The Hardest Ride

by Gordon L. Rottman

  “That’s fine, sir. I’m all set.”

  He nodded. “Can I stake you for cartridges?” He laid a Gold Eagle on the side table. Ten dollars would buy a lot of cartridges. He didn’t have to say they’d be needed. “You might want to pick them up today if you’re leaving early in the morn.”

  I took the gold coin, and I was in.

  “Will you sup with me? I’ll fill you in on the Dew and the troubles.” “Troubles” he called them. If only I’d known.

  »»•««

  I walked to the gunshop. I had to think. Mrs. Moran said she’d take good care of Marta with me leaving. I knew that. But that wasn’t good enough. Just leaving her here and riding off, it didn’t seem right. Something was tugging at me about my proposed leaving.

  “Good day to you, friend,” said the gunsmith with a smile.

  “Howdy.” It wasn’t no good day at all.

  “How can I help you?”

  I set a sack of empty shot shells and the Gold Eagle on the countertop. “Tell me when it’s used up.”

  “Yes, sir.” He saw I was in no mood for gabbing.

  “Three cartons .44-40, a carton of 16-gauge Number 1 buck and—What was that I got last time? Number 6 shot?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Two boxes Number 6, then. What I got left, enough for another carton of .44?”

  He set two more fifty-round cartons on the counter. “Looks like you’re going to be doing some serious hunting. That woman of yours still hunting?”

  There’s no secrets in this town. “She ain’t my woman, and yep, she likes to hunt.” I couldn’t help but brag on her. “Guests at the Fitch are getting filled up with rabbit and squirrel stew.”

  He gave me some coin change and said, “You come back, friend.”

  “I might.”

  »»•««

  Marta’s cot setting next to mine was empty that night. She slept in the kitchen. It gave me a taste of how lonely and cold the trail would be.

  Chapter Seventeen

  I had a sunrise breakfast with Mr. DeWitt. He handed me directions and a pencil map to the Dew. “My foreman’s Lemuel Cleland. I’ll tell you only one thing about Lee, don’t make him wait.”

  In the stable, I found all of Marta’s gear, even her cot, was gone, I guess moved into Yolanda’s room. I didn’t see the girl nowhere. I had a real empty feeling, and I think Mr. DeWitt knew I was out of sorts. Mrs. Moran was godawful quiet, so quiet you wouldn’t hear thunder.

  I told her, “Ma’am, please ask Yolanda to tell Marta I’ll be coming back when I get time off. It’s only a two-day and a morning’s ride.”

  “Why don’t you tell her yourself?” She was looking at me real displeased like, her arms crossed.

  “I can’t talk Mex, ma’am.”

  “I think she will understand you, Bud.”

  The idea of having to do that about scart me to death. Mrs. Moran didn’t push it, seeing how I was looking like I’d been run over by a mob of mustangs.

  I saddled and loaded the horses and Burro. I was selling the sorrel at Juan’s livery. The shotgun I hung on my saddle and that didn’t make me feel no better. Felt like I was stealing the sorrel and scattergun from Marta.

  From the backdoor Mrs. Moran shouted, “Please come around front. I have dinner for you to take along.”

  I brought the horses around and found Mrs. Moran on the front porch…with Yolanda and Marta. The girl was wearing her riding getup, her shawls and coat and her big hat. Her tow sack, stuffed full of gear and the bean pot, and her bedroll and canteen were all sitting on the porch.

  All bundled up and shapeless, she’d never looked prettier. Her eyes held something. It it was hope. It came to me that above all things, she wanted to come with me.

  I shook my head.

  Her eyes melted onto a great sadness, and a lump stuck in my gullet of the likes I ain’t never had. She had a pleading look, and it hurt me to no end. I didn’t think I could make smart choices at that point.

  Right then I didn’t care what I sounded like or who was hearing it. “Marta, I can’t do this. I can’t take you.” I had to stop and try to swallow. “Where I’m going ain’t safe. There’s bad people.”

  Yolanda was whispering to her. Marta’s face fell into a look of everlasting sorrow. I only wanted to turn and gallop out of town beating Cracker as hard as I could with my cuarta. “Tell her I’ll be back sometime.” I don’t know if they heard me. I sawed the horse around and trotted off to turn up Main Street. I was fighting not to look back.

