Dead Man's Saddle

by Mike Kearby

  "Wes?" June King called out to his beleaguered friend, recognizing the signs that foretold Cauble was fixing to go through one of his episodes. Uneasy, he stared back at the others and gave a quick shake of his head. King understood none of them could ever be prepared for what might follow Wes's darkness. None of them had a choice. All they could do was wait and watch.

  Cauble straightened. A man's portion. His eyes glazed, fixed and dull. Outside in the street, an apparition, a woman, frilly and ruffled, possessed of rare beauty, an oasis in the desert, ran her hand down a stranger's face. Cauble gripped the underside of the table and lifted two legs off the ground. His face strained crimson. Every muscle in his body tensed. His breathing became erratic and rough. Just as it appeared he would flip the table over on its top, he smashed it back to the floor with a resounding, thunderous boom.

  Uneasy silence followed.

  King lowered his forehead into his palm and rubbed his brow painfully.

  Cauble broke the stillness with a loud whack on the top of the table.

  The brigade members jumped and stared at one another.

  Cauble pressed his back against the chair and stomped the heel of his boot into the planked floor.

  Whore! His mind screamed.

  The apparition in the street played out her part, rubbing the man's neck and kissing his cheek and mouth.

  Whore!

  Cauble looked back at the woman. Her face was all smiles and laughter. She was the center of every man's attention. The nipping smell of lilac laced perspiration oozed from her body. She was every cowboy's dream, and every mother's nightmare. His hand dropped for his pistol.

  Why are you doing this to me…to us?

  "Wes?" King asked, softly.

  Cauble swiveled stiffly; his blank gaze bore a hole through his deputy. He watched the hazed-over figures in the street take shape, fade, and then appear again, this time with a second man. The second man grabbed the woman's waist and twirled her around. Both their faces glowed with happiness.

  Cauble snarled, enraged as a stud stallion. He unholstered his Colt.

  Pa? Is that you, Pa?

  The second man, his father, smiled, "Its okay, Wes. I know what you're Ma does."

  Cauble growled. An angry fire burned in his eyes. He pitched forward and opened his mouth wanting to scream, but no sound emerged.

  She's a prostitute, Pa!

  His father laughed at him and shook his head in disagreement. "No, no she's not. She's a prairie nymph, Wes, and her work is what puts food in your mouth and clothes on your back."

  Cauble glowed crimson.

  King leaned in close, now concerned. "Wes?" he asked, barely audible. "Are you ok?"

  Look at her, Pa. Take a good look; she's nothing but a common whore. That's what the whole town says. Everyone! She's a disgrace to both of us, Pa.

  His father grinned, and then erupted in laughter. "Who cares about them, Wes? They're all jealous of her."

  Shocked by his father's declaration, Cauble gritted his teeth, furious.

  An open palm swung above him.

  Cauble eyes opened wide. He pulled his hand upward and rubbed the left side of his face. His cheek stung in pain. He stared at his father in shock. The slap, explosive and humiliating, riled the boy in him. He jerked his body in the chair and stared into the hate-filled eyes of the man he called father. She's a woman of the street! He screamed inside, then aloud, "A dirty, filthy, whore!"

  A second slap followed, just as sudden, just as humiliating. Cauble lifted his Colt.

  King retreated two paces and motioned for the other vigilantes to hold their tongues.

  Cauble's upper lip lifted in rage. His jaw tightened exposing the tendons of his neck. He pointed the Colt at the imagined figure. A grisly, unnatural smile tiptoed across his mouth. His eyes, hollow and cold, revealed he no longer feared the man or his abuse.

  His father enraged, and mean, now readied his hand to strike once more. "Say that again boy and I'll kill you sure as I stand!"

  A frilly, lace-cuffed hand stopped the impending blow. "James," his mother cooed, "We're not going to be killing anyone. Leave him be. He's just a boy. He doesn't understand right now."

  His father's expression wouldn't…couldn't soften. "I'll kill the little mongrel!" he cursed and reached for the gun strapped to his waist.

