MacKinnon

by Johnny D. Boggs

  That boy read Homer and Shakespeare and just about any book he could get his hands on. Me? I’ve read maybe twenty penny dreadfuls in my whole life. He grinned as he thought about the young cowboy. Read the same dime novel maybe six times in the past few days.

  The streets of Roswell were deserted, but far beyond the hodgepodge of town buildings, flags popped in the wind, unsaddled horses pranced in two big corrals, and buggies, farm wagons, and covered wagons sat parked in the sand. The wind blew toward the east, carrying the sounds of shouts, cheers, and jovial banter.

  “Must be two o’clock,” the lawman said as he looked up to find the sun.

  The sign on Bransford’s Livery said closed. The sign on the feed store said closed. The shades were drawn at the post office. The sign tacked to the door at the bank read: closed for town holiday. When Bookbinder stopped the wagon at one adobe, Nikita leaped out and tried the door to the Doctor/Barber/Undertaker. The door did not budge. He knocked, turned back, and gave MacKinnon and Bookbinder a shrug.

  “I reckon Pres Lewis is at that game, too,” Bookbinder said, shaking his head. He spit tobacco juice into the street, leaned toward the door next to the town marshal’s office, and yelled: “Maginnis? You there?”

  Nikita tried that door, as well. It was open, he went in, then came back out, shaking his head.

  “Davis! Mort!” Bookbinder called to his men in the back.

  “Yes, sir?” one of them mumbled.

  “Get off your behinds and run over to that ball field. Find the sheriff, Maginnis. Find the doctor, Pres Lewis. Fetch them back here. Pronto, boys.”

  The two men slipped off what was left of the tailgate, and let their bowed legs carry them to the eastern edge of Roswell.

  The Holland House stood across the street, and someone moved behind the curtains in the dining room, so Bookbinder clucked his tongue, and turned the wagon across the street. This time he stopped the wagon, set the brake, and climbed out of the Studebaker. MacKinnon had fallen back asleep.

  Down the street, horses were tethered to the hitching rail in front of the Río Hondo Saloon. He looked that way, considered going inside, but decided against it. “Miss Callahan,” he called out, and Katie stepped out of the rear of the wagon.

  “Let’s see if we can get you fixed up,” Bookbinder said, indicating the hotel, The Holland House, with a nod of his head. “Your brother and sister still asleep?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Let them sleep. But maybe we can get the three of you a bed.”

  “And a bath?” she asked.

  Bookbinder smiled warmly. “Yes, ma’am.”

  After helping her down, Bookbinder turned to see two men coming out of the hotel. They stopped immediately. The young one straightened. The older man squinted hard, sniffled, and let his mouth fall open.

  “Afternoon,” Bookbinder said.

  “Yes,” the younger one said. He blinked, and seemed to take in Bookbinder for the first time. Bookbinder did not look away from the two. He could tell they were staring at either Nikita or MacKinnon up in the wagon. The older man was squinting hard, and had his right hand on the butt of a holstered revolver.

  Bookbinder didn’t think the two were looking at the Apache.

  “Got too much sun, I see,” Bookbinder said.

  “Yeah. I mean, yes, sir.” The young man’s hat looked to be fresh off the shelf of the mercantile. He wet his lips.

  Bookbinder removed his own hat. “We did, too. Had a long walk.” He waved his hat toward the east. “Through that.”

  “Well,” the boy said. He saw Katie, and tipped his new hat. “Ma’am.” With his hat off, he acknowledged Bookbinder. “Sheriff.”

  “Not sheriff, son,” the lawman responded. “Not today. I’ve got no authority as a sheriff in Roswell. But as a deputy federal marshal, I do. Shooting at a federal lawman’s a crime, too.”

  “Yes, sir.” The younger grabbed the older man’s shoulder. “Come on, Sherm. We best be getting back to … the um … ranch.”

  “Huh?” But the squinting man offered no resistance as the kid pulled him away from the hotel and down the street.

  “Do you know those men, Mister Bookbinder?” Katie asked.

  “Not by name, miss,” the lawman answered, and looked up at MacKinnon, whose head bobbed as he dozed in the seat. Bookbinder made no move to enter The Holland House.

