The Seekers

by F. M. Parker

  The old man ceased speaking and quietly watched Celeste. He sensed the worry in the young woman. “How goes the battle in the American courts to clear the title to your rancho?” he asked.

  “Slow and very costly. The man Dokken has very good lawyers, and also forgers. I admit he has produced some very authentic-looking documents. But I believe we will win before the American Land Commission.”

  “Is the death of Ernesto part of the gringo’s plot to take your land?”

  “I’m certain it is. If Dokken can’t win legally, he will kill the Beremendeses.”

  “Do you fear for your own safety?”

  “If the Land Commission rules in my favor, then I will be. I think Dokken murdered Ernesto to scare me, perhaps also with the idea that without him I could not raise enough money to continue the legal fight.”

  “Could your riders keep you safe should enemies come to the rancho to harm you?”

  “They are all good men and skilled at hunting the wolf and coyote that kill our sheep, but they would have little chance to beat men like Dokken. They would surely try and I know how to shoot.”

  A thought burst brightly in Celeste’s mind. Her eyes opened quite wide as she leaned forward, tense and excited.

  “Vicaro, can you teach me how to become an expert marksman? How to fight a duel and kill a man?”

  The old bandit lowered his wineglass and stared in astonishment at Celeste. “Women do not fight duels. No man would draw a weapon against a woman for other men would laugh and think him a coward.”

  “Suppose they did now know I was a woman. I could become a Beremendes’s cousin from Mexico City or from Santa Fe, a male cousin who carried a pistol and wanted revenge.”

  Vicaro studied Celeste. His eyes dropped down over her ample bosom, down her arms to settle on her wrists and hands. “You appear strong for a woman, maybe even strong enough to handle a pistol.”

  “I’ve worked with the men for years in riding, branding and shearing. I’m really stronger than I look. Also, I’m taller than most Mexican women.”

  “Still you’re a woman and shaped like one, though not to an extreme.”

  “‘I could bind my breasts flat to my chest, and I could wear a caballero’s jacket and trousers and boots. I’d cut my hair short.”

  Vicaro appeared doubtful. “Could you truly shoot to kill a man?”

  Celeste reflected upon the question, probing the inner, most secret recesses in her mind. She again saw Ernesto lying dead with his pale face and bloody chest ... and Dokken with his gloating smile. She had almost been successful in shooting him that time. The hate she had felt then again burned through her veins.

  “I could shoot Dokken for killing Ernesto if I should ever have the opportunity,“ Celeste said, her voice firm. She realized slaying Dokken might be only the first use of the skill as a pistolero. She might have to kill other enemies to hold her rancho. “Will you please stay here at the rancho and teach me every skill and trick that you possess with a pistol?”

  “I would do that for a Beremendes, but would your father approve?”

  “My father would surely approve and my grandfather would urge you to teach me.”

  Vicaro evaluated Celeste with a skeptical expression. Then he relented and grinned wolfishly. “I believe they would. Let us begin now with the lessons. All the practice you must do will take a very long time. Surely months, perhaps years, will be needed before you can hope to survive a duel, or a gunfight in some dark street.”

  “I can’t wait years, not even months. I can hardly wait weeks. I’ll get Ernesto’s pistol.”

  Celeste hurried away and a moment later returned. She handed the Colt revolver in its holster to Vicaro.

  The aged bandit pulled the Colt Model 1851 Navy and lovingly held it in his hand. He ran his fingers down the cold iron of the barrel. “This is a fine weapon, and has been well taken care of. I used one for years. Now I carry the Colt Army Pistol.” He touched the butt of his holstered revolver.

  “Should I use the same type of gun that you do?”

  “No. Your pistol is .36 caliber. The new Army Colt is .44 caliber and has a louder explosion and stronger recoil. You will be less likely to flinch when you fire this lower-charged gun. The ball from a ,36-caliber pistol is powerful enough to kill a man if the person firing it is a marksman. Which you must be before you hunt Dokken.”

