Make Me No Grave

by Hayley Stone

  Worst part was the sense she knew it, too.

  Chapter Fourteen

  We were still a good ways out from Almena’s house when she fell from her horse. Just before it happened, I observed her looking woozy and steered my horse closer to hers. I sat forward in my saddle, trying to catch her eye. “You feeling all right there, Miss Guillory?”

  She cut her eyes toward me. “Fine.”

  “We can stop, if you need to take a moment—”

  “I said I’m fine. Leave it alone, Marshal.”

  I left it alone.

  Next thing I knew, she was on the ground.

  I climbed down from my horse before the animal came to a complete stop, pedaling the ground before letting go of the saddle. The sudden drop in speed was jarring, but I managed not to trip over my own feet as I hurried to Almena. She was already making an effort to get back up but I could tell by the way her arms shook beneath her that she wasn’t having a good time of it.

  She didn’t object to my helping her, which surprised me. I expected at least a swat or a sharp word—something to indicate I wasn’t needed. Instead, she gazed blankly at me as I leaned over to check on her.

  “I think I passed out,” she said. There were creases of wonder in her forehead.

  “You never passed out before?”

  “No. Plenty of times.” She accepted the hand I offered her. I situated my other around her shoulder, and got her back to a standing position. “Never fallen from my horse before, though. That’s a first. I must be more tired than I thought…”

  “Kidnapping U.S. marshals can be pretty tiring.”

  She smiled thinly. She was in some pain, even if she wouldn’t admit it.

  We took a couple steps. She moved slowly, and her arms felt cold beneath my hands, even through her coat. “You sure you can ride?”

  “Guess we’ll find out.” Her eyes slid to the hand gripping her shoulder. “You can let go of me now.”

  I did as she suggested. Lady had a right to her space, of course. If she didn’t want me touching her, I wouldn’t. I took a few steps back but kept my hands somewhat extended, ready to catch her if she started to fall.

  Almena smiled at me almost fondly before coming back into herself, an indifferent line taking place of the smile. She must’ve remembered where we were, and more importantly, who we were. A lawman and an outlaw. An old story, always ended the same—with one or the other buried. But I saw it in her eyes, that spark of hope. And the thought, maybe.

  Almena cleared her throat. “You’re making me nervous. Standing there like that.”

  “Only want to make sure you’re not hurt.”

  “I’m not glass.”

  “Just say thank you and move on, Almena.” I went to fetch my horse who’d wandered a short distance away to get at some fresh thistle.

  “Thank you,” I heard her say.

  I turned back. “What’s that?”

  “Don’t push your luck, Marshal.”

  Following this incident, and seeing as her property was yonder still, Almena decided we should find other accommodations to pass the night. I may or may not have made some remark about how I’d be interested in seeing her pull a hotel out of a hat.

  “Oh, ye of little faith…” she replied.

  The rancher’s house smelled of beans and smoked wood, rich and friendly. As I followed Almena over the threshold into the sparse living quarters, I removed my hat in the presence of the missus who immediately offered me a seat at her table and rushed to feed me. Seeing as I was half-starved and barely able to keep upright, I didn’t object.

  Such kindness toward a stranger wasn’t unheard of on the frontier, but it still took me by surprise, especially when she didn’t ask to know my name or bother me about my business. While I suspected this had a lot to do with who I’d shown up with, I was still grateful for the lady’s hospitality and told her so.

  “No one goes hungry under my roof,” she said and smiled.

  I thanked Mrs. Cortez kindly as she set a wooden dish in front of me, a mountain of baked beans land-sliding into a fat square of cornbread. One bite, and I was back on the trail, that long summer I spent in Texas herding cattle with a cousin of mine and his boys up the Shawnee. For a year after, I couldn’t look at a bowl of beans without feeling a stitch in my side and being reminded of the smell of sweaty cows and leathery men. Or maybe it was the other way around. This fare was better than most of what we’d eaten on the trail. The bread was moist and didn’t immediately fall apart in my hands, and the pintos had a sharp kick that surprised me at first taste. I didn’t even mind the beans being a little cold. Beat having to compete with a bunch of starving teenagers. Some nights in Texas, if you tripped on the way to the chuckwagon when dinner was called, you might as well have gone right back to what you were doing.