  Cauble's face flushed. He pulled the trigger on the Colt. The bullet pierced the apparition with little effect before lodging in the wall of Delgado's.

  King and the others retreated quietly to the far table in the saloon.

  Cauble holstered the pistol silently and stared into the grayness.

  Little mongrel, huh? Son-of-a-whore…a boy who didn't know who his real father was. Well guess what, Pa? You're dead. Dead…dead…dead! And I ought to know, for I'm the one who sent you up the flume.

  His mother rested her hand on James's gun hand. "Stop it, right now," she pleaded. "We don't shoot children, James."

  Cauble twisted his head at his mother's voice. He blinked his eyes at her figure. His hand stretched toward her. He wanted to touch her, feel her hands around him, but another man walked her way. The man was dressed in leather and wore a wide-brimmed hat. His mother's eyes sized up the charro.

  No, Ma!

  Then, she was gone again. Upstairs, once more into the boarding room, suffering to him the embarrassments no child should ever witness or endure.

  "Wes?"

  He loved her so.

  "Wes…"

  He hated her more.

  "Wes? It's me, June."

  She would pay one day for all of her hurts and all of her wrongdoings.

  "Wes…"

  "Huh?"

  "Wes?"

  Startled back to the present, Cauble raised his head at the distant voice of June King. His expression dimmed. He came awake and gazed around the saloon. Palid and exhausted, he dropped his head to the table and pressed his forehead into the wood top.

  "Wes?"

  Cauble bit his tongue and glanced over to the oldest member of the brigade, "June?"

  King nodded. "Yeah, you okay?"

  Cauble nodded weakly and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

  June King was Cauble's second brigade recruit. The vigilante leader often commented that King would never have signed on had it not been for a moment's lack of judgment. An argument with one of Stephen Austin's colonists over a stray cow resulted in the man's death. On the run, King met up with Cauble in Gonzales and decided he held a better chance of surviving by running with the brigade. And with Daniels dead, King was the only man Cauble now trusted to watch his back. Cauble raised his chin at the fifty-year-old vigilante. "What happened, June?"

  King's eyes darted over to the other brigade members and frowned. "Nothing, Wes," he lied, uncomfortable for his boss and worried for himself that his voice would give away the lie. "You were thinking that's all."

  Cauble glanced over at the rest of his crew and studied their faces, knowingly. An uncomfortable silence settled over the room. Pressure began to build in his head. The anger quickly followed. "Don't you boys have anything better to do than lean against the wall?"

  The brigade members were all very familiar with the aftermath of Cauble's episodes. They dispersed quickly, shuffling out of Delgado's without looking back.

  King watched the men file out of the doorway before turning back to Cauble. "It's him, isn't it?"

  Cauble licked his lips and composed himself, pushing the dark memories back into their hiding places. He backed away from the card table, stood, and strode toward King. King had also had been at the de Anza cabin that afternoon so many years ago. Cauble nodded his head angrily. When he got within a foot of the shorter King, he stopped and leaned over, uttering under his breath. "Yeah, it's him all right and he's proudly displaying Floyd's knife scar as a reminder to us all."

  King wrinkled his nose and jerked a Bowie knife from a yellow sash tied at his waist. He held the knife head-high and flashed both sides
of the forged blade.

  Cauble looked from blade to man, curious.

  King's eyes frowned as a veiled smile issued from his mouth. "All grown-up and carrying twelve years worth of choler inside him."

  Cauble's eyes matched King's. He glared at the unnaturally sized blade. "Appears that way," he growled. "Appears Floyd was right."

  King nodded and scratched the back of his neck, then looked deep into Cauble's eyes. "I've been thinking."

  Cauble stifled a half-grin and rubbed his mouth, studying King intently. "Thinking, you say?"

  "It's been awhile since I rode across the Frio," King whispered softly and shoved the blade back in his sash. "And I know you've got other troubles here."

  Cauble leaned in closer and whispered even more softly, "You speaking of Susannah?" His eyes flashed a clear warning. No other man in the brigade would have enough mettle to speak to him of such matters. "Don't worry about things that are none of your affair," he warned.

