A Hundred Miles to Water

by Mike Kearby

  Six shots.

  Impacted flesh and bone.

  A thousand screams.

  You’re Empty.

  Pure dropped one knee to the ground and methodical-like, flipped open the Colt’s ejector gate. Sulfurous gun smoke, pale against the night, drifted head-high. He blinked his eyes rapidly to dispel the plume. The coppery smell assaulted his nostrils. He tried to swallow, but his mouth was a desert, parched by the hot vapors churning from the Colt’s barrel. The swallow hung in his throat. Panic arose inside him. He pushed the Snapping and Stretching gum back in his jaw and began to chew nervously, desperate for moisture. The swallow slid away. He took a steadying breath and one-by-one dropped the reload cartridges into the Peacemaker. His eyes darted east to west in the darkness, waiting for an arrow or bullet to find him.

  To the north, a single shot exploded in the night.

  He recognized the reverberation.

  Pure swiveled in the shot’s direction and then quickly turned his attention back to the Kickapoo camp.

  Another shot followed.

  He exhaled through thin lips.

  A deep hush settled across the Mexico landscape.

  It’s done.

  Pure snapped the ejector gate shut and slowly regained his feet.

  He walked among the dead, locating them with the toe of his boot, and kicking them roughly just to confirm what he already knew.

  One.

  Two.

  Three.

  “Four . . .” he muttered aloud. It went just like he thought. He moved toward the Kickapoo stringer and untied a tall mount which displayed a U.S. cavalry brand.

  The Kickapoo had sent three warriors to retrieve their fallen. Four warriors had stayed back with a sliver of a fire for the tejanos to see. The assassins wanted to make the tejano intruders feel comfortable knowing that the Kickapoo were in their camp and that no attack would come on this dark December night. Meanwhile two warriors had circled to the north. These two were sent to ambush the trespassers from across the border.

  What the Kickapoo didn’t know was that the tejanos had also planned for a killing night. July had propped the bodies of two dead Kickapoo back-to-back against one another and then started a sliver of a fire beside the two. A small fire that carried just enough light for a pistoleer like July to make two kills from behind a clump of prickly pear without much effort at all.

  Journal Entry - The morning after the run-in with the Kickapoo, Pure and I searched each dead warrior’s body. And no matter how exciting and adventurous killing may sound two decades after the fact, being among men you have vanquished in battle is never arousing or daring. In my experience, death is always grisly and inglorious. And even though I did more than a man’s share of killing, I never took pleasure or satisfaction in it. Never. Truth be told, I always felt like a little bit of me died with each man I killed. It chills my spine even today to talk about killing, no matter how necessary. And I came to know that the more a man killed, the easier it got to pull that trigger. The act becomes one more daily chore, like watering a horse or roping a beeve. But, it changes a man. It changed Pure. And it changed me, too. Looking back, I guess it wasn’t a good change for either of us. In hindsight, I guess that’s why the Creator bestowed the human animal with a conscience. Some use that conscience to correct past mistakes while others use that conscience to make excuses for past actions. And if you live long enough, sometimes that conscience is just an old man talking . . .

  Anyway, that morning, we found gold coin in each of those Kickapoo’s medicine bags. And one of the bags also held something very interesting—a hand-drawn map with two Xs. One X showed the location where we were ambushed, and the other X showed the town of Guerrero.

  I know in today’s world that wouldn’t prove a thing, but in Pure’s and my world…back then…that was proof enough. E.B. had paid those fellas to take our lives—and Pure reckoned they wouldn’t be the only owl hoots in Mexico carrying around gold coin in exchange for our heads.

  Thirty-One

  December 1878 - Nuevo Laredo, Tamaulipas, Mexico

  E.B. stared at the thin copper-skinned man with his back pushed against the trunk of a squat mesquite tree. The man held a fist-sized red onion in his left hand. The onion was missing a large chunk of its flesh.

  The man stared back, but on the face of it held little interest in E.B. or Nate.

