Good Water

by John D. Nesbitt

  The animals had all drunk their fill. The sheep were now bedded down for the night, just south of the higher ground where Tommy lay outside the wagons. He could hear their stray sounds, a scuff here and a mutter there. Two men were on watch. Tommy had heard their voices when he first crawled into his blankets, and though he did not hear anything from them now, he knew the general layout of the camp and so had a mental picture of the two men.

  Tommy rolled onto his side and closed his eyes. This was the fourth camp. He understood that the people intended to stay here until they could decide on their next course of action. Someone—Faustino, according to the original plan—was going to try to find a sheriff or a judge who would help restore law. The people were running low on food, so Tommy imagined that Faustino would buy supplies at the same time. He would need to take a couple of pack animals. His brother would probably go with him, then. However it worked, the camp and the group would be left incomplete until Faustino came back. Tommy did not think the man would mind being that important.

  A few sounds carried from within the enclosure of wagons—a muffled question and answer in Spanish, an undertone of prayer, the creak of a wagon as someone crawled out, the woof of a dog and the low voice of a man.

  The woof sounded again, higher and louder, followed by the sharp bark of a dog down by the sheep herd. Then came the beat of hooves—not the drumming or rumbling of cattle but the clearer sound of a few horses, loping. One of the men on guard shouted in Spanish. Two dogs were barking below, by the sheep, and the dog in the camp was barking as well. Now both men were running up the hill from the sheep and were hollering at the people in the camp. Voices from within hollered back.

  Tommy was wide awake, sitting up straight, his heart pounding as he pulled on his boots and felt around for his hat. They were at it again! Just as he had done the night before, he bunched up his bed, pushed it and his saddle beneath the wagon, and ran toward the place where he had picketed the horses. Halfway across the open ground, he realized he had stowed his pistol and rifle under the wagon with his saddle and the jumble of bedding. His pistol was wrapped in his coat, and the rifle was in the scabbard as always.

  The sheep were crying out, raising a terrible chorus of baaaah-aah! Voices in the camp were shouting in Spanish, and voices from below were hollering “Hee-yah! Hah! Hee-yah!”

  Tommy stopped and turned. They were not stampeding this time. They were rousting the sheep. As he listened, he realized the cries were not of running sheep; they were cries of agony. He heard a faint thud, then another. The men on horses were clubbing the sheep.

  Tommy ran back to the wagon and groped among his bedding to find his jacket with the gun wrapped in it. There was no time to buckle on his belt and holster. He pulled the pistol from the bundle and moved in a crouch.

  The scene below was murky. In the faint moonlight, three or four horsemen, maybe five, moved among the sheep. Tommy could hear the impact now, thuds and cracks, and he could see the up-and-down motion of arms extended into clubs. The forms were grotesque, and one man was shouting cruel, obscene curses that rose above the clamor of the panicked and dying sheep.

  The men on horseback were out of pistol range, and Tommy’s heart was beating in his throat. His hand holding the pistol was shaking. He was sure that if he went down the slope by himself and fired, one of the horsemen would run him down and club him, or shoot him in the back. He squatted on his heels, glad he had taken off his spurs that evening. He held the pistol in both hands, trying to steady himself and decide what he should do.

  Two men ran past him on the left, one tall and one short. Twenty yards downslope they stopped, and each of them fired a rifle.

  The scene changed. The horsemen quit clubbing and shouting and began to ride out from among the sheep. The two men from the camp fired again, and the men on horseback went into faster motion. Two of them took off toward the south, and three others headed toward the camp. Tommy identified Alejo’s voice and then Faustino’s as belonging to the two men who had fired shots. They stood facing the mass of crying sheep and the men who were emerging from it.

  The horsemen rode forward, each on a trot by himself but headed in a common direction toward the two men on foot. Tommy could not pick out the riders, but he thought that two of them, hulking in the moonlight, were the new hired men that Red had referred to as the bulldogs. The third one looked like the slender form of Walt McKinney.

  Alejo fired, with no effect except that the riders sped up. The one on the far left rode up to within fifteen yards of Alejo, turned his horse, and fired a pistol. Alejo let out a sharp “Ayy!” and fell backwards, dropping his rifle.

