“Shit,” I say, starting to stand.
“Leave the gun on the ground,” he says.
I do.
He grabs me hard, pulling me close to his chest. My head hits a branch on the way.
“Hey,” I say, dazed.
He takes advantage and stuffs something into my open mouth, clamping his hand over it. Cloth, dirty. Disgusting.
The things you notice that waste your time.
I try to get something out, any noise. Not much happens. The damn rag keeps me from biting his hand, too. So, I struggle.
“I will kill you,” he says. “Hold fuckin’ still.”
I do.
“Don’t shoot,” he yells into the darkness around us. “I’ve got her. We’re goin’.”
Hoss comes running out, barking.
“Shut the fuckin’ dog up,” he says.
Góshé talks to her, putting his arms around her neck to hold her back.
“Babe.” The kid’s yell.
My captor swivels, pulling me with him and lets off a round toward Bigan’s voice. Bigan screams. And falls. I hear him hit the ground hard. Shit.
“Where’s the boy?” my captor asks.
I shrug. Can’t do much else.
I get a glimpse under the bush; no boy, no dog either.
“Let’s go,” he says.
We run awkwardly. I can’t do much, he has one forearm across my throat, his gun barrel tight against my side.
The last I see of Góshé, he’s lying behind a little rock, stock still. Holding tight to Hoss.
Fortunately, my captor’s looking the other way. His muscles are tight; his movements wooden. He seems to be running scared. We run quite a ways. It’s hard with him holding me tight. Awkward.
He trips, we start to fall. The gun goes off.
109 Cha’a: Dead
I wake up. It’s sunrise. What happened to the night? I’m numb with the cold. The blood under me has congealed, sticking me to the grass and dirt.
It tears away at my skin when I try to roll over. Reminding me of the oozing wound.
My hands aren't on the pressure spots any more. They’re wrapped tight around my chest under the duster, trying to hold in the heat.
“Get up, damn it,” He’s gruff. “We need to find Pepper.” He kicks me in the back with a sharp boot. I wonder if it has a silver toe tip.
I don’t know where my derringer is. I try to move to look for it. My body feels stiff like a block of wood.
I hear a shot. Táági and Zastee run up next to each other. As they pull their triggers, they step apart.
A bullet hits the rock between and behind them. His body falls on top of me.
“Are you okay?” yells Zastee.
“Say something, love.” Táági, fingering his sleeve as he walks toward me. He pokes a finger through the bullet hole.
“You okay, big guy?”
“Need a bit of darning here,” he says.
“I’m shot,” I say.
They come over, check the guy for life.
“Bigan screamed. Is he okay?”
“Diversion. He’s fine.”
We’re quiet while they check him for a pulse.
“Brain shot, bloody good work,” says Táági.
They pull the body off of me.
“There’s enough blood here for two people,” he says, as he kneels beside me. “All yours?”
“I think so.”
Zastee moves the duster aside and rips open the snaps on my shirt.
“I need my .41.”
“We’ll guard you.”
“But…”
“It will turn up,” says Zastee.
Táági pulls it aside and looks.
“Scabbed here,” he says, pushing lightly at the edges. He reaches down. “Let’s have a look at the back.”
“Wait, I’m glued to the ground. It hurts, might rip open the scab on the exit wound.”
Táági leans closer to inspect things.
“So I see,” he says. “We’ll be careful. I don’t see any bleeding at the moment from this side.”
“Fuck,” I say.
“Positive thinking?” asks Zastee.
“Shit.” I try to smile at her. “I’m tired.”
“No bloody shit,” says Táági. “You’re weak from all this blood you lost.”
“Bloody blood,” I say.
He smiles slightly, concentrating.
He’s working by my shoulder, cutting the grass blades loose with his knife. X is near my hips doing the same.
“How big is the exit wound?” he asks.
“Small,” I say. “Like the front.”
“Thank your spirits, love.”
They move closer together.
