Come Sundown

by Mike Blakely

  “Oh?” I said, slipping out of character.

  “Yeah, the general’s not well.” He stopped in front of the door to the mansion and looked at Maxwell with the saddest of eyes. “I’ve got bad news, Lucien. Josefa died.”

  Now our trick on Blue didn’t seem so funny, and I felt foolish for pushing it this far.

  “Josefa?” Lucien said, the disbelief plain in his voice. “What? How?”

  “She had the baby—Josefita, they named her. The baby’s fine, but Josefa had problems. She died ten days later with the fever. I’m sorry, Lucien. You’ve got to help me tell Luz. I can face you, but not her.”

  “Oh, God,” Lucien said, knowing how his wife, Luz, was going to grieve over the loss of her sister.

  “Kit’s heart is broken, and he’s not long for the world. That problem in his chest has gotten worse.” Blue turned to me. “Mr. Jones, I need you to get a message to Orn’ry. Kit wants to see him before he dies, and he doesn’t have long.”

  Sheepishly, I dragged my sombrero from my head. “Blue,” I said, in my own voice. “It’s me. I’m sorry, Blue, we didn’t know … It was supposed to be a joke.”

  Blue looked at me, and his jaw dropped. “But … You’re …”

  “It’s me, Orn’ry. I took on another identity for my own protection. I’m sorry. I couldn’t tell anyone but Lucien.”

  Blue bowed his head and fell against me in a mixture of fatigue, relief, and sorrow. I wrapped my arms around him in a big abrazo and even Lucien put his huge bear paws on us to comfort us.

  “Where’s Kit?” I asked.

  “He’s in the hospital at Fort Lyon. You’d better go soon, Orn’ry. You may already be too late.”

  Panic overwhelmed me, and I recalled the grief I felt arriving a day late at Westerly’s side. I could not bear it again. I looked at Lucien. “I’ve got to go. Tell Luz I’m so sorry.”

  Lucien became very businesslike. “Take my fastest racehorse. I’ll get you some food. We’ll tell Luz—me and Blue. She’ll understand that you had to go.”

  By the time I got Lucien’s prize racehorse saddled, Blue was waiting for me at the gate with a sack of grub, a canteen, and my violin, which I had left at Lucien’s for safekeeping. “Kit asked for the fiddle,” Blue said. We tied my belongings to saddle strings, or stuffed them into saddle pockets.

  “You’ve got a couple of hours of daylight left,” Blue said.

  “I know this trail in the dark.”

  “Be careful.”

  “I wouldn’t count on that. Not for this ride.”

  “Well …”

  I reached down to shake Blue’s hand. “I’ve missed you, Blue. I’ll see you soon, I promise.”

  He nodded and shook my hand, and it felt good to feel his friendship again. Luz screamed inside, and we both knew she had gotten the information out of Lucien. I pulled my brim down low, spurred the long-legged steed, and rode hell-bent for Raton Pass.

  Fifty-Seven

  Four days later, I trotted into William Bent’s Stockade. Lucien Maxwell’s racehorse had all but given out, and I hoped to borrow a fast remount for the last five-mile leg to Fort Lyon. I found William watching over a Mexican laborer who was breaking ground for the stockade’s garden, the Mexican driving a single mule before a turning plow. William was looking old and feeble now. The Sand Creek affair had torn his family apart and taken a lot out of him. Young Charles had joined the Dog Soldiers and become such a renegade that a bounty was now on his head. Charles had even threatened to kill his own father. William had disowned him. Anyway, William was fifty-eight years old, same as Kit, and had spent many a hard winter on the frontier.

  When the old trader saw me, he looked me over and I could tell that he recognized Maxwell’s horse, but not me. “What is it?” he asked, as if expecting more bad news.

  “It’s me, William. Honoré Greenwood.”

  He came closer to look, for his eyesight seemed to be failing him. “I thought you’d been killed for sure this time.”

  “I’ve come to see Kit. Is it too late?”

  “You’d better hurry,” William said, tilting his head and angling his eyes toward the corral. “I was with Kit at the fort yesterday, and I didn’t think he’d last the night. I’ve already said my adios. We all have. Tom and Rumalda, John and Amache. Everyone. Doc Tilton told us to say good-bye and get the hell out. Said we were excitin’ him too much. You better take George’s buffalo horse. I hope you’re not too late.”

