My first night back in I saw Marta carrying an oil lamp into the feed shed.
She was sitting on her cot kind of humming. I plopped on mine, and she turned and tugged my boots off. In my long johns I crawled under my blankets and quilts. Marta joined me and was lying facing me, her white teeth flashing a smile. She ain’t never done that, laying facing me. Wrapping her arms around me, she gave me a big ol’ hug and made this funny contented sound in her throat before turning over. She must be happy about something. Dang, I’d rather her be crying, because I didn’t know what to do with her being so happy either.
»»•««
Marta had made a good friend with Inés. They’d be washing clothes and splashing suds on one another and laughing like kids. Marta was strong willed, got her way when she set her mind to it, but she was still a kid.
I admitted missing that girl on those nights out, but I liked being out there too. No matter if it was cold and wet most of the time. Some days were warmer, nice days with cool evenings. I could sit in the saddle or on my bedroll and listen to the wind and the voices of the coyotes, all free of people bothering me. There were amazing sunrises and sunsets and that big ol’ moon to watch. I’d see Marta’s dark eyes in my head, always watching me. I was liking those eyes a lot.
Sometimes I’d see ’queros on the other side and they’d wave. I’d meet up with Gent or Flaco, and they were good company.
I’d get a night in at the ranch house once a week. One day when I came in Marta was in a foul mood. Wouldn’t even look at me. That night she didn’t come in the feed shed and her blankets were gone. I went to Gabi’s room.
“I been looking for Marta, ma’am.”
“Bud, she is staying with Carmela tonight,” she said sadly.
That threw me. “What did I do?”
She gave me a tight smile. “Is not you. It is her time of the month.”
I’d heard rumors of this sort of thing, never thought about it. Didn’t never think Marta would do mysterious things.
“She’ll be fine next time you come in.”
“Nothing I did, ma’am?”
She laughed. “No, Bud.”
Things changed one night, but I don’t know how. Marta came in our room and turned the oil lamp low. With her back to me, she doffed her shirt and skirt down to her long johns. Turning, looking at me curious like, she dropped the scarf covering her hair. It fell in thick waves down to her behind. All that hair gave her a wild look. It was in her eyes too. It was like she’d showed me something inside her, something more than only letting her hair fall. She’d been shy to show her hair before. It was exciting for me, but she was just so innocent about it.
It reminded me of about the only friend I’d had as a kid, Billy Stummer, and reminded me of his kid sister. Marta reminded me of her, I couldn’t even remember her name, Violet, Veronica, or something. She was familiar, a friend, someone who was always around, sometimes glad for it, sometimes an annoyance. Marta and I were just here, together. I didn’t know what to make of it, other than having a comfortable feeling. That made me uncomfortable.
Chapter Twenty-Four
One of those days, I was out Mr. DeWitt returned from Eagle Pass. I came in that night. Most of the crew was sitting around a fire on a chilly evening telling tall tales and speaking of the day.
Mr. DeWitt came out to say howdy. He was accompanied by his wife, Iris, and their two girls. Mrs. DeWitt was a pretty woman, blond hair, green eyes. She was real friendly with the boys, greeting them all. The girls were Agnes and Doris, as blonde and pretty as their ma. Dodger Lampe said they were fourteen and sixteen. Agnes seemed a little shy, but Doris was talking to some of the boys about horses. “Good rider, that girl,” said Musty from his log by the fire.
Mr. DeWitt came over and welcomed me to the Dew reminding me to, “Call me Clay. Mrs. Moran asked me to tell you and Marta hello. How’s it going out there, Bud?”
“It’s good, sir. I like Gent and Flaco, good men.” I had to add, “I can’t believe Flaco was a bandito and then a Rurale, and changed his ways.
Clay laughed. “Well, I don’t know if he exactly gave up his bandito ways because of the Rurales, Bud. You look under the barrel of that short-barrel Schofield he carries; it says Wells Fargo and Company, Express. I don’t think he found it or bought it.”
Clay soon herded his family inside after giving their goodnights.
Dodger Lampe was sitting nearby. I was liking Dodger. He’d been punching all his life. Started off as a wrangler like most young cowboys, not the favorite-most job.
