by F. M. Parker
He sprang from the buggy, pulling his pistol as he landed. He swiftly pivoted to look around.
Two men had come out of the woods and into the road thirty yards behind the buggy. Both carried rifles raised to their shoulders. One of them opened his mouth to shout at Karl.
Before a sound could come from the man, Karl shot him twice in the chest with his pistol. The man staggered backward. His legs gave way and he fell.
The second man dropped his head to sight along the rifle and fired. Karl was already moving, and the bullet cut the air where he had stood. He swung his pistol and fired at the bandit.
The bullet hit the man and sent him staggering backward. He caught himself, and dropping his single-shot rifle, reached for his pistol.
Karl shot the bandit again, knocking him flat on the ground.
Marcella hadn't been able to see the bandits at the rear of the buggy because the luggage in the rumble seat blocked her view. She did see a man with a pistol come into sight near the log on the road.
"Karl! Behind you!" she screamed.
Karl leapt to the side and spun to the rear in one swift movement. His pistol roared twice, the shots so close together that they seemed to be but one continuous explosion of sound. The range was short and the man went down as if hit by a powerful fist.
"Damn fools," Karl said as he looked about at the corpses.
Trembling, Marcella rose up from the floor of the buggy. The effortless way Karl had killed three armed men astounded her. Never had she imagined a man could move so swiftly and shoot so accurately.
"Using the halfwit to block the road with the log was a good idea," Karl said, addressing the comment to Marcella. "But then they came out in the open to be shot. That was a dumb thing to do."
He watched Marcella and waited for a response. When she only stared back, he spoke again. "That was quick thinking to call and warn me about the other one. Do you remember seeing him before?"
Marcella shook her head.
"He was that man who rode off from the tavern as we stopped." Karl smiled. "We make a damn fine pair, you and I."
He began to reload his revolver, whistling happily.
A cry erupted in the woods close by Karl. The cry was full of sadness and of rage all mixed together into a frightening sound not quite human. The man Karl had called a halfwit burst from the woods and leapt upon him.
The two men crashed into the side of the buggy and rocked it violently. Karl was driven down hard with the man mountain on top of him. The man began to flail at Karl, striking at him with both fists.
Marcella hurriedly scooted across the seat of the buggy and away from the fighting men. She watched them, mesmerized by the rage on the face of the halfwit and his wildly swinging fists. One of his hands hit the oak spokes of a buggy wheel, but he didn't seem to feel pain from it. The halfwit with his monstrous strength would kill Karl.
Then Marcella saw an astonishing, unexpected thing. Karl, his back pinned to the ground, struck upward with his hand through the fists striking at him. Two fingers of the hand were extended, and they stabbed into the eye sockets beneath the bulging brows of the larger man.
The halfwit's screams instantly became ones of horrendous pain. He ceased the swings of his fists and covered both eyes with his hands.
Karl struck again, a powerful blow of his fist into the man's throat. The screams cut off abruptly. Karl heaved mightily and lifted the man up, and rolled from under him.
Karl rose to his feet and shook himself. Then he stood rubbing at the bruises on his face and watching the halfwit struggle to a sitting position. The giant's chest heaved as he strained to breathe through a crushed throat.
Marcella too was watching the man on the ground, and she saw a clear liquid that was stained with a little blood leaking from both of the man's eye sockets. His eyes were missing.
"Oh, my God!" she exclaimed.
She tore her sight away from the blind man and looked at Karl. "What do we do now?"
Karl was watching her. Now there was depth to his mud-colored eyes, rage so deep, so deadly that it frightened Marcella just to see it.
"I'll show you," Karl said in a grating voice.
He bent, reached under his right pants leg, and extracted a small-caliber pistol from a holster strapped there. He stepped up beside the sitting man, sucking air with a hissing sound. With a movement almost too swift to see, Karl leaned down and shot the halfwit between the eyes.
The giant man went over backward and flopped like a maimed crow, and sprayed blood in the dust of the road. His heels drummed upon the ground and his arms thrashed wildly about.