  King pursed his lips. "I don't know, Wes, she sure knows a lot about us and our operation."

  Cauble's hands balled into tight fists. "She ain't carrying enough starch to say anything to anyone."

  King tossed a quick glance at Cauble's hands. "That's what you said about her running off," he whispered.

  Cauble took a deep breath and stared into the deputy's eyes. They shined, clear and cat-like. He knew King was right. "You wanting to go it alone?" he asked and flashed his eyes toward Jonesy and Ned.

  King lowered his voice. "You can send the men out to look for her," he said, jutting his chin towards the others. A hard edge accompanied his words. "I don't need any help gelding a mixed-blood colt."

  Cauble placed a hand around King's neck and pulled the deputy close. "I know that, June," he muttered, grateful. "Go ahead then, ride out west to the Frio…take some time, enjoy yourself."

  King pulled away from Cauble's grip and bellowed for everyone to hear. "That's a good idea, Wes. I believe I'll take you up on it."

  Cauble nodded his thanks and watched King stride purposefully for the door. Before the deputy could exit, he called out, "June!"

  King turned and raised his brow.

  "You keep yourself upright, you hear?"

  10.

  Arroyo de la Soledad, Texas,

  October 1848

  In the morning, the aroma of wild onion and Indian pone prompted Carrigan's eyes open. He blinked several times in an effort to orient himself to his achromatic surroundings. A rough stiffness throbbed in his right shoulder and his mouth was dry as sand. "Humph," he grunted deep in his throat and then ran a tongue as coarse as glass paper over his lower lip.

  "Ma, he's waking up!" Justus hollered, excited.

  Carrigan swallowed a lump of cotton and looked up at the boy. "Morning?" he asked.

  Susannah Cauble's face appeared over her son's head. "Morning," she stated. "How do you feel?"

  Carrigan rolled awkwardly to a sitting position. "Better? I think."

  Susannah leaned down and studied his face carefully. "Well, your eyes are clear," she smiled, "and just as green as fall grass."

  Carrigan took a deep breath and stretched his right arm carefully away from his body, balling his hand into a tight fist several times. He tried to keep his concentration on his arm, but instead found his eyes roaming toward Susannah, who watched his arm movement carefully. The lifelessness he had seen in her yesterday was gone this morning. His heart jumped at the sparkle in her eyes and the tilt of her head. She was a spring colt ready to run. Unable to force his eyes away or even blink, he just stared in a rude fascination at her rough beauty.

  "It appears you have good control of your arm," she exhaled. Relief sounded in her voice and a smile tugged at the corners of her mouth.

  He lowered his gaze at her voice and studied her lips. She was the most feminine woman he had ever seen. Radiance glowed from her face and eyes. He figured both were rare traits in this country.

  "What?" she laughed.

  Carrigan forced a smile.

  Susannah placed both hands on her hips. "What?" she repeated.

  Flummoxed, Carrigan let his gaze drop to the floor. He wanted to reply and give her a fancy answer that would show his intellect, but no words of that ilk dwelled inside him. He foundered briefly and then red-faced, muttered, "Nothing."

  Susannah pursed her lips, waiting, then realizing his plight, shook her head in a quick motion. "Oh!" she murmured and produced a leather pouch from her pocket.

  Carrigan straightened his head.

  "I took thirty pellets from your shoulder," she beamed and poured the contents of the pouch into the palm of her hand.

  Carrigan glanced away and rubbed his chin, all the while fidgeting uncomfortably, unsure of how to proceed, and not wanting to offend her.

  "Is something wrong?"

  Carrigan cleared his throat. Awkwardness sounded in the garble.

  A long pause, followed by even longer silence settled in the cabin.

  Susannah swallowed uncomfortably and arched her eyebrows.

  Carrigan prayed he was mistaken about her last name. That under the stress of the moment, with a shoulder full of lead and a hot knife at his flesh, he had simply heard wrong. That fate couldn't deal him such an unlucky hand. That she couldn't be the wife of Wes Cauble. Then unable to delay any longer, he blurted out, "I have to ask you something."

