by Mike Kearby
"It's not if you leave here, Carrigan. Come with Justus and me. We can start over somewhere, anywhere, and forget this vengeance."
Carrigan smiled briefly. "You make it sound so easy.
Susannah returned his smile. "It can be, if you leave here now, with us," she pleaded. "Surely you know the outcome to all of this hatred and all of your unreasonable pride."
Carrigan's face turned to granite.
"The hatred just continues," she argued. "Prolonged over generations until there's no one left to kill or bury."
"I wouldn't be much company if I left like you're asking, Susannah."
"It would take a little time," Susannah offered. "But you would forget about Wes and the rest. I, we, could help you forget."
Carrigan shrugged. "Maybe we'd get us a house with a wrap-around porch," he animated, "fill the yard with chickens and pea fowl."
Susannah nodded. "Yes, all of that."
Carrigan continued, "We could string a line down by the creek to hang your wash."
"Everyday," Susannah put in. "You'll know peace, I promise that."
Carrigan scowled. His voice changed to hard leather. "Meanwhile Wes just continues to spread his violence across the land. His hurting won't go away just because you don't see it anymore."
Susannah started to speak then shook her head slowly from side to side.
"Running away won't cleanse my soul or clear your conscience."
Susannah stood there, speechless. But she stubbornly refused to give in and submit. She reached for his arm. "No, it won't, Carrigan. But over time all the wounds you've suffered could heal. Isn't that worth the try?"
It won't ever happen, Susannah."
Her face fell. She exhaled a shallow breath.
"At least not until I kill each and every one of them."
"I should have known," Susannah grumbled. Her voice, though stiff and frosty could not betray her eyes.
"You think you want the other Carrigan, Susannah. But deep inside in that place where Wes hurt you…and Justus…you want me to treat him just like I did June."
"I would never wish such a thing!" Susannah screamed bitterly. "Never."
Carrigan cleared his throat and backed out the door. He kept a tight gaze on Susannah and Justus. "I'll not argue with you anymore," he said. "I'm going back to the river to prepare for Wes."
Susannah slowly squeezed her eyes shut and rubbed at her brow.
"If it were me, Susannah," he warned. "I'd get my things and my boy and ride out of here."
Susannah opened her eyes and stared at Carrigan. "I know they killed your family, Carrigan. I know that, I understand that but…what…what happened to you?"
Carrigan stopped. His fists clenched. "What happened to me?" he spewed. His face turned crimson, and his expression twisted in rage. "What happened to me? Let's be honest, Susannah, what you really want to know is how they turned me into a killer…into a monster."
"No, I never…," Susannah apologized with great force, "I didn't say that."
Carrigan slumped and allowed his gaze to drift away from Susannah. His eyes filled with liquid thoughts of his mother, "But that's what you're thinking. A man or woman's expressions never lie."
Susannah started forward, her face drawn and weary.
Carrigan held up a hand. "Wait," he inhaled, choking on twelve years of repressed words. "First, let me tell you about that morning."
Susannah stopped mid-stride.
"It's something I haven't ever told anyone completely."
Susannah relaxed and swallowed softly.
Carrigan dragged an open palm across his cheek and raised his chin; defiant, remembering…"It was one of those clear, promising mornings," he said, "a morning where everything in an eight-year-old boy's world seemed just about perfect…."
19.
Gonzales, Texas,
October 1848
The clopping horse that rode into Gonzales from the west carried a lump of a man on its back. The echo of hooves on packed soil drew a mix of customers and storeowners to doorways that faced the thoroughfare. Within minutes, the Gonzales citizens, now nervous onlookers lined the street, gawking at horse and rider. Outside of Delgado's, the Lone Star Brigade assembled, rigid, their faces stern and solemn.
"That's June's mount," Winston Brand whispered ominously and then whistled at the horse. "Com'on boy," he urged the faltering beast toward the saloon rail.
The horse lifted one ear, stumbled, and then followed its nose toward the cantina and the friendly voice.
The crowd’s murmuring stirred the air.