“Problem were, I was jus’ sooo damn good they kept me at wranglin’ forever and a day,” Dodger declared. “Thought I were gonna go past my prime chasin’ after that remuda,” he muttered while wittling himself a toothpick. “Finally tolt ’em I were goin’ to pick a string of horses and run away to another ranch.”
“What’d they say to that?”
“Said I couldn’t do it ’cause that’d be horse-stealing, and without a wrangler to handle the remuda, they’d not be able to chase me.” He shook his head, “Shit, with reasonin’ like that I couldn’t leave.”
“Where was that?”
“Over at a little spread near Indianola on Matagorda Bay.” Sticking the finished toothpick between his teeth, “I finally had it with wranglin’, so one night I drove off the remuda and hid them on the other side of Powderhorn Lake.”
“They didn’t fire you?”
“How do ya think I come to be here?” He grinned. “I wonder how ’em folks fared over there. Indianola got blowed away in that hurricane a few months ago, for the second time.”
Marta had come out and huddled up beside me in her serape. She was all comfortable after rolling us smokes. It was kind of embarrassing for me with all the boys there and me the only one with a woman, even if she weren’t my woman, exactly.
It didn’t seem anyone took any particular notice except for Pete Weyland, the cow-killer. He sat across the fire glaring at us for a spell. Earnest Sessuns said Weyland had been complaining about only getting half pay for the first month owning to the murder of that cow. Sessuns said that was pretty ungracious considering the alternative, and the month had been partly run through anyways. Sessuns was no longer partnered up with Weyland, him being too quarrelsome. “Damn fool’ll stand downhill and piss uphill.”
“And forget to wipe the mud offa his boots goin’ in the bunkhouse,” added Musty.
Dodger decided to poke a little fun at Weyland. “I were over at Refugio when this snake-oil peddler come through. He had this bottled wonder ar-tic-u-lation elixir that were to make animals talk. That flannel-mouth claimed ya could converse wit your livestock to find what were ailing them, what they liked to eat, and so on.”
“Say it ain’t so,” said one of the boys. “I ain’t never heard of nothin’ like that.”
“It’s true,” declared Dodger. “Ask ol’ Weyland here. He were there runnin’ a mob of cows through town.”
Everyone turned to look at Weyland for confirmation, but he stared back like a double-blank domino.
“That peddler were harpin’ ’bout his wondrous elixir sayin’ horses have a better vocabulary than cows ’cause they’s smarter.”
Everyone nodded in agreement.
“Ol’ Weyland was sittin’ his horse, the same one he’s still a ridin’, and said all nervous like, ‘See that brown heifer on the end? Don’t believe a word she says, she’s a liar!’”
Everyone busted up, except Weyland, who stammered, “That’s a lie, I ain’t never been to Refugio!” He sat there fuming.
The party was breaking up, and Marta lit her oil lamp with a stick from the burned down fire. Weyland walked up and glancing at the girl, “So seein’ you’re always sayin’ she ain’t your woman, then I guess the dummy’s free for someone to cut-out.” He had a nasty look in his eyes, made all the more so by the fire’s glint.
Calling her dummy and cutting her out, that brought up my hackles real quick, but I paused
before saying anything. I was in a sudden quandary. I was the one always saying she weren’t my woman, but then when that polecat said she was free for the taking. He he was right in a way. I had no real claim on her. Or did I? Anyways, I didn’t think she was in any mood to be cut-out by some horny punch. Did I have a say? It came to me that I’d made myself responsible for her. Mrs. Moran had said I was her protector. Maybe she was my woman, even if we hadn’t done nothing. That all was confusing and right then I didn’t have time to think on it.
Raising to my feet, “You’ll not be layin’ a finger on that girl, Weyland. Don’t even think about it.”
“Who are ya to tell anybody anything? Ya ain’t even a workin’ punch, only ridin’ ’round out there on a picnic while the rest of us cowboys do the real work.” I was guessing he was still sore over my hand in catching him butchering that cow.
“Back off, Weyland,” said Sessuns.
“Ya shut the hell up!” Weyland shouted.