  It seemed to take forever to switch my saddle from Maxwell’s horse to George’s. When I finally got mounted, William said, “Lope him the first mile, then open him up. He can run.”

  William was right. After I warmed the horse up a little, I touched him with my spurs and gave him his head. We struck the road to Fort Lyon, and the horse knew where we were going. George Bent had trained this mount to run buffalo, and kept him in shape for that job. He was sleek and lank and well muscled, and possessed a gallop smooth enough from which to draw a bead on a fleeing shaggy. I threw my sombrero off and left it beside the road because it just dragged too much wind. Now the spring air pulled at my locks. It felt good to finally be moving at full speed, but the worry nagged me. What if I was too late yet again?

  Please, Kit, hold on. I want to say I’m sorry. I want to say good-bye.

  That horse knew the crossing of the Arkansas and he plunged in almost without slowing down. He made lunges through the chest-deep water, not yet swollen from rains or snowmelt, much to my relief. Soon he was across and was gathering his great weight under his haunches for the last push into Fort Lyon.

  I saw the rude buildings of the post, and slowed to a trot to explain myself to a sentry: “I’m a friend of Kit’s. I want to see him before he dies.”

  The soldier shook his head once and started to say something, then changed his mind and waved me on. I rode to the hard-packed parade ground, and looked for officers’ row—the next-to-last rock house, William had told me, the post surgeon’s own quarters. I ignored a few soldiers going about their duties, and cantered right down the row of rude stone structures to find Aloys Scheurich—a relative of Kit’s by marriage, and the godfather of his children—standing outside. He was looking at the ground with his hands in his pockets when he heard my approach and looked up to see me.

  I jumped down from the saddle. “It’s me, Aloys,” I said. “It’s Honoré Greenwood.”

  “Gracias a Dios,” he said, recognizing me. His Spanish was good, though saddled with a German accent. “I had heard you were … Well …”

  “Is Kit … Is he … ?”

  Scheurich shook his head. “He went to sleep, Mr. Greenwood.”

  “To sleep?”

  Scheurich nodded. “I don’t know if he’ll wake up again. I don’t know if he’s got it in him.”

  I took three big steps to the door.

  When I entered the dark room, I smelled tobacco smoke. I waited until my eyes adjusted. There, half sitting up on an Indian-style couch made of buffalo robes and blankets piled on the floor, an elderly man lay in repose. I took a moment figuring out that it was Kit. He had aged so that I almost didn’t recognize him. I saw his old clay pipe on the floor of rough wooden planks, next to a coffee cup and a tin plate with a steak bone on it. He had eaten his last meal, it seemed, and smoked his last bowl. I just stood there staring down at all that was left of my old friend. He lay motionless, his eyes closed and sunken, his cheeks drawn, his hair long and thin, and his body wasted away under the blankets. I watched for what seemed like a whole minute, and he never took a breath.

  My palms slammed against my temples in desperation, and I pulled at my own hair. I wheeled and looked out at nothing through the window and cried, “God, no!” I heard a snort and a cough. I turned, hopefully. Kit’s eyes flew open, and he drew in a long, ragged breath that seemed just barely able to enter his lungs. Astonished, I lowered myself to one knee beside him.

  “Who’s there?” he whispered, squinting.

  I lea
ned closer to him and saw a spark of life yet left in his eyes. “I thought you were dead,” I said in relief.

  He smiled a little, having recognized my voice. “I thought you were dead.” The words came out with saw-blade edges.

  I shook my head. “I’ve been staying scarce, that’s all.”

  “What for? You didn’t think I’d tell anybody about you at Adobe Walls, did you?”

  “I wasn’t sure. I turned against you, Kit. I’m sorry.”

  Slowly, he drew a gnarled arm out from under the army blanket. His hand shook a little as it reached for my shoulder and his breath tore in and out of his windpipe like a drill bit chiseling its way through hard rock. His grip felt almost as firm as ever as he grabbed my shoulder. “You did what you thought was right, Kid. You know I’d never cause you no trouble. Hell, nobody would believe me anyway, if I did tell ’em you was there.”

  I smiled, the relief of forgiveness flooding into me so that my eyes welled up with tears, and I had to wipe one away, right there in front of the great Kit Carson.

