Adobe Moon

by Mark Warren

  Wyatt nodded to the empty chair. “Charlie know that?”

  The smile widened, but she sat comfortably and said nothing. Wyatt thought about that for a time and then remembered her question.

  “It was my father who was wagon master.”

  “But d’jou are the oldest son?”

  “That’s right . . . for a while anyway.”

  She nodded and looked away, pleased about some point he had apparently missed. The gun in the plaza went off again, and the thunder of hooves was drowned out by cheering.

  “Los norteamericanos,” she said, looking at the bettors, “they love their money.”

  Wyatt turned and hooked an arm over the back of his chair. It was a crude piece of furniture made of rough juniper dowels still covered with the shredding bark.

  “Seems to be a lot of your kind out there, too.”

  Her smile turned crooked, and her eyebrows lowered. “My kind?”

  He saw the error in his choice of word. He doubted there was another person in the village like her. Hers was the kind of face a man remembered in the middle of a night. She seemed as complete and autonomous as an animal running wild in its native land.

  “Don’t Mexicans like to make some money when they can?”

  She dipped her head. “I think they like to lose it more.” Wyatt waited for her to explain, but she just settled her dark gaze on him, as she drank from her cup. Lowering the cup she turned her head to face him directly. “Do d’jou like to gamble?”

  “I might,” he said, “if I had the money for it.”

  She reached toward him for the second time and opened his fingers. Her fingernails raked across the calluses of his palm with a dry scraping sound. When she lifted her cup again with both hands, Wyatt realized that Coplea was standing across from them.

  “She read my fortune, too, Wyatt. Hope yours looks better’n mine. Valenzuela says I’m not to git rich in this lifetime.”

  Wyatt felt the girl’s stare on the side of his face. The tickle in his hand lingered, causing him to close his fingers into a fist. Just then a cup of amber water appeared before him.

  “I already paid for it, Wyatt,” Charlie assured him.

  Wyatt looked up at a smiling Mexican waiter and nodded. Picking up the lukewarm tea he sipped. It tasted like water that had collected in an old boot. Keeping his face expressionless he set down the cup. When the girl smiled at him, he tried again and took it in three swallows to be done with it.

  “I reckon I’ll be going,” Wyatt said, standing. “I’m obliged for the drink, Charlie.” He did not look at the girl until he had pushed his chair to the table. “Señorita.”

  “Valenzuela,” she corrected, holding his look with hers. “Ha sido un placer.”

  Wyatt looked at Coplea, who smiled and shrugged. “I got no idea, Wyatt.” Wyatt nodded and walked to the plaza, feeling the girl’s stare on his back as he entered the crowd.

  The shadows of the buildings had pooled across the esplanade, and men stacked tree limbs and broken crates into piles on the hardpan of the street. Soon two open bonfires blazed, and the band broke into a lively fandango. The space between the fires became a stage for those bold enough to initiate the dancing. All the women dancers were Mexican, but their partners were a mixed bag. Wyatt recognized one, an Anglo freight hauler who drove a route past their land on the way to Yuma. So drunk already that the rhythm of the music eluded him, he nonetheless lifted sluggish boots in a pitiful attempt to match the cursive spins of the dark-haired señorita orbiting wildly around him. When at last he tripped and collapsed into a heap, she simply laughed and kept flashing her skirt, turning with the music. It was like a celebration, the solo performance establishing the completeness of a female in the matter of dance, where a man was tolerated but unnecessary.

  Nicholas stood on the far side of the dance arena, his hands in his overcoat pockets. He stared numbly at the dancers as though he were observing unfamiliar creatures swimming beneath the surface of water. Wyatt’s mother bent behind him, talking to Warren and Adelia. Morg stood a little to one side flipping a length of rope he had picked up somewhere.

  Just then Wyatt felt a hand slip through the crook of his arm. Tensing as the slender arm wrapped into his and clung as tightly as a vine, he turned his head and was startled to see the Mexican girl’s black eyes so close. A sweet scent rose from her—something he had not noticed earlier—like the wild fragrance of a pungent root. Wyatt scanned the faces around him, looking for Coplea, but the man was nowhere to be seen.

