by Jory Sherman
“Mighty pretty, ain’t it?”
Anson knew what Peebo meant. He nodded.
“All this has a way of getting to you.”
“It gets inside you,” Anson said.
“I could get to love it.”
“I already do.”
“Makes you want to ride forever and never stop,” Peebo said, and fell silent as if enraptured by the spell. Certain places they passed began to haze over and they rode in silence for a time. Finally, it was Anson who spoke, as if he had suddenly found his tongue.
“Peebo, you reckon we can really catch that white bull?”
“I don’t know. If our ropes hold, I reckon.”
“I really want him bad.”
“How come?”
“Well, I got this idea, I mean I’ve had the idea for quite a spell, and I want to try it out.”
“What’s that, son?”
“I’ve been chasing longhorns for years and pa and I have talked about putting more meat on their skinny bones.”
“Thought you was crossbreeding some of ’em.”
“A few. But, when we fence all this section off, I want to cull out the skinny beeves and put the fat ones together. Try different feeds and grasses.”
“Get bigger, fatter calves, you think.”
“Yes. It ought to work. Juanito talked a lot about breeding cattle when he was alive. He was an Argentinian and they’ve been at it for more years than Texas had flags.”
“So, you’ll try it.”
“That bull might be the one I’ve been looking for, to father a herd of superior longhorns that we could sell with pride anywhere in the world.”
“It’s a big dream.”
“But, I got this feeling a while ago.”
“What feeling?” Peebo asked, as the sun fell deeper into the west and the shadows stretched out ahead of them like wraiths unleashed from dark canyons far to the west.
“Do you know the word doom?” Anson asked.
“Doom? Something like death, I figure.”
“Well, like death, I guess, but the word means something else to me.”
“What does it mean to you, Anson?”
“It’s like something’s going to happen and I don’t know what. Something real bad.”
“Maybe the word means that, too.”
“I feel like something’s hanging over my head and I’m not going to find out what it is until it falls on me.”
“I’ve had feelings like that, too. Is it about thé white bull?”
“Yeah, I think so. But, it’s a lot of other things, too. It’s Ma and my pa and that blind boy, Lazaro. A whole lot of things.”
“You think too damned much.”
“Maybe,” Anson said. “But I feel like doom is dogging my tracks.”
“Best you put old doom out of your mind, son.”
“I don’t know if I can.”
“It’s just the darkness coming on, Anson. It’ll go away with the morning light.”
Anson sighed. He turned in the saddle and looked at the western horizon. The sky was changing as rapidly as the land and the sun hung just above the edge of the world like a blazing disk hammered out of bronze and gold and the clouds were starting to catch fire, streamers of them stretched across the far reaches of the heavens like tattered banners woven of cotton and flax.
He turned around and sighed again.
“You know what, Anson?”
“What?”
“Back there. When we stopped for a smoke.”
“Yeah.”
“We missed doin’ somethin’ and maybe that’s what’s botherin’ you.”
“Doing what?”
Peebo laughed. A grin lit up his face even in the shadow that had fallen across it like a vagrant scarf.
“We was sittin’ by that stream and we didn’t chunk one rock into it.”
“I used to do that when I was a boy,” Anson said.
“Yeah, me, too. I think you and me are gettin’ old.”
“Not that old.”
“I mean if we had chunked some rocks into that creek, we’d have been boys again.”
Anson shook his head, even as he saw that they were coming close to the place where they would spend the night. He could smell the water and the horses were starting to get frisky, tossing their heads and prancing.
“Peebo, you’re loco.”
“Well, I still think we shoulda chunked some rocks back there. Maybe you wouldn’t be riding with doom hanging over your head.”
Anson brightened. “Yeah, you may be right, Peebo. We should have chunked some rocks into that creek like we was fuzz-faced boys.”
“Damned right.”
“We’ll do it tonight,” Anson said. “Yonder is another creek and that’s where we’ll spread out our bedrolls.”