  E.B. noticed that the onion was straight out of the ground as it still held a fair amount of dirt on its outer shell. The man chewed contentedly on the vegetable, unfazed by either E.B.’s or Nate’s presence. Five other men dressed in serapes and wide-brimmed sombreros lounged near-by.

  E.B. glanced down the left side of the man’s well-worn shirt.

  The man followed E.B.’s gaze.

  A polished Texas Ranger badge drooped from where a pocket once resided on the shirt.

  E.B. raised his eyes. “You go as the law around here?”

  The man lifted the index finger of his right hand to indicate he needed a minute and then continued chewing.

  E.B. inhaled deeply to express his impatience.

  The man grinned and then motioned the onion toward E.B., before swallowing the piece in his mouth.

  E.B.’s neck flushed a deep red.

  The man shrugged and took another bite. “Keeps you from airin’ the caboose,” he said. His smile widened and exposed a mouth full of brown teeth.

  “I asked you a question,” E.B. pressed again.

  The man straightened and scratched his nose. “Nah, I ain’t the law-doer ’round here, that’s for sure.”

  E.B. arched his right eyebrow. “What about the badge?”

  The man glanced down and lifted the sagging tin star with his thumb and index finger. “I got this off a dead fella across the border last year.”

  “What kinda dead fella?”

  “A Ranger, I suppose. He was wearing this badge anyways.”

  “So where can I find the law here?”

  The man leaned back against the mesquite and chuckled quietly to himself.

  E.B.’s face reddened more. “Did I say something funny?”

  Nate glanced around the street and tossed a quick look at each of the five men. They seemed uninterested in the conversation between E.B. and the man with the badge. Siesta, he thought.

  The man lifted his right boot and secured it squarely on the tree. “Yeah, I guess you did, friend.”

  E.B. frowned and bulled forward two steps.

  With cat-like quickness, the five lounging men sprang to life and drew double-pistols from under their serapes.

  “Careful, friend,” the man said.

  E.B. stopped and took a shallow breath.

  Nate raised his hands, palms out, and smiled. “Easy everybody…easy.”

  “Now, friend, why on earth are you going on such about the law?” the man asked.

  E.B. exhaled with a smile. “Nothing concerning,” he said. “I just like knowing where the law hides out whenever I come into an unfamiliar place.”

  “Old habit?”

  “Suppose so.”

  “Sometimes old habits can git a man into trouble.”

  “Suppose they can,” E.B. replied and shrugged.

  The man raised his brow and widened his eyes. “Sometimes old habits can even git a man killed dead.”

  “I suppose that’s true enough, friend.”

  The man took another bite of onion and chewed sloppily. “Curiosity can do the same thing to a fella.”

  E.B. smiled. “Well, I’ve never had a tendency toward that disposition.”

  The man twisted his mouth around the word. “Dispo…sis…shun. What’s that?” he asked.

  “Disposition, you know, inclined to being a curious sort.”

  The man nodded and dug a finger inside his lower lip. After a fair amount of exploring, he withdrew the finger and studied the fingertip intently. A sliver of onion skin rested on the nail. “Probably a good way to be,” he said and then stuck the finger back i
n his mouth.

  E.B. kept his smile and tolerated the man’s display.

  The man sucked on the end of his finger and nodded to himself. After re-chewing the onion skin, he swallowed, and wiped his finger across the front of his trousers. When he finished, he studied the cleaned finger and then looked back up at E.B. and Nate. “So you boys are looking for the law around here?”

  “No, we were just wondering if there was law around here.”

  “Hmmm,” the man said. “What’s the difference?”

  E.B. scratched the back of his neck in a deliberate fashion. “Maybe none,” he said.

  “Hmmm,” the man said again.

  E.B. watched the man closely.

  “Are you an outlaw?” the man asked in false concern. He looked around at his companions.

  E.B.’s smile widened and seemed to fill his entire face.