Several of the other boys were muttering for him to settle down. I glanced over at Marta. She knew something bad was brewing. My turning away was a mistake. Weyland grabbed a burning stob and underhanded it at me. I dodged, stepped back, and tripped over an evaporated milk crate to land on my ass.
Weyland came in low, slamming into me as I rose. We both went down, but I half rolled to the left and swung my elbow into his jaw. That dazed him enough for me to get to my feet. Everyone was shouting and yelling. As he came up, I kicked him in the face, staggering him to the left. He spit out a tooth, grabbed a burning log, and came at me. I dodged to the right, tripped him, and kicked him in the ribs. He rolled, letting go the log, and bounced to his feet before I could close in for another kick. I kicked anyways and missed. He grabbed my boot and shoved me backward. I went on my back, knocking the wind from me. He kicked my thigh, but his lunge forward made him lose his balance and go to his knees.
As I pushed myself off the ground with both arms, he swung a punch into the left side of my face and another into the right. That just about knocked me out, but I kicked out before he could swing again. I crab-crawled back and made it to my feet the same time he did and just in time for me to catch punch in the nose. Dang, that hurt! I blocked his follow-on and stepped back. I swung with my right with all I had, catching him in the side of the head. That hurt too. He was too hardheaded for it to do any harm. He kicked at me and danced right. I threw another right, and he blocked with an arm.
I swung again, but he ducked, grabbing for the still burning log. I dove at him while he was crouching and off balance. Catching him in the waist and my shoulder slamming into his belly, he hit the ground with a loud woof, and the log flew out of his hands. I pushed myself back and rose as he kicked weakly.
Both of us were gasping. The boys were yelling, and I heard someone shouting, “Enough of that!” My head was spinning. Weyland was on his feet, wavering, but he was lifting that damn burning log.
There was an orange flash and a shower of sparks, and Weyland hit the ground, his back ablaze with flames. I was pulling my jacket off, and others were already beating on him with coats and jackets, sparks leaping all over and Weyland screaming.
“Boys, that’s enough!” Lee bellowed. “Keep this up and one of y’all’ll get hurt.”
I dropped to my knees feeling like I was going to pass out. Weyland was facedown in the dirt, his jacket smoldering with little sparks floating around. I looked up, and Marta was standing behind him, her chest heaving hard with a wild look in her fire-lit eyes.
“Shit fire, Bud!” brawled Stone. “What the hellfire ya bring amongst us? She’s fightin’ like a Kilkenny wildcat.”
“She threw that oil lamp right into his back,” said Jerry Twining. “At least ya two was fightin’ a fair dust up ’fore she done that.”
Lee was plainly pissed. “Weyland, get your ass in your tent, and you’d better be in your saddle in the morning.”
“I ain’t started nothin’…” he slurred.
Marta flipped her cig butt at him.
“My ass!” shouted Lee. “I saw the whole damn thing. You pull something like that again it’s adiós for you. If someone gives you an ass whooping for it, I’ll just stand and watch.”
Weyland was up and pulling off his jacket. “Lookie what she done my jacket.” Glaring at me, he shouted, “Ya owe me for it. She’s your woman!”
“Shut up, Weyland,” ordered Lee, “You’re lucky it weren’t you ugly face what got lit up.”
“That Mex bitch ain’t nothin’ but trouble,” complained Weyland.
I almost agreed with him on that, the trouble part, but… “Don’t be calling her no…”
“No women or girls around here are going to be called that, Weyland,” said Lee real low. “And none of them’s getting cut-out either. And don’t ever call her a dummy again. She’s a damn sight smarter than you.” He paused. “You’ll get your ass torn up by that wildcat.” Sweeping his eyes over us both. “No hard feeling,” sweeping his eyes over us both.
Weyland stomped off, muttering.
I didn’t say nothing either way.
“Ya had it comin’,” Sessuns barked at Weyland.
Lee asked, “Think he’ll be holding any hard feelings, Bud?”
“Likely.”
“I expect so too. Go to bed.”
“Yes, sir. I’ll be back to patrolling before dawn.”
“Good idea.” He looked at the ground and shook his head. “Don’t worry about your woman none. She’ll be fine. That’s why she stays with Carmela and Inés when you’re out.”