After a quarter minute, the frenzied motion of the dying halfwit ceased and he lay still. Karl turned away from the dead man and without looking at Marcella, went to the log blocking the road and moved it aside. He came to the buggy and drove away from the corpses of the robbers.
Marcella was so overwhelmed by the attempted robbery and the killings that she could find nothing to say. She sat with the awful memory of the halfwit dying frozen in her mind.
SIXTEEN
Ben forded the slow-flowing Cat Claw Creek, crossed through a hay field of redtop clover, and came onto the southern end of Main Street in Abilene, Texas. He was dusty, sweaty, and stank. He had thirteen horses and eight saddles to sell. None of it rightfully belong to him.
He tilted his head down so that the wide brim of his hat threw his scarred face into shadow and thus made it less visible. He wanted no gawking stares, no expressions of revulsion.
People on the street stopped to look at the long line of horses moving past tied one behind the other with lengths of rope. The horses stretched for nearly half a block behind Ben. He heard a man comment to another on the high quality of the animals.
On a cross street, nearly a dozen boys, all shirtless and shoeless, played ball with a stick bat and a wrapped twine ball. Ben heard their happy laughter as they ran the bases, merely circles drawn in the dust. Four little girls about the same age were on the wooden sidewalk watching the boys. Ben noted that the drivers of the vehicles coming and going on the street pulled to the side so as not to much bother the game.
Three cowboys in leather chaps and big, wide-brimmed hats came racing their horses along the street where the boys played. The pounding hooves of the horses sent geysers of dust pluming into the air. The man in front, wearing a dirty blue shirt, reined his mount to ride directly through the gathering of boys.
"Get off the street, you little bastards," the blue-shirted man shouted.
The boys scattered like a covey of frightened quail to escape the iron-shod feet of the horses. Ben growled under his breath. Had the lads not been so nimble, if one had tripped and fallen, he could have been stepped upon by the horses and seriously hurt, or killed.
Four blocks farther along, Ben halted at a business with a huge sign declaring it to be Thatcher's Livery And Horse Trading. An entire block was taken up by Thatcher's. The front half contained the office building facing the street and more than a score of vehicles of various types and sizes, both new and used. The remaining half block was a log corral holding a few horses. Ben saw the low number of horses. That could mean a scarcity and therefore a high value for the ones he possessed. He dismounted and went toward the office.
A tall, stoop-shouldered man with a handlebar mustache came out from the office as Ben approached. "Howdy, Hawkins," he said, not looking at Ben.
"Howdy, Thatcher. I've got horses and saddles for sale. Are you interested?"
Thatcher sighted along the horses and eyed the saddles. "Did the horses grow those saddles, or were there men sitting them?"
"So you don't get the wrong idea, I'll tell you. Some of the saddles belonged to Mexicans who decided to ride double with someone else. The others belonged to men who killed some friends of mine. They won't be needing the saddles."
Thatcher fingered his mustache. "I'll take your word for that. I wouldn't want to buy any animals stole in Texas."
He walke
d along the horses, examining all of them and the saddles carried by eight of them. He returned to Ben.
"Some Valdes horses, I see. That's okay by me. That saddle with all the silver, you going to keep that one for yourself?"
"Nope. My ass fits the one I've got. I'll take the cash."
"I'll buy the lot, saddles and horses, if we can agree on a price. I'd buy that one you're sitting on too."
"Could never sell Brutus. He'd stomp me in the ground for that. But let's get to dickering for the others."
The two men worked their way along the string of horses and discussed the qualities of the animals and value of the saddles. Agreeing on a price, Thatcher jotted the amount down on a notepad. Finishing with the last horse, Thatcher tallied the figures.
"Come into the office and I'll write you a draft on the bank," he said.
* * *
"Yes, Señor Hawkins, your clothes are ready," said the Mexican woman. She kept her eyes on the ground at Ben's feet.
