. Gold belongs to them two miners who got bushwhacked,” Elfego says. “Rightful their families receive it.” - 261 -


Elfego looks down at Garcia. “You scum. What be the names of those diggers?” Elfego says. Garcia opens one eye again. The corners of his mouth rise and that leaves a sideways grin on his face, a grin that makes me want to smash him in the mouth. I ball up my fist, but then he opens his jaws, yawns and returns the smirk. “You ain’t never goin’ to get nothin’ from me,” says Garcia. “Anyways, I don’t know the names. Gold is mine. I took it.” He closes his eyes and his body slumps, his wrists relaxing completely and turning outward, his breathing steady, but there’s a rale, a breathy snort coming now from his lungs. “Tough man,” I say. “They make ‘em tough in the West,” Elfego says. “He may be tough, but he’s the one lying on the ground with a bullet hole in him. He ain’t goin’ to live much longer lessen we get him to Bernalillo. “Gold! What about the gold,” the mail man says. “We’ll get the gold,” says Elfego. “Make camp here. Wait a few days. Indians maybe will hunt us up some grub. Nolo, get out your coffee pot. We got a fire to build up into a blaze. **** Always did like the sunsets out here in the west. Especially like them, when a girl like Yolanda sits by my side and a hot cup of coffee rests in my steady hand. Yolanda nestles her body against mine, and I can feel a slight movement on my leg. It’s her hand and she’s moving it clockwise around the circular part of my knee. Her motion causes strong urges to run up my leg to where my brains are at the moment. “You keep doing that, and I’m going to kiss you,” I say. “You kiss me, and I’ll keep doing it,” she says. A smile comes on her face, and I feel her snuggle up against me even closer. “What do you want in life, Nolo,” she says. I stare at the red-orange sun now dipping below the far away mountains. A pale blue sky reflects the last rays of today’s light, and then it’s dark. That’s - 262 -

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the way it happens here in New Mexico. The mountains block out the sun’s rays early in the afternoon. The sound of the fire crackling sinks into my ears, and I think about Yolanda’s question. “Want me a good woman to bear my children. Want to be famous for the things I write. Want to live back home in New York, away from all this lawlessness and sordid behavior by these wild citizens of the west. That’s what I want,” I say. “Now tell me what you want.” My mind flashes back to the docks of New York City. A tall schooner rests easy at the pier, its decks awash with the midnight rain, flickering lights coming out of the many portholes. Oh, to be in New York again, maybe with Yolanda, seeing the sights on Broadway, feeling the cold weather in my bones, at home and resting my head against a pillow and listening to the clop, clop, clop of the horses in the street below. “....and I want to have kids too. I want you to be my husband. Take me with you to New York. I can live anywhere as long as I have you,” she says. I only get the last part, the part about children and New York. Don’t know what she said before that. “We can share many things,” I say. “You want to get between the blankets now?” she says. My mind goes back to the moment we left Bernalillo in search of Garcia. Yolanda’s father stands at the front door of the house. His voice rings loud in my brain. “Anyone hurts my baby, Yolanda, in any way, I’ll come for them with blood in my eye. And that means all you here present or anyone else.” “We can snuggle, but no farther,” I say. “Your father would kill me.” “Oh, my father’s a scaredy cat when it comes to threats. I really want you to make love to me,” she says. I think back to Joline. Almost married her. Then there was Kat. She’s waiting for me back in Socorro. I actually have stronger feelings for Yolanda than all the other women in my life. Yolanda’s here, and the others are somewhere else. A part of me says, go ahead, and I listen to that part of me. “I’m ready for bed,” I say.

- 263 -


Yolanda looks up at me and motions toward where our blankets are spread out next to each other. The place is hidden from the view of the others, and it’s far enough away from the fire to be in the dark. I grab Yolanda’s hand and the two of us struggle to our feet. We take a step toward where we will spend the night, and then I feel a strong hand on my shoulder. “Time for you to go on watch,” Elfego says. “Garcia’s asleep, but we got to keep an eye on him. Your turn, Nolo.” Yolanda looks up at me. Her eyes dart across my face and then she looks at Elfego, then back at me. “I’ll be in my blankets. Wake me,” she says. **** The night smells of the valley reach my nose. I turn my head slightly and new scents pour over me. There’s always the creosote bush, strong in odor, that blots out all the gentler fragrances. I look down at Garcia. He’s still asleep, and I suspect he’s dreaming. He twitches his head and his body jerks under his blanket. Guess he has much to atone for. A prairie dog barks not far away. It’s that yip, yip, yip that warns the others in the burrows that something is on the loose. Probably one or two of those rattlesnakes, out looking for food after a long winter’s nap in the cave with the gold. Wonder what that much precious metal looks like. Guess I’ll see it tomorrow, if the snakes are truly gone out of the cave. The murderer lying next to me stirs, and I see him open his eyes. He shuts them again, then opens them, and looks over at me. I can follow the tracking of his eyeballs by the light of the fire that is only red-orange embers against a background of gray ashes. A wisp of smoke rises as a part of the burning log makes a pop, pop sound. I feel Garcia’s hand pulling on my shirt. “Bend down here, reporter,” says Garcia. “I want to tell you something. Don’t want the others to hear.” Memories of the other time I bent over the murderer come flashing back into my brain. That last time he got me in a head lock and stole my pistol. Do I do it again? I think about it and then decide against putting up a fight. I bend my head down with my ear next to Garcia’s mouth. - 264 -

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“You help me when I get to Bernalillo,” he says. “Get me off, and I’ll tell you enough stories to keep you writing forever. There’s a lot of gold out there, too.” I listen to him, but make no response. He pulls on my shirt again. “There’s more than just gold in that cave yonder,” he says. My brain comes awake, and I make no motion to break away. “What more?” I say. “Old Indian sign,” he says. “Burial ground. Cave goes on for a long ways. Been through the entire cavern many times. Local injuns won’t let you go in there again. Heard them talking before you arrived. Know their lingo. Played like I was asleep.” This is startling news. Wonder why Buck didn’t tell me about that. I can’t believe Buck’s in cahoots with the other Redmen in our camp. Blood is stronger, but not for Buck and me. We’re blood brothers. Garcia’s off to dreamland again. The raucous sound of his snoring reaches my ears, and I move away from him to a flat rock where I can watch him and get some peace. I think about Yolanda back in our love nest, her fine female frame nestled between the finely woven wool that fits her like a glove. Good Lord, she’s waiting for me, and I’m sitting here next to a no good murderer who snores so loud that the morning birds cease to sing. I pull my jacket collar higher against my neck and stick my hands into the sleeve openings, leaving only a solid cloth defense against the early morning cold. My body warms, my eyes close. Yolanda’s smoothly rounded form flashes in my brain, and I am with her, next to her, feeling her shiver at my touch. We kiss, a long kiss. She fumbles with her belt.... **** A hand shakes me roughly and my eyes pop open. It’s only been a moment since I made love to Yolanda in my dream. Then my eyes really open. It’s daylight, and I look down at Garcia. He’s not there. I rapidly reach for my pistol. It’s gone too. Lord! I hope he hasn’t taken my horse. What would I do without Big Mama? - 265 -


Chapter Twenty-Seven There are times in life when everything seems to go bad. This is one of those times, and I have only myself to blame. Garcia is missing, my pistol is gone, and so is the light of my life, Big Mama. Fortunately for me there are Elfego Baca and Buck Redwing on my side and no one in this world can track horses better than Buck. Garcia must have at least a three hour lead on us. I say goodbye to Yolanda and Alfredo. They’ll remain behind. Buck’s Indian friends are there also and that is added security that the gold will stay where it is, in the cave, until we get back. I look over at the mail clerk. He’s still asleep between his plaid blankets, eyeshade in place atop his head, the visor down over his eyes. No use in waking him. He wouldn’t be much good at tracking Garcia anyway. Elfego and Buck are saddled up. I take one of the supply ponies and throw my saddle over its back. The cinch doesn’t quite fit, but I’ll have to make do. This horse is much smaller than Big Mama. Garcia didn’t wait around to throw a saddle on my horse. He just took off bareback. Reckon he’ll get sore before he gets too far. His injured shoulder must be feeling better. I wonder just how injured he was, if he could skip out of camp so easily and with so little noise. I look over at Buck, and he doesn’t look back. He’s studying the ground and picking out the hoof prints we are to follow. Buck circles the camp staring down at the tracks in the dust and then, he motions to us. He’s found what he wants and we’re off. He knows Big Mama’s print better than any man alive. It’s early morning and the sun hasn’t yet climbed over the mountains to the east. Those are the high ones, all over 10,000 feet. Probably be another hour before we see any yellowness in the sky. Right now there’s just barely enough light to follow Garcia’s trail, and Buck works at it. I ride up even with him. “Any sign he’s tiring?” I say. “No. Trail steady. Big Mama not happy,” he says. “How do you know?” I say. “She’s pulling back,” he says. “Wants to go back to camp, see you.” “Any sign of blood?” I say. - 266 -

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“Few drops,” Buck says. Buck pulls away from me and boots his horse in the side. Looks to me like he’s got a hot lead and wants to follow it. Maybe we’ll be lucky and find Garcia sprawled in the middle of the trail, and I can get my horse back. Lord, I worry about her when she isn’t with me. Elfego now shows a burst of speed and before I realize it, he’s gone way ahead of me. He passes Buck and he’s riding hard. Something must be happening that I know nothing about. I can’t see very far. My eyes are still clouded over by sleep. I open them wide and try to stare. No good. Just a blur. I wipe my eyes with my shirt collar and stare out again at the place where Elfego disappears. All I can see is the tail of his horse swishing side to side, and then I can’t see anything more. He’s gone. Buck is almost gone. I try giving my pony the spur, but nothing happens. I really have a horse that doesn’t want to move. How do these things happen to me? By now I’m good enough at reading horse tracks and read them I do. Three separate trails lead ahead of me and instead of staring at my now departed friends, I concentrate on the ground. The pony under me is no champion. He’s already winded and I guess I have only my weight to blame. If it weren’t so important to catch up with Garcia, I would enjoy this morning and the scenery around me. This is high desert, and there are aspen trees scattered along the horizon. Far ahead is the blue foreground line of the mountains, the place where Garcia will have to climb if he wants to elude us. Perhaps he knows some trail through the middle of the upraised boulders and scree ahead. It must be twenty miles to the base of the foothills. I figure my horse is good for half of that. I may have to rest him to get him back to camp. Gunshots reach my ears. Maybe Elfego and Buck have found the man. Either that or the man has found them. God, what do I do? If I ride ahead and find both Elfego and Buck mortally wounded on the ground and Garcia staring me in the face with a loaded gun, I know I’ll panic. My pony seems to sense the need for speed. With whatever is left in his wobbly legs, he manages to put on some step and pride, and together we cover the trail ahead of us in short time. I ride upon the scene. - 267 -


Big Mama whinnies, turns her head, looks directly at me as I sit astride a strange mount, and I swear she has anger in her eyes. It doesn’t last long. She has no rider. She’s not tethered either and with a lunge, she steps out on her front legs toward me. Clouds of dust rise from her hooves and she’s prancing. She reaches me in a few leaps, sticks her nose under my arm and snorts. Her brown eyes are large, and they look inside me as only a horse’s eyes can do. What a horse for a western man! I look for Buck, but he’s nowhere to be found. Evidently he is scouting up ahead. Garcia must be up in the rocks on the side of that grassy hill in front of me. I scan the outcrop of granite and can’t see a thing. Then a fuzzy head pops up behind a slate grey boulder, and I shift my gaze that way. Sure enough it is Garcia and he doesn’t look too wounded to me. An arm sticks up above the rock and a pistol fires in my direction, the bullet whizzing past my ear, sounding like a gigantic mosquito. I instinctively duck and lay my head on my pony’s neck. Another shot clips my hat. That old pistol of mine sure knows how to find its owner. I’m off the pony and on the ground in a flash. How many bullets were in that pistol when Garcia took it from me? Must have been 5. I always keep the cylinder under the hammer empty so I won’t blow off my foot if I hit a bump in the trail. He’s fired two at me, and I heard another two being fired. He only has one bullet left. I hope he doesn’t use the last one on himself. We need to find out where Garcia robbed those two miners, to discover the place where there’s more gold in the earth. Evidently Elfego’s been counting also. He looks at me and smiles. I know what he means by that smile. He wants me to stand up and draw the fire of the last bullet. Well this New York reporter doesn’t draw fire for anyone. I stay in my prone position on the ground. We wait. Garcia is mighty quiet behind that big rock. I scan the ground next to where he holes up. A convenient run of smaller rocks masks the area to the right. Garcia could be anywhere in there. “Come on out you no good murderer,” Elfego says. There’s no answer. “I’m comin’ in to get ya,” says Elfego. “Throw out that wobbly pistol and put your hands in the air.” - 268 -

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No answer. Elfego is up and firing his pistol as he rises. The bullets ping off the boulder where I last saw Garcia. I see chips of rock flip into the air, and I know Elfego is right on target with his shots. What a man he is. Full of action and accurate in his shooting. How I’d like to be like him in every respect. Only thing he doesn’t have is the love of Yolanda, who must be waiting for me now back at the camp. How I would have loved to slip into her blankets, with her warm body clinging to mine, her breasts digging into my chest, my hand playing with the two halves of her bottom. Lord knows what might have happened. No shots come from behind the rock, and I assume that Garcia is holding his fire until Elfego gets up close. I watch the sheriff now as he darts right and left, falls to the ground, barely rises from the earth and lunges toward the hillside boulders. He’s almost even with the place where Garcia hides, and he drops down behind a rock for cover. No response from Garcia in words or bullets. Out of the corner of my eye I see movement high up on the hill. No one could move like that except Buck, and as I stare at the spot I last saw him, there’s nothing there. Buck has been known to disappear before, and he’s just completed his latest move. Where could that rascal be? Then I see him. He’s directly behind and up the hill from where Garcia hides. I hope Garcia doesn’t turn around. I whistle to Sheriff Baca and point up the hill. I don’t want Elfego firing on Garcia and hitting Buck. Garcia’s surrounded and there’s little chance he can escape. I’m up now and crouch low as I run toward the rock. Baca’s up too and both of us kick up dust as we make for the place where Garcia hides. The Sheriff reaches the rock first and cautiously points his pistol toward the place where Garcia should be. Buck lopes down the hill toward where the sheriff is now standing. I arrive in time to see that Garcia is not there. Where could the man have gone? I look left and right and catch some movement. Has to be Garcia. I point that way. The string of rocks to the right has covered his movements. The chase is on. Elfego takes a big look toward the nearby gully that drains this hilly place. Obviously Garcia heads for cover where he can escape - 269 -


us. He has one bullet left. That’s all that keeps us from running after him without thought to our own protection. Sheriff Baca summons us to join him behind the rock where Garcia hid. “He’s a dangerous man,” Baca says. “We’ll follow him cautiously.” “I agree,” I say. “I want to see Yolanda again.” “Oh, you and your loves,” says Elfego. “He only has one bullet left, and he’s not that great a shot. Missed you twice back there.” “Maybe he wasn’t trying to hit me,” I say. “Oh, he was trying, believe me. You’re just lucky he missed.” I look at the sheriff, and he shakes his head up and down emphasizing his statement. A cool feeling descends my spine, and I take off my hat and look at it. “Garcia makes tracks,” says Buck. “He knows where he goes. I take the high part again. You two follow below. You say yes, Sheriff?” “Keep an eye out for where we are.” Elfego says. “May need you to back us up.” With that, we’re off again on our chase. Buck disappears as he lopes up the grassy hillside and over to the high ground above the gully. The ground is all shale rock and granite scree that must have been falling here for a million years. Tough going. My foot slips, and I grab onto a mesquite bush that breaks my fall. I look up and see Sheriff Baca staring back at me as if to say, “Come on crazy foot. Let’s get on with it.” I scramble to my feet and with more care, I follow behind Baca and watch my steps carefully. A broken leg wouldn’t be worth the chase especially out here in the middle of New Mexico where doctors are few in number. Nothing’s going to stop me from seeing Yolanda again, and with all my body parts in place. A cloud covers the sun and for a moment there is shade on this side of the hill. Feels good after the relentless rays of our nearest star have been seeking me out to burn me to a crisp. Why couldn’t this whole chase be held back in New York where the morning fog guarantees a climate of coolness for a hunt such as this? We’re over the lip of the rise now and descending down toward the tiny rivulet that drains this gully. I stop. Elfego keeps going. My attention is caught by a rounded dark place in the side of the gully wall, far across the - 270 -