  Faustino, quite cool, it seemed to Tommy, stood his ground and fired at the bulky horseman. He must have hit him square, for the man let out a grunt like a pole-axed hog and fell forward on his horse’s neck.

  The other heavy-set rider raced to his side, grabbed his reins, and held him in the saddle as the two horses sped away.

  It all happened in a few seconds. Faustino, meanwhile, ejected the spent casing and levered in a new shell. As he was lining up on the jostling pair, the third rider came in from the right and hollered at the other two.

  “Look out!”

  Tommy was sure it was Walt McKinney’s voice, and he was sure it was Walt McKinney’s hand that raised a six-gun and pointed it at Faustino, who had flinched and was taking aim again.

  Tommy stood up. The rider was some twenty yards away, but it was a long distance in the moonlight. Tommy used both hands to raise his six-gun, and though he tried to hold it steady, he jerked the trigger and fired wide.

  McKinney yanked on his reins, cut the horse sharp to the right, and raced away in the wake of his two companions.

  Raimundo and another man now appeared alongside Faustino, and each of them threw a rifle shot in the distance.

  Faustino said, “Ya no tiene caso. Están muy lejos,” which Tommy interpreted as meaning that there was no use in shooting anymore, as the men were too far away. Then Faustino said, “Creo que le dieron a Alejo.”

  Raimundo lowered his rifle and located his brother-in-law lying on the ground. He knelt by Alejo and said, “No, hombre.” After touching the body, he said, “Ay, qué terrible. Está muerto.”

  Tommy knew the last word for sure. He had heard it a few times by now. It meant dead.

  Cries of dismay and sorrow carried through the night air as Tommy and Gabriel followed Faustino and his brother in surveying the damage. Raimundo had sent the boys to go along, but Faustino and Emilio, each carrying a lantern, ignored them.

  The dead and dying sheep were easy to find, as the unharmed sheep had scattered. The searchers counted seventeen dead animals, most of them with their tongues hanging out and blood oozing from their noses and mouths. Another six were dying, three of them lying still and breathing hard, and three of them kicking their legs and choking out gasps. Emilio cut their throats, one by one, as the group came to them and added them to the tally.

  Faustino and Emilio spoke to each other in Spanish, but Tommy understood the numbers and followed the meaning. Twenty-three dead sheep left eighty-four to be rounded up in the morning.

  Back in camp, the atmosphere was so desolate, the people’s spirits so depressed, that no one spoke of fighting or getting even. Nor did they cry out in protest or ask why these things were happening to them. Tommy did not know what the people thought or if they shared a common opinion. But he did not think they could miss what seemed so evident to him. Cushman was not content with driving the people off their land and burning their houses. He was not content with scaring them and demeaning them, killing their livestock and ruining their remaining property. He hated them more than that. He wanted to crush them all the way.

  Tommy was sure the people knew that Cushman’s hatred ran deep. But he wondered if they felt, as he did, that Cushman wanted to rub them out, to exterminate them for being what they were.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  The morning sun warmed the air as To
mmy bent over to tie the rope around the sheep’s legs. This was the seventh animal he worked on. The dead sheep had begun to bloat, and the dead smell mixed with the odor of warm wool. Faustino and Emilio had skinned and gutted two yearlings, as much meat as the group was likely to eat before it spoiled. They had finished by daybreak. When the sun came up, Faustino told Gabriel that he and his friend should drag the rest of the dead ones a good ways from camp. Faustino said nothing about a horse, and Tommy imagined Faustino might have thought he was putting the boys to work at the miserable job of dragging all the carcasses by hand. So Tommy was glad he thought of Pete right away. As Pete had dragged a great many calves in his time, Tommy did not hesitate. The horse shied at the smell to begin with, but he was always a good horse with Tommy, and he submitted to the task.

  With the horse, Tommy was able to drag the dead sheep a quarter of a mile each time, twice as far as he and Gabriel would have dragged them by hand. Gabriel waited behind while Tommy rode, so Gabriel spent most of his time loitering by the dead sheep. Even then, Tommy dismounted each time to tie on to the carcass.