  At the livery, I untied the sorrel from my string. Juan checked its teeth. He’d already offered eight dollars for the saddle.

  I heard a muddy splash behind me, and the livery man said, “Joo woman, she ees here, Señor Bud.”

  I tuned, and Marta was climbing to her feet in the gate, her chest was heaving from running. She’s covered with mud and loaded with her bulging tow sack, bedroll, and saddlebags. I’d been wondering where them saddlebags were, they’d fetch a few dollars. Long black hair was falling out from under her hat. She was twisting a strand in her hand. Her face held a wild unsure look.

  I ain’t never had nobody chase after me just because they wanted to be with me.

  I walked over and yanked the saddlebags from her. She started to tug them back, but let go, like she’d gave up. She staggered back against the fence. I tossed them behind the sorrel’s cantle and lashed them on with the latigos. “Forget it, Juan, the sorrel ain’t for sale.”

  “I give joo forty-five americano for dee sorrelo.”

  “He’s been called for, amigo.”

  Marta’s just about jumping up and down and tossed her bedroll and tow sack, with the bean pot, on Burro and started throwing diamond hitches. She hung her canteen on the sorrel and giving me a quick look, took the shotgun case off Cracker and hung it on her horse.

  “Juan…”

  “¿Sí, Señor Bud?” He scratched his shaggy head.

  “I got no idea what the hell I’m doing.” Marta was at the frosty water trough trying to wipe off mud.

  Juan laughed. “Joo doing good thing, señor.”

  “Yeah, you bet.” I climbed on Cracker, and Marta followed me out the livery yard.

  I looked back as we passed the railroad station and cotton presses. From under her hat brim all I could see of her face was a big shit-eating grin. Now what? I thought.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Just what the hell am I doing? It was about forty-five miles to the Dew, so I had a lot of time to think on it. The first thing that came to mind was what they were going to say when I showed up with a shotgun-toting Mex girl. She wasn’t part of the deal. There ain’t a lot of punchers or wranglers, trackers or monitors, or whatever the hell I was, have a girl following them around like a faithful dog. Hell, the hands’ll be bedding in a bunkhouse. What am I supposed to do with her? The foreman might tell her to hit the trail and maybe send me packing after her. Then what? I’d be out of job and owing Mr. Clay DeWitt ten dollars.

  “I’m in a fix,” I said out loud. I looked back at Marta, and she was looking at me with sort of a smile and a frown at the same time. Maybe they’ll let her stay because she can help with cooking, washing, and mucking out the house. She’d work for vittles and a place to bed down. And where would that be? Not in the bunkhouse with me. Why was I even pondering on that? Maybe this would be a way to put some distance between us. If they let her work, they’d give her a place to bed down.

  There was something else. Before, she was tagging along. Now I was taking her with me, on purpose. Well, it wasn’t like I’d put a brand on her or anything.

  We took the road easy, it having been a couple of weeks since we done any real riding. Most of the time, I guess we were one to three miles from the Rio Grande. Never did see the river down in its gorge. The land was low rolling ridges covered with yucca, sagebrush, creosote, and cactus, but mostly mesquite. Seemed like there was a creek every five or seven miles, down in thirty-, fifty-foot deep
gorges.

  About noon, we stopped at a creek for dinner, after crossing it. I always cross before stopping, even if only to water. Mrs. Moran had given us cold fried chicken, jam jars of frijole beans, and biscuits left from breakfast. She’d given me a jar of lick too. Marta had taken a liking to molasses on biscuits…and toast, cornbread, crackers, tortillas, and just about anything else you set in front of her. We unsaddled to graze the horses. Marta laid a saddle blanket out and sat right beside me and patted me on the shoulder. She was grinning the whole time. At least someone was happy around these parts.

  It was cool, but clear skies; that meant it’d be cold tonight. It was so quiet after that town. The horses were content and so was the girl. She may have been worrying me, but I had a job with good pay, a good boss. I only hoped I knew what I was getting into. Monitoring all alone with a band of banditos causing mischief sounded kind of one-sided.

