Góshé gets down. Zastee recovers her balance.
“But,” he says.
“Down, Góshé. Now.”
“Shut up, squaws,” says the mustachioed man in the back, glancing at me and Zastee. “This ain’t none of yore business.”
Ma’cho lunges at Mustachio as I drill Gruff, dead center. Aimed uphill, so the bullet will exit through the roof rather than another passenger.
As Gruff falls, I can see my own personal Injin pulling his knife blade out of Mustachio’s chest.
I check my six. See that Zastee, gun in hand now, has it covered.
I set the cake plate on the seat next to me, not sure how I haven’t spilled it, and check Gruff for a pulse.
Meanwhile, Ma’cho wipes his knife blade on Mustachio’s shirt.
I’m checking right, then left.
Suddenly, the screams penetrate the stillness in my head.
I realize that Zastee, looking intent, still has her little blue wheel gun in hand pointing at something behind me. Her mouth is moving.
I can’t hear the words.
I drop on top of Gruff’s body, rolling so I’ll land on my back as I do, to back her up. Gun barrel scanning.
“Get clear,” she yells. “Stay clear.”
There are frightened passengers everywhere; jumping up, cowering, frozen in place, stunned into abject silence, squealing like stuck pigs and, especially, screaming.
I don’t see any threats.
“Cha’a,” says Ma’cho.
“We okay?” I ask.
“Not yet,” Ma’cho says, holding his sixgun now. “We check.”
I look around at him.
Góshé is already back there, hugging his leg. Smart enough to be quiet.
Dog boy has the cake plate clutched in a tiny hand. Cake looking tousled, but still there. How the hell did he get it? I never saw him go by.
Ma’cho’s ignoring him. Dead set on categorizing everyone in the car.
I roll onto my knees and stand. Watching my quadrant, the right side of the car. Everyone looks panicked. No one looks like a gunsel.
“We gotta go,” I say, leaning down and pulling the warm looking duster off the dead man. I grab his revolver, too. His pockets contain a shiny walnut gripped two shot hideout and money.
“Look,” says Zastee.
“What?” I look up at her.
“His boot heel.”
I look. “Exact same arrowhead. And toe tips. Just like the ones kickin’ me in the mine. This fucker’s blonde, not dark like Kabó said. Could there be two pair? Is this Angus?”
She shrugs.
“No papers on him,” she says, after rifling through his pockets. “Could be anyone.”
I look around. “Anyone know this fella’s name?”
No one volunteers.
I pull the boots off, they look to be my size.
Ma’cho’s gleaning what he can from the body in the back.
“He has these arrowhead heels,” I say, holding out the boot. “You seen his tracks before?”
He looks closely at it, turning it over in his hands. He nods and looks more carefully at the body.
After a quick once over, checking the man’s pockets, he grunts, looks up at us and says, “Hurry.”
We head out the back. Ma’cho and Góshé first.
Zastee and I walking backward, guns ready, onto the platform between cars. And across, into the mail car.
Once the door is shut and locked, Ma’cho grabs me in a hug.
“Cha’a.”
After we kiss, he asks, “Squaws okay?” Looking intently at each of us.
Half of one piece of cake is in Góshé’s mouth. He offers the plate to Ma’cho, who takes the half piece and offers the others to us gals.
Zastee wipes a bloody lip, saying, “I’m bloody fine.” She grabs one. “Chocolate’s my favorite.”
“Sorry about yore lip,” I say, chewing at mine with gusto.
“Saved my bloody life,” she says. “Damn pistol caught in this blasted shirttail.” She holds up the torn cloth.
The train is slowing.
“Are they gonna come after us?” asks Zastee.
“I got the badge and U.S. Marshall story,” I say.
Ma’cho shakes his head.
“Jump,” he says.
I look at him.
“Safer.”
“With a crazy redskin?” I say. “Away from these white eyes.”
He nods.
“You bet,” I say. “But Ten Spot and Hoss are in the livestock car.”
“Jump, too,” he says.
Ma’cho climbs the ladder. I hand Góshé up. We gals climb up after, get back to the livestock car, and open the hatch.