  “How do we begin?”

  “Buckle on the pistol and stand in front of me,” Vicaro directed. “Let’s see if you have the makings of a pistolero. You may not possess the strength to swiftly lift the weapon, or you may be clumsy. Stand closer. I want to test something. Closer still so that I can touch you. That’s about right. Now give me your pistol.”

  Vicaro removed the caps from the nipples over the six cylinders and handed the revolver back to Celeste. “Put it in your holster, loose yet snug.”

  He extended his right index finger and pressed it against the center of Celeste’s chest. “Put your hand on the butt of your pistol and get ready to draw. When you feel me take my finger away, draw as fast as you can and point the pistol straight at the center of me. Don’t waste time trying to cock it for now. Look me in the eye. That’s right. Get set.”

  Vicaro’s finger released its pressure. Celeste snatched at her pistol.

  A hard object jammed her in the stomach. She looked down to see Vicaro’s loaded gun, the hammer eared all the way back, buried in the front of her shirt. She gasped, shocked.

  “I don’t believe it. You moved your hand down, pulled the pistol and brought it back up before I could hardly think.”

  “You are very slow.”

  “Let’s try it again. Now I know what it’s all about.”

  “All right. Get ready.”

  The result of the second contest was little different. Celeste barely had hold of her pistol before she felt the iron barrel of Vicaro’s gun against her stomach.

  “You had better forget about drawing a weapon to fight. Learn to shoot more accurately than your enemies. That’s all an honest man, or woman, needs.”

  “At least show me how the draw is done correctly.”

  “The movement is simple. I’ll do it extra slow. First catch hold of the butt, wrap your smaller fingers around it. Start lifting it up. Your first finger goes in through the trigger guard. Your thumb begins to cock the hammer while the gun is in about this position. Here the gun is level, just forward and above the holster, finger on the trigger and gun fully cocked.

  “You can shoot from this position, but accuracy will be poor. So shove the gun out toward the target. Aim it better as it moves out. Fire here, while there’s still a little bend in the elbow. Now try to do it exactly the same way. Do it slowly.”

  Two hours later Vicaro nodded. “That’s getting close to the right way to draw a pistol. Speed will come much later, if ever.”

  “What do I do next?”

  “Practice every day for about ten years. Draw the gun while on horseback, sitting down, falling left and right. In the darkness, bright sunlight, in the rain. There’s no end to practice, but you should give up the idea of starting a fight with the pistol in your holster. Have it in your hand when danger threatens. Use all your time practicing to hit a target, but do the practicing from all the positions I just mentioned. Few fights are done as duels, most occur suddenly when least expected.”

  Vicaro saw the determined cast to the young woman’s countenance. What a dreadful shame it would be for one so beautiful to die with a bullet through her heart. But fate would take her where it willed and there was absolutely nothing Vicaro could do to alter that. He could only prepare her as best he could.

  “Ammunition will cost many dollars. Even if you get very good, there will always be somebody who is better. And there are accidents. One of your loaded chambers may not fire, yet those in your enemy’s pistol will.”

  “I’m going to learn, Vicaro. I must, so please understand and help me.”

  “I will stay here at th
e rancho and teach you all that I know. But only you can develop the skill to be an expert pistolero. Practice ten thousand times, a hundred thousand times, until callouses grow thick, the gun is a feather in your hand, and the barrel finds the target like a magnet is drawn to iron.”

  “I will learn—you’ll see.”

  Vicaro replaced the caps on the nipples of Celeste’s pistol. He handed the weapon back. She was brave enough to be a fighter. Still he had grave doubts that she would ever be fast and accurate enough to kill such a man as Dokken.

  “When you can shoot the swift dove from the air, then we shall know that you are becoming one with your pistol. You must, if you are to live and your enemy dies.”

  Chapter 7

  Levi Coffin awoke with the southern Ohio moon casting pale silver rays down through the big oak tree above his head. He arose at once and rolled his blanket. Without eating, he saddled his horse and led it out from the woods to the dirt road he had followed the day before. He climbed astride and rode through the predawn darkness of the forested hill country.