  Mrs. Cortez went over and gave her husband three quick slaps on the back, chastening him. “Ai, Salvador. Don’t keep our friend standing at the door. You’re letting all the warm air out.”

  Mr. Cortez invited Almena to come in, and he closed the door behind them.

  “How are those sprouts looking, Sal?” Almena asked, addressing the man of the house. Sal was short and stocky but capable looking, just like his wife whose strong grip I’d felt on my shoulders when she directed me to the table. It was dark when we arrived, but judging by what I’d seen of Sal’s property—a pair of fine horses, some milking cows, wheat, and lanes of vegetables—he was doing all right out here in the middle of nowhere. Making his own way. That was enough to make me respect him, even outside of his giving us a place to hang our hats for a time.

  Sal took Almena by both arms. I was surprised she allowed the contact, given her thing with touching. “Better than before, thank you. Please.” He motioned to the table. “Come. Sit.”

  “I appreciate you letting us intrude on you like this,” she said, eyes on the floor. Her swaggering posture was gone, that clench of bone that made her seem taller and larger than she actually was. Something else I noticed: she stood openly toward Sal and his wife, whereas with me and others, she often angled herself to a narrow profile. Until now, I’d mistaken the indirect stance for sloppy confidence. Thrown into such sharp contrast with this new figure, however, I recognized its true purpose.

  Almena had been making herself a harder target to hit.

  “Actually, Sal, there’s something else I wanted to ask you about…” Almena turned back to him. She spoke low, so I couldn’t make out what she was saying, but I watched her face. She glanced at me once or twice uneasily, kicking the dusty floor with the toe of her boot. Something strange lingered in her expression.

  She’d worn a similar look in Asher, right up until she stood on that scaffold, braced by rope. It was the look of a woman corrupted by hope.

  She’s still waiting for him. Despite everything she’d done, I felt sad for her. I knew what it was like waiting on a person who wasn’t coming back. I dug into my beans before the memory of smokestacks and red lipstick railroaded my thoughts any further.

  A little while later, I heard the legs of a chair being dragged across the wooden floor and when I finally looked up from my half-eaten plate, a little girl was there seated next to me. She had maneuvered the chair right close to mine, and sat on the seam between them so our shoulders almost touched. Being that it was so late, I was surprised to find her there at all, wide-eyed and bushy-tailed, dressed in a child’s sleeping gown. She swung her legs back and forth, her brown toes missing the floor by an inch. The chair knocked unevenly against the floor in line with her fidgeting, the result of one chair leg being shorter than the others.

  Though I wasn’t feeling much for company at the moment, I mustered a smile for her. She smiled back without showing her teeth, and began to play with the end of a thick braid of dark hair. She couldn’t have been older than nine, and was probably closer to six or seven.

  “How do you do?” I said. “Hope we didn’t wake you.”

  Her dark blue eyes blink
ed steadily at me. I wasn’t sure how much English she knew, but she kept on swinging her legs, smiling. Then, wordlessly, she pointed at my hands.

  I looked down at my fists, which still looked like the bruised insides of an overripe apple. “Ah, that’s nothing to worry yourself over. Just got into a fight is all.”

  She twisted her hair around her finger, flicking the ends against her nose. “Hurts?”

  “A little.”

  “Mama,” said the little girl, calling her mother’s attention, and then following the inquiry with some rapid-fire Spanish.

  Mrs. Cortez appeared not long after with a wet cloth. “That’s not necessary,” I started to say, not wanting to be more of a burden on this family. She just clucked at me. I winced as she applied the cloth to my battered knuckles, nearly pulling away for the pain of it. “Thank you,” I managed, meaning it even if my strained expression didn’t suggest gratitude.

  She recommended I keep it on for a few minutes, at least to help the swelling go down and prevent it from getting infected.

