Buscadero

by Bill Brooks

“Some way I can help you, mister?”

  The hunter reached inside his shirt and pulled out a crumpled piece of paper.

  “I seed this poster over in Mud Bottom,” he said, spreading it atop the deputy’s desk, tapping a thick finger down on it.

  “It’s for them two that killed that politician. I aim to claim it.”

  “You’re too late, mister. They’ve already been captured. I got word in this morning.”

  The big man grunted his seemingly disappointment.

  “Where?”

  “Over in Texas. It’s where they all head to sooner or later.”

  “Well then, I reckon I done made myself a trip fer nothin ’.”

  “I reckon so.”

  The lawman watched the big man shift the weight of the Creed-more rifle in his hand.

  “Texas, you say?”

  Caleb Drew nodded his head.

  “Well, reckon I’m just wastin’ good time standin’ here.” Then, he turned and walked out of the office.

  Joe Duty, a deputy who had been sitting at another desk with his right foot bandaged and propped on a chair, leaned and spat tobacco juice into a tin can.

  “Big as a damn tree that son of a gun was, Caleb. Smelled like a sackful of dead squirrels.”

  “Takes all kinds, I guess.”

  “Bounty hunter?”

  “Looks as though he was.”

  “What’re you planning on doing about those folks the rangers are holding?”

  It was a good question. He was short on men and long on assignments. Crime had gotten to be a popular thing, and Judge Parker was holding court every day and still, nobody could seem to keep up. Right at the moment, aside from himself, he had two deputies: Joe Duty, who had been shot in the foot the previous week by a drunken whore, and Al Freemont.

  “Well, unless you figure you can ride with that foot of yours, the only man I have left is Al Freemont.”

  “Reckon ol’ Al ain’t going to be too happy about that,” said Joe Duty, lining up the can to spit again.

  “Al’s getting long in the tooth and as grumpy as an old maid, that’s for certain.”

  The old lawman had been around for years, complained about his arthritis every time he climbed down out of the saddle, complained about the gout in his big toe whenever it rained, complained about his eyesight. Caleb Drew had been patient with him, out of respect for the service he had given the U.S. Marshal’s office over the years. Besides, he had been a personal favorite of Judge Parker’s.

  “Well, I guess you don’t have much choice, Caleb. But I’m glad it’s you telling him and not me.”

  Caleb Drew rose from his chair, lifted his low-crowned hat from a peg and said, “Watch the store.”

  He walked the three blocks to the telegraph office. Hiram Bisby was swatting flies when he entered. He handed the clerk a note and said, “Send it.”

  Hiram read the note before sitting down to his telegrapher’s key.

  The clerk looked up through his thick wirerimmed glasses.

  “You sending Al Freemont all the way to the Indian Nations?”

  “I didn’t come here to seek your counsel on what my job should be, Hiram, just send the damn telegram.”

  “Yes sir, marshal, you say so.”

  The man standing across the street, a Creedmore rifle cradled in his arms, was unnoticed.

  Al Freemont wasn’t feeling so good when U.S. Marshal Caleb Drew found him in his room at the Ozark Hotel.

  “I need you to ride to the Nations, Al. Need you to meet a Texas Ranger there and take charge of two prisoners and escort them back to Ft. Smith.” The message was straightforward and simple, but Al Freemont looked at his boss as if he were talking donkey talk.

  “That’s a ride and then some, Caleb.” Al Freemont had the thinness of a man suffering from the consumption: his rheumy-eyed face was lined with creases and possessed the sad, long look of a hound.

  “I know how far the Nations are. You’re the only man available, Al. I wouldn’t send you if you wasn’t.” Caleb Drew could see it was not going to be easy. The old lawman laying on his bed crosswise had once been a good man, but age and booze had dulled him.

  “I...I don’t know if I can,” pleaded the deputy. “The gout’s pulling on my big toe like a beaver chewing it off.”

  “It’s what you get paid to do, Al. Things like this is your job.”

  The old lawman cradled his head in his hands, the marshal could smell the stale breath of booze.