  “Stay and see the fireworks with me,” Valenzuela said, her directness now both facile and commanding.

  Wyatt nodded toward the tangle of fire-lit dancers where his mother and father stood. “Reckon I’ll be heading home soon. I came with my family.” When she said nothing, Wyatt kept looking at her, studying the quiet confidence in her eyes. “What about Charlie?”

  She tilted a flat hand over and back in a slow flutter, her gaze fixed on his eyes. “Char-dree es . . . Char-dree.”

  Wyatt turned back to the dancers and laughed to himself. “He ask you to marry him yet?”

  “Of course. All men ask me that.”

  Wyatt turned to appraise her expression. “I ain’t.”

  Valenzuela Cos pursed her lips into a coy smile. “Not yet.”

  He waited to see if she would let the smile spread over her face. She did, though not the way he had expected.

  “Besides, I doubt I’m good marryin’ material,” he said. “I don’t aim to stay around here for too long.”

  “Nor do I,” she replied.

  Two men brought fresh bundles of sticks and tossed them on the fires. When the flames leaped skyward, Wyatt felt the heat press upon his face. The intense light brightened the adobe walls bordering the plaza while prematurely darkening the twilight sky. The girl held to his arm so tightly, he could feel his pulse throb against her fingers like a telegraph he could not shut off.

  “I asked Char-dree to invite d’jou to our table.”

  “I figured it wasn’t Charlie wantin’ to have tea with me.” He watched her confident eyes study his face. It was like being stroked with a soft pelt of fur.

  “D’jou have strong lines in your face,” she said offhandedly and touched the angle of his jaw. “What do d’jou call that color of hair?”

  Wyatt frowned at her question. “I don’t know. Sort o’ yellow, I reckon.” He tried to picture the lightness of his hair next to the black ink of hers. Her darkness was like an energy escaping the boundaries of her body—some primordial ingredient of character possibly unknown to men.

  “Are d’jou afraid of me?”

  A whispery laugh issued from his nose. “I prob’ly oughta be.” He breathed in deeply and exhaled. “Truth is . . . I ain’t real sure what I think about you.”

  “D’jou’ve never been with a girl?”

  He knew what she meant, but he tried to conjure up an answer that might sidestep the query, as if he had misunderstood her meaning. Nothing came to mind.

  “Should I be afraid of you?” he said and stared into the dark wells of her eyes.

  When she neither answered nor looked away, he understood for the first time that there were some women it might be impossible to lie to. It was this kind of woman, he guessed, whom men most feared . . . and desired.

  “Tell d’jour family d’jou are staying for the fireworks,” she whispered.

  They lay wrapped in a coarse blanket on a rise among the barren limbs of a peach orchard. The shower of exploding rockets from the celebration now over, the sky was dazzling, reduced now to its natural ink, pierced with pinpricks of light in infinite number. Wyatt looked at the stars and breathed in the scent of Valenzuela Cos’s hair. He liked the strong texture of it. Like horsehair. And the warmth of her body. It enfolded him in an almost maternal way now, as though she were protecting him from his own thoughts.

  She had been his guide, moving in ever-confident gyrations that spoke of her experience. And his lack of
it. Yet there was no embarrassment. She saw to that. She moved her skillful hands about his body and helped him with gentle cues that made him feel a part of decisions she had already made. Then, with a fierce start, she had tightened her legs and raised her face to the sky, her mouth formed into a rictus, a sound squeezing from deep in her throat. Her desperate breathing had locked in place, and she shuddered the length of her spine, sitting over him like a will o’ the wisp riding bareback in the night air. He had spent himself half a minute before, and she seemed almost to expect it, yet it did not deter her from the place she was going. It had been an otherworldly escape he would have liked to make with her. Which, like everything else, she seemed to know, too.

  She leaned forward, bringing her mouth close to his ear. “Next time,” she whispered, “we will go there together.”

