by Lou Bradshaw
“Howdy, boys, you’re new to town, and I’d like to welcome you to it.” he said, “The name’s Murdock, and I’m the town marshal.”
“Howdy.” I said, “It’s good to meet you, sir.” Andy leaned back from the bar, looked past me and touched the brim of his hat.
“Let’s hope you still feel that way when you’re ready to leave. That’ll mean we’ve had no trouble.” I turned to face him, and Andy was looking over my shoulder.
The marshal was a blocky man, not as tall as me, but kind of all squared off. He was looking at me and asked, “What’s your name, son?”
“Ben, sir. Ben Blue.” I answered with a smile. I smile a lot, and sometimes I just don’t even have a reason for it, I just like doing it.
Looking at my express gun, he said, “That’s quite a rig you got there…pretty mean lookin’ affair. You ever have to use it?”
“No, sir.” I said, “That’s kinda the whole idea of it. I ain’t much good with a handgun, and most folks don’t want no part of something like this. So, they don’t push me knowin that they are most likely to get bad hurt even if I go down.”
“Never saw one set up like that.” he said, “Your idea?”
“No, sir. Deputy Marshal Stewart over in Ft. Smith had it fixed up for me.”
“Well, if Stewart thinks you can handle it, then you can, but you be real careful of it. Ya hear?” I grinned and nodded, and he moved over to Andy, who had his back to the bar and was leaning on his elbow.
“Now, young fella, let’s hear your name.” the marshal said.
“Andy.”
“You got more than that to be called by.” the marshal said with some irritation, “Let’s hear it all – first, middle, and last.”
Andy straightened from his leaning position and said, “Andrew Jackson Moore.”
The fella on the other side of Andy pushed away from the bar and let out a roar of laughter. Andy looked quickly at him, and I could see his ears turning red. Then that laughing fool got stupid and said, “Boy, your momma must have been clear out of her mind when she named you. What’re you sposed to be some kind of hero? Another Old Hickory Jack…”
That was all he got out because Andy’s cocked pistol was cutting off his wind at base of his throat. “Mister,” he said, “you take that back… what you said about my ma.”
It happened so fast that half the men in the place never saw it, and they were all watching us at the time. I heard another hammer being drawn back and saw the marshal’s gun next to Andy’s ear. “Harv,” the marshal said, “once again, you’ve let your jaybird mouth overrun your chickadee ass. Now, you just tell this young man you’re sorry for not being respectful of his ma, or I might just let him blow your damned head off. And you, Ben Blue, let that cannon go…ease it down, boy.”
Harv was quite sober then and poured out a whole string of apologies. Andy lowered his gun, and everybody in the place let out their breath. Murdock lowered his weapon and the tension eased up a bunch. From one of the tables, someone called out, “Harv, I recon this fella could just be another Old Hickory or Hickory Jack as you called him.” Everyone laughed and the name stuck.
Murdock holstered his gun and said, “Boys, I think we need to talk. Let’s take a stroll over to my office and chat a little.”
So we walked toward the door, and Andy called back to the bartender, “Just leave those beers, we’ll be back for em.” Then he looked at the marshal and said, “Maybe.” Murdock chuckled and went through the door.
As we walked across the street and down a ways, I noticed a man sitting on the ground leaning on a hitch rail. When we got closer, I could see he was chained to it. I remembered what Crazy Jim had said and wondered how long that fella would be there. I asked the marshal and he said, “Oh, I’ll bring him in tonight and turn him loose in the morning – he just got fightin drunk. He probably won’t learn anything, but he might.”
Inside the office, there wasn’t much to take note of, except that there wasn’t any jail cell, but there was a big iron ring fixed to one of the beams. There was one beat up old table that served as a desk, a couple of equally disgraceful chairs, and a gun rack. The marshal took one chair and Andy took the other. I just sort of leaned against the wall.