For emphasis, Anson slacked the reins and touched spurs to his horse’s flanks. “Race you there,” he called back to Peebo as Anson’s horse broke into a wild gallop.
Peebo let out a whoop and chased after Anson. They looked like a couple of boys just let out of school and the shadows raced after them and overtook them and the sun fell off the edge of the earth and left a molten sky flaming as far as the eye could see, as if it were a huge reflection of a blazing prairie fire set there like a painting by some Incan god traversing the heavens in a fiery chariot.
40
ROY RAN ON rubbery legs through the smoke from his rifle, his heart frozen somewhere between his chest and throat, his veins burning hot with adrenaline, his rifle across his chest like a thin shield. He saw the downed horse first, then a grubby Mexican trying to rise from the ground on wobbly feet braced by at least one shattered ankle, the other twisted like a tangled rope.
Remembering what Martin had said, Roy took his rifle by the muzzle, grasping the barrel firmly with both hands. He waded toward the fallen Mexican point rider and swung the rifle like a bat. Luis put up his hands to ward off the blow, but the stock broke both wrists and careened off his head. There was the sound of a loud smack and Luis keeled over as if felled by a twenty-pound maul.
Rifles cracked as Roy fell headlong from the momentum of his rush and hit the ground with a resounding thud that jarred his senses, flashed red explosions in his head. He heard the chilling screams of women, rising high-pitched and shrill. The screams sounded like the raucous gabble of geese fleeing in terror from the red fox suddenly invading the barnyard.
Martin ran his horse down on top of the wagon driver, swerved as he brought his rifle around in a one-handed swing, scything through the air until the butt smashed into Fidel’s jaw, cracking the bone and shutting off the Mexican’s cry of pain.
The black slaves in the wagon cringed and huddled together as Fidel fell to the side of the seat, his right arm caught on the front board. Martin reached over and grabbed the reins left on the seat like a tangle of snakes. Socrates reached over the board as Martin lifted the reins.
“Can you turn this wagon hard to the right?” Martin asked.
“Sure can,” Socrates said, climbing over the board.
“Trust me,” Martin said.
Socrates nodded and scrambled into the seat. He grabbed the reins from Martin’s hand. “Where do I go?”
“Turn up that draw to your right and keep going until you can’t go any further. Wait for me.”
“Yes sir,” Socrates said.
Martin heard the sharp crack of rifle shots, the sound like a snapping of whips and he turned his horse to see if Tom or Cullie needed any help.
Cullie shot David’s horse in the head, just below the eye. It was a brutal shot and the horse twisted its neck as the lead ball smashed through hide and bone and flattened before it ripped out the other side of its head, taking with it the mashed pulp of its flesh and bone, leaving an exit wound the size of a saucer.
David felt himself flying through the air as he lost contact with the saddle. His rifle flew in another direction and he braced his arms for the fall. The horse began to buck and kick w
ith pain and he felt a shod hoof graze his side. He hit the ground like a sack of meal and lights danced in his head before he surrendered to a darkness not born of the night.
Reynaud ducked as a lead ball sizzled over his head. He fired his rifle from the hip, pointing the muzzle straight at Cullie. Cullie took the ball in the chest, grunted as if punched in the solar plexus and doubled over in the saddle. Reynaud slid his empty rifle into its scabbard and drew his pistol, even as he spurred his horse toward Cullie’s position. He raced past the dying man and into the brush. Shots and screams filled the air as he disappeared, safe from any harm.
Tom saw Reynaud streak past Cullie and fired his pistol, but knew the shot had gone wild. He rode over to Cullie, who was slumped in his saddle, moaning in pain.
Cullie stared downward onto a saddle drenched in blood.
“Cullie, can you ride?” Tom asked.
The wounded man coughed and sprayed blood on the pommel, clear to the saddle horn. Tom cursed and leaned over to lift Cullie’s head. Blood bubbled from Cullie’s mouth as Tom looked at his face. He saw the hole in Cullie’s chest, small, round, and blurting crimson with every beat of the dying man’s heart.
