Chapter Fourteen
Being Saturday night and feeling peculiar, I moseyed down to the Blue Saloon, because I’d been told it was a bad place to go to. Something about Marta was troubling me. I’d think one thing and then something else. I was starting to like having her around, and that made no doggone sense.
There was a bunch of punchers and peelers at the bar—planks lying across whisky barrels—lanterns hung all around the walls. The dirt floor was covered with straw, and I asked the barkeep what for.
“It makes it easier to clean up with all the tobacco spit, puke, and blood,” he said, wiping down glasses dipped in a scummy bucket. Top of the water had kind of rainbow colors in it.
I said, “That makes sense.” Now that he’d mentioned it, the place smelled like all that.
I knew I dranked too much. I started with beer, but ended up on tequila. It was like belting down wet fire.
That greasy-beard, slit-lip punch from the other day asked what for I was letting a Mex gal tote a scattergun around. He talked big being backed by his pards. I recollect telling that bunch of boys this was the nosiest damn town I’d ever had the misfortune to pass through. They agreed that it was a good damn idea that I was passing through, and they hoped I’d continue my travels real soon.
The barkeep got me out of there without the help of Slit-Lip and his pards who were more than willing to toss me out. I went to the noisiest place I could hear, a Mex cantina down the muddy street.
Those Mex boys were real friendly and weren’t nosey. We drank beer, drawing bottles floating in a cold-water barrel, and they were singing up a storm. This one vato was prime on a guitar. There was a couple of Mex whores flirting with them boys, and this one started hanging around me when I started buying rounds. It’d been a long time, and she was looking mighty good. She kept playing with my hair, standing behind me, wearing a red dress showing a nude shoulder.
Now I ain’t never had no Mex whore, and I ain’t proud to admit I’d gotten sorta curious. I felt real lonely, and I went with her to a tent outback. She hoisted up her dress, but I told her to take off everything. She shrugged her shoulders and peeled off and laid on the cot. It was cold, but I took no notice. Her skin was like coffee with a slug of milk, long black hair, eyes just as black, big dark nipples, and a patch of thick black hair. In my head, I could see Marta’s sil-lo-wet standing in that door.
I gave her two eight-reales. I thought I’d made some good money of late, but she was probably rich at this rate. I was feeling pretty good and at the same time real down. It was all queer and confusing, and I don’t think it was because of the booze. Those Mexes, some could speak American, were slapping me on the back and saying, “Adiós, amigo,” as I headed out. It was sure cold. I walked straight back to the Blue Saloon. I’ve done dumber things, just don’t recollect what.
I walked up behind Slit-Lip and them other punches hanging on the bar and bawled, “Y’all a bunch of damn nosey bastards and ain’t got no call telling me what for about that girl carrying a twice-barrel shootgun.
Instead of being pummeled with fists, they all turned around and started shouting things like, “Greasy Mex lover,” “Get your ass and your Mex whore outta town,” and “Stick that dummy greaser bitch’s scattergun up your ass, boy.”
That’s when I threw a beer bottle at Slit-Lip, who was wild-eyed drunk. That’s when I got pummeled with fists. And dragged across the floor, thrown out the door, kicked about, and stomped into the mud and horse shit. I remember that mud was real cold. Slit-Lip pulled this foot-long skinning knife and came at me. I put my arms up, and he fell on me like a barrel of rancid salt beef. I don’t recollect no more.
I woke up with someone banging on pots. There wasn’t any straw on this dirt floor, but there was puke and blood, mostly mine I think. The banging was a fat turnkey with shaggy ginger-and-gray hair and tobacco-brown teeth a clanging on the cell bars with a ladle. He was saying, “Someone here to sees ya, dumbass.”
“What happened?” I asked. My mouth tasted like a wormy cow had shit in it, and I felt like the rest of the herd had stampeded over me. I was real cold and shivering like a leaf.
“Ya real lucky, ya dumb sumbitch.” The turnkey was standing there snarling down at me. “Deputy Wilcox conked that big punch on the head wit that grub-hoe handle he carries. Or you’d be in the Chinaman’s parlor with him having to stuff your innards back in.”