  “’Cause we don’t see many outlaws down this way.”

  A chorus of subdued laughter broke out among the man’s friends.

  E.B. narrowed his eyes. He chuckled to himself. “No, I’m just an old man come to make a fresh start in Mexico.”

  The man looked at his consorts and motioned with his thumb at E.B. “He’s just an old man come to make a fresh start in Mexico,” he laughed.

  The men nodded with broad grins.

  The man turned his attention back to E.B. “Those are some nice spurs strapped to your heels.”

  E.B. glanced down at his boots and then back to the man. “I suppose they are.”

  “You kill someone?” asked the man.

  “Not today.”

  The man laughed aloud. “Someone riding after you?”

  E.B. looked back toward the border. “Could be.”

  “Are you afraid to fight, old man come to make a fresh start in Mexico?”

  E.B. ignored the question. “I was hoping to maybe find some men?”

  The man rolled his eyes. “There’s men down here in Mexico, that’s a fact.”

  “Maybe six or so.”

  The man started a headcount on his consorts. He flashed a finger toward each and with a gush of exaggeration mouthed, one, two, three, four, five . . .

  “Men who might slow down the men who might be following me.”

  The man pushed his counting finger into his own chest. “Six,” he said.

  E.B. forced himself to smile pleasantly at the man’s game.

  The man feigned seriousness. “You want to hire these, maybe six or so, men?”

  E.B. nodded. “Just ’til I can make ready for the men who might be following me and my boy.”

  “I could go around and see if there are any men here who might do that for you.”

  E.B. grinned. “I’d be much obliged to you.”

  “Anything for a friend, friend.”

  E.B. glanced back at Nate.

  Nate lifted his shoulders up, confused by the banter between E.B. and the man.

  The man scratched the side of his head and yawned. “And the men you hire, what is it you want them to do…exactly…to these men who might be following you?”

  E.B. returned his gaze to the man. “Stall them.”

  “Stall them?”

  “Yep.”

  “That’s it?”

  “Maybe bust them up a bit”

  “Stall them and bust them up a bit.”

  “Yep.”

  “How many are there…of these men who might be following you?”

  “Two.” E.B. said.

  “Two?”

  “Two.”

  The man wrinkled his forehead. “Two men?”

  “Yep.”

  “These two men who might be following you must be some buckaroos.”

  “They might have killed a bunch of Kickapoo just this side of the Bravo two days ago.”

  The man leaned in close to E.B. “Do tell,” he said.

  “Not much to tell, really. These men who might be following me might have killed twelve Kickapoo, that’s all.”

  The man looked down and then suddenly tossed the onion at E.B.

  E.B. instinctively caught the vegetable with one hand, while the other hand pulled his pistol.

  The man frowned briefly, nodded, and then smiled. Knowing.

  E.B. rolled his hand over and dropped the onion to the ground in front of the man.

  “You hire these Kickapoo who might have been killed?” the man asked.

  “Might have.”

  The man looked at E.B.’s Colt. “You gonna put that away?”

  E.B. shrugged and holstered the pistol. “You think you can find me some men?”

  The man lifted a hand to his face, thinking. He tapped his index finger slowly against his cheek. “These men, who might be following you, and this job, both sound dangerous.”

  “Could be,” said E.B. “Seems most jobs are these days.”

  The man inhaled. “It’s the times,” he said and grinned.

  “Probably so.”

  “How do you know these men will come through Nuevo Laredo?” the man asked.

  “You let me worry about that. You worry about them after they ride through Nuevo Laredo.”

  The man flashed a snarl. “Riding to where?”

  “Guerrero.”

  The man tightened his lips and shook his head. “I don’t know,” he said with some reservation.

  “The job pays fifty in gold coin.”

  “Fifty?”

  “Yep.”

  “In gold coin?”

  “Per man.”

  “Per man, you say?”

  “I do.”

  “Hmmm.”

  “Half now…the other half when you’ve completed the job.”