  Tommy pulled on the rope to make sure the loop was snug on the two ankles. He held out the slack and walked along the rope, then pushed at Pete to move him around so that the rope would not be in the way when he mounted up. He stepped around the horse, keeping his hand on Pete’s rump for assurance. On the other side, he grabbed the reins and saddle horn, poked his toe in the stirrup, and swung aboard. When he was seated, he gave Pete the go-ahead. The rope tightened against Tommy’s right thigh, and the dead animal skidded along the dirt and grass and sagebrush.

  At the end of the drag, Tommy dismounted and held Pete by the reins as he untied the rope from the sheep’s ankles and coiled it up. Back in the saddle, he sat up straight and took a full breath. Seven down, fourteen to go.

  As he rode back to the spot where Gabriel stood among the dead sheep, he saw that Gabriel was holding something level in front of his waist. Closer, he saw that it was dark and narrow; closer still, he recognized it as a heavy stick. He drew rein a couple of yards from his friend and swung down. Gabriel held the stick up, as if it were on a platter.

  The club was a little more than a yard long. Nearly two inches in diameter, it looked like a thick piece of chokecherry, with dark, skin-like bark. The grip had been whittled clean, with nicks of lighter color showing against the reddish tan of the under layer. The last half-inch of the handle had been left at full thickness, to keep the hand from slipping off, and a looped leather thong was tied snug against the inside of that wider ridge or knob. This wasn’t just a stick picked up at random; somebody had taken time to prepare for the attack.

  Tommy said, “I bet they wished they hadn’t left that here. But if it belonged to the one Faustino shot, it’s probably the least of his worries.” Tommy looked in the direction where the marauders had galloped away in the night. “I know we’re not supposed to think this way, but I hope he’s dead.” Tommy’s eyes burned. “Even if he is, and even if Faustino had shot two or three more, it wouldn’t bring back Elsa or your uncle. I’m sorry.”

  “I hate them, too,” said Gabriel.

  “You have a right to.” Tommy pictured Gabriel’s own sister and father. “Everyone does. Everyone has a family.” He realized he meant everyone but himself, but he thought he had said enough. Nodding at the club, he said, “What do you call that in Spanish?”

  Gabriel shrugged. “Un palo. Un bastón. Más bien una porra.” He dragged out the last word with its double r and repeated it. “Una porra.”

  “Something to keep.”

  “Oh, yes. You have your pistol, and now I have this.”

  Tommy sat in the shade of the wagon at a little after midday, the customary mealtime with the people. He reached up and accepted the bowl of stew that Milena handed him. “Gracias,” he said.

  “De nada. Provecho.” You’re welcome. Enjoy the meal.

  His spirits lifted as he took in the promising smell of the food. After the morning’s work, he had washed his hands and face in the creek and had tried to clear the smell of dead sheep from his nostrils. The steam and the spices from the stew were making an improvement. It was the last of the big pot from the evening before. He had enjoyed it then, and he was hungrier now. He took a spoonful and blew across it. He wanted to make sure he didn’t burn his tongue.

  He finished the first bowl and was glad to see there was a little more for a second helping. A mournful air hung around the camp, and with good reason, but life went on.

  Raimundo put his hand on Tommy’s shoulder. “You get enough to eat?”

  “Just right. I’m fine, thanks.”

  “That’s good. You gotta eat. Everything else goes to hell, you gotta eat.” Raimundo patted him again. “That’s good work you do this morning. Even that far away, maybe we’ll still get the smell.”

  “Depends on which way the wind blows.”

  “That’s right. But there’s a lot of dead ones.”

  “I’m sorry it happened. All of it.”

  Raimundo shrugged. “Nothin’ we can do about it. Just try to help Leonila. This is all too heavy for her.”

  “Do you think Cushman’s men will come again?”

  “Sooner or later. He doesn’t give up. He wants to punish us too much.”

  “Well, I’ll help if I can.”

  “I know. You’re a good boy.” Raimundo patted him one more time. “Faustino doesn’t want to say anything good about you, but everyone knows you helped. When you fired your pistol.”