The marshal messed with an old tin coffee cup for a few seconds and then asked, “Just what the hell are you pups up to? Ain’t neither one of you barely old enough to pee standin’ up, but you waltz into town like you was known men.” He tapped a pencil on the edge of that cup, and then started up again. “If you’re hunting a gun fighter’s reputation, then you can just move on. If you’re lookin for any other kind of trouble you can move on. I run this town, and I don’t stand for no bull from anybody. Is that clear?” We both agreed that it was.
I looked at Andy, and he looked at me. Without saying a word, we had agreed to tell the marshal why we were in his town. We told him the story of that day in our door yard and how the posse chased them as far as they could. We told him how we had to wait out a couple of years for seasoning. When we got to the Ft. Smith part of the story his eyes got kinda skeptical until I showed him the letter that Jasper had written for us to give to the US Marshal in Dodge City.
I reached into the leather pouch that Crazy Jim had helped me make and pulled out the flyers on the men we were looking for. Murdock looked them over, and said that both Coleman and Frazier had been in town a couple of times during the last year. He also said that as far as he knew neither was wanted in Texas, so he had no reason to lock them up. “Probably wouldn’t a been legal anyway.” He said.
I told him what Preacher Puckett had said about them pullin jobs in Kansas and then hightailing it back to Texas. And, I told him that Crazy Jim had seen them crossing the territory a number of times That still didn’t matter – they hadn’t broken any laws in Texas that anyone knew of.
“So, you know old Crazy Jim, do ya?” he asked.
“Yeah,” Andy said, “he followed us for two days, and then rode with us for another two days.”
“If Jim hadn’t liked your looks,” Murdock said, “you’d have never seen him.” He tapped on that tin cup some more and said, “I don’t know what to do about you boys. With Jasper Stewart and Crazy Jim both takin a likin to you…well, you got better references than I do.”
“I don’t approve of you goin after these two outlaws. I think you’re fixin to get yourselves killed. Furthermore, you,” he pointed to Andy, “you’re too damned quick on the prod. Stop and think about it. Is it worth killin Harv because of a poor choice of words?” without warning he slammed his fist down on the table – we both jumped. Then he stuck a finger in Andy’s face and shouted, “No by God! It ain’t worth killin somebody for bein stupid! What if that had been some village idiot or a half-wit – is that the sort of thing you think you could live with?”
Andy swallowed hard; I don’t think he had ever given that sort of thing any thought. If I had thought the marshal was through ranting, I was wrong. He just shifted his attention to me. “And as for you, Mister Ben Blue, I ain’t at all sure I like the idea of you walkin around my town with that thing slung to your shoulder. I don’t like it at all by damn. According to this letter from Stewart, you are inclined to show good judgment for someone your age, but I’m puttin you on notice to walk softly. For God’s sake, don’t push your weight around – don’t start nothin. You go killin someone with that thing, it had damned sure better be in self defense cause you don’t know how folks act – you could get yourself hung.”
Now it was my turn to swallow hard, and I did. I said, “Yessir.” Of course, I had no intentions of starting anything with anybody. I just wanted to find Coleman and Frazier, and bring them in or do what needed doing.
Murdock still wasn’t finished, but he was winding down. He picked that tin cup up off the floor where it had landed when he banged the table, and started tapping it again with that pencil. Then after a little thought he said, “You boys are gonna look peculiar just hangin around town. I think you had better look f
or jobs if you plan to stay around a while. And, don’t be askin around about those two gents you’re lookin’ for. Word gets out that you’re interested in ‘em and you won’t never see ‘em. That’s my job. I ask the questions.”
We stayed and listened to him give advice for about a half hour longer. Much of what he said was just him repeating what he had already yelled at us about, but it didn’t hurt to hear it again.
Back at the saloon, Andy finished the two flat beers, while I listened to the talk around us, and thought about what the marshal had said. The talk was all about water, grass, and horses. My thinking was all about what on earth were we doing in this strange place, and where were we heading. I looked around and felt like I had suddenly been put in a foreign country or on the moon. I was some bewildered.