  Susannah reached down and pulled Carrigan's chin toward her. "You know of Wes, don't you?"

  Carrigan swallowed, waiting for her to answer her own question.

  Susannah rose and smoothed her pants. "He's my husband."

  Carrigan tried to hide his disappointment. "I figured as much."

  "But I'm not with him now."

  Carrigan struggled to his feet and stood face to face with Susannah. "I have to know everything," he said with soft eyes. "Trust me, it's important."

  Susannah turned away. It had been a long time since she trusted anyone. "Justus, go fetch more moss down at the river for Mr. Carrigan's poultice," she said, then added, "I'll be needing a pail full."

  Carrigan watched the youngster rush outside. "He's a good boy," he offered.

  Susannah nodded politely. "I married Wes two years ago. My first husband, John Filcher, rode with Jack Hayes. Her eyes brightened and then dulled quickly. He was killed at Walker Creek in '44."

  Carrigan raised his brow. "So Justus isn't…"

  Susannah didn't wait for him to finish. "No, Justus is John's son."

  Carrigan raised his chin as acknowledgement. "Why?" he asked. "Why did you…"

  "Why'd I marry, Wes? Looking back now, I can't give a rational reason. Maybe it came from my mother. She was a minister's daughter who always preached to my sisters and me that a woman without a man in her life was an unfulfilled vessel of God. I guess I took her sermons to heart."

  Carrigan reached for Susannah's shoulder, wincing as he raised his right arm. "Ahh," he murmured.

  Susannah turned. "You best keep that arm quiet for a day."

  Carrigan nodded, pained.

  Susannah sniffled. "I was young and alone with a six year-old boy in a God-awful rugged country."

  Carrigan grimaced at her forthrightness.

  "Wes was nice for about three months, and then I began to hear the rumors and the stories about his militia group. I naively confronted him. He assured me they were all lies borne out of jealousy," she choked. "And he laughingly asked who had said such a thing? He said it had to be a prank on a newly wed."

  "Then what?"

  "I gave him the woman's name…her place burned to the ground two days later."

  "Susannah…," Carrigan exhaled. "You don't have to go on."

  Susannah wiped her eyes. "He would go through these spells where he would look at me…but he wasn't there…his eyes would turn vacant, soulless…and after, he got mean…not just to me, but Justus too."

  "Susannah…"

  "I guess I knew the stories were true from the beginning, but I didn't k
now where I would go. It seemed easier to stay," she sobbed. "Wes carries a powerful grip on the people in Gonzales, so I ignored his doings and took my beatings when he was angry. Susannah tossed a quick glance up, her expression showed pure, unfiltered fear. "Something dark drives Wes," she said in a quivering voice. "Some devil spirit that has him saddled and ready to run at the lightest spur."

  Carrigan heard the distress in her voice. Her hands opened and closed rhythmically and her expression was one of pure fright. "You needn't go farther," he whispered, embarrassed and suddenly ill at ease.

  Susannah ignored his pleading and continued to speak without slowing, "And then about a month ago, Wes had the militia boys over for supper. I overheard them talking about this place, saying how with the drought and all, no one grazed their beeves here anymore, and with nothing to rustle; they would have to move their re-branding operation further east." She stopped and looked up at Carrigan. "And that's when I knew I could hide safely here."

  Carrigan nodded; pleased at her response but half-wishing he had never provoked the discussion. He cleared his throat; a subtle sign that he was glad Cauble was no longer in her life.

  "So that's my story, Mr. Carrigan, and if you want me and Justus gone, I understand."

  Carrigan moved closer and ran his left palm against the side of Susannah's face. "I'm sorry; sometimes I don't think things through before speaking. There's some in this world that say it'll cause my end someday."

  Susannah stared into his eyes, waiting, and then offered a brief smile. "Impetuous," she recalled.

  Carrigan hesitated, then understanding the small joke, grinned, and stepped closer. "Yes, impetuous," he said mildly, allowing his expression to change once more to rough leather. "But I despise men like Wes Cauble, and I would never be able to live with myself if he hurt someone else because of my doings."