“Well, thank him for me when next you see him.” I heard moaning in the next cell and there layed Slit-Lip among the contents of a kicked over chamber pot.
“Y’all dumb as a keg of lard,” grumbled the turnkey, looking at me. “Anyways, someone here to sees ya.”
And there stood Marta with a big frown. I all a sudden had this powerful guilt feeling in my innards, the ones the Chinaman should be stuffing back in.
The turnkey said, “Mrs. Moran brunged her down to give ya some blankets. It’s powerful cold.” He scowled at me again. “Ya oughta be ’shamed yourself making that fine lady havta come down to the hoosegow on a night like this.”
Marta pushed two blankets through the bars and was worried looking. But she gave me a scowl and ran out. I guess she didn’t approve of the state I’d gotten myself into.
“Tell Mrs. Moran I thanks her from the bottom of my heart.” All that talking was hurting my head.
The turnkey only growled.
»»•««
The turnkey banging on the bars woke me. “Mrs. Moran here to co’lect y’all.”
The glaring morning sun slanting through the bared window made my head hurt more. I managed to make it to my feet once I’d crawled out of the cell.
“Y’all one damn lucky sumbitch, dumbass. That they brunged ya ’em blankets,” he added.
I didn’t say nothing. My teeth itched, and my tongue was asleep. The blankets were hanging over my shoulders. It was colder than a witch’s tit on the Texas Panhandle.
“That punch what tried to knife ya, he froze death las’ night. He ain’t had no blankets. A powerful bad blue norther blowed in.”
I was expecting an ass chewing, although I don’t think a fine lady like Mrs. Moran would call it that. She was standing there wearing a long beaver-skin coat and a stone-cold look. Marta was there too wearing her corduroy coat and shawls, and her face matched Mrs. Moran’s.
In a stern tone, Mrs. Moran said, “I expected better of you, Mr. Eugen. I trust you will work hard to redeem yourself.” I only nodded, but that hurt. Her wagon was on the street, and I took the reins for the four blocks back to the hotel. She didn’t say nothing more to me that day. Of course neither did Marta. It was the worst ass chewing I’d ever had.
Chapter Fifteen
On Monday, I bought a hair brush for Marta at the Watkins Store. She smiled a little, I guess forgiving me, sorta.
I told Mrs. Moran I didn’t belong in a place like this. I’d just get in more trouble. I thanked her and said, “I need to be pushing on, find work with some outfit. I’ll find someone to take in Marta before I leave.”
“If you insist on going alone, Bud, you can leave Marta here.”
“That’d be mighty kindly of you, ma’am, but shouldn’t she be with her own kind?”
“Yolanda is here. Most everyone in this town are Mexicans.”
“I’ll ask around, ma’am. We’ll see. Maybe I’ll take you up on that offer.”
“You do that.” She didn’t sound real happy with the idea of me unloading the girl. “Besides, where will you go? No one is hiring.”
“I don’t belong in no town, ma’am.” But she was right. I I didn’t have nowhere to go.
I talked to the customs agent, and he told me if I took the girl across the river, and I didn’t find any place to leave her, she might not be allowed to come back. I asked at the St. Joseph’s Academy on Church Street, a private school for girls. There were Mexes there, but since she couldn’t talk, they didn’t think it would work. Neither did I when they told me it was twenty dollars a month.
&
nbsp; Tuesday, after chores, we rode down to Our Lady of Refuge Catholic Church. Marta figured out what was going on. Mrs. Moran had said, “I hope you know what you’re doing, Bud. Remember what I told you about finding trustworthy folks.” Before turning to go back inside she added, “You need to think on this some more.”
That woman sure enough had a way of making a man feel loathsome. Well, hell, it’s a church, right? What better folks to take care of a stray Mex gal? I had to admit to my ownself that I kind of liked her being around, but she was making me feel too queer. Now since this girl showed up, I didn’t know how I felt. I had to be looking after her and not feeling right about…about how I was feeling.