  The two men made a beeline for the Río Hondo Saloon. A wiry Mexican came up from the alley—from one of the cribs, Bookbinder figured—and started toward the same watering hole when the young man called out: “Chico!”

  The Mexican had his hands on the saloon’s batwing doors, but he stopped, frowned, and waited for the two to reach him.

  Bookbinder could not hear what was said as the three stood outside the saloon, but he saw the Mexican straighten and look past the two. He was still staring, just standing in front of the saloon’s entrance, when the other two moved to the hitching rail. Both pulled around their horses, and hurried into the saddles, spurring the horses down the road as soon as they were seated.

  They did not stop at Simon Hibler Town Field.

  “Those weren’t our horses,” Nikita said.

  “No,” confirmed the lawman, as he watched the Mexican push through the batwing doors.

  “Why would they still be in town?” Nikita asked.

  “I don’t know,” Bookbinder said. “But go to the livery. I don’t care how you get in, but get in. Check the corral there, too. If you find our horses, get back to me and I mean immediately. MacKinnon!” He stepped to the wagon, reached up, and punched the cowhand’s thigh.

  MacKinnon’s head jerked up.

  “Is anything the matter, Mister Bookbinder?” Katie asked.

  “Not sure, miss,” he said, but he did not look at her.

  MacKinnon shook the sleep out of his brain, and looked down at the lawman.

  After pulling a few greenbacks from his pocket, Bookbinder held them up to MacKinnon. “Get a room for us. And a room for Miss Katie and the children. Get them a bath. I’ll be back directly.”

  MacKinnon remained on the wagon seat, sniffing, still half asleep, watching the lawman as he made his way toward the Río Hondo Saloon.

  He studied the money in his hand, looked to his right and down at Katie, who appeared as confused as he did. “Where’s the Apache?” he asked her.

  “Mister Bookbinder sent him to the livery, even though it’s closed.”

  “What for?”

  She shrugged.

  * * * * *

  Chico Archuleta found Jace Martin sitting at a corner table, alone, dealing solitaire. A large stein of beer sat at Martin’s left. Glancing at the pocket watch beside the deck, Martin said: “Where are the others? It’s time to see how that baseball …”

  “Bookbinder’s outside,” Archuleta said.

  Martin’s cold eyes deadened. “That can’t be.”

  “It can be. And Four-Eyes and the kid just lit a shuck.”

  Martin laid the deck on the table. “The Apache?”

  “He’s with him.”

  With a curse, Martin balled both hands into fists.

  “We’ve got to ride hard, boss,” Archuleta said.

  “With all that money at the ticket gate?” he asked.

  “We’ve got all that money from Charley the Trey’s place,” Archuleta reminded him.

  “But I want more.”

  “You can have my share,” Archuleta said. “Because I can’t spend it if I’m dead. Or in prison.”

  He turned and hurried toward the batwing doors.

  * * * * *

  “Howdy, Chico.”

  Nelson Bookbinder smiled, but his right hand remained on the butt of his holstered revolver.

  Archuleta swung around, his hand dropping—then freezing—at his own rev
olver as he backed into the wooden post that held up the saloon’s awning.

  “I didn’t recognize you back in Bonito City, Chico. How you been?”

  “Yo no sabe,” Archuleta said.

  Chuckling, Bookbinder shook his head. “Chico, you speak English better than three-quarters of the white folks in this territory. Why don’t we take a stroll down to Maginnis’ office? I’m interested in seeing if my horse is in the livery stable here. I know Bransford never did pay much attention to bills of sale, but he always recollects who traded him a horse.” He nodded toward the marshal’s office.

  “Yo no sabe,” Archuleta repeated.

  “You could make things easier on me, Chico, if you’d tell me the names of those two fellows who just left town at a high lope. And anyone else who was with you in Bonito City. Help yourself out, too. I can put in a word to a judge.”

  “Yo no sabe.”

  Bookbinder sighed. “If that’s the way you want to play this hand …” The revolver came out quickly, and Bookbinder’s thumb cocked the hammer as he shoved the barrel just below Archuleta’s rib cage, causing Archuleta to grimace as he was forced back against the hitching rail. The horses at the hitch rail began prancing nervously, pulling the reins and ropes tight.

  Bookbinder brought the revolver up, still cocked, but now aimed at Archuleta’s face. He never moved the pistol as his left hand reached for the handcuffs that dangled from the shell belt on his left side.

  The Adam’s apple of the Mexican bobbed. He held his breath.

  “Turn around, Chico,” Bookbinder said, and then he tensed as the batwing doors behind him squeaked.

  He started turning when Jace Martin rammed the barrel of his revolver against the side of the lawman’s skull. Bookbinder’s gun roared, causing Chico Archuleta to scream in pain as he clutched his ear, blackened and burned by the muzzle flash. Archuleta fell over the rail as Jace Martin swore.

  The horses at the hitch rack began pulling away from the rail, tearing free from ropes, hackamores, and reins. Two of the horses bolted east. A third reared and whinnied. Archuleta came up in an instant, lunged, grabbed the halter of a buckskin. The gelding dragged him a couple of feet, but the vaquero was good.

  Jace Martin stepped over the unconscious form of Nelson Bookbinder, in an attempt to reach the remaining dun. Archuleta was already jumping into the saddle without even using the stirrups. Leaning low, he swore as the buckskin carried him west, toward the ball park, toward Texas.

  Swearing, Jace Martin watched his partner escape. Even worse, the big dun galloped after Chico Archuleta.

  Martin swung toward the saloon, snapped a shot off that busted two slats from the swinging batwing doors.

  “Stay inside!” he barked. “Show your face, I’ll blow it off.”

  He kept the smoking barrel aimed at the saloon as he ducked to pick up Bookbinder’s revolver off the hard-packed dirt.

  When he looked back down the street, he saw a dark-skinned man in a black hat running from the livery. Nikita! Martin raised his pistol and fired a shot, seeing the dust fly up yards ahead of the Apache. It made the scout stop however, because he wasn’t armed. He had been running toward the wagon parked in front of The Holland House.

  That’s when Martin saw the man in the driver’s box, pushing himself to a standing position. The man wore no hat. The sun was high. But Jace Martin could make out Sam MacKinnon’s face clearly.

  Martin’s lips mouthed a silent curse, and he whispered: “No …”

  He swung around, guns in both hands, and ran toward the baseball game being played at Simon Hibler Town Field. He could find a horse there, ride hard and fast for Texas, or even Mexico. Get away from Nelson Bookbinder, and as far away from that sharp Mescalero Apache scout.

  Get away from MacKinnon.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  “Oh my,” Katie Callahan said. Her hands were covering her mouth, but then she grabbed the hems of her ragged skirt, and ran toward Nelson Bookbinder, lying in front of the Río Hondo Saloon.

  Sam MacKinnon clutched his right side, as gently as he could, as he moved to the inside of the wagon. Florrie and Gary were watching their sister run through the opening in the back of the wagon.

  “What’s happening?” Florrie asked.

  “Hey, kids.” The boy and girl turned and stared at MacKinnon. “Help me down. Be quick.”

  * * * * *

  Jace Martin slowed down, holstered his revolver, and shoved Bookbinder’s into the waistband at his back. He removed his hat, wiped his forehead, and tried to smile as he approached McEwen’s Mercantile. A man in an apron and sleeve garters stepped outside, and stared past Martin, looking up and down the street.

  “What’s all that shooting?” the merchant asked.

  Martin hooked his thumb behind him, but did not slow his gait. “Drunks.” He laughed. “Celebrating the ball game, I guess. Scared off their horses. Idiots.”

  The man seemed to scrutinize Martin, who nodded and simply kept right on walking.

  * * * * *

  Nikita reached Bookbinder first. He slowly rolled the lawman over, frowned at the blood matting his hair and staining his collar, but let out a breath of relief when he saw that the lawman’s chest was still rising and falling. Then Katie Callahan was at his side, dropping to her knees. She looked up and saw men standing in the saloon’s doorway, keeping the batwing doors in front of them as some sort of protection.

  “I need a towel. Clean if you have one,” she said to them. “And whiskey.”

  The men blinked.

  “And I need it right now,” she said, lips tight, the words carefully spaced and the tone unmistakable. The men scattered like quail.

  Nikita stood up, planning to go after Jace Martin, but Katie stopped him.

  “Nikita, find that doctor. Find him now.”

  Frowning, the Mescalero pointed at Martin who was about to disappear behind the Saragosa House.

  “Now, Nikita. His skull might be fractured,” she told him. “That man buffaloed him hard with his pistol.”

  The Apache stared at her and at the unconscious lawman, then nodded. He moved down the street, thinking the doctor would most likely be at the stump match, anyway.

  A young cowboy with red hair and an older one missing the top joints of three fingers on his left hand, plowed out through the batwing doors. One handed Katie a towel. It was wet with beer, but at least it wasn’t that dirty. The other one pulled the cork out of a bottle of rye. He shoved it right under her face.

  “Miss,” he said, and tipped his hat.

  She took the bottle, and, holding it away from Bookbinder, she soaked the wet rag with the whiskey. She was starting to bring it to the knot and the large cut on the side of the old lawman’s head when she heard the sound of jingling spurs.

  Katie’s hands froze as Sam MacKinnon crossed the sandy alley, and moved past the two cowboys, Nelson Bookbinder, and Katie Callahan. He did not appear to notice anything.

  “Oh, my God,” Katie whispered.

  * * * * *

  A fat man in a checkered sack suit stepped out of the Saragosa House, and almost knocked Martin into the street. Martin reached up to keep his hat from sailing off, but was too late. He stopped his fall by catching the column post, slipped onto the street, cursing as the fat man blubbered some sort of apology. But Martin kept moving and made his way around the corner.

  “Mister … hey, mister!” the fat man cried out. “Your hat, mister. You forgot your hat!”

  Martin paid no mind to the man’s calls as he was hit by the smell of roasting peanuts and smoke. His eyes took in Dutch ovens sitting over open fires, lined up buggies, and two corrals full of horses. But the corrals were surrounded by cowboys itching for a fight fueled by beer and all the excitement, and guns hung on the hips of practically every one of those cowhands.

  Martin swallow
ed. He had to think. He reached up, smoothed his hair, and moved down the side of a building, thinking he had come up with the answer. He would double back and head for the livery. The owner was here watching the baseball game between Engle and Roswell. Bransford had bragged about that when Martin had haggled with him over the trade of those horses—Marshal Bookbinder’s horses. If he ran fast enough, he could bust into the livery, saddle a fast thoroughbred—the one Bransford had refused to trade. He’d be raising dust for Mexico this time, before MacKinnon or anyone else knew he was gone.

  He turned the corner, only to find two of the deputies from Bookbinder’s posse. They weren’t even looking in Martin’s direction, just sharing a bottle of whiskey with some Mexican, but all had guns. One of them looked up in Martin’s direction.

  Spinning around, Martin moved back toward the corrals, brought his hand to his head, and cursed again. A cracking sound came from the field where the two teams were starting to play ball, and the men, women, and children began to cheer and wave their little flags.

  Martin lowered his head. He saw the people sit back down on the bleachers, and he blinked, amazed at just how many people had turned out for this event.

  Smiling, Martin moved toward the entryway. He’d hide out in the crowd till he could safely get away. And if someone did come in and find him, well, he had two revolvers, since he took that law dog’s.

  “Fifty cents.”

  The cracking voice stopped him. Martin looked up, glaring at some pock-marked teenager holding out a grubby little hand.

  “Fifty cents,” the kid repeated.

  “What?”

  “It costs fifty cents to see the ball game, mister. Unless you’re a kid. Then it’s only two bits. But you don’t look like a kid.”

  “Hasn’t the game already started?” Martin tried.

  “Sure. Just started. Our boys are batting first. You still got to pay. And it’s for civic improvement, you see. A good cause. Those boys playing aren’t professionals. They’re just playing for fun, you see. The money goes to …”

  Martin became flustered. There, before him, was the cashbox. And at the table to his right, men were taking bets, writing in ledgers, and putting money in another box.