Diehard

by Tony Masero

  And then he thought of his friend, the stalwart Nosey and how he had loyally stood up for him only to be shot down. Surely there was a rightful judgment to be found for that.

  The questions raced through Diehard’s mind as he sat on the bunk bed in the cell and waited.

  Keys rattled in the lock and the door swung open and the guard sergeant carrying a lantern led the way in followed by a ruffled and hatless officer.

  The sergeant laid a stool on the floor and the officer, a captain, seated himself before Diehard’s bunk. He looked tired, his face unshaven and fair hair spiking up from his head in disarray.

  ‘Damn you for getting me out of bed,’ grumbled the captain, his fingers fumbling as he fastened his tunic buttons. ‘I’m Captain Benson, temporarily in command here, and you are?’

  ‘Says his name is Diehard Charlie Wexford,’ butted in the sergeant.

  ‘Very well, sergeant, I guess he can speak for himself. Has the prisoner had water?’ he turned to Diehard. ‘You need anything? Trip to the outhouse, or anything?’

  Diehard shook his head negatively, ‘I’m fine.’

  ‘He has all he needs,’ the sergeant supplied. ‘There’s a bucket in the corner, the call arises.’

  ‘Good enough. Now then, Mister Wexford, you want to tell me your end of this?’

  Diehard drew a deep breath and related his story from his first capture of the ponies, the cruel robbery and through his recovery with Aileen and his trip following after the two thieves Carter and Betterman up until their shoot out at the corral.

  Benson pouted and played with a West Point college ring on his finger, rotating it around throughout the tale, interrupting only for clarification on a few points.

  ‘I’ll tell you,’ Benson said when Diehard had finished. ‘The man Carter is sorely wounded, quite likely he will find speech difficult, nigh impossible in the future as he’s missing half his tongue. His left arm is shattered above the elbow and he has lost a lot of blood, so the surgeon tells me. As it is, we have only your side of things at present. You are here for the races, Mister Wexford?’

  ‘Seems I’m due to run in the Sweepstake tomorrow with one of my horses.’

  ‘Ah, yes. The white mare you spoke of.’

  ‘That’s right, Wind Horse.’

  Benson raised his eyebrows, ‘Fine name. Well, sir, I must say I am quite unsure of how to handle this. You claim that these two men are horse thieves and killers. Serious accusations and even if proven it allows no private cause for acts of retaliatory vengeance outside of due process. The authorities even in this lawless and wild area of the Frontier frown upon such vigilante actions. But, I have to say I am more interested in your story about the renegade Apache, Ellio Angelino. You say the savage is slain by your hand?’

  ‘That’s true, Captain. Him and another Indian, one of his favored followers, I believe. The rest of the band must be somewhere close to hand as they will not be far away from their leader.’

  ‘You have proof of this?’

  ‘I have a witness, Miss Lilly Toussaint whom I brought with me across the salt plain when the Indians destroyed the stage she was travelling on. She participated in the whole damned business.’

  ‘She is here in town?’

  ‘She is, I don’t know quite where as we parted company on arrival.’

  ‘Very well.’ The captain turned to his sergeant. ‘Can you see if you can find the woman and verify Mister Wexford’s statement? If it all bears out, have a galloper sent to inform the colonel, he’ll want to make speedy headway now we know the position of the war band.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ the sergeant said, snapping to attention and offering a salute before spinning on his heel and leaving the cell.

  ‘Have to admit, Mister Wexford,’ said the captain, leaning forward confidentially once the sergeant had left. ‘If you have brought down Angelino, it is a very great thing. A heroic act, in fact. We have been out searching for that particular renegade for a long time now. My own colonel and a troop of ours are on the hunt for him as we speak. Further to that, I have to say my leanings are towards belief in your version of events; it has a certain ring of truth about it. Can I have your word you will not leave town until we can get some verification? If I have it, I believe we can trust you an element of freedom, at least until your race is run tomorrow, or….’ He looked out of the barred window at the lightening sky. ‘Or today, I should say.’