  He had fought the Rebels at Boatswains Swamp nine days before, and had traveled steadily northwest ever since. The evening just past, he had crossed the Ohio River on a ferry boat at a village named Portsmouth. Darkness had caught him shortly thereafter and he made a fireless camp beside the road.

  The passage of time since the battle should have lessened the awful memories he had of the screaming Confederate soldiers charging at him across the water filled swamp and the shooting and killing he had done to stop them. But the horror was not diminished. He shuddered as scenes of the battle with men falling flashed before his eyes. He saw them as if looking over the iron sights of his Spencer rifle. When would he be allowed to sleep without nightmares or spend a day without recalling the slaughter?

  He felt the bullet wound on his forehead, running his finger along the slight concavity in the flesh. The wound had healed quickly and cleanly, as injuries most often did on young, healthy animals. The scab had peeled away the day before and, unknown to Levi since he had no mirror, had left a bright pink scar on the dark tan of his face. He did not need a permanent reminder of Boatswains Swamp, but he had one.

  He focused his attention on the way ahead. The dawn was breaking and he could see along the rutted dirt road for nearly half a mile. The forest of oak, poplar, chestnut, and other trees crowded close on both sides. In this early hour of the day, he journeyed alone.

  Levi rode slumped in the saddle and let the horse set its own pace. Overhead the fiery orb of the July sun climbed above the horizon and inexorably mounted its high sky path. He felt the heat through his shirt and trousers, civilian clothes of homespun cotton for he had discarded the Confederate military uniform days before.

  He entered a dense woods and was glad for the shade. He almost grabbed for his rifle when a flock of crows exploded up in a mass from a big gum tree. The black gang drove off cawing to each other. A squirrel on the limb of an oak extending out over the road chattered angrily complaining at Levi’s passing. He rode on, the squirrel scampering back along the limb and watching with alert brown eyes from the far side of the trunk of the oak.

  A buggy drawn by a single horse came into view. A man drove and a woman sat on the spring seat beside him.

  The man and woman warily watched Levi approach. The man lifted the rifle that stood between his legs and held it in his hands.

  Levi nodded at the couple. He understood the cause for the man’s caution. With so many men gone from their homes and far away in the army of the north or south, outlaws and renegade bands of deserters roamed the countryside raiding and killing.

  Shortly the dirt road joined with a much used highway and he began to meet many travelers. A stagecoach pulled by six trotting horses passed him with a jolting rattle. He overtook a drove of hogs being driven along the road by a man and boy. Going to market, Levi figured.

  The forest gave way to farms, cleared areas of various sizes with houses and barns and fields. As he continued on westward the size of the farms and the houses became larger, showing obvious prosperity. He knew Cincinnati could not be far away. His excitement mounted.

  * * *

  Levi rode his horse into the dark woods along the creek, dismounted and tied it. The animal would be well hidden until he returned. He moved off among the trees. The sky was heavily overcast and the night dark, yet that slowed him not at all. He could have found his way blindfolded from here to his destination.

  He reached the edge of the woods and looked across the wide hayfield to the two-story farmhouse. Though he could see only the lighted window in the side of the house where the kitchen was located, in his mind’s eye he could see every detail of the house.

  As he drew near the border of the field, a light appeared in the living room of the house. That told him the family routine was proceeding as usual. He let himself through the iron gate set in the fence that kept the cows out of the yard and the garden.

  Quietly he crept to the kitchen window, half open to let in the cool evening breeze. His mother was moving back and forth between the table and sink clearing away the dishes of the evening meal. The delightful aroma of vegetable soup and cornbread and cinnamon apple pie reached him and his empty stomach growled.

  He studied the loved face of his mother as the lamplight illuminated it at varying angles when she turned about. She had a lovely open face with blue eyes, and skin tanned from tending her garden in the sun. Her long brown hair was done up in a tight bun at the back of her head, as it was every day except Sunday, so it would not get in her way as she worked at her many tasks. She was beautiful. He recognized that as a son and a man. No wonder his father had chosen her as his wife.

