The Hardest Ride

by Gordon L. Rottman

  I paid for everything and didn’t let Marta see the mirror. It thinned down my money stash.

  The shopkeeper’s wife said, “That’s a good idea, son, buying her the mirror ifin y’all had a fallin’ out.”

  “We ain’t never had a falling in, ma’am,” I said.

  “It takes a while sometimes,” she said with a smile.

  I didn’t say nothing to that. How’d she figure we were…whatever she was thinking?

  We stopped at a livery yard, and I bought Cracker and Burro some oats. Marta was still ignoring me as hard as she could. I’d always heard women had that annoying knack. I knew horses and cattle inside out, but women? They were a mystery. The boys at the K. B. Webb Ranch had treated me to a whore when I came fifteen, but knowing painted cats ain’t the same as knowing customary women…or Mex girls.

  It came a downpour, a real frog-floater, and we waited it out under the livery yard’s pole barn. When the rain finally let up, we were well into the day before we turned south on the muddy road to Eagle Pass.

  We came across a couple of freight wagons at a flooded creek ford. I helped dig out one of the wagons and with getting them across the flood. Marta pitched in too. It was a couple of hours of hard work in calf-deep mud and listening to the teamsters grousing how the railroad was ruining their business. For all that muddy work, they gave us cold bean sandwiches for dinner.

  Another rainstorm blew through. I put on my yellow slicker and tried to help Marta bundle up in the gum blanket, but she wasn’t having none of that. She did fine on her ownself with her serape. We were pretty drenched and cold, so I stopped early, well off the road. A fire would help dry us out. The trouble was there wasn’t any dry wood to be had. Marta collected up wood and piled it. I was thinking she’s got some old Mex trick for drying it out. She doused it with coal oil, tossed on a match, and we had a blaze. “I’m glad somebody’s thinking ahead.”

  We stood there drying out our clothes, and Marta was still acting like I was someplace else. I could tell she hadn’t been too awed by the bean sandwich, so she started fixing supper. It wasn’t frijole beans. She browned some rice in the skillet, melting in a chunk of white bacon. When it was sizzling, she threw in some cut-up ham and onion and chopped up jalapeños. She cut open one of the airtights of tomatoes, dumped them in, and covered the skillet.

  I made the coffee and collected more wood as she stirred the tomato-rice. She spooned the meal into my plate and her bowl. I shared out the soda crackers and coffee.

  It was a dang fine meal. Felt like I was eating alone, though.

  After she cleaned our eating gear, and I tended the animals, I handed her the mirror. That got a little reaction, a quick glance, and a nod. She sat there looking into it for a piece, like she was staring at a stranger. It made me realize how much her life had changed in one day.

  We bedded down on opposite sides of the fire. I heard her crying. Made me feel sorry for her. “Niña, lo siento por tu familia.” I told her I was sorry for her family. I don’t know if I said it right. It was the longest thing I ever tried to say in Mex.

  It came to me that I’d never much felt sorry for anyone like this.

  Chapter Eight

  The fire was out in the morning. The sun was well up and only seen through ragged cloud breaks. Marta was not to be seen either. On the pad of leaves where she’d slept, she’d left the wool blanket and gum blanket and the mirror. Struggling out of my bedroll, I checked the provisions bag and all the grub was there. Checking the animals, Burro was gone. Marta’s sandal tracks led back to the road and turned north to Uvalde. Damn that girl! I was trying to make up to her. I got no idea why, since I was still conspiring to get rid of her. I couldn’t blame her for taking off, but taking Burro wasn’t right. “I’m going to wallop that Mex’s butt until it’s bloody raw. No, I ain’t,” I grumbled aloud. I’d had that done to me.

  I turned left onto the muddy road for Uvalde. Freight wagons had already passed. I stopped and asked myself why was I following her now that I’d gotten my wish. She ain’t my problem anymore. I’d follow a stray calf; it had a money worth. But this stray was a bother. Thinking like that made me feel bad. She’s smart. She’d make it on her own…I hoped. Heck, I’d miss them frijole beans too.

  I hoped. You don’t just hope. If you’re a man good for his word, a man that can be counted on, and a man who treats folks right, then you make things happen your way. At least give it your best. And she stole Burro, dammit! I dug my heels into Cracker’s sides. “Let’s go get her,” I muttered. “I don’t cotton to any burro rustling.”