Zastee wets her kerchief from the canteen and softens the remainder, so they can roll me over.
“How do you feel, love?” asks Táági, looking at my back. He touches a few places. “Scabbed, it looks good.”
“Cold,” I say.
“Might well have saved your bloody life,” says Zastee. “This cold snap.”
“This whole bloody blood thing is a bad pun,” I say. “Where’s the others?”
“Trailing the rest,” says Táági. “Eight of them. They lit out in every direction. We didn’t know who had you.”
“Shit, where’s Góshé?”
“He hid out,” says the big guy. “Güero found him. Took him and the bloody dog with.”
“Where are the guys I shot?”
“There were two. The wolves dragged them off.”
“Wolves?”
“They were afraid of you, what?”
“Or full, waiting on digestion,” says Zastee.
“Fuck me,” I say. “I might have yelled. I did shoot. I don’t remember fear. I only remember shadowy forms.”
I look at the body. He has blonde hair. A big beard. There’s still a six-shooter clutched in his hand.
Z walks over and pries it out. She checks the loads and shoves it in her belt. Unbuckles his gunbelt, handing it to the big guy.
He straps it on over his left-handed rig, then settles the revolver back into the holster.
She finds money in a pocket and appropriates it.
“Fortunately,” says Táági. “Z spotted him. I was just out of sight. The bloke was about to shoot you dead.”
“She, you?” I say, looking at her. “Zastee? You saved my life?”
“Hard to believe, what?” she says, grinning.
“No, I named you Zastee,” I say. “I was mistaken about exactly who you would kill.”
She nods.
“Shit. I must be feverish,” I say, confabulated. “I’m hallucinatin’. I know damn well you plan to shoot me first chance you get.”
She grins. “That’s for bloody sure.”
“Thank you for saving me,” I say, holding out a numb hand.
She squeezes it.
“Blimey, your cold. We’re off to get cow chips,” she says. “Before you freeze completely.”
“Bloody hypothermia,” says Táági.
“Can’t one of you stay?” I ask. “Might be more shooters around. I couldn’t move my trigger finger with any speed if I had my peashooter.”
I move the digits, slow is all I’ve got. They’re just too cold.
“We’ll not get out of sight,” says Táági.
“God damn, you two sound alike,” I say, curling up tighter.
Táági grins and takes off his poncho. He lays it over me. And kisses me with hot lips.
“Bloody hell, you are cold,” he says, tucking at my covers. “You need to keep track that the bleeding doesn’t resume. Once we’ve got fuel, we can cuddle with you, get the heating jump started.”
Zastee pulls off her duster and lays it over me, too. She holds her hands on my cheeks for a bit.
“They’re hot,” I say.
“Only by comparison,” she says.
They trot off, double time.
I look up and watch the lightening s
ky, waiting for the sun to crest the hills. Heat me, sun gods. Please.
The fire is quick to take off with good dry tinder and actual matches.
The confer and both undress.
“No guard?”
“If you die, love…” he says, shrugging. “Hypothermia is quick, cuddling is the surest cure.”
Within minutes Táági, being the larger, is naked and spooning behind me. The blaze is in front of us.
Zastee slides in in front of me. Naked, too. She has a body to match her face. A tightly strung runners body, slim and muscular.
Hey, I notice things. Doesn’t mean anything.
“You feel hot,” I say.
“You’re a bloody ice cube,” she says.
Táági wraps an arm over both of us.
I shiver. And sleep.
Once the fire is hot, Z gets up, opening the blankets on that side, so the reflective heat can get in.
Then, sits down next to us once she has coffee made.
Táági sits. I sit in his lap. She puts the poncho over both of us. And cuddles as close as she can, holding my free hand and rubbing my arm under the thick poncho.
“Best coffee I ever had,” I say, treasuring each sip. “It feels like hot lava going down.”
I start to feel human again, laying down to rest, with Táági still in attendance.