  However the most-loved thing about her was her understanding. He knew he could walk in through the screen door and she would welcome him with all her heart, even though he might be a killer and an army deserter.

  He leaned his cheek against the glass windowpane. Oh, how he wanted to speak to her, to take her in his arms and hug her to him one last time. For just a moment the smoothness of the glass felt like the cool smooth skin of her hand that he remembered so well.

  She was turning in his direction with a questioning expression on her face. Did she sense his presence? Levi pulled hastily back out of the light. She must not know he was here. “Goodbye, mom,” he whispered.

  Levi stole along the side of the house and stopped at the window of the living room. His brother and sister were lying side by side on the floor and discussing something in an open catalogue. His father, a broad man with a rugged face, sat in a chair reading a newspaper. He kept up with the news and would know about the battle in Virginia. He could never know how terrible the fighting and dying had been. Should Levi tell him about his hatred for killing, he would understand. But he would not agree that Levi had the right to run away from the fight and desert the army.

  Levi could never return home and face his father for the shame would be too great. He was now an outcast. Better that it be thought that he had been killed in the war and his body never found. He looked up at the second floor and the window of the bedroom where he had slept nearly every night of his life. He would never again hear the rain rattling against the glass, or the cold winter wind whistling around the eave trough while he lay snug and warm under the quilts made by his mother’s hands.

  He turned and ran across the yard.

  * * *

  Levi followed the railroad tracks that ran through the center of Cincinnati. The people on the street looked at the gaunt young man on the black horse. When they saw the fresh scar upon his forehead, their expression softened. Sometimes they spoke a greeting to him. Levi, not understanding the cause of the friendliness, was surprised at the townsfolk’s actions.

  He reached the railroad station, a long, yellow building close to the tracks, and entered. The agent, a stoop-shouldered old man, was seated at a desk and listening to a chattering telegraph key. He wrote swiftly on a piece of paper. When the
key stopped its coded talking, he tapped it a few coded signals of his own. He turned.

  Levi noted the same quick appraisal of his face that others had given him. Then the railroad agent smiled good-naturedly. “What can I do for you, young fellow?” he asked.

  “The railroad goes all the way to St. Joe on the Missouri, isn’t that so?” Levi questioned.

  “Yep. With a lot of stops in between here and there. You want to go that far, do you?”

  “Yes, and take my horse. That’s if I have enough money,” Levi said. He had found three twenty-dollar gold pieces in the breast pocket of the lieutenant’s jacket. Those coins taken together with what he had found on the private and his own funds now gave him nearly one hundred and thirty dollars.

  The agent checked his rate book for a moment and then informed Levi of the cost of a ticket and transportation for the horse. He added, “You’ve got to supply your own horse feed and water.”

  “When is the train due to leave?”

  “Six o’clock this evening, give or take a few hours. The war has made the schedule of all trains a matter of waiting for it to get here.”

  “I’ll take a ticket for me and my horse.”

  “All right. Going west there’s almost always plenty of room. Going east the military takes up nearly all the passenger cars as well as the box and flatbed cars.”

  Levi counted out the required money and took his ticket. “Where can I get a good meal at a cheap price?”

  “Two blocks west along the street and on the right, a place called Marvin’s,” replied the agent. He looked up at Levi’s head. He seemed on the verge of saying something.

  “Thanks,” Levi said quickly before the man could speak. He pivoted and hastened with a quick step from the station. He wanted no questions from the railroad agent.

  Levi ate a large meal, the first decent food he’d had in days. Then feeling somewhat more at peace with himself, he went shopping and bought a second pair of trousers and another shirt. He examined the healed wound on his forehead in the mirror in the clothing store. He was surprised at the vivid color of the new flesh. To hide the scar, he purchased a hat, a wide- brimmed, flat-crowned one of a gray color.