  Something was nagging at me looking at the sandal tracks. Why ain’t she riding Burro? Well, I’d had to boost her up. Then why’d she steal Burro, but left the blankets I’d given her, and the mirror too. She didn’t take any grub either. Damn Mex girl. Ain’t making no sense.

  A mile down the road the sandal tracks disappeared. I rode back and found a spot where there was a patch of little prints. Studying them, I figured she gotten on a freight wagon. The little rustler must have stringed Burro to the wagon.

  I was back in Uvalde before noon. She could be anywhere. She could even have kept going through town on a freight wagon in any of three directions—east to Hondo and San Antonio, west to Del Rio, or north to Leakey. Why am I doing this? I asked myself again. I wanted Burro back, didn’t care about her. But I kept thinking about someone having their way with her. She didn’t deserve nothing like that, not after what all she’d been through. On the busy streets, there was no following Burro’s tracks. I asked first at the livery yard and the general store. Every teamster I saw unloading or stopped at saloons for a dinner, I asked of her.

  It turns out I didn’t have to follow any tracks. Looking down a side street, I spied a rack-bed freight wagon with Burro tied to it, standing there, one eye blinking. Unstrapping my Remington I rode up and asked the teamster why he needed a burro to push his three-team wagon. He was straight away suspicious and stepped toward the wagon seat where I guessed he kept a scattergun.

  “Hold there,” I said putting my hand on my pistol grip.

  He did.

  “That burro come with a little Mex gal?”

  “Yes, sir, it did.”

  “Whereabouts you drop her off?”

  “Back yonder at Getty and Mesquite streets. She shore don’t talk much.”

  That was near that Catholic church. She musta left Burro in payment. “She stole that burro. I’ll be taking it with me.”

  “Now don’t be so fast passin’ judgment, mister. When I pick that little gal up, she was tryin’ to chase that burro off. It was follerin’ her.”

  “Why’d you give her a ride?” Myself being suspicious of his intentions.

  He bristled, figuring I was thinking bad things of him. “She looked lost and in need of a lift. Jus’ tryin’ to be decent. How I know that y’all’s burro?”

  “He’s blind in the right eye.”

  Leaning over, “He shorely is. He’s all yours. I don’t need no half-blind Mex donkey.”

  Stringing Burro to Cracker after moving over all the gear I’d piled on Cracker, I headed back to the church. I dismounted and tied Cracker to a hitching post. I don’t know why I turned and looked across the plaza. I spied a tiny figure sitting cross-legged beside a saloon door. I walked across the muddy plaza leading the animals.

  She held her eating bowl in her lap. A passing mechanic dropped in a coin. Two of those wretched New York railroad trash came out of the saloon door. They said something to each other, their heads together. One laughed and hocked a gob of chewing tobacco at her bowl. He missed, splattering it on her shawl. Marta didn’t move, didn’t look up. They laughed mean like and saw me coming.

  “Here’s a sporting cowboy. You want a piece of that chili-popper, fella?”

  “This here greaser runt’s free for the takin’,” said the other with no room to talk, seeing his shirt and pants front were black with grease.

  I clutched my revolver’s g
rip and felt a pistol-whipping coming on. I kept a hold on my temper and paid them no mind. The two maggots smartly left without saying nothing more.

  She was shivering. I knelt down and wiped the spit off with my bandana. “Disgusting damn Yankees.” There were tears in those big dark eyes.

  I don’t know why, but I stood and reached out my hand. She glanced at me, seemed to sigh, reached for my hand, hesitated, and then took it. A chill shot though me, but it wasn’t from her cold hand. I don’t know what it was. Gripping me like she’d never let go, she held on tight until I wrapped her serape around her and lifted her onto Burro. I didn’t care who saw it. She sat there sort of limp, looking all played out, just staring at the ground.

  “Let’s go to Eagle Pass. I’ll get that job, and we’ll see what’ll happen.”

  Marta was still shaking with tears in her eyes and her lips quivering. Taking out a pair of wool socks, I worked them over her hands.