  A door opened in a rickety partition wall, and a man walked in. “Who are you?” he demanded.

  Kit calmed him with a feeble wave. “It’s a friend, Doc. The best a man ever had. Kid, Doc Tilton.”

  I rose to shake the doctor’s hand. He must have seen the questions in my eyes.

  “He’s in a bad way. We’ve talked it over, and I’ve told him frankly. The aneurysm that’s been growing in his chest is now pressing against his trachea. There are two possibilities. It will rupture and he’ll bleed to death internally, or it will swell until it blocks his windpipe and he’ll suffocate.”

  “This is my last fight,” Kit said. “I don’t welcome the prospect of suffercatin’ . The Comanches say if you die that way, your soul gets trapped in your body, and can’t get to heaven.”

  I nodded grimly. “Your breath carries your prayers—and your soul—to the Great Beyond.”

  “I’m fightin’ for a chance to bleed to death. Every breath is a little victory.”

  Doc Tilton scoffed. “You’re going to heaven, General. Get that superstitious Indian claptrap out of your head. Don’t get him excited, Mr. Greenwood. Let him relax.” He looked at Kit with a kindly admiration. “I’ll be in the next room if you need me, General.”

  Kit nodded, and the doctor left, leaving the door open this time.

  When he was gone, Kit beckoned me closer with his hand, so I got down on my knees beside him.

  “I always wondered …” He put his hand on my shoulder. “Was that you blowing the bugle?”

  I chuckled at the memory. “Yes, that was me.”

  “I knew it. Had to be you to come up with that.” He released his hold on my shoulder and laid his arm back down on the blanket. He looked vacantly toward the ceiling for a labored breath or two. “Kid … That time on the trail to Adobe Walls … Before the battle …”

  “Yeah?” I knew what he was getting at.

  “I’m sorry I let my boys go too far. I didn’t mean for you to get your head caved half in.”

  “I brought it on myself. I was mad about that horse.”

  “I’m sorry about that horse, too. I wish none of that had ever happened.”

  “I do, too, Kit, but it doesn’t matter now. You did what you thought was right. I never held it against you.”

  He lifted his hand for me to shake, and when I took it, he seemed so relieved that he grinned and closed his eyes for a few seconds as our hands stayed clasped, one within the other. “You were sure mad. Never knew you could git so orn’ry, Orn’ry.” He clucked his tongue as he shook his head and smiled. “You put up one hell of a fight.” Then the smile faded away and he lay there for a while, blinking. “Well, you know about my Chepita.”

  “Yes. I’m sorry. I wish I had seen her before …” I could not speak the words to finish the thought.

  “You know how I feel, don’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  Our hands were still together, his eyes now closed. He squeezed my hand tighter, speaking more than words ever could have. I remember thinking that I had wasted my life. I should have become a surgeon. I possessed the intelligence and the dexterity. I wanted to cut Kit open and fix him right there—take out that thing that had been growing and swelling and cutting off his wind and lifeblood ever since that fall on our elk hunting trip, eight years ago.

  “I should let you rest,” I said, our hands finally slipping apart.

  He shook his head feebly and reached for my sleeve. “Don’t go yet. I’m fixin’ to get plenty of rest. Since my Chepita died, I don’t feel like I have much life left in me. But that ain’t really it, Kid. You got through that, and I could, too. She wouldn’t want me to just lay down and die, anyway. It ain’t that.”

  “What is it, then?”

  He raised his right hand and swung his arm across his body like the neck of a crane stalking a fish. His trigger finger uncoiled and he tapped his left shoulder where all the pain and swelling had choked the strength out of him. “It’s this. I reckon I’d live to be a hunnerd if it wasn’t for this.”

  The arm settled on his chest and the weight of it seemed too much for the old voyageur, so I gently lifted his arm and laid it back by his side. “What do you need me to do, Kit?”

  He seemed to think about it very seriously for several seconds, as if he hadn’t expected to see me here at all. “I’ve already made out my will. Tom’s my administrator. He and Rumalda are gonna see that the children are taken care of somehow. I almost can’t bear the thought of them bein’ orphans. Help them, when you can, Kid. I know you’re like me, and you can’t root yourself, but when you pass through, teach the children things you know. Things out of them storybooks you read. School ’em for me, Kid. Lord knows I never could.”

