Ride the Man Down, page 7
“Man comes home, probably hungry and wantin’ his supper,” Digger said, turning his attention to the currycomb in his hand. “Maybe wantin’ something more than just his supper.”
Cole turned and walked toward the water tank, dipped his bandanna in it, and tied it around his neck, cool and wet. His mind was feverish with anger and shame. Then he rolled himself a shuck, and smoked it. When he finished, he took the Winchester and walked off toward the copse of trees several hundred yards from the house. He thought he’d heard a wild turkey gobble. But mostly he just wanted to be alone, away from the cabin and the thought that Jimmy was inside with Anna. Or maybe it was just knowing that what he had wanted to do with Anna had been wrong, and he didn’t want to look into the man’s eyes whilst they sat at the supper table.
Cole stayed in the woods until the sun filtered low through the trees and threw long shadows. He heard Jimmy call from the house that supper was on but still he stayed in the woods until the sky turned a deep velvet, before he went back.
There were lights on inside the cabin. When Cole walked in, Anna and Jimmy and Joe Digger were sitting around the table, their plates scraped clean—except for Anna’s, which was barely touched. Jimmy looked up and said: “What happened ... you get lost out in them woods?”
Cole told him he thought he was onto a turkey but never got a shot at it. Jimmy said there were some wild turkeys around sometimes, but he hadn’t been able to shoot one, either. Joe Digger poured whiskey into his tin cup, drank at it, and watched Cole with his hooded, brooding eyes.
Cole ate little, and Jimmy said they could sleep on the porch if they wanted, for it looked like it might rain and the roof over the porch was well repaired and wouldn’t leak and get them wet. Anna avoided Cole’s glance as he carried his plate to the basin where she stood, drawing water into the sink from a pump.
Cole lay on the porch for a long time after they’d tossed down their sougans and watched the lightning off in the distance and heard the soft rumble of thunder. His thoughts were of earlier in the day. None of it made him feel good about himself, and for the first time in a long while he felt like he’d crossed lines and broken codes a man wasn’t allowed to do, at least not a good man.
Joe Digger mumbled in his sleep, mumbled the same names he had before when he was drunk—that of a woman and a child—and spoke of graves and saving the boy. From somewhere out in the woods an owl hooted spookily.
The coming storm, a bird of prey, a drunken killer’s nightmares, Anna inside with her husband. All of it put a coldness in Cole and reminded him that everyone was forever tied to his past, to the darkness and wandering ghosts and wounded spirits of his life. He felt the full weight of his own mortality bearing down on him so hard he could scarcely breathe. His own sleep didn’t come until long after the yellow light within the house went out.
Chapter Ten
They passed a farmhouse with some pretty good-looking horses. Pablo noticed the horses and thought to himself that maybe such a horse was exactly what he needed. He waited until they had gone for another mile or two—he couldn’t be sure exactly—but he calculated it to be far enough.
“You can let me off here,” he said.
“Here?” George said, looking around.
“Yes, my friend,” Pablo said. “This will be far enough for me.”
George hauled back on the reins and the mules’ ears pricked up and they stood shuddering in their traces. “You for certain, Mister Juárez?”
“Yes,” Pablo said.
“Well, OK. I guess you know better’n me where it is you want to get off at.”
“Sí.”
George hunched his shoulders and set the brake and watched as the old man climbed down. “Good luck to you, Mister Juárez.”
“Gracias, señor,” Pablo said.
“Maybe we’ll meet up again,” George said. “I’ll be around these parts tradin’ until I decide to go somewheres else. I get so’s after a while I like to see new places.”
“Perhaps, amigo. Who is to say what the future holds?”
“That’s right,” George said with a grin. He offered Pablo his hand, and the old man shook it with a firm grip.
Pablo waited until the black man disappeared down the road, before turning and heading back toward the farm. It would be a bold trick and one that could easily get him shot if he were to fail at it. But he needed a horse.
It took the better part of an hour to get there because of the old ache in his right hip and because he still hadn’t fully regained all of his strength. Sweat trickled down his neck and over his ribs and soaked his shirt.
The farm sat back off the road, down a lane where wagon tracks had scored the grass. He walked down that way toward the house. There were three other buildings besides the house—a chicken coop, a corncrib, and a tool shed. But what interested him most was the corral where the horses were standing, watching him, their ears up, their noses snuffling the air. One in particular caught his eye, a nice tall claybank with black stockings.
He walked up to the house, pretending not to notice the horses. There seemed no one about, but he must make sure. He removed his sombrero; the straw in the crown was frayed, and a new tear was beginning. He should have bought a new one when he and María had gone to town last, but he had been happy with the old one. He pulled the pistol and hid it behind the hat.
He knocked on the door and waited, standing, holding his hat and the pistol in his hands. In a few moments he heard footsteps from inside and then the door opened.
A man with a napkin hanging from the front of his shirt stood there, looking at him.
“Yes, what do you want?” the man asked.