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creek and on the other side. Elfego stops also. He must have seen it too. Up high on the hill I see a figure darting forward like a frightened antelope. Must be Buck. He stops too. We all must have seen the same thing at about the same instant. Slowly I walk up to Elfego. He has his hand shading his eyes. There’s no cloud now to soften the sun’s rays. “Must be a cave,” he says. “I agree. Look over there, around the entrance,” I say. “Piles of red dust, a rusting wheelbarrow.” “Betcha Garcia’s inside,” Elfego says. The sheriff looks up at Buck and signals. Buck nods and begins his descent to where the cave is. “Miners need water to dig,” says Elfego. “That creek’s enough.” “Just what I was thinking,” I say. “You thinking what I am?” “Exactly,” says the Sheriff. “Gold’s got to come out of that mountain. Bet this is where Garcia scragged those two miners and stole their gold.” “What’ll we do?” I say. “He’s got one bullet left, maybe. Can’t count on that,” Elfego says. “Might have more ammo in the cave,” I say. “Can’t take chances,” says Elfego. “Keep low. Let’s move in. We’ve got him now and with his hands in the pie.” Elfego crouches low and so do I. Buck is even with us, and the three of us separate and head for the mouth of the cave. A tiny dust-grey jackrabbit jumps out of a mesquite bush and scares me. Wouldn’t take much to make me scatter. We follow the line of rocks that Garcia must have used. Gives good cover and then we’re over the lip of the hill and headed directly toward the entrance to the cave. Elfego motions to me to go straight ahead. He makes a curvy line with his hand to indicate that he will swoop in from another direction. I see him motion the same to Buck. Looks like we have a classic military maneuver opening up. Read about the same thing in a book about Napoleon I once glanced over. No sound comes from the cave, and all together, the three of us move closer to the mouth. Now I can make out the inside of the cave. Nothing but granite and lots of small rocks around the entrance. Someone spent a lot of - 271 -


time here. Those miners must have moved a mountain of rock to find the gold vein they were looking for. We are close to the cave now, and Elfego cups his hand and puts it next to his mouth. “Know you’re in there, Garcia. Come out with your hands up, and we’ll get you back to Bernalillo in good shape.” No answer. Once again Elfego holds his cupped hand to his mouth. “No use waiting. We’ll be here ‘til you come out. Do it now. We’ll get you some grub and water, too.” Smart move on Elfego’s part. Garcia hasn’t eaten for a long time, unless he stashed something in the cave. The sound of a shaky voice coming from the cave reaches my ears. “Come and get me you no ‘count scavengers. I’ll get at least one of you,” says Garcia. Elfego raises an eyebrow. He motions to me to get behind a rock with him. Buck also joins us. “We can sweat him out,” says Elfego. “He must be hungrier than hell. Thirsty too. I’ll throw my canteen so it lands within reach from inside, but we’ll be able to see it.” Buck and I stay behind the rock and Elfego cautiously edges around our stony protection and with a deft throw, he aims his canteen for just the right spot, middle of the cave entrance. “Thought you’d like to have a little drink. Just come out and get it,” says Elfego. “Ha, ha, ha. The oldest trick in the book,” says Garcia. “I’ve got enough food and water in this cave to last me a month. Got me some ammo too. You prepared to last me out?” New development. Elfego wipes his brow with his blue neckerchief. “Well, we know now what to expect,” he says. “Looks like we’ll have to go a different way.” “Cave has way out,” says Buck. “I know this country. Let me slip around behind. Sneak up on Garcia. Drive him out of cave toward you.” “Sounds good to me, Buck,” says Elfego. “Be careful. We’ll be ready here.” - 272 -

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I sit down and Elfego squats down beside me. The two of us keep our eyes on the cave entrance. Buck dashes up the hill and disappears instantly behind the large boulders that guard the overhead. “I’ve got some water if you need any,” I say. “Yeah, give me a swig,” says Elfego. “Keep your eyes glued to my canteen.” I nod my head, hand my water bottle to the sheriff and turn my attention to the canteen. It isn’t there. “Sheriff, look. Canteen’s gone,” I say. “That no good murderer,” says Elfego. He did need the water after all. Bet he lied about the food and ammo too. We’ll wait for Buck to get in place, then rush him.” I sit back against the rock and think about Yolanda. How soft she is and cuddly too. Nothing like a woman’s body to cuddle against, when you’re out on the New Mexico highlands with nothing much but mountain goats all around. Sure wish I was next to Yolanda now, snuggling down in my blankets, her warm body next to mine, my hands reaching under her blankets and finding bare flesh there. I close my eyes. **** A blast of a pistol echoes out of the cave and sounds much larger than any pistol shot I’ve ever heard. I’m up on my knees now. Sheriff Baca is nowhere around. I quickly look up the hill and down to the meandering stream below. I’m here alone once again, and I have no idea what’s happening. I leave the shelter of my rock and walk forward toward the cave entrance. No sound now. Just the memory in my head of that tremendous “Kapow” and echo of the pistol firing in the cave. My foot is inches away from the well-worn and dusty opening. Another loud pistol shot causes me to drop on all fours. I’ve got to see what’s happening. Flat on the ground, I enter the cave and make a snake-like movement through the opening. Dark inside. Can’t see anything. I close my eyes, then open them. It’s a little better. I must take time for my eyes to adjust. I keep moving, snake wise. I bump into something. With my hands I feel around the object. It’s human. I find the chest and put my hand over where the heart should be. - 273 -


Movement there. I pull my head up and drop my ear down over where my hand found a pulse. Definitely a heartbeat. I feel up toward the head and reach around to the nose and squeeze it. “What the hell are you doing?” says Elfego. “Follow along behind me. Keep low. That was me firing my pistol. Be quiet.” My eyes have adjusted completely now, and it’s amazing what I can see. The sides of the cave are hatched like someone used a sharp-edged adze on them. Overhead are a few beams of rough-hewn wood. Not too many trees of that size in this valley, but it’s amazing what miners will do to prop up their diggings. Smells dank in here. Hint of dead things too. Small animals must have sought shelter here. Elfego edges forward, and I follow. Reminds me of the old game of “Sneak up on the Indians” we used to play back in the warehouses of New York City’s wharf. Guess that experience as a kid comes in handy now that I’m doing the real thing. I hear a scratching noise up ahead, and Elfego puts his hand on my forehead. He indicates to me that I should stop and be quiet. The two of us have learned many non-verbal signals in these last few months. Bet we could carry on quite a conversation without saying anything out loud. The sound of heavy breathing reaches my ears. It’s not Elfego, and it’s certainly not me. Must be Garcia. Wonder how close we are to him. Must be real close. “You got me sheriff,” Garcia says. “I’m bleeding. Pull me out of here.” Elfego doesn’t move. He keeps his hand on my head and his fingers press down on my skull. That’s the signal to stay still, no movement. Smart man. Garcia could be playing a trick. No way for us to know whether or not he’s telling the truth. “Get me outa here,” Garcia says. He must be close to us. His voice booms out like we are right on top of him. Elfego pushes with his hand on my head. That means for me to back up, and I do. I inch backwards like a snake and Elfego follows me. We reach the entrance to the cave, and I keep low as I dash behind a boulder. Elfego copies my moves and soon he’s by my side. - 274 -

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“Can’t trust that no account,” he says. “Get me a rope off your horse.” I scoot around the huge rock in front of me and take off running toward where we left the horses. **** My saddle pony’s munching grass, as I reach the place where we left our animals. No rope. I look over at Elfego’s stallion. There’s a rope there, and quickly I grab it off his saddle and away I go. I scramble down the hill toward the place where I left the sheriff. He’s not there. Out of consternation, I scratch my head. Where the hell could he be? Only in the cave I assume. No sounds come from there, and I wonder what’s happened to Buck. He scooted around to the back entrance to the cave an hour ago, and I haven’t heard from him since. Hope he didn’t take a bullet when the sheriff shot off his pistol at Garcia. Once again I creep up to the entrance of the cave, the rope wound around my shoulder. Still no sounds. I flatten myself on the ocher-colored earth and breathe deeply. Dust gets into my nose, and I sneeze. There’s an answering gunshot from the cave and the bullet plunks itself into one of the supporting timbers just over my head. If I’d been standing up, I’d be a dead man now. My eyes focus on the spot where the bullet tore a hole. Fresh splinters mark the spot, and I can see the reflection of the butt of a .45 caliber slug. One more time I squiggle like a snake and penetrate further into the blackened cave. I know now just about how long it takes for my eyes to get used to the limited light in here. I close them, hoping to speed up the adjustment time. Another pistol shot explodes in my ears, and the echo of the round going off reverberates inside my skull. This cave is definitely not a place for a shy person. When I write this story, the readers will know I tell the truth. By that time I’ll have the words to describe the sensation. There’s a grunt ahead of me, and I know that sound. It’s from Baca. I’ve heard him sound like that, especially when he’s ingested a solid meal, and he’s enjoying his after dinner coffee. - 275 -


I push forward and once again feel a soft human body ahead of me. I take a chance that it’s not Garcia. “Here’s your rope,” I say. “Good,” says Elfego. Hand it up to me. I need it right now.” With great effort I uncoil the length of hemp from around my shoulder and push it ahead. Baca takes it. “Goin’ to throw you a line, Garcia,” says Elfego. “Tie it around your feet real tight, and I’ll pull you outa this cave. Ain’t goin’ to come and get ya. You could blast me to pieces.” No answer from the murderer. I even wonder if he’s there, although there was some shooting when I came into the cave. Does Garcia have more ammo? It could be a hot reception waiting for us when we pull him out. I wonder if Elfego has thought of that? The end of the rope hits me on the head, and I grab it and start backing out of the cave on my stomach. Elfego is already out of the entrance and standing to one side. I look up and see him watching me slither along on the ground like one of the rattlesnakes back where Alfredo and Yolanda wait for us. Slowly I turn over on my back. I’m lying directly beneath the place where Elfego stands. He bends over and takes the end of the rope and motions for me to get out of the way. I don’t need any prodding. I roll over, and I’m out of shooting range. There’s a group of red sandstone rocks in front of me now, and I rest there a moment. “Get your lazy bones up,” says Elfego. “Help me pull on this rope.” He’s standing there like a British sailor, his taut arms extended, the rope twisted around his middle, his hands red from straining, and his back arched. He’s not making much progress. I stand up and unwind the rope from around his middle and begin to pull. There is something heavy on the other end. Together we pull harder, and the object we’re pulling moves towards us. It’s slow and I’m working up a sweat as I continue to grab the rope, pull with all my might and then grab the rope again, a little higher up. A pair of feet, horizontal, appear at the cave entrance. The rope is securely tied around the ankles, but there’s something strange about the - 276 -

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trousers that come into view. Has Garcia changed clothes in the cave? Maybe he was bloody and had to get into clean clothes. Elfego must notice something too. There’s a mysterious look on his face as we pull hard together. A face appears. Good God! It’s Buck Redwing.

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Chapter Twenty-Eight I rush to my friend and kneel down near his head. “Buck, Buck. What happened to you?” I put my ear to the Indian’s chest. The heart beats clearly. That’s a good sign. I look for wounds. A small hole in Buck’s leg pops into my view. I rip away at the trousers and lay back the torn cloth. Neat hole, the bullet must have been fired at close range. Blood has congealed around the edges where the bullet penetrated. I reach for my canteen, open it and pour the contents over the wound. Buck winces, and then opens his eyes, not wide, but far enough to let me know it hurts. I smile at him. “That’s it pardner. You’re back among the living. You have pleasant dreams?” “Hunting buffalo,” he says. “I’ll tie up this leg and get you on your feet again,” I say. “Garcia shot me,” he says, then passes out again. I look over at the sheriff who hangs over my shoulder and watches every move. “Garcia has only one bullet left,” I say. “Never count on that,” the sheriff says. “He might have a cache of bullets. We’ll proceed, but slowly.” With the sheriff’s help, I move Buck over under some trees and prop him up against the trunk of one. I leave my canteen by his side with the top unscrewed. What he needs now is rest. He’s out of action, but I notice his pistol is still in its holster. “How’ll we do it, sheriff?” I say. “Let’s go around to the back entrance, the way Buck did. Maybe we can catch him escaping that way.” “OK with me,” I say. “What about the horses? They need water,” “You see to the horses. I’ll catch that no good Garcia and have him hog tied by the time you find me.” With those words, Baca is off retracing the steps that Buck took to find the rear entrance to the cave. I see the sheriff looking down at Buck’s footprints, and I know he’ll find the place where Buck crept into the cave. - 278 -

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I look over at Buck and see two black eyes staring back at me. “Blood brother, thanks,” he says. “You comfortable? Would you feel better being with the horses?” I say. “No, leave me here.” I watch as he pulls his pistol, rolls the cylinder and checks his bullets, then lays the piece on his chest. He’s wise. Garcia could pull a fast one and scoot out the front entrance while Elfego approaches him from the rear. Maybe I can get back before the shootout begins. If Garcia’s out of bullets, it’ll be a short battle. **** Big Mama nickers as I approach, and the other horses pull their heads up to look at me, their ears twisting front and back trying to pick up the sound. Nearest water is not far. The creek is just down in the valley, maybe a hundred steps away. I grab my horse’s reins and the other three follow me, as I lead Big Mama to the water. These are marvelous animals who know just what to do when watering time comes. I think they’d die of thirst before leaving the place where their riders left them. Well maybe that’s a little farfetched, but they are loyal. Their sides are bloated, too, where they’ve been storing up the good, green grass of this hillside. Too much water now will cause their stomachs to expand and a bloated horse takes a slow step. Always the danger of a twisted intestine, and that could be fatal. I reach the swift-moving creek, the water slopping up over my feet as I lead Big Mama to the edge. She looks at me and I shake my head up and down, then she bends her long brown neck down to reach the life-giving fluid rushing by. Her muzzle drops to the water and with great gulps she fills her mouth, and then swallows. I can see the action in her throat and I’m always amazed by the grace of these magnificent animals. Even in such a common task as drinking, my horse shows her artistry. The other horses are at the shoreline now and each one dips his head down into the rushing liquid, takes a deep drink, and then raises its head. I’m surprised because usually nothing will interrupt a horse while he drinks. - 279 -


Their ears are up and all three, along with Big Mama, now stare at a place behind me. I too look around. Someone or something is in the green bushes that line the upper bank of this stream. I peer upward at the dirt trail we followed to get to the water. The red-brown dirt is stirred up in clumps from the churning of the horse’s hooves. My eyes lift higher, and then I hear a voice. “Well, well, well. If it isn’t Mr. Reporter all by himself.” My God, it’s Garcia. His hair tumbles down in ragged streaks, his eyes are burning holes of fire, his arms are scratched and bloody. He stands, and I can see his torn trousers looking more like cleaning rags than pants. He’s barefooted. I look up again and see the wrong end of my .45 caliber pistol aimed at my midsection. “Now, Mr. Reporter. Get away from those horses. I need one badly.” I step away. Big Mama looks at me, then at Garcia. She knows I’m in trouble and she knows Garcia from the bareback ride she took with him earlier in the day. I hear her whinny, then she turns to face the murderer. She raises a front foot, her leg curling into a curved shape. I do believe she’s thinking of defending me. With a lunge, Big Mama dashes forward and up the muddy trail. Her front legs flail. Garcia’s surprised. He drops the gun and turns to run, but Big Mama is right behind him. What kind of a man is Garcia to think he can outrun a western horse when she’s protecting her master. I follow her up the bank, and I can see the action. Big Mama gains. She’s even with Garcia and she lowers her head. With a deft stroke she throws her mighty jaws against the man. Garcia flies into the air and drops to the ground. I think he’s unconscious. Quickly I run to where he falls. Big Mama stands over him. I think there’s a smile on her face. She whinnies again, puts one hoof on the man’s chest and looks toward me. I’m there now and approach my horse. She steps back, lowers her head, and I pat her on the nose. She snorts and slobbers, then turns away. But what can I do? I have no gun and Garcia is too heavy for me to lift by myself. My gun! Leaving Big Mama to guard the brute, I scoot back to the place where Garcia encountered me. I search around in the grass and stumble upon the handle of my six gun. It’s sticking out from underneath a mesquite bush. I - 280 -