"That's good Señora Lopez. Would you have Pedro fill the tub with water so that I can bathe?" Pedro was the señora's son. Her husband Jesus worked for Thatcher.
"He is already doing that. I started him at the task when I saw you coming."
"You are very thoughtful," Ben said. He placed several silver dollars in her hand. He had arranged with the Lopez family to provide him with a place to stay in their aged adobe casa when he was in Abilene. He slept there in a corner bedroom where the cool breeze blew through, and ate most of his meals in the woman's pleasant kitchen. She kept his clothing clean and ironed. He stabled his horse in a lean-to at the rear of the house.
For the privilege he paid them twice what would have been a fair price.
"Thank you for your generosity," said the woman as she counted the coins in her hand without looking at them. "Will you want something to eat?"
"Yes, in about an hour."
"It shall be ready."
Pedro came out from behind the house. He glanced at Ben and then away. "Your water is ready, Señor Hawkins," he said.
"Thank you, Pedro."
Ben bathed in the tub of water in the small bathhouse at the rear of the casa. The water was warm, and he knew it had come from the rain barrel that sat in the sun undder the south eave of the house. He shaved with a straight-edged razor that he kept among his possessions at the Lopez home. The chore was a difficult one because of the deep crevices and raised scars of his face. Finally finishing and feeling totally clean for the first time in many days, he donned his town clothing—gray trousers, a soft, white shirt, a broad-brimmed hat, and polished boots. How grand it was to feel the fresh clothing against his skin. He knew that within hours, his soiled riding clothing would be in the same condition as the clothing he had just put on.
He buckled his pistol around his waist. It was out of place with the town clothes, for few townsmen carried weapons. However, Ben could not bring himself to leave it behind for he felt only partially dressed without it.
He sat in the kitchen of the casa and ate his meal of mutton stew, bean soup, soft cheese, a stack of blue-corn tortillas, and sweet custard. He asked the señora for a cup of coffee and a second custard. She brought them promptly.
"Will you want anything else, Señor Hawkins?" she said.
"No, thank you, señora." The woman left the kitchen as Ben leaned back to finish his meal leisurely.
Ben left the Lopez casa and walked toward the center of the town. He had his hat pulled low; still, he received stares. He would put up with the expression in the eyes of the people for he wasn't going to be a prisoner in the Lopez house. At a tobacconist's shop on the main street, Ben entered and ordered a half-dozen cigars. He hadn't had a smoke in more than two weeks and felt a craving for one. While he waited for the proprietor to roll the fresh smokes, he moved about the small shop, looking at the boxes of cigars and breathing the pungent, delightful aroma of tobacco.
Immediately upon coming out of the shop and onto the sidewalk, Ben halted and lit his first cigar. Then he moved down the sidewalk, not looking at the people he encountered. He came to a little park with a handful of big trees. A Comanche Indian sat on the ground under the tree nearest the sidewalk. He was ancient, with gray hair and his brown face full of wrinkles so deep that they looked like scars. He was stone still with his eyes closed, seemingly only listening to time pass. He wore buckskin pants and jumper, and moccasins with the soles wore through and dirty, brown feet showing. The clothes were frayed, and stained, and hung loosely on his body like a layer of reptilian skin being shed.
The wind was from Ben to the Comanche, and some of the cigar smoke wafted to the man. He lifted his head and smelled the wind. Like some hunting animal that had caught the scent of its prey, he opened his eyes and twisted around to Ben.
The Comanche smiled, his toothless mouth gaping in a pink-lined pit. He looked Ben straight in the face. He did not turn away from the ugliness, but rather held out his hand as if ready to accept something.
"Old man, if you can stand to look at me, then you deserve a cigar," Ben said, knowing the Indian wanted a smoke.
He squatted beside the old Indian and handed him a cigar. The man put the smoke into his mouth, and then looked inquiringly at Ben.
"No fire, eh?" Ben said. He struck a match against the sole of his shoe and lit the end of the cigar for the man.