Ma’cho jumps down and helps the rest of us get down. He gives Zastee the duster from the guy he killed. She puts it on.
Ten Spot nickers. Hoss wags like crazy and sniffs every inch of each of our pant legs. I get Ten Spot saddled while Ma’cho hugs the boy again and talks to him.
“Güero pistol,” he says, handing it to me.
“I thought it was yore’s,” I say.
“Güero carve, give to Ma’cho.”
“Thanks.” I holster it and slip the dead guy’s gun into my saddlebags.
As the train slows to walking speed for a water tank stop, Ma’cho climbs on Tenner, takes Góshé from me, and jumps the little gelding out of the slowly moving car, leading his two horses behind. The man can do anything with horses.
Not being crazy enough to do that, I put the dead man’s duster on for protection from the brush and rocks.
Zastee and I jump and roll.
89 Cha’a: Jump
We’re on the opposite side of the train from the water tank. Zastee and I get to our feet. Hugging the side of the coaches, we sprint back down the tracks until we’re over a hill. Safe from sight.
We turn and head south. Góshé and I ride. Ma’cho, Zastee and Hoss run alongside. His horses, he tells us, are played out. Need rest. They hang close to Ten Spot.
After while I offer to switch, but Ma’cho seems determined to run as well as Zastee. And does for miles.
Ma’cho leads us to a creek, where we water down good. And breathe a sigh of relief. We fill him in on our adventures.
He’s a good listener, nodding. Grunting now and then to keep us talking.
The three horses are already out at the edge of sight, in the knee-deep grass, grazing contentedly. Hoss is on a hillock nearby, tasting the air.
“Tenner must be ecstatic to have some of his equine family back. We humans just ain’t the same.”
“Yeah, they were giving each other horsey kisses,” says Góshé.
Ma’cho grunts.
“Nuzzling,” I say.
“Nuzzly kisses,” he says.
“Who were those guys?” I ask, as we cook up a skinny rabbit that Zastee shot.
“Bounty hunters. Raton,” says Ma’cho.
“Bounty hunters?” asks Zastee. “Not that Angus bloke?”
He shows a palm. “Never see Angus. Ma’cho follow men,” he says.
“Raton?” I ask.
He nods.
“But, the arrowhead boots. Could that be Angus?”
He shrugs.
“Looking for us,” says Zastee, reaching into her shirt.
He grunts and pulls his skewer stick in, testing the rabbit leg carefully, so as not to burn his tongue. He tears into the meat like a starving man, but stops halfway and feeds the rest to Góshé. He licks his fingers.
Zastee has the wanted poster out, she passes it to Ma’cho. He reads it and says, “Brother look after you.”
“Funny he didn’t just bloody talk to me,” she says.
“Afraid?” asks Ma’cho.
“He’s the bloody assassin. I’m just a woman betrothed to a married man.”
Ma’cho nods, staring into the fire. “Boot man not dark.”
“Matching boots or same boots?” I ask.
No one has an answer for that.
“Might be Kabó’s workin’ on an assignment” I say. “Needs to stay incognito.”
Zastee looks at me. “Maybe so.”
“You don’t think that was Angus Kittridge?” I ask
He shrugs and says, “Maybe. Ma’cho talk to him before. He play innocent, scared. Not act like gang leader. Maybe have forked tongue. No way to tell.”
I nod. “Ain’t no skin off my back to kill that snake. ‘Specially if he was a Kittridge. Them fellas is bound to have no use fer us. Seemed like thankless bastards in any case.”
“Because we know,” says Ma’cho.
“Yep. We’re the only ones that know they’s still alive.”
“Hat tight,” he says, taking it off and offering it to Zastee.
He gets into his saddlebags and pull out his old hat, which is mashed from the abuse. He irons it out with his hands and sets it on his head.
“It’s comically crumpled,” I say.
“Broke in good,” he says.
“Now I’ve got two bloody ugly hats,” she says, setting Lord Jacob’s hat aside.
Góshé stops chewing long enough to say, “Thanks, Ma’cho.”