Chapter 10
After supper that evening, I was still somewhat restless and fighting out a whole bunch of ideas. I told Andy that I was going to check on our horses and maybe walk around some. He said to go on without him. He would just sit there in front of the Ho-tel and rest. It was still a couple of hours before sunset and like I said, I needed to do some thinking. I put that express gun in our room and walked up the street.
The horses were fine and a little surprised when I started rubbing them down with a tow sack – they seemed to like it. Our saddles and gear had all been stored in the tack room. I could hear the liveryman banging on some iron, so I went around the barn to see what he was doing. I hadn’t paid much attention before but the other end of the barn was a blacksmith shop, and he was busy working on some horseshoes.
“Workin’ late.” I said and feeling stupid as soon as I said it. Of course, he was working late, but he didn’t seem to notice my stupidity.
“Yep,” he said, “but it ain’t like late work anymore. It’s more like my regular day. ‘Tween the stable and the smithy I’m puttin’in some long hours.” He repositioned the shoe and gave it another bang. “Somethin I can do fer ya?”
“Nosir.” I said, “I was just checkin on the critters and heard you bangin. I was just bein nosey I guess.”
“No harm in that. A fella your age has got a lot to be nosey about. Say, I was gonna look you up tomorra, but I can ask you now. You boys wantin to sell that packhorse? Had a man lookin’ at it little while ago. Said he’d give fifteen dollars fer it. I’d take a dollar and a half of that fer commission.”
I told him that sounded reasonable, but I’d have to check with my partner. I didn’t see that we’d be needing it anymore and there wasn’t much use in feeding it. But, I didn’t tell him all of that. I watched him work for a while longer. It looked like fun, and I was amazed at how the muscles all seemed to know what to do. I hadn’t paid much attention to that sort of thing before. I guess there were a lot of things I needed to pay attention to.
I walked on up the street to the crossroad and turned north to the river. I sat on the bank for a while and tried to figure out things, but all I could think about was all those bullfrogs down there that needed gigging. So, I got up and went south back through the crossroads and farther. As I was nearing the last shack, I spotted an oldish fella sitting in the late afternoon shade of a scrawny looking tree.
“Howdy.” I said, and he howdied me right back and offered me a spot on his bench, which I accepted. We swapped names and he told me that this was the best time of the day for him – when everything got quiet and cooled down. I agreed that it was a fine thing. He asked if I was passing through with my folks or settling in. I told him that I was traveling with my brother and we hadn’t decided yet.
I noticed then for the first time there were more buildings down the road a piece and asked about them. “Oh, that.” he said, “That’s Mex town. That’s where the Mexicans live. They’s about a dozen or so families and kin livin’ in them adobes. They got their own cantina and church, but you don’t want to go down there after dark – they’s pretty good with the knives.”
We talked a little more, and I told him I thought I’d walk on down to Mex town while it was still light because I’d never seen a Mexican and thought I might like to look at one.
“You have a care, sonny,” he said, “and get out a there before sundown.” I told him I would and left him.
Mex town wasn’t more than a hundred and fifty yards from where the old man was sitting in the shade, but I got the feeling that I was in a whole different world. As I got closer I could see half naked little children playing in the dirt, and their mommas scooping them up as I drew nearer. I knew I was being watched from every door and window, but I just smiled and walked on. The houses were of a different structure than the ones in the other part of the town. These looked like they were made of blocks and covered with mud. The walls looked thicker and cooler. I could hear a guitar being played somewhere – most likely in the cantina that the old man had spoke of. There weren’t many houses in the town, but there was a well almost in the middle of the street. I could see little kitchen gardens here and there.
The people I saw were mostly dark, not Negro dark, but darker than me – or any of the white folks I knew. Several men came out of the cantina and just watched me. They were wearing very wide brimmed straw hats, as wide as those we had seen driving cattle back in the nations. They didn’t seem to pose any threat, so I just touched the brim of my hat and nodded in their direction. They just watched me. I suppose they were wondering if I was bringing them trouble. I wasn’t.