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grab it and twist it in my hand. Looks all right to me. Some dew clings to the barrel, but I wipe that off. Then I flip out the cylinder. My God! There’s still one bullet left in there. Garcia could have blasted me when I stood next to my horse in the creek. How lucky can one dumb reporter be? I grab some ammo from my pistol belt and insert enough rounds to fill the five holes. Slamming the cylinder back in place, I’m now ready for that no good murdering scoundrel who lies in the grass back behind me. I gather up the reins of the other three horses and pull them away from the stream and up the soggy bank to the flatland above. In the distance, Big Mama still stands rigid, her attention drawn to the man I hope still reposes under her. If I can just make it back to where Garcia fell, I’ll be a lucky man. The three horses drag after me, and it’s like drawing dead weight. I think they still want water, and I’m pulling them away from the river. A few steps now and I’ll be back to the place where my horse stands guard. I reach Big Mama and notice that she has a sheepish look on her face. I look down at where Garcia should be and there’s no one there. There’s only a deep imprint of his body on the matted-down grass. Quickly I size up the situation. I look for footprints and notice a set of boot marks leading off toward the woods not fifty feet away from me. With all the horses behind me, I head toward the trees as I follow the footprints, my hand on my pistol, my thumb on the cocking device, as I ready myself to meet the desperado. I hear a shout and look to my left where I hear the noise. It’s Elfego and he’s running toward me. I put my pistol back in its holster and wait for the sheriff to catch up to me. He’s breathless when he arrives. “Garcia’s not in the cave,” he says. “You seen anything of him?” “He’s been here,” I say. “Big Mama knocked him down. I went to get my shooting iron that he dropped, and when I got back, he’d gone.” “How’s Buck?” Elfego says. “Propped against a tree back by the cave.” “Which way did Garcia go?” Elfego says. “Just tryin’ to figure it out,” I say. “Looks like he went off that way.” I point to the line of trees just in front of me. “See, the footprints in the grass lead that way,” I say. - 281 -


“Follow me,” says the sheriff. He tips his hat forward, undoes the strap over the hammer on his pistol, loosens the piece in the holster, and then heads off toward where Garcia must have gone. We reach the edge of the forest without much difficulty. I bring up the rear because now I’m dragging four horses behind me. Actually Big Mama doesn’t count because she follows me voluntarily. I don’t even have to hold her reins. But going through the forest will be something of a challenge. It’s thick in there. I don’t want to leave the horses by themselves. Garcia might swing around and find them, then ride off while scattering the others. “Hey, Elfego,” I say. “Wait up.” He stops in his tracks and turns toward me. His face has a look of intensity on it, and I know he’s focused on catching up with the murderer. “Well,” he says. “Hurry up. Garcia’s gettin’ away.” “Not so fast, sheriff. I better watch the horses. Can’t take them through the forest. Got me a pistol here and I know how to use it.” “You stay,” he says. “You’re right. Horses are mighty important to us. For God’s sake don’t let Garcia surprise you. Need those animals to get us back to camp.” I think to myself where the best place would be for me to hole up with the horses. Of course. Back with Buck near the cave entrance. I turn around, and with much urging, get the horses to turn with me. It’s not easy guiding three horses while holding onto their reins. They’re big animals and they tower over me by four feet at least. Only positive thing for me is that Big Mama is a leader and the other horses like her. They’d follow her anywhere. I urge Big Mama to follow me and then my job becomes less of a chore. We retrace the steps to where the horses rested while we were trying to get Garcia out of the cave. It’s only another 50 yards to where Buck should be, the place I left him propped against the tree. I find him. He opens his eyes, sees me, and then closes them again. He really is dozing just when I may need him to keep an eye open for Garcia. I sit down beside him. The horses drop their heads and start pulling the grass out of the ground near next to where I sit. I gently punch Buck on his shoulder. He opens his eyes. - 282 -

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“Elfego find Garcia?” he says. “No, Garcia found me. Thought I was a gonner. He had the drop on me, then Big Mama charged up the river bank and chased him almost to the tree line. Knocked him down with her muzzle. He was out!” “She’s some horse,” he says. “How you feelin’?” I say. “Not much life left in me. Fear I’m going on to the Great Chief’s hunting grounds in the sky.” “Stop talking like that, Buck,” I say. “We’re going to get you back to the Kiowa reservation in Texas. You’ll see your wife and kids and I’ll see Joline again. It’ll be a grand reunion. I can taste the buffalo steaks as they come off the open fire. Keep thinkin’ about your wife and family. We got the hole in you plugged. No bleeding. All you got to do is rest up, and we’ll get you in a saddle and back to camp, then Bernalillo. Come on Buck. His eyes close, and I think I’ve lost him, but his hand reaches over and finds my hand and holds it. First time he ever did that. Course I am his blood brother, and we have spent a lot of time together chasin’ after Sam Bass and Elfego. He’s still got a good grip on me and cramps his fingers in mine. I can feel the pressure. I sit there holding his right hand in my left hand. My other hand is on my pistol in case Garcia should happen out of the woods. It’s quiet here. I can hear all kinds of birds chirping in the brush around me. The gentle grinding hollow-molar sound of the horses reaches my ears, and I know they’re happy, full of water and now they have more grass to chew. I still hold Buck’s hand as I lean against the same tree trunk where he rests. He’s mighty important to me. Got to keep him going. I hear a rustle of leaves and turn my head. Two figures emerge from the tree line. One of them has a gun stuck in the back of the person in the lead. Sure enough, Garcia staggers toward me, his eyes closed, his chin on his chest. Elfego moves along rapidly, prodding the murderer in the back to keep him going. “Found this no good rapscallion hiding in the forest,” Elfego says. “I think he’s going to go quietly now. Probably hungry and thirsty, almost spent.” - 283 -


“Thank God it’s over,” I say. “Buck here needs attention. See what you can do.” Garcia flops down on the ground. Elfego bends over him and ties the man’s hands together with some of the rope we used to pull Buck out of the cave. The sheriff then ties Garcia’s legs together by wrapping the rope around his midsection, then swirling the strands down his limbs to the ankles. I don’t see how anyone could get out of that. Only then does Elfego give his attention to Buck. “Shot in the leg, looks like to me,” the sheriff says. “Lost some blood. Bullet went clean through. Goin’ to have a sore leg for a while, but he’ll make it.” I’m glad to hear those words. I really thought Buck was about to join his ancestors. I let go of Buck’s hand, and his body slumps fully against the tree bole. “What’ll we do with Garcia?” I say. “He’s got to ride a horse one way or another.” “We’ll hike him up across a saddle,” Elfego says. “Don’t rightly care if he lives or dies. Would like to deliver him to the jail in Bernalillo, though. “Let him be there on the ground. Let’s get the horses ready.” With those words, Elfego jumps up and surveys the meadow where the horses munch their grass. “Hate to bother them,” he says. “They’re happy doin’ what they do naturally. I believe those animals would chew up the world if they had the time. Come on, Nolo. We got work to do.” I stand up, and it feels good. I’ve been sitting by Buck for a long time, and I need to stretch my legs. As I rise, Big Mama raises her head from her grazing and looks directly at me. What a horse! Already she knows we’ll soon ride back to camp. It’s as if I don’t have to tell her anything. She knows what I am going to do before I do it. My horse stands still as I reach her side. She twists her neck around toward me and her dark brown eyes signal love and trust to me. Don’t tell me that horses can’t think and feel. Big Mama’s no exception. She’s like an extension of myself, and I like that in a horse. I pat her neck, and then reach for the bridle. She accepts the bit without any fuss, and I stoop to pick up the saddle that I used on the supply horse on - 284 -

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our way out here. It fits exactly, but I have to make some adjustments in the cinching strap. Big Mama breathes in for me, and I pull the strap taut, letting out just a small part, so my horse can expand her lungs. Elfego’s busy with his own horse and then he signals to me with a hand gesture, that we should return to where Garcia and Buck wait for us. I nod my head up and down in answer and grab Big Mama’s reins and gently pull her forward. I think she’s eager to get going. She prances for me with her front feet. Buck is in the same position I left him in. Garcia’s eyes are open, and he glares at me, and then turns to Elfego. “Why didn’t you just shoot me?” he says. “Couldn’t do that,” says Elfego. “Got to get you back to Bernalillo where you’ll stand trial for the murder of that woman you left carved-up in the tree. You got to explain why you murdered those miners and Red Dust’s father, too. Wouldn’t miss getting you back to Bernalillo for the world.” Elfego pulls up the supply horse I rode. He settles it next to Garcia and hands me the reins. I let go of Big Mama knowing she will stay where she is. “Hold that animal tight, Nolo,” he says. “Goin’ to throw this no account murderer over its back.” “Steady boy,” he says to the horse. The animal turns its neck around to look at Elfego. Evidently it doesn’t like the idea. It moves its body in a circle, away from the sheriff. “Now see here, hoss,” says Elfego. “You got to cooperate. Hold him steady, Nolo.” I pull harder on the reins, and the horse seems to understand. He stops his movement and holds still while Elfego lifts the torso of Garcia off the ground, then with superhuman effort, pulls the prisoner up to his full height, his lower body still encased in rope. “Give me a hand, Nolo,” the sheriff says. I let go of the reins and the horse stands still. Obviously the animal knows now that something will be lifted onto its back. It’s a pack horse and is used to having objects loaded. Don’t know why he shied away before. Together, Elfego and I grab Garcia’s upper body and with a heave, we shove him up and over the back of the horse. He’s facing down and his body follows, curving to fit the back of the animal. He looks like a hundred pound - 285 -


sack of potatoes stretched across the saddle, about to go to market. The prisoner’s arms hang down one side of the horse and his legs droop down on the other. His belly rests on the saddle seat, his body curving over the back of the horse. Elfego reaches under the animal and pulls Garcia’s arms toward the his sagging legs. He ties the arms to the legs and now Garcia makes a complete circle around the middle of the horse. I look at the man’s face. It’s upside down to me, but I get the idea that Garcia would like to kill me and Elfego. Lord, I hope he never gets loose again. Buck’s awake now and gently, Elfego and I lift him up into the saddle of his horse. He nods his head, signifying that he’s all right. I get onto Big Mama’s back and the sheriff quickly mounts his steed. Looks like we’re ready to ride. **** It’s noontime when we reach the camp where we left Yolanda and her brother, along with the train man with the green visor. Nobody’s around, the fire’s been sprayed with water, so that the ashes have muddied together. Looks like no one’s been here all day. Wonder where they went. A forked twig stands erect near the fire rocks. There’s a note hanging there, made out of a torn patch of cloth. Mighty hunters! We decided to get on home to Bernalillo. Things to do there. Hope you caught the murderer. Bring him along. I’ll be making cool horchada for you. Hurry! Yolanda I’m depressed. The only thing that kept me going while we hunted Garcia was knowing that Yolanda would be waiting for me back at camp. I can still see her in my mind, body curved neatly in her blankets, arms outstretched, lips open and moist, and her eyes beckoning me to join her. I might not get another chance to make love to her now that she’s headed back to her home. Lord, the missed opportunities a body has when he’s living and writing stories for a magazine. - 286 -

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I wonder where the train mailman is. I look around and see nothing. Same trees, grass, bushes, but no human beings. There were some Indians here, too. Maybe they’ve gone over to the cave where the gold is stored. Elfego pulls up next to me. “Looks like the younguns flew the coop,” he says. “Went back to the ranch?” “Note says so,” I say. “Yolanda probably wanted a bath in a tub.” Elfego laughs. “And you’d like to rub her back, wouldn’t you?” he says. “I can still see the look on her father’s face when we left Bernalillo,” I say. “He could cause me bodily harm if he finds out about Yolanda and me on this trip.” “Bet she won’t tell,” Elfego says. “Neither will that brother, Alfredo. Those two stick together.” “Any idea where the Indians might be?” I say. “Let’s keep moving,” Elfego says. “We’ll mosey on down by the rattlesnake cave. Bet they’re over there. Probably find that railway mailman also. He’s not goin’ to let that gold get out of his sight for long.” Buck grunts from the back of his horse, and I hear a groan emanate from Garcia. The four of us turn our horses south and head for the cave. I ride up beside Elfego, Buck brings up the rear, and Garcia is in between, the reins to his horse thrown over the animal’s neck. It’s a pack horse, and he follows along nicely when we travel. Elfego seems to be in a talkative mood. “And we’ll turn Garcia over to the local sheriff, then won’t we have a time for ourselves!” he says. “I’ve been wanting to have one of those hotel hot meals served on a plate by a young lady in a long dress. Might get one of them fancy saloon ladies to spend some time with me in my room. Ain’t had no lovin’ for a long time. Even my horse’s beginnin’ to look good to me, and he’s a stallion.” I haven’t ever heard Elfego wax so eloquent about himself before. It’s a new experience, and I get out my notebook, grab the pencil from behind my ear, and with jiggling writing, jot down what he just said. Writing while riding on a horse is not the easiest job in the world, but I’ve got to do it. - 287 -


We’re getting close to the rattlesnake cave. I can see a row of trees in the distance that look familiar, especially the one where the mailman climbed up on a limb to escape the snakes. Smoke lazily rises from an outcrop of rock near the cave and I know our Indian friends must be making lunch. They probably know we’re on the way. Hope they haven’t prepared “rattlesnake” meat for me. Never did like the taste of the slippery critters, ever since Buck introduced me to them when we were chasing after Sam Bass. As we ride up, a lone Indian looks up at us, then back at the kettle where something boils. I jump down and lead Big Mama to a place near where the Redman sits on his haunches, his buttocks resting on his own heels and his knees stretched out before him like a big “V.” “We have Garcia,” I say. The Indian grunts, looks up at me, then looks back at his boiling pot. “Where are the others?” I say. Once again the man looks up at me, frowns, then with a bony finger he points to the cave. Elfego’s next to me now and has no doubt heard my question and the Redman’s answer. His gaze shifts to the cave entrance. “You ready for this?” he says. “Ready or not, looks like we have this rattlesnake cave to explore,” I say. “Come on. We’ll tie up Garcia’s horse, get Buck down off his mount, then we’ll see what’s in the cave,” he says. I hear a muffled word, “HELP” emanate from the cave entrance, and as I turn that way, I see a billow of smoke float out. Something’s happening inside there. Looks like we arrived just in time.