Ma’cho pats his head and grunts.
“That kid is never full,” I say.
The redskin grins. “Sign of strength,” he says.
We eat some deer jerky next. Ma’cho pulls some pemmican out of somewhere. We have it for dessert.
“Bruises?” he asks, touching my still tender cheek.
“Healing,” I say.
“Ribs?”
“Sore but healing, also.”
He grunts.
We all sleep in a huddle under the two saddle blankets and Ma’cho’s Navajo poncho, dusters on, hugging fire-warmed rocks. Close to a fair-sized cow chip fire we have lit, in no-holds-barred battle against the bracing cold.
The creek bed is but a small dip in the wide open plain. All the stream side trees are burnt to nothing but stumps. We can only pray that no one rides by and spots us.
Once the other two are asleep. Ma’cho and I prove how tough we are by opening our clothes to the frigid air. Only just enough to do the deed. Very quickly.
In the morning, my brave Injin scout and his horses are gone. It’s like his presence was a dream.
I wait, anxious, all day for his return. Can’t sit still. I walk a while, touring the countryside.
Circling camp when I return, restless.
Meanwhile, Góshé and Zastee go for a hike down the creek.
Hoss guards us all. Her senses are much better suited to the job. She and Tenner stay together, no doubt missing the other animals.
We play cards, I lose due to lack of concentration.
They decide to have a nap.
Meanwhile, still on guard, and keeping an eye on the tumultuous sky, I pack up. I’ve just gotta move.
I lay out a rock message in our firepit so he’ll know where we’ve gone.
Glancing once again at the shadows, which are lengthening, I say, “Time to go.”
Zastee groans and rolls over, snuggling back in under her duster and cloak.
Góshé rubs his eyes and sits up. He pulls his boots on and goes out to pee.
I go over and toe her, lightly. She grunts and rolls over, eyes big.
Okay, maybe not so lightly.
“Get up, bitch. Train runs on a schedule,” I say, glaring into her bleary eyes. “Time to get movin’.”
Not sure why I’m taking it out on her.
I’m embarrassed to ask if Ma’cho’s presence was a dream. How could it have been? Am I losing my marbles?
To admit I’m not sure would be a sign of weakness.
Maybe I’m just a big pussy.
90 Cha’a: Mourning
We flag down the next train and get back aboard. We got the same scared of cannibals conductor again, so are sitting together.
I cuff Zastee to her armrest and pass out into a deep sleep.
I wake up feeling the best I have since the beatings in the cave. Head still hurts. Legs and stomach much improved. We’ll not discuss the bruised kidneys.
Half assed comfy, too, for having slept in a sitting position. And listened to the fucking clickity-clack all night. And the stops and starts for passing trains, water and the like.
I dreamt of Táági, Viking man of mystery. Sigh. Made my night.
I lean my forehead against the cold window, which helps dull the pain, and watch the wide prairie tumble slowly past. I feel much better now that we’re moving. I know Ma’cho, real or imagined, will read my sign and find us. And we’re going somewhere. Not sure where.
“We’re going to go look,” says the man in the seat in front of me. His back is to me. I can’t see his face. He’s wearing a nice-looking suit and a snappy new bowler hat over his short brown hair.
“What are they again?” asks the stringy looking man across from him.
“Dinosaur trackways in the rock,” says the first man. “Giant footprints. So, they say.”
“Such craziness,” says Stringy, waving a dismissive hand. “There’s no such thing as ancient dinosaurs. Read your Bible. The world is only six thousand years old.”
“It never hurt a man to consider a differing opinion,” says Bowler. “The missus and I are riding down for a look.”
The stringy man snorts.
Bowler turns to his wife. I can see his jaunty profile now. “La Junta is the closest stop,” he says. “We’ll debark there.”
“Of course, dear,” she says, patting his knee. “Whatever you like.”
Dinosaur footprints? Hells bells. I lay my head back to consider.
La Junta. The next stop. Spanish, too. For the junction. My lucky language.
It’s not many miles away. We could at least get off and stretch our legs. Find out more about these rumored trackways.