“Christ, Cullie,” Tom said, “you caught it for damned sure.”
Cullie gargled the blood in his throat. Unable to speak, he flailed his arms, struggling to breathe. Tom held the man against him, listening to the rattle in his throat, the wheezing in his lungs like a blacksmith’s bellow. Cullie shuddered and his arms stopped moving. He slumped against Tom, let out a last liquid gasp and did not take any more air into his shattered lungs.
“Tom?” Martin called. “Need any help?”
“Go on, Baron. Do what you got to get done.”
“Roy,” Martin yelled. “Go after that wagon. Be there in a minute.”
Roy swung his horse in a tight turn. He had heard the wagon rumble by, the women screaming and sobbing, and now he raced after it, glad to get away from the smell of burnt black powder and stinking smoke.
Martin rode up along the road, saw David Wilhoit lying unconscious in one of the wagon ruts. Martin did not stop, but turned his horse and trotted to the place where he had sent the black people with the wagon.
“Roy?” Martin called.
“Here,” Roy yelled back and Martin saw the outline of the wagon at the end of the coulee, stopped, the women only whimpering now, sounding oddly like the elliptical warblings of mourning doves squatted on dusty perches among a copse of shadowy trees. He heard the black men speaking in a tongue that sounded like the muffled beat of a drum made from a hollowed-out tree.
“Do any of you speak English?” Martin asked, as he rode up to the wagon. The tall black man in front stood up.
“We all do. Some.”
“Do you have a name?”
“Sir, the white folks call me Socrates.”
“Good name, Socrates.”
Roy moved closer to hear the conversation. “I told ’em not to be scared,” he said.
“Are you scared?” Martin asked.
“No, sir,” Socrates said. “But, we’re all powerful curious.”
“I don’t blame you. I heard you were stolen from your masters. Back in Louisiana, I think.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well, you’re free now.”
“Free, sir?”
“Yes, Socrates. However, I’ve got a proposition for you and your people, if you’d care to listen.”
“I’se all ears, sir.”
“If you want work, I think we can find homes for all of you. You would get paid, just like anyone else.”
“Paid? With real money?”
“That’s right. And, I’ll have papers drawn up for each of you saying you are free. No longer slaves.”
“It sounds good, sir. Too good to be true.”
Martin laughed. “I know it does, Socrates. My name is Martin Baron and I own considerable property. The man next to me is Roy Killian and he’s just getting started in the cattle business. We have a town that would welcome you, I think. There’s a lot of building going on there, and you’d get decent wages.”
The women made sounds of wonder in their throats and the other men grunted in approval as they listened to Martin’s words.
“You talk it over,” Martin said. “Roy, you better ride on back there and tend to your father-in-law.”
“Father-in-law?”
“David Wilhoit. He’s knocked cold.”
“Oh, him. Yeah. What should I do? Want me to shoot him?”
“I doubt if that will be necessary. Go on.”
“I wasn’t serious,” Roy said.
“I knew you weren’t.”
Roy made his way through the dark of the narrow draw and onto the road. Behind him he heard the gabble of Negro voices and he would have given a nickel to know what they were saying.
The road looked different. Not only was the wagon gone, but he saw riderless horses standing still, as if they had been frozen there, their reins trailing. He rode on, saw a man lying by the side of the road, a part of the shadows, unmoving, as still as the stillness itself, and beyond, two more men sitting down, one cradling the other in his arms.
“That you, Roy?” a voice called out.
“Yeah.”
“One got away. The Frenchie, I think.”
“Tom?”
“Yeah.”
“Cullie there?”
“He’s done for,” Tom said.
Roy rode up to the fallen man, looked down. He could tell it was David, even in the dim light of stars and the sliver of moon that had tacked itself to the dark velvet of the sky, hanging like a shining scimitar above the ghostly land.
“David?”