  It was the last thing she said before curling against his side and falling asleep. Wyatt, though, did not know how to sleep with such a person lying next to him. Least of all one so beautiful. He stroked her, unable to get enough of the smoothness of her skin, the curve above her hip, the firm mound of her buttocks. He turned his head toward an amber glow in the east. The moon was in its fourth quarter, rising late. When it showed, it was the color of a dirty gold coin held up to a candle flame. As it rose, its color deepened to ochre and then orange.

  “La luna de adobe,” she murmured and rose up on an elbow, exposing her young breasts to the cool night air. He watched her tuck the blanket around her . . . and then him.

  “What?”

  “We call that ‘the adobe moon.’ ”

  Wyatt frowned and turned to study it. “Why do you call it that?”

  “The color, I think.” She looked back at the richly hued crescent ascending from the far end of the earth. “It is the moon of our people. Other people say the moon is made of gold or diamonds or wishes or this and that. Ours? It is made of what is available to us. Like our homes. We make our homes with mud. It is what we have.”

  “You don’t have any wishes?”

  “We all have wishes. But in the end, we must settle for what we have.”

  They watched the skewed sliver of rust light hover among the stars like a horseshoe hooked over a nail. Behind them, somewhere distant, two coyotes howled and yipped for a time, connecting to one another in the night. The gaping hole of the universe swallowed up the sounds, making this California valley seem small and inconsequential. And the two of them all the more so.

  “I want a sight more than a house of mud,” Wyatt said. “And I aim to get it.”

  “Maybe.”

  He turned around to look at her, his back to the moon now. “I reckon I will.”

  “And if not, you will settle for what you have,” she said, her voice flat with pragmatism. She took in air and let her breath escape as a sigh. “The adobe moon is better than no moon at all.”

  He had nothing to say about that. Lying back, he propped his head on the pillow of his arm. He could not see the desolation of this land as she did. Only its inventory of opportunity. He had felt it on the wagon trail, the burgeoning movement of bettering himself, swept up in the current of enterprise. For him this layover at San Bernardino was just a temporary stall. There was too much out there waiting. Wyatt watched Valenzuela’s face as she came to terms with a moon that somehow held sway over her. He cleared his throat, trying for some pragmatism in his voice.

  “I ain’t got much money with me. What should I be paying you for tonight?”

  Valenzuela Cos gave no answer, save with her hand, which now roved boldly over his body. He felt his manhood stir again, and the reprise of their lovemaking was somehow even sweeter now that he knew more of its secrets.

  This time as she rode him, the sickle moon hovered white next to her face like a piece of jewelry granted her by the heavens for this one occasion. Together they entered that netherworld of pleasure, each feeling the desert around them retreat to the fringes of their circle of passion. When she arched her body and shuddered, Wyatt looked up at her face. Her eyes filled with tears, and the moonlight touched the wetness of her uplifted face, transforming it into streaks of quicksilver.

  CHAPTER 8

  * * *

  Spring, 1866: Earp farm, Santa Ana Valley, California; coach line from San Pedro to Los Angeles; freight-hauling from San Bernardino to Prescott, Arizona Territory

  Wyatt had come out to the barn early to put an edge to the scythe. With that job done, he hung the lantern from a nail and unwrapped the Remington revolver James had passed down to him. Later, after Old Nick had left for town, he planned to engage in some target practice, but for now, with the chambers empty, he stuffed the barrel into his waistband and ran through the repetition of jerking the gun, cocking, and holding steady on a feed sack propped against the workbench.

  When he heard a trotting horse slow to a walk outside, he stopped in mid-draw, straightened, and quieted his breathing. Someone dismounted and walked the horse to the barn. When a man’s silhouette darkened the doorway, Wyatt lowered the gun to hang by his knee.

  “Well, goddamn,” the man said, “look at you.”

  Wyatt slipped the gun back into place against his belly, his eyes never leaving the man’s outline against the morning light. He was more than half sure it was Virgil by the way the man held his head erect—a hint of pride to the jut of his chin—but there was a thickness of hair and body that Wyatt did not recognize. Only when Virgil let go with the rough laugh that scraped up from his chest—like a man starting to cough—could there be no doubt.