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Chapter Twenty-Nine Elfego and I forget about Buck and Garcia. We dash toward the entrance to the rattlesnake cave, dark smoke rolling out the entrance and over our bodies. I cough and cover my mouth with the blue neckerchief I always wear. Can’t see a thing. Elfego darts through the smoke and into the cave, a brave move I think. Something big and ugly could be just inside. I hear nothing from him and the smoke continues to flow past me. I decide to follow him. Naturally the inside of the cave is black. All I can go by is the sound of heavy footsteps leading on into the darkness. Never have I been so frightened in my life. What could be inside here calling for help? There’s a scurrying sound like slithery things darting past my feet. Could they be rattlesnakes? I don’t really want to know. Something brushes against my pant leg. God, I’m glad I have on my high-top boots. Hard to breathe in here. I duck my head down to get closer to the floor of the cave, and as I do, something flies over me. Sounds like it has wings flapping. Then some claws grab at my hair, and I feel a pull. I utter a loud yelping sound, take a swipe at what’s up there and continue along the cave floor, my body crunching over in a half-standing, half-squatting pose. Could they be bats? God, I hate bats and all other creepy flying things. Light up ahead. Glare of a fire. Outline of Elfego’s hat against the light. He’s standing erect in a domed-off area of the cave, a smoke hole in the ceiling collecting most of the fumes that issue from a dry wood fire. Well, at least I know now where the smoke comes from. Off to the side is the railroad man with the green visor. He stretches out on the ground, naked and supine. His arms are staked out straight from his shoulders and his legs form the outer part of the letter “A”. Can’t be much fun for him. Elfego talks with the headman. “So he tried to sneak in here and steal the gold. Don’t blame you for being upset, this being holy Indian ground and all. What you goin’ to do with him?” The Indian looks down at the railroad man and grunts. “Ugh, leave him where he is. Ants find him soon. We pour bee’s honey on his face and body. They come.” - 289 -


“Well, it’s up to you,” says Elfego. “But I’d like to take him back to Bernalillo to testify at Garcia’s trail. You suppose you could let him up and put him in my charge? Promise I’ll give him back to you when he’s through testifying. I really need him.” The chief pushes up his beaded headband, stretches his bony fingers across his eyes, and drops his head to his chest. Some grunts come out of his mouth, and I get the idea that he’s communing with some ancient power. Soon the grunting stops, his head raises, and he removes his hand from his face. “You capture bad man, Garcia,” he says. “You honorable man, straight talker. Great Father on high say for you to take this man to Bernalillo. Put him in a jail there for trying to steal gold.” The Indian folds his robe about his body and moves away from the fire. He heads for the rear of the cave where the gold must be located. I hear his voice echo as he retreats. He’s chanting something to himself. Sounds like humbo, humbo, humabobbo. Elfego is already untying the railroad man. The expression on the man’s face says it all. He’s smiling, a grin extending from one corner of his mouth to the other, his teeth showing, and I see a couple of tears drift down his cheek. “Sure, I’ll testify. You saved my life, lawman. Let me get some clothes on. Glad they hadn’t poured any honey on me. And those ants. Owe you and your reporter friend a lot. Let’s get out of here.” Elfego is already heading for the cave entrance and right behind him is the man from the railroad car, green visor just now being fitted to his oversize head. He holds his trousers over his arm, and he’s trying to put on his shirt as he walks. I bring up the rear, and believe me, I’m ready to get out of this stinky place. It’ll take a lot of trail riding to get the smoke out of my pores. The man with the green eyeshade exits the cave, his lower body naked, his chest covered by the shirt he’s managed to get on backwards. He stops, throws down his pants, finds the left leg, then the right and soon he’s attired. What a sight greets us as we exit the cave. Buck lies at the base of a small tree, his pistol clutched in his good hand and his head slumped onto his chest. His wounded leg stretches out straight in front of him, my bandaging - 290 -

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of the bullet wound sticks out as an amateur job, but looks to me like it’s holding. Garcia remains stretched over the back of the pack horse, arms and hands still tied under the belly of the mount. He’s passed out, may be dead for all I know. I don’t hear a word from him. It’s quite a trip back to Bernalillo. **** Over three hundred years ago this land belonged to the Tiguex Indians, whose famous Spanish visitor, Coronado, conquered them. He took over one of their pueblos for his own use. As I mount up on Big Mama, I think back to those times and imagine a troop of Spanish soldiers crossing the valley below me, their metal armor reflecting the ever-present sunshine, their horses snorting in the dry air, and on the surrounding hilltops, a band of Indians staring down as I am. What it must have been like for those simple indigenous people to observe riders on horseback coming toward them, never having seen a horse before. Big Mama moves, and I almost miss my leg throw-over. What’s gotten into her? And then I see the reason. A prairie dog darts across our path and dives for his hole in the ground, other prairie dogs whipping their tails and sounding short yips to warn their friends of danger. I’m fully seated now and my horse is steady. She knows we’re going for a big ride, her sides bloating out from the grass she’s eaten during the night. Fortunately we camped near a small stream that trickles through this golden meadow and she’s had her fill of sweet mountain water. Garcia is untied and sitting straight up in the saddle on the pack horse now. His head rests on his chest and his limp arms hold loosely to the reins. He’s wearing ragged clothing including a torn blue shirt that Elfego put on him. Won’t need a coat for this ride. The sun’s already out over the blue mountains to our front, and the day will be a warm one. The railroad man with the green visor sits behind Garcia. His hands are around Garcia’s middle and tied in front. We’ll have to move slower than usual with that pack horse carrying double weight. Buck is out of his head, and we need to get him to a doctor soon. There’s one in Bernalillo, I’m sure. Gangrene. That’s the worry. Soft tissue dies - 291 -


around the wound. Could lose his leg if we can’t get him some treatment. Haven’t told this to Buck. Don’t want to worry him. Buck sent us to find a certain plant, we found it and applied it to his leg. Don’t trust these Indian remedies much, but Buck did cure my snake bite back near Waco several years ago. He went off into the brush and came back with just the right plant to apply to my snake-bitten leg. Kept me alive so I could write this tail of capturing José Garcia. The prisoner and the railroad man ride just behind Elfego who has a rope tied to their horse. Buck rides behind, and I bring up the rear. Morning sunshine now hits my front, and I shade my eyes to see what’s rising ahead of us. Elfego’s set a brisk pace and we’re climbing, trying to get out of this place and onto the main road that leads to Bernalillo. Brownishred dust rises in front of me as Elfego’s stallion steps out with pride. A picture of Yolanda dashes across my mind. I blink my eyes, but the image is still there. Her slim body stands out against a campfire. I’ve seen her like this many times. The campfire flares up, and I can see Yolanda’s strong, firm breasts outlined underneath her thin blue shirt. Then the picture flashes to that last time I saw her many nights ago. We were ready to share the same blankets, each other too, but I had to go on watch and guard Garcia. Now she’s back at her father’s place near Bernalillo and I may never see her again. I may never feel those feminine hands hard against my back, rubbing, caressing. I shudder, mostly from the thought. I’m even with Buck, and I look down at his leg. Looks swollen, but it’s hard to see with the poltice of plants we put around it. We’ve got to hurry. I prod Big Mama with my boot toe and she steps out like a champion. I pass Buck and Garcia. Soon I’m even with Elfego. The trail is wide enough for both of us to lope along side by side. Elfego turns his head my way as I ride up. “Buck’s wound looks worse,” I say. “You got any ideas?” The sheriff takes off his hat, wipes his brow with the back of his other hand and replaces the hat, straightening it so the point of the brim faces exactly forward. “I’ll take a look at it when we stop up ahead,” he says. “You ever take off a man’s leg,” I say. “Yup,” he says. “Takes a sharp knife.” - 292 -

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“Got any booze with you?” I say. “A little. We’ll use it for Buck when it’s time,” he says. The trail climbs here, and I drop back to my place at the end of the procession. I scan the tops of the ridges and there’s movement up there. We are being watched as we move up the valley on this trail that must have been here for centuries. I wonder what the Spaniards thought as they rode up this very horse path. Wonder also what the Indians are thinking as they watch us ride along. **** We make our first stop, mostly to give Buck a rest and to seek help for the treatment of his leg. Sandia Pueblo has been on this site, just off the Bernalillo road, for centuries, a mission dedicated to St Francis, standing in the center of a village. Elfego rides boldly into the public square, holds his reins as he jumps off his horse, and loops the leather strips over a crude wooden barrier next to a watering trough. Our horses are thirsty and they must have a drink. I watch as Garcia and the railroad man behind him follow suit and move their horse in next to Elfego’s mount. Big Mama and I are last, and there’s scarcely room for me to squeeze in next to Buck’s horse, but I manage. The trough is long enough to reach in front of Big Mama. She greedily drops her head down and slobbers in the first drink of the cool mountain water that pours along the metal trough. Local residents must have found a spring they could tap to provide everyone in the village, including the livestock, with a fresh drink any time they wanted it. Very thoughtful. Elfego’s talking with a man who has appeared from out of an adobe to our front. I move closer to hear what they say to each other. “Buck here needs treatment,” Elfego says. “He’s our best guide and strongest tracker. We need him. You can help?” The Sandia Indian walks over to where my blood brother sits. Buck’s head is down on his chest. His shoulders are pulled forward, and his arms - 293 -


rest in his lap. His leg looks bloody awful, red spots dotting the bandage I placed there. The local man stoops over my friend, reaches down and pulls Buck’s knee forward, Buck winces, but there’s no cry of pain. The Sandia man removes the plant poultice we put over the wound. He gently brushes off the remaining sticks and leaves, stares at the neat bullet hole, then looks up at me. “He’s your friend isn’t he?” he says. How he knows this is a mystery to me. Never underestimate the power of a Medicine Man, if that’s what he is. “You betcha,” I say. “He’s my blood brother. I want him walking again and soon.” “Big trouble,” he says. “Wound is clean, but there are some problems. Look, around the edges of the wound, dark purple color. Bad. Soul force does not reach there. Must make soul force circulate. Heat. We treat Buck now. Help me carry him inside.” I reach down and grab Buck under the shoulder blades. I put his right arm over my back and Buck hobbles along on his one good leg. The Indian steps in and supports Buck on the other side. We move toward a building that sits next to the mission. Must be their idea of a hospital. Inside it’s cool. Walls must be three feet thick. Clever idea to build it this way. We lay Buck on a crude bed made of poplar branches and straw. Buck lets out a mighty grunt when he finally gets into a lying down position. “You think there’s hope of his keeping his leg?” I say. “Not much,” says the Indian. “Must use heat. Stir up life source. Cause life source to flow. We have medicine, powerful medicine to help cure, but your friend must want to live.” Buck awakes long enough to look long and hard at the Indian who stands over him. “I want to live,” he says. “No doubt about that. I’m going home to Texas soon. I’ll see my wife and family on the Kiowa reservation.” He slumps back down and in a second his eyes close and he’s sleeping. This trek has been rough on him, but he never complains. That’s something I’ll always remember about my friend. - 294 -

Sid Hoskins

“Let him sleep,” says the Indian. “We’ll make another poultice to draw out the poison. You stay?” “I’ll stay,” I say. **** I stand in the doorway of the adobe house and look out at where the horses, including Big Mama, stand in the noontime sun. It’s been decided that Elfego will take his prisoners to Bernalillo and deliver them to the town sheriff there. I’ll join him when Buck is well, or at least out of danger. Anyway the trial of Garcia can’t begin very soon. There’ll be evidence to gather and witnesses to interrogate. Elfego will have to stay in Bernalillo until the trial ends. After all, he’s the one who brought Garcia in, and he’ll be the one to testify about the entire process of his capture. I’ve kept distinct notes all the way, and my written journal, as you, the reader knows, may be helpful. I’ll have to be there to testify also. And Yolanda is at home near Bernalillo waiting for me. That thought causes certain parts of me to stir. **** It’s a small room I’m in with Buck. Exposed tree trunk rafters, roughly hewn, support the red tile roof. Small windows let in some light, but there’s not enough daylight to read by, even at noon. The floor is dirt, and it’s been swept with what looks like a bunch of branches tied together. The air is foul in here. Smells like cooking, and sometimes I get a whiff of wound smell, the sour smell of a Buck’s leg putrefying. That smell causes me to walk over to where Buck lies sleeping. I look down on him. It’s near midafternoon and my Indian friend has been asleep only a couple of hours. There’s movement under Buck’s eyelids. His eyeballs must be acting out a dream. I’ve never seen him like this. He usually sleeps much like he lives, quietly. Just now his body twitches, and I read this as an indication of the pain he must be feeling but would never express openly. He’s quite a man. A tear drops onto my cheek, and I know I’m feeling sincerely about his predicament. - 295 -


An Indian I’ve never seen before enters the room. He’s wearing a black hood topped with what looks like yucca spears joined into an arc above his head. There’s a rattlesnake pattern at the top and a series of blue dots appear on the surrounding “picket fence” like corona. Obviously I can’t see his face, but I hear his voice, deep and warming. “Your friend is from a far away tribe,” he says. “Yes, his family is Kiowa. Lives near Denton, Texas on a reservation. I’ve been there,” I say. “You are a good friend,” he says. “We are blood brothers,” I say. The Medicine Man looks down at Buck’s leg. “Not good,” he says. “May be already a part of him dies.” “I know. Gangrene maybe,” I say. “Don’t know “gangrene,” he says. “Only know gunshot wounds can be deadly, even if the bullet passes through the flesh.” “Can we do something?” I say. “This evening. I am “gaan” Medicine Man. The leader of the Tiwa asked me to come. I bring with me mountain “gaans.” We perform rite for your friend. Know he helped capture Garcia.” The man pulls out a long stick shaped in the image of a rattlesnake. Twin pieces of flappy leather extend from the serpent’s mouth, and as the Medicine Man shakes the stick, there’s a rattling sound just like a real snake with a forked tongue. He dances around Buck’s bed, makes a sign with his magic wand directly over the inert form of my friend. His voice chants something like “Hroom, home, hum, haroom” and he dances on one foot and then the other. I look at Buck’s eyelids and there no longer is a flutter of eyeballs under them. His body relaxes, and he breathes more normally now. How could this Medicine Man cause this response in my seriously wounded friend? Maybe there is something in the stories about medicine men curing patients. After all, they’ve been doing this for several thousand years. ****

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I move my horse to a stable, give her plenty of hay and water, and rub her down with a willow branch, then say goodnight to her. She looks happy. Her ears twist forward at the sound of the stable door opening, and I look back over my shoulder. It’s the Medicine Man. He’s in full regalia, black hood in place, red-orange wrap-around blanket covering the bottom half of his body and a short pointed sword in each hand. He looks at me, motions with one of the swords, and I get the message. The exorcism of my friend’s wound is about to begin. I chuck a handful of oats into Big Mama’s feed trough and pat her on the head as I move out of the stall. The Medicine Man’s no longer at the entrance, but I know where to go. As I close the stable door, I see the place where the ceremony will be held. Off to the left of the mission building is a bonfire, not a large one, but a bright flame that draws me to it. Now I know what a moth feels like. As I draw closer, I can make out a circle of seated Indians, women, men, children, all with yellow headbands. The Medicine Man is straight across from me. He’s on his knees and motioning with upraised hands. Four black hooded dancers are in the center of the ring, and Buck lies on his straw bed in the middle. I watch as the Gaan-clad dancers begin their movements. Two adult Indian men, kneeling on a mat, beat out a rhythm with green yard-long bough sticks. The smell of the fire pleases me. It’s been a long time since I’ve inhaled the aroma of a fire of cedar strips and fragrant balsam. Maybe that’s part of the cure. Buck doesn’t seem to mind the attention. He’s still asleep, but I note that he sleeps peacefully even though he’s close to the fire, and I’m sure he feels the heat. That too may be part of the cure. The Gaan dancers now begin in earnest. The headdress each wears is a marvel of construction. Looks like a skewer of pine cones and juniper corms stuck on two spikes extending from their head directly above their ears. Their faces are hidden by the black hoods. Only torn holes, where the eyes should be, reveal darting black pupils and touches of white. There is a real person under the hood even though it’s hard to imagine. The four men rotate themselves around Buck, always keeping their bodies turning in an ever tightening movement as they throw their arms skyward, swords jabbing in the air as if to send Buck’s aches and pains - 297 -


upward. The rhythm of the mat beaters takes a new beat, and I assume this is planned, because the dancers pick up the new rhythm and alter their dancing turns. Off in the distance I can make out the moonlit peak of Lone Mountain. Must be more than 7000 feet high. I’m getting quite good at estimating heights. Buck taught me everything I know, and now he lies helpless on his bed of pain in the middle of a ritual that’s supposed to cure him. I feel something on my shoulder, and I look down. I jump nearly out of my skin. Yolanda’s standing next to me. “Where did you come from?” I say. “Elfego stopped by our place. Said you were here. Doc Maddox came by and picked me up. Elfego sent Maddox to help Buck,” she says. Next to Yolanda is a man in a black suit, black boots, black hat and with a small black bag in his hand. He looks over at me, and our eyes meet for the first time. “That your friend out there?” he says. “That’s Buck,” I say. “When can I get my hands on him?” “Right after the tribe gets through with him.” “Never did understand their methods.” “Neither do I,” I say. “But I’ve seen how much Buck relaxes when they’re around him. They have him close to the fire, and he needs heat to help his circulation. Worried though. Gangrene maybe. You a surgeon?” “Yep. I’ve had to cut many a man’s leg off to save the body. But let’s take a look first. If it’s a clean wound, may need only cauterizing.” The doctor shifts his bag to his other hand and looks toward the place where Buck rests. I feel my woman’s arm go around my waist. Yolanda presses her body into mine. I drop my arm over her shoulder and draw her to me. The touch of her breasts against my side reminds me of that moment a few days ago when we were about to spend the night under her blankets together. “You feel good next to me,” I say. “Father says it’s all right if we see each other,” she says. “He’s not going to blow my head off?” - 298 -