The Indian drew a huge breath of cigar smoke deep into his lungs. He smiled, his old cheeks crinkling into a hundred folds of pleasure. He held the smoke locked within his lungs for seconds, then slowly, very slowly, let it out, savoring every curl of it.
"Good, eh?" Ben said.
"Good!" replied the Indian, his black eyes still fastened on Ben.
Ben, smiling at the obvious enjoyment the cigar gave the old Comanche, stood erect and went off on the street.
SEVENTEEN
Ben drank his first beer in the Mexican cantina on the broad plaza in the center of Abilene. The brew had a delicious, tangy flavor, and was cold from the keg having been sunk to the bottom of the deep water well behind the cantina. He took another long pull from the mug and let the savory liquid trickle delightfully down his throat.
He sat at a table in the rear of the cantina. The building was an old adobe structure, high-ceilinged and with an earthen floor. The furnishings were old and had taken rough usage over the years. He knew there were much fancier saloons elsewhere on the plaza, but he preferred this one.
On his right was a long bar where a handful of men were drinking. In the larger space on the left were two dozen or more tables. Four men were playing poker at one of the tables. A pair of men were drinking and talking at a second table. The remaining tables were empty.
The evening was growing old and daylight fading. Yet the three coal-oil lamps hanging from the rafters had not been lighted. That was fine by Ben. As he usually did, he had his hat pulled down low. From under the brim he watched the other men in the cantina. They were talking, and he listened to the rumble of their voices. The conversations at the bar were too far away to make out. He could plainly hear the men making their bets at the card game. It was good to once again be among men even though he could never have one for a friend, someone to just talk with about unimportant things. Passing time by himself had grown very oppressive after more than a year.
The three cowboys who had run their mustangs through the boys playing ball came through the open doorway. The blue-shirted man was in the lead, and he halted with the others just inside the room to allow their eyes to adapt to the darkened interior. He said something to his comrades and they all laughed loudly. After a few seconds, the cowboys came deeper into the room with a swaggering walk and boots thumping and spurs jingling. They stopped at the middle of the bar and ordered a bottle of tequila. They gulped the first shots, poured a second one for each, and began to talk.
Ben turned away from the cowboys, after noting each man wore a revolver belted to his waist. He held up his mug and caught the bartender's eye.
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p; The man nodded his head acknowledging the empty mug, and drew and brought a full one to Ben's table. He picked up the empty mug and the silver coin for payment and left.
Two men entered the cantina. They paused in the doorway, as the cowboys had done, and peered ahead into the shadows. They looked about for half a minute and then they moved on in. The shorter man walked with a limp, his right leg being the bad one. The second man was quite thin. He had his shoulders hunched forward and appeared exhausted. The men were unshaven and dust-covered.
They took seats at a table not far from Ben and ordered beers. The thin man, the ridges of his bones showing sharply through his skin, sat leaning wearily over the table. The man needs to gain at least thirty pounds, Ben thought. The men's brews arrived and they immediately took long drinks. The thin man shivered as the cold beer hit his gullet.
"Damn, now ain't that delicious," John said.
"What's even better is to get out of that saddle and sit in the shade where it's cool," Evan replied.
They are soldiers from the fighting in the east and both wounded, Ben thought. They are like me, damaged, and crippled men. He knew what they knew, felt what they felt.
The taller of the two men looked at Ben across the tables that separated them. The man's eyes were on Ben for only two or three seconds before he turned away. Still, Ben recognized that the eyes were gentle, and that they had looked through the shadows to the scars on his face.
"Hank, light the damn lamps," one of the cardplayers called out to the bartender. "I'm being robbed here 'cause I can't see my cards."
Hank left the bar and went into a back room. He returned with a short stepladder that he positioned under the lamps, one after another, and lit them. The area around the bar and the card table became illuminated with light, while the remainder of the wide room remained in shadow.
Evan and John ordered two more beers. They drank them slowly as they talked quietly together. Finishing the brews, they rose and started for the door leading onto the street.