  “We’ll stop early today, build a big ol’ fire, fuego”—I made hand signs—“and we’ll have your frijole beans.”

  She gave a sorta smile and nodded. I stuck the hand mirror into her tow sack. I felt real queer and couldn’t explain the feeling in my belly.

  »»•««

  We rode past the campsite we’d bedded down in the night before. I saw more freight wagons. The few punches I came across, traveling in ones and twos, knew of no work. The coal mines on either side of the Rio Grande only hired Mexes at starvation wages. I was mighty glad I had that letter from Mr. Picket.

  It was going to be a dang cold night, and by the feel in the air and smell, a wet one too. Marta built another coal oil-lit fire and started on her frijole beans. My mouth was already watering. She was slap-pressing tortillas.

  I pitched up my bedroll’s canvas cover and got everything under it, including my saddle. Marta piled her leaves and laid out her blankets. I took the gum blanket and my slicker and rigged the best fly tent I could for her.

  Brewing the coffee, I gave Marta the sugar candy stick that came in the Arbuckles’ sack. She didn’t know quite what to make of it. I knew what to make of her frijole beans and tortillas. They were grand and different from before.

  I bundled up for a cold wet night after tossing logs on. Marta sat under her fly staring at the fire and would look into her mirror too. No telling what she was thinking. Poor kid.

  She sat with her knees up, arms crossed over them, and resting her chin. The fire danced in her eyes, but I think she was staring at me.

  I don’t know what she thought she was going to do there in Uvalde by begging. There’d been three pennies in her bowl, which she’d pressed into my hand. I couldn’t figure it. I was trying to give her away so someone could take care of her. Instead, she’d rather be on her own with all the shame and danger. Or she’s willing to stay with me. I got no idea why. Maybe she thought I’m taking good enough care of her. That’s a laugh. Maybe because I didn’t make her do anything she didn’t want to. She pitched in doing what needed doing. It occurred to me that I was doing the same, pitching in for the good of us both. I don’t know; I couldn’t figure out what was going on.

  It started drizzling and came down harder to douse the fire. I woke up to the sound of a hard wind. The rain had stopped, and it was colder. A lot colder. I could hear ice crackle on my canvas tarp.

  I woke again with crackling ice and my blankets rustling, startling me for a second. Marta squirmed into my bedroll. I was lying on my left side, and she spooned up, her back to my chest. She shivered something terrible even though wrapped in her blankets and shawls. I didn’t know what to make of it. This is the strangest thing that ever happened to me, a Mex gal crawling into my bedroll. Pretty amazing. She must trust me. Then I remembered that boning knife. Beforelong I felt warmer. Well, what the heck. I laid my arm over her shoulder. She tightened her fingers around my hand. Even with the socks, her fingers were freezing. She didn’t cry any.

  »»•««

  Morning and she was still there, lying against me, all warm and soft. She smelled of mesquite smoke and fiery spices. I ain’t never shacked up with no Mex gal. Well, I reasoned, the earth ain’t cracked open and the sky ain’t felled.

  I think she was already awake, because when I moved she scrambled out of the bedroll into the freezing air. She lit up the fire with coal oil and gave me a quick smile from over the blaze. We rushed around doing our chores of heating up frijole beans and coffee, feeding the animals, and packing the bedrolls while trying to act like…I don’t know, like we ain’t been cuddled up so close. It’s like nothing curious had happened. I busied myself keeping my mind off of things. Cracker and Burro weren’t too happy, them being cold too and ready to walk themselves warm.

  We started south on the road crunching over the frozen mud and plodded on through the morning. It had warmed up some. I’d make Eagle Pass and a job in a few days.

  I heard a whooping yell from the right, and I knew what made it. I waved at Marta to hang back, lashed Cracker’s flank with my cuarta, and tore into the mesquite, dragging out my rifle.

  Chapter Nine

  I come out of the mesquite and saw the damndest thing. Two injuns was working over a cowboy lying in the mud. He was in a bad way seeing that one buck was holding his legs down and whooping up a storm as he knifed him in the ass. The other was scalping that fella. He was getting it from both ends you might say. I levered a round into the Winchester and blew the back of the head off the injun doing the stabbing. The other buck jumped up holding the scalp and shook his bloody knife at me. Letting loose a whoop, he come running dead at me. It’s embarrassing to tell this, but my shot plum missed him as Cracker stepped back when the hollering buck started for me. Instead of being fancy with a head shot, I shot him in the chest. But getting off Cracker, I found the buck was still breathing with blood bubbling out of his mouth and nose. I shot him through the heart. The other buck was lying on his back looking real sorry with his brains in the mud.