Sid Hoskins

“Told him about you, how brave you are, how you write for a living, how educated you are, how true you are to your friends. He likes that in you.” I pull Yolanda around in front of me and draw her body toward mine, her breasts now pressing against my chest, both my arms wrapping around her. I give her a bear hug. “My, aren’t we feeling loving?” she says. “Missed you.” “Kiss me,” she says. I drop my head down to her, and our lips join. Always did like this kind of moment when two sets of lips lock together in an exchange of quivering movement. My lips press hard against hers, and she returns the pressure. Anything could be happening in the world at this moment, and I wouldn’t know about it. Vaguely I hear a beat, beat, beat against a reed mat and there’s the dim sound of Indian voices chanting. **** Buck has been moved back to the adobe building where he rested before. He’s definitely awake now and knows the doctor from Bernalillo is with him. He looks up at Doc Maddox. “Feel better, Doc,” he says. “Don’t mind what you do. Only don’t take off my leg. I’d rather die first.” Maddox leans over Buck, looks back at the fire that blazes in the center of the room, the smoke escaping through a cone-shaped roof hole that’s black with soot. The doctor changes his body position, so he can get some light on Buck’s wound. He gets close to my friend’s leg, pulls off the poultice covering the wound, then uses some cotton to wipe away the ooze and pieces of straw. He takes a bottle out of his black bag, opens it and dumps some clear liquid onto a large cotton swab. “Just some alcohol,” he says. “I’ve got to clean this wound up, so I can tell what’s happening.” I move closer but make sure I don’t block his light from the fire. The fumes from the alcohol reach my nose, and I shake my head. I feel Yolanda at my elbow. She’s interested also in what the doctor is about to do. - 299 -


Maddox wipes at the bullet wound. He’s really thorough, and I like that in a doctor. Buck doesn’t utter a sound, but I notice there’s movement of his eyes under his closed lids. His hands open and close which tells me he’s feeling the pain of the doctor’s examination. “Clean wound,” the doctor says. “Only needs a touch of a branding iron to make it heal. Got one with me. Thought this might be the right treatment. You set it in the fire, Blunt, near the center of the flames. Need it good and hot for this.”

- 300 -

Sid Hoskins

Chapter Thirty The Medicine Man’s in the room now. He looks at the doctor, then at Buck’s leg, but there’s no facial expression. It’s as if he knows exactly what is going to happen and how it’s going to come out. I wish I had that confidence. The smell of the iron in the fire brings back memories to me of countless campfires on the open range, of food cooking in a metal kettle over the open flames, cowboys branding calves. Buck is usually there in my memories. He’s been the greatest friend a man could have. We’ve been through scrapes that would have daunted a lesser soul. I wonder what he’s thinking now. For once his eyes are open, and his orbs stare up at Doctor Maddox, then he looks at me. “He’s going to brand me?” he says. “Expect so.” “Tell me when he’s ready.” Buck falls back into a sleep, and it’s the best thing for him. No need to give him whiskey to dull the pain. He’s been toughened by the years of his existence. Somehow he can project himself into another part of the room when there is great pain to be felt. He weathers it in a ceremonial fashion, and that’s why I’m glad the Medicine Man is here. The Indian Medicine Man sees Doc Maddox step over to the fire and grab the branding iron. With circular moves the Medicine Man begins a dance around Buck, using the bells tied to his ankles to emphasize each beat of his step. He’s wearing one of those black woolen hoods with two holes for his eyes, and in each hand is a short sword. He jabs the weapons into the air as if he alone were excising the bad tissue of the wound in Buck’s leg. His headdress flops back and forth as he moves, the upright spikes wobbling in rhythm with the Medicine Man’s body. A chant like, “Hmmmm, hmmmm, hmmmmm, issues from his mouth. Other Indians in the room take up the chant, and suddenly my ears are full of noise. Doc Maddox holds the branding iron close to his face. The tip of the iron glows red, almost white hot. Maddox moves toward Buck, and I step closer - 301 -


to observe this medical procedure, so I can write about it later for the people back east. Buck’s leg has been prepared. The doctor has applied a salve to the wound, same thing they do for a cow or horse before branding. I whisper. “Buck. It’s time,” I say. The Indian opens one eye, but there’s nothing there. The eye stares up, but the body is somewhere else. He closes his eye, and I begin to hope and pray that he can come back into his body after the doctor finishes with his leg. Maddox brings the iron closer to Buck, and as he does so, flicks of light escape from the tip, kind of like a sparkler on the Fourth of July. It’s really hot, maybe so hot that Buck won’t feel it until after it’s over. The doctor reaches Buck, stops, drops his arm that holds the poker, and with a short touch, puts the burning iron on the place where Garcia’s bullet entered Buck’s leg. A tiny peel of smoke issues from the wound, and suddenly a smell reaches my nose, the smell of human flesh burning. I’ll never forget that scent as long as I live. Only once before have I been exposed to such an odor. I covered an apartment fire in New York City a few years ago, and some people were burned to death. It’s almost a sweet smell, but not quite. Doesn’t smell like death. Buck’s mortal body reacts, and his leg twitches, his stomach rises up rapidly and there’s an acceleration of his breathing. His eyes are still closed, but beneath the eyelids there is movement, rapid movement. The Medicine Man continues his dance with vocal accompaniment and swords moving in rhythm with his body. The others pick up the beat, and once again the room is filled with primitive sound, all syncopated to the movements of the Medicine Man. Doc Maddox has the now cooling poker in his right hand, and he holds it off to one side as he moves his face closer to Buck’s wound. His eyes move rapidly back and forth as he observes the place where the branding iron touched Buck’s wound. The doctor lifts his head, looks at me and smiles. “Got all the old dead tissue out of there,” he says. “No sign of gangrene. We must wait now to see how Buck took the cauterizing.” - 302 -

Sid Hoskins

The medical man walks to the fire, puts the metal poker back into the flames and twists the handle around so the full force of the fire is on the tip. “Never know when we might have to use this again,” he says. “Better keep it hot.” Yolanda watches the doctor as he moves to a deerskin covered chair and sits down, folds his arms on his chest and closes his eyes. “I’ve never seen anything like that before,” she says. “Quite an experience,” I say. “That smell will be with me always.” “Buck is one tough Indian,” Yolanda says. “Not a peep out of him.” “He’s quite a man. I have a theory about his strength,” I say. “I think he detaches himself from his body and doesn’t feel the pain. Hope his soul finds its way back inside him.” “I’ve heard the same thing from my Indian friends,” Yolanda says. “Tried it once. Really concentrated. Didn’t work for me.” I stretch my arm out around her shoulders, and she relaxes. Her body fits tightly to mine, and I can feel a push from within her. I think the girl loves me, but maybe for the wrong reasons. Just what is puppy love? Her head tilts up to me. “Will we leave here soon?” she says. “Just as soon as Buck gets healthy,” I say. “Need him at the trial. He’ll have a lot to say about Garcia.” Yolanda puts her head on my chest. “Let’s find a place where we can be alone,” she says. “I agree,” I say. “Many things need to be talked about.” She grabs my hand and pulls me toward the door. I stop, her hand still holding tightly to mine and pulling. I look over at Buck. His eyelids open slightly revealing his twitching eyeballs underneath. Never saw him twitch like that before. Something is going on inside of him that I don’t know about. Then he relaxes and his eyelids close. He’s fallen into a deep sleep. **** A solitary tepee stands off to one side of the building where Buck lies. It’s a large one, big enough for an entire family. The pieced-together skin - 303 -


covering, reminds me of the tepees I saw at Buck’s Kiowa reservation near Denton. Similar patterns adorn the outside, hunting depicted in reds and blues, stampeding buffalo running away from lance-bearing Indians. I can almost hear the whoops and hollers of the hunters. It’s a neat idea to decorate one’s living quarters with such exciting action. Yolanda pulls me harder. She is determined about something, and the entrance to the tepee draws nearer. Suddenly we are at the opening, and I’m being pushed through to a darkened interior. Only the starlight that enters from the smoke hole above creates a dim glow on the inside. I’m being pushed down on a flat object. I feel around my body, and there are furs there. They smell, too. Must have been a bear that gave up his life for this comfort. Yolanda’s beside me. Her arms encircle me, and I can feel the warmth of her entire body as she clings to me. Her mouth is on mine, and the taste of her lips are salty. She reaches down the length of me and pulls my hand up to her breasts. I can feel her hardened nipples through the cotton blouse she wears. We continue kissing, my arms now actively engaging her, hugging her closer to me. Something incredible happens. I can feel a part of me grow tense, and I press my groin against her groin. This is a moment we’ve waited for. This is the moment we missed back at our last campground together, when I ended up chasing Garcia for the last time. My heart’s pounding, and there’s a buzzing in my head. No, it’s more like a voice calling. It’s calling, “Yolanda. Yolanda. Where are you?” It’s a deep sounding voice, and there’s a hint of tremor in the sound. I stop kissing Yolanda, pull my head away and stick my ears out to one side. There it is again. “Yolanda, Yolanda. Where are you my daughter?” Good Lord! I jump up leaving Yolanda on the fur-covered bed. My delicate condition feels obvious to me as a part of me presses hard against the buttoned-up fly area of my trousers. The father-like voice sounds again, and it’s nearer. I can tell it’s headed toward our hideaway. Yolanda’s up now. I can barely make out her figure as she steps to the opening in the tepee. She puts one foot outside, and suddenly there’s a verbal confrontation. - 304 -

Sid Hoskins

“What are you doing in there?” the male voice sounds. “Oh, father. How did you find me?” Yolanda says. “Never mind how I found you. Who’s in there? Is it that Nolo fellow?” I shiver. My brain is telling my body to relax, but there is no relaxing of the tension at my groin. If Yolanda’s father sees me like this, he’ll know what we were about to do in the tepee. Finally I get control of my organs, take a deep breath and step through the skin-covered tepee opening. “I am here, sir,” I say. “I love your daughter and wish to marry her.” The older man moves to stand directly in front of me. His hand holds a sizeable shotgun with two barrels, cocked I think. At least he’s pointing the business end at the ground and not at my body. His eyes look me over. I feel like a horse at an auction. Maybe he’ll want to see if I have all my teeth. “Just keep your temper, sir,” I say. “For God’s sake, don’t shoot. I’m an honorable man, and I have done nothing with your daughter that any other lover might have done. We’ve only kissed, sir.” The man pushes his gray, high-crowned cowboy hat back on his head. A few strands of black hair drop over his eyes, his dark eyebrows raise in a questioning gesture, a moustache above his lip twitches, giving an ominous gesture to his words. “You damn right you’re going to marry her. This here double action “rabbit snuffer” will be enough to get you down the aisle. Loaded with buckshot. Close up, could cause a mighty bad wound, especially around your groin. Something like what happened to your Indian friend back there in the adobe.” I’m shaking a lot, like the aspen tree that grows just beyond where the wind-whipped tepee stands. Never have I been so afraid. I chance a look at Yolanda. Good Lord. She’s laughing! Did she plan this whole thing? I gather myself within me, stand up straight and move to one side, away from the father’s direct stare. I step over next to Yolanda and grab her hand. This way I’m at least sure the father won’t suddenly bang away with his shotgun and chance any shrapnel injuring his daughter. “I love this woman,” I say. “We’d like to be married. We were just about to discuss this in the tepee when you arrived.” - 305 -


The man uncocks the gun, breaks it in the middle, takes out the two cartridges, returns them to a bag that hangs over his shoulder, and then snaps the gun together. Thank God there are no shells in his weapon now. That’ll make our discussion calmer. “Knew you’d see it my way,” he says. “Yolanda wanted me to help her get a confession out of you. Sure worked.” He smiles broadly, the early moonlight reflecting off his dark-skinned face, highlights appearing under both his eyes, wrinkles forming on his forehead. He extends his right hand while still holding his double-barreled gun in the crook of his left arm. “Shake?” he says. It takes me a moment to grasp what is happening, but then I reach out to him and take his hand in mine. His grip is strong, much stronger than I would have thought. We continue to shake hands, I not wanting to be the first one to let go. Finally there is a mutual parting of our hands. “Remember you from before,” he says. “You seemed right nice then. Let Yolanda go on the trip with you and Elfego. Knew there might be some sparks. Gave you my best warning.” The corners of his lips move upward and he makes a hearty guffaw as he throws back his head, the shotgun barrel looming up at me in this action. I move to one side even though I know it’s unloaded. I begin to believe I’m the victim of a conspiracy. I look at Yolanda. She’s still smiling, but as she sees my expression of anger, her mouth shrinks back to its normal appearance. “You knew this?” I say. “You knew your father would come?” “Well, yes,” she says. “Father wouldn’t let me come see you unless he could come along later.” Again she smiles, a broad opening of her lips with her teeth reflecting the bright moonlight, the corners of her mouth rising in little curls. “You will marry me, won’t you?” she says. I think about that, look at her father who stands with his shotgun hanging over his crooked arm. Wouldn’t be hard for him to throw in two shells and click the piece together. - 306 -

Sid Hoskins

“Of course I’ll marry you, Yolanda,” I say. “We’ll have to leave Buck here and head toward Bernalillo. I want to know what’s happened to Garcia.” **** The farmhouse looks exactly the same as it did when we left here a month ago. The shade trees still guard the entrance and the piles of leaves on the ground attest to the hearty winds that blow in this part of New Mexico territory. Must have been some gully washers while I was gone. Still a lot of water pooled up in tiny lakes all over the acres where Yolanda’s father does his farming. Wonder how that surface water affects the plow behind the oxen? Someone’s standing in the doorway as the three of us approach. From the outline I have to guess it’s Elfego. As we come closer, it appears he’s just had a good meal. His stomach extends out over his belt buckle, and there’s a contented look about him. He eyes us as we draw near. “How’s Buck?” he says, his hand plowing through his hair to smooth it out. “Cauterized,” I say. “Peaceful. Thanks for sending Doc Maddox. Saved Buck’s life, and his leg, I think.” “Glad to do it,” he says. “Garcia and the railroad man are in the local jail. They’re behind strong bars. I inspected the cell myself to be sure it would hold. Townspeople are up in arms.” “Break him out of jail?” I say. “It’s possible. Have to get over there. You come too?” he says. Although it’s been a long ride from Sandia Mission, I know I have to write the story of my life, and this may be its conclusion. I take off my hat, slap it against my knee and refit it to my head. I look at Yolanda. “Sorry, dear. I must go,” I say. “I know,” she says. “Hurry back. I’ll be waiting. So will father.” I grimace. There’s that threat again. The ever-present shotgun message. It’s wearing very thin, I think. I dismount and lead my horse to a water trough that stands to one side of the farmhouse. All the residents of Bernalillo have their own water wells. Yolanda’s father has gone one step farther. He has a hand pump at the upper - 307 -


end of a piece of curve-shaped roofing. A flat plate of tin has been fitted at the end to keep the slightly sloping trough from spilling all its contents out. Big Mama’s thirsty, and she drops her muzzle into the water and begins her silent intake of the precious liquid. I like the way horses absorb the water. Doesn’t look like they’re even drinking. Suddenly, though, the water level goes down and it becomes apparent that these animals can take in large draughts of water with each nuzzle of their slightly open mouths. I can see the refreshment on Big Mama’s face. She depends on me to get her to water, and I never let her down. The horse raises her head, snorts and sprays moisture all over me. Doesn’t feel too bad. I’ve been in the saddle on a dust-laden trail long enough. I wipe my face with my red neckerchief, grab Big Mama’s reins and lead her away from the trough. She pulls like she wants more water, but I pull harder and she follows. Have to remember to get her another drink in town. “That horse had enough?” Elfego says. “Never saw an animal that liked water more. Come on Nolo. We’ve got work to do.” I wave at Yolanda and cast an eye toward her father. He’s standing there with his shotgun across his right arm, broken. I think I’ll always remember him like that. I’m in the saddle now, and Elfego and I ride between the tall sycamores and down the dusty path that leads away from Yolanda’s house. **** Elfego’s right. The townspeople are aroused. Up ahead is the city jail, bars on the windows and chairs lining the raised boardwalk. Always did amaze me to see the false front on a jail. What earthly purpose could it serve? I think these people must have seen a picture of another western town somewhere and thought they had to build their town the same way. Elfego pulls up his horse in front of the jail and in a flash he dismounts, then motions for me to join him. I’m not sure I want to leave my horse where there may be crowd reaction, but if Elfego leaves his stallion here, I can leave Big Mama. I know she’s not in estrus, so there’s no danger of her being left next to a male horse. - 308 -