  “Could you do me a favor?” I asked as Mrs. Cortez was going. Almena was still deep in conversation with Salvador. She screwed her mouth to the side, unhappy with whatever he was telling her. He looked sorry, and a little helpless. “Could you… could you just check on Almena? Make sure she’s all right? After she’s done talking, I mean. She needs some tending to, I think. Just won’t admit it.” I smiled weakly, wincing again as I pried the wet rag off. “Not to me, anyway.”

  Mrs. Cortez nodded. “Of course.”

  “Thank you.”

  “I have to say, I like you much more than the last man she brought around. Far better manners. Cleaner shave.” Mrs. Cortez patted my cheek.

  “Does Almena come by often?”

  “Often? No. She visits maybe once, twice a month? I think she gets lonely living in that house by herself. No husband, no children.”

  “Imagine that would be lonely.” In fact, I didn’t have to imagine it. Spent as much time away from my own home for the very same reason. After Lilah left, the place took on an empty feeling. “She help out around the place?”

  Mrs. Cortez smiled politely. “She… has other gifts.” Which was either a nice way of saying Almena was useless at farming, or an implication that Mrs. Cortez knew about her bruising.

  I decided not to query further, in case Almena intended to keep her powers secret, and instead, went back to my meal. It wasn’t long before my shadow returned. The girl inched closer when I looked over at her.

  “You want some?” I offered, bending my plate toward her.

  She shook her head.

  “All right then.”

  “Gunman,” she said after another moment.

  “What’s that?”

  She pointed at me. Her gaze dropped briefly to my holstered piece, the polished handle reflecting tongues of yellow candlelight. “Gunman,” she said again, and this time I realized it was a question.

  “Yes. Suppose I am.”

  It wasn’t a reputation I liked to encourage. Having a title like that invited a bad element. Men heard you were quick on the draw… well, they just had to test it themselves. Once in Topeka, I had a man come up to me in the middle of a meal, and ask me to pull on him. I asked him if he’d mind I finish my portions first. He said he’d wait. I went back to my lunch, asking between a mouthful of pudding whether he’d eaten himself. By this time, the man was already sweating bullets and either the postponement of our gunfight or my question, however innocent, seemed to rob him of his remaining nerve. He ran. I counted that a good day. There were other days weren’t so good. Like the time I had to shoot a man dead in front of my wife and more than a dozen other bystanders after he confronted me on the main thoroughfare in Atchison.

  I didn’t know what the little girl’s idea of a gunman was, whether he was a man with blood on his hands or someone who merely carried a gun, but I didn’t want to leave her with the wrong impression of who I was. “I’m also a lawman. See? I catch bad people.” Unsure whether she’d understand me, I pulled my badge out to show her, thinking she might recognize the star.

  Boy, did she! She pulled her arms up to her chest, as if trying to contain herself. Two little fists vibrated beneath her chin, and her knees bounced harder. “For me,” she said, eyes full of stars over the rusting piece of silver.

  I chuckled. “Are you asking me or telling me?”

  She tried to snatch the badge from me, but I pulled my hand away. She giggled and tried again and again, each time finding it more hilarious when I moved the prize out of reach.

  While I continued playing keep-away with the little girl, Almena snuck up behind me.

  “Don’t be fooled by that one,” she said, snatching my leftover piece of cornbread from over my shoulder before slouching into a chair across from me. It all passed as casual, but I saw the calculated look in Almena’s eyes, the little glimmer of mischief on her lips as she chewed; she wanted to see if the theft would get a rise out of me. Almena was one of those people who liked to push. Push until she was pushed back. Test a person’s limits.

  I slid my plate across to her, offering what was left of the beans.

  Almena declined, sliding it back to me and giving a little shake of her head.

  She ripped off another large bite of bread with her teeth, chewed and swallowed. “Little Mireia here pretends she only understands Spanish in the presence of strangers. Especially white strangers. Isn’t that right?” Almena winked and the little girl smiled shyly, twisting her braid. “Sal did the same thing when we first met.”

  “Why’s that?” I looked to Salvador.