  Diehard’s eyes followed his gaze, ‘You have it, sir. On my honor.’

  ‘I see you are a Catholic believer by the beads at your neck. You swear on this you will not run off?’

  ‘I do so,’ said Diehard, holding up the cross between forefinger and thumb. ‘On Our Lord and the Holy Virgin.’

  ‘Fair enough,’ said the captain, slapping both hands decisively on his thighs and getting up from the stool. ‘Well, the door is open to you, Mister Wexford. Best put on your spurs and make for the stables.’

  He held out his hand, ‘May I wish you the best of luck in the race. Have to say you are a very determined young man and if you ever think of a career in the army I’m sure you will do well.’

  ‘Not just now, Captain but thanks all the same.’

  The streets beyond the fort were uncannily quiet as Diehard was shown out from the fort. After the noise and excitement of the previous day it was still too early for folks to be about and Diehard made his way towards the stable through deserted streets occupied by only the litter of the past nights festivities.

  The sign promoting the Sweepstake hung limp in the windless air over Main Street and Diehard felt a pang of nervousness run through him as he glanced up at it.

  Could he make a show of it, he wondered. He was no professional jockey and riding an untrained horse against some of the best in the country, what were his chances realistically? But then he shrugged off such thoughts. Hellfire! He determined just to enjoy the ride whatever happened.

  Chance Hopkins was already waiting for him when he arrived at the stable yard where he had left the mules and mare.

  ‘You been here all night?’ asked Diehard with a glance towards the horizon where the new day’s dawn light reached down the street towards them.

  Chance nodded, ‘Heard about your run-in. Seeing as your animal wasn’t up with the others at the race corral I thought somebody better watch over the critter, people get strange ideas in their heads at such times.’

  ‘Thanks, Chance,’ said Diehard as they stepped inside the open doors of the stables. ‘You wouldn’t have had a word with a certain soldier boy on my behalf as well, would you?’

  Chance smiled slightly, ‘Turns out Captain Benson is a keen race goer too. He asks me for advice now and again, Lord knows why, what do I know? Still, I happened to suggest a certain outsider that might be worth watching.’

  ‘You got an awful lot of faith in me, Chance.’

  ‘I believe you’ll do well.’

  They arrived at the Wind Horse stall and Diehard reached up and stroked the animal’s forehead affectionately.

  ‘There you are, pretty one,’ he said softly. ‘I guess we’re going to have to get you looking your best. Big day today and you’ve gotta shine.’

  ‘Wow!’ breathed Chance, admiring Wind Horse as Diehard led her out of the stall. ‘What an animal.’

  ‘Ain’t she though?’

  ‘There’s usually an old timer who minds this place, Diehard. He’s sleeping out back but I arranged with him so you can do what you have to do tidying up the Wind Horse. Saddle and bridle, combs, brushes and anything else you need, it’s there for you.’

  ‘I’ll take her out for a walk around, get her used to things.’

  ‘Okay, that’s wise. Come race time, it’ll all be new to her so don’t worry if she’s not first away, she’s got it in her to come from the back I’m damned sure. And watch out for those other riders they ain’t against a little foul play with the whip and some balking along the way you ain’t careful.’

  Diehard nodded
, ‘I’ll watch it.’

  ‘And keep in mind the markers along the track, quarter and half mile. It’s hard when you’re in a pack to keep the distance clear.’

  Diehard grinned at his concern, ‘Don’t worry so, Chance. It’ll be fine.’

  Chance shook his head, dismayed at his own worrying, ‘Sure you will, sorry. I’ll get out of your hair and leave you to it. Breakfast time anyhow.’

  Diehard spread a blanket on Wind Horse’ back and saddled up, all the while talking softly to the animal who twisted its head and watched him with interest.

  People were starting to become evident on the streets as Diehard rode out of the stables and headed for the open ground beyond the town. He walked Wind Horse slowly, feeling the latent energy of the beast under his legs, she was ready to run and in fact eager to go. Slowly he advanced to a trot allowing the animal’s limbs to relax and warm up.