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When I get off her back, she turns her head around at me and snorts as if to remind me that she still needs water. In front of her is a trough, but there’s not a drop of liquid in it. I walk to the pump, prime it with some water I carry in my backpack and push the handle up and down a few times. Soon there’s a flow, and I see Big Mama’s mouth drop down to receive the fresh bounty. She really was thirsty. Elfego’s already entered the sheriff’s office, and I stand on the wooden raised walkway and look out over the town. A few people, two or three, stand across from me on the mud-rutted dirt roadway. They appear to be chatting among themselves, but they look over at me, and I get the feeling they’re waiting for others to join them. I think Elfego must have been knowledgeable about the true feelings of the townspeople. I step toward the door as I look back over my shoulder. Now there are several more people standing with the others, maybe six altogether. The men carry rifles. The door swings closed behind me, and I’m standing in a room that’s seen a lot of wear. A roughly hewn desk sits off to one side, an empty chair behind it. Against the wall are some file drawers that must hold the secrets of the ages, at least the last ten years in the history of Bernalillo. To my front are the cages, the jail cells that also have seen much wear. It’s evident that the bars were painted at one time, but now the shiny metal shows through, as if a thousand hands had wiped them clean. Elfego stands talking to a sheriff, his badge hanging atop over his left breast. Look’s like the thing might fall off at any moment. But the hefty-handled pistol in his holster says it all. This man’s ready for a fight. “You think they’ll try anything?” Elfego says. “Been steaming up. Small crowd gathers every night,” the local sheriff says. I join the conversation. “Just saw a group of three grow to six across the street. Looks like they mean business,” I say. “And just who are you?” says the Bernalillo sheriff. “Oh, yeah. Elfego tells me you’re that fancy reporter from New York. Must say you look pretty good after trackin’ down that no good Garcia. Elfego here says you were - 309 -


mighty brave. Can’t rightly say as how I could agree with him, but if Elfego says it, must be true.” The sheriff reaches up and twists one end of his overgrown gray mustache, and he smiles at me. I smile back. Little does he know that I could cut his heart out with one swoop of the blade that rests in my pocket. “People want a hangin’?” I say. “More than that,” says the sheriff. “They want to hang him in a tree, piece by piece like he done that woman. Don’t blame them none. But the man deserves a trial. Then we’ll hang him.” I look over at the main cell. Garcia’s on a canvas-covered cot, his eyes closed, but his leg twitches under his pale blue jailhouse trousers. His matching shirt hasn’t seen a good ironing in years. His shoes are made of raw cowhide fashioned into a slipper, more like a sandal. I walk over to the cell and peer through the bars. Garcia opens one eye. “You know what’s happening?” I say. He twists his head around and raises it completely off the prison pillow. He stares at me, then puts his head down and turns onto his right side. I hear a grunt. “You know what that town mob would like to do to you?” I say. He rolls over on his back, throws his legs over the edge of the bunk, stands up and takes several steps toward me. I step back from the bars, at least far enough so he can’t reach me. “People want to do you like you did Red Dust’s mother,” I say. Garcia takes the remaining steps towards me, rams his arms through the bars and reaches for me, his hands making strangling motions, his face distorted, a gnarl exits from his mouth, then a growl that reminds me of a wounded animal in the forest. “I’ll find you and that Elfego fella if it takes me the rest of my life,” he says. “Don’t think your life’s going to be that long,” I say. “I hate you. Could have had all the gold. Almost got away.” “But you didn’t.” “All because of you and that Indian friend of yours, he still alive? I shot him up real good. Lead poisoning set in yet?” - 310 -

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“Buck’s on the mend. Can’t keep a good man like him down. He’ll be here to see you hang, if the townspeople don’t get you first.” “Come closer, reporter. I want to spit in your eye.” Off to the side is another cell. The railroad man with the green visor stands at the bars, his head down, his eyes downcast. Perhaps he knows what will happen to him if the crowd breaks into the jail. They might just hurry him off too, so he can share in any punishment of Garcia. I turn and stride back to where Elfego and the local sheriff talk. “So if they rush the front door, I’ll have to blast ‘em,” the Bernalillo sheriff says. “Let’s not even think about that,” says Elfego. “I’m goin’ out there to talk to ‘em. Got to get some sense in their heads about this.” Elfego pulls out his six-shooter, rolls the cylinder and puts it back in his holster. He walks to the door, opens it and steps outside. I’m right behind him and so is the local sheriff. The scene on the street has become worrisome. Where there were only six people, now there are twenty and more citizens walk towards us as I watch. I’d say a good fifty people will soon be in front of the jail. Not an easy crowd to talk down. I think some of them have been drinking by the looks of their swaying bodies. I remember the time back in Frisco when Elfego disarmed that drunken cowboy, McCarty, who was shooting up the town. That started this whole story, and this may be the end of the tale. If any man can talk people down, it’s Elfego. A pistol goes off, then another. I can see the flashes from the crowd. All somebody has to do is level out one of those six-guns, and we’d be easy meat for their shots. Elfego stands taller, his legs spread apart. He reaches up, takes off his hat and holds it in his hand at the side of his body. His eyes shine, and his head tilts upward. He’s trying to make himself as tall as he can. Now the crowd stands in front of the jail. Men are shoulder to shoulder, and there’s shouting. “Hang him. Cut him up. Put him in the same tree where he buggered the woman,” one of the protesters says. - 311 -


Elfego brings his legs together. He keeps his hat off. He motions to the crowd with his other hand. It’s a motion that says a lot, like “keep your heads on your body, and let’s talk about this.” Somebody shoves another person from behind, and the man falls forward at Elfego’s feet. My sheriff friend reaches down and helps the man to stand up. The man dusts himself off and moves back into the crowd. Elfego resumes his stance and eyes the people. I think he’s going to make a speech. “No good can come of this,” he says. “I done trailed Garcia for nearby a month. Caught him, brought him to justice. He’s goin’ to be tried. We’re men of laws.” A loud eruption comes from the crowd. “Hang him. Hang the murderin’ no-good. Let’s carve him up.” I can tell that Elfego’s mad now. He’s not worried, he’s mad. When Elfego gets mad, get out of the way; all hell can break loose. I’ve seen it happen. My friend puts his hat back on his head, pulls out his pistol, aims it at the sky and fires once. The sound of his .44 echoes over the town, never heard a gun sound so loud before. There’s silence in the crowd. “Now listen here, good people. This pistol speaks for me. I’ll shoot the first man who tries anything, and I’ve been known to be pretty accurate. This here pistol makes a little hole goin’ in, but a big one comin’ out. Who’s the first one? You there. You wanta be first?” The citizens remain quiet. I can see a general lessening of hostility, but the event is not over yet. “You know your local sheriff,” says Elfego. “I’m here to support him. He’s the law around here, and it’s his say.” Elfego turns toward the sheriff who’s standing beside him. “Sheriff, say somethin’,” he says. The local lawman waves his arms above his head as if calming the people even more. There’s a hush in the crowd. Obviously they respect this man. They elected him to his office. “Go home, people. This man, Garcia, will be tried startin’ tomorrow, down in the courthouse. You all come to the trial and behave yourselves. You know Judge Williams likes a calm courtroom. We’ll hear the charges - 312 -

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against this Garcia fellow. When he’s convicted and sentenced, then we’ll do what has to be done. Now go home. Nothin’ is goin’ to happen here. You all heard what Elfego said. You know about him. The two of us are together. Now go.” The Bernalillo sheriff makes a shooing motion with his hands and wonder of wonders, the crowd begins to separate. “You think they’ll give up,” I say to him. “They’re good people,” he says. “They’ll go home and think about it. Should be a hell of a trial starting tomorrow.” He looks toward me and winks, and then goes back into the jail office. Elfego grabs me by the shoulder. “Let’s go get a drink, Nolo,” he says. I have nothing else to do and Yolanda’s back at the ranch with her father and his shotgun. Might as well join my friend in a drink. No harm in that.

- 313 -


Chapter Thirty-One I’m sitting in Mulrooney’s Irish bar in Manhattan, New York, near the place where I grew up so many years ago. My girl friend, Joline, sits next to me on a black and white cowhide-covered bar stool. She looks great in her western garb wearing a silky shiny blouse and freshly laundered jeans, a silver buckle reflecting the dim gaslight in Mulrooney’s. If I close my eyes part way, I can imagine that I’m in Milligan’s bar with Elfego back in Frisco at the beginning of this story. That’s where this tale began many months ago. What is it about the Irish and their drinking? Elfego and I had a good time that last evening together at the saloon back in Bernalillo, New Mexico, after meeting the crowd outside the jail. It was a delicate moment and Elfego came through once again. Didn’t get tucked into the hotel bed in Bernalillo until after midnight. We were celebrating many things, such as the healing of Buck and above all, the escape from the shotgun of Yolanda’s father. Had a bad case of the whirlies the next morning. Here at Mulrooney’s in New York, I’ve ordered myself a double scotch whiskey, and I’m waiting for the bartender to bring me the drink. Joline’s having a Manhattan, perhaps in honor of this part of New York where we’re sitting. Don’t know how she learned about drinks like that, but she’s quite a heady girl, and I like being next to her and knowing that we’ll spend the night together in our hotel room up the street from here. I’ve been thinking about finishing the story you’ve been reading. Know I can’t leave you without telling you about Garcia’s trial and how it turned out. You’d be at my throat with both hands, find my place of residence and skin me alive. Haven’t had a chance to write much since leaving Bernalillo and returning to New York with Joline. The train ride was nothing special except it was bumpy. We did share seats next to each other, and there was some loud kissing that went on, as we got to know each other all over again. Thought about Yolanda, but that’s over with. I’ll tell you how it ended. Buck’s back at the reservation near Denton, and I’ll tell you about him also.

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Writing in a bar has always been my one failure. I love to just sit here, a good woman by my side, a sheet of paper in front of me and my pencil in hand. Thought I’d let you see what I’m writing, as I do it. Story’s going to appear in Frontier Magazine just as I write it. Might spill a little scotch whiskey on it to show authenticity to my editor, Tom Menace. I tilt the white sheet of paper to the right and begin my final tale. A gray-tufted vulture sits atop the ancient oak tree that grows on a hillside overlooking the small town of Bernalillo, New Mexico. The bird roosts in this tree quite often. It’s the oak where he once found the remains of a human being, a woman, cut into small pieces, and the pieces resting on the twisty limbs and branches that now are filled with leaves and acorns. There’s a rumble in the vulture’s stomach. He hasn’t had a good meal since then, only small putrefying rabbits and a dead prairie dog. Nothing seems to die anymore. At least there’s nothing like that feast in the tree when those ripening body parts began to deteriorate, and the vulture called in all his friends to partake in the gourmet meal. The vulture’s eyes look for food, preferably already dead or dying food. Maybe another human being will show up on the prairie or in town. The bird notices activity down below near the courthouse. Many of the two legged, upright animals are gathering. Surely one of them will die, and there’ll be eating to be done, all night if need be. Especially, there’s one two legged man walking toward the courthouse. He carries a notebook, and a pencil sticks out behind his ear. His hat tilts back from his forehead, and there’s an unsteadiness about him. Maybe he will be the “all night” meal. Juices in the bird’s stomach begin to flow. That reporter from New York would make a fine snack! It’s a good start I’ve made. Of course, I am the reporter, and the reason I’m unsteady on my feet, is that I drank with Elfego last night. When that man starts talking and drinking, the whiskey flows and the stories grow. Just for you, my readers, I took down every note I could, at least until I became - 315 -


too bleary- eyed to see straight. I’ll use the information I scribbled as I write the finish to my Elfego Baca tale. My eyes blur over, and I find it hard to get my head together this morning. I tried to drink Elfego under the table last night at the Bernalillo Saloon and didn’t succeed. In fact, I don’t rightly remember how much I drank, except it was extremely difficult to get myself out of the bunk this morning. The cold water in the ceramic pitcher, positioned next to my bed, helped a lot. I doused my hair and head with it and that felt good. A strong rub with a Turkish towel made me feel better. Now, I must be fresh to attend the trial of one, José Garcia, a man I’ve chased all over the valleys of this part of New Mexico. I enter the courtroom and immediately spot Elfego. He looks fresh; he’s neatly shaved and is wearing clean clothes. His hat is still on his head, his eyes sparkling. I wonder how he does it. He drank as much as I did, or more last night. He sees me and motions to me with his hand, just like back at the cave where Garcia holed up. There are hand signals that mean almost anything. This one says, come over here and sit. I’ve saved you a place just behind me. I follow his order and soon I’m in place on a rough-hewn bench in the second row behind my Mexican sheriff friend. My hands go up toward my head, and I find solace in cradling this most important part of my body in my fingers and palms. Oh, why did I overindulge last night? Just trying to be a good reporter and get the story of my career from the bravest sheriff I’ve ever known. A rap of the gavel, the sound reverberating in my skull, causes me to lift my head and stare at the judge. It is Williams, and he’s known for his badgering of witnesses and others. “This here court will come to order. Case of the people versus José Garcia is on the docket. Is the prisoner present?” The judge looks around the courtroom and his eyes finally rest on a man in chains, seated near the bailiff. Garcia raises his head and stares straight into the judge’s eyes. “Nod your head if you’re José Garcia,” the judge says. - 316 -

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Garcia continues staring at the judge, and with a slight dip of his forehead, he obeys. “Defense attorney.... Where is that scoundrel?” The judge spies a dark haired, suit-attired man sitting near the prisoner. The dark haired man raises his hand and smiles. “Now don’t try to flimflam me you buckboard chaser,” the judge says. “I’ve known you all your life, and it’s time you get down to earth.” Williams reaches up with his hand. His fingers twirl the end of his graying mustache. He extends his other hand for his eyebrows. The hair gives the appearance of being much like the mustache, bushy and gray. His hairline recedes back on his forehead, the hair combed over the top. Looks to me like the judge has pulled the old, “Let the hair grow longer on one side so I can spread it over the top where there is none to make it look like I have a full head of hair.” It doesn’t fool anyone, but it probably makes the judge feel better. I look around the courtroom crowd. Good Lord, there’s Yolanda sitting next to her father. She sees me and waves, a broad smile crossing her face, her eyes sending me a message of love. I smile back out of politeness, but there’s serious doubt in my mind about our nuptials. Don’t think I could live with the knowledge that her father’s shotgun forced me into a wedding. Hope her father doesn’t have his shotgun with him in this courtroom. Then I remember the judge’s order to check all weapons at the door. Elfego and the local sheriff were able to keep theirs because they are lawmen. The bailiff also is armed. “Where’s the prosecutor?” says the judge. “Can’t start this here trial without a prosecutor.” I hear some foot stomping on the steps just outside the entrance to the courtroom. A man appears in the doorway, stands there for a moment to catch his breath, and then strides toward a table that’s near the judge’s elevated bench. “What’s your excuse, Pendergast?” says the judge. “Wife keep you up late last night counting the china? The crowd explodes. Prosecuting attorney Pendergast looks around the room, and his cheeks grow rosy. He looks at the judge and frowns. - 317 -