  “Look at yourself, Al. Look what you’ve let yourself become. Hell, you used to be one of the finest lawmen anywhere.”

  Al Freemont simply looked up at him. Caleb Drew could see that this wasn’t going to work, could see that the old man wasn’t up to the task. He felt badly that he had even come to ask.

  “Ah, to hell with it, Al. Go on back to your rest. I’m sorry I bothered you.” He reached for the door knob.

  The deputy coughed hard, struggled upright. “Hold on, Caleb. I’ll go. Just give me a little time...you know, to sorta get my sand packed down.”

  “Sure, Al. You come around to see me when you’re ready,” said the lawman, unsure as to whether he had made the right choice.

  ”Caleb?”

  “What, Al?”

  “I don’t know what happened to me, except I got old and things started breaking down on the inside. Maybe the ride will do me good.”

  Drew made a weak effort at a smile.

  The old lawman coughed again and wiped the side of his mouth with the back of his hand as though waiting for a reprieve.

  “You don’t need to prove anything to me, Al.”

  “It ain’t for you,” said the deputy. “It’s for me.”

  Ben Goodlow received the telegram from U.S. Marshal Caleb Drew of Fort Smith while he was eating his breakfast. The telegram stated that a deputy U.S. marshal by the name of Al Freemont would meet the ranger and his prisoners at Ardmore in the Indian Nations, that it was the extent of what the Federal lawman could offer in the way of assistance. It was more than Ben Goodlow had expected. He’d take it. He summoned Pete Winter.

  “How close are you to being ready, Pete?”

  “Well sir, I’m waiting for my order to be filled over at the outpost, and the riding horses to be shod. I’d say within the next hour or two.”

  “I’ll draw some funds for travelling money from the bank for you, son. You meet me at the office when you are prepared to go.”

  By ten that morning, Pete Winter led two riding horses and a pack mule full of supplies up to the Ranger Headquarters and tied them to the hitch rail.

  Stepping inside, he placed a package wrapped in brown paper on the captain’s desk: “Riding clothes for Miss Swensen,” he said.

  Ben Goodlow took the package back to the cells and left them with the woman to get dressed in; he brought Johnny Montana forth to the office while she did so.

  While they were waiting for Katie Swensen to change, the captain turned to Pete and said, “Don’t let your guard down out there, son. There’s a thousand things that could go wrong.”

  The young ranger grinned embarrassedly. “I will, Cap’n.”

  “Here’s a map of the territory from here to the Nations,” said the older lawman, handing Pete a rolled parchment.

  “Thanks, Cap’n,” said Pete, tucking the map into the saddlebags he carried. “I’ve been up that way a time or two before, I’ve marked where I believe water holes to be.”

  Katie Swensen made her appearance from the cell area. She was dressed in a dark blue woolen shirt, corduroy pants, and low-heeled boots.

  “Young lady,” said the lawman, “If you promise not to cause this officer a fuss during your journey, I’ll forego the handcuffs at this time for your comfort.”

  “Thank you,” she said, her voice barely audible.

  “You are welcome, but I’m instructing Pete, here, to let you wear iron all the way to the Nations if necessary. He won’t tolerate any misbehavior on your part, do you und
erstand?”

  She nodded her head.

  “You wire in when you get there, Pete,” were the last instructions he knew to give.

  He watched the trio ride out, taking the north road. Another time, another place, they could have been simply three young folks riding out for a picnic.

  Something uncertain nagged at his gut. He would have felt less troubled had Henry Dollar been the one running the show. But then, he told himself, his uneasiness was more a personal matter than a practical one: Pete was like his own son.

  Chapter Six

  Al Freemont had been a day’s ride out of Ft. Smith, had crossed over into the Indian Nations, and had the deep sense that someone was dogging his trail. He stopped several times and waited, spelling his mount and his sore backside, but no one came up the trail behind him.

  It was a hard business, riding all day; a business better suited for younger men.

  The sipping whiskey he nibbled at every few miles seemed to take some of the ache out, but not enough to keep him from being miserable.