  After eating, we came up out of the gorge. The bluff was lower on this side and rounded a bend at the top, and this Mex stepped onto the trail. He a held a pistol with a bore as big as my thumb and aimed it between my eyes. He said something in Mex, but I knew exactly what he wanted. The hammer clicked back real loud, and I slid out of the saddle with my hands over my head. Damn, just when things were looking up. When my feet hit the ground, I heard a double click behind me. Without turning around I knew what was up. The Mex dropped his cannon and reached so high he was about standing on this toes.

  I kicked his cannon away and stole a look back at Marta. The road agent’s line of sight had been blocked by me on the horse, and she’d pulled out the shotgun sight unseen. When I got off Cracker, he found her pointing the shotgun at him. I looked around to see if there were more desperados and picked up the cannon. It was an old Remington Army .50-caliber rolling-block. I opened the single-shot pistol’s breech, and it was empty.

  He’s surely scart with Marta holding that scattergun on him. Pulling my revolver, I thumbed back its hammer and poked the barrel between his eyes. He went as white as the peon duds he wore. I dropped my arm and eased the hammer down holstering it. “Shit, some desperado you are, mano.” I went to my saddlebags and took out the dinner leftovers—couple of biscuits and a chicken wing—and gave them to him.

  “¡Vamos, bandito!” I chucked a rock as he took off running. That’s when the shotgun went off making Cracker and me jump like toad frogs. The Mex went down head over heels and flopped on his back.

  “Marta, no! For Christ’s sake, you got no call for that!” Is she crazy? “What you done?”

  She was laughing in a queer way. She’s gotta be loco. I looked back at the blowed away Mex when she pointed, and he was a sittin’ up slapping hands all over hisself. He was up and running even faster, after grabbing up the vittles.

  “Girl, you’re a treacherous wench. Don’t ya ever do nothing like that again!” I tried to keep from laughing.

  She grinned and reloaded. I guess in her way she’d told that ol’ Pedro to mend his wicked ways. I shoved his old pistol in a saddlebag. It wouldn’t bring much. Who’d want a single-shot pistol?

  Marta wore a big grin now. I shook my head at her with just as big a grin. “You’re some piece of work, niña.”

  I laid my rifle across my lap. That showdown had been a reminder that the borderlands were also the badlands. We needed to keep our eyes peeled.

  »»•««

  There wasn’t much traffic on the Eagle Pass-Del Rio Road—the daily stage and a few freight convoys, three or five wagons. They had a couple of shotgun guards. One even had an outrider who rode up and gave us a look over. There were few lone riders, just some drifting punches and a mule skinner. We exchanged road news, all the creeks being passable, no washouts, and had a laugh about our road agent. They all wanted to see that old pistol, but nobody was keen on buying it.

  Since we were keeping the sorrel, I figured he needed naming. I thought about Rusty because of his color, but that wouldn’t make no sense to Marta. I asked a teamster what Rusty was in Mex. He said Rojizo was a good name—Row-he-zo was the way he said it. It meant reddish. Marta nodded, liking it when he told her.

  Dark comes early in the winter making for short riding days. I started looking for a place to make supper, a spot away from the road and from where we could see anyone coming. I rustled up wood as Marta built a kindling pile. She dumped an airtight of beans into the skillet and cut up jerky to cook in the bean juice making it soft. Soda crackers—with Marta pouring on the lick—topped the meal off, followed with a pot of coffee and smokes.

  I watched her squatting in the dirt by the fire, a rollie hanging on her lip. She laid a finger against her nose and hocked out a gob of snot. Yeah, I don’t know. Just another Mex.

  Kicking the fire out, we picked our way in the dark over to a low ridge. No watchers would see where we camped. I hobbled the horses, and Marta laid out our bedrolls. No fire tonight. Marta sat for a spell and then patted me on the arm before lying down. We bundled up, and she was softly snoring in two minutes.

  I watched the moon for a spell and wondered what was in store for us. Us. I’d better think on that.

  Chapter Nineteen

  We took it easy on the second day, and on the third morning, we crossed Pinto Creek, the ranch’s southeast boundary. It was still a few miles to the ranch house. After crossing four closely spaced arroyos, we came to a wagon trail to the right climbing over a pretty barren ridge. As Mr. DeWitt had promised, there was a split post set in the ground with DeW branded on it. It was about a mile and half to the ranch house on the backside of the ridge. As we turned off the Eagle Pass-Del Rio Road, which split the 48,000-acre ranch, we put the Rio Grande behind us. Del Rio’s only fifteen miles further on.