  They approached one another and stood close enough that Wyatt could smell the sweat and woodsmoke from his brother’s clothes. Eye to eye they were the same height, the same span of shoulders, their hair the same tawny gold, and for all the distance the war had put between them, each felt this mirrored effect. They clasped hands stiffly, letting muscle convey their fraternal affection. With Virgil’s arrival, Wyatt felt the integration of his family settle into a solid unit—like snapping the breech shut after loading his over-and-under.

  “You’re all right?” Wyatt asked, stepping back to arm’s length.

  “Never got hit once, thank God.”

  “You seen Pa?”

  “Nobody but you so far.” Virgil looked out the door and breathed in and out deeply through his nose. “How’s the climate for prodigal sons?”

  “Ma’ll be glad to see you.” Virgil’s blond hair was touched with copper-red, sun streaked the same way Wyatt’s hair colored in summer. “You here to stay?”

  “Hell, no. I’m here to see you . . . see my brothers.” Virge looked around the barn at the orderly arrangement of tack and tools. The harnesses were soaped and gleaming in the lantern light. Each stall was properly shoveled and hayed. “Still slavin’?”

  Wyatt looked away from the question; now that he had quit schooling, he worked full days. “I figure I owe it . . . for a time anyway.”

  “I’m working for Banning,” Virgil announced. “Stage line b’tween here and Los Angeles. And sometimes down to Prescott.” Virgil saw the change in Wyatt’s eyes. “Might could help get you started as a swamper with Banning.”

  Wyatt turned to the nearest horse and looked into the big dark eyes that stared back at him. “I’ve been thinkin’ on something like that.”

  Virgil laughed. “You’d be good at wrangling. I never knew a cannier judge of horseflesh. Banning says knowin’ your horses gives a man the advantage of never expecting more from an animal than what it’s capable of giving.” Virgil raised his chin at Wyatt. “Hell, that’s you all over.”

  The two brothers studied the row of equine muzzles hooked over the stall gates—two percherons, two draft Morgans, a bay gelding, a chestnut mare, and the Thoroughbred—giving them time until the awkwardness of Virgil’s compliment passed.

  “Still racing the Thoroughbred?” Virgil asked.

  Wyatt crossed his arms over his chest and shook his head. “Locals won’t bet ag’in’ ’im anymore.” He stepped close t
o the racer, and it stretched to blow a pool of warm air on Wyatt’s neck. “Lonely at the top, ain’t it, Salem?” He spoke to the horse no differently than to Virgil.

  With the flat of his hand Virgil slapped the dust off his trousers. “What about Morgan and Warren. They ain’t big as you, are they?”

  “Morg’s getting close.”

  Virgil let his gaze rove over the barn again. “Might be it’s their turn here, Wyatt.”

  Wyatt moved back to the door and stared toward the house. With the growing dawn, the kitchen lamp was now snuffed. Morg and Warren would be finishing up with breakfast, and their mother would be packing ham and biscuit lunches for their day at school. The door to the house opened, and Nicholas stepped out, stopped on the porch, and directed his attention to Virgil’s horse tethered outside the barn. He stuck his pipe into his mouth and puffed aggressively, the smoke seeming to take the shape of his clouded thoughts.

  Wyatt nodded to the porch, and Virgil turned to look out the door. Unseen, they observed their father’s proud posture, stiff and unrelenting like a soldier on sentry duty.

  “Want me to check with Banning?” Virgil said, his voice quiet and contained.

  “Yeah,” said Wyatt, “check with ’im.”

  When Virgil stepped out the door to let himself be seen, Nicholas stood his ground, staring at his son through the tobacco smoke he generated.

  Virgil made a little snort through his nose. “Well . . .” he said to no one in particular and cleared his throat. He walked from the barn in a direct line to the house.

  Wyatt watched his brother’s back, the ease of his carriage. He had been to war, and it showed in his stride, in the glide of his shoulders. Virgil said nothing as he climbed the steps to gain the same level as the old man. Only Nicholas’s head turned to track his newly returned son, the rest of him remaining anchored in place, his bearing imperial. Seeing how his brother stood several inches taller than Nicholas, Wyatt realized for the first time that he himself must tower over his father in a like manner.