  Damned if he knew why he had let Caleb Drew shame him into taking this journey. Foolish pride, he told himself. A man shouldn’t have more pride than he can carry.

  He let his mind drift back to other times, earlier times, in order to ignore his present discomfort. He remembered the glory days when the law was less complicated than it was now. If a man threw down on you, you shot him, and that was the end of it. Now, you was expected to bring a man in for trial, for judges and attorneys and juries to decide. All a lawman was, it seemed to Al Freemont as he rode along the uneven trail, was some sort of escort, a paper server.

  The whiskey eased his pain but not his mind.

  Sure in hell there was somebody back there.

  New Orleans proved to be hot and humid with the warm moist winds blowing up from the Gulf. Things moved slow: people, horses, stray dogs, time.

  Lowell Biggs spent most of his ride down the main street, into a section called the French Quarter, swiveling his head in an effort to take in all the sights. The traffic of carriages and wagons and riders on horseback was heavy, the sidewalks full of pedestrians.

  From wrought-iron balconies, coffee-colored women shouted to them in French and blew kisses down on them. Dark-eyed men stood in doorways or leaned against lampposts and studied their movement.

  “Damn,” said Lowell Biggs to his brother. “You ever seen such a place as this?”

  “I don’t need to have seen it to know what it is,” said Carter, keeping his gaze directly ahead of him.

  “What do you suppose those gals up there are saying to us?”

  “Mind to our own business, Lowell. They’re just whores that have a funny way of speaking is all. We don’t have time for consortin’. Texas is still a long way off and that’s where we aim to be.”

  “Well maybe they are whores, Carter. But, I ain’t never seen any women in Autauga County to compare with them—not by a damn sight, I ain’t.”

  “Keep your eyes stuck in your head, little brother,” ordered Carter. “The onliest thing we need in this town are supplies. It’s so hot and muggy it feels like someone dropped a warsh cloth over my face!”

  A shrill whistle from above, from one of the balconies, drew Lowell’s attention. The woman that leaned over the railing smiled broadly and swished her hips.

  Unlike most of the others, this one’s skin was the color of milk, her hair black as a raven’s feathers.

  “Allo mon doux, hello my sweet. Come and visit Danielle, eh. I show you a good time, yes?”

  He was struck with her exotic beauty. She was wearing very little, and she leaned forward across the railing in order to show him even more of herself.

  He removed his hat from his head and held it over his heart. She wiggled a finger at him to come.

  “Venir chere, come my darling, I will give you much plaisir, mon doux.”

  Carter’s face twisted grim the minute he realized that Lowell had halted his progress, had been engaged by one of the whores. He wheeled his dun around and walked it back to where his little brother sat in the middle of the street looking up at the balcony tart.

  “Lowell! I warned you, we ain’t got time for this!”

  “Why the hell not?” said Lowell, irritated at his brother for having broken the spell she had been casting upon him.

  “I already told you why! We’re on our way to Texas to find that bastard Johnny Montana!”

  “Well, it ain’t like Texas is exactly right around the corner, now is it? What’s an hour more going to make in the difference? You may be older, Carter, but I’m a grown man and I can make my own decisions. And right now I’m deciding to go on up and see that lady.” His grin was spread from ear to ear as he looked up at the woman who was being even more explicit with him, more daring.

  Carter cast a furtive glance up at the woman. She had pulled her bodice down and exposed her breasts.

  “You like what you see, chere?”

  Carter saw that other women on the balconies were acting just as lewd now that they had drawn the attention of the two men below them.

  “Look at ’em all, Carter!” said Lowell, thoroughly absorbed by the lascivious behavior of the women.

  Carter could see that short of putting a pistol to his brother’s head, that he wasn’t going to deter the younger man’s desire or his interest in the chalky-skinned woman who stood practically naked on the balcony.

  “Alright! You go on an get it over with, Lowell. But, I’m givin’ you just thirty minutes to get your business taken care of. I’ll go and see if they sell anything in this town besides playsure; things we need, like beans and flour and coffee. Come tomorrow morning, you’ll be damned glad one of us kept our attention to the matters at hand!”