  That poor fella on his face in the mud started moaning.

  What am I going to do now? He was bleeding mighty powerfully, and I figured he’d not be with us much longer. He muttered something laying there in a big puddle of blood. I kneeled down and said, “How you doing, partner?” That’s all I could think of. Seems kind of silly considering the state he was in.

  He said, “I ain’t figured to check out this way.”

  I surely felt for him. Rolling him over, I took his bandana and put it on his head after folding it. I’d never seen someone scalped and still living and bleeding. Hell of a thing.

  If he didn’t bleed out, I thought I could get him into town, and maybe he’d make it. I’d heard of an old boy that’d been scalped and lived to tell of it. His barber gave him half off haircuts, but still charged him full for a shave. “Hang on, partner. Maybe we can get you out of this.” The cowboy wasn’t much older than me.

  “No, that sumbitch gave me the knife in the kidney.” Blood was coming out of his mouth now, and then I saw blood under his backside. It was flowing like a redrock spring creek. His face was death white and his voice feeble.

  That’s when I hear a whoop and see a horse coming. I grabbed up my rifle. Of all things, here comes another buck. He had a shotgun and was bearing down on me fast, maybe seventy yards. I aimed real good, had the time to, and squeezed, and dammit if I didn’t miss again. Two misses in one day! I aimed again, and the shotgun boomed. A swarm of hornets hit me stinging like the dickens and damn if I ain’t missed again when I directly fired. I levered in a fresh round and brought her to my shoulder and saw I was aiming at an empty horse. I guessed I’d hit that buck after all. There he was on the ground. He sat up though. Damn! Maybe I needed more practice. He was up and coming at me with a tomahawk. I’m thinking there’s only so many cartridges in rifle, so I’d better start paying attention to what I’m doing. I put one in him as his horse ran past me. The buck dropped like a sack of wet flour. I hoped he was a deader. Then it occurred to me there might be more i
njuns. The buck laid there moaning and groaning. I’d gut shot him. Damn! I ain’t wasting no more cartridges. He’d commence a squealing and screaming before long, but I wasn’t hanging around to hear that.

  I took a look around and didn’t see any more marauding savages. I felt little burns all over my left arm and side. I pulled up my sleeve and there were polka dots of blood. I’d been hit with a birdshot from a long ways off. It stung, but that was all. I’ll have to pick out the shot.

  The buck in question was crying and wallowing around in the mud and cactus. It was high time to get out of there. I would have that scattergun. It was laying in the mud way behind him. I picked it up and broke it open. Both shells had been fired. I only remembered one shot. I looked at the buck, and it looked like I’d only got him with that gut shot. I be damned, the fool had fired both barrels and knocked his self off that horse. I would have that horse too.

  Going back to Cracker, I got out my carton of cartridges and reloaded. Seven rounds were left in my rifle. That’s when I wondered where Marta was. I turned to holler and there she was on the injun’s pony with Burro in tow. “¡Buena chica!”—Good girl! She didn’t smile, though, as she was looking over the carnage and the screaming injun. She looked plum good sitting that pony. That’s when I realized it had a saddle, saddlebags, and bedroll. It was a little sorrel and must have belonged, I mean, belongs, to that cowboy.

  I wondered what that girl’s thinking about all this mess after what happened to her family. I wished she’d hadn’t seen this. It dawned on me she had caught that excited sorrel all by her lonesome. I be damned. That’s pretty good.

  I went over to the fella and he was a goner. Heck, I’d no idea what to do now. Like with the girl’s family, there was no burying the fella. He’d have to stay. I didn’t have any Bible words to say over him. So I simply said I hoped he’d make his way to a better place with sweet green grass and good water. He could sit in the shade watching his enemies ride past to hell. Marta slid off the sorrel, and I think she was saying something for him in her mind. She crossed herself a couple of times.