Z works on breakfast.
We eat, and lay back into the three-human sandwich. I sleep.
The smoke from the blaze draws the guys. I hear a whoop and open my eyes to watch.
Güero and Góshé, on Ten Spot, and Bigan, on Magpie, show up on the skyline.
Hoss is trailing along behind them.
Ma’cho, riding War Chief, comes in from the other direction. They meet on a ridge about a mile from us and ride in together.
“We got all but one,” says Güero, stomping his boots.
“Arrowhead,” says Ma’cho.
“How many arrowhead boots are there?” I ask.
Ma’cho shrugs.
They each, in turn, gawk at my wound; keeping their diagnoses to themselves. I see glances exchanged.
“Could be internal bleeding,” I say. “I know.”
Bigan looks grim.
“No smart remarks?”
He leans in and kisses me. “Probably be fine.”
“Stomach hurt?” asks Ma’cho, pushing lightly on what he can reach between Zastee and I.
“No, no tension or bloat,” I say.
Góshé is hiding his head in Ma’cho’s chest.
“I’m okay, Dog boy,” I say. “Only slightly shot.”
Góshé leans in to give me a quick kiss on the cheek. And a little boy hug.
Güero has hands on hips, looking concerned. I see tears on his cheeks. Ma’cho speaks to him quietly.
“Okay, we gotta git,” says Güero. “One’s still on the loose, likely the man in charge.”
“Maybe Angus?” I say.
He nods. “We ain’t splittin’ up no more than we have to. You stay here with the Brits. Get warm and rest, darlin’. We’ll go get the camp. And watch fer sign.”
They all head over to our camp to gather our things, watching for sign along the way, and pack them back on War Chief and the other horses.
The Brits warm me and wait on me.
I eat, drink and mostly sleep. And live.
110 Cha’a: Rarámuri
We’re in town. La Junta, Colorado. The Vaquero Saloon, once again. Like the most of humans, we’re creatures of habit.
“See this, love?” Táági hands it to me.
“Oh, yeah. The Tarahumara book.” I pass it back to him.
“I don’t know why I brought it along,” says the big guy. “Reading material, I suppose.”
“You’ve read it?” Zastee asks.
“Of course,” he says. “It’s quite interesting.”
“I read it too,” she says. “Learned a bit.”
“Hey,” I say. “See the guy who just came in?”
“Which one?” he asks.
“That portly gent,” I say. “I need to ask him a question.”
He’s at the bar. I walk up beside him. Slow still with the bullet trough healing, blood being manufactured and all. The human body is amazing. I take the stool next to him.
“Say, you may not remember me, but I was sitting near you on the westbound train a while back. We was leavin’ Trinidad?”
“Sure,” he says. “You had that prisoner. You’re a deputy or somethin’, right?”
“Yep,” I say, something. “What I wanted to ask is if you saw any more of that fella. The one you was sayin’ looked like Angus Kittridge.”
“Oh, him,” he says, stopping to guzzle down the last of his beer.
“Hey,” I say. “Let me buy you another of those.”
He looks at me curiously.
“Just fer the favor yore doin’, answerin’ my question,” I say. “No strings attached.”
He looks confused for a bit. I guess that ladies buying men drinks must have a double meaning of the sexual variety.
“Marshall business,” I say.
“Oh, okay,” he says. “I did see him just recently. He was in here, in fact, last night. Losing at poker. Like to show up soon, he’s been in most ever’ night this week.”
“He miss any nights?”
“Why you askin’?” he says, getting suspicious.
The barkeep sets our beers in front of us.
“So you’ll earn that beer,” I say.
“Lawdogs,” he says.
“Yep. Suspicion is my business.”
Portly turns to the barkeep and says, “Kevin, that Angus fella, he come in ever’ night?”
Kevin comes back over, wiping his hands on a dirty towel.
“This here deputy was askin’.”
“Kevin Garcia. Pleased to make your acquaintance.”