“True, I’m late, but there were extenuating circumstances. I’m ready to try this case, sir.” “Well try away, man. You just got here in time to avoid a contempt of court citation, but I won’t promise the same leniency if you’re late again. Get started.” “Your honor. The prosecution will prove beyond a shadow of a doubt that José Garcia did kill two family people plus two miners and with one of them, a woman, he carved up her body and put it in an oak tree that grows on a hillside just outside of town. The body was that of a woman, a part Indian woman, identified as the mother of Red Dust. Her husband previously was murdered by this man, Garcia.” Pendergast points to the prisoner who remains with his head on his chest. “Later, on a train, as he was being brought to justice by Sheriff Baca, he did hit over the head, one Indian named Red Dust, son of the woman he cut up and put in the oak tree. Fortunately, Red Dust lives. “I will provide eye witnesses to the capture and return of Garcia to this jurisdiction.” “Anything to say, Mr. Defense Attorney?” says the judge. “Your honor. My client has instructed me to plead guilty to all the charges and throw himself on the mercy of the court. He hadn’t been feeling well when he murdered the man and his wife. Obviously he was out of his mind at the time. No one who is sane cuts up a woman’s body and puts it in a tree where the vultures can eat at their leisure. Smashing on Red Dust’s head came as a result of my client’s attempt to escape. He can’t be held responsible for that. After all, anyone who is a prisoner has the right to attempt an escape. It’s in the constitution.” Garcia looks up at the judge, his eyes glazing over. He’s pleading insanity with every muscle in his body. He widens his eyes, strains at his chains, growls, tries to stand. The bailiff reaches down and touches his shoulder. “Do I hear you right, counselor?” says the judge. “Your client admits killing these people? How about those two gold miners near Sandia Mission? That makes four. And what’s all this about a right to bash someone over the head while making an escape? Where did you go to law school?” - 318 -

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The defense attorney frowns again, straightens himself to his full five feet, looks at Garcia, then at the judge. “Your honor. My client made me say that part about the escape attempt. Said he would blow off my head if I didn’t say it. He really thinks it’s in the constitution. Didn’t want my head blown off. He’s paying me good money, or at least he says he will pay me, maybe even in gold.” “No need to try to wiggle out of it, you shameless sheepskin holder,” says the judge. “Mr. Pendergast, you have a motion?” “I do your honor. The court must find the defendant guilty as charged and let’s hang the bastard.” The judge sits for a moment without saying anything. It’s on his head now. He will be the one to find Garcia guilty or innocent. Justice in the west is swift and common sense enters into every judgment. “Seems to me the case is clear-cut. No need to bring any witnesses to be sworn. Man admits he killed four people and bashed one other in the head. Shows no remorse. “Only thing that bothers me is the insanity plea. Don’t really believe that. This here defendant evidently ran a mighty race to elude Sheriff Baca and his deputies. Read the arrest record written by Baca. Had a reporter, one Nolo Blunt, assist him in keeping records of the chase. Evidently this here reporter intends to publish a story in Frontier Magazine about it. “Seems to me that any man who could do what Garcia did, isn’t insane. He shows great sanity in his methods to avoid the law. “Thereby I find the defendant guilty as charged and to be executed by hanging at the first break of dawn tomorrow morning. Our local sheriff is in charge of carrying out the sentence. Much thanks goes to Sheriff Baca for his persistence in bringing this prisoner to justice. It’s that spirit of wanting to see justice done, that keeps America free, even here in the sometimes lawless appearing west.” The judge bangs his gavel. **** - 319 -


I’m back in the bar in New York. I know I am in Manhattan because Joline, who’s seated next to me, punches me on the arm, waking me from my creative dream. “Where have you been?” she says. “Out west,” I say. “Look at what I’ve accomplished.” I hold up several sheets of paper, all covered with my handwriting, bold strokes that show my impatience at trying to get down what’s stored in my mind. “Just finished the trial of Garcia,” I say. “I’m sleepy,” she says. “Let’s go back to the hotel. I want to make love with you.” Joline takes my arm with both her hands, pulls on me and stands up, continuing to drag me off my bar stool. Guess there’s no way I can finish my writing until I please this woman. Always has been this way. When a woman finds me charming, she grabs onto me and won’t let go. Only exception is Joline, the woman I’m with now. I had to send her away to the Kiowa reservation. But even she didn’t want to leave me in Socorro after Elfego’s trial. I gather up my papers, put my pencil behind my ear and stride along with Joline. This writing isn’t over. I’ve only just begun. You put down that broad axe you were going to use on me, and I’ll tell you the rest of the tale. Back at the hotel, I find a chance to grab my pencil again and write. Joline’s in the bathroom preparing herself for bed. Quickly I pen my tale. I want to get these pearls down on paper. **** The sound of the judge’s gavel still rings in my ears. I look over at Garcia. His head’s in his hands, and he’s bent over, straining against his chains. Seems to me all the fight has gone out of him now that he knows he will die at the first blast of daylight tomorrow morning. I feel no pity for him. He did all the killing himself and now he must pay the consequences, all by himself.

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A cool hand touches the back of my neck, and I swing around to find Yolanda standing behind me. Her father isn’t anywhere nearby, and I’m glad of that. She smiles at me. “When do we get together?” she says. “That’s a good question,” I say. “What do you mean, a good question?” “I’m angry.” “What about?” “Your father and his shotgun.” Yolanda’s smile turns to a frown. She lets her eyes drop down to the floor, and I can tell she’s thinking. “I feel like I’ve been hoodwinked,” I say. “You and your father planned the whole thing back at Sandia Mission. I didn’t do anything wrong, unless you think my thoughts were wrong.” “Yes, I feel bad about bringing father into it. Guess it’s a pretty bad error on my part. Can you forgive me, Nolo?” “No, I can’t. I truly loved you when we were together on the trail of Garcia. Everything I did was because of my love for you. But the shotgun and the entrapment in the tepee was too much for me. You are young. You’ll find a sweetheart more your age, and you can marry him.” “But, Nolo, I love you.” “I know you do, but I’m no longer in love with you. Our romance is over. Tomorrow, Garcia hangs, and then I’ll be on my way to New York to finish my story.” “Father won’t like this.” “I don’t care what your father thinks,” I say. “Let him try anything, and I’ll shoot back. I’m armed or will be when I leave this courtroom. I really would like to say goodbye to you on peaceful terms.” Yolanda moves her body close to mine and wraps her arms around my waist. She snuggles into me, and our bodies once again mold together. It does feel good, but I can’t be soft now. Joline waits for me back at the Kiowa encampment in Texas. Kat waits for me back in Socorro. I know I’ll never see Kat again, but I - 321 -


will see Joline. She’s promised to go with me to Manhattan, and we’ll live together there. I push Yolanda gently away from me. Her father is at her side now, and he seems intent on finding out the status of our romance. “You planning the wedding?” he says. “Ain’t goin’ to be any wedding,” I say. “No wedding?” he says. “No wedding, pa,” Yolanda says. She looks at her father, and he looks back at her. They exchange some information that way. What the information is, I’ll never know. “Get my shotgun,” the father says. “I’ll get my pistol,” I say. “No battle,” Yolanda says. “I couldn’t stand to lose either one of you. Father, we’re leaving. We’re going home. Nolo has things he must do here in Bernalillo. Come on.” She pulls her father by the arm, and they walk together to the door. Her father reaches for his shotgun to take it off the shelf where it’s been stored. He grabs it, breaks it in half, puts in two shells and snaps the two halves together. He swings the barrel toward me, and then lets it drop toward the floor. The last view I have of him is an angry scowl on his face. He turns and walks through the doorway, and I hear his heavy footsteps on the stairs outside. Yolanda gives me a little wave and follows after him. Guess that’s the last I’ll see of that problem. I’m sitting at a writing table near the bed where Joline now snores. I guess she got overly tired waiting for me. It’s a very ladylike noise, kind of a snort, snort now and then. Nothing loud, but I know she’s very much asleep. The gas lamp I’m using makes a flicker, and I can tell it’s almost time for me to retire. I’ll write some more tomorrow. Now I must join Joline in bed. Her warm body will feel great next to my cold bones. No more sleeping on the prairie on the hard ground for me for a while. - 322 -

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**** Morning comes, and I feel refreshed. Joline’s body curls around my backside, and I feel her breasts pushing into my spine. Her mouth must be near my neck, because I can feel her warm breath as she exhales. It’s a steady breeze that blows from her mouth, and it reminds me that the greatest thing in this world is to have a loving woman in bed with you and curled against your back. Gently I push away from her, raise the covers on my side, and put one foot down on the cold floor. Where are my slippers? Ah, yes. They’re over on the other side where I left them last night. I find them as I gingerly tiptoe across the icy hotel carpet. They’re on now, and I find my robe that’s looped over the back of the desk chair. Wool feels great against my cold body. I wrap myself up and sit down at the table I used last night to work on my story. The pencil needs sharpening, and I pull out my sharp blade I always carry for this purpose. Whack, whack, and the pencil lead again appears as a point. Now to write. **** Elfego’s waiting for me by the door of the courtroom. There’s a broad smile on his face, and his hat’s tipped back so that the tufts of hair that cover his forehead stand out, gently waving in the breeze. He’s talking with the local sheriff, and I press forward to overhear. My story’s not completely told yet. “Tomorrow morning. You’ll be ready? Need some help?” Elfego says. “Could use a pair of strong hands,” says the local sheriff. “Got me a good executioner, Strong Hands Duane.” “Strong Hands, eh,” says Elfego. He rolls his eyes and looks at me. “You get that down, young feller?” I nod my head, my pencil scribbling merrily on my pad. “Shouldn’t be any complications,” Elfego says.

- 323 -


“Don’t rightly expect any trouble,” says the town sheriff. “Most people around here think they should have strung the bastard up two nights ago. Ain’t goin’ to be no tears lost over Garcia.” There’s a stirring behind me, and I turn to see Joline sitting up in bed. “What in the world are you doing out of bed so early?” she says. “Just trying to finish this story, my dear. Almost ready for Garcia’s hanging. Give me a few more minutes, and the man will have a rope around his neck.” “Nothing doing,” she says. “Get back in this bed and show me some Western courtesy. I need assistance with a little problem I have. I’m in love with you, Nolo.” There’s not much I can say. Guess I’ll have to leave the writing until another time. When a woman wants me, there’s no delaying the action. I drop my pencil where it is, rise from the desk chair and stride toward the bed. A part of me comes to attention, and I feel that love for Joline is the only answer. I lie back down in the same place I left earlier in the morning. It’s still warm there, and before I have a chance to feel anything else, Joline’s hands find me, and I’m lost once again. Writing the end of my tale will have to wait.

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Chapter Thirty-Two My mind is now clear. It’s early morning, and there’s a mist outside, one of those New York mists that hangs heavy over the city. Sounds are exaggerated, a smell of moisture is in the air. I always hate this kind of morning, usually with a passion. I make myself feel morose when it happens, yet that’s the kind of story I must write now, a morose one about seeing a man hanged. Joline hasn’t stirred since I crawled away from her body last night after our love-making. What an appetite that woman has. How could I have thought that Kat or young Yolanda could have filled my needs as well as Joline can? At least my inner self dictated to me the right woman to bring home. She’s a woman for all seasons just as Big Mama is the horse I love. Wonder what my noble steed is doing now? I stand up and stretch while holding my arms out over my head. My body feels good to me, no aches, no pains. I feel a push within myself, and I head for the writing desk, the papers from last night drooping sadly from the heavy morning air. Left the window open when I went to bed, and this morning the breeze blew in the dewy air from outside. Pencil is here where I left it. I grab it, sit down in the hotel easy chair, lean forward and begin to write the last chapter of my story. Strangely, the air is filled with moisture this morning in Bernalillo. It’s time for my alarm clock to ring, 4:00 a.m., and I reach over to turn it off before it can make a sound. I didn’t get to bed until an hour ago, and now I’m up. Been thinking about the hanging of José Garcia, and it worries me. The final chapter of his life will be written at dawn this morning. I look out the window. Already there’s a glow over the mountain peaks to the east. Daylight will come soon, and the drama will take place. What am I doing standing around here, when I can be interviewing the prisoner for the last time? I hurry down the stairs of the hotel and rush out the front door. Already people are crowding the main street. They head for the old oak tree that guards the city from atop a knoll ahead. It’s the same tree where Garcia put the cut-up - 325 -


parts of the woman he murdered. Poetic justice. People around these parts like things like that. Comes from the Bible, an eye for an eye, etc. The jail isn’t far from the hotel, and I scoot ahead of the crowd, arriving at the carcel in good time. Lights shine through the dingy windows of the place where Garcia awaits his fate. I step up onto the boardwalk and stride toward the door. Gingerly I knock. There’s no response. Then I walk to the window and look in. A face looks out at me. It’s the local sheriff, and he nods his head up and down. I walk back to the door, and it opens for me. Elfego stands to one side, his hand at his eye. He’s rubbing his eye vigorously, and I know why. We closed down the saloon last night, and he put away a prodigious amount of liquid refreshment before I managed to get him to his hotel room. Neither of us had much sleep. He’s wearing his lucky hat, the one with all the bullet holes in it. I think he’s proud of those holes. Each one reminds him of a close encounter with a speedy bullet that missed him. Maybe he really is sainted, like the cowboys on the Slaughter Ranch believe. “Morning,” I say. The local sheriff answers me. Elfego just grunts, and tries to open his eyes wider without success. I look over at the cell that contains the man in the green visor. The mailman lies on his bunk, snoring, his chest rising and falling in rhythm to his snorts. I look back at the sheriff. “I’d like to talk to Garcia,” I say. “Go ahead. He ain’t got nothin’ to do but wait for his hanging.” I step closer to the cell bars behind which Garcia stands, his head on his chest, his body twitching in a spasm, his eyes closed. One hand hangs onto an upright metal bar, a part of the cell structure. “Ahem,” I say. Garcia opens one eye, then closes it. “Like to get some final words from you.”