When we rode up to the church, I looked at Marta, and she wasn’t angry like before, she was plum scart. It was like she knew that this time I was giving her away for keeps. We got off our horses, and she ran up to me, grabbing my arms. Looking up at me with those big ol’ eyes from under that hat, she was shaking her head. Her lips were in a tight line. I ain’t never seen a dread like that in nobody’s eyes. She was begging me with her eyes. I be damned if I got this big ol’ lump in my gizzard. I ain’t never felt like that before.
“I help joo, señor?” A voice behind me said.
I pulled my eyes away from Marta’s. She was still gripping my arms, hard. I was looking at a Mex priest. He was wearing a brown robe thing, had a little fringe beard and looked friendly enough. “You got any need for a girl to do some work here, Padre?” I think I sounded real weak-kneed. “She’s a hard worker and a real prime cook.” I told him her family was all dead and how that came about.
“Joo may call me Brother Miguel,” he said. “No, I afraid not. We have the girls and womens who work for us. I am sorry. Besides,” he said, looking at Marta, “eet look like she no want to leave joo.”
I figured that was his real reason for saying no. It was like a load was lifted off me. Something had been decided for me. I looked back to Marta’s eyes. Tears ran down her face. That hurt me. I muttered to myself, “Don’t do that, girl. I don’t know what to do.” I had to get us out of there. “Well, gracias, Brother Miguel. I was just seeing.”
“Vaya con Dios,” he said.
We rode back to the Fitch Hotel. I couldn’t meet Marta’s eyes. I knew I’d be hearing the after-claps of that little storm for some time. But, I’d hurt her, hurt her bad. I’d no idea how to take away that hurt.
»»•««
The next morning I was lying on my cot with Marta pressed up against me and feeling her breathing and warmth. She was still cross with me, but she set that aside at night. She’d bed down still wearing her wool dress, but it weren’t warm enough. She’d wrap her feet in one of her shawls. I thought she’s not just some Mex gal. She’s like anyone else. She’s got her fears and hurts, and wants to see good things happen, not the life she’s had.
I went back to the Watkins Store and bought two sets of long johns, small size, and three pairs of black wool socks. That made a dent in my funds, almost five dollars. I’d set them on her cot and that got me a big hug and a sweet smile for once. She wore the long johns to bed that night.
I guess we made a silly picture in the mornings. We’d run into the kitchen in our long johns, me wearing boots and she her sandals with our clothes in our arms. Yolanda would be laughing at us as we dressed as fast as we could by the stove. Something about her in them johns, but she kept all that hair hidden under a scarf. I’d fetch coal while Marta poured our coffee, and then helped with breakfast. It was pleasant times.
Chapter Sixteen
I kept asking around for any news of ranch work, but in winter, there wasn’t nothing. I sure didn’t want to ride the chuck line, drifting from ranch-to-ranch through the winter taking opportunity of ranchers’ hospitality, especially in these hard times. Professional chuck-liners—tramp drifters—had a reputation I didn’t want.
Marta had settled down after her scare of my trying to give her away, but she was forever going to the stable seeing if I was packing out. Marta still bundled up with me at night, and she’d hang onto my hand. I’d be splicing a rope or cleaning a gun and catch her gazing at me, like she was willing me to stay. Her full lips and intense dark eyes, they were something to behold.
I’d try and shake off those queer feelings. I didn’t need to get myself tied down and besides, I still had my doubts about her. She was just a lost Mex kid.
One morning I was mucking out stalls, and Marta came tramping out wearing her coat and hat with thick socks under her sandals. An old pair of socks with finger holes covered her hands. She saddled the sorrel and mounted with the shotgun, shell pouch, and a feed sack. Without even a “by your leave” she rode out. Three hours later, she came back with a game bag sprouting rabbit ears and tail feathers, a big grin, and shivering cold. “That girl is something else,” said Mrs. Moran. “Bud, if you do not see what I see…” She let it hang.
I’d about give up hope finding work and didn’t much like being a charity case for Mrs. Moran. That night she called me into the hotel. Sitting in the parlor was a lean man with thick white hair and a big white mustache. He was wearing a prime suit and hard-worn cowboy boots. His sunbaked face held clear sharp eyes. In his fist was a fancy glass of whisky. It all branded him a rancher.
“Bud,” said Mrs. Moran, “this is Mr. DeWitt.”