  “I didn’t hit anything.”

  “I know. But you helped.”

  Tommy handed in his empty bowl and looked for another place to sit. The shade had moved, and now he found a place between the wagons where he could rest for a while and gaze out to the south. The sun beat down on a warm, calm, dry afternoon. The bed ground where the attack had taken place looked bare and innocent now. The blood and the dug-up dirt were not visible at this distance.

  Tommy had gotten comfortable in the shade when movement at the right edge of his vision caught his attention. A half-mile to the southwest, a lone rider was making his way in the direction of the camp. Tommy’s heartbeat picked up, and he felt to make sure his pistol was in place. Pete was staked out and cropping grass a quarter of a mile to the west. Tommy narrowed his eyes but could not make out the rider any better. He made himself wait. If he didn’t like the looks of the man or anything about him, he would go for his horse and be ready.

  A few minutes passed, and the horse and rider continued in their own shadow. Another minute went by, and the horse did not look as dark. The rider’s outline became clearer. He was not a large man. Tommy doubted that one of Cushman’s men would come back by himself, either to repay a debt or to fetch a club. Still, no rider was a friend unless—and Tommy’s thought began to be confirmed. The horse had a flecked grey coat and dark ears. The rider wore a dusty black hat. For a few seconds, only the hat showed as the horse went into a low spot. As the form rose up and the pair emerged into closer view, a smile came to Tommy’s face, and he waved at Bill Lockwood.

  The lean rider waved back, a flash of buckskin-colored glove against the background of his dark shirt. Lockwood’s mustache was visible now, and even his posture in the saddle was unmistakable. A hundred yards out, he slowed the grey horse to a walk. The animal was sweating along the neck and breathing hard, its feet still picking up in brisk movements.

  “What, ho?” said Lockwood as he brought the horse to a stop and leaned forward with both hands on the saddle horn.

  “Good afternoon. What brings you here?”

  “An ill wind.”

  “Really?”

  “That’s right. Is Raimundo here?”

  “Yes, he is.”

  “Good.” Lockwood’s coffee-colored eyes looked past Tommy. “There you are. Raimundo. I’m glad to see you.” Lockwood dismounted in the slow, deliberate manner of a man who had ridden a long ways. His eyes came back to Tommy. “I can tell you bo
th at the same time.”

  Tommy observed Raimundo on his left. He heard movement behind him, but he did not turn to see who was on the other side of the wagon. There were no secrets in this camp anyway, at least that he knew of, and anyone could listen.

  “Oh?” said Raimundo. “Something bad?”

  “Lies, I imagine.” Lockwood held the reins behind him as he stepped forward. “One of Cushman’s men rode into Fenton this morning and said the Mexicans had attacked their camp and shot one of the men. They didn’t expect him to live.”

  “Which one said it?” asked Tommy.

  “That big one they call Lew Greer.”

  “He’s the foreman,” Tommy said.

  “I think I heard that. Anyway, he didn’t seem to have any purpose except to spread the gossip. There’s no lawman in that town, and no doctor.”

  “Well it’s a big lie,” said Raimundo. “They attack us two times. The first time, they run cattle through our camp, and they kill one person. My niece, Elsa.”

  Lockwood’s face fell.

  “The next time, last night, they come and kill our sheep.”

  Lockwood frowned. “Did they shoot ’em?”

  Tommy spoke up. “They clubbed the sheep. They killed twenty-three head, and when the Mexicans started shooting at ’em, they rode up and shot Alejo, Elsa’s father. Faustino got a shot at the man who did it, so that would be the one that Lew Greer was talking about.”

  “Son of a bitch,” said Lockwood. “What about Alejo?”

  Raimundo answered. “He’s dead.”

  Lockwood shook his head. “And they came to club the sheep, did they?”

  “That’s right,” said Tommy. “I counted five of them. They can deny it, but we’ve got plenty of witnesses, and one of them left his club behind.” Tommy pointed to the south. “And just in case someone still doesn’t believe it, they can go look at all the dead ones we had to drag away.”