There was no answer.
Roy swung his right leg over the saddle’s cantle and stepped down, pushed his horse aside. The horse stood there, sniffing, its ears twitching, its eyes rolling like marbles at the strangeness of its surroundings.
David did not move as Roy knelt beside him. “You’re out cold, all right.” Roy lifted David’s head and put his ear to his mouth. “Breathing, anyways.”
David let out a weak moan.
Roy shook him slightly. “Wake up, Mr. David Wilhoit. You ain’t dead, you sonofabitch, but you ought to be.” He slapped David’s face, both cheeks, hard enough to jar the unconscious man.
“You gonna wake up?” Roy asked.
David’s eyelids batted up and down as if the spirit inside were trying to peer out from whatever somber cave wherein it had dwelled. Roy leaned close to him, until he could feel David’s breath on his face. “You there, David?”
“What?”
“Wake up. It’s time to get up and go on home.”
“Roy? That you?”
“It better be, or it’s the devil himself come to welcome you to hell.”
“I—I … What happened?”
“You was in the wrong place at the wrong time, Wilhoit. Get your sorry ass up.”
Roy stood up. He grabbed David’s lapels and pulled the man to his feet. David stood there, swaying, groggy, obviously disoriented. He put out his hands to balance himself as if he had found himself awakened on some high wire stretched taut over some deep chasm unknown by surveyors or chartists.
“Where in hell am I?” David asked.
“You don’t know? Hell, you might as well join them slaves in the wagon. They don’t know where they are, either.”
“Slaves? Oh, yeah. What happened?”
“Somebody knocked you off your horse. They should have shot your sorry ass.”
Roy withdrew his hands from David, half hoping he’d fall down. But David touched a hand to his head as if imparting light or knowledge through the bleeding crack in his skull. He touched the slight wound gingerly and winced.
“I remember. Roy, I didn’t want to come along. Matteo wouldn’t take no for an answer.”
“What about my ma? She give you her approval?”
“No. Your mother didn’t want me to go.�
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“So, now you’re a goddamned slave trader, are you?”
“I don’t deserve that, Roy. You’ve got it all wrong.”
“Hell, you was ridin’ with these jaspers, carrying a loaded rifle. I figure you knew what was cooking in that pot.”
“I couldn’t get out of it. Matteo would probably have killed me if I refused to go.”
“Well, I ought to kill you myself.”
“Where are the Negroes?”
“Where you can’t get at ’em.”
“Good. I never cottoned to what Aguilar was doing.”
“You sure got a sorry-ass way of showin’ it.”
“Reynaud?”
“The Frenchie. Never saw him. Run off, I reckon. Damned coward.”
“I didn’t trust him.”
Roy reached down and picked up David’s hat, which had fallen off. “Here. Put on your hat, get on your horse and get on back to my mother. She’ll be worried if Reynaud shows up at the Rocking A and you’re not with him.”
“Thanks, Roy. I’m sorry I got mixed up in this.”
“I’m sorry you got mixed up with my mother.”
“I love her.”
Roy turned away, his neck swelling with anger, the blood-engorged veins swelling under the skin like small blue snakes. He mounted his horse and rode away before he said something he knew he’d be sorry for. He turned his horse toward the place where Tom and Cullie were sitting.
“Tom?”
“Roy, Cullie’s dead.”
“Shot?”
“By that Frenchie, Reynaud.”
“Can I help?”
“Yes.”
Roy dismounted. Out of the corner of his eye he saw David limp to his horse. A few seconds later, David rode past them. Tom glared after him. “Who’s that?” he asked.
“David Wilhoit. I think he got roped into this by Aguilar.”
“He’s lucky he didn’t get a chunk of lead in his gullet.”
“He’s married to my ma.”
“Too bad for her.”
“Is Cullie really dead?” Roy asked.
“Yeah. Help me get him on his horse. We’ll lash him on and take him back to Baronsville.”
“Damn, Tom.”