We shake hands. I’m thinking the name Kevin Garcia might explain why he had no problem at all with our mixed-race bunch sitting wherever we want to. Some kindred spirit.
“Crotchety bastard missed one evening a few nights back,” says Kevin. “They raised holy hell back there, I guess he won real big the night before. Them crazy drunkards started to thinkin’ he was a card shark. But, then he showed up again the night after, so all was forgiven. Especially after he lost ‘er all back and then some. He groused some and promised to be in tonight fer revenge. We shall see.”
The barkeep pulls out his pocket watch, consults it and says, “Anytime now. He’s a punctual sort. Shows up at eight ever’ night to trade a gold nugget fer cigars and a bottle. See here?” he points at a shelf behind the bar. “I already got ‘em set aside.”
“Thank you fer the information,” I say, passing a few coins across to Kevin. “Some fer yoreself, and get my friend here ‘nother drink.”
“Thanks fer the drinks,” says Portly.
“Thank you, sir. Good citizens help to keep the world safe,” I reply. I’m such a liar.
“My pleasure to help out the authorities, miss,” he says.
I head back to the table. Enemy to all authorities everywhere, except Güero, of course. The exception that proves the rule.
Táági and Z are talking, heads close together. Eyes scanning the room.
Suddenly they both look toward the batwing doors.
I turn to see. It could be him. So, what the hell.
“Angus Kittridge,” I yell.
He pulls leather as he turns toward me.
And dies instantly when my bullet penetrates his right eye. I walk over to double check.
Ma’cho comes in the door, rifle in hand.
Güero walks in behind him. He’s snapping the tie-down strap back over the hammer on his revolver.
“I had a few questions for him,” says Güero.
“Ask away,” I say.
“He don’t look to be in a answerin’ mood,” he says.
“Maybe you’ll have to take a trip down to Hell to question him,” I
say.
“He alive?” asks Kevin, a double barrel cradled in his elbow.
“Dead,” I say.
“Okay.” Kevin breaks open the shotgun and lays it over his forearm.
“I’m a witness,” says Táági, already by my side, holstering his gun. “That bastard drew first.”
“I saw it as well,” says Z, sliding hers home, too.
Kevin and the portly man agree. Kevin gathers some volunteers, who take the body outside so business can resume. Another man runs down the street to wake the undertaker.
We go back to our table, in case the local law wants to question us.
“Call me crazy,” says Táági, looking around for curious ears. “But, I think you’ve actually accomplished a righteous shoot, even in the eyes of the bloody law.”
“Might be a first for me,” I say. “You see the arrowhead, too?”
“That I did,” says the big guy.
“Plain as the bloody nose on your face,” says Z.
Kevin brings us a bottle. “Thank you.”
I look up at him.
“To settle yore nerves,” he says. “On the house. That fella was buildin’ up to somethin’, and you got the brunt of it. Sure explains his sore temper. Was he really Angus Kittridge?”
“Dunno, but he sure reacted to the name, didn't he?” I say. “You think he would have used a fake first name, bein’ the famous bandit that he was.”
“True, but everyone was sure he was kilt by the damned Apaches,” he says. “Anyhow, I’ll miss the nightly nuggets, but not the man. Thank you.”
He heads back to tend to his other customers.
“In a way, he kinda was,” I say, under my breath.
“To bloody right,” says the big guy. “You did well, love.”
111 Cha’a: Good Reads
Ma’cho and Güero join us at our table. Which is good. We need help with the bottle. Not too much help, but some.
“Where’d you two come from?” I ask.
“Follow,” says Ma’cho. “From mine.”
“Mine?”
“You was right. That’s where the arrowhead deal come from,” says Güero. “Tracks anyway. With the nugget comin’ from just down the mine road. We figured it was worth a shot.”
“Was it?”
“Yep. Found tracks and a few trinkets up there,” says Güero.
“What trinkets?” I ask.
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