  The man’s expression turned to distrust. “And how will we find you afterward?”

  “I’ll be around.”

  “Mexico is a big place, friend.”

  E.B. exposed a wide grin. “I’ll draw you a map,” he said.

  The man stepped forward and picked up the onion. He rubbed the vegetable against his dirty shirt and took a bite. “You must be one of those wealthy U.S. fellas.”

  “No, just an old man come to make a fresh start in Mexico.”

  The man lifted his chin and howled in laughter.

  The five moved closer to the man eating the onion. Each exposed a wide smile while they holstered their pistols.

  “Well?” E.B. asked.

  The man chewed the onion with a wide-opened mouth. Spittle and pieces of the vegetable flew toward E.B. “Sure, but to tell you the truth old man come to make a fresh start in Mexico, the boys and me, hell, we probably would have taken the job for fifty for the lot of us.”

  Thirty-Two

  December 1878 - Nuevo Laredo, Tamaulipas, Mexico

  Pure and July rode into Nuevo Laredo on Christmas day. The stench of black powder, explosive residue from the previous night’s celebration, drifted in the air and hung-over citizens languished in various stages of repose around the dirt square.

  Pure studied the drunks with a keen eye. “E.B. sure wanted us to ride this way,” he said. “Wonder why?”

  “Can’t say, but the map certainly made it easy,” July answered. His eyes darted around the street counting the sleeping men. “Or convenient.”

  Pure’s head swiveled from left to right. “Must have been quite a party.”

  “These sheep raising types always seem to imbibe,” July said. “That’s a fact.”

  “What have you got against sheep?” Pure asked. He rolled the Snapping and Stretching gum in his mouth.

  July swiveled and scanned the street behind them. “They’re nasty animals,” he said.

  A low chuckle rolled in Pure’s chest. “You remember what C.A. always said about sheep?”

  July frowned. His brow tightened. “Can’t rightly say that I do.”

  Pure lifted the reins with his left hand. His right hand naturally lingered above his Colt. “Whoa,” he said softly. His eyes locked on a figure sitting on a bench outside of a mud-bricke
d hut. The man’s sombrero was pulled down low on his forehead and hid his face. A full bottle of a yellow-colored liquid rested beside him.

  July followed Pure’s lead and pulled back on his left rein. “Whoa, horse,” he said.

  Pure tilted his head to the right and tried to see the sitting man’s face.

  July waited patiently for several seconds and then asked, “Are you gonna tell me what C.A. said about sheep?”

  Pure lifted his head and frowned. He pointed at the man in front of the hut and then glanced over at July. “What’s that fella doing?”

  “Where?”

  “Over there.”

  July glanced toward the man. “From here, it looks like he’s eating something.”

  Pure glanced back over his shoulder. He studied their trail. “Something about this square gives me the shakes.”

  July shook his head and muttered, “Something about being out of the U.S. gives me the shakes.”

  Pure turned back at the man in front of the hut. “Something ain’t right with that fella.”

  July squinted at the man and then looked at Pure. “I think he’s eating a date palm or maybe an apple.”

  Pure fidgeted in the saddle. His hand gripped the Peacemaker’s handle. The Snapping and Stretching gum bounced between his front teeth.

  July followed Pure’s hand movement. The Reston boss’s hand nervously clutched and then relaxed on his pistol grip. “Now you’re making me nervous,” he said.

  “He said they were creatures come into the world just looking for a place to die.”

  “Huh?”

  “Sheep.”

  July dropped his chin and stared at Pure. “What?”

  Pure fixed his gaze on the bottle next to the sitting man. “It’s what C.A. said about sheep.”

  “We back to that, now?”

  “Well, you were asking.”

  “That was a while back, before this fella with the apple got the hair on your neck standing at attention.”

  “He said a sheep was a creature come into the world just looking for a place to die.”

  July relaxed and thought for a few seconds. “I guess that sounds just like C.A.,” he said.