  Topping the ridge, we spied the Dew. There weren’t much to it from up here at half a mile. There were some whitewashed adobes and corrals nesting among mesquite trees. A windmill turned in the breeze, and a line of chimney smoke drifted to the southeast.

  It didn’t look like much, but it was how we’d be greeted that mattered.

  There wasn’t a soul in sight except some Mex kids making mud pies by a water trough. That was until someone behind me said, “Can I help ya, stranger?”

  Sitting a horse was a rangy-looking punch with a carbine across his lap. He’d come out of a mesquite stand.

  “Howdy,” said I. “I’m looking for Mr. Cleland. Mr. DeWitt hired me on.”

  The rangy punch rode around us giving us the once-over without saying nothing. Giving me a hard look. “Where’d this happen?”

  “Eagle Pass. I met him at the Fitch Hotel. Hired me as a tracker.”

  “Tracker, uh?”

  “You bet.”

  “Well, fine then.”

  He hauled up next to me, our horses facing opposite, and gave me his hand. “Musty Musson.”

  “Pleased to meet you. Bud Eugen.”

  “That all ya do, Bud, foller after folks?”

  “Nope. Punch, break horses, wrangle, shovel shit, whatever needs doing. And something about being a monitor.”

  “A monitor, uh?” He was looking over my guns. “Well, I tells ya, there’s a lot needs doin’ here.” He nodded toward Marta. “What’s your woman do?”

  “She ain’t my woman. Whatever needs doing. She cooks, washes, mucks out houses, and eh…hunts.” It’s sure starting to look like she’s my woman, like it or not.

  “I bet, seein’ that scattergun she’s a totin’. Strange.”

  “She is sometimes.”

  “But she ain’t your woman?”

  “To tell the truth, I don’t know what she is. What’s your rifle there?”

  He cradled a lever-action sorta like a Winchester, but not. He grinned, “My cannon,” holding it up. “Whitney Kennedy .45-60.”

  “That is a cannon. Never seen one.”

  “Good for takin’ down antelope and whatever else.”

  “Guess I need to sign in with the foreman.”

  “Lee ain’t be back ’til they change
out horses after noon. Let me shows y’all to the real boss ’round here. Go ’head and water and let your string loose in that potrero over yonder. I’ll be back directly.”

  We hung our saddles, and Musty walked up with a tall Mex woman. “Buenas días,” she said. “I am Gabriella Guerrera.” She rattled something off to Marta. Marta smiled, nodded, and looked at me.

  “Bud Eugen, ma’am. This is Marta. I only call her that because I don’t know her name or nothing much about her. You see, she’d been mule-kicked in the head when she was little and don’t talk none. She’s real smart, though,” I added.

  Gabriella looked like a no-nonsense lady, like the school teach I’d had for a short piece. She had a serious look, but when she smiled her face brightened up. Looking Marta over, Gabriella said something that made Marta grin. “I will talk to her inside.” Looking me over, I could tell she was gauging me. “Musty says Clay hired you as a tracker.” She spoke real good American.

  “Yes, ma’am.” I called her ma’am, not because Musty said she was the real boss, but because she acted like a real boss.

  “The crew will be in at noon. You can see Lee, the foreman, then. In the meantime, care for your horses. I will take Marta to the house, and she can clean up.”

  “Yes, ma’am. She’s a real good cook, washes, and mucks.” I hesitated, but said it anyway. “She ain’t my woman or nothing like that.” I was hoping these folks wouldn’t get all morality on me.

  Gabriella smiled and said, “Very well, Bud.” Turning to the girl, “Marta, ven conmigo.”

  They walked off and I said to Musty. “She is the boss, ain’t she?”

  “Ya got that right. Gabi’s a damn fine lady. Mr. DeWitt calls her his majordomo.”

  “What’s that?”

  “House boss. Lee Cleland may be the range boss, but he listens to her too.”

  “Mr. DeWitt said something about sheep. We don’t gotta herd any woolies, I hope.”

  “Nope, they got Mexes does that.”

  I could see two yellow-haired girls on the front porch and a couple of Mex girls too. I looked Musty in the eye. “This a good outfit to work for?”