  “Fine, Carter, you go and take care of that stuff, I’ll be waitin’ when you get back.” Lowell hardly noticed or cared where his brother rode off to.

  He walked his horse over to a black iron hitch post shaped in the form of a horse’s head, dismounted and tied up.

  An ornate wrought-iron gate gave entrance to a cobblestone courtyard that he figured would allow him access to the building itself.

  The courtyard contained a small pond that had gold fish in it and a stone cherub holding a pitcher from which water poured. Also in the courtyard were trees with moss hanging from their branches; the smell of dampness hung in the air.

  Lowell found a set of stairs, some weak with rot, leading up the side of the building where the woman was. He was careful in climbing.

  She was waiting for him, standing there in the doorway.

  As he drew near, he could smell the sweet scent of lilac, could see the perspiration of her skin, the blackness of her hair.

  She had large dark eyes that tracked his movements.

  “So, you have come to see Danielle, eh, come to taste her charms.” Her speech was strange, exotic, haunting.

  “If that’s you, darlin’, then you’re what I come here for.”

  “Come in, chere,” she offered, stepping aside to allow him to enter.

  He removed his hat and knocked some of the dust from his clothes before sidling past her.

  His heartbeat increased.

  The room was large and open. He could see where the shuttered doors opened unto the balcony. White limp curtains hung from the open windows. A brass bed was shoved against one wall, an armoire against another; a steamer trunk with worn leather straps sat at the foot of the bed.

  The room was silent and warm. Pewter sunlight filtered through the open windows and fell across the bare board floor.

  She reached for him, reached for the buttons of his shirt.

  “Come, lay on the bed, chere,” she whispered. He found himself becoming lost within her beauty, within the sweetness of her kisses. Time itself became lost.

  “Lowell!” He heard his name being called from a distance.

  “Lowell!”

  He realized that he had dozed, had been lulled by the warmth of the room
. He shook off his drowsiness and moved to the balcony forgetting for the moment that he was naked.

  “Goddamn it, Lowell! Put your clothes on and let’s go!”

  Carter shifted restlessly in his saddle directly below him, a large grain sack of supplies tied to his saddle horn, his countenance grim.

  “You don’t get down here this minute, boy, I’ll leave you here—I damn well mean it!”

  It seemed like no time at all had passed since he first climbed the stairs. He turned, looked sheepishly at the woman sitting on the bed. She smoked a black cheroot. He thought to himself that he could stay here with her forever.

  “Sorry, Danielle ... that’s Carter down there ... I promised I’d be but half an hour ...”

  She gave him a wan smile but showed no particular interest.

  He sat on the side of the bed, dressing as best he could, wanting to hurry, wanting not to.

  He had only known one other woman in a carnal way—a neighbor’s daughter back in Autauga County. But, the girl had been fat and homely and buck-toothed and hadn’t known dip about pleasing a man. Lowell figured that the neighbor girl didn’t count.

  “Me and Carter’s got business to take care of, got to go to Texas. But I’m thinking that as soon as it’s over with, I’d like to sorta come back this way ...” He fell silent, hopeful that she would be happy over the announcement. Instead, she seemed impatient, moving off the bed toward the balcony, glancing down at the waiting brother, moving back into the room.

  “Your friend, he is waiting for you,” she said, blowing smoke rings toward the ceiling.

  “Well anyways,” he said, pulling on his last boot, “I can’t say’s I’ve ever known anyone like you ... you sure are some kind of female.”

  She moved to the door and held it open for him.

  “I never knowed a woman that smoked seegars before,” he said as a final effort to be charming. He kissed her on the cheek.

  She closed her eyes and said, “You better go, chere.”

  He heard the door close behind him with a sad finality as he descended the stairs.

  Carter’s face was flushed with anger and impatience at having had to wait for him.

  “I hope you got everything out of your system, Lowell. ’Cause we ain’t stopping to dally anymore!”