"Well, that can't be June," Bark Turner snorted. "Nobody could do that to June."
Brand wiped the palm of one hand nervously against his thigh. "Appears somebody got awfully close to it."
Wes Cauble wiped at his mouth, angry and worried at whom the unrecognizable figure in the saddle might be. "Can't be," he muttered in a low whisper. "Just can't be."
Johnny Matthews moved out to the spent horse and lifted the rider's head from the animal's neck. "Christ," he choked, gagging at the more dead than alive, King. "It is June, Wes."
The Lone Star Brigade leader stepped into the street. A worried frown painted his face. What the hell happened, June? He asked himself and then shouted to the remaining two deputies, "Well don't just stand there lubbering, get him down!"
Inside Delgado's, Cauble and the deputies gathered silently around the disfigured, bloody form of June King. King's body rattled with quick, panting shallow breaths. Blood oozed from his thigh and back and merged into one large puddle before waterfalling to the floor below. The deputy's shirt and pants, hardened and stained black by the bodily liquid, offered a sharp contrast to the bright red blood seeping from his wounds.
Turner turned away and shook his head.
"He's lost a lot of blood," Brand muttered.
Cauble looked up and glared at the deputy, then turned back to King. "June," he whispered. "Who did this to you?"
King choked out a cough and half-opened his eyes. "Wes?"
Cauble leaned in close to his old friend. "It's me, June. I'm here."
"Wes?" King moaned. Bubbles of blood and drool streamed from the corner of his mouth.
"I'm here. Who did this to you?"
"Shot me in the back."
Cauble inhaled in anger and balled his fists. "Who was it, June?"
King coughed out a large clot of blood. "He remembers…"
Cauble stiffened. Unbearable silence reined in each man.
"…all of us…to a man."
Cauble turned briefly and uttered an almost undetectable curse.
King tried to lift his head.
"Whoa, June… easy there." Cauble spoke low and gently pressed King's shoulder back flat. "You need to rest, now."
"He's waiting for you there," King panted in hysterical shock. "We made us a hard case for sure, boys."
Cauble glanced around at his group and then whispered in King's ear. "How'd this happen to you, June? Does he have help?"
King reared violently. Fear flashed in his expression. He stared straight at Cauble with blank, dead eyes. "It's him, Wes," he spewed before collapsing back. "It's him as sure as I lay here and you know what else," he choked wide-eyed. "He's got Susannah with him."
King's words caught Cauble off-guard and un-prepared. "What?" He asked in disbelief and then repeated his friend's revelation, "He's got Susannah with him?"
King gave a quick, trembling nod.
Cauble's doubt quickly turned to belief and he slapped the table sending a wave of blood to the floor. "Susannah? There? With the half-breed?"
King coughed, and nodded once more, spastically.
"You're sure? You're sure it's Susannah?"
King stared at the ceiling. "We shouldn't have ever done it, Wes," he moaned. "I regret it for sure." His breathing slowed and his face flushed. “And now he's killed me," he gurgled, in an uncontrolled spasm. "He's killed me sure as daylight comes."
"Easy, June,
" Cauble offered reassuringly. "Just rest, now."
King rolled his head toward Cauble, half-crazed. "How'd it come to this, Wes?" he asked in despair. "Why'd we ever do such a thing? They was just people like us."
Cauble's face flashed a brief hint of sadness. "You're going to be alright, June. You'll pull through this ok, just like you have a dozen times before."
"No!" King gurgled. "It's too late for me."
Cauble patted King's shoulder. "You rest, June. I'm going to personally kill that half-breed Mexican mongrel for you."
Ignoring the promise, King looked deep into Cauble's eyes. "Wes!" he shouted. "He's going to kill you too!"
"No, no he's not, June. You quit speaking like that. We're going to get you patched up and in a week or so you'll be back riding as ornery as ever."
"No!" King moaned and rose from the table. He stared into the faces of each of his fellow deputies. "He's killed me right as could be and he's going to kill all of you too!"
20.