The man rose. He was tall, and he looked straight in my eyes. “Clayton DeWitt, son, I own the Dew spread up Del Rio way.” His handshake was a firm grip. I knew he meant whatever he said.
“Bud Eugen, sir. Pleased to meet you.” I’d been taught to call important people sir or ma’am. I had mama’s knots on my head to prove the learning.
“Clara tells me you’re a tracker, a puncher, bring in full bags of game birds, and have had a ruckus with injuns with you coming out on top.”
I was caught off guard with “Clara,” then I realized he was speaking of Mrs. Moran. “Yes, sir. I am guilty.”
He chortled deeply and looked like that was something he wasn’t a stranger to. How about you sitting yourself down, Bud Eugen. Clara, fetch this boy whatever he wants to drink.”
“Coffee be fine, ma’am.” I didn’t need any whisky.
“Now tell me this story about you bushwhacking injuns.” He offered me a cigar. I thanked him, but didn’t take it. I’m happy I didn’t after the production he made of cutting the ends off with a little snippy tool, rolling it around and so on before lighting it. I’d of looked the fool.
“Well, sir, I ain’t exactly bushwhack them, but kinda stumbled on them having their way with a cowpoke…”
I told the story, and he asked me questions about tracking and hunting. It wasn’t like what ranchers or foremen or gerentes mostly asked punches. He never took his eyes off of me except when he was laughing.
“What kind of guns you tote, Bud?”
“I got a Winchester ’73 rifle and a Remington ’75 revolver, both .44-40, and a Parker Brothers double 16-gauge.”
“My, my,” said Mr. DeWitt. “We got us a real gunfighter here, Clara.”
I guess I turned red, for he laughed heartily.
“Clayton, you are embarrassing the young man.”
Bending forward he slapped my knee. “That’s all right, son. I can tell you’re a man who takes his business seriously.”
“Well, sir, guns is only part of making a living, but I ain’t no gunfighter, just a punch.”
“Clara, I like this boy. Son, how would you like to work for me?”
I wasn’t expecting that so sudden, so I thought a spell. “If I can ask, sir, what would I be doing?” Going by what he’d been asking it didn’t sound much like I’d be following the rear ends of cows.
“Smart question, son. Shows you’re thinking.” He got quiet for a moment. “The Dew is right on the Rio Grande, and of late, we’ve been having bandito troubles. They been coming across the river and rustling cattle, horses, and sheep. Who the hell troubles with rustling woolies?” He seemed exasperated. “Anyho
w, these banditos are even coming over and pinching horses from my boys. They take the horse, saddle, and their guns. So far, nobody been killed, but I worry about that mightily.”
He was looking at me, watching how I’d react, I guess. “What I need son, is somebody who knows how to use a gun, someone to monitor things. I need a tracker too, and with you, it looks like I get both.”
“So I’d be doing both?”
“Yep. I’ve already got a couple of boys monitoring, and I hope to pick up another or two. But what I don’t have is a decent tracker.”
“You say tracking, sir. That sounds like maybe you wanna tail them into Mexico.”
“Exactly, son.” He stretched out his legs getting comfortable.
“Cross the river?”
“That a problem, son?” he asked gravely.
“Do you have any vaqueros what know the country over there?”
“Yes, I do. Damn fine hombres, too.”
I didn’t ask how good. I didn’t suspect this cattleman hired half-assed hands. “Then it’s not a problem, sir.”
He nodded. “I’ll start you at twenty dollars a month, meals, and everything your horse needs. If you work out it goes to twenty-five the following month. How’s that sound?”
“That sounds mighty generous, sir.” We stood and shook hands. I liked his grip, and I liked his eyes.
“In that case, Bud, you can call me Clay.”
“Yes, sir, and you can call me Mr. Eugen.”
“Ha, ha, Clara, I truly like this boy! I’ve got business here for a few days, Mr. Eugen. But I need to get you up to the Dew. Can you leave tomorrow? It’s a two-day and an early morning’s ride.”
“Yes, sir.” I was already having troublesome thoughts about what leaving meant.
“How about I stake you for the trip?”
The Hardest Ride Page 7