  They were a mile outside of town on the open prairie when he let her run.

  Diehard spent the rest of the morning attending to Wind Horse and working on her with the curry comb helped settle the butterflies rising in his stomach. He worked the brush in a circular motion lifting the grit and dust they had picked up on their early ride and all the while containing the anticipation that was making its mark by the dryness in his throat.

  They could both hear the noise of the crowd growing outside. The steadily increasing rumble as race goers made it to the streets and moved to pick out a good vantage point alongside the track.

  Body-brushing the horse and rubbing with a rag, Diehard felt her quiver in pleasure as he brought a sleek shine to the hair on her back. Finally he checked her hoofs with a pick, making sure she was clear of any manure or small rocks.

  Stepping back, Diehard studied his work, Wind Horse shone as bright and white as newly fallen snow, ‘Goddamn it, sweet thing but you sure do look fine.’

  Wind Horse whickered as if in agreement.

  There was the sound of a bugle call from outside.

  ‘Time to go, I guess,’ said Diehard.

  Making their way to the start line, Diehard and the Wind Horse were surrounded by curious folk, hands reached out to touch the horse and questions as to her line were thrown at the cowboy. Diehard studiously ignored them all as they bow-waved their way through the mass of excited people. He spoke quietly, in a soft monotone keeping Wind Horse attentive to his voice and attempting to calm her.

  The track spread before the racers, who fretted at the start line. All the favored ponies were there, the five listed favorites and a few outsiders who fancied their chances. Most of the better horses were ready to go and agitated by the prospect, their riders using all their strength to hold them in check as they whirled and reared.

  Standing on a chair alongside the start line, balanced a portly, red-faced man in a dress coat with a large colored paper rosette in the lapel and a top hat on his balding head. He lifted and consulted a gold watch from his vest pocket and tugged out a small revolver.

  ‘Riders take your place!’ he bellowed imperiously.

  Slowly and with difficulty the riders gathered their anxious rides in a rough line, some of the more ferocious animals snapping at those alongside.

  Diehard found himself wedged in beside the black body of the stallion Eclipse and a pinto called Ruthless. The two horses pressed their ribs in against his legs and Eclipse’s rider, a small leathery jockey in green and white silks, leaned over towards Diehard with a slow smile spreading across his face.

  ‘Sure looks fine,’ he said, indicating the Wind Horse with his whip. ‘But I don’t reckon she has the wherewithal to go the distance.’

  ‘Remains to be seen,’ Diehard came back.

  ‘With a narrow chest like that she’ll be blown at the first quarter,’ the jockey advised with a sneer.

  ‘Hope you like looking up a horse’s ass, mister. ‘Cos that’s all you’ll be seeing.’

  The jockey sniggered and then was distracted as Eclipse lurched forward, stepping over the start-line of rope lying in the dust and he had to contain the eager animal and drag her back into position.

  ‘That’s alright, partner. You’ll need an extra yard or two to get you started,’ Diehard ribbed him.

  The jockey gave him a sour look and then faced front with a determined look on his tight face.

  Diehard was pleased to see that the Wind Horse was surprisingly calm and appeared unmoved by the bustle around her. He realized then that most of the other animals were highly strung creatures and had been pampered in fancy stables throughout their lives whereas Wind Horse, whatever her origins, had tasted a rough life in the wild and knew full well what she was capable of.

  ‘Y’all ready?’ called the starter.

  There was a ripple of noise from the crowd lining the track and a sudden hush as the top-hatted man raised the pistol.

  ‘A mile to go, gentlemen. Do your best.’

  With that he loosed off a shot from his pistol and the line of horses surged forward.

  In a rush, Wind Horse leapt away, shooting out between the two riders attempting to hem her in. Diehard heard the urgent calls of riders and the distant roar of the crowd as they pounded down the track. He hung low in the saddle over Wind Horse’s neck and let her join the forward runners.

  The crowd rushed past in a blur and Diehard noted the quarter mile marker quickly vanish behind as they raced on.