I found myself standing in front of a little church. I could tell it was a church, but it didn’t look like any church I had ever seen before. I stood looking at the big front door and had the urge to just go in – which I did. Now, I had stood in front of churches before back home and in Ft. Smith, but never crossed a threshold without someone pushing me through.
Inside it was well lit by some of the prettiest windows I had ever seen. They looked like they were made of colored glass all pieced together to make a picture. It was really something. There were benches on both sides of a center aisle, and the walls were painted in pictures. Some of them looked familiar to me. In the front there were candles lit. That didn’t make sense to me because there was plenty of light from the windows. My moccasins made almost no sound as I walked to the front. I was so taken by everything that I didn’t see the person kneeling at the altar until I was almost on him. He must have sensed me because he looked up.
“I’m sorry,” I said, “I didn’t see you there.”
He said something that I couldn’t understand as he was standing up. Then he made a motion like he was wiping away his comments and said, “Not at all, my son. I just did not hear you coming.” His words were very deliberate and sounded strange to my ear.
“I didn’t mean to interrupt your prayin.” I said, “Are you the parson?”
“I am a priest.” He said, “I am the Padre or Father. It is something like a parson but different.”
“Well, Padre, you have a very nice church…some of it looks real familiar to me. Like I’ve seen ‘em before. The picture of Jesus with the glow behind him, and the statue Jesus on the cross I know I’ve seen it before. I just don’t know where.”
“Maybe something from your early childhood.” He said with a smile, “A memory locked deep in your mind. Perhaps you have been in a Catholic Church before.”
This man was like no preacher I had ever met before. His voice was soft; there was nothing phony about it. He never once raised it only to emphasize a part of a word. There was no wild gesturing of hands, throwing back of his head, or posturing of any kind. He used none of the tent show tricks that were common among every preacher I had ever met. This man was gentle as I had imagined Jesus to be. I liked him.
“No, Padre, I can guarantee that I have never been in a Catholic Church. There were none anywhere near us. And, the preachers always said they were evil places. There were Baptists a plent…oh. It was in our cabin; the cross on the wall and the little picture on ma’s dresser.”
I went on to explain how my family had all died
when I was quite young, and how the Moores had taken me in. He asked about my family and all I could really remember was my ma’s red hair, and how folks called my pa a big good-natured Irishman.
“Well, that explains a lot, my son.” He said, “Your family was Catholic and you remember a tiny bit of it.”
“But, we ain’t Mexicans, isn’t this a Mexican church.”
He laughed a soft kindly little chuckle to let me know that I had said something foolish, but not to be upset about it. “Oh no, my son, there are many many millions of Catholics all over the world, and the Irish people are among the most dedicated. This little church is a Mexican church, but only because those who worship here are Mexicans. Anyone seeking God is welcome.”
We talked for quite a spell. He told me how things were with the Mexicans living in Texas and the southwest. “The Mexican people here are poor, but not nearly so poor as they are below the border. Many of the families have been here for over a hundred years, but they are treated as outsiders by the newcomers.” I told him I was sorry for that.
When he asked my name, and when I gave it he said, “Benito, good. A good name, but I do not have a word for Blue.” I explained that it was a color, the color of the sky. At that his face lit up and he said. “Ah…Blu.. It is the same in Spanish, but not spelled the same, I think. ”
It was dark when we walked out onto the steps. There were a few people milling around the well – mostly young people, both boys and girls. The priest scanned the figures, called out to one, “Emilio.” and said something in Spanish. The young man left the girl he had been talking to and came over to join us.
“Emilio, would you mind walking my young friend, Benito, to the edge of the village …so he doesn’t get lost in the dark.” Emilio looked back toward the young lady he had been speaking to, and the Padre said, “She will still be there.”
The young Mexican flashed a patient smile and sighed, “Si, Padre.”
I apologized to Emilio as we walked saying, “I suppose the padre thinks I need a guard to see me out of town. I hate to put you to the trouble. I hope the young lady will still be there when you get back.”