“I am sorry, señor, to have to trouble you, especially at the hour of your dinner. But I could use a drink of water.”
The man looked at him, then looked beyond him to see if there was someone else with him. Then he looked back at him. He was a large man with a full head of hair the color of rust. He had a meaty face and a thick neck and round heavy shoulders.
“You lost?” the man asked. “I don’t know of any Mexicans around this part of the country. You must be lost.”
“Yes, maybe a little, señor.”
“Well, I reckon you can go on over and pump yourself up some water. But you git on down the road soon’s you’ve finished getting a drink. You understand me?”
“Sí, señor. I understand.”
The man stood there, waiting for him to retreat.
Well, now what? It had been a long time since he’d done this sort of thing. He had to give it a little thought to see exactly how he should do it. He did not want to kill anybody just to get a horse. Then he remembered that he had no bullets for the gun. The man did not look like he would just give him one of his horses if he asked. Something had to happen. He was thinking that maybe he should just pull the pistol out from behind the hat and take his chances that the man would not notice that there were no bullets in it. Then, just as he was thinking about it, he heard a woman’s voice from inside.
“Edwin, who is at the door?”
The man turned partway to look back into the room. “Just some old damn’ Mexican begging a little water,” the man said.
Well, when he turned back around, Pablo had the big Dragoon pistol aimed at his face. The man spoke half a word.
“Wha – ...?”
“Please, señor,” Pablo said, holding a finger to his lips. “Not so loud your wife will hear and come see you like this.”
The man swallowed hard and when he did, the napkin he was wearing in the front of his shirt bobbed up and down.
“I only need a horse, and a saddle. Not too much to ask in exchange for your life, eh?”
The man shook his head.
“Good,” Pablo said. “Tell her you are going to be outside for a little while and that when you are finished, you will come back in and finish your dinner. Tell her that everything is all right.”
The man swallowed again and the napkin moved again.
“Elsa, I’m going outside for a few minutes to take care of something.”
“Well, don’t be long, your dinner’ll get cold.”
The man stepped outside.
“I am going to put my pistol back under my hat in case your woman looks out. But I can get it back out again quick if I have to,” Pablo said. “You believe that I can do it?”
“Yes,” the man said.
“Good. Then let’s go pick out a horse.”
It was the claybank mare that had caught his eye earlier that he told the man he wanted. She had good conformation, and keen eyes and long legs. He liked his horses tall. She looked like she could run pretty fast.
“I will need a saddle, too.”
The man said: “They’re inside the shed. Take whichever one you want.”
They stepped inside the shed and Pablo said: “That one will do.”
The man said: “That’s my best saddle.”
“That is why I picked it,” Pablo said. “Would you please put it on that pretty mare for me.”
The man grunted as he picked up the saddle, more from disappointment, Pablo figured, than from the strain of lifting it.
“You sure must know horses,” the man said as he saddled the claybank. “This one cost me five hundred dollars.”
“Yes, I’ve always had a good eye for them,” Pablo said.
The man finished saddling the horse and led her out the gate of the corral. “Anything else you’d like to steal from me while you’re here?” he asked.
“Consider the horse a loan, señor. What is your name?”
“Edwin Black,” the man said.
“Well, Señor Edwin Black, I will see that your horse is returned to you when I have finished my business.”
He could see the look of mistrust in the man’s eyes. Well, believe what you like, señor, but I am a man of honor and will return your horse if I am still alive to do it, he thought.
The man watched with growing dejection as Pablo climbed up in the saddle and took up the reins. Pablo made the mare side-step first this way, then that. It was a well-behaved horse.
“Now, one more thing I need from you, señor.”
“What?” Edwin Black said.
“Do you have a rifle?”
“Well, what if I said I didn’t?”
“I would not believe you.”
“No, I didn’t think so.”
“Call to your woman and tell her to bring it,” Pablo said.
The man called toward the house and told the woman to bring his rifle. She appeared in the door.
“Is there something wrong?” she said, smoothing her palms against her waist.
The man seemed frustrated with her, then he said again that she should bring his rifle. She looked at Pablo, then at her husband. Then she turned and went back inside the house, and returned in a few moments, carrying the rifle. It was a heavy brass-fitted Winchester repeater.
The man started to take it from her, but Pablo said: “Here, let me see it.”
“What’s going on here, Edwin?” the woman said.
“Nothing, Elsa. Just that this man is stealing my best horse and saddle and now my rifle, that’s all.”
“What?”
“Just be quiet, OK?”
“I will also need some bullets for it,” Pablo said.
The woman looked at her husband.
“Go and get him a box of shells,” the man said.
This time she didn’t argue because of the way the man said it and looked at her as though he had no patience left for any more argument with her.
Pablo took some of the shells and loaded them into the rifle, and the rest he put in his coat pocket. Things were looking better now that he had a horse and a gun with bullets.
“Here,” he said, taking out the old Walker. “You can have this. I doubt I would ever be able to find any bullets to fit it.”