“Look at all the flowers,” says Góshé, sitting across from me, kicking his legs against the seat, facing the rear of the train. “I see some we could eat. Ma’cho’s been teachin’ me.”
“Been good rains here, too,” I say, peering around at the moving landscape “Hey, look. See out there? Injins.”
I say it quiet, wondering if we’re already on the reservation. Don’t think Injins are allowed off.
I don’t know exactly where we are.
There are about twenty of them. As we get closer, I see that one, no, two, are much bigger than the rest. They’re too far away to tell much more.
“Look, Ma,” says Góshé. “It’s Bigan!”
“What?” I turn to look again.
“He just raised his arm, see?”
I catch the flash. It’s so damn far away. Could be a knife or a lance head, but his forearm looks black, the rest of him white, could be an archers cuff with metal spots, but maybe it’s his socket and hook.
“That horse, it’s Magpie, Ma.”
“Fuck,” I whisper. “Could it be?”
“Ma! No way you can’t tell. I’m sure.”
Zastee wakes up, looking quizzically at us. “What?”
I yell for the conductor. Can’t take a chance that it isn’t. A different conductor shows up.
“We need to get off now, signal the engineer, stop the train.”
“We’re in the middle of nowhere. Miss,” he says. “You can get off at La Junta, it’s the next stop.”
I pull out the badge I used at the Sheriff’s office when I talked Zastee out of jail. I flash it quick, so he can’t read the embossing. It says deputy, but not marshall. Has to be marshall, I’m not sure what state we’re in, could even be Indian Territory.
“Official U.S. Marshall business,” I say. “Do it now.”
“Women aren’t…
“Special unit,” I say. “For female prisoners. Stop this goldarned contraption now.”
Zastee moves her cuffed hands just enough to catch his eye.
“Oh my. Of course. Yes, ma’am.”
The conductor pulls a cord. The train blows its whistle as I sprint
for the platform between cars. I wave my duster as hard as I can, willing the riders to see it.
But, they don’t. They move along fast, heading into a dip. Out of sight. Probably hoping the white eyes on the train don’t spot them. Damn it.
The train takes forever to stop. Zastee comes out with the fast jabbering Góshé and the paltry armful of our belongings held between her cuffed hands. I jump down before we get to a complete stop and go back to get the box car open.
I slide the door, and grab Tenner by the reins. A veteran now, he jumps right off. Hoss follows behind. Góshé is unlocking her cuffs.
“Grab my saddle and blankets and everything. I’ll be back.”
“I can run…” she says.
“Stay with Góshé, this is a sprint,” I say. “I’ll come back for you.”
I drop the duster, jump on bareback and race for the dip.
We run and bounce and jump for maybe an hour over rough ground, slowing as necessary to give Tenner a break. I really need a spare horse.
After another long, like forever, while passes, I come to a bluff.
Below, in the river bottom, I can see them. Definitely the Injins. Far off. Headed away from me. I shout and wave and shout more. Nothing.
“Shit. Gawd damn it.”
Ten Spot catches their scent, raises his head, pricks his ears and lets out a loud whinny.
Their horses hear him and perk up, turning their heads toward us.
One swivels completely around. The big rider raises his head. I have my shirt off now and am waving it over my head like crazy.
“Bigan,” I yell. It has to be him. Has to.
The rider stares, holding his left hand to an ear. He switches his hand to the reins and waves his hook in a big arc.
I breathe again, it’s the kid. My kid.
“Bigan, damn you, it’s me,” I yell, waving my arms, too.
He hoots and kicks his horse, racing toward me. He gets to the bottom of the bluff and stops. Peering up.
“Ten Spot?” he yells. “Is that you?”
“And me,” I reply. “Fucker.”
“Cha’a,” he yells, waving his hook in another big arc. “Tell me it’s Ten Spot. Magpie misses him.”
“You big dumbass, it’s me. Who else would want you?” I yell back.
He breaks into a toothy grin, yells something to his comrades, and heads for the trail up the steep slope.
Hell of a Horse Page 22