Gonzales, Texas,
October 1848
Winston Brand stepped up into his saddle and shook his head reluctantly. "I don't know, Wes, it sure seems as if we ought to take more men with us," he mumbled. "You could raise a posse ya know."
"Shut up, Winston!" Cauble grumbled.
The deputy lowered his gaze and stared into the leather of his saddle.
Cauble gritted his teeth. "You got mush for brains sometimes. You think a posse is going to be sympathetic to us killing a woman and a boy along with this assassin, Carrigan?"
Brand dropped his gaze to his stirrups. "Sorry, Wes," he uttered. "I guess I wasn't thinking straight what with June getting killed and all."
Cauble turned his horse west and muttered, "Yeah, I guess you weren't." His eyes glazed at the deputy's fear, but his thoughts…a building thundercloud of jealousy, churning and dark, held a stranglehold on him. And as much as he didn't really care about his marriage or Susannah or her kid, the prospect of his woman with Carrigan still stoked a hot fire inside his belly. Whore, his brain screamed, you're nothing but a whore, just like her, always trying your best to embarrass me. Just like every woman I've ever known.
What remained of the Lone Star Brigade rode out of Gonzales at a grim pace. Four abreast, Cauble, Brand, Turner, and Matthews departed with an extra horse each. A decrescendo of metal against packed soil accompanied them.
The streets were busy but strangely quiet. Cauble twisted left in his saddle. Eyes on the boardwalk turned away and avoided him. There were no cheers of, "Go get 'em, Wes!" He swiveled right. Townspeople stood close and whispered in tight circles. He chewed on his lower lip mulling over the situation when a somber realization struck. They aren't afraid anymore.
Brand turned to Cauble. "Sure is quiet, huh, Wes?"
Cauble heard the strained jeers over the silence; saw the contempt hanging on wooden faces. "This bunch will have a few surprises coming," he swore under his breath.
"Huh, Wes?"
Cauble turned and grinned with evil pleasure. "Don't you worry none, Winston, 'cause when this thing is all over, it's going to get downright uproarious here again."
"Welcome back," Brand smiled deviously.
Cauble clattered his teeth together. "Watch your tongue, Winston," he warned, deadly serious, and then glanced back at the townspeople. "We'll be back," he called out.
Chins lifted.
Heads turned.
Cauble smiled to both sides of the street. "We'll be back," he repeated with a tip of his hat. "And we'll be riding in with the skin of a murderous outlaw face down over his saddle."
The contempt dissolved.
The circles dispersed.
Cauble moved the rein across his pony's neck and clucked his tongue. "Let's ride, boys!" he palavered, his confidence returned. June had simply made a mistake. Got careless. He had allowed Carrigan his back. He shook his head. The little rabbit was not a rabbit anymore.
"That got 'em going." Brand chuckled.
Cauble ignored his deputy. His mind churned with a thousand thoughts. You better be ready, Miguel. You won't shoot the four of us in the back like you did June. Then unexpectedly, he erupted in laughter, loud and crazy.
The vigilantes turned.
Cauble lifted his chin high into the air. "Oh, June," he chortled with tears in his eyes. "What I would have given to see your face. The old ambusher, ambushed."
Bark Turner tossed a quick glance at his fellow deputies and shrugged.
Cauble turned to his men, his face, cold ice. "Death's coming, Miguel!" he admonished, "death from four directions!"
Matthews gulped and tightened his grip on the reins.
"Oh, June," Cauble arched his face skyward and began laughing again, this time insanely louder. "Shot in the back like a green recruit."
Winston brand dropped his chin against his chest and winced.
Cauble lowered his head. His eyes contracted then dilated. "Yes, sir," he bellowed and whipped his steed into a gallop. His expression turned cruel and inhuman. "Shot down like a green recruit." His mind was set. He was going to kill this Miguel Carrigan de Anza real good.
21.