The man took the Walker and looked at it, then held it down along his leg knowing it was of no use to him.
“I will see that your horse gets returned to you as soon as I am finished with my business,” Pablo said again. “And your saddle as well.”
“What about the rifle?” the man asked.
“If I can,” Pablo said. “That’s yet to be seen.” The man looked at his wife.
Pablo walked the horse back up the trace that led to the road, and, as he went, he could hear the woman talking to the man.
“Are you going to go after him and get back your horse and saddle and gun?”
“No,” the man said. “I am going in to eat the rest of my dinner.”
“Then you are just going to let him steal from us?”
“He’s got the rifle, not me. Do you want me to get shot by my own rifle?”
“He’s just an old man,” she said.
“Maybe he is, but he looks like a man who’s done this type of thing before. Did you see how he tricked me with this old pistol that didn’t even have any bullets in it? That took some nerve. I could’ve shot him dead if I’d known. Son-of-a-bitch has some nerve!”
Pablo smiled at the words and touched heels to the mare and put her into a nice trot, memories of the old days racing through his mind, his blood afire.
Book II
Chapter Eleven
It was still raining when John Henry Cole shook loose of his bedroll the following morning and the smell of coffee coming from inside the cabin had a warming effect. But instead of going there, he went and saddled his horse, and helped Digger reload the pack animal.
“Gruesome day to set out after killers,” Digger said.
Cole didn’t reply. He worked efficiently, tying double knots and making sure the load was distributed evenly. They’d both been smart enough to carry slickers with them, but even wearing them, the rain spilled off the brims of their hats down their necks, and it didn’t take long for their boots to end up soaked.
Cole heard the cabin door open and saw Jimmy Wild Bird come out, wearing a slicker as well and carrying a long gun. Anna stood in the doorway and Cole couldn’t be sure, but he thought through the veil of rain that she tossed a glance in his direction. He had a hell of a feeling about everything, and he knew it was only going to get worse if he didn’t get the chance to talk to her again before they left. But he couldn’t see any way of that happening.
Jimmy Wild Bird came out to the corral and saddled his horse and packed the stocky little dun with supplies.
“There’s hot coffee inside, you want,” he said without making a formality out of it.
Digger said he had to visit the privy first. Cole took the opportunity to get a moment alone with Anna.
He poured himself a cup, and her presence in the room made it hard for him to get his words in line. “Have you thought more about what I said yesterday?” he asked.
“That’s all I did last night was think about it.”
“And?”
She shook her head. “I can’t give you an answer. Not yet, anyway. I talked with Jimmy last night. I told him I was unhappy.”
Cole sipped the scalding hot coffee.
“I’m not sure he understands,” she said.
“He understands,” Cole said.
“How can you be sure?”
“I saw the look in his eyes when he came out to the corral.”
“He wouldn’t talk to me about it,” she said. “Now, there is no time.”
They stood in the growing light, seeming to hold their breaths.
“I feel ashamed for what happened yesterday,” she said.
“I do, too. But I have to tell you something.”
“What?”
“If I had it to do over again, I’m not sure I wouldn’t do the same thing.”
“John Henry ....”
Cole saw Digger coming toward the house.
“I love you, Anna. You think about that while I’m gone.”
She started to say something, and Cole could see it in her eyes that there was something tearing at her heart, but then they heard Digger’s boots on the porch, and she turned her back to Cole, leaving whatever was on her mind unsaid.
Digger’s silence as he drank his coffee was unnerving. He knew what Cole was thinking and Cole didn’t like it. Cole didn’t like anything about the situation. Something had begun that couldn’t be finished, and he hated to leave unfinished business.
Then Jimmy came back to the cabin and the three of them sat there, drinking coffee, and Anna served them hoecakes and blackstrap molasses and never sat down with them, choosing instead to keep herself busy at the stove, her back turned to them.
“You-all about ready to get on the trail?” Jimmy said, as they scraped their plates clean.
“Ready when you are, Officer,” Joe Digger said. “I ain’t getting’ any richer sittin’ around here eating hoecakes.”
The Indian looked at him. “Then let’s get at it,” he said, and they stood and placed their hats on their heads from where they’d rested them upside-down by their feet, and filed out the door, except for Jimmy, who said he’d catch up with them in a minute.
Cole and Digger sat their horses and waited for him. When he came out of the house, he wore a scowl and didn’t say anything, but simply mounted up and rode out. They followed, Cole last in line. Cole tossed a look back over his shoulder and saw Anna standing in the doorway, watching them, the rain falling in a gray line, and then she stepped back into the shadows and was gone.
* * * * *
It had stopped raining by the time they rode into Shelby Flats—a sleepy little village that seemed to be big on weeds and stray dogs and not much else to recommend it. Jimmy Wild Bird said that the last killing had taken place right near there—an Osage policeman and his wife. Jimmy said a man was living there who could tell them more.