“I’m sorry, Lee. I didn’t expect her to be troublesome.”
“Don’t worry. I like her frijole beans as much as anybody, and I like that rabbit stew she hunts up, even if she don’t ever pick out all the shot. You got something special there. Was I you, I’d take care of it.”
“Yes, sir.”
Marta stepped up to me and laid her hand on the side of my face barely touching it, worry in her eyes. She had a wet towel. I had a queer feeling. I thought I was the one protecting her. But it felt pretty good knowing someone was watching out for me.
That night Marta whispered, “Bud.”
My eyes snapped open, but it was only a dream.
»»•««
The next time I came in, I was sitting cross-legged on my cot in long johns and cleaning cartridges from my gun belt. They’d gotten wet a lot. It was just about bedtime. The sacks of molasses-oats gave the room a good smell. Marta came in and shucked her shawls, shirt, and skirt. Wearing long johns, she faced me, kneeling, with a big grin. I looked at her, still couldn’t get used to all those waves of black hair. I didn’t need to go out and see the sunset to see something as pretty as her. She had a mischievous look.
“¿Qué?” I asked.
Still grinning, she held up a rawhide string with big orange, brown, and blue beads like the land and the sky. They were about an inch apart and held in-place by knots. She put her hands around my neck and tied it on. Holding up her mirror, she showed me a white and a tan bead side by side. She fingered the white one and pointed at me and then the tan one pointing to herself. I did not know what to say. Nobody, no girl, had ever give me a single thing, at least not something as special as this. I put my hand over my heart, and then touched her lips. She threw her arms around me with a funny little laugh I’d never heard before, gave me a long hug, and squirmed into the blankets making her contented sound.
There was something then that I wanted to tell Marta. I’d always protect her. I’d always be there to look after her. But I didn’t know how to say it.
I’ve never ever taken off that necklace.
Chapter Twenty-Five
I rolled out of the bedroll’s warmth into the cold night air and pulled on my boots. What had I heard? Crouching, I listened. Nothing. I knew I’d heard something. Felt like something was coming at me. Was it only a dream? I heard Cracker move in the brush. “Was it you, boy?” I whispered. I had no idea what time it was, midn
ight? An hour before dawn? My head was filled with wet straw.
Two pops, then a whole bunch more. From the west. “Crap! We’re being raided.”
I searched for Cracker, dragging my saddle along. I listened for more shots. One, then another. I cinched the saddle, ran back to belt on my revolver and fetched the Winchester and canteen. Bounding onto Cracker, he snorted and didn’t move. I slid off and undid his hobble while he nickered, “Shame on you.” More pops, closer. I cracked the cuarta. “Go!” I yelled.
There was no mad dash forward, but at a cautious trot. With the overcast, there was no telling the ground from the sky. More pops and pounding hooves. Cattle hooves. Then there were pops with flashes, and they were coming from my right. I turned that way. “What’s coming at us, boy?”
Scattered steers ran past. More hooves came at me, and I could make out horses. More cattle. I think a mounted man went past, but I wasn’t shooting. I didn’t want to hit one of our own. An anxious feeling soured my belly.
A thought came into my muddled head. If I couldn’t tell who that man was, they couldn’t tell who I was. I sawed Cracker around and was behind two steers heading for the Rio. A Mex shouted to my right. I yelled “¡Ándale!” hoping I sounded like a Mex. There weren’t no more shots. More steers surrounded me.
I was at a loss where I was. Then I found myself going down the buff and was among the cane on the Sheep Head’s snout. I followed some steers as they naturally found their way to trails heading to the Rio. They were at a slow trot now. I listened for voices, and heard some real faint to the right. Coming into a little clearing with three clumps of cane, I knew where I was. Another trail ran in from the right, and one led out to the Rio. I stopped behind the clump to the far left figuring the voices I heard would come this way. Dismounting, I cocked the Winchester. I could shoot better from the ground. If things bad, bad I’d be better off hightailing it into the ten-foot cane than tearing down one of the trails with them after me on horses. Dust and gun smoke filled the cold air.
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