  “I’d be proud to bring them a few books and read with them. Maybe teach them to play the violin, even.”

  His eyes flew open in a manner that surprised me. “Did you bring the fiddle?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, git it, Kid. Play for me one more time. I’d sure like that.”

  “Be glad to, Colonel.” I got up, then realized my error. “I mean General, of course.”

  He lifted his fingers just enough to brush away the formalities. “Just call me Kit and be done with it. Go git that fiddle.”

  “Yes, sir.” I rose, and turned to the door, bursting out into the sunshine.

  “Is he … ?” Scheurich said.

  “He wants me to play the violin for him,” I said.

  I untied the padded deerskin case that protected the old Stradivarius and began removing the instrument as I went back inside, followed by Aloys Scheurich. Kit’s eyes were closed again, but I heard his breath carving its way into his lungs. When I plucked the strings, he opened his eyes slowly and looked about to see his friends.

  I began to play the first concerto of Vivaldi’s Four Seasons, for it was neither too morose nor too jolly. As the strains of that fine instrument began to fill the room, Doc Tilton came to the door, a sad and puzzled look clouding his face. Aloys Scheurich sat in a chair he had obviously occupied for quite some while before my arrival. I poured every bit of heart I had left into each note. Kit lay there, smiling.

  “That’s purdy,” I heard the general say.

  Oh, I’ve played some hard dirges and laments in my time, but that selection knocked holes in my heart. I continued my performance until Kit seemed almost asleep.

  Then he lurched and coughed. He covered his mouth and hacked violently, this time spewing a spray of blood on his palm. My fingers died on the slender neck of the violin, and the bow fell from the strings. As Tilton and Scheurich rushed to either side, Kit stared at his bloody hand and smiled. He smiled with relief. He could feel the bleeding. He was not going to suffocate.

  He looked up at me, his eyes piercing mine. “I’m gone.” His eyes looked one way—“Good-bye, Doctor”—then the other—“Adiós, compadre.” He looked again at me, at my fiddle, at my bow
, and gestured for more music. He tried to speak to me, but a torrent of blood came out of his mouth instead, and gushed down his chin and onto his chest. He coughed through it and drew in a last labored breath.

  I shut my eyes against a flood of tears, unable to watch him die. I set horsehair to catgut and played. The men returned Kit’s parting words, but my tune was my farewell, as he had wished. I cried and played by heart, my tears running down my cheeks and onto the chinpiece of the violin. I vented my love and sorrow, the vibrations of the wood rattling my very teeth. And somewhere in the course of that rendering, General Christopher Carson set his spirit to yondering toward the Great Mystery on his final earthly breath.

  In a voice that only I could understand, my violin sang a stanza from Kit’s favorite poem, The Lady of the Lake, by Sir Walter Scott:

  Soldier, rest! thy warfare o’er,

  Sleep the sleep that knows not breaking,

  Dream of battled fields no more,

  Days of danger, nights of waking.

  And the mountains took pause. The great birds of prey sprang from their perches and pressed their pinions against the chinooks. The lions roared and the grizzlies stood upright in reverence. And across some vestige of the trackless wilds, a thunderbolt struck a stony ridge and ushered the soul of a great man through the Pass of No Returning.

  Fifty-Eight

  After we buried Kit, I stayed at Boggsville a while, helping with the spring chores, sharing memories about our departed hero. Tom Boggs and George Bent and I decided to finally break in that irrigation ditch we had surveyed several years before. Blue Wiggins came back up from Maxwell’s Ranch and helped us carve the acequia madre with a hand-forged slip shovel pulled by a mule team. It was good, hard work, and every man and boy from Boggsville and William’s stockade took a hand in it.

  To divert the water from the river, we built a box of timbers down in the riverbed, which we slathered with tar to seal the cracks. This “tar box” as we called it, gave name to the channel we had dug, which was known as the “Tar Box Ditch.” The day finally came when we closed the iron sluice gate to fill up the tar box, then watched the swelling waters pour into our meandering ditch. We all got a-horseback and chased the manmade rill down our ditch for seven miles, where it spilled back into the Purgatoire. We held quite a fiesta that night. As far as I know, the Tar Box Ditch still carries water from the Purgatoire, across a thousand acres of fields and pastures that surround what once was Boggsville.