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Once again Garcia opens one eye. He grunts, spits on my shoes, and turns away from the cell bars. He sits down on the edge of his cot, his body sagging into place. “Got nothin’ to say,” he says. “Want to ask you how you feel this morning,” I say. “I feel great,” he says. “Think I’ll go fishin’ in the Rio Grande. Bring me back a fine east brook trout to fry for breakfast. You join me? I’m writing rapidly, and then I get the sense of what he says. “Don’t think you’ll have time for fishing,” I say. “You’ve got another appointment to keep. Not much time left. Your words will be immortalized in the Frontier Magazine article I write. Give me something to put down.” “Damn scribbler.” He raises his head and stares directly at me. “All right,” he says. I’ll give you something you can put down in your lousy notebook. I’m scared, that’s what I am. Ain’t never died before. Don’t want to break down in front of the crowd. Know I got it comin’ to me, but I still don’t want to die. Not like that, a rope around my neck squeezin’ tight.” “You felt nothing when you murdered all those people?” I say. “They didn’t want to die either. They must have been afraid just before you shot them or stabbed them or hit them over the head.” “Ain’t the same. Thought nobody’d catch me. Then you and that sheriff got on my tail and stuck to me like fleas on a dog. Hadn’t been for you and your Indian friend, I might be livin’ it up back in Tigeux country. All that gold’s goin’ to waste now. Really sorry about that.” “José,” I say. “Did you ever love anyone and did someone ever love you?” Garcia pulls up his head turns his eyes toward me and smiles. “My mother loved me, but she died,” he says. “She died when I was born. Father raised me. Mean son of a bitch, too. Beat me, buggered me, then kicked me out when I was 15. Been on my own ever since. Never got close to another human being, except maybe you.” He grins even wider and slobbers out the side of his lips. “Let me just get close to you once, and I’ll show you what I mean,” he says. - 327 -


Garcia stands and walks slowly toward me, the wide grin still on his face. I have a choice. I can step back out of range, or I can stand next to the cell bars and take whatever punishment the man wants to give me. I remain where I am, come what may. It’s the last foolish act this murderer can perform. “So, you ain’t goin’ to move. Must have taught you something,” he says. “I’ll say you got guts. Ain’t goin’ to harm ya.” He walks to the bars where I’m standing, stretches out his hand between the metal grids, and I take his hand and hold it. He presses his body against the bars and with his free arm, he passes it around my shoulder, and I feel a pat, pat on my back. I can feel Elfego’s eyes in the back of my head. The local sheriff must be staring also. “Even though I hate your guts,” says Garcia,” I respect you as a man, and you’re the last person I’ll say this to in this life.” I put my arm through the bars and grab Garcia’s shoulder and pat him on the back. It must be quite a scene. I can feel the tension in his grip and the strength of his arm upon my shoulder. The man does have emotions, and I’m the recipient of their outward projection. I hear someone yelling from outside. “Sun’s up. Let’s hang the bastard. Let’s hang him high on the old oak tree, the one where he splattered that woman around. Come on sheriff.” Garcia’s eyes are directly opposite mine. No more than three inches separates us. I stare into his brown eyes and see fear, his pupils enlarged, white space showing underneath. A man’s soul is in his eyes and I’ve just looked deeply into the soul of one, José Garcia. Soon his soul will be making its journey elsewhere. I step back from Garcia and drop his hand from my grip. His arm falls off my shoulder. He just stands there with his head down, arms at his sides. There’s a roar of the crowd outside now. The people are speaking. It’s time for the hanging, and they don’t want to be cheated. This is a town spectacle that’s not to be missed. I look out the window and try to count the people massed just outside the jail door. When I get to ten, I estimate the others and soon come up with a hundred. - 328 -

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A strong ray of light beams through the window and makes a streak on the wood floor of the jail. The light spreads out into a triangle and the very tip of the beam strikes Garcia’s shoe. His head moves, and I can tell he’s watching the rays of sunshine creep up his pant legs. Elfego and the local sheriff have been drinking strong coffee. I smelled it as it was brewing and it gave off an acrid aroma. I guess they wanted to steel themselves for what they are about to do. Now they both put down their cups at the same time as if their actions are coordinated. The local sheriff moves toward the cell door near where Garcia stands. He unlocks the cage, the key clanking mightily as it turns the tumblers. The barred door swings open with a creaking noise and Garcia lifts his head. “Come on, José. We got a job to do,” says the local sheriff. I look over at Elfego. He has selected a Remington rifle from the rack, and as he inspects it, he cocks it, shoving a round into the chamber. He holds the rifle now in a ready position. Guess he knows there might be a last attempt at escape by the prisoner. Doesn’t do any harm to be prepared. There’s a tap on my shoulder, and I look up. Of course it’s Joline. Her hair hangs down over her brow, each golden strand making a ringlet as it twists and turns from the crown of her head. Her eyes are half closed, yet the pupils are wide, like she’s trying to wake up. She leans over my shoulder, then bends to kiss me. It’s a lingering kiss that tells me she still feels the spark from our lovemaking last night. “Got him almost to the hanging tree,” I say. “You get yourself brushed and dressed, and we’ll go out for breakfast. Know a little place around the corner that serves dollar-sized hotcakes. Delicious.” Joline kisses the top of my head and disappears into the bathroom. The door closes, and I know I’ve got a few more minutes to write. More noise outside. It’s grown to a steady roar. I hear feet stamping in the dust of the road. Some people are on the boardwalk that passes in front of the jail. Their stamping is loudest, the wooden platform resounding with each foot beat. - 329 -


I look at the local sheriff. He knows he must produce, but there’s a look of fear on his face. “Elfego, you got that rifle ready?” he says. “Might need it to get this fella to the oak tree. My executioner has everything ready out there. Mule for Garcia’s last ride is tied down to a picket line ready to greet its rider.” Elfego studies the figure of Garcia, then crosses the rifle over his chest, his finger on the trigger-housing ready to slip quickly into a firing position. The safety’s off. I notice that. The local sheriff draws his pair of handcuffs out of the pouch at the back of his belt. His hand is on Garcia’s shoulder. “Put your hands in back of you, José,” says the sheriff. “Need to handcuff you before we go outside. Don’t make a fuss, or we’ll have to hog-tie you.” Garcia looks at the sheriff. His hands are at his sides and his fingers curl like he is ready to reach for a weapon to defend himself. Only there is no weapon on his belt now. This is the end of the line. The prisoner steps back and draws his arms up and makes a fist with his right hand. He strikes out at the sheriff, who still holds him by the shoulder. Smoothly, the lawman lets the punch roll off his own shoulder and quickly he counter-punches, but not to Garcia’s head. He puts his weight behind the blow and sends it to the murderer’s mid-section. Garcia doubles over and gasps. The sheriff pushes him on his face to the floor, pulls the man’s arms behind him and fastens the handcuffs. Elfego has his rifle pointed at Garcia’s chest and his index finger now rests on the trigger. Looks to me like Garcia didn’t know how close he came to dying by gunshot, although if I had my choice, maybe I’d choose a rifle over being hanged in a tree in front of a crowd of angry citizens. I put down my pencil, stand up and look down at what I’ve just written. That’s exactly the way it happened at the end. I felt sorry for Garcia while he lay on the floor in front of me. All the stuffing went out of him as the handcuffs clicked on his wrists. I’ll remember that scene for the rest of my life. - 330 -

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I move to the bed, drop down into a lying position, close my eyes and think. My writing juices still flow, and I’m reliving the story that I write about. What next? A sleepy mood overtakes me, and soon I’m dozing. A hand touches my shoulder, and instantly I am awake. Joline stands over me. She’s dressed in her finest embroidered blouse, all bluebirds and twirling leaves. I’ve always wondered if she did the embroidery work herself. “Get up you lazy lout,” she says. “You promised me hotcakes, and I’m holding you to it. Move your body, now.” My head throbs a little, and my eyes don’t exactly want to open, but I force myself to greet the morning. Joline really means business, and I immediately drop my legs over the side of the bed and stand up. My trousers are unbuttoned, and my shirt tail hangs out. I never pay much attention to myself when I’m writing. Hurriedly I prepare myself for a venture into the outdoors, finally moving to the full-length mirror and staring at the image that reflects in it. Living in New York again has done wonders for my baggy eyes. I look like a new man, although I can tell my tanned, leathery face has become whiter and smoother. I comb my hair, and I’m ready. “Let’s go,” I say. “Times a wasting.” Joline takes my hand and together we pull ourselves through the door and into the hallway beyond. **** Always have liked little dollar sized pancakes. Never find them anymore except at the little place around the corner from this hotel. It’s partly the reason I like to choose this place to rent a room. They don’t ask questions about the relationship between Joline and me. Never do like to lie and say we’re married. I’m in the room now and looking at the writing table. Something draws me to look closer at what I’ve written, and I stare down at the sheaves of paper spread out before me. Have to write about the hanging now. What a scene that was. I sit down and pick up my pencil. I look over at Joline. She’s on the bed, her embroidered blouse draped over a nearby chair, her under - 331 -


things lacy and white. How am I ever to finish this tale with her around? Nevertheless... The sheriff pushes his prisoner in front of him and together they make their way through the oak wood door. The sound of the crowd grows in intensity as they see Garcia for the first time this morning. More shouts reach my ears, and I know this will be quite a scene. Elfego still cradles the rifle in his arms and follows along after Garcia and the local sheriff. I drop in behind Elfego, my pad and pencil at the ready. A tip of the sun makes its appearance over the crest of the mountains to the east. Morning has come and Garcia has a date with his fate. I estimate the crowd at several hundred now. There are men, women and even some children. One woman pushes a baby buggy up the hill toward the oak tree where Garcia will die. I look at the oak tree. A bird, perhaps a vulture, sits in the top branches. It looks down at me, its scrawny neck stretching full length to give the bird a better angle at viewing. I wonder how long the bird’s been there. Seems to me someone mentioned something about a vulture in this very tree when they first saw the spread-out body pieces of the dismembered victim of Garcia’s crime. It’s not a steep hill we’re climbing, but it is a steady incline that taxes my lung capacity, and I find myself breathing heavily. Our little parade reaches the top. The executioner, Strong Hands Duane, stands to one side of the tree, a black hood over his head, the eyeholes revealing the white skin that surrounds the man’s light blue orbs. Next to him stands a dark gray mule, mane of bristling hair, sagging middle, and a tail that shoots out directly behind the rump. There’s no saddle, so I assume this mule will not be carrying Garcia very far. The prisoner stares at the animal, then at the tree. Finally, he looks up at the top of the oak, and I’m sure he sees the bird looking back down at him. “Come on, Garcia,” says the local sheriff. “We ain’t got time to waste. Sun’s almost full up over the mountain and the judge said you was to be hanged at dawn. Get over next to that mule.” - 332 -

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Garcia balks. He stands rigidly, his head stretched high, his arms pulling against the restraint of the handcuffs still attached in back of him. “Ain’t goin’ to die,” he says. “Ya, have to shoot me.” The sheriff motions with his hand and several men step forward. Evidently they have been prepared for just this moment. They all wear deputy badges, and I recognize some of them. They’re good men. Strong Hands Duane has a knotted rope in his hand. He has likely tied the noose himself, thirteen turns around a “U” shaped twist of rope, the loop obviously wider than a man’s head. It’ll be fitted over Garcia’s neck, and then be cinched up tight after the prisoner is placed on the mule. And as I make notes in my book, the executioner approaches Garcia. He leads the mule and stops in front of the prisoner. “Ready for your last ride?” he says. Garcia still stands tall, even stiffer than before. Maybe he thinks if he stands erect, the men with the deputy badges won’t be able to move him. But he’s wrong. Duane slips the noose over Garcia’s neck and tightens it to fit, the rest of the rope dragging over Garcia’s shoulder, along behind on the ground. The executioner motions with his head to the men who stand ready next to Garcia. Four of them move forward, grab the prisoner by the legs and hoist him onto the mule, two other men on the other side grabbing Garcia’s right leg and centering it into position along the animal’s midsection. The men continue to hold the prisoner in position as he sits astride the mule. Now Strong Hands Duane grabs the reins of the mule and leads it to a place just under the outstretched thick branches of the oak. At this point, the oak limb is as wide around as my waist. It leads off into space and ends in smaller branches that are leafed out in buds that will someday become acorns. From behind the trunk of the oak, the executioner pulls out a tall ladder. He quickly mounts the shaky steps to the next-to-top rung. His ladder reaches to a place just below the tree limb over Garcia’s head. One of the deputies climbs the ladder now, the end of the hanging rope in his hand. He passes the rope up to Duane, and then descends rapidly to the ground. - 333 -


I look off to the east. The ball of fire that gives the world its light is in full force, its rays streaming out over the land making distinct shadows of everything in its path, especially the tree trunk in front of me. I look up at the hanging branch. The executioner has finished his rope tying, a neat bowline formed on the limb, a knot that will never slip or jam. Strong Hands knows his business. Garcia sits on the mule like a man who knows his fate has come. He stares straight ahead, his arms still twisted behind him, the shiny handcuffs in place at about his belt level, his fingers twitching rhythmically and intertwined. The executioner is off the ladder and stands now at the rear of the mule. The rope between Garcia’s neck and the overhead branch is taught, Duane having made sure of this when he tied the bowline. Suddenly, I hear a noise, a shout. Sounds like it’s coming from the center of the crowd. A man steps through and approaches Garcia on his mule. It’s Red Dust. His bandaged head is ramrod straight. The Indian looks up at the prisoner. Garcia looks down at him. “You killed my parents,” Red Dust says. Garcia just stares. “Thought I did you in back on the train,” Garcia says. “I’m made of toughness,” Red Dust says. “Want to watch you as you do the hanging dance in the air. Your feet will search for the ground, but there won’t be anything underneath you, and you’ll die.” The local sheriff walks toward the prisoner and looks up at him. Garcia looks down again. Red Dust steps back into the crowd. “You have any final words?” the sheriff says. “Anything you’d like to say to your Maker?” Garcia sneers. “Only thing I got to say is, I’ll see all of you in Hell.” He spits, and his aim is good. The spittle drops down on the sheriff’s brow and dribbles down his face. Maybe Garcia had a few more moments to live, but with the act of spitting, the sheriff raises his arm and drops it. The executioner hits the mule in the - 334 -

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rump with a short whip and the animal reacts violently, dashing forward at a gallop. There’s a long strangle sound from Garcia, and then nothing. His head twists to one side, the rope having tightened around his throat. The weight of his body has done its job, and the man is dead, his body swinging lightly from side to side, his feet high off the ground, the handcuffs still in place. A chapter ends. Garcia will no longer be able to ride through the countryside murdering people or stealing their gold. His face turns from bright red to deathly white. The vulture in the top of the tree flaps its wings and lets out a happy sound. Perhaps there’s even a smile emanating from its beak. I hear a moan coming from the direction of the body that’s on my bed. Joline lifts her head and stares at me. She evidently likes what she sees. She makes a welcome motion with her hand, and then pats the coverlet like she wants me to join her. Oh, these women and their constant needs. Looks like I’ll have to leave more writing until later. Poor old Garcia will have to swing in the early morning breeze a few hours longer.

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Epilogue Elfego and I left town the next day after the hanging, and headed for Sandia Mission. I wanted to see how Buck was doing, and my hope was he’d be ready to ride. The railroad man with the green eye shade was still in jail and nobody had brought any charges against him so the local sheriff let him go into our care. Elfego, I think, wanted to get the man back to the Indian in the rattlesnake cave. But he changed his mind at the last minute and released the man. Heard later that the railroad man found his way back to the cave, tried to steal the gold, and was finally staked out to die, this time with returning rattlesnakes biting at his eyes. We did stop at Sandia Mission, and Buck was much better. He was up and limping along with the aid of a crudely constructed one-arm crutch. I didn’t see how he’d be able to ride, but he wanted to go with me back to the Kiowa reservation near Denton. That’s where Joline was. The two of us, Buck and I, said goodbye to Elfego in Albuquerque. We headed east for Texas while my friend, the sheriff, continued on south toward Socorro. It made me unhappy, but I also said goodbye to Big Mama. I wanted her to go with Elfego and be let out to pasture in Elfego’s care. Believe me, it was a sad moment when I said goodbye to her. We spent an hour together near some birch trees, a stream wandering along behind us. Tears came to my eyes when I finally said adios and mounted a pack horse for the rest of the ride to Texas. Big Mama whinnied her goodbye. Joline was glad to see me when we finally reached the Kiowa camp. Buck was almost done-in after the long ride, but he really perked up during the last mile before we got to his home. His wife and kids were waiting for him. Somehow they knew we were on the way. I swear, the Indians know ways to communicate better than anyone in New York. I left Buck at his tepee, and rode off to the train station in Denton with Joline beside me. I told her about Kat and Yolanda. She seemed to understand the needs of this western man. I made sure she knew that nothing like lovemaking itself had taken place, and it hadn’t. Even you, the reader, knows that. - 336 -

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**** We’re in New York now. Joline and I may be married, finally, along about March of next year. She seems to like New York a lot. We’ve been horseback riding in Central Park a few times, but Joline really likes to ride the horse-drawn trolley down Broadway. She says she never thought there could be a place with such big buildings and no false fronts. I plan to write a letter to Elfego soon. I want to keep in touch with him. He’s the source for many stories. Joline and I may go out west again. This time I’ll be prepared to live out there, I think. Once the spirit of the west enters a man, he always wants to return to the open spaces where there is no confusion of the city life, no horse-drawn streetcars, no sound of construction machines, no foul air of the slaughter house. There’s only the clear breath of pure New Mexico or Texas breezes to keep a man headed in the right direction. And of course, there’s a horse named Big Mama to draw a man out west again.

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Biography of Author Sid Hoskins is a graduate of the University of Southern California and received his master's degree from California State University at Long Beach. He spent thirty-four years with the Los Angeles Unified School District and was a principal when he retired in 1984. He began his writing career at the age of fifty-seven. He has published over sixty articles and short stories and has been involved in television news work. He produced and appeared on his own cable TV show, Long Beach Forum for five years. He and his wife of fifty-seven years, Leslie, live in Long Beach, California and have two children and two grandchildren. This is his second novel to be published. The first novel is available from Amazon.com with the title, "How I Covered Sam Bass." You can reach Sid on line at [email protected] and see his art work on his website: www.home.earthlink.net/~sidskins1926/

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