Arroyo de la Soledad, Texas,
October 1848
Susannah slumped, sympathetic and teary. She gagged back a rush of bile with a bitter expression. Carrigan's story, spoke with a soft bitterness, tore at her insides and turned her sense of justice, her belief in the system, into utter disorder. She desperately wanted to rush toward him, hold him, and tell him she understood, but the image of Wes, her husband, laughing at a young Miguel held her back. Unaware, she brushed her palms across both shoulders obsessively in a nervous attempt to sweep any remnant of Wes Cauble's hands from her body.
"Where did you go?" she sobbed.
Carrigan shrugged. "I ran until I couldn't run anymore," he allowed. "And when I was exhausted physically, I cried."
Susannah pushed a fist against her mouth, aghast.
"Best I can remember now, I cried for two days straight. I cried until I was empty."
Susannah stepped forward. "Shhhush," she whispered in a faltering voice.
"And that's how I remained."
"No more. Hush now."
Carrigan stared through her with blank, dead eyes. "I hadn't thought about those two days in years," he chuckled in crazed agitation.
Susannah held a finger against his lips and choked, "No more. No more."
Carrigan stared past her. The confession poured steadily from his lips. "I caught fish to eat, to survive. Papa always said I was a good fisherman."
"No, no, no, no," Susannah hushed and pulled him close. "It's okay."
Carrigan glanced down at Susannah with a tremble and a groan. "I was so scared. I didn't go back for a long, long time."
Susannah's sobbing gurgled in her throat. She felt weak-kneed and uncertain of what to say next.
"I didn't bury either of them."
Susannah groaned, unable to contain Carrigan's living, constant nightmare. And then unable to contain her own fear, her own anger, her own failings, she exploded, "Stop!" Then louder, convulsing, weeping, "You mustn't do this! I understand."
"What kind of a son doesn't bury his own flesh?"
"Stop, Carrigan! Stop it!"
"What kind of a man leaves his mother to the varmints?"
"It wasn't your fault. Oh God, Carrigan! I understand."
Carrigan stopped, and pushed his eyebrows together. "Do you?"
Susannah pushed her face deep into his chest, nodding…sniffling.
"Do you?" Carrigan asked softly and held her at arm's length.
"I understand," Susannah repeated as reinforcement.
Carrigan exhaled deeply.
Susannah licked the tears from her upper lip. The salt bit at her tongue. She relaxed as yesterday disappeared from Carrigan's face. She did understand.
"Susannah?"
Susannah lifted her chin. Carrigan's eyes brightened into velvet green. She flashed a sad smile.
"Susannah," he repeated, louder.
She frowned, confused. "What?"
"That's a story I don't ever want to repeat."
Susannah nodded, compliant.
"It causes a gnawing inside a man."
Susannah took an ever-so-slight step back. Carrigan's face was dark, bitter, and firm of purpose once again.
"Worrying about rights and wrongs can get a man killed during the thinking."
Susannah squinted to convey her lack of understanding.
Carrigan stiffened and in an unwavering voice, growled, "Don't ever stand between me and Wes or any of his men again."
22.
Owl's Nest Ridge, Texas,
October 1848
Wes Cauble stared north, self-absorbed. His mind…always thinking…never resting… continually pulled what-ifs and should-haves from the deepest crevices of his brain. The thoughts stored since age fourteen tortured him continually and skillfully. His heart raced and his chest tightened. The closed door of the boarding house fell open.
No!
He hated the vision.
His mother, straddling the Mexican, turns and screams, "Wes, get out of here! I'm working!"
He stares at the two of them, another stranger and his mother. The two of them conjoined in the very bed he sleeps in.
The Mexican laughs. "Do as your Mama says, boy," he orders.
His mother rolls off the man, too calloused to cover her breasts.
The man continues to laugh.
He laughs along. The Mex, this stranger, doesn't know he has his father's pistol, doesn't know how deadly he really is. It's a lesson he will quickly understand. The gun rises in his hand. "Pow," he whispers and then the Mex doesn't laugh anymore.
"What have you done?" his mother screams. The strong smell of black powder fills his nose. His ears ring in perfect harmony with his mother's shrieks.