  The pounding hoofs and the bellow of riders, the crack of their quirts and the panting of their steeds filled the air. At the half mile post, Wind Horse took the lead, she ran easily, stretching out into a long silken stride and it seemed to Diehard as if she flowed through the air. What a pony! He thought.

  Three quarters of a mile and they were in front of the others by a length.

  Ahead, Diehard could see the finishing line, where hopeful gamblers waved their arms and shouted encouragement. It was a clear run, nothing came close to them and Diehard grinned to himself as the finish line approached. They had it!

  The figure that staggered out into their path from the crowd weaved and bellowed in anger. He limped into their way and desperate folks tried to drag him back from in front of the advancing pack of racing horses but none could hold him.

  Wearing only his long buckskin coat over a bare chest covered with bandages that looped across and over his wounded arm weaved the crazed figure of Aaron Carter. His blasted cheeks were puffed up and discolored, ballooning his face into a ghastly vermilion parody of human features.

  Standing directly in their path, Carter opened his destroyed mouth and screamed incoherently waving an accusing finger at the advancing Diehard. The finger glinted in the sunlight and Diehard suddenly realized it was no finger he pointed, Carter held a pistol in his hand and was aiming it at him and the Wind Horse.

  The gun went off, its noise dimmed by the roar of the crowd and Diehard saw the flash of flame and felt Wind Horse buckle under him, he was thrown forward and as the white mare tumbled to the ground the cowboy was tossed into the air and fell with a resounding thump that rolled him through the dust.

  The wave of racing horses coming up behind skittered and leapt sideways trying to avoid the fallen white mare and rider, they bumped and crashed into each other with a domino effect that felled them in disarray. It was the black stallion Eclipse that came on strongly and leapt across the fallen Wind Horse running on and meeting Carter’s wild figure head-on. The powerful stallion breasted him, slamming into and sending the outlaw spinning sideways in a stumbling turn before running on with barely a pause in its stride.

  Those remaining racing horses coming up behind and fortunate enough to avoid the fallen could not be stopped and they trampled over Carter, burying him under a rain of flashing hoofs that pounded and ripped at his rolling figure. From where he lay, coiled in a protective fetal position, Diehard glanced up in time to see Eclipse cross the line and come in first to win the race.

  The last few runners raced past and Diehard climbed to his feet in the pall of dust
left by their passage, he shook his head to clear his stunned brain then loped over to the still figure of Wind Horse.

  He saw she was dead right away and he fell to his knees beside her, one hand resting sadly on the still warm neck.

  Carter’s bullet had shot straight through her pounding heart and killed the mare instantly.

  Chance was at his side, one hand squeezing Diehard’s shoulder, ‘Damned shame,’ he breathed. ‘She was perfect, had it in her pocket. Best goddamned run I seen in all my days.’

  ‘Where’s that bastard Carter?’ growled Diehard, there were tears running freely down his dust-stained cheeks but he did not notice them.

  ‘He’s over there,’ Chance indicated the ravaged body of the outlaw. A steel shod hoof from one of the racers had planted itself directly on the gunman’s head and cracked the skull open like an eggshell, leaving Carter lying dead in a wet splash of blood and brains.

  Solemnly, Diehard climbed to his feet. He stood silently looking down at the Wind Horse for a long moment before turning and walking away.

  Chapter Fourteen

  It was Aileen that first saw him coming.

  The mule-drawn buckboard plodding slowly up the hill towards the house with two horses tied to the tailgate.

  The breath stopped in her chest and she pressed both clenched fists to her breast as she recognized the driver.

  ‘Pa! Pa!’ she called. ‘It’s Charlie, he’s come home.’

  Running, her russet hair flying, she raced down the hill towards the buckboard.

  She stopped abruptly as she came close enough to study on the figure hunched on the driving seat.

  Diehard looked pale and drawn and his arm was bandaged, he had aged she thought. There were lines of grief and exhaustion written on his dust-coated face and she wondered at the things that must have happened to leave him in such a state.