  He shrugged. “People speak more honestly when they think you do not understand them. But my family has lived in this country since before the war against Mexico. And Rosa Maria’s family are from Alta California. We are less new to the West than most like to believe, and no strangers to English.”

  “I should apologize,” I said. “I assumed, and I shouldn’t have done.”

  Salvador rubbed his nose. “As I said, you are not the first. But thank you.”

  Mrs. Cortez didn’t bother asking before dumping another spoonful of beans onto my plate on her way to serving Almena. I already felt the previous round coming back up on me, having scarfed it down too quickly, but not wanting to offend, I lifted my spoon again. As I did so, Mireia saw another opportunity to get at my badge. Even with my eyes on my plate, I was too quick for her. She didn’t laugh this time.

  “Oh, just give it to her already.” Almena spoke with her mouth full. Her plate was almost entirely cornbread, lathered in some kind of brown syrup. I hadn’t been offered any syrup, or near as much bread. It was clear who the favored guest was. “Not like you’re going to have much need for a marshal’s badge anymore.”

  My brows gathered together. I stopped eating. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  Without warning, Mireia tugged hard on my arm and let out a high-pitched whine, earning a sharp rebuke from her mother. Mrs. Cortez came and lifted her daughter up from the chair.

  “No, no.” I hurried to the little girl’s defense. “It’s all right. It’s my fault. I’ve been teasing her.”

  Mrs. Cortez smiled wearily. “It is past time she was in bed, anyway.”

  Mireia buried her face into her mother’s shoulder and continued to whine. Mrs. Cortez patted her daughter’s back in an attempt to calm her. I could tell she was a little embarrassed by the helpless glances she gave me, the universal expression among mothers of, what can you do?

  When Mireia’s head finally came back up, I caught the last part of her plea: “—the star.”

  I pushed my chair back and stood up. “I think I can fix this,” I said. Leaning over, I addressed the little girl at eye level. “Miss Mireia?”

  She turned towards me, angling around in her mother’s arms. Her eyes looked terribly bright, even inside a face puffy from fussing. Her bottom lip held a respectable pout. She was still a bit upset with me for bringi
ng the wrath of bedtime down on her.

  “This here star’s not just a piece of fine jewelry. This is a marshal’s star. You know what a marshal is?”

  Mireia remained silent for a moment, probably so I’d know her displeasure. But in the end, she couldn’t help wanting to prove how smart she was. “A lawman. He catches the bad people and puts them in the prison.”

  “That’s right.“

  “He also shoots them dead.” She held her hand up, closing one eye behind her thumb and firing an imaginary pistol at me.

  “Mireia,” Mrs. Cortez said, her tone holding a warning. “I’m sorry, Marshal. She has such an imagination…”

  I smiled so she’d know I wasn’t offended none. “I believe it. Unfortunately, she ain’t wrong. I have had cause to shoot a man or two”—Or nine—“in my time.”

  Like one of those fifty-cent picture shows my wife used to give me a bad time for going to, my mind showed slides of dying men. Men howling, cussing. Crying. All of them bleeding, but not all dying immediately; that was the worst of it, the look that entered their eyes at the end when they knew they were going to their reward, but weren’t sure what it entailed. Often they reached out, groping blindly for someone, something to hold on to. Took years of perfecting my aim to avoid killing a man outright, and even then, accidents happened. The bullet punched through something it ought not, and the son of a bitch unraveled in a pool of blood and agony. Mercy, I’d learned, usually meant not drawing at all.

  Still, I tried holding the faces inside my head. Seemed only right. Some were crisp and clear, while others had moldered in my memory, the details gone all blurry. For those, I had other ways of remembering—whether I wanted to or not. The smell of dust was sometimes enough to summon a ghost, or the feeling of my fingers rubbing up against my leather. Every now and then, even something as universal as a man’s eyes or the shape of his jaw reminded me of some criminal I’d had to put down, and pressure would build inside my chest. I didn’t want to call the feeling guilt, since I was